Читать книгу Mystical Paths - Susan Howatch - Страница 35

I knew I could tell my father only a highly censored version of what had happened, but nonetheless I knew I had to see him. Whenever I was in pieces there was only one person who could weld me together again.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said my father as I entered his cottage. ‘Thank goodness. I had the feeling you were troubled in some way, perhaps even a little frightened.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t you switch off sometimes? I’m sick and tired of you invading my privacy with your ESP!’ Of course I was terrified how much he had intuited.

My father’s grey eyes filled with tears. He was very, very old now, almost eighty-eight, and he moved slowly. His great height had been reduced by a stoop. He was still compos mentis but his body was wearing out. Eight years after his successful prostate operation he was suffering from bladder problems again, and although tests had revealed there was no cancer the pain and difficulty continued. His digestion, which had always been excellent, had begun to cause trouble. He vomited, suffered headaches. The doctor continued to prove there was no cancer and in despair prescribed some tranquillisers which my father, much insulted, flushed down the lavatory. Now something had gone wrong with his hands and he refused to see the doctor at all. He made his own diagnosis, eczema, and rejecting all offers of help from Rowena, Agnes and Dorothy, he somehow managed to bandage the hands himself. Mark and Luke, the ex-monks, and Bob, the ex-naval-chaplain, spent hours arguing about the dermatitis entry in the medical dictionary but came to no conclusion. Morgan, the ex-pop-star, had left the Community long ago after abandoning his attempt to write an opera about God, and Theo, the ex-ordinand who thought he was being persecuted by Buddha, was now in a mental home. The Community had been reduced to six.

‘Oh Father, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to yell at you like that …’ I couldn’t stand it when his eyes filled with tears. This tendency to weepiness was new, another result of extreme old age. He couldn’t control his emotions as well as he used to, and his psychic powers, once so formidably disciplined, were now more erratic. I was sure he hadn’t deliberately tried to tune in to my activities; the tuning in would have been a mere reflex, triggered by his anxiety.

Hating myself for losing patience with him I said: ‘As a matter of fact you were right in sensing that I’ve been having an awkward time.’ Picking up Whitby, who was skulking around my ankles, I dumped him in my father’s lap. I did this not just to give myself a chance to review the censored story I had prepared but because I thought it was once more time Whitby earned his keep by having a tranquillising effect on those nearest and dearest to him.

I stroked the striped fur. So did my father. Whitby tried to knead my father’s knees but collapsed in ecstasy seconds later. The sonorous rise and fall of his purring thrummed around the room.

Having reviewed my story I took a deep breath and said: ‘I’ve just had a very disturbing visit from Marina and Katie. They wanted me to hold a séance but of course I told them that was out of the question. However, when I realised Katie wanted to make contact with Christian in order to obtain his forgiveness, it occurred to me that this was a pastoral situation where I could be of use. I thought that if we all prayed together … the grace of God … love and peace … well, I might have been able to alleviate this mysterious burden of guilt, mightn’t I? It really did seem as if I could be of use.’

‘Nicholas, you’re not yet a priest. And you’re certainly not a doctor. If Mrs Aysgarth was in such a troubled state, you should have advised her to seek professional help.’

‘Yes, of course. However –’

‘Very well, tell me the worst. What happened?’

I prepared to skate on thin ice. ‘We sat down at the table in my sitting-room and I led them in prayer. I wanted to convey that Christian was at peace with God, so I prayed that we might be allowed to experience that peace. I didn’t pray for his soul – I thought non-church-going Protestants might have balked at prayers for the dead – but I thought that if we simply remembered him before God … well, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘No, but what exactly was your motive here, Nicholas? Did you act solely out of a desire to help Mrs Aysgarth or were you perhaps attracted by the chance to adopt a powerful role in the presence of two beautiful and charming young women?’

‘I most strongly deny –’

‘Yes, of course you do. But Nicholas, even if your motive was as pure as driven snow, this apparently harmless attempt at prayer could still have been dangerous. If someone’s emotionally disturbed – and in particular if they’re haunted by guilt – any psychic activity, even prayer, can trigger an unpleasant reaction.’

‘But this was worse than just an unpleasant reaction from Katie! There was an interruption by a discarnate shred.’

‘Are you quite sure you weren’t conducting a séance?’

‘Oh no, Father! That was why I was so surprised when –’

‘I too find it surprising. An emotional disturbance from Mrs Aysgarth is easy to explain: the psychic activity of prayer might have caused her to break down as she sensed the opportunity to express her grief and guilt – she could easily have had hysterics or possibly even a psychotic episode if the channel of prayer wasn’t wide enough to contain her emotions. But I wouldn’t have expected an infiltration of the scene by a discarnate shred unless you were actively trying to align yourself with the dead.’

‘Father, it wasn’t a séance. Honestly. It was just a pseudo-séance. I –’

‘You appal me.’

‘But Father, listen –’

‘Did you all hold hands and deliberately try to align yourselves with the spirit of a dead man?’

‘Yes, but since Christian’s at peace with God, surely an alignment could only be beneficial?’

‘How do you know he’s at peace with God?’

‘Well, I –’ I stared at him. Then as my scalp prickled I stammered: ‘I assumed – I felt sure – I mean, I just knew, it was “gnosis” –’

‘Don’t you dare use that word to me!’

‘I’m not using it as a Gnostic – I’m using it as a Christian who needs a code-word for psychic certainties –’

‘There are no psychic certainties.’

‘But Father –’

‘Be quiet. Now listen to me. Never try to communicate with the dead, even those likely to be at peace with God, because even a seemingly harmless attempt to align yourself with a departed soul can have a profoundly disturbing effect on the living.’

‘Yes, but I still don’t understand why what happened did happen. The discarnate shred was malign – I mean, it was very malign, it was driven by the most tremendous power, and in the end I realised that this power could only have been generated by –’

‘I should think it most unlikely that the Devil could have been bothered to drop in on your shoddy little séance. It’s much more probable that you lost your nerve and began to fantasise once the energy disturbances spiralled out of control. I assume that there were, in fact, energy disturbances?’

‘Yes, and Katie was in a sort of coma, moaning and groaning as if she were possessed –’

‘Rubbish, of course she wasn’t possessed! She was merely manifesting her deep psychological troubles. Did you hypnotise her?’

‘No, Father, certainly not.’

‘It would explain the appearance of coma. How on earth did you regain control of the scene?’

‘I shouted to the Devil: “In the name of Jesus Christ, Satan, be gone from this room!” and all the glass in the picture-frame shattered as he went out of the window.’

‘Nothing went out of the window, Nicholas, except the vibrations of your guilt and your panic’

‘But Father, that force I experienced – okay, maybe it wasn’t the Devil himself, maybe it was just a malign shred acting alone – well, whatever it was, it came from without. It wasn’t welling up from within.’

‘How did you experience it?’

‘As a mounting pressure on the psyche.’

‘Exactly. It was a pressure exerted by your unconscious mind – which in your panic would have seemed quite external to your ego.’

‘But Father –’

‘All right, Nicholas, calm down. I think our disagreement is an illusion created by the fact that we’re mixing up two different languages, the religious language employing symbols such as “the Devil”, and the scientific language which employs concepts such as “the unconscious mind”. Why don’t we try to produce a version of your story in each language so that we can see we’re talking about a single truth? Then perhaps we won’t get so cross with each other.’

I was hooked, just as I always was when religion and psychology were seen not as mortal enemies – the grand illusion of so many people – but as complementary approaches to a multi-sided truth. I gave Whitby another long, lingering stroke. Then I said to my father: ‘Okay, go on.’