"Like the inventions of heraldry. Romantic, impossibly beautiful. And yet there they are-real birds in a real place. So near to me now that I can almost touch them-and yet so far away, thousands of miles away. Far away on that smooth water, moving as if by magic, softly, majestically ..."
Majestically, moving majestically, with the dark water lifting and parting as the curved white breasts advanced-lifting, parting, sliding back in ripples that widened in a gleaming arrowhead behind them. He could see them moving across their dark mirror, could hear the jackdaws in the tower, could catch, through this nearer mingling of disinfectants and gardenias, the cold, flat, weedy smell of that Gothic moat in the faraway green valley.
"Effortlessly floating."
"Effortlessly floating." The words gave him a deep satisfaction.
"I'd sit there," she was saying, "I'd sit there looking and looking, and in a little while I'd be floating too. I'd be floating with the swans on that smooth surface between the darkness below and the pale tender sky above. Floating at the same time on that other surface between here and far away, between then and now." And between remembered happiness, she was thinking, and this insistent, excruciating presence of an absence. "Floating," she said aloud, "on the surface between the real and the imagined, between what comes to us from the outside and what comes to us from within, from deep, deep down in
here."
She laid her hand on his forehead, and suddenly the words transformed themselves into the things and events for which they stood; the images turned into facts. He actually was floating.
"Floating," the voice softly insisted. "Floating like a white bird on the water. Floating on a great river of life-a great smooth silent river that flows so still, so still, you might almost think it was asleep. A sleeping river. But it flows irresistibly.
"Life flowing silently and irresistibly into ever fuller life, into a living peace all the more profound, all the richer and stronger and more complete because it knows all your pain and unhappi-ness, knows them and takes them into itself and makes them one with its own substance. And it's into that peace that you're floating now, floating on this smooth silent river that sleeps and is yet irresistible, and is irresistible precisely because it's sleeping. And I'm floating with it." She was speaking for the stranger. She was speaking on another level for herself. "Effortlessly floating. Not having to do anything at all. Just letting go, just allowing myself to be carried along, just asking this irresistible sleeping river of life to take me where it's going-and knowing all the time that where it's going is where I want to go, where I have to go: into more life, into living peace. Along the sleeping river, irresistibly, into the wholeness of reconciliation."
Involuntarily, unconsciously, Will Farnaby gave a deep sigh. How silent the world had become! Silent with a deep crystalline silence, even though the parrots were still busy out there beyond the shutters, even though the voice still chanted here beside him! Silence and emptiness and through the silence and the emptiness flowed the river, sleeping and irresistible.
Susila looked down at the face on the pillow. It seemed suddenly very young, childlike in its perfect serenity. The frowning lines across the forehead had disappeared. The lips that had been so tightly closed in pain were parted now, and the breath came slowly, softly, almost imperceptibly. She remembered suddenly the words that had come into her mind as she looked down, one moonlit night, at the transfigured innocence of Dugald's face: "She giveth her beloved sleep." "Sleep," she said aloud. "Sleep."
The silence seemed to become more absolute, the emptiness more enormous.
"Asleep on the sleeping river," the voice was saying. "And above the river, in the pale sky, there are huge white clouds. And as you look at them, you begin to float up towards them. Yes, you begin to float up towards them, and the river now is a river in the air, an invisible river that carries you on, carries you up, higher and higher."
Upwards, upwards through the silent emptiness. The image was the thing, the words became the experience.
"Out of the hot plain," the voice went on, "effortlessly, into the freshness of the mountains."
Yes, there was the Jungfrau, dazzlingly white against the blue. There was Monte Rosa . . . "How fresh the air feels as you breathe it. Fresh, pure, charged with life!"
He breathed deeply and the new life flowed into him. And now a little wind came blowing across the snowfields, cool against his skin, deliciously cool. And, as though echoing his thoughts, as though describing his experience, the voice said, "Coolness. Coolness and sleep. Through coolness into more life. Through sleep into reconciliation, into wholeness, into living peace."
Half an hour later Susila re-entered the sitting room.
"Well?" her father-in-law questioned. "Any success?"
She nodded.
"I talked to him about a place in England," she said. "He went off more quickly than I'd expected. After that I gave him some suggestions about his temperature ..."
"And the knee, I hope."
"Of course."
"Direct suggestions?"
"No, indirect. They're always better. I got him to be conscious of his body image. Then I made him imagine it much bigger than in everyday reality-and the knee much smaller. A miserable little thing in revolt against a huge and splendid thing. There can't be any doubt as to who's going to win." She looked at the clock on the wall. "Goodness, I must hurry. Otherwise I'll be late for my class at school."
5
The sun was just rising as Dr. Robert entered his wife's room at the hospital. An orange glow, and against it the jagged silhouette of the mountains. Then suddenly a dazzling sickle of incandescence between two peaks. The sickle became a half circle and the first long shadows, the first shafts of golden light crossed the garden outside the window. And when one looked up again at the mountains there was the whole unbearable glory of the risen sun.
Dr. Robert sat down by the bed, took his wife's hand and kissed it. She smiled at him, then turned again towards the window.
"How quickly the earth turns!" she whispered, and then after a silence, "One of these mornings," she added, "it'll be my last sunrise."
Through the confused chorus of bird cries and insect noises, a mynah was chanting, "Karuna. Karuna . . ."
"Karuna," Lakshmi repeated. "Compassion . . ."
"Karuna. Karuna," the oboe voice of Buddha insisted from the garden.
"I shan't be needing it much longer," she went on. "But what about you? Poor Robert, what about you?"
"Somehow or other one finds the necessary strength," he said.
"But will it be the right kind of strength? Or will it be the strength of armor, the strength of shut-offness, the strength of being absorbed in your work and your ideas and not caring a damn for anything else? Remember how I used to come and pull your hair and make you pay attention? Who's going to do that when I'm gone?"
A nurse came in with a glass of sugared water. Dr. Robert slid a hand under his wife's shoulders and lifted her to a sitting position. The nurse held the glass to her lips. Lakshmi drank a little water, swallowed with difficulty, then drank again and yet once more. Turning from the proffered glass, she looked up at Dr. Robert. The wasted face was illumined by a strangely incongruous twinkle of pure mischief.
" 'I the Trinity illustrate,' " the faint voice hoarsely quoted, " 'sipping watered orange pulp; in three sips the Arian frustrate' . . ." She broke off. "What a ridiculous thing to be remembering. But then I always was pretty ridiculous, wasn't I?"
Dr. Robert did his best to smile back at her. "Pretty ridiculous," he agreed.
"You used to say I was like a flea. Here one moment and then, hop! somewhere else, miles away. No wonder you could never educate me!"