Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

“Please.”

As we started from the lake, I looked back. “It would be nice to have a home overlooking it,” I said.

“I’m sure you will then.”

“My wife would love it too.”

“You can have it ready for her when she comes,” she suggested.

“Yes.” The idea was pleasing to me. Something definite to do while waiting for Ann: the preparation of our new home. That plus working on a book of some kind would make the time pass quickly. I felt a rush of delight. “Are there oceans here as well?” I asked.

She nodded. “Fresh water. Calm and tideless. No storms or heavy seas.”

“And boats?”

“Absolutely.”

Another rush of pleased anticipation. I’d have a sailboat waiting for Ann too. And maybe she’d prefer a home on the ocean. How pleased it would make her to find our dream-house waiting for her on the coast, a sailboat for her pleasure.

I drew in deeply of the fresh, sweet air and felt immeasurably better. Her drowning had only been a dream-a distorted leftover from an unpleasant incident now long past.

It was time to begin concentrating on my new existence.

“Where did Albert go?” I asked.

“He works to help those in the lower realms,” Leona said. “There’s always much to do.”

The phrase “lower realms” evoked a sense of uneasiness again. The “other” places Albert had spoken of; the “ugly” places-they were as real, apparently, as Summerland. And Albert actually went to them.

What did they look like?

“I wonder why he didn’t mention it,” I said, trying not to let myself feel anxious again.

“He knew you needed an uncomplicated introduction to this world,” Leona said. “He would have told you in time.”

“Am I imposing on him to stay in his home?” I asked. “Should I get my own?”

“I don’t know whether that’s possible yet,” she answered. “But don’t feel in the least uncomfortable about staying with Albert. I know he’s delighted about your being there.”

I nodded, wondering what she meant about it not being possible yet for me to have my own home.

“We have to earn the right,” she answered my unspoken question. “It happens to almost all of us. It took me a long while to achieve my own home.”

I realized, by what she’d said, how kind Albert had been in not telling me that, at the moment, I had no choice but to remain with him. Never mind, I thought. That didn’t bother me. I’d never been averse to earning my way.

“Albert must be quite advanced,” I said.

“He is ,” she replied. “I’m sure you noticed his robe and aura.”

All right, I told myself. Ask questions; start learning. “I’m curious about the aura,” I said. “Can you tell me something about it? For instance, does it exist in life?”

For those who can see it, she told me. It signifies the presence of the etheric double and the spirit body. The etheric double exists within the physical body until death and the spirit body exists within the etheric double until the second death, each possessing its own silver cord. The cord connecting the physical body to the etheric double is the thickest, that connecting the etheric double to the spirit body about an inch in diameter. A third cord thin as spiders web connects the spirit body to-well, she wasn’t sure, Robert. “Pure spirit, I imagine,” she said. “And, incidentally, the reason I know about the aura is that it’s part of my field of study here.”

“You don’t suppose Albert just might have had the idea I’d be asking such a question, do you?” I asked.

Her returned smile was my answer.

She continued, telling me that the aura of the etheric double extends an inch or two beyond the limits of the physical body, the aura of the spirit body up to several feet beyond the limits of the etheric double, taking on more luminosity the further it is from the dimming effect of the body.

She told me that auras all look different, the range of colors unlimited. People unable to think of anything beyond material sensation have auras which are red to brown, the lower their concepts the darker the colors. The auras of unhappy souls emit a deep, depressing green. A lavender radiation means that the person is acquiring a more spiritual consciousness. Pale yellow indicates that the individual is sad and has a longing for lost earth life.

“No doubt that’s what mine looks like,” I told her.

When she didn’t reply, I smiled. “I know,” I said. “No mirrors either.”

She smiled back.

I am going to be positive , I vowed. Let there be an end to despair.

“THERE IT IS,” LEONA SAID.

I looked ahead, reacting, with amazement, to the sight. I’d been so intent on her words, I’d failed to notice a city in the distance.

I say a city, Robert, but how different from a city on earth. No dingy haze of smog above it, no smoke or traffic din. Instead, a series of astonishingly lovely buildings of every size, none more than two or three stories high, all standing in clear-aired silence. You’ve seen the Music Center in downtown Los Angeles. That will give you some faint concept of the clarity of line I saw, the use of space to balance mass, the sense of peaceful uniformity.

It struck me how vividly I was able to see it despite our distance from it. Every detail stood out. A photographer would call it perfection of focus, depth and color.

When I mentioned it to Leona, she told me that we possess what might be called telescopic sight. The description is, again, inadequate, the phenomenon far more complex than mere telescopics. In effect, distance is eliminated as a sight factor. If one looks at a person several hundred yards away, that person is visible to the very color of their eyes-without the image being magnified. Leona explained it by saying that the spirit body can project an energy “feeler” to the object under inspection. In essence, the ability is mental.

“Do you want to go there quickly or shall we continue walking?” Leona asked.

I told her I was enjoying the walk if it didn’t take up too much of her time; I didn’t want to make the same mistake with her I had with Albert. She replied that she was enjoying a period of rest and was happy to walk with me.

We’d reached a lovely foot bridge which traversed a fast-moving brook. As we started across, I stopped and looked at the rushing water. It had the appearance of liquid crystal, every movement scintillating with the colors of the rainbow.

Turning my head, I leaned over, curious. “That sounds like . . . music? ” I asked, amazed.

“All things give off a kind of music,” she told me. “When you’ve been here a while, you’ll hear it everywhere. It’s just that the movement of this water is so rapid, the sound is more easily noticeable.”

I shook my head in awe as the sounds kept altering in a sort of formless yet harmonic melody. I thought, for a moment, of Mom’s favorite piece, Die Moldau . Had Smetana sensed that music in the moving waters of the river?

Staring down at the brook, I remembered a stream near Mammoth Lake. We’d parked the camper just above it and, all night, listened to it splashing across rocks and stones; a lovely sound.

“You look sad,” Leona said.

I couldn’t repress a sigh. “I’m remembering,” I said. “A camping trip we took.” I tried to put aside the feeling of depression-I really did-but, once again, was gripped by it. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It just seems that, the more beauty I see the worse it gets because I want to share it with my family, mostly my wife.”