Heaven and Earth, and All Things Therein
Who is to say what is heaven, and what is hell?
...
When he was small, Richard Poole's mother used to tell him stories of wonderful people; his ancestors, on both sides of the family. When he had asked where they were now, she had told him all about heaven, and how those that weren't there would be, she supposed, reluctantly, in hell.
As soon as his father had heard about that, he had taken his son aside and told him bluntly there was no such place as hell, and therefore he supposed, more reluctantly, there was no such place as heaven. When Richard had asked where all his ancestors were then, his father had taken a day and shown him Bosworth Battlefield, where many brave men had died for something they thought was right. Men who died for their convictions were remembered, he had told his son in a voice tight with emotion, and that was better than any fable his mum could tell him about heaven.
What happened to the women and the peasants, who did not die on battlefields for their convictions, Superintendent Poole was hazy about.
Richard had accepted this, as children accept what is told them. And now, as a man, he had seen hell; of all places, in the little C-of-E church where his memorial service was being held. It was in the front row, a deep pit of black despairing vapors where his father sat. He had stood on the edge of that pit and looked down into it and told it "I'm here, dad. I'm right here. Can't you feel me?"
His mum could, and the tumult of vapors that were her had lifted, a bit, and become a small, gray vortex whose lower point funneled out to another place, just at the edge of his perception. There was no gray or black there, and there, inexplicably, he had been drawn.
He resolved, by some process he didn't bother to analyze, into a place where light and heat were uncomfortable, and yet familiar. Automatically he loosened his tie, and clutched the handle of his briefcase a bit tighter, so he wouldn't drop it as he trudged over the golden sand underfoot. The blue sea was to his left, ahead was a squat brick of a place, tatty white, half-buried in trees. Ah, yes . . . this too was hell, of a sort: if he had been material, his shirt would already be sticking to his back with the sand congregating happily in his shoes.
He was approaching "his" bungalow on the island of Saint-Marie, looking at the people there, when the man with the backpack – backpack? Was he a Scout leader? – took a satisfied survey of his surroundings and turned to walk around the corner back to the Defender. Poole saw him as a dribbling, sky-blue pool of lazily bubbling mist. Two women followed him, each a spout of pure silvery vapors filtering through vague obstacles far down in their pasts. He recognized none of them.
Then one glanced toward the sea, as she turned, and paused.
…
This at least was the same: the azure sky with its burden of coming rain and the beach – one of the tidiest crescents of sand Camille Bordey had ever seen – and the sea, big enough to contain all the world; endlessly rolling up the beach, endlessly drawing back; exchanging its sediment for other, and gathering that other back to itself, only to return it, sometime far in the future, to some other shore. So much had changed about her home since she had left to pursue her career in Paris, but for her this place would ever be the same; this place, where almost a decade ago, heaven had touched earth.
DI Parker may live here now, Florence may be his DS and together they may deal with whatever Saint-Marie could throw at them, but in Camille's mind, here was where a good and just God had given her a taste of what was best in life; no matter that for her now, its connection with any paradise had been severed.
Camille turned away from the sea, past the DI, to share a glance with Florence – all's well, camarade – and together they began to move back to the Defender, when a sudden puff of cooler air made her swing about for a last look at the sea . . . and spotted an element of gray spurting from the sand, moving gently toward her.
She turned back for a better look. A cloud, all fog and cool drizzle, slowly revolving and coalescing. Some new weather phenomenon, here? A bit of the hellish climate that sometimes blew in from across La Manche to France?
No, not cloud, and not hell. Quite the opposite.
I called this place heaven, she thought, watching him advance, pulling at his tie. Here is the evidence, as Richard would say – as he is saying. I have not seen him before, not all the times in Paris when I only felt him just at my shoulder, pointing out what did and did not make proof . . . but he was there. He has been with me all along.
How many grumblings had he made, before he consented to come back here, with all the bugs and the sand, just to be seen by me? Am I haunted, then? Is this punishment for my many sins? Then I accept it, happily.
She watched as Richard paused, held up his hand in that little apologetic wave – just me here, Camille – I'll always be here –
Well, not here. I mean, you know, wherever, um – wherever you are.
…
Poole watched Camille smile, saw her turn with that teasing "Coming, sir?" look over her shoulder, twitched his briefcase into motion, and followed. Where he walked, time was no longer linear but spiraled around a center, and that center was Camille.
Who is to say what is heaven, and what is hell? Maybe this was damnation, maybe it was reward. Either way, Richard Poole was content.
…
NOTE: I'm told this is brutal. If it is, I apologize; I meant it to show that our friends never leave us, really.
The title is from Psalms 146:6, sort of.
