DEJA vu CAN be a ghastly term depending on the moment one relives. And it was with a sense of cold, devouring oppression that I moved through mist toward the building ahead. Release me from this black, unending nightmare. I recalled that plea in my mind.
It was recurring now.
I have been here before, the further thought assailed me. It didn't help that Albert walked beside me this time. Despite his presence, I was isolated with my private fears as I walked into the church. As before, the pews were filled with people. As before, their forms were gray and faceless. As before, I drifted down the middle aisle, trying to understand why I was there. I didn't know what church it was. I only knew that, this time, I could not hear Ann's weeping because Ann was dead.
They were in the front row, sitting close together. The sight of them made me cry out in despairing recognition. I could see their faces clearly, paled and drawn by sorrow, tears in their eyes and trickling down their cheeks.
Emotion brought forgetfulness. Without thinking, I moved to them and tried to put my arms around them. Instantly, I knew they were oblivious to me, staring toward the front of the church. The agony I'd felt at my own funeral returned, doubled now because I knew the funeral was Ann's.
I looked around suddenly, a thought occurring to me. I'd been an observer at my own funeral. Was it conceivable--?
"No, Chris," Albert said. "She isn't here."
I avoided the sight of my children, unable to bear the expressions on their faces, the knowledge that they were alone now.
"This woman was beloved in many ways," I heard a voice intone.
I looked toward the altar and saw the vague form of the minister delivering his eulogy. Who was he? I wondered. I didn't know him. He didn't know Ann. How could he speak of her as though he did? "As wife and mother, friend and companion. Loved by her late husband, Christopher, and by her children, Louise and Marie, Richard and Ian."
I turned away from him in distress. What right did he have to say--?
The thought evaporated as I saw what Albert was doing.
He was standing in front of Richard, his right hand on Richard's head as though he were bestowing a wordless benediction on my son.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
He raised his left hand, saying nothing, and I knew he wanted silence. I stared at him. In several moments, he left Richard and moved in front of Marie, placing his hand on her head in the same way. For a moment, the sight of her staring directly at his solid (to me) body without seeing it struck me as bizarre. I wondered, once more, what Albert was doing.
Then I turned away again, too agonized to face the sight of Marie.
How had I failed to notice it before? A sense of sick despair enveloped me as I walked to the casket. Thank God it was closed, I thought. At least the children were spared that
Another thought came suddenly. I remembered Albert telling me, at my funeral, that I could look inside the casket if I tried. Was that, also, true now? The despair grew deeper. No, I thought. I didn't want to see her that way. Her real self was elsewhere. Why look at the shell?
I forced myself to turn from the casket. Closing my eyes, I began, instead, to pray for Ann. Help her to find peace, please help her to be comforted.
I found my gaze returning to the children. Once more, the pain of seeing them became intense. Please be done, I thought to Albert. I couldn't bear this any longer. Staring at the stricken faces of my children, helpless to comfort them, unable to reach them in any way.
Albert had his hand on Ian's head. Suddenly, he turned, a quick smile on his lips. "Be thankful for your Ian," he said.
"I'm thankful for them all," I answered, not understanding.
"Of course," he said. "The thing is, though, that lan's prayer may help us find your wife."
We were walking toward the border of Summerland now. We could have traveled there by thought but--Albert had told me--the stress of leaving so abruptly might have caused me discomfort.
"Understand now," he repeated, "lan's prayer isn't a direct channel to Ann. It only starts us on the path. Finding her will still be difficult."
"But not impossible," I said.
He nodded. "Not impossible."
Ian's prayer again, I thought, remembering how he'd helped me once before.
"It's as though he knows," Albert said. "Not consciously, perhaps, but somewhere deep inside himself. It's what I was hoping for. When there were no prayers from any of your other children--not because they love their mother any less but because they believe that prayers are hypocritical---I thought our cause was lost--and it would have been whatever your determination. But then I was in contact with your younger son's mind and hope was revived."
"How long will it take to find her?" I asked.
"You must understand," he said. "We may never find her. We're only in possession of a general bearing, not a step-by-step route."
I resisted panic and nodded. "I understand," I said. "Let's hurry though."
Albert stopped. We were walking by a large, attractive looking park with--the sight was anomalous--a tall, iron fence around it. "Chris, come in here with me," Albert said. "I have something to say before we continue."
I wanted to go on as fast as possible, not stop and listen. But the urgency in his voice permitted no other course so I walked beside him through a gateway to the park, past an ornamental pond. I noticed that it had no fish in it and that the soil around its bank looked somewhat drab.
I noticed, too, at that point, that the shrubbery and plants were limited and, while certainly not ugly, were, in no degree, as verdant as the other growth I'd seen in Summerland. The grass, too, had what looked like bare spots.
Across the park, I saw some people ambling slowly, others seated on benches. None wore robes but, instead, were dressed in fashionable earth clothes. They didn't look very pleasant, their expressions those of false dignity. Those on the benches sat stiffly, faces set. Everyone I looked at had an air of postured nonchalance. None were speaking.
I was about to ask about them when we reached a bench which--oddly, I thought-- looked somewhat in need of paint. Albert gestured toward it and asked me to sit.
I did so and he took his place beside me. "I'm walking you to the edge of Summerland for two reasons," he began. "The first, as I've told you, is to let your system gradually adjust to rather unpleasant alterations in environment. The other is to get you used to walking again as a means of locomotion. Once we depart from Summerland, we'll be subject to the grosser atmosphere of where we'll be and unable to travel by thought."
I looked at him curiously. IS that what he'd stopped to tell me? "Most of all," he continued, answering my question instantly, "I want to emphasize the profound danger you will be in when we're traveling through the lower realm. You found our visit to your wife's funeral disturbing. It was nothing compared to what you'll soon be experiencing. While we were at the funeral, we maintained a distance from the influences of that level. In the lower realm, we will have to actually take on those influences in order to function. I can protect you to a certain degree but you must be prepared for the onset that will strike you--every dark emotion that you left behind on entering Summerland.
"You must, also, be prepared to see some terrible sights. As I've said, the way to Ann is not distinct. It may take us through some ghastly places. I want you to understand this now. If you feel you can't face them--" "I don't care what I have to face," I said. He regarded me in silence, obviously wondering if I had the remotest concept of what he was telling me.
"Very well," he finally said, "assuming that you have the strength to resist what you'll have to face, I warn you, with the greatest emphasis, of the dangers which will threaten you if and when we actually find Ann." I confess to startlement at that.
"The search for her will involve many frightening dangers," he said, "but these are external dangers. If we find Ann and you try to help her, you'll be subject to internal threat. Returning to a level of primitive development, you'll be strongly influenced by it. Lowering your vibration to that of earth's, you will no longer be able to think clearly but will be subject to the same confusion of thought with which your wife lives constantly. In this weakened state, you will not only risk losing your effort on her behalf, you could very easily be so affected that you'd become as much a prisoner of that level as she is." He put his hand on my shoulder and gripped it tightly.
"You would, then, lose everything you've gained," he said, "not only losing Ann but yourself as well.''
A current of uneasiness washed over me and I couldn't respond.
"You can return to where you were," Albert said. "Frankly, I'd be much relieved if you did. That way, you'd only have to wait for her for twenty-four years which would quickly pass for you.
"By going on, you may lose her for a much longer time."
I closed my eyes, feeling chilled and weak. I mustn't leave her there, I thought. I have to help her. Still, I was afraid-- and not unrealistically according to what Albert had told me. What if I wasn't strong enough? Wasn't it better to wait those twenty-four years, knowing, for certain, that we'd be together again? Wasn't that infinitely preferable to trying to help her now and possibly running the risk of losing Ann forever?