CHAPTER ONE MISS MATHILDA HOCKERSNICKLER of Upper Little Puddlepatch sat at her half opened window. The book she was reading attracted her whole attention. A funeral cortege went by without her shadow falling across the fine lace cur- tains adorning her windows. An altercation between two neighbours went unremarked by a movement of the aspidistra framing the centre of the lower window. Miss Mathilda was reading. Putting down the book upon her lap for a moment, she raised her steel-rimmed spectacles to her forehead while she rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes. Then, putting her spectacles back in place upon her rather prominent nose, she picked up the book and read some more. In a cage a green and yellow parrot, beady-eyed, looked down with some curiosity. Then there was a raucous squawk, ‘Polly want out, Polly want out!’ Miss Mathilda Hockersnickler jumped to her feet with a start. ‘Oh, good gracious me,’ she exclaimed, ‘I am so sorry my poor little darling, I quite forgot to transfer you to your perch.’ Carefully she opened the door of the gilt wire cage and, putting a hand inside, she lifted the somewhat tattered old parrot and gently drew him through the opened cage door. ‘Polly want out, Polly want out!’ squawked the parrot again. ‘Oh, you stupid bird,’ replied Miss Mathilda. ‘You ARE out, I am going to put you on your perch.’ So saying, she put the parrot on the crossbar of a five foot pole which at its distal end resulted in a tray or catch-pan. Carefully she put a little chain around the parrot's left leg, and then made sure that the water bowl and the seed bowl at one end of the support were full. 7 The parrot ruffled its feathers and then put its head be- neath one wing, making cooing chirping noises as it did so. ‘Ah, Polly,’ said Miss Mathilda, ‘you should come and read this book with me. It's all about the things we are when we are not here. I wish I knew what the author really believed,’ she said as she sat down again and very carefully and mod- estly arranged her skirts so that not even her knees were showing. She picked up the book again and then hesitated half-way between lap and reading position, hesitated and put the book down while she reached for a long knitting needle. And then with a vigour surprising in such an elderly lady—she gave a wholly delightful scratch all along her spine between the shoulder blades. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, ‘what a wonderful relief that is. I am sure there is something wrong with my liberty bodice. I think I must have got a rough hair there, or something, let me scratch again, it's such a relief.’ With that she agitated the knitting needle vigorously, her face beaming with pleasure as she did so. With that item behind her, and her itch settled for the moment, she replaced the knitting needle and picked up the book. ‘Death,’ she said to herself, or possibly to the un- heeding parrot, ‘if I only knew what this author REALLY believed about after death.’ She stopped for a moment and reached to the other side of the aspidistra bowl so that she could pick up some soft can- dies she had put there. Then with a sigh she got to her feet again and passed one to the parrot which was eyeing her very fiercely. The bird took it with a snap and held it in its beak. Miss Mathilda, with the knitting needle now in one hand again and candy in her mouth and the book in her left hand, settled herself again and continued her reading. A few lines on she stopped again. ‘Why is it that the Father always says that if one is not a good Catholic—a good Church—attending Catholic—one is not able to attain to the Kingdom of Heaven? I wonder if the Father is wrong and if people of other religions go to Heaven as well.’ She lapsed into silence again except for the faint mumbling that she made as she tried to visualize some of the more un- 8 familiar words. Akashic Record, astral travel, the Heavenly Fields. The sun moved across the top of the house and Miss Math- ilda sat and read. The parrot, with head beneath a wing, slept on. Only an infrequent twitch betrayed any sign of life. Then a church clock chimed away in the distance and Miss Mathilda came to life with a jerk. ‘Oh my goodness me—oh my goodness me,’ she exclaimed, ‘I've forgotten all about tea and I have to go to the Church Women's Meeting.’ She jumped rapidly to her feet, and very carefully put an embroidered into the paperback book which she then hid be- neath a sewing table. She moved away to prepare her belated tea, and as she did so only the parrot would have heard her murmur, ‘Oh, I do wish I knew what this author really believed—I do wish I could have a talk with him. It would be such a comfort!’ On a far off sunny island which shall be nameless, al- though, indeed, it could be named for this is true, a Gentle- man of Colour stretched languorously beneath the ample shade of an age-old tree. Lazily he put down the book which he was reading and reached up for a luscious fruit which was dangling enticingly nearby. With an idle movement he plucked the fruit, inspected it to see that it was free of insects, and then popped it in his capacious mouth. ‘Gee,’ he mumbled over the obstruction of the fruit. ‘Gee, I sure doan know what this cat is getting at. I sure do wish I knew what he really believed.’ He stretched again and eased his back into a more comfortable position against the bole of the tree. Idly he swatted at a passing fly, missing he let his hand continue the motion and it idly picked up his book again. ‘Life after death, astral travel, the Akashic Record.’ The Gentleman of Colour rifled through some pages. He wanted to get to the end of the stuff without the necessity of all the work involved in reading it word by word. He read a para- graph here, a sentence there, and then idly turned to another page. ‘Gee,’ he repeated. ‘I wish I knew what he believed.’ But the sun was hot. The hum of the insects soporific. 9 Gradually the Gentleman of Colour’s head sank upon his chest. Slowly his dark fingers relaxed and the paperback book slithered from his nerveless hands and slid down to the gentle sand. The Gentleman of Colour snored and snored, and was oblivious to all that went on about him in the mun- dane sphere of activity. A passing youth glanced at the sleeping Negro and looked down at the book. Glancing again at the sleeper the youth edged forward and with prehensile toes reached and picked up the book which with bent leg he quickly transferred to his hand. Holding the book on the side away from the sleeper he moved away looking too innocent to be true. Away he went into the little copse of trees. Passing through he came again into the sunlight and to a stretch of dazzling white sand. The boom of the breakers sounded in his ears but went unnoticed because this was his life, the sound of the waves on the rocks around the lagoon was an everyday sound to him. The hum of the insects and the chit- tering of the cicadas were his life, and, as such, unnoticed. On he went, scuffling the fine sand with his toes for there was always a hope that some treasure or some coin would be unearthed for hadn't a friend of his once picked up a golden Piece of Eight while doing this? There was a narrow strip of water dividing him from a spit of land containing three solitary trees. Wading he soon traversed the interruption and made his way to the space between the three trees. Carefully he lay down and slowly excavated a little pit to hold his hip bone. Then he rested his head comfortably against the tree root and looked at the book which he had filched from the sleeper. Carefully he looked around to make sure that he was not observed, to make sure that no one was chasing him. Satisfied that all was safe, he settled back again and rubbed one hand through his woolly hair while with the other he idly turned over the book, first to the back where he read what the publisher had to say, and then he flipped the book over and studied the picture through half-closed slitted eyes and with furrowed brows and puckered lips as he muttered things incomprehensible to himself. 10 He scratched his crotch and pulled his pants to a more comfortable position. Then, resting on his left elbow, he flipped over the pages and started to read. ‘Thought forms, mantras, man-oh-man, ain't that shore sumpin! So maybe I could make a thought form and then Abigail would have to do whatever I wanted her to do. Gee man, yeh, I shore go for that.’ He rolled back and picked at his nose for a bit, then he said, ‘Wonder if I can believe all this.’ The shadowed recesses of the room exuded an atmosphere of sanctity. All was quiet except that in the deep stone fire- place logs burned and sputtered. Every so often a jet of steam would shoot out and hiss angrily at the flames, steam generated by moisture trapped within imperfectly dried logs. Every so often the wood would erupt in a little explosion sending a shower of sparks upwards. The flickering light added a strange feeling to the room, a feeling of mystery. At one side of the fireplace a deep, deep armchair stood with its back facing the door. An old fashioned stand lamp made of brass rods stood beside the chair, and soft light was emitted from the medium powered electric light bulb con- cealed within the recesses of a green shade. The light went down, and then disappeared from sight because of the ob- struction of the back of the chair. There came a dry cough and the rustling of turning pages. Again there was silence except for the sputtering of a fire and for the regular fingering of paper as read pages were turned to reveal new material. From the far distance there came the tolling of a bell, a tolling of slow tempo, and then soon there followed the shuffling of sandal-shod feet and the very soft murmur of voices. There was a clang of an opening door, and a minute later a hollow thud as the door was shut. Soon there came sounds of an organ and male voices raised in song. The song went on for some time and then there was rustling followed by silence, and the silence was destroyed by mumbling voices murmuring something incomprehensible but very well rehearsed. 11 In the room there was a startling slap as a book fell to the floor. Then a dark figure jumped up. ‘Oh my goodness me, I must have fallen asleep. What a perfectly astonishing thing to do!’ The dark robed figure bent to pick up the book and carefully opened it to the appropriate page. Meticulously he inserted a bookmark, and quite respectfully placed the book on the table beside him. For some moments he sat there with hands clasped and flurried brow, then he lifted from the chair and dropped to his knees facing a crucifix on the wall. Kneeling, hands clasped, head bowed, he muttered a prayer of supplication for guidance. That completed he rose to his feet and went to the fireplace and placed another log on the brightly glowing embers. For some time he sat crouched at the side of the stone fireplace with head cupped between his hands. On a sudden impulse he slapped his thigh and jumped to his feet. Rapidly he crossed the dark room and moved to a desk concealed in the shadows. A quick movement, a pull at a cord, and that corner of the room was flooded with warm light. The figure drew back a chair and opened the lid of the desk, and then sat down. For a moment he sat gazing blankly at the sheet of paper he had just put before him. Absently he put out his right hand to feel for the book that wasn't there, and with a muttered exclamation of annoy- ance he rose to his feet and went to the chair to pick up the book deposited on the chair side table. Back at the desk he sat and rifled through the pages until he found that which he sought—an address. Quickly he addressed an envelope and then sat and pondered, sorting out his thoughts, wondering what to do, wondering how to phrase the words he wanted to use. Soon he put nib to paper and all was quiet except for the scratching of a nib and the ticking of a distant clock. ‘Dear Dr. Rampa,’ the letter commenced, ‘I am a Jesuit priest. I am a lecturer in the Humanities at our College, and I have read your books with more than the normal interest. ‘I believe that only those who follow our own form of religion are able to obtain Salvation through the blood of 12 Our Lord Jesus Christ. I believe that when I am teaching my students. I believe that when I am within the Church itself. But when I am alone in the dark hours of the night, when there is none to watch my reactions or analyze my thoughts then I wonder. Am I right in my Belief? Is there no one except a Catholic who may be saved? What of other re- ligions, are they all false, are they all works of the devil? Or have I and others of my Belief been misled? Your books have shed much light and enabled me greatly to resolve the doubts of the spirit in which I am involved, and I would ask you, Sir, will you answer me some questions so that you may either shed some new light or strengthen that in which I believe.’ Carefully he appended his name. Carefully he folded the letter and was inserting it in the envelope when a thought occurred to him. Quickly, almost guiltily, he snatched out the letter, unfolded it, and indicted a postscript: ‘I ask you of your honour as one devoted to your own Belief not to men- tion my name nor that I have written to you as it is contrary to the rules of my Order.’ He initialled it, dried the ink, and then quickly inserted the folded letter in the envelope and sealed it. He fumbled among his papers until he found a book, and in that he made a note of the postage to Canada. Searching in drawers and pigeonholes eventually produced the appropriate stamps which were affixed to the envelope. The priest then carefully tucked the letter in the inner re- cesses of his gown. Rising to his feet he extinguished the light and left the room. ‘Ah Father,’ said a voice out in the corridor, ‘are you going into the town or can I do anything for you there? I have to go on an errand and I should be happy to be of service to you.’ ‘No thank you, Brother,’ replied the senior professor to his subordinate, ‘I have a mind to take a turn in the town and to get some much needed exercise, so I think I will just stroll down to the main street.’ Gravely they took a half bow to each other, and each went his own way, the senior professor went out of the age-old building of gray stone stained with age and half covered with climbing ivy. Slowly he walked 13 along the main drive, hands clasped about his crucifix, mum- bling to himself as was the wont of those of his Order. In the main street just beyond the great gate people bowed respectfully at his appearance, and many crossed themselves. Slowly the elderly professor walked down the street to the letter box outside the post office. Guiltily, sur- reptitiously he looked about him to see if any of his Order were nearby. Satisfied that all was secure he removed the letter from his robes and flicked it into the letter box. Then with a heartfelt sigh of relief he turned and retraced his steps. Back in his private study, again by the side of the spark- ling fire and with a well-shaded light casting illumination on his book, he read and read deep into the hours of the night. At last he closed the book, locked it away, and went off to his cell murmuring to himself, ‘What should I believe, what should I believe?’ The lowering sky gazed dourly upon night-time London. The teeming rain swept down upon the shivering streets scurrying passers-by with grimly held umbrellas braced against the wind. London, the lights of London, and people hurrying home from work. Buses roared by, great giant red buses scattering water all over the sidewalks, and shivering groups of people trying to avoid the dirty spray. In shop fronts people huddled in groups waiting for their own buses to come along, dashing out eagerly as a bus came along and then slinking back despondently as the indicators showed the wrong numbers. London, with half the city going home and another half coming on duty. In Harley Street, the heart of London's medical world, a gray haired man paced restlessly on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire. Back and forth he strode, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed upon his chest. Then on im- pulse he flung himself into a well-padded leather armchair and pulled a book out of his pocket. Quickly he flipped through the pages until he found the passage he needed, a passage about the human aura. He read it again, and having read it turned back and read it once more. For a time he sat gazing into the fire, then he nodded in resolution and 14 jumped to his feet. Quickly he left the room and went into another. Carefully he locked the door behind him and went to his desk. Pushing aside a lot of medical reports and certificates yet to be signed, he sat down and took some private notepaper from a drawer. ‘Dear Dr. Rampa,’ he wrote in an almost indecipherable handwriting, ‘I have read your book with absolute fasci- nation, a fascination heightened very greatly by my own belief — by my own knowledge — that what you write is true.’ He sat back and carefully read what he had just written, and to be quite sure he read it once again before resuming, ‘I have a son, a bright young fellow, who recently had an operation to his brain. Now, since that operation, he tells us that he is able to see strange colours around human bodies, he is able to see lights about the human head, but not only the human head, not only the human body - animals as well. For some time we have thought deeply on this matter, wondering what it was that we did wrong in the operation, thinking perhaps that we had disorganized his optic nerve, but after reading your book we know better; my son can see the human aura, therefore I know that you write the truth. ‘I should very much like to meet you if you are in London because I think you may be able to be of enormous as- sistance to my son. Yours very sincerely.’ He re-read what he had written, and then, like a priest before him, was about to fold the letter and insert it in an envelope, but his eyes fell upon the bust of a medical pioneer. The specialist started as if he had been stung by a bee and quickly grabbed his pen again and added a post- script to his letter. ‘I trust that you will not reveal my name or the contents of this letter to anyone because it would injure my status in the eyes of my colleagues.’ Carefully he initialled it, folded it and put it in its envelope. Carefully he extinguished the lights and left the room. Outside his very expensive car was waiting. The chauffeur jumped to atten- tion as the specialist said, ‘To the post office in Leicester Square.’ The car drove off and soon the letter was dropped into the letter box and eventually reached its destination. 15