Inner Legacy (10 page)

You will be gracious and I hope you never lose that, not ever.

And as you open the door as I predicted, I lift my hand to signal to you that I will be just one minute more and I smile at you over my glasses. Will you remember that moment among all the other ones?

****

It is now the middle of the night and you have gone home and I am writing quietly in bed your Grandmother beside me gently snoring. Partly it is pain that keeps me awake but mainly my reluctance to draw this to a close for when I pen the final words I must stop and leave it all in other hands.

I feel as though I have run a great race and am approaching the finishing line which is just around the corner out of sight but most certainly there. I think I have said all I need to say but not all I want to say. You can see I hate partings, I've never been any good at them. I remember once waving your Grandmother off on a train when we were courting and waving madly as the train disappeared  in the distance and round a bend and standing there wishing it would come back and then  turning away in tears as the pain of separation overwhelmed me. I am a sentimental man easily moved to tears. Beneath the exterior I put a defensive wall around me to keep me safe and stop me from crying. I am sure there is a word for that among the medical profession. Anyway my dear sweet boy I must now present my proof.

When I looked down through the cones of light in the plain of darkness I saw not only the time and place and date of my own death but I also saw you so much older than you are today reaching this last page in the notebook and decoding these final words. I saw you in a room with a fire burning brightly. I sensed as I looked it as towards the end of the year perhaps early December I can't be sure but it was definitely the early part of winter. You are standing beside the fire facing away from the window. I can see a date but only partly over behind you on the wall. All I can make out is 11. But I can see your clock, an old fashioned Westminster chiming clock from the middle of the twentieth century. It is going to chime the half hour soon. You read this and start to look up you will see the time as eleven twenty five.

The Next Stage

As I translated this I was shocked to my core. It is hard to tell you what I had been thinking as bit by bit I uncovered the writings in these notebooks. Remember you are able to read this as one account. I had to struggle to decipher this word by word and often the meaning of the words would be unclear until such time as I could go back over my notes and read them again and notice the odd mistake and go back and check. But for what it is worth as far as memory recalls it this was the time of his actual death although the Doctor didn't come to verify it for another half hour so I can't in anyway prove the veracity of that part of his story. However the Death Certificate clearly indicates the 27
th
October. He was wrong however in the detail about tubes. There was nothing around him at the time. He wasn't expected to die that day. None of us had been called to his bedside. Only my Grandmother was there in the room waiting for him to wake up when she realised his breathing had stopped and his pallour had taken on the sheen of death. She could vouch for the exact time of death because she had been dusting the wall clock at the time when she felt something change in the room. Obviously what he saw in this vision as he calls it was accurate in essentials but not in details. This of course causes me to wonder how much of his experience falls into the same category of being correct in essentials but perhaps less accurate in the details that  his mind filled in for him? Like one of those puzzles designed to trick the eye where you fill in what you think you see until it makes sense to you. I have the benefit over you of having read to the end of his tale and I am pretty sure that the experience is correct in essentials but what he describes is what his brain allowed him to see in order to make sense of the events occurring around him or within him.

As for his proof to the time at which I read it, he was far removed from the truth. It was the middle of the night when I finally translated it the last part and was in fact in bed. Naturally I felt both deflated and confused. My next task was to type it all up. Once that was all done and proof read I printed it out and decided to read it through from start to finish. I was sitting in my armchair by the fire when I began reading. It was a typical chilly December day and a wind found its way into the house and sent a chill across my legs. Without stopping reading I stood up with my back to the fire to warm up. Reaching the last page I glanced at the clock and then at the calendar. My jaw did drop then as it corresponded to exactly what he described. So much so I looked towards the corner and upwards searching for some sign of his presence. There was of course none.

It is now some time since I decoded the book and it was only a recent decision to commit the whole story to paper in the form of a book. Since then I have had many opportunities to mull over and examine the text and to make corrections to its first translation. I have searched the text for the clues he claimed unlocked it all but in truth they were easily found. For me at least they were easily understood and in that sense he was successful in reaching across the void. I am exhausted in taking the tale this far for I have relived many of the moments that I went through when I first translated it and then read it through properly as a narrative. I am quite drained and will perhaps take  some time to think on this a little further before I embark on my final thoughts on this tale of the notebooks.

I do however want to leave you with this, it was inscribed in the fly leaf of the first notebook and seemed that it was a separate piece apart from the narrative.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

When I reached the end I saw that is was a prologue to the notebook. How hastily had I discarded that which was important.

The Afternoon Disappeared

The afternoon disappeared as always in a flash as I became absorbed in my latest project, I was trying to get to grips with Descartes while finishing the book 'The Golem' by Gustav Meyrink. I finished the book but singularly failed to get to grips with Descartes. The book intrigued me greatly. It was part of my Grandfather's collection that my Grandmother had made sure came to me. There was a fine library of books.  I knew from his memoir that he had been very fond of Franz Kafka and liked Meyrink as well while not quite elevating him to the same stature as his beloved Kafka. My Grandfather had done something quite extraordinary in writing a two hundred thousand word memoir of his life recording it all for his grandchildren. It was completed by the time I was five and he had it printed and bound. He reckoned he could draw a line under it all once we were old enough to remember him for ourselves. We were given copies on our 21
st
birthday the year after he died in my case. The Meyrink book disturbed me greatly as I sat back and thought about it. I had thought it I had understood it all until it turned out at the end, if I understood it properly, that the whole book which recounted a man's life had taken place within a few hours one Sunday afternoon because he had picked up the wrong hat in Church and in wearing it that afternoon had experienced a very strange life indeed. It ended with man returning the hat. Most peculiar.

I put Descartes back on the shelf, understanding little of the ins and outs of philosophical argument. I decided to look through the other wonderful books he had bought from the Folio Society over the years. They were lovely books to hold and read and the smell alone from them intoxicated me. I decided to relive some of old favourites and chose The Big Blue Fairy Book. I was flicking through it when I came upon papers stuck between the pages.

I laid them out before me and was surprised to see that they were all in my Grandfather's writing. No numbers just his sloping script which, while looking neat and tidy on the page, was far more difficult to read than I would have liked. It seemed as I skim-read them that they had something to do with the story I had decoded but I couldn't be sure. They were out of order but it didn't take me long to put them in the correct order. Here was yet another mystery coming to me across the void. What follows is the first document I found, for there were others I found in other books. I'm still not sure what order they ought to be in if any. Nevertheless I present them to you as I found them

Tundra

[ I am aware of the change of tense in this manuscript. We move from present to past and I am at a loss to explain this, so I present it uncorrected. ]

The snow is driving and coldness is a physical presence. I am dressed in warm furs and boots yet I still hold my clothes tightly against me with my thickly gloved hands. The wind is driving into my face and I am pushing forward at an angle. The ground is white but firm, frozen rock hard. I am crossing what feels like a tundra landscape. Far to my left dark mountains on the horizon appear starkly against the white. Ahead I can see a few trees beginning to appear and I know that I am headed for the start of the forest. The birch trees are bare and their dark branches stand out like welcoming arms. Here I know I will find shelter. Once in to the forest the fierceness of the wind will be lessened and I will spend less time struggling and have time at last to rest.

My progress slows as I reach the tree line and the cold seeps in to my bones despite the warmth of my clothing. I know that to stop now or even to fall may mean a slipping into the sleep of hypothermia and part of me longs to give up and sink to the ground, but this desire I have felt before and has to be resisted. I fight on, struggling to place one foot in front of another.

I pray that I will be able to make it. I ask for help. The snow is heavier now and the woods become less clear and I fear that I will lose my sense of direction. The wind seems even colder and its fingers seem to slip in through any gaps in my clothing and freeze my skin. I stumble but push on. It feels as though the forest is receding but I know that can't be and realise that with every difficult step I am slowing down. I doubt now if I will make it as the first tree approaches and I reach it and lean against it. There will be a long way to go before I am able to get deep enough into the forest to gain any respite from the growing storm. The snow here is deeper and the ground appears less firm although below the fresh snow I know the ground will be rock hard.

The going is harder, much harder as I press on into the forest. My footprints become deeper and I leave now a very visible trail and no doubt a clear scent for any predator that picks up my trail. Time passes and I slow down even more until at last I sink to my knees between two trees, try as I might I am unable to rise again. I know this is the end. I give up and lie down to curl up and let the snow cover me. My thoughts are muddled and I fade away, the light becoming darkness.

As I loosen the last grip on my life and prepare to cast myself adrift in the blackness of death I feel strong arms lift me up and I am being carried with ease deeper into the forest. I try to open my eyes but they seem frozen shut. I hear a deep bass voice encouraging me to hang on and stay awake. I try to talk but seem unable to open my lips. There is a gentle motion and I feel as though I am being carried like a babe in arms. Try as I might I am losing my battle to stay awake. I hear a scraping noise and a change in atmosphere and a blast of warmth. I am laid down on the floor of a cabin and at last exhausted I let myself slip into sleep.

I don't know how long I slept but I wake to find on a table beside my bed a steaming cup of coffee. With less pain than I imagined I swung my legs out of bed and sat on the edge of the bed and cupped my hands around the cup and drank with relish enjoying the warm liquid flowing into my body. As I come fully awake I take in my surroundings. It is  a cabin, simply furnished. A log fire is burning and giving out waves of welcome heat. My bed is in a recessed corner and I don't have a full view of the cabin nor can I see my rescuer but I can smell a delicious aroma of home made soup spreading through the cabin. The furnishings are plain, almost utilitarian, but I do notice that there is a fine bookcase filled with hardbacks of quality. My host is educated and well read. I call out a 'Good Morning' but receive no answering reply. Perhaps my voice is weak and the fire is roaring and I can see out the window that the storm is still raging.

I don't think a cup of coffee has ever been more welcome. It warms me to the core and when I finish I take time to examine my feet and fingers, my extremities in general for any signs of frostbite. Fortunately there is only a dull ache in one toe and the rest of me seems on first examination to be just fine. I am surprised given my long trek and my exposure to the elements. I know I was close to death and would without rescue have by now been a frozen corpse. I get up from the bed and head for the kitchen area to meet and thank my rescuer.

The cabin appeared to be empty. I checked the toilet and it was vacant. I assumed my rescuer was out and about. My thanks will need to wait. I moved over to the stove with the gently bubbling pot of meaty soup. Close to the stove was a small table, set with a red checked tablecloth and set for one. A bowl and a spoon and a loaf of bread and carving knife lay on the table. I didn't need to take much of a hint as it had been sometime since I had eaten. I took the ladle from the wall beside the stove and took a generous helping of soup and sit down giving thanks as I did so not only for my answered prayer but also for the food. I savoured every mouthful as though it were my last.

I cleaned up after letting it settle in my stomach and its warmth radiate throughout my body.

I was growing impatient for my host to return so that I could ask him many of the questions that were in my mind by this time. Checking the window I could see no sign of him.  I went to the door and pulled hard to open it as it appeared to be swollen and semi stuck in the frame. Finally with an unhealthy whine it opened and I felt the blast of ice cold air in my face and the heat being sucked out of the cabin. Shielding my eyes against the low sun and snow I looked around but could see nothing but trees and snow. As the cold bit into my face and I was deciding to close the door my eyes caught sight of footprints in the snow. I could see one set of footprints leading to the cabin. Just one and I realised there was no sign of any footprints leading away. That puzzled me greatly but I wasn't about to ponder the thought outside and I hurried and with great effort managed to close the door tightly, it took all my strength to get the door to fit snugly.

I realised as I sank to the floor just how weak I had become in this ice land and how my trek across the tundra towards the tree line had taken from me in bodily strength. Once recovered enough I made my way to the rocking chair by the fire and I let the heat wash over me and chase the chill from my body. Darkness fell and I sat and waited by the light of the fire. Eventually tiredness and weakness drove me to the bed and I snuggled under the blankets and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The following morning I awoke to same smell as the day before. The pot with its meaty soup was simmering on the the stove. The woodpile was replenished and the fire burned brightly. The table was again set for one and I ate greedily giving little thought to the how and why simply accepting my good fortune. Later in the day I looked for other entrances to the the cabin, another door, a cellar trap door anything to explain where my host was and how he gained entry. The search was in vain which left me with only the front door of the cabin. This time I couldn't move it at all and it remained firmly stuck in the door frame. I peered out of the window and could make out after the night's fall of snow no sign of  any footprints. I checked the other windows again without success and noted that none were capable of being opened. I searched the walls then for any clue to a hidden entrance, drawing a blank in the process.

I fingered the books in the bookcase and noticed that they were all hardbacks and were of different colours but none had a title on the spine or any other marking. I took one down and opened it and it was in a language I didn't understand. Disappointed I put it back and took another one only to discover it too was in a foreign language, I recognised it as French and I was able to make out a little of what was written. The next book I tried was clearly in Russian, the next German and so the investigation as it had become went on until I came across a book in English. I took it and made my way to the rocking chair and sat down to read. It lay unopened on my lap while I pondered the mysterious events in the cabin. Logic dictated that if there was only one entrance then my host must come through there at night and prepare the meal pot for the day and provide the fire for the wood. There must be another cabin nearby and for whatever reason he was only coming here at night. That in itself was not so mysterious I guessed if he lived here it must be for a reason, hunter, trapper, charcoal burner or scientist, I could think of no other reason. I was determined to stay awake during the night to thank him and to enjoy a little human company. I didn't go to  bed when I was tired but stayed in the rocking chair keeping myself awake. At some point I must have fallen asleep and staggered into bed because I awoke there in the morning to same smell of meaty broth and the fresh wood.

I was annoyed that I had failed in this rudimentary task. I rigged up a form of alarm for the forthcoming night placing some tin cups and plates by the door and leaving the rocking chair close to the door so that if I fell asleep then I would  be wakened by the noise. I lay on my back in my recess unable to see the door but convinced that even if I dropped off to sleep I would hear the door being opened.

I awoke in the morning to the familiar smells and sprang out of bed. The rocking chair was back in its place and the tin cups and plates were no longer stacked beside the door but back in their places. I cursed a little at my inability to stay awake. I took my breakfast eagerly though and each day I felt myself grow stronger. I tried the door again but was unable to gain even a hint of movement. I saw no trace inside or outside of my host apart from the food, the table and the fresh woodpile. The next few days passed in the same way while the book lay on a table unread. I ate, slept, puzzled and tried to stay awake without success. I had no means of writing or I would have left a note asking him to wake me. At last I struck on the idea of tying string across the door with the tin mugs hanging from it, that would surely create enough noise and disturbance to awaken me.

I eagerly anticipated meeting my host that night, although try as I did, I fell asleep.

I awoke in the morning. There was no fire. No soup. No wood. The string remained across the door untouched and unmoved. I was puzzled. Was it a coincidence that he hadn't come or had he tried, seem my ploy and retreated? Had I offended my host? I was deeply puzzled.

As the day drew on I decided to remove my little trap and put everything back as it was.

In the morning when I awoke the cabin was filled with the familiar aromas. I was glad. I noticed a lamp was burning on the table providing the only light in the cabin. I looked outside, it was dark, the sun did not rise that day and the following day a blizzard struck and soon the windows were covered with snow and I reckoned that there was little chance of any fresh supplies from my host. Nevertheless puzzling as it was everyday there was fresh food and firewood. I tried my trick with the cans again, but only once as I spent the following day cold, hungry and in darkness. A miserable day.

It was clear I was trapped held prisoner by the weather and perhaps by my host. There was plenty of time hanging in the cabin and in the beginning I wasted it but as the winter progressed I made better use of the hours that hung in the air each day.

I meditated on my life and recalled a quote by E.O. Wilson

"MINUTE CREATURES swarm around us....objects of potentially endless study and admiration, if we are willing to sweep our vision down from the world lined by the horizon to include the world an arm's length away. A lifetime can be spent in a Magellanic voyage around the trunk of a tree."

And the winter passed in taking time to explore in intricate detail the cabin but also to look inside myself and explore every thought and to try and chase down its origins. An outsider might have seen a man sitting staring at a wall or a fire and think that nothing was happening. For me whole worlds new and unexplored were coming to light. I found a small notebook and pencil and began to write down quotes from some of the  books that were in English. They were difficult books. I had time so I would spend time reading and rereading and then puzzling over a passage until some kind of sense of the author's intent entered into my being. I became absorbed in this world of enforced isolation and found, rather than imprisonment, a growing sense of freedom even, dare I say it,

excitement at daily discoveries about the cabin and my inner life.

I share here some of the many quotes that caught my eye and over which I spent many hours or days dwelling in thoughtful exploration.

"The most beautiful and profound emotion we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms - this knowledge, this feeling, is at the centre of true religion." - Albert Einstein

St. John of the Cross, The Dark Night, Book II, Chap. 3-5 :

"God strips their faculties, affections and feelings, both spiritual and sensual, both outward and inward, leaving the intellect dark, the will dry, the memory empty and the affections in the deepest affliction, bitterness and straitness, taking from the soul the pleasure and experience of spiritual blessings which it had aforetime .... All this the Lord works in the soul by means of a pure and dark contemplation ....

But the question arises: Why is the divine light (which, as we say, illumines and purges the soul from its ignorances) here called by the soul a dark night? To this the answer is that for two reasons this divine wisdom is not only night and darkness for the soul, but is likewise affliction and torment. The first is because of the height of divine wisdom, which transcends the talent of the soul, and in this way is darkness to it; the second, because of the soul's vileness and impurity, in which respect it is painful and afflictive to it, and is also dark."