Jumping Read online

  “Usually, we copied the Bible and books of common prayer or religious commentary, for the monastery's own library, to sell to other monasteries, and for teaching. The illuminations made all of these books incredibly valuable. As it happened, the monastery had an extensive library of early secular works, too, some of the world's greatest works of philosophy, politics, history, and literature. We usually weren't allowed to spend our time in copying these books, but occasionally a wealthy patron, who often couldn't read, commissioned copies of one or another for his private collection, to impress his friends.

  “We read and re-read those, as we believed they required a different kind of illumination than the religious books, and we wanted to do them justice. We were much taken with these works, recognizing the expansiveness of their thought and expression and their honoring of the capacities of man, and we even read aloud, trading parts, as we planned and executed their illumination.

  “We knew that the church had moved closer and closer to censoring such books, to keep them from influencing public thought. We knew these works needed to do exactly that—have a public life and a chance to gain influence, for the betterment of mankind. So, in reaction, we regularly made plain, private copies of them, in case the originals were allowed to deteriorate or were even destroyed.

  “This kind of independently determined activity is considered insurrection in a monastery—an attempt to replace the church's authority with ours—and is punishable by death. By the time the prior and the abbot found us out—and some were happy to report us—we had made too many copies to have a reasonable defense for this crime against the church. They had no choice but to turn it over to the district bishop, and the bishop had no choice but to invoke the highest punishment. All twelve of us—scribes and illuminators alike—were hanged. They hung us together, from the south wall of the monastery on an early spring morning, when the ground was finally soft enough to receive a shovel.” She paused, and then looked at me, reassuringly. “I see what you're thinking, but dying with others, in support of a common cause is a wonderfully exhilarating experience you yourself have had more than once. This one was particularly sweet. We had accomplished what we had set out to do.”

  Even now, I feel this life on a heart level, more than I know it on a mental level. When she describes working at high desks and the sense of community, sights and sounds and smells come to me. It's as if it has always resided in the storehouse of my memory. She is studying me, to see if I have more questions. I ask why we did it, why we chose that life.

  “For fun!” she says playfully, but seriously, too. “For the potential to enjoy all that life offers—food and nature and creativity and each other and work we loved. But, as importantly, for the chance to advance, by addressing a wrong and attempting to right it. Sometimes truth is not relative or situational or optional—not yours or mine, but ours. Sometimes you have to stand up for it. And we did that, through our actions. It was great to see what we could do together. It takes a lot of coordinating to have that happen. We didn't betray each other. We hung together. Literally,” she adds with a smile.

  A tall man looks at me and then explains further. “It's about the forging of the self through common experience.” For what purpose, I wonder to myself, and his answer follows immediately. “All of this serves to develop and strengthen our authenticity—the ability to not just know but to act on one's own directive, thereby taking a risk. Taking the risk ensures the forging of the self. What else could we be here for except to construct ourselves in this way? Earth provides the challenges, which in turn provide the opportunities, to do this. That's all that's asked of us—to meet the challenges by taking the risk of being and expressing ourselves. Why? Because that's what makes us happy. And ‘happy’ is our prime indicator that we're doing what's right and good for all of us. This is why she told this story—it illustrates exactly this life-giving point.”

  Lynette looks at me and says, “He's good at explaining, isn't he? He's still my teacher.”

  “And you mine,” he says back to her warmly.

  “It's because we come from good,” she says in answer to another of my questions. “It's what we know, how we feel aligned. Think what the world would look like if everyone was feeling truly happy.”

  Guy says, reading my mind again, “You're wondering how all of this got started. Maybe the story of the origin of our cohort can be for another time, after you've met everyone.”

  I look around and feel such an affinity to this group around the fire. I'm drawn to their sense of it all as fun, as well as work they give their lives for. I'm moved by their honesty with me and each other. I feel as if we are picking up where we left off. I'm exploding with questions but I'm not anxious or mistrustful, as I usually would be. This amazes me.

  The tall man is sitting next to Lynette, and as I look to him, he smiles. It's such a warm, inviting smile that I break into a broad smile back. His features are more rugged, darker. He looks Middle Eastern, with piercing, direct eyes, hair combed back from his high forehead. His body is lean and taut, like a runner's.

  “My name is Kahil. I'm going to tell a story of how we helped each other, across a long span of time. It was a place that brought us together. And we were both women!” He laughs, enlivening his stern good looks.

  “It was post-Civil War, in America. You had journeyed to a teaching post in northern Maryland, near the Pennsylvania border, not twenty miles from Gettysburg. You were a tall, strong-minded woman, and you were proud of yourself for having journeyed alone, all the way from Albany, to take up a position that would make you self-sufficient.

  “Your family remained a constant reminder that you were a failure as a woman and an embarrassment to them for not having married. You'd had only one real offer, from a much older man who'd been widowed with five small children, who'd insulted you when you'd refused him. You had passed thirty and found being alone much more appealing, and even satisfying, than marriage seemed. You loved teaching, as you always have, and felt it was important work. You looked forward to being on your own and making your own home. You'd arrived in Pennsylvania to find that your quarters were under repair for the next few weeks because a large leak in the roof had become apparent during the spring rains. The school board had decided that you could stay at the farm of one of the area's largest landowners, who was away on a cattle buying trip with his wife. It would serve him to have his kitchen remain functional and his house kept occupied and tidy while he was gone.

  “After getting over your initial disappointment following your long trip, you discovered it was a large house, with rooms upstairs and down, and a spacious porch in the back. He had much acreage and a large pond. The grounds were being looked after by a neighboring farmer's son, so your duties were minimal.

  “You were told to stay in a small bedroom on the first floor, but something about the room made you uncomfortable, and you kept smelling something burning in it, though it was much too warm for a fire. So you slept instead on a sofa in the side sitting room, just off the main sitting room. You settled in to the comfortable and well-appointed home, enjoying the cool mornings and the quiet nights, the smell of fresh cut hay, and the sounds of nature all around.

  “Now, here's where I come in. One night, a few days later, you were sitting on a sofa in the main sitting room, facing the large staircase that gracefully curved down from the upstairs, its bannisters gleaming in the firelight that you read by. You were engrossed in the teacher's manuals you'd been reading, but suddenly you felt the hair stand up on the back of your neck, and you looked up the staircase. You saw a woman coming down the stairs, looking at you.

  “That was me,” he said with a proud smile. “I didn't mean to frighten you, but I did mean to get your attention. You were the first person I felt drawn to in a long time. Most people I avoided. You froze, sensed the woman must be a ghost, even though she looked so real you could see the tiny tucks going down the front of her black dress, the narrow band of lace at each cuff, and the sma
ll crystal earbobs showing beneath the dark hair drawn over her ears into a low bun in the back.

  “I was well-appointed, too,” he laughed, “and my name was Lucy. I came downstairs and sat in the chair opposite you, and told you my story. And you listened, despite your initial fear. You anchored me with your listening. You can't imagine now how important that was. I had been aimlessly floating in a field of misery, unable to find my way home. Continued trauma will do that to you.

  “You were afraid, but you felt drawn to me, too, so you stayed with me rather than fleeing out the door, as so many would have. I told you how my family lived in the next farm over and had arranged my marriage, at age fifteen, to the man who used to own the house you were staying in. My sisters and I expected arranged marriages but always wished for at least a livable match, if not one with romantic potential. We were young, after all, and still felt at home with hope. But this was a man without feeling who valued his hunting dogs more than he did his wife, and I begged my family to take me back, even running away a time or two. But they wouldn't do it because they were afraid of him, too, and they made me go back each time. ‘We made a deal,’ my father said. He'd gained a parcel of land and some cattle and horses, and didn't want to give them back, so he gave me back instead.

  “I lived with the man a while, gritting my teeth and bearing it, giving him three children he completely disregarded, growing vegetables to feed us all, and working as a field hand for him whenever he required it. This worked, with me as slave labor, until he became abusive of the children. Then I stood against him, and we battled fiercely, until he decided I was more trouble than I was worth, and he was going to kill me.

  “He never doubted he had the right to do so. I was his property, purchased just as his other farm animals had been, and most of their lives ended in slaughter. He determined to drag me down to the pond, to drown me. He hadn't so many options open to him—rifles were single shot then, a knife would have been tricky and terribly messy—you get the point.

  “I saw what he had in mind, and I fought him. He battered me badly and with his greater strength, finally succeeded in drowning me. I hardly remember the details of it, I was so frantically concerned for the children.

  “He rested a moment, after I was dead and he'd pulled my body up on the bank, catching his breath, and contemplated what to do with me. He knew the pond wouldn't keep his secret, and he knew enough to want to keep it secret, if only because mistrust or disdain from his neighbors might affect his standing in the community and hence, his income.

  “He decided he'd do what he did with the animals—quarter and piecemeal me, and then he would feed me to the fire. Think of the man it would take to accomplish such a task—to the mother of his children! He couldn't do this outside, because it didn't afford good hiding, so he used the fireplace in the small sitting room, taking his time, being thorough about it, distributing the ashes in the garden.

  “It took most of the day and night, but his rage had made the children scatter, and I'm glad they weren't there to witness any of it. When it was over, it left me lost. I was lost in it all—his rage, my helplessness, the loss of my children, my shame and demoralization at believing I was the cause of it all, feeling as in pieces as my body was. I didn't know where to turn, how to get back to anywhere, wherever anywhere was. Time passed, and I just hovered at the house, reliving it all, blinded by it, coming to believe this was my deserved fate.

  “Then one day many years later you came, and I felt our bond. I was amazed at how much better I felt having you there. You changed the feeling in the house, introducing air and light, and your presence focused me, brought me to my senses. I knew myself again, and I began to see my side in the story, to believe I had a side to anchor in. But to really believe it, I desperately needed someone who could see it, too. I needed a witness. Someone who could know that I hadn't meant to abandon my children, that I hadn't caused my husband to kill me, and that he was seriously deranged.

  “That night I determined to come down the stairs. There was such a peace and quiet in the house as I hadn't ever felt there. I was drawn to that peace as surely as a moth to a flame. It was the only way I could see to get home to myself. It felt safe enough to try. I couldn't have imagined the power of your listening. I would have been afraid to hope for that. My words, as I spoke them, showed me that it had all been real; your listening showed me that the telling could be borne, and that by telling them, the events could be understood, through compassion, and forgiven.

  “You didn't judge, you had compassion—I could feel it. Not pity, but woman-to-woman compassion. You knew that you yourself had come close to feeling forced to enter an unwanted marriage, but you'd been able to choose for yourself, to say no. Your family had seen to your education, so you had a way to be, on your own in the world. You recognized the ways we were alike, and I was made whole by that. By your being you, you showed me how to be me—calm and compassionate with myself, forgiving, understanding.

  “We do it because we love each other, now and always. I thank you. I thank you for honoring our bond, and making progress possible for both of us.”

  Kahil looks at me. I have tears in my eyes, and he does, too. “Did you see me the next morning in the mirror upstairs, when I came to say good bye?” he asks.

  “I think I did,” I say, surprised at the surging memory of another lifetime. “I remember seeing a face, surrounded by stars, with such a feeling of joy emanating from it that I was overcome.”

  “That was me!” he laughs. “You reintroduced me to my joy. I thought it was lost to me forever.”

  Miles stops us as this point, overcome by the last story. He pauses to pull out his handkerchief and noisily blow his nose.

  “Of course, I've heard about stories like that from that time—arranged marriages, cruel or indifferent husbands, the feelings of women disregarded—but never from someone who was there. Wow.”

  It feels very real to me, too. I have to get up and move around. I go to the window and open it, in search of fresh air to blow away the lingering effects of that story. I'm beginning to get a clue about the bond Duncan Robert shares with his cohort, though it's unlike anything I've ever heard of.

  I look at Duncan Robert and think about how he has all the indicators needed for a psychiatric explanation of what he's experienced—the missing father, the sometimes tense family life as a result, all begetting a childhood quest to be seen, heard, valued. As an only child, he'd probably have a strong imagination and be good at dissociation. I knew from my own research that his experiences would be labeled ‘anomalous,’ the equivalent of ‘crazy’ for us laypeople. His stories would be cataloged with alien abductions, extraterrestrial visitations, ghosts, spirits, and all the other trivialized other-worldly stories. Why was I finding value in it? Maybe I just saw it as a legitimate part of reporting, especially since these kinds of stories were increasing, across the world. In the past no legitimate newspaper would have even considered them. I liked to think I bowed to a higher god than sensationalism, but this is pretty sensational. How far could we go with this and still believe?

  “Let's order some lunch,” Duncan Robert says into our silence, calling us back to ourselves. “I've got some menus here. Take a look. I think I'm actually hungry.” He laughs.

  I realize I'm starving. Miles decides he's going to have a club sandwich, with fries, so I know he's hungry, too. I feel like breakfast, so I order scrambled eggs and toast, with a side of fruit. Duncan Robert orders a large bowl of vegetable soup and a side salad, which seems like a lot for him, too. While we wait for the food, we settle back into our places, except for Miles, who lies on the floor, to stretch his spine, he says. I stretch out on the couch.

  I ask Duncan Robert what it was like, to hear his life told to him in that larger way.

  “I don't know if I can explain it. First, I could feel myself expand,” he says. “I began to see myself as so much larger than I'd ever thought, spreading out across the Universe, touching time in vario
us places, interacting with it in a way that fed my spirit. Then, I could see how the members of my cohort were spreading with me, and we were like a river through time and space. The fact that we weren't separate made us much more helpful to each other and to all those we came in contact with—even if they were killing us!” He laughs.

  “It isn't easy to play all the parts we do. Think about it. Earth is a pretty violent place, and we don't seem to get the lessons very quickly!” He pauses to think a minute. “To answer your question, those stories are life-changing information, and my life has been changed by them.”

  I feel pretty sure Miles's life and my life have been changed, too, and we've only heard the stories second hand. That's how much power they have.

  There's a knock at the door, and lunch is served. I don't think we spend more than twenty minutes consuming it, without much talk. We put the trays outside the door, so we won't be disturbed, and get ourselves our hot tea. We settle back into our places, and I take a minute to sharpen a few pencils and turn to a fresh page in my notebook. Miles makes a couple of brief notes in his notebook, and puts it back on the coffee table. Duncan Robert, who has been sitting quietly, begins again:

  The group on the ledge agreed to a small break after Kahil's story, and Guy and I talked while he fixed me another cup of tea and made some toast over the fire. I get the sense the others don't need to eat, but I'm grateful for the warmth and sustenance of it.

  I'm still spinning after that deeply moving story and feel I have to get back in balance. I ask Guy about this place where we are. He tells me that the tunnel system runs underneath most of the world, connecting its major places. It has been there tens of thousands of years, and much commerce and trade has gone on within it. People have lived in the tunnels, too, when the ash from erupting volcanoes made agriculture impossible and dropped outside temperatures uncomfortably low. People have stayed there to avoid robbers, bandits, and warring tribes. They've birthed their children there, bred their animals, ground their crops there. People have created quiet places of study, contemplation and ceremony. As much has gone on in the tunnels as above them, he assures me, if not more.