couldn’t offer proof. Within a week, the man’s widow and her new beau had been on the trail to Denver with their combined savings.
Arno, meanwhile, had woken in a garden. Albeit not the sort of garden he could ever have imagined tending himself. This wasn’t a place of dry lawn and patchy daisies, it was a bright, dreamy landscape of the mind. The trees above his head glistened, their branches creaking and waving despite the lack of wind. The grass beneath his fingers felt as crisp as sugar and, sitting up, he was forced to squint as the reflections from a nearby stream flickered in front of his eyes. He touched his face, wanting to feel something he could believe in. He covered his eyes for a moment, pushing the vision of the garden away so that he could think. His ears still rang with the resounding clatter of the spade connecting against his skull. There was no pain, just a sense of dislocation, an awareness, right down in his very soul, that he had stepped out of one existence and into another.
The religious implications of this took a moment to kick in. Arno, despite having regularly bent his knee within the narrow confines of the ramshackle pews of the St. Bartholomew tabernacle, did not automatically assume himself to be in Heaven. His religious devotions, while deeply felt, were singularly elsewhere as his logical mind looked around and tried to put two and two together. Dying is something you never develop any experience in and, consequently, most folks hesitate to assume it’s just happened to them.
Uncovering his eyes, Arno got to his feet and began to explore the world he’d been re-born into. The ground gave slightly beneath his feet, soft and pliant as only earth can be.
He looked down at his clothes. They were dreams of garments that had hung in his own closet. He ran his thumb along the hem of the jacket, finding none of the loose threads or repairs that were as much a part of the original as the scar on his temple. Reminded of it, he reached to touch that little nub of white skin, an imperfection he’d carried for years ever since catching it on the underside of a shelf in the barn. It was there. It was a comfort.
He made his way towards the stream, his eyes slowly adapting to the sparkling light.
Squatting down on the bank, he extended his hand into the water. There was no chill and he could barely feel it, rushing over his hand like thick air.
“Paradise?” he wondered. And again, that thought of where he might be crossed his mind only for him to dismiss it again.
What was needed, he decided, was to find someone else.
He followed the bank of the stream, the grass crunching beneath his feet like winter frost.
The trees around him were like those drawn by a lazy artist; they were trees of the imagination, not any species he recognised. Pulling down a branch he looked closer at the cluster of fruit growing on one of them. It appeared to be a bunch of precious stones, cut as if for royalty to hang on their puffy, white necks. As he squeezed them between thumb and forefinger they crumbled, wet and sticky. He raised his fingers to his lips and then decided against it, who knew if it was safe? He wiped the glistening dirt on his trousers instead, happy to make the cloth a little less perfect.
After a short while he came to a bridge that crossed the stream. He crossed it, figuring a bridge had to lead to somewhere.
On the other side, a narrow path made its way through a forest of the unknown trees, the fruit different from branch to branch.
As the trees began to thin out he found himself facing a large building, built from white stone that seemed to glow with an inner light all of its own. The building rose up further than he could see, a stretch of white bricks and windows that grew more indistinct as it soared upwards into the clear sky. To his right there was a wall vanishing back into the forest through which he had just walked. To his left, in the far distance, he thought he could just
Arno, meanwhile, had woken in a garden. Albeit not the sort of garden he could ever have imagined tending himself. This wasn’t a place of dry lawn and patchy daisies, it was a bright, dreamy landscape of the mind. The trees above his head glistened, their branches creaking and waving despite the lack of wind. The grass beneath his fingers felt as crisp as sugar and, sitting up, he was forced to squint as the reflections from a nearby stream flickered in front of his eyes. He touched his face, wanting to feel something he could believe in. He covered his eyes for a moment, pushing the vision of the garden away so that he could think. His ears still rang with the resounding clatter of the spade connecting against his skull. There was no pain, just a sense of dislocation, an awareness, right down in his very soul, that he had stepped out of one existence and into another.
The religious implications of this took a moment to kick in. Arno, despite having regularly bent his knee within the narrow confines of the ramshackle pews of the St. Bartholomew tabernacle, did not automatically assume himself to be in Heaven. His religious devotions, while deeply felt, were singularly elsewhere as his logical mind looked around and tried to put two and two together. Dying is something you never develop any experience in and, consequently, most folks hesitate to assume it’s just happened to them.
Uncovering his eyes, Arno got to his feet and began to explore the world he’d been re-born into. The ground gave slightly beneath his feet, soft and pliant as only earth can be.
He looked down at his clothes. They were dreams of garments that had hung in his own closet. He ran his thumb along the hem of the jacket, finding none of the loose threads or repairs that were as much a part of the original as the scar on his temple. Reminded of it, he reached to touch that little nub of white skin, an imperfection he’d carried for years ever since catching it on the underside of a shelf in the barn. It was there. It was a comfort.
He made his way towards the stream, his eyes slowly adapting to the sparkling light.
Squatting down on the bank, he extended his hand into the water. There was no chill and he could barely feel it, rushing over his hand like thick air.
“Paradise?” he wondered. And again, that thought of where he might be crossed his mind only for him to dismiss it again.
What was needed, he decided, was to find someone else.
He followed the bank of the stream, the grass crunching beneath his feet like winter frost.
The trees around him were like those drawn by a lazy artist; they were trees of the imagination, not any species he recognised. Pulling down a branch he looked closer at the cluster of fruit growing on one of them. It appeared to be a bunch of precious stones, cut as if for royalty to hang on their puffy, white necks. As he squeezed them between thumb and forefinger they crumbled, wet and sticky. He raised his fingers to his lips and then decided against it, who knew if it was safe? He wiped the glistening dirt on his trousers instead, happy to make the cloth a little less perfect.
After a short while he came to a bridge that crossed the stream. He crossed it, figuring a bridge had to lead to somewhere.
On the other side, a narrow path made its way through a forest of the unknown trees, the fruit different from branch to branch.
As the trees began to thin out he found himself facing a large building, built from white stone that seemed to glow with an inner light all of its own. The building rose up further than he could see, a stretch of white bricks and windows that grew more indistinct as it soared upwards into the clear sky. To his right there was a wall vanishing back into the forest through which he had just walked. To his left, in the far distance, he thought he could just
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