It Takes a Thief

By Niels Hammer

A mutual revelation, burglary and murder, nature and unconditional love

 

Ralph, a painter of nature and illusions, has a clear enough glimpse of a thief who wakes him to fall in love with her as he recognises her innate independence. After a strenuous search he finds her but she assaults him viciously the instant they meet. Discovering that she has killed a man during a burglary he leaves her with no choice but to listen to his arguments about how they were fated to meet, and to prove his integrity he becomes her accomplice, and she realises that his absolute commitment makes her reciprocate his feelings spontaneously. 

As a Post Post-Modernist novel, grounded in the felt reality of experience, it explores unconditional love, art as self-insight and the wonder of nature - to suggest consciousness as the origin of existence; but ‘It Takes a Thief’ also outlines the necessity of empathy and the struggle for survival within sustainable means in a consumer society intent on self-destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789012125

Niels Hammer

Niels Hammer is the author of a book on Sanskrit poetics and of articles dealing with etymology, birds, aesthetics and consciousness research. He studied Sanskrit at the University of Copenhagen and has travelled extensively in South-East Asia photographing wildlife and temple iconography.

Book preview

I

What was that? All of a sudden – wide awake? The greying of the night had begun in the North-East. Arcturus had faded – the leaves of the Oak were silhouetted sharply against the Sky. The curtains hung still beside the open windows. A Fox or a Vixen – hunting in the reeds – might have barked or it could have been a dream about something he could not remember. No traces were left of an emotion strong enough to form memorable images. He had to fall asleep again for without being fully alert it would be impossible to stay naked when Dawn arose on the Broads. Feeling heavy with the need for continued recuperation he began to dissolve in the ocean of subconsciousness – but knew instantaneously with his increased though now undifferentiated awareness – beyond doubt – that there was somebody else – beside him – in the room.

For a couple of seconds – instinctively – he held his breath but began then to breathe regularly as before trying to discern the outlines of chairs and cupboards chance or necessity had washed up along the walls. The rods in his eyes ought by now to have reached the level of maximum sensitivity. Listening for stealthy footfalls did not yield any definite clues – but a slight change – darker than the darkness – in front of the wardrobe. The movement had been too slow to be spontaneous so it might have been imagined well in advance and then executed with great care – but it had been a furtive movement suggestive of a wilfully illusive presence. The focus of his attention became sharpened by heightened neurotransmitter activity – in the faint light from the night-sky outside – to imagine a shadow standing in front of his writing desk either deliberating what to do or listening for something outside or inside the house – but there was only an eerie silence everywhere – no howls of lecherous Cats or hoots of Barn Owls or even white twitters of sleepy Sparrows in the Wisteria. An indistinct dry hiss – as of dragonfly wings – indicated that one of the drawers in his writing table had been pulled out so that its content could be examined. Had his presence in the bed been detected? Cautiously he moved his hand under the eiderdown towards the bedside table. The almost noiseless investigation of the content of his drawer – was now aided by a soft red light beam. The torch would initially have been switched off as a precaution – cunning or experience rather than boldness or impetuosity. His heart was beating too fast – he had to calm himself imagining the fear an unexpected attack might arouse. The lacquered surface of the close-grained wood was cold and smooth against his warm and sweaty fingertips. Three or four long seconds later – the touch of cold metal – the diode flashlight. Lifting it a little he withdrew his hand carefully while watching the silhouette merge with – and re-emerge from – the darkness only ten short steps away. By moving his arm slowly – in spite of his feverish impatience – he prevented the shifting creases in the linen from emitting any audible sounds. The necessity of taking a decision either to pretend to sleep or to make a sudden move increased exponentially. If attacking – the eiderdown would have to be flung aside and that would delay him for a second or two – and what should he use as a weapon? The flashlight was useless and his adversary would be well-armed – a knife or a handy gun – equipped with an efficient silencer. The methodical search of his drawer would be motivated by the hope of finding a specific object – but he had neither stately secrets nor hidden treasures – so the information that had prompted this intrusion into his privacy had been misleading. Indefinite objects would be money – jewels or rare antiquities – but the quality of his dilapidated assets would leave the poor thief dejected and empty-handed. Damn this intrusion into his private space seventy times seven – robbing him of his beauty sleep and the beauty of the morning. A faint touch of grey was now coming into the room from the windows – Nautical twilight – and in the distance a Blackbird fused melancholy and honey. A slightly better impression of the silhouette which – where visible – looked comparatively slender but lithe and muscular in what might be a rather tight-fitting dress. His finger on the switch – the flashlight as close to the edge of the eiderdown as he could – the three-dimensional shadow turned round to look at the room – he closed his eyes – only a narrow field remained visible between his eyelashes. Testing his ability to keep calm the thief moved slowly forward – between the foot of the bed and the windows – and not knowing whether his presence in the bed made any difference he was left with an undecidable proposition although the sense of impending danger increased rapidly. The red light – like a Helium-Neon laser – but more diffuse – and the narrow cone of illumination was now momentarily directed at the floor – then it moved up along the legs of the bed table – faintly suggesting a gloved hand and the outlines of a masked face which suddenly became sharply defined against the grey-pearling Sky. No viable alternative left. During the next second or so the red beam would sweep across his face. Throwing the eiderdown aside with his right hand to sit up he pressed the switch. The darkness exploded in brilliance. He tried to forestall an attack and caught hold of the cloth of the black mask that hid the features of his unwelcome visitor in anonymity. The string snapped with a thin brittle sound and the sharp light fell upon a wildly startled face and a wide-open mouth.

Oh hivven nae!

Falling down into the furious eyes that confronted him he discerned something beyond all bourns. Instantly – a near-death experience – sets of dendritic connections absorbed the basic character traits of his assailant. Life felt more precious than ever before. The sonorous timbre of the three heart-felt words echoed in his ears. A violent kick aimed with great force in an attempt to knock the flashlight out of his hand or maybe even in the hope of knocking him unconscious prevented him from getting out of the bed. Springing back with acrobatic agility as the silence closed over his involuntary cry of pain – the thief dived headlong out through the open window. A pied noise – the bruise on his arm – jumping out of the bed he looked down into the garden. Parts of the Wisteria had been torn loose from the wall and hung in a tangled web and woof of twigs and leaves. No sign of human life left on the lawn. Too stunned by the impact of the blow to react quickly enough – he had seen two things simultaneously. The first – a shock of rapture and – the second a sting of compassion. The thief was a woman and she had a slight scar inside her mouth as after a cleft palate operation.

Springing down the stairs – he flung the front door open – to hear the sound of a car as it disappeared in the distance. Running upstairs to get his trousers – he tried to put them on as he stumbled down the steps – in slow motion. Where had she gone? Towards the main road probably. As fast as he could to follow her lukewarm tracks – but what kind of a car was he looking for? Not even a glimpse. There were no cars on the early morning roads and the fragrant silence was softened by the deep sleep which rocked the tired inhabitants of the green-garden-set houses in the primordial cradle of relief from mundane obsessions. At this sweet hour of the early morning the common roads were spared the burden of goal-fixated activity and that was naturally just what he loved – though not just now. Running hither and thither – knowing she had disappeared like Dawn – he noticed because of gravel on the pavement that he still had bare feet – and yet he knew as he knew himself – that he had to find her – come what may – for she had left him with no choice – no choice at all. Caught in the beam of a beacon the future direction was given. Stealth – courage – strength – independence of mind – but it had been the shock of looking up into her eyes. Soulblack nightlight of infinity. No point in searching for her on the road here – that was futile – no clues. He walked home – washed his feet and made a cup of tea. First a strategy had to be devised for only then could the proper tactics be invented. Necessity prevailed. The cup on the bedside table – to recapitulate the events. The mask! It lay still there on the floor – a token of her physical existence – where he had dropped it when he looked out of the window. Extrapolations only suggested the most likely of futures. The eventuality of an analysis. Not to touch it any more than – a plastic bag around the black soft cloth behind which she had sought shelter – a knot – and then to lie down in the bed and think again. At least – four clues and three of the clues were good. The first was her accent – which had broadened because of the emotional emergency of losing her anonymity. It was Scottish – the north-east coast. He would have to hear the words Oh hivven nae repeated by a woman or rather by a number of different women from the area – between twenty-seven and thirty-six years of age. The second clue was what could be her cleft palate. Hospital records in north-east Scotland would give him access to the names of all female infants who had been born with cleft palates on account of their subsequent operations. Some cases of cleft palate could be ruled out beforehand as there was no scar on her upper lip now – not at least as far as he had been able to see in the short glimpse he had had of her face. Here Seymour would have to help him by getting access to the dusty records by using a research pretext. It should not be difficult to find a plausible pilot project. The third clue was the agility and the force of her kick. The blow had been violent – as if he had been kicked by a Horse. A large purple red spot where the crushed capillaries or venules had let the blood seep out. His arm was sore and burning. He had not dropped the flashlight as she had hoped. Also here he had been lucky though there was not such a phenomenon as luck. She was a martial arts adept – no doubt about it – Jū-jutsu or Jūdō – and member of a local martial arts club in order to keep fit. She would be bound to use the facilities of her club frequently. The fourth clue was hardly a clue yet. The black cloth out of which she had cut the mask might have been bought anywhere and though the fragments of deoxyribonucleic acid adhering to the mask would be adequate for identification once he had found her they would be useless during the process of finding her – though of course in case she had left traces of her activity in the form of a record he could obtain information of her whereabouts if official corroboration could be obtained. But that was very doubtful and she was too astute to have made mistakes that could have brought her into conflict with the custodians of the suicidal status quo. If that had happened she would have changed her ways – naturally – for it was the intensity of her being that had made him aware of her presence – maybe at the moment when he was about to fall asleep and hence had been most sensitive subconsciously.

If it had not been for the coincidence of having two such distinctive clues the third clue might have been enough. If there were fifty or sixty martial arts clubs within a reasonable driving distance – and if half of them would be more likely than the other half – and if he became a member of every one of them and if he could spend two weeks at each club he would be bound to meet her. Twenty-five clubs meant that he would have to spend a year looking for her if he should find her at the last club – but statistically it would be more likely that he would find her after six months – and if all the clubs were taken into consideration – a whole year. Furthermore she might not really know what he looked like because of the darkness and the blinding light – so he had here a distinct advantage – unless she had been watching his house for several days and seen him. To recapture this epiphany – a wild and wily woman – the first step would be to listen to various North Scottish accents in situ to ascertain whether his assumptions were correct or not. That would be easy and he could do that later – the day after to-morrow maybe – though the sooner the better the beast. He would fly to Inverness – get a car and a tape recorder – drive around to hear women say Oh hivven nae till the tone – pitch and timbre of the area were matching hers exactly. The first imprints remained the strongest – the poems recollecting childhood experiences. Step number two required Seymour’s help. The local hospital files of Northern Scotland – Aberdeen probably – and step number three? Lists of female members of local martial art clubs. As it would be too time-consuming to become a member of each club to get the membership lists – once he had the names of the girls who had been born with cleft palates – Fjodor could approach a technician who could provide such information for a fee. Sipping the green fragrant Darjīling he saw her again as she opened her mouth in annoyance – anger and surprise to say Oh hivven nae. Her accent was a godsend and if the irregularity behind her teeth indeed indicated a cleft palate operation that was a godsend too. Without them his chances would perhaps have looked rather bleak. If he had not been so tired he would have woken earlier – when she came into his room or when she broke into the house even. How did she get in? Through the front door with a special key? She had thought that the house would be empty because there had been no light in the front all evening and she had not – if sitting in her car outside – been able to see the light on the backstairs or in his bedroom. She had concluded that she would be alone – but why had she then taken such care to move slowly and to shield the red light? Even if she had good reasons to believe that the house would be empty she still took all the precautions she could. Although the wall had been scaled she found it prudent to screen herself while she took her pick of his chattels. So what was not a projection – either way? Das Ding an Sich had nevertheless to be experienced or reconfigured in the brain as something if not identical with objective reality then at least as something very close to a fine-grained resemblance of reality – in order to ensure survival. Footprints? They would be useless. She would be bound to throw her shoes away. And she had left no fingerprints as she had worn thin black gloves. And even if she had they would have been as useless as the mask. So what would happen if he could not find her? That was not a realistic possibility. He would find her – sooner rather than later. The clues he had were more than enough. A buoyant certainty in the rhythm of his breath. He would find her – come what may and with the certainty of this feeling he drifted away to dream about what he would do when he found her.

II

From a Periwinkle Sky a zenith-coloured Sun filled his bedroom with light and expectation as she appeared in front of his eyes as a semi-transparent image floating around under the ceiling according to the direction of his gaze. What could he do now but find her – living or dying? Looking into her startled eyes he felt again her anguish at being discovered and the misery of having caused her pain made him wince – but he would make amends by kissing all frustration and dismay out of her memories. The shape – a bow of resilient horn – the texture – rose petals and glowing sunshine. Her full lower lip promised sensuality as did the way she had moved – lightly – with a soft feline grace. Her dark hood had hidden her hair and he could not deduct from the sun-tempered hue of her cheeks what colour it might have had. The colour of her eyebrows? His memory had already faded – a cactus flower at night. They had been clearly arched. A shame – his sluggish inattentiveness – but spell-bound by her eyes he had hardly seen anything else. The subsequent remodelling of memories when they were turned over and over in the mind did not as a wine swivelled on the tongue yield more pertinent details but made the details liable to disintegrate and change form and colour to suit conscious and subconscious desires – though the images he had retained patterned his dendritic arborisations so distinctly and over such a large area that his present musings hardly could modify them – for she had released a ground swell that would continue to engulf him regardless of what he thought or did.

A fair westerly breeze was blowing by now – so would it be worth while to set sail for an afternoon of running hours? About two to three – then the evening would be sweeter. Not wind enough for the Sea and too much for the Broad. His worldly hunger – olives – Comté – bread and tomatoes – then his unworldly – lying on the sofa – to be soothed by gay and wistful lute tunes. The spirit of the Renaissance – still the basic awareness of Yvain le Chevalier – Perceval le Conte du Graal – sustained by Pico della Mirandola and Marsilio Ficino. The music from the strings and the wood was simultaneously earthy and ethereal. The emotion it suggested had inspired its subtle flow in time with thrills as blue surprises and repeated patterns that assured him – by their familiarity – of the trusty ways of all his coming days and nights – but the overtones formed the depth of silence from which the music arose and it became more and more audible the longer he listened and the more his inner standing waves became attuned to absorb the distinctness of the sounds. A state of being – being music – all that which was consisted of vibrations – whether āhatā or anāhatāḥ – struck or unstruck – for the unstruck notes in-formed and permeated the struck notes and it was that other-worldly realm she had manifested – consciously and subconsciously. That was why. So would he dare to paint her – to vie with Great Creative Nature – to suggest infinity in the finite features of her face? Only if she asked him – then he might not bear the full responsibility for his failure.

But what a day – to-day? A day like any other day in this that was his life – endured haphazardly on the surface of a blue – white and green planet – though in another way unique beyond all prior conceptions. A premonition of disaster began to stir in the periconscious distance before the certainty surfaced. A dire promise to come at seven thirty – so the evening would be long and mostly dull – blighted in patches by exchange of nice trivialities – but he had given her his word and that was it. If the Sky had been slate-grey and the weather windy – cold and rainy – it would have made scant difference – although depending on his mood and inspiration – but at least he could slip away around half past twelve and sleep for a couple of hours – to be keen enough to match the best of months – but the precious present was merely a window opening up to three seconds of consciousness which changed foci continuously on the way towards that final transformation which – like the infinite emptiness beyond each present instant – each pratyayaḥ – sensation or image – lay waiting either as an ominous threat or as an assurance of ultimate release.

III

Walking slowly – to feel aligned with the lengthening evening light – through meandering lanes bordered by Lilacs – White Willows – Linden Trees and straw-thatched houses with small or middle-sized gardens – he came to the church where he had parked his car the previous evening. Now there were no pellets beneath the tower but the Barn Owl could still be sitting in one of the sound holes. His search last night had been inconclusive but the pellets had been unmistakable – and a little later – driving down the well-kept driveway of barren gravel and the stately house – throned in a setting of old Copper Beeches – suddenly appeared he resurfaced to confront his social responsibility. No other cars – it might be too early – so strolling to and fro along the bright green hedge he looked at the sunny or snowy Daffodils and the sky-blue or pink Scillas which here and there had pushed the Dwarf Irises aside for the season. The small angry snarl of a motor made him jump aside to seek shelter among the Lilies-of-the-Valley and a waving arm in a loose white sleeve stretched out over the door of the car greeted him in passing. He waited – to let his heart-beat return to seventy-two per minute – the floral fragrance deepened his breathing and when Jennifer – after a couple of castling-like manœuvres – had parked safely in front of the house he tiptoed out of the shadows to open the door for her.

I’m almost sure I remembered it.

A light kiss on each cheek – and the smell of Jasmines was overpowering.

Your hippocampus is probably shrinking. Old age and decrepitude –

Come on, Ralph! Nonsense. I’m not at all more absent minded than you are.

I’m not absent minded, and you’re scatter-brained.

Don’t you love me anymore?

Charming mock indignation – a fair expression of a particular femininity which once upon a time –

Of course I love you, but love has not made me completely blind.

True love makes a lover blind.

No, true love makes a lover see, hear and feel with sharpened clarity and distinctness.

It would be premature to tell her why – at least not yet – and she tossed her long hair – straw-coloured in the slanting light – aside as if in exasperation – tinted by humour.

Another one of your innumerable hypotheses to settle all issues in just the ways that suit you. But we had better go in, and never mind my handbag.

You seem quite reluctant to derive any benefit from experience.

And yet I have come to know you inside out.

A little half-baked apple truism with cinnamon and cream.

Only as far as you know yourself.

Holding the heavy door for her as she swung her hips softly from side to side – a Whooper Swan waddling forward on bare ice. Plus Ça change plus c’est la même chose. Mary came rushing out of the kitchen to meet them with a wooden ladle in her hand – white flour adorning her Blackcock tresses and the classical features of her face wrenched into a grimace of acute despair – but if one of them had met with a serious accident her stoic dignity would have made her entrée impeccable.

Dinner’s ruined. Peregrine poured half a bottle of Cognac into the saucepan and it boiled over. How lovely you look!

She embraced Jennifer and gave her a little pecking kiss on each cheek.

Don’t worry. As long as the wine has not turned I see no reason to get upset.

No, of course not! That would be the end of you, wouldn’t it?

Love is tooth-achingly sweet, but you insist on adding a liberal measure of one hundred per cent acetic acid –

Oh stop this childish bickering and give me a helping hand instead.

Where’s Peregrine?

I chased him out of the kitchen. I’m glad I didn’t hit him with the saucepan. It’s rather heavy.

Women who are honest have violent tempers. That’s one of their charms.

A dark look of wroth surrounded a warm glow of satisfaction. They followed Mary out into the large smelly kitchen. The windows were open and outside a Blackbird was singing.

Silence!

What do you mean? I haven’t said a word.

Before we begin let’s pause for a human while and listen to his song. It’s the best there is.

Taking hold of Mary’s left hand its comely shape and generous strength began to suffuse him just as he stilled her anxious impatience about the future so that the prospect of dinner could set below the horizon while the Blackbird’s mellifluous paean to the melancholy transitoriness of life filled all space – for his sky-flowing music returned them for a fleeting moment to themselves.

Well, Mary, what were you going to make? Shall we continue with what’s left or shall we embark on a bold improvisation?

I simply don’t know. Let’s go out and eat instead.

She would rather enjoy the luxury of shivering – naked – in black despair camouflaged as black humour – much in keeping with her love of drama – than to use the hirsute greycoat of pragmatic common sense.

Now, let me just have a look at this. What’s in the oven here?

A roast beef of course!

Impatience with his slow-witted question made her cheeks flush. What she knew as a plain fact he ought not to forget so easily.

Nonsense, we will eat here, and the sauce is not a problem.

But where is everybody else?

You’re half an hour too early.

I’m sure you said seven thirty and not eight o’ clock.

That’s true. I remember it distinctly.

Oh, I must have made a mistake, I’m sorry.

What a happy mistake. We came just in time then.

Taking the beef out of the oven he touched its brown greasy surface with his fingertips to feel the resilience of the muscle of the deceased bovine. A corpse and carrion eater –

It’s ready in half an hour and it looks excellent, so we’ll have to conjure up a suitable sauce.

"My béarnaise too is ruined."

Do you have any cream?

In the fridge there. But what will you do?

"Make another sauce. We also need flour, tarragon, butter and Bordeaux, but we will have to taste the wine first, and do you have any fond brun?"

Oh no, I should have had some but –

Where’s Peregrine now?

He’s gone down to the pub to get away from me, I think, and find some sympathy among his boon companions for having been chased out of his own house by a fury with a saucepan.

It serves him well.

But their presence had had a soothing influence on her ruffled nerves for – conscious of the confidence they inspired – she found a good bottle in the cupboard.

And it’s a fairly typical reaction. Running away like a frightened March hare from his responsibility and leaving it all to you.

Men never grow up.

Ex cathedra – and as befitted the stage of the world her tears were suddenly not all that far away – tears of real frustration – caused by Peregrine’s indifference and tears of rage – caused by her inability to keep the emulsion of the sauce from breaking – and tears of feeling a little sorry for herself – three kinds of potential tears with a sodium chloride content of zero point six in addition to small amounts of lysozyme and lactoferrin or just the tears of a born tragédienne.

Will this do, Ralph?

"Excellent, and Jennifer, what about a salad with tomatoes, cucumbers and paprika? It would counterbalance the meat. First olive oil and lemon or lime? But, Mary, where is the sauce béarnaise? It’s nearly always possible – "

I threw it away. I was furious.

Great passions demanded irrevocable actions. He opened the bottle and Jennifer found three glasses.

Cheers!

A good Bordeaux and ideal for the sauce. He mixed the flour and the butter in a saucepan to make a roux and began to add the cream slowly – stirring – round a Mulberry bush – but also widdershins to avoid lumps. Mary and Jennifer nursed their glasses and a sisterly suffragette mood of silent complaint – against all those who were guilty of having been born with a Y chromosome – the aberrant sex – only Mammals. The Blackbird ceased singing in the twilight – and he mixed the crushed dark green leaves of Tarragon into the sauce. The refrigerator would be the most –

What are you looking for now?

A system in this apparently stochastic arrangement of boxes – bottles and plastic bags.

"Tomato purée."

I’ll find it for you, and then I’ll just run up and change.

Emptying the content of the tube out into the sauce. Colour and twang.

It’s Peregrine, you know, he sometimes makes her mad.

"Yes, he irritates her with his studied insouciance for she’s keen on doing her utmost whether cooking or singing; fire and water."

He was utterly spoiled as a child –

The red glass bowl you’ve got there must be big enough.

And that’s where it all begins and ends.

Unless you chance to catch hold of the horns of your Demons –

On the flowery dancing floor –

And somersault up over their backs to leave them behind for good.

"Courage, my dear. You need cojones to face a charging bull."

Or despair or fury.

Pouring the red juice from the meat up into the sauce – Jennifer kept the roasted muscle from slipping out over the dripping-pan with a long silvery pitch fork – a rather nasty murder weapon – but perfect for hay and –

You seem to have everything ready. I’m so grateful. I just became too furious to think.

The act of changing costume had furthered the act of changing mood. The long dun dress that stuck to her stately figure gave her the assurance of her rôle as hostess.

Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we’ll beat ‘em, but in order to do so we need another bottle. This is almost empty.

I’m sometimes too susceptible, you know. Like a long green reed in the wind. So emotional –

"Is it not precisely that which enables you to visualise a character or a situation. A gift of God, your raison d’ être?"

Pleased with the look of the salad – the tender meat – the sauce – and with his plain appreciation she opened the bottle with the efficiency of a vintner. La donna –

Yes, here you are, but in situations like this it’s maddening.

The wine into the sauce and longer blue flames.

Here’s Peregrine, Seymour, Sally and –

Hello, hello! What are you doing?

Just adding the final touches to the sauce.

Splendid! Then you’ve saved the day. Let’s get the Champagne.

Exchanging nickel news and juicy jokes they went in to the sitting room loaded with dewy bottles and tulip glasses – the unconscious though inescapable cross of affluence and leisure – and yet each one of them had also a door kept ajar to a common attic. As Peregrine seemed to have made amends by appearing at the right moment he was forgiven – so all was at the moment well with the world. The grinding of the greyish noise of familiar or spicy tid-bits intensified in direct proportion to the amount of Champagne consumed. He went back into the kitchen and stirred the sauce a while before minimising the flames to nothing more than a warm caress. It would improve if left to simmer on its own for a little while. Feeling the long social pull of time-honoured customs and the obligation of a certain amount of breeding he found his way back into the merry mettle of the sitting room – and standing by the open window he looked out into the deepening owl-light among the honest trees while rolling the light amber Pinot Noir juice around in his mouth to extract its fragrance of honey – apples and nougat plus something faintly titillating for which there was no ready semantic crib. From the periphery of the boisterous atmosphere Charlotte sidled up beside him with her glass in the clutch of her bejewelled fingers. Ambition fuelled by a subconscious fear of missing the essentials.

Dear me, how unsocial you are, not even bothering to –

It’s my absent-mindedness. It’s getting worse, but it’s no excuse. There are no excuses.

You’re not all that old yet. It must be something else. Are you in love?

Her eyes – an October Sea grey-speckled blue – brightened with the possibility. Her perspicacity was uncanny. She never ceased to surprise him and he was at a loss for an answer.

It may just be my dismal disposition.

"Nothing wrong, I hope?

Maybe she would believe him – maybe not – but feeling too sensitive he had to defend himself against further cross-examination.

Well, since you ask and since you do what you do I cannot refrain from delineating the state of the world. Everything is wrong, basically, and the misery is often unbearable. The general ignorance, the general indifference. The whole system of our society of unlimited greed is rotten to the core and hell-bent on self-destruction.

She took a small step back as if astonished by the vehemence of his anger.

Now, come on! What do you really mean?

At a liminal position as usual. The darkness was approaching outside with stars and Nightjars – the brightly lit world of animated voices and tunnel-visioned intentionality enveloped him here.

You ought to know.

Well, I don’t!

A blunt challenge to refute reality was fostered by the innate optimism of the propagation of the species. Her healthy female prerogative – a biological process developed by necessity. To believe that one was the author of one’s own fate was such a cozy illusion. Atē.

You know as well as I that the present economic system is based on continual growth though the surface of the planet is limited. It is also debt-based which is absurd, evil and in the long run self-defeating. We are now more than seven and a half billion, and this number increases daily with two hundred and thirty thousand. Naturally the planet is groaning under the impact. All the fresh water sources are drying out. The increased carbon dioxide in the atmosphere makes the oceans acidic, and acid kills the coral reefs, the larder of the Sea. Each of us has between twenty-five and fifty toxic chemicals in our blood. The gene-pool becomes more and more susceptible to disease because all infants survive. Between ten and twenty thousand species become extinct every year. This costs us around three thousand billion Pounds annually. An advertisement agent destroys values worth eleven Pounds for every Pound he receives, an international accountant forty-nine Pounds. Light and noise pollution is spreading to all habitable areas. During the last two decades autism has increased a hundredfold. Power and wealth become more and more concentrated in the hands of fewer and fewer individuals, so democracy has been reduced to a trivial joke. There are no values left, only interests. The only sign of life now-a-days among Humans is the ubiquitous consumption to fill the inner vacuum. A vacuum that can never be filled, so the entire habitable surface of the planet is masticated to pulp and fiction. The common modern endeavour consists in a flight from reality, in a flight from oneself, in self-inflicted exile. And here I’ve just given you a few examples, picked up at random, to show the prevailing trend. Not with an explosion but with a whimper will it all wither away in a century or two. But personally I’m fine, though when I happen to contemplate the state of the world and the future, utterly wretched.

Then why don’t you do something about it? Join a political party, like I have done.

The sneering of the convenient defence – choosing not to see – to shun responsibility – to postpone –

"I would like to, but is there any political party that deals with reality? Politicians are concerned with self-promotion, greed, the interests of multinational corporations and the perpetuation of ignorance, though at the very best maybe they display a penchant for cosmetic surgery here and there."

Anyway, I think I do what I can.

And that is very commendable for no one is more mistaken than he who refrains from doing anything because he only can do a little.

Burke’s always right; but what do you do?

Her head coquettishly aslant – the inquisitive yellow gleam in her pupils – to doubt his motives – his integrity – while asserting herself and her well-paved way ahead as golden means.

Guarding the Hot Gates though fully aware of the end.

Do you see yourself as a hero?

Her pious wish – to sharpen her nails. Laughing softly. It was symptomatic – ad hominem – but conveniently forgetting the issue – yet she might have been slightly piqued by his critique.

No, rather as a court fool.

At the court of whom?

The habits of the bench and the bar came again to the fore.

"De l’ignorante et sotte multitude Dont le plus lourd sera receu pour juge."

But we live in a democracy, my dear.

No, we don’t. We live a an hideous mixture of an ochlocracy and a ploutocracy.

It’s probably the least unacceptable solution?

No, not really, but it’s one that will make the survival of all species of Mammals impossible.

Die Umwertung aller Werte – but prompted by hope – natural instincts – she shook her head in denial of the obvious so that the pleasant blindness could be maintained to-day as well but maybe she had caught a sense of doubt that in due time would grow.

What’s your remedy then?

"This, cheers! And don’t take it too seriously. In another fifty million years life will renew itself. The Sun has enough hydrogen left for another two or three billion years though it will in seven hundred million years become so hot that the oceans will boil away. This time-span is the only comfort worth anything. Nevertheless, I’m of course doing what I can, L’Union Internationale pour la conservation de la nature, Snow Leopard Trust et cetera, but my limited means do not match my unlimited wishes."

So you don’t think we are clever enough to survive?

Her disguised aggression – tinged by a narrow note of existential doubt and externalised by delicately raised eyebrows. She clung to the wreck of her image of the world – but the storm gathered strength. Even Matthew – ὅτι βλέποντες οὐ βλέπουσιν καὶ ἀκούοντες οὐκ ἀκούουσιν ούδὲ συνίουσιν.

No, for we see without seeing and we hear without hearing or comprehending. So the blind and the deaf are not witnessing the destruction of a planet. ’Tis the times plague that madmen leade the blind.

So, you see, it hasn’t changed much, and maybe you’re so pessimistic because you’re a pessimist or even a misanthrope at heart. Your perspective is merely reflecting a projection?

Unfortunately not; I am rather optimistic and enjoying life while it lasts. My perspective, which is seen from a third person point of view, has been formed by conclusions reached in research but corroborated by the changes for the worse I have seen myself, both here and everywhere else.

It’s not the picture that emerges from the daily news. Do you think it’s a deliberate cover-up?

Her laughter was pleasant but mocking. A most trustworthy defence mechanism.

"No, of course not. It’s not a cover-up and it’s not deliberate. No one wants to hear bad news, and the commercial enterprises that drive the printed and electronic media are intent on one thing and on one thing only, namely to sell and sell quickly. Bad news about lack of resources, increasing stupidity, dumbing down, omnipresent Gleichschaltung, deteriorating living standards, real austerity, climate change, very bleak prospects for the future do not sell, and therefore you will only see a very weak reflection of reality in these dissipators of the irrelevance, gossip and make-believe that modulate the mental landscape of the ignorant majority."

I just couldn’t go on living if I shared your dismal views, I think.

And I think you could if you decided to wake up for the icy water of that which is also feels clarifying. It removes the dusty cobweb of lies, convenience, laziness and self-interest that holds the attention captive daily.

So do you honestly think that I’m just hiding my head in the sand like an ostrich and that all my community work is in vain?

Find them – human kind cannot –

An Ostrich does not hide his or her head in the sand. No sane animal disregards reality for disregarding reality, a precipice, a wild fire, means death and no animal wants to die. Your community work does someone some good, and doing someone some good is vastly better than not doing anybody any good at all, but you might reconsider your priorities. What is absolutely essential now and what is not? The evidence is there for all of us to see but it is far more convenient to pretend that God still is in his heaven and that all is well with the world in spite of the fact that we have murdered God, though only to jump down into an abyss of meaninglessness from which we cannot escape.

Gilbert joined them – taking Charlotte by her mauve-sleeved arm. Familiarity of perspectives in some quarters and in some quarters only.

What are you two discussing so earnestly?

The light touch. The less said about life’s miseries the better – but the water had almost reached his nostrils so he was standing on tiptoe.

Ralph has just told me that the sun has enough hydrogen left for three billion years but that long before that it will become so hot that the oceans will boil away, so even if we destroy ourselves and the entire surface of the planet within the next century there is, in the long run, abundant cause for optimism.

Yes, I know. It’s always very invigorating to be exposed to a scud of his chilly perspectives.

It’s probably more pleasant to live in a candy-floss fairy land with both eyes tightly shut.

At least if one wants to avoid becoming too bitter for the taste.

Indeed, and to sell illusions to the affluent parasites who have to rely on the local gaudy weathercocks in order to know what’s in and what’s out.

Sour grapes? But that’s of course what I have to do, at least sometimes, for a living.

No, rotten rather; but honesty and humour are the saving graces.

As long as you do not lie to yourself it does not matter how much you lie to others.

Exactly!

How disgustingly cynical you are, but dinner is served so we had better sit down right away.

Honest rather, but it’s also dangerous for the lies thrown to the world might in the end, even if strict precautions are taken, by a sort of subconscious repercussion, have a distorting effect on one’s own perception of truth and honesty, both rather obsolete terms.

It’s a delicate balance. The increasing demands of Cæsar, the totalitarian state, the enemy.

Yes, it’s nearly impossible to avoid prostituting oneself as everything is based on prostitution.

"There’s nothing sacred left, oh new slave world, and surveillance ad infinitum."

Gilbert’s hearty laugh was touched from afar by a quiet note of a faint blue sadness – his basic humanity still glittered in the dark – but timely attention – holding the awkwardly tall chair for Sally as she wriggled in between the oaken table and the softly padded seat with the grace of flowing waters.

Bourgogne or Bordeaux?

Bordeaux, please! And I hear that you and Jennifer made both sauce and salad when Peregrine fled the righteous fury of his wife.

Anagkē prevailed as she always does. We had to act straightaway to save our dinner.

Her appreciation was tinted by indulgence for humour was also defensive but her integrity was inflexible though feminine. Suffused by the smell of roasted meat the air was ruffled by cat’s paws of laughter or moved as waves by voices to the timbre and colour of the emotions –

No, the length to which he was prepared to go when she discovered what actually had happened was ridiculous, at least that is what it appears to be now, but at the time –

Here, there’s a nice piece of red meat and some of your own sauce and salad.

Hunger – real hunger – was the best spice. The attention in which a raconteuse wallowed was directly proportional to the juiciness of her news. Taking off his shoes he felt more at ease with his toes bathing in the fresh evening air that came wafting in through the curtains.

Excellent! I’m hungry like a wintry Wolf. I was out last night looking for the Barn Owl that haunts the churchyard, otherwise, as I think you know, I’m up at half past three so that I can paddle around on the Broad, listen to the warblers and study the changes in the light.

I wish I had the guts to do that as well, but in the morning I’m partly unconscious. It’s a family trait, I cannot help it, or I think I cannot help it. But I would really like to join you in the evening though if you think it’s worth while?

The mornings are by far the best, just around sunrise, but we could always listen to the birds in the evening. They are at their best just now. But if it’s windy or if there’s heavy rain they do not sing as it would be a waste of energy.

What about to-morrow or the day after to-morrow if the weather turns out to be fine?

Certainly, whenever you want to come.

I don’t think I can persuade Gilbert to join us though.

Never mind. He loves to talk. And it’s necessary to keep quiet and to move silently, in fact, to be inconspicuous if not invisible.

Chewing eagerly she could hardly wait for she was still as curious as a child.

Can you manage to do that?

Interest and scepticism combined. Hemispherical balance and congruence with the limbic system.

No, all I can do is to take the greatest care, and it’s also difficult for me to get up that early. But once I’ve had a cup of tea or two and am outside it’s fine, but when I wake, often in the middle of a dream, it’s quite awful, especially as my dreams are drenched with colours in the morning.

That may be because you remember your morning dreams much better than the dreams you’ve had earlier in the night.

A significant glance from the depth of her experience hinted at something he did not know.

That would be very likely.

A clear cold mountain spring – he would suddenly like to – love to –

I have recently had sustained lucid dreams and it’s a revelation, rather like opening a hatch to my subconscious processes.

Her levelled enthusiasm – her authentic –

How do you do that?

A friend of mine in Ajaccio sent me some mandragora sprouts and I planted them in the hot-house in February. A month ago I began taking a small amount of fresh leaves and the effects are intriguing. I’m half awake and conscious of my dreams so I remember all the details. However, I also write them down in order to see if there are recurrent motives or if the colours should change with time. I imagine that they might, at the end of a year or so, show some difference, if not an actual development; though it’s still a bit early to say if they do. So far, however, I have had about fifteen very lucid dreams. I mean, the colours are translucent and the details sharp, and though some dreams are pretty straightforward there are others that seem to be mysterious or obscure. It’s like an exploration, a discovery of my own nature, hidden motives, wishes, longings, fears and idiosyncrasies, but also of my relationship with other people.

How would you compare it with mescaline or psilocybin, for example?

It’s not in the same category.

I’ve only once, many years ago now, eaten fresh Henbane leaves. They contain two of the same alkaloids as Mandrake, atropine and scopolamine, which has an extra oxygen on the tropane ring; it was quite awful, with intense and factual hallucinations spiced by a vast thirst.

Factual hallucinations?

"At the time I took them to be real. I ate strawberries, I tasted strawberries but there were no strawberries. There was also a sense of nausea, not ordinary nausea, but a nausea of cosmic proportions as if with Morning Glory seeds; but all such distortions of reality are evolutionarily designed to be frightening as the brain’s reconfiguration of reality is twisted, tordue."

You must have taken far too much. I go into a light sleep, and then I dream.

Do you have experiences comparable to those of the mediaeval witches who dreamt of flying in connection with sexual stimulation?

I have not had any flying dreams, but I have certainly felt sexually stimulated.

Don’t tell me about it.

The shaded light in her eyes made him move his toes slowly up and down alongside her ankle as a Cat might to solicit a tactile response – but he had reacted without consciously deciding to act for her glance had released a spontaneous reflex in his parasympathetic nervous system – so she must have touched him so deeply that his basic notions – his fixed ideas – and his preconceived conceptions about his intentions and interests as well as his sense of the social sectio aurea had been rendered supererogatory. Free will? Pleased with the power of her femininity she laughed gently. Responsibility for having blue eyes or for giving a kiss – there was hardly any difference in degree.

You’ll not miss anything really, and the witches’ orgy with the Devil was caused by sexual repression, so when the floodgates were thrown wide open, the poor women became overwhelmed and interpreted their experiences in the terms of the prevailing myth.

Her light accept of his response had come in the same way as when Dandelions unfolded their yolk-yellow petals to the early morning sunlight – and he pressed shin up against her knee to accelerate the interchange of reciprocity. There was no Way back – never – and time remained unidirectional. The ubiquitous thermal radiation of three degrees Kelvin was proof enough.

The stronger the social tabu is, the more violent the reaction will have to be. People were healthier in Tahiti and Rarotonga than in Tokyo or Wien.

Or in London, for that matter.

That was also Cook’s impression.

The blacklight of her belladonna pupils – she would come as far as he wanted or even further – but considering the potential repercussions he would have to let her take the initiative as a confirmation – so becoming aware of his tentative hesitation – his unwillingness to influence her intention to come closer – she moved her elbow – behind the curtain of the flaxen table cloth – along his hip to enclose him in her hand and seal the tryst of the following evening – but also to reassure him of the fact that she – being fully conscious of the potential developments of her decision – acted in tune with her inner standing wave and hence without misgivings.

So did your dreams mainly appear in grey before you began using Mandrake leaves?

Only rarely did I have dreams with weak colours, usually they were greyish or indefinite.

We have a dream, the Greeks see a dream. Using the term to see a dream indicates that the visual impressions are strong, but it is the affective states that form the images that are important. As you see colours now it shows that we dream in colours but that our subsequent awareness is blunted. However, dreams are mainly visual expressions or manifestations of one or two of the nine or ten primary affective states as they constitute subconscious and conscious reality, both for us and other Mammals, but presumably also for birds, at least for Passerines.

The titillation could soon become irresistible so her smile was both teasing and serene.

The emphasis used to be on cognition, now the emotions seem to be more important, though of course that was always the case on a real and personal level; but it’s depressing to see how easily the academy can be led astray.

"Its constituents are more prone to follow what is à la mode than anybody