I have not told you of Madam Patna.
She was an Indian mystic, one of the first to realise that the most profitable way to be enlightened was to spread her enlightenment to concerned Westerners who hadn’t had enough cultural opportunities to nurture their cynicism. I was one of those Westerners for a time and sat at her feet chanting empty nothings with the rest of them, for a while genuinely convinced–as I was genuinely convinced of most things in that life–that this chubby, cheery woman did indeed offer me a path to enlightenment. After a few months of working for free–which I considered a necessary part of becoming closer to nature and thus myself–in her extensive plantations, I was granted a rare interview with her, and, almost shaking with excitement, sat cross-legged on the floor before the great lady and waited to be wowed.
She was silent a long time, deep in meditation, and we devotees had learned long ago not to question these deep and presumably profound pauses. At last she raised her head and, looking straight through me, declared, “You are a divine being.”
As statements went, this was nothing very new for our mandir.
“You are a creature of light. Your soul is song, your thoughts are beauty. There is nothing within you which is not perfection. You are yourself. You are the universe.”
Chanted by a crowd in a large room, all this could be rather impressive. Now, with this one woman breathily intoning it, I was struck by just how contradictory so much of it appeared to be.
“What about God?” I asked.
This question seemed a little impertinent to Madam Patna, but rather than disappoint an avid follower with a casual dismissal, she smiled her trademark cheerful smile and proclaimed, “There is no such thing as God. There is only creation. You are part of creation, and it is within you.”
“Then why can I not influence creation?”
“You do. Everything about you, every aspect of your being, every breath…”
“I mean… why can I not influence my own path through it.”
“But you do!” she repeated firmly. “This life is only a passing flicker of the flame, a shadow. You will cast it off and soar to a new plane, a new level of understanding, where you will realise that what you perceive now as reality is no more than a prison of the senses. You will look, and it will be as if you see with the eye of the maker. You are within creation. Creation is within you. You are an aspect of the first breath that made the universe, your body is made of the dust of bodies that have gone before, and when you die, your body and your deeds give life. You, yourself, are God.”
In later months I grew rather tired of such empty aphorisms, and when a dissatisfied disciple whispered in my ear that our austere, ascetic leader in fact lived a life of wealthy luxury some three miles down the road, I threw down my straw hat and hand scythe, and left to find a better philosophy. Yet, all these lives later, I still wondered exactly what it would mean to see the universe with the eyes of God.
Chapter 81
“Harry, this is the single most important thing that anyone will ever do.”
Vincent in my ear.
So many voices in my ear, so many years to hear them.
“This will change mankind, redefine the universe. The quantum mirror will unlock the secrets of matter, of past and future. We will understand at last those concepts which we only pretended to comprehend–life, death, consciousness, time. Harry, the quantum mirror is…”
“What can I do?” I asked, and was surprised to hear my own voice. “How can I help?”
Vincent smiled. His hand rested on my shoulder, and for a second I thought I saw the glimmer of tears run along his lower eyelids. I had never seen Vincent cry and thought for a moment that this was joy.
“Stay with me,” he said. “Stay here, by my side.”
The quantum mirror.
To look with the eyes of the maker.
Vincent Rankis. Fancy seeing you here! We shall hold up a mirror, as it were, to nature itself…
Codswallop!
It is either your or my ghastly duty to ensure that one of us kisses Frances on the lips.
Total balderdash!
I’m a fucking good guy!
It’s your past, Harry, it’s your past.
Rory Hulne, dying alone.
Patrick August, you were always my father.
Silence as Harriet’s coffin slips beneath the earth. Silence by the fireside in a cottage overgrown with weeds. There’s a drug dealer living in the house where once Constance Hulne ruled with an iron fist, where Lydia went mad and Alexandra saved a baby boy’s life, where a serving girl called Lisa Leadmill was pushed back on a kitchen table and did not scream. And from that moment a child would be born who would travel again, and again, and again, the same life, the same journey again and again and…
Richard Lisle, dead at my hands, life after life. Please, I never done nothing.
Rosemary Dawsett, cut up in a bathtub.
Jenny, you should be on the news, you should.
Will you run away with me?
Do you like me?