Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

“I can understand that,” I conceded. “Still, part of my relationship with Ann was physical.”

“And there are people here, who love each other, who have sexual relations,” he said, startling me again. “The mind is capable of anything, always remember that. In time, of course, these people usually realize that physical contact isn’t as integral here as it was in life.

“For that matter,” he continued, “we don’t have to use our bodies at all; we only possess them because they’re familiar to us. If we chose, we could perform any function with our minds alone.”

“No hunger,” I said. “No thirst. No fatigue. No pain.” I made a sound of bemusement. “No problems,” I concluded.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Albert told me. “Except for the lack of need for what you’ve mentioned-and the absence of need to earn a living-everything is still the same. Your problems are unchanged. You still have to solve them.”

His words made me think of Ann. It was disturbing to believe that, after all the hardships she’d suffered in life, there’d be no respite for her here. That seemed unjust.

“There’s help, here, as well, remember,” Albert said, picking up my thought again. “A good deal more perceptive too.”

“I just wish I could let her know all this,” I told him. “I can’t get rid of this sense of apprehension about her.”

“You’re still picking up her distress,” he replied. “You should let go.”

“Then I’d lose contact completely,” I said.

“It isn’t contact,” he told me. “Ann isn’t aware of it-and it only holds you back. You’re here now, Chris. Your problems lie herein.”

AS WE CONTINUED ON, KATIE WALKING BY MY SIDE, I BEGAN TO realize that Albert’s robe and sash connoted some advanced condition on his part, mine my “beginner’s” status.

He knew my thoughts again. “It all depends on what you make of yourself,” he said. “What work you do.”

“Work?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Surprised?”

I had no answer. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“Most people haven’t,” he said. “Or, if they have, they’ve visualized the hereafter as some sort of eternal Sunday. Nothing could be further from the truth. There’s more work here than on earth. However-” He held up a finger as I started to speak. “-work that’s undertaken freely, for the joy of doing it.”

“What kind of work should I do?” I asked.

“That’s up to you,” he said. “Since there’s no need to earn a living, it can be what pleases you most.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to write something more useful than scripts,” I told him.

“Do it then.”

“I doubt if I’ll be able to concentrate until I know that Ann is all right.”

“You’ve got to leave that be, Chris,” he said. “It’s beyond your reach. Plan on writing.”

“What would be the point of it?” I asked. “For instance, if a scientist, here, wrote a book on some revolutionary discovery, what good would it do? No one would need it here.”

“They would on earth,” he said.

I didn’t understand that until he explained that no one on earth develops anything revolutionary alone; all vital knowledge emanates from Summerland-transmitted in such a way that more than one person can receive it.

When I asked him what he meant by “transmitted” he said mental transmission-although scientists here are constantly attempting to devise a system whereby the earth level may be contacted directly.

“You mean like radio ?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

The concept was so incredible to me that I had to think about it before speaking again.

“So when do I start working?” I finally asked. What I had in mind, of course, was losing myself so completely in some endeavor that time would pass quickly and Ann and I would be together again.

Albert laughed. “Well, give yourself a little time,” he said. “You just arrived. You have to learn the ground rules first.”

I had to smile and Albert laughed again. “Not the best phrase I could have chosen,” he said. He patted me on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re willing to work. Too many people come here only wanting to take things easy. Since there are no needs, this can easily be accomplished. It soon becomes monotonous though. One can even be bored here.”

He explained that all kinds of jobs were available with obvious exceptions. There’s no need for a Health Department or a Sanitation Department, Fire or Police Department, nor for food or clothing industries, transportation systems, doctors, lawyers, realtors. “Least of all,” he added, smiling, “morticians.”

“What about people who worked in those professions?”

“They work at something else.” His smile faded. “Or some of them continue doing the same thing. Not here, of course.”

That chilling sensation again; the hint of “another place.” I didn’t want to know about it. Once more, I was conscious of my own effort to change the subject-though equally unconscious of why I felt so strongly about it. “You said you’d explain the third sphere,” I told him.

“All right.” He nodded. “I’m no expert, mind you, but-”

He explained that earth is surrounded by concentric spheres of existence which vary in width and density, Summerland being the third. I asked how many there are altogether and he answered that he wasn’t sure but had heard there are seven-the bottom one so rudimental that it actually blends with earth.

“Is that where I was?” I asked. As he nodded, I went on. “Until I started upward.”

“It’s a mistake to use the words ‘up’ and ‘down’ to describe these spheres,” he said. “It’s not that simple. Our world is set apart from earth only by a distance of vibration. In actuality, all existence coincides.”

“Then Ann is really close by,” I said.

“In a sense,” he replied. “Still, is she conscious of the television waves surrounding her?”

“She is if she turns on a receiver.”

“But she’s not a receiver herself,” he said.

I was going to ask if we could help her find a receiver when I remembered the experience with Perry. That was no answer, I decided. I couldn’t put her through that again.

I looked around the flowering meadow we were crossing. It reminded me of one I saw in England in 1957; I was working on a script there, you recall. I spent a weekend at the producer’s cottage and, on Sunday morning, very early, looked across this lovely meadow from the window of my room. I remembered the intense green silence of it-which brought to recollection all the lovely places I had seen in life, the lovely moments I’d experienced. Was that another reason why I’d fought so hard to keep from dying? I wondered.

“You should have seen me struggle,” Albert said, picking up my thought once more; it seemed he could do it at will. “It took me nearly six hours to let go.”

“Why?”

“Mostly because I was convinced there was no more to existence,” he said.

I recalled that, as I died, I’d become conscious of what was happening in the next room. “Who was that old woman?” I asked, making use, again, of his awareness of my thoughts.

“No one you knew,” he answered. “As your physical senses faded, your psychic senses grew acute and you achieved a brief state of clairvoyance.”

Memories of the death experience started flooding back to me. I asked him what the tingling sensation had been and he answered that it had been my etheric double disengaging itself from the nerve ends of my physical body. I didn’t know what he meant by my etheric double but let it go for then, because of the other questions I wanted to ask.