“You don’t have to be down a rabbit hole for things to transform unexpectedly in front of you,” he told those who could be bothered to listen to him as he waved his pint of beer dangerously in the air. “The first that I noticed of the alarmingly high level of the sea was when a giant wave overflowed the seawall in slow motion and flooded the deck of the boat that the towpath had become.” He paused in his storytelling, unable to continue as a violent fit of coughing wracked his body. “I frantically tried to pick up the cushions and pillows scattered here and there in a desperate attempt to keep them dry,” he pursued breathlessly. “There were already several inches of water in the boat as I stuffed the cushions onto the top bunk beds. Suddenly the boat heaved violently to one side,” and he staggered drunkenly sideways as if struck once again by the waves. “It couldn’t be possible, I thought, boats just don’t capsize so easily. But to prove me wrong, the boat rolled over on its side and began to sink, filling corridors and berths with water. It all happened so quickly.” He paused again to catch his breath as he ran the palm of his hand absentmindedly across his forehead and then rubbed his eyes. “Navigating the water-filled corridors I swam under water till I finally made it to the surface. Several things troubled me. The water was not cold at all. I would have expected seawater in the middle of the ocean to be freezing. And then there was the breathing. I had no difficulty holding my breath for what must have been minutes. Not that I had much time to worry about these things at the time.” He shook his head in disbelief, as did many of those listening to him, although probably not for the same reasons. “To my surprise, once outside, only one young man on a wind-sail was in sight. ‘Is that all the rescue we get?’ I spluttered as I fought against the waves. ‘Of course not!’ the voice of an unseen man called out. ‘There are many more of us.’” He paused to take a long swig of his beer, wiping the froth left by the beer around his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pushing downwards, I felt my feet touch the bottom of what had become a shallow river. Don’t ask me how. And sure enough, as I looked around I could see the river bank not far away.” He went to take another mouthful of beer but his glass was empty. He grunted as someone took the glass from his hand to have it refilled at the bar. “I strode through the water till I reached the boat,” he pursued, “and heaved it out of the water. As I did so it shrank to the size a toy. I hunted all over, but I could find no signs of either the drowned or the survivors, much to my relief…”

Bright streaks of colour  rained down like so many tiny meteorites leaving their short-lived traces suspended in the air in front of them only to be replaced rapidly by others following different paths. She shuddered at the beauty of it. She had never seen anything so moving. And to think that she’d been expecting one of those typically predictable lessons that he often dished her up with. “I don’t get it,” she said after a while, turning to face him in the dark. “What is there to get?” was all he replied, pretending to be bored. For all her affection for him, he was absolutely exasperating she thought, clenching her fists knowing he could not see them. It was as if frustrating people was his idea of how best to get them to learn. “How can you ask such a question?” she asked, irritated, turning back to the display in front of her, still fascinated by its unending play of colours. “Here we stand in complete darkness, the most beautiful shower of lights splaying inexplicably through the air in front of us and all you can say is that there is nothing worth explaining.” “That is not exactly what I said,” he clarified. She could hear the amusement in his voice, but she didn’t rise to the bait. She remained silent in her efforts to force him to explain. “Well what do you think it is?” he asked, clearly changing his tactics. Typical, she thought, once a teacher, always a teacher. “I’m not buying your pedagogical tricks,” she said fiercely. “You know well enough what it is. Just tell me.” There was a long silence. She hadn’t realised that what she saw was almost noiseless. She said noiseless, but in fact thanks to the silence she could hear a faint hum that fluctuated and modulated when the lights intensified or decreased. If she concentrated, she wondered, would she be able to hear the music of it?”Well?” she pursued, giving up on her attempts to listen carefully such was her impatience with what she understood to be his hesitations. “Have you ever heard of the theory of Parallel Worlds?” he began. “You’ve spoken about it several times,” she reminded him. She could hear his footsteps as he moved around in the dark. She was surprised to feel him place his hands on her shoulders from behind. A little worried, she asked: “What are you …?” But her question remained unanswered as he shoved her violently forward. She felt herself caught up in a whirlwind of movement and colour that pulled off her feet, swung her round and round and carried her up and away. She should have been terrified as she lost all sense of direction and hurtled onwards but the music of the light was so beautiful and engrossing now that she could hear it clearly that nothing else really mattered.

The room was hot and stuffy making him sweat profusely and causing his shirt to cling uncomfortably to his skin. He wiped his forehead and neck with a large white handkerchief that was none too clean and stuffed it back in his jacket pocket. Thick velvet curtains veiled the windows shutting out most of the torrid sunlight of the Italian summer. Since he’d arrived in Rome, the temperature had unfailingly surpassed all records with a number of elderly people succumbing to the heat, or so the radio said. This was to be his last day and he relished the thought of returning to the rain and wind that prevailed in Aberdeen. His whole stay in the Vatican City had been given over to negotiating access to what he was about to see now. When he’d heard that such a thing existed, he had hardly been able to believe it. He had known getting access would be difficult, but he hadn’t anticipated the barriers he would have to surmount to get where he was now. In the beginning there had been denials and even threats. Later came the endless interrogations and questions about his motives. Finally, when all else had failed, came the time to take out his wallet and pay his entry fee as a new member of this most exclusive club not to mention various additional contributions here and there. His guide, a little man who barely reached his shoulders, halted in front of a plain metal door that offered no sign of what might lie within. Pulling a large bunch of keys from the pocket of his cassock, he sorted through them till he found what he was looking for: a long slender key with large handle. Pushing it into the lock up to the hilt, he then turned it till a resounding click was to be heard and the door sprang open on well-oiled hinges. The priest invited him to enter. Stepping over the threshold he was relieved to find the room cooler than elsewhere in the building. Maybe it was because there were no windows and the walls seemed particularly thick. Rows and rows of broad, squat filing cabinets made of varnished wood, separated by wide alleys filled the entire room which must have stretched from more than a hundred meters. Each cabinet, which reached up to his waist, had a number of drawers of varying sizes. “You realise,” the priest said, donning a pair of white gloves, “that the Church could not have such objects in full view of the faithful.” He then extracted a large black velvet cloth from his pocket, unfolded it and laid it meticulously on the top of one of the cabinets. “So they were removed with the greatest of care and stored here for posterity. We have thousands of them in our collection.” On the verge of pulling open one of the larger drawers, he hesitated a moment, saying: “You might wonder why we bother to keep them. The answer is simple. They are real works of art, many of them by the greatest artists of their time.” He pulled the drawer open and lifted out a giant marble erection, some forty centimetres long and placed the penis lovingly on the velvet cloth. “Note the exquisite curves of the head,” the priest continued. “And the way the artist has sculptured the bulging veins that run along its length. And here,” he went on, turning the sex gently on its axe to show where it had been severed from the rest of the sculpture, “you can see with what workmanship the member has been removed without leaving the slightest trace.” Replacing the sex where in its drawer, the priest asked: “Would you like to see others? We have them from all ages and sizes.”

Sunday and an invited Orthodox choir was singing in the cliff top church: an Oratorio in memory of those lost at sea. The wind was blowing off the sea bringing with it a strong smell of salt and seaweed and the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below that mingled with the voices of the tenors and altos. She bent forward and laid her little posy of wild flowers on the cliff edge. It was an age-old tradition in her village and it was her way of honouring the memory of her grandfather who had died in the shipwreck of one of the finest boats in the area. She moved forward gingerly and peered over the cliff edge. Below lay a small beach covered in shingle and small pebbles all various shades of pink. It was unreachable, even at low tide. The waves crashed onto the beach and transformed into a swirling mass of pink water that surged upwards until it finally receded back to the sea. As she stood there, a small boy joined her and stared at the wreck. She felt his hand reach out for hers and they stood for a long moment holding hands, listening to the eerie counterpoint between the choir singing in the nearby church and the waves below. It was extremely moving, she thought, as tears formed in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Then suddenly the kid let go of her hand, lurched forward and flung himself over the edge as if he were going to dive recklessly into the sea. Horrified, she looked over the precipice to find that he had not cleared the beach to reach the sea beyond. His body lay face down, unmoving, his arms and legs splayed on the pink stones as the following wave broke on the beach, engulfing him. She opened her mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed. Alerted by her screams, a man who’d been working nearby came running up and leaned forward to see what had happened. “We must do something,” she beseeched him, shaking his arm violently. “No point, Miss,” he replied as he freed himself from her hold and turned to go back to his work. “No point.”

(Rachmaninov’s Vespers for alto, tenor and chorus, Op. 37: Cantique de Siméon)

The nuts didn’t taste so good, but it was all he had left to eat. He tried to make each one last as long as possible, chewing it till it became a warm liquid that dribbled down his throat without him even having to swallow. The rain had began to fall again, a heavy downpour that would have drenched his clothes if he hadn’t been wearing regulation waterproofs. The ruin offered little shelter. Nothing was left of the roof and only two of the walls were intact. The wind shifted direction frequently. When it blew from the sea the remaining walls protected him but as soon as it veered landwards it brought icy rain and penetrating cold that nailed him in place. He resumed his vigil. Although no one had approached the lighthouse yet he knew they would come sooner or later. A strange throaty honking noise broke the silence. Peering cautiously round the edge of the wall, he caught sight of seals playing with the waves. Then he noticed that several had clambered up onto rock where they lay basking in the foul weather. He was fascinated by their dappled skin, thick with wrinkles. It looked as if  a family of barnacles had taken up residence on these playful animals. He watched them for a long moment, wishing he could have been so at ease with the climate. When he finally shook himself free and went back to his vigil he cursed under his breath. A boat had moored at the light and two men were unloading crates. He took out his walkietalkie that had remained concealed in a waterproof bag under his cloak. “They’re here,” he said laconically into the receiver. His wait was almost over. Some five minutes later he heard the distant sound of the helicopter over the noise of the wind and rain. Across the narrow stretch of water that separated him from the light, the men were in a panic. There was no escaping. Whether they fled by boat or tried to hike it across the rough headland, there was no cover for them, nowhere to hide.

The last boat had left an hour earlier, well before nightfall with its cargo of merrymakers and adventurers and would-be traders. The peals of laughter had died away as had the whispered promises of parted loved-ones. The place donned a forlorn but expectant air as the light faded and the wind rose. He surveyed the scene from the dense clump of bushes where he crouched hidden. No one would disturb his vigil, for the village people were afraid after dark down by the lake. Age old stories related by village elders told of strange noises, mysterious happenings and unexplained disappearances. As the lakeside became progressively darker and the first stars ventured out, he felt his courage waning. Maybe the risk wasn’t worth it. He debated the idea for quite a while in his head and came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to leave. It was just at that moment that the first shimmering lights appeared in small groups over the water and a faint sound of music reached his ears. Too late to escape. The rising feeling of panic wouldn’t let itself be calmed. Wide-eyed, his attention was fixed on the dancing lights which neared the shore bringing with them a faint scent of exotic herbs. He could hear the music more distinctly too. Flutes and drums. It was intoxicating, irresistibly making him want to get up and dance. He bit his thumb in a desperate effort to resist. The tiny boats ignored the jetty and made straight for the lakeside. Little people sprang out of the boats and moored them to small sticks they hammered into the hardened ground. He could see them quite clearly. They were just like the stories told. Long dark brown curly hair hung down over their shoulders,  half concealing their thin, delicate faces. They were clad in deep green tunics held loosely around their waists by a thin leather belt and wore leather sandals  on their feet. Some were playing instruments, others were carrying bows with quivers of arrows slung over their backs. Once all were on land they formed a lively procession with the musicians opening the way and the others dancing behind as they moved forward headed directly for his hiding place …

“Lie on your back, but keep you eyes open,” the voice said. “Good. Now steady your breathing. No don’t force it. Just relax and let your muscles work on their own.” The voice itself seemed to calm as it continued. “Concentrate on the Moon. Not just with your eyes, but also your ears, your nose, your mouth, your skin...” What had seemed at first a deep masculine voice had shifted imperceptibly, its tone rising gradually till it was more like a woman speaking. “Listen carefully. Can you hear the song of the Moon? That’s it. In the silence, in the gaps between the sounds. Concentrate effortlessly on that. Drink it.” The mutation of the voice continued, dividing and subdividing till it was more like a female chorus whispering its message. “Now taste the sound of the Moon as it floats by. Easy does it. Don’t try to make things happen. Let the Moon come to you. She will. She wants to. She wants you.” The words were no longer spoken, but rather sung softly in celestial chords that went beyond a mass of individual voices. It was like nectar. “Let her caress you. Feel her light brush your skin. Gently. A first touch.” Liquid, the voice came from every direction at once, insinuating its way unopposed into his body by every possible path. “Now. Now is the time to yield. Let go. Feel her tender embrace, warm and inviting. Let yourself be carried away by it. Embrace the flow till you are one with it and it is you.“

He couldn’t at first pinpoint where the whispered children’s voices where coming from. But as he noiselessly neared the tree he caught sight of the two of them perched on a branch high above him, their two heads close together, deep in secret conversation. They clearly hadn’t noticed him. They must have tired of the family gathering which was into its second day and slipped away unnoticed by their parents. The twins spent much of their time together since their mother had died. Rumour had it that she often brought them there to teach them the ways of the wood. They certainly had few equals for their woodcraft. It was true that the tree was a familiar destination for many of his family who were often drawn to it as a source of refuge, comfort or inspiration. It’s twisted branches always gave him the impression that it was not only old but almost human. Had he been alone, he might have talked to it out loud, sharing the trouble that filled his heart at the thought of leaving home for the first and possibly last time, but as he was not alone, he made do with the reassuring feel of its bark on his finger tips. Deep down he felt reassured, knowing that the tree approved of his decision. Since the soldiers had begun meticulously searching through the villages nearby , dragging away young men to fight against the rebels, he’d had little choice.  He was of a fighting age and would surely have been “recruited”. It was only a matter of time. When he overheard  his uncle that afternoon saying he’d spotted a group of soldier in the next village, he knew his turn had come. Taking his leave of the tree with a parting caress of its trunk, he donned his backpack and shifted silently on heading for the wood beyond, not wishing to be seen by the children above.

She lay back on the warm grass of the high pastures and looked up at the sky afire with the setting sun. It had been a hot day. “I don’t know the answer,” she said out loud though nobody was there to hear her but her dog and the sheep. “Why would he ask me such a question?”  She folded her hands together behind her head and sang softly the song her mother had taught her just before she died. It was odd when you thought about it: having to fend for herself although she had only been twelve at the time had not been easy, but singing that song always calmed her. “How could I possibly know?” she pursued her thoughts once the song was over. “She passed away before she could tell me.”  Her dog, a collie, came and curled up next to her, nuzzling her hands with its long, pointed nose. “What do you think?” she asked the dog as she turned to face it, propping herself up on one elbow. The dog had belonged to her mother while she was still alive. “Do you think I have special powers?” she asked him. To her surprise he jumped up and barked as he wagged his tail. The noise startled the sheep nearby who had been grazing peacefully. The dog bound off and circled the flock to make sure they didn’t get it into their silly heads to try to run off. “But even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell him. He’s not to be trusted.” Only the other day she’d caught the man rummaging through her mother’s belongings under the pretext that he’d dropped his pen there somewhere. What rubbish. She’d done well to hide her mother’s precious manuscripts in a secret place.

“In every picture there’s many a story,” he said as he lent forward to look more closely at the picture of the two musicians. “Take these two, for example,” he added, glancing at the young girl that sat across the table from him before turning his attention back to the picture. “They’re called Mujigka. They’re very good. I heard them the other evening with my parents,” she informed him. She came once a week for a discussion. Her parents called it a lesson, but he preferred to talk of a discussion, an exchange. “It’s not so much these people themselves, but rather it is something that speaks through them.” “How can a picture talk? I can’t hear anything,” she asked, perplexed. He couldn’t help laughing. “It must be confusing when I talk in images of images that can talk,” and he would have laughed again with renewed gusto had he not noticed that she was on the verge of being upset. “Let me give you an example. Can you imagine what they are thinking as they look at each other? They seem to be in an intense private wordless conversation.” “Maybe they can read each other’s minds,” she said, warming to the idea. “Whatever it is they are thinking to each other,” she pursued, “the conversation seems to have them bound tightly together.”