The Flooding Page 4

  Needing a plan, I look around for inspiration. My gaze eventually settles on the “I Love London” mug beside the keyboard. It’s half filled with cold, gray coffee. I could do with a hit of caffeine right now and am about to give Eyeliner a shout when the dark liquid inside the cup triggers something in my mind. Ashkai tried to tell me about the spirit realm as I was falling, that I needed to go there.

  But why?

  I only know of two surefire ways to access that plane of reality. The first is to die, so I can rule that out. The second, which is what my master must have been referring to, is to drink the sacred medicine, a concoction that temporarily alters the internal settings of the mind, allowing it to pick up frequencies and vibrations outside normal human sensory perception.

  The spirit realm is a wondrous, deeply intricate domain made up of complex, entangled layers of sound, light, and energy. It is also inhabited by intelligent entities. Some are good and helpful, others bad and malevolent, the rest somewhere in between.

  Journeying to the other side is risky. The Chamber has skilled shamans who patrol it, searching for the portals that open when physical beings alter their consciousness and cross over. Ashkai knew how to conceal us in that world, but I do not. In each cycle of life, my Flooding reaches me through such a gateway, breaching of its own accord, which is why I have to run so soon after receiving it.

  I first drank the plant brew (which takes many forms) in ancient Egypt four thousand years ago. Guided by Ashkai, a powerful, wise, and compassionate shaman, I was able to access the startling truth about the nature of existence and who I really was.

  And while it’s a grueling ordeal full of painful, often harrowing experiences, I’ve drunk the medicine many times since, but only when initiating others and never without my master. Still, if he wants me to go there, that’s what I’ll do. One way or another, I’ll procure the necessary ingredients, even if it means jumping on a plane to the Amazon, although there must be an easier way.

  Before I can fully apply myself to that problem, I need two things: money and information, and I think I know where I can get my hands on both. Feeling renewed hope, I throw on the rest of my clothes and grab my bag. I’m about to walk out the door and leave the house quietly when something occurs to me, something that will save valuable time.

  Moments later, I sneak out the bedroom and down the stairs. I can hear people talking, and I can smell marijuana. The sound is coming from the back of the house. I lean over the sloping banister to have a peek.

  Eyeliner is sitting at the kitchen table with a couple guys his age, a hipster-looking one with a blond quiff saying, “Here’s one for ya: say the bird kills herself, or has another fit and dies, would you have a quick look at her tits before calling the old bill?”

  All of them are laughing now, even Eyeliner, but at least he adds, “What’s wrong with you, dude?”

  “I don’t mean bang her, just a quick peek’s all I’m sayin’. What’s the harm in that?”

  Eyeliner is telling the guy he needs professional help as I creep down the rest of the stairs and out the front door. After closing it gently and turning to face the street, I pause to breathe the crisp, fresh October air, feeling enlivened by it. I can hear a single bird tweeting. The trees and hedges are the earthy colors of autumn.

  I stop on the pavement to scan the street, my eyes quickly finding a black Vespa on the far side of the road to my right. I swing my leg over it and put Eyeliner’s helmet on, the one I grabbed from the desk—keys as well—just after scribbling a note promising to return everything later.

  After starting the engine, I see an image of that blonde in heels straddling the Harley Davidson, remembering how happy she looked. Ignorance is bliss, I reflect, as I straighten the bike and set off.

  Five minutes later, in order to avoid paying a visitor fee at the wrong end of the grounds, I pull up outside the unused Chester Road entrance to Highgate Cemetery: forty acres of Grade I listed land, which means it’s left well alone by succeeding governments and local authorities. As a result, the 53,000 grave sites, entombing the bodies of the 170,000 people who have been buried here since 1839, are in a state of ghostly but charming disrepair, nearly all covered in a skin of ivy and moss and writhing with insects and other small, scurrying wildlife.

  After parking Eyeliner’s moped and placing the helmet inside the compartment under the seat, I approach the locked gate, rucksack over my shoulders. There’s nobody around, and in seconds, I’ve climbed over it. I head northeast through the maze of leaf-covered pathways, each one flanked by long rows of stone crypts, some plain and simple, others splendid and ornate, boasting life-size statues of men and women; animals such as lions, dogs, and birds; and even musical instruments, including harps and pianos. That’s not even mentioning the array of blank-faced angels, plump cherubs, and weathered crosses. Many of the structures are cracked and leaning at angles.

  Glancing up now at the canopied trees, which are glowing amber as the light filters down, I breathe air damp and redolent with earth and decaying vegetation, all of it contributing to the spine-tingling eeriness of the place.

  There are other living people here, mainly couples pointing out intriguing things and taking pictures, elderly loners as well, ambling along, hands behind their backs, pausing to read inscriptions here and there. But by the time I reach the resting place of celebrated nineteenth-century feminist and freethinker Emily Rose—that of her body at least—I’m totally alone.

  As I look down at the inappropriately plain, nondescript granite tombstone, I can’t help but recall what a wonderful, smart, and charismatic woman Emily was, and still is, no doubt: such a brave, battling soul who was committed to equality, freedom, and individual sovereignty, a person who refused to accept the ignorance of her age.

  When Ashkai and I encountered her in 1829, she was already independent, fearsomely intelligent, and angry about the various injustices of the world, all traits that suggest the soul in question is old, robust, and inherently good, three crucially important qualities for the work we do. After spending time getting to know this intriguing woman, assessing her suitability for initiation, we were as certain as we could be that she was ready for the truth.

  While standing over Emily’s gravestone, memories swirling in my mind, I’m compelled to close my eyes. I find myself back in that darkened Amsterdam basement, almost two hundred years past, watching Emily take the sacred brew from Ashkai and drink (having just witnessed him and me doing the same), then place the cup down, still wincing at the unpleasant taste as she lies back, bundles of dried sage burning in all corners of the room.

  I listen as Ashkai, the humblest of shamans, wearing yet another body, living in yet another age, guides her through the spirit realm’s alien and often nightmarish terrain, warding off negative entities by blowing plumes of tobacco smoke from a pipe and singing the ancient, healing songs known as icaros, gently opening her heart, mind, and energy channels, working and working until eventually it begins . . .

  Emily writhes in both physical and psychological agony as the combined power of her past lives, her Flooding, first appears as particles of light, bright as the sun, emerging from a stormy portal in the center of the room, only visible to us as a result of our deeply altered states of consciousness. Those particles merge to form two thick beams, which then plunge without mercy into our initiate’s chest and forehead, forcing her body to convulse. And so begins the information overload, the experience of all experiences, one that will visit her during every cycle from here on in, changing everything forever.

  As the images fade, I open my eyes and take some breaths, wondering where Emily is now.

  While we provide aftercare for new initiates, encouraging them to seek us out during subsequent lives for continued guidance and support, it’s not uncommon for them to disappear for numerous cycles as they come to terms with their new reality and place in the world. Often, they do amazing things with those lives, free of the terror of nonexistence. Some of t
he greatest artists, scientists, and world leaders have been our initiates, working their way toward full acceptance.

  I remove my backpack and place it on the floor in front of me. Then I lean forward to open the zip before rummaging inside for the trowel I stole from the shed before leaving Exeter. As soon as I pull it out, I hear something and have to shove it back in. I straighten and look to my right, I see an old man approaching, white hair poking from underneath his green hunting cap. He stops to ask if I’m here visiting a deceased relative, his voice posh and commanding, his terrier sniffing at my bag and feet.

  “No,” I reply, wanting to keep this as short as possible, hoping he didn’t see the trowel. “Just looking around. I was getting my camera out to take a picture.”

  He raises an eyebrow and then glances at Emily’s gravestone and chuckles, pointing his walking stick at it. “Oh dear, seems this one was a feminist. I’m guessing we’re not wanted in the photo!” He continues on his way, calling his dog to heel, adding, “We’re not all bad, you know.”

  The moment he and his dog disappear, and while contemplating what that raised eyebrow meant—did he see it wasn’t a camera?—I walk behind Emily’s tombstone. Once there, I place my bag on the floor and get the trowel out. I start clearing away layers of vegetation and earth at the base of the granite headstone, moving as quickly as I can, pausing occasionally to make sure nobody is around.

  With the ground prepared, I start digging, and after a few minutes, having gone down a foot or so, I hit on something solid and flat. I focus on widening the hole and eventually reveal the edges of a nineteenth-century walnut jewelry box, roughly the size of two hardback books, one on top of the other. It’s wrapped tightly in numerous layers of decaying and frayed cloths. The strings that had been holding everything in place have long since perished.

  I have a flashback of the person I was when I buried this, the daughter of a violent and abusive alcoholic who raped me again and again, month after month, year after year . . .

  As horrific as that life was, there’s no point in dwelling on it now, which is why I refocus my wandering mind and pull the case out of the ground. I turn and rest my back against the tombstone. I’m about to peel the layers of material away so I can open this thing and see what’s inside, when a man shouts, “Hey, what are you doing back there?”

  I place the box inside my bag along with the trowel, and I stand, swinging the straps over my shoulders so both arms are free, watching as a middle-aged man and a younger woman, both wearing yellow sport shirts and black trousers, the woman’s mousy hair in a ponytail, come to a hurried stop. They’re just feet from me now but still on the main path. They are out of breath and obviously deeply offended. The lady says, “Have you been digging? You can’t do that. Whatever you’ve taken, you must put back immediately.”

  “This is a misunderstanding,” I say. The old man with the dog must have reported me as suspicious. “I haven’t taken anything. This is my great, great grandma’s plot. I wanted to bury a family heirloom here out of respect.”

  That throws Ponytail. “You should have asked permission. You can’t just come into a graveyard and start digging; anyone knows that.”

  I tune out what she’s saying and plant my eyes on her colleague, who is speaking into a two-way radio, asking for security to head for the east cemetery, aisle twenty, row fourteen. They have an intruder.

  I figure that’s my cue, and I dart right, bounding over graves now, ducking in and out of trees and undergrowth as I take the shortest possible route out of here. I hear the woman say “Stop, come back!” as her colleague tells security I’m running southwest. Before I know it, I’m out from under the trees and cutting across a section of open lawn. I see other members of staff in black and yellow appear from a building over to my left, one making a half-hearted attempt to intercept me as I approach the gate I climbed over about half an hour ago. I hurtle over it with ease, then open the seat of the bike to put the helmet on before pulling away, a man shouting at me from the other side of the gate as I lean back to conceal Eyeliner’s number plate with my left hand, not wanting to get him in trouble.

  As I turn the first corner, my mind has already moved to more pressing matters, contemplating where I can go that’s quiet and private in order to open the box I closed well over a century ago. I hope there will be information in it to jolt a memory or inspire an idea because right now, I haven’t got much to go on.

  FIVE

  I slip my bag off and place it on the empty bench. Then I sit and look out across the women’s-only section of Highgate Pond, a gentle breeze rippling its wide, metallic surface, Eyeliner’s Vespa parked five minutes away on the quiet, countrylike road behind me. My gaze finds a lady wearing a white cap and black goggles as she dives into the icy water on the far side of the lake, and I think how the place hasn’t changed much in two hundred years. I’m glad about that. I appreciate being in the open, surrounded only by trees, grass, and blue sky.

  The reason I came to Hampstead Heath, other than it being nearby, is it’s out of the way, and privacy, along with some room to breathe and think, is exactly what I need right now.

  Regardless of my tranquil surroundings, I’m both scared and excited as I reach into my bag and pull out the old jewelry box. Bits of earth crumble on my lap as I peel away the layers of cloth enveloping it, eventually revealing the weathered, damp, and partially rotting walnut exterior. I’m reminded of the person I was the last time I saw this, how sad and desolate I felt, petrified and desperate. I wonder if that’s why my memory is so patchy as to what’s inside.

  Praying it’s something useful and that this won’t have been a waste of time, I slowly lift the lid. I’m greeted by a second package of sorts, its hidden contents wrapped tightly in some kind of dark, waterproof material, the texture and smell of it making me dizzy. I’m about to unravel the thing when everything goes black and woozy. I’m a helpless bystander as my consciousness is sucked from Rosa Clark’s body by some irresistible force of the universe, then catapulted across time and space, the trees and grass and water gone as I become the person I was at the end of the nineteenth century: Elsie Farish.

  I’m back in our central London home. It’s two in the morning, and I’m reaching inside the cupboard under the stairs, working by candlelight, as we haven’t had electricity installed yet. Using scissors to cut a large section from her father’s Mackintosh raincoat, Elsie is still petrified, even though we had our Flooding recently, even though Samsara won’t let anything bad happen again; we’re about to leave this hellhole forever. But that’s no surprise when considering the unspeakable and evil things he has done to his daughter over the years, done to me: Mr. Farish, depraved sadist and sociopath, heavy drinker and soon to be failed businessman.

  Wait until everyone finds out what a pathetic loser you are.

  I grab the bag full of valuables I’ve stolen from Elsie’s parents (they’re still living as if nothing is wrong), including a walnut jewelry box crammed with rings and necklaces. I leave the satchel in the hallway and head upstairs to the master bedroom one last time, my candle lighting the way. Mother is in bed alone, as usual, her energy drained by sadness, her husband on one of his epic drinking sessions. I realize it’s been almost a week since I saw him.

  If I lay eyes on that disgusting creature again, I’ll kill him. That’s why I must leave before he returns. Mother’s parents are dead, and her brothers have long since emigrated to America, which means when I’m gone, that man will be the only person she has in the world.

  Losing her child will be tragedy enough, even though it’s a feeling she knows well . . .

  I caress a lock of her beautiful red hair and say, “Shh, go to sleep,” as she stirs. I should hate this woman for turning a blind eye, for letting Elsie suffer, but I haven’t got it in me. Besides, she never had it much better, the remnants of an old bruise on her face even now. But it was losing two daughters, my sisters—the first during childbirth and then three-year-old Bella to
a fever—that really broke her.

  Doesn’t she realize they had a lucky escape? No, because she thinks this life is all there is. I’m sad for a moment that I can’t tell her that her daughters are most likely alive again, hopefully in a better home.

  I’ve died as a child. In many ways, it’s easier than as an adult, at least if the death is from illness.

  I get to the bottom of the stairs and am about to extinguish the candle and leave when I hear someone approaching the front door. I hold my breath as Mr. Farish—who else could it be?—fumbles with and then drops his keys.

  Elsie’s tall, skinny body becomes rigid and afraid, which is why Samsara takes over, blowing the candle out and placing it on the floor. I look on from the shadows as the man of the house stumbles in, holding a paraffin lantern that’s running low on fuel and therefore not emitting much light. The guy is six feet tall and barrel-chested, wearing a tombstone shirt, black suit, frock coat, and bowler hat, beady eyes magnified by the metal-rimmed spectacles that seldom leave his face.

  I hate you so much.

  I start thinking about the countless souls this psychopath must have tortured across the ages, and then I decide: the universe has put me here as its karmic enforcer, giving me license as executioner to hand out a slow, painful, and merciless death. After all, the more scared and desperate he is at the moment of his crossing, the more he will suffer and the longer it will take his consciousness to find and secure another human body.

  The needs of Mrs. Farish cease to matter as her husband, lamp out in front of him, stumbles forward. He’s just a few paces from crashing into me when he realizes something isn’t right and then stops, peering into the darkness through his misshapen eyes (one is smaller than the other), saying, “Lizzie, that you?”