Whispers & Dreams

Re-incarnation isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. For one thing you don’t get to choose your new life. It gets chosen for you. I desperately wanted to be a Dolphin, or failing that a Wolf. Or even a Wolf with the brain of a Dolphin. I know wolves are pretty savvy, but just imagine having your synaptic cortex bumped up to at least 67% of a human brain. The pack would follow you off a cliff! They haven’t decided where to place me yet. Usually the transfer happens instantaneously. One minute you’re having a heart attack and the next you’re starting over as a new person, or a goose or even a dung beetle.  Either way it’s pretty dam quick. There isn’t any 24 hour cooling off period either, where you can weigh up all the pros and cons of frozen lakes versus a life surrounded by excrement. It’s a done deal.

But what happens to my soul? Up here they don’t refer to them as souls. They call them Human Life Echo’s or HLE’s for short. Apparently everyone’s HLE is composed of lots of fainter echoes from past lives. The more HLE’s you have increases your chances of winding up in the body of an animal, or an insect. I don’t know the actual HLE threshold, but it numbers in the thousands. They tell me I’ve reached my limit, so I’ve got to wait and see where they decide to put me next.

The choice isn’t arbitrary or reactive either, it’s all pre-planned. They say that every living thing has a finite and predictable life-span, so it’s relatively easy to plan many years ahead. Here, there are no such things as random accidents and premature deaths. Everything happens at a certain point and in a certain way. If it didn’t there’d be chaos. The system would quickly break down and all the harmony and balance would be destroyed. I know, it blew my mind too. The concept that every single living thing will die at a pre-determined moment kind of freaked me out. When they first told me I was full of questions. What about irrational, unplanned behaviour ? Surely you’ve got to factor in indecision and situations totally beyond our control, like blood clots, lapses in concentration, and wars? They laughed when I said that. They said nothing ever happens by chance - If I could see everything, all at once then I’d know. I’d see the beautiful patterns our tiny predictable steps make towards our own deaths. They might as well have told me God is really some spoilt child at his own celestial birthday party, cus it pretty much stomped all over my pre-conceived notions of free will and personal choice.

I wish they’d make up their minds. This body-less existence is starting to get me down. It’s like being locked in someone else’s dream. Not a very good dream either, more like a nightmare that’s all messed up and out of sequence.  Things are never static, they keep moving further away, and then are frighteningly close up, so close in fact I can’t tell where the hell I am anymore. I’m sure they’re making me wait to punish me for what happened. As if any of it was really my fault.

 That’s strange; I can hear voices, whispering voices. They’re all speaking at once so I can’t make out what it is they’re saying. Wait a minute, they seem to be leaving, or moving further away. Now there’s just one voice left. He, I think it’s a he, is speaking so quietly I can hardly hear him - something about a story. Now he’s fading too.

                “Don’t leave. What do you want me to do? You mentioned something about a story. Do you want me to tell my story, is that it?” Shit! He’s gone now. Why couldn’t he speak properly? Is this some sort of test? I feel so cold. I know that’s impossible as I don’t have a body anymore, but something inside whatever I’ve become is telling me I’m cold, so very cold…

They asked me to join their club but I refused. To be honest they all seemed a bit too stuck up for my liking. They were always discussing and debating. I timed them once. When I rowed away from the pontoon it was nine thirty am, and when I returned it was just before ten. They were all still there, chopsing away like a bunch of fishwives. When they eventually got onto the water, (45 minutes later) I was part way through my second cup of tea. What is the point of having thousands of pounds worth of sleek carbon fibre boats if all they do is talk about rowing? Don’t get me wrong, they use all the jargon – quarter pressure this and half pressure that. One of them, I think his name’s Roger had the ruddy cheek to give me rowing tips.

                “I’ve watched you ploughing up and down the lake like a veritable paddle steamer, and I feel I should say something.” Nice to meet you, my name is Roger would have been a better introduction, don’t you think?

                “Really, what’s that then?” He was one of those guys who likes to use props to illustrate his point. He picks up one of the Concept II oars, (which incidentally costs more than my boat) and starts doing a spot of ‘air rowing’.

                “You need to place your blades (oars to you and me) in a shallower position, like this. That way you’ll be able to increase your rate without expending any much energy.”

                “I quite like expending energy; it gives me more of a workout. Thanks for the tip though.” I should have asked him to ditch his posh blades and try my big heavy oak oars. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. Ray, the ruddy-faced boatyard manager said he took one of the rowing clubs shining stars out for a row in one of the old fibreglass fishing boats (the same as mine). He said they hadn’t even got half way before the fella starts complaining about his ‘poor aching forearms’. Ray calls them a bunch of posers. He also says ‘men of a certain age and shape shouldn’t wear lycra’. I tend to agree.

That was over a year ago. People ask me why I do it. Why choose rowing as opposed to joining a gym or taking up mountain biking? It’s not an easy one to answer, but I think rowing chose me. I never set out to do it. I started walking, (wandering along canal towpaths) to combat my depression and just happened upon this large lake near my home. I’d lived there for over 10 years and never knew it even existed. I remember seeing flashes of blue and white through the dense birch trees and thought I was watching runners in a cross country race. When I got closer I could hear the sounds of yelling cox’s and the rhythmic rub of oars skimming over corrugated water. I felt like I’d discovered a secret world - a world where people came to escape their stressful, weekday lives in favour of a hundred metre wide, six kilometre long playground.

In the first year I rowed three times a week, (sometimes four) in all weathers and at all times of the day. I particularly loved the early morning. Quite often I was the only one on the lake, and I remember how excited I used to feel, running down the steep steps to the pontoon carrying a pair of rusty rowlocks and ragged nine foot oars and hand-bailing my boat with an old ice-cream carton. I couldn’t wait to get on the lake to see what mood she was in. Some days she was so quiet and still I could hear families having breakfast on their lakeside verandas. At other times the wind was so strong the lake became a sea, with white horses and invisible currents that spun my boat like a leaf in rapids. The only time I can’t row is when the lake is frozen, and even then I convince myself I can row through the ice. Cat ice isn’t a problem. I quite like smashing through the floating glass atolls and hearing the fractured echo roll down the valley. If the ice is half an inch or less it’s easy, any more and I risk being marooned.

Yesterday, the ice had begun to separate, so I persuaded Ray to let me have a go. I promised to come back if it was too thick and agreed not to venture any further than the sheltered bay area. I took the heaviest oars I could find (for maximum ice penetration), plus the compulsory life jacket that I always shoved under the stern bench. Ray had kindly cleared a path around the pontoon and across the lake towards the old boathouse so the birds could swim about. As I pushed off I could see the pale sun through a fine chiffon of mist. Within five minutes it became a dense eye-straining fog. First the banks receded, then the line of tethered yachts were swallowed up, followed by the marker boys and finally the lake itself. The only sounds I could hear were my own breathing, the slap of oar against water and the digestive rumblings of shifting ice. I felt frightened and disorientated. Each time the boat found thicker ice I had to slam the oars through it, and hope my momentum carried me forward. I couldn’t turn back, because I didn’t know where ‘back’ was. I even tried hurling a lead fishing bomb across the ice, straining my ears for the reassuring ‘plop’ into open water. It never happened.

Then my imagination started toying with my vision. The swirling fog formed into Anomalous shapes that buzzed me like mischievous spectres. Each time this happened I altered my direction, pulling through the water with only one oar, until the mirage evaporated or moved away. I also sensed the ice was getting thicker, but I couldn’t turn round because I was stuck in my own narrow channel. Then the oars started bouncing off the ice and it took two or three attempts to punch through. I wondered what would happen if I stopped. The fog might lift. Then I could get my bearings.

The whispering’s back. This time it sounds like a woman’s voice. She’s speaking so quietly, like my Mum used to when she came home from the hospital late at night and didn’t want to wake me. She never knew I heard every single word, or smelt the carbolic on her hand so close to my face. I wish she’d just slow down and speak normally - there’s only me here, isn’t there?

                “Hello, are you talking to me? Hello, is this some sort of test?” It must be a test and I have to pass it in order to move on. Perhaps if I carry on with my story they might come back?

Where was I? Oh yes, I remember. While I rowed and listened to all the daft suggestions my mind kept producing I suddenly heard a new sound - a close-up sloshing noise. My feet were wet. I quickly reached down and felt cold water moving around the boat. I knew it had a tiny leak; Ray had assured me it would take hours for the boat to fill up. The ice must have made it worse

                “Help!” I screamed and waited for the echo. There wasn’t any. How could this be? There’s always an echo, even when it’s windy. I screamed again, as long and as loud as I could, until my voice eventually cracked. The water in the boat was rising; I could feel it lapping against my ankles. I started to panic, rowing as fast as I could. Then my right oar clattered into something big and heavy. I stopped rowing and used the same oar to probe the air, like a blind giant with a white stick. I felt it again, hard and hollow, like a boat. It must be a boat. The water lapped at my calves, so I leaned over the side, but the oar slipped out of my hand. I heard it skid across the ice. The boat was stuck fast. I had to get out. Each time I moved a small wave broke over my shins. In desperation I reached over the side and felt firm-ish ice under my fingertips. I pressed hard.  Then the boat capsized, spilling me onto the ice - it held my weight. I heard a bubble and hiss as my boat went down, followed by the sound of the stowed life-jacket exploding into life. Then all was quiet.

I spread my weight out as best I could, lying face down with both my arms and legs extended. I lifted up my head and shouted one last time. Surely someone had to hear me? Then I heard a strange scratching sound, soft rasping footsteps moving towards me. The footsteps stopped and I felt something nibble my right thumb. I clawed the air and heard a loud hiss followed by a sharp stabbing pain in my arm. The second time, I felt a bone snap in my forearm and remember feeling a draft of cold air on my face and the sound of beating wings. Then everything went black and cold…

The cold feeling’s almost gone now. The whispering’s back though. Wait, there’s a voice. A female voice is talking to me. Now it’s gone again. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she (whoever she is) is riding on a carousel. One minute she sounds close by and then something snatches her voice away from me. If I can just make out what it is she’s trying to tell me? I need to concentrate. Here she comes again.

                “Stephen, it’s me. You need to concentrate. You need to…”

                “I need to what?” I’ve got to stay calm. She’ll be back in a few seconds.

                “Wake up Stephen, everyone’s here. We’re all here. We all love you…”

                “Mum?”