Conversations with Myself: Chapter 7 - Conversations with a God

Chapter 7

Conversation with a God

With Richard unconscious, there was nothing left to do. There was nothing I could do to revitalise him, so I retreated to my own world.

My world cannot be described. I can only tell you one thing for certain; it is not included in any of your Big Bang theories. ‘World’ is hardly even an appropriate term for it; I don’t live on any gaseous rock. Bluntly put, we are in existence. No pictures or similes can be made to help you envision our home.

As consciences, however, we are somewhat easier to describe. Not that we have any humanlike traits, but we do have a colour. We are grey. The paler the better. Dark slate grey is a perilous shade for a conscience to bear, for it reveals the demise of a human. Some of us succeed at altering our true shade, but doing so is a punishable sin (if discovered).

Colour is not the only describable attribute we have; else we would have a home resembling a long stretch of moody sky. Relations set us apart like magnets, attracting us to close family members and repelling us from strangers.

If I had to compare us to an object, I would say a triangular cloud. The We end up ultimately comparable to portable, pyramidal households. The ‘figure’ at the highest point is the father (from the late half of the 20th century onwards, this position will have to be shared with the mother; much to the distaste of patriarchal advocates). I hate hierarchies.

My final attempt to put across a clear image of the structure of consciences comes through the green notion of human love, over which we have minimal control. Friendships and relationships created by our human counterparts are mirrored in their consciences’ alliances. The stronger the bond, the shorter the distance between different consciences, even though everyone belongs to their respective familial pyramids.

Not every conscience is burdened with a human being. It is, however, the opinion of many who do have such responsibility that free consciences (those without humans) have it easy. They are more than democratic; allowed to mingle, fight, discuss, ignore – on one condition. Interrupting the work of assigned consciences is unacceptable. Not only would we be driven livid by their interruptions, but they would also distract us from concentrating on our job.

A conscience is free prior to assignment to a human and following the latter’s death.

I just wish humans don’t live that long. It is a mixed blessing – our lives depend on the lives of our humans but their death is also a relief.

However, once Richard dies, I become a perishing conscience. It is like finding yourself liberated from slavery when you have grown too old to be of any working use. The only difference is that whilst freed human slaves who are long in the tooth enjoy little of their freedom before dying, for us there is the hope of recovering after our human’s death (even though it depends on the conscience’s strength and will). By the time I am serviceable again (for I am certain of my recovery; I am a strong conscience), the past would have been eradicated from my memory. I wouldn’t even remember Richard. I would be offered the chance to serve another human, turn over a fresh page if Life allows me to. She turns up occasionally to check on her workers i.e. us.

Needless to say, I was raring to have a go at Life. My Richard was now parentless without a single companion. How could he survive on his own? I couldn’t count on the good will of his neighbours. They were too concerned with their own troubles to bother with another child. Nor could I rely on the nuns to take him in or the YMCA – I was too proud for that. Besides, Richard would never have settled down into his new lifestyle. He was not a typical teenager and there wouldn’t be books where he would be taken. There had to be another way out, and I was determined to find it.

Hurry.

I turned the command over and over in my mind, but could make neither head nor tail of it.

The Grey Hall, as we had come to call our home, flashed bright as images of Life were passed from one conscience to the next. She was coming to inspect.

In your world, I suppose you would call it ‘spot check’. Anyway, a ‘spot check’ involves Life checking every family, even those considered to be ‘high class’ by our standards. She does not distinguish between any family of consciences – nobility, royalty, peasantry, commoners, lords. Every conscience is equal and answers to Life. Titles are immaterial.

How can I describe Life? Like us, She does not have any humanlike qualities. Omniscience I guess, is the word for it. She can hold multitudes of conversations simultaneously (although she had never approached me personally). Otherwise it would be nigh on impossible to reign over such a large realm of consciences. We feel her rather than see her. Even those consciences who are in the human world at the time feel her – her presence is for a conscience what a tap on the shoulder is for a human (though far more powerful).

Today however, there was a difference to Life’s usual inspection.

Well, not for the other consciences at any rate. Just for me. Life plucked me out of the safety of my pyramid. I shook like a leaf in a wintery wind.

But She did not examine my memories and thoughts and leave as was custom. I felt my only remaining relative in the pyramid (Richard’s British grandfather –senile as a bat. He passed away mere weeks after this happened) slipping away steadily as Life spirited me away…figuratively speaking.

Life does not have a voice. She communicated by means of feelings and images. Believe me, it is far more effective than a bunch of vocal cords at getting the message across. However, for your sake, I will translate what Life ‘said’ in this order:

Feelings, Words, Images.

Life (impatient):

Did you manage?

Richard, the dog and I are alone in a street. Rose opens the front door of their house.

Me (confused and bewildered) :

I beg your pardon?

No images. I couldn’t think of any appropriate ones.

Life (angry):

I shall not grant it. You have miscarried.

Richard is speeding down a crowded road. Newton is flying home. Sirens are wailing. Rose is rising from her bed, terror-stricken.

Me (ashamed and confused):

My apologies. I failed to comprehend your orders.

Richard is struggling against the mob in the streets, trying to get home.

Life (disappointed):

Your simplicity unbecomes you, conscience. I thought you were witty. (No one has ever dared to even think of insulting me like that. But I let it pass. I’m not in a position to bargain or argue).

Richard is lost in the streets of Valletta. At home, Rose loses her balance and stumbles down the stairs, her body beating harshly against the cold jutting steps in a staccato rhythm. Newton runs into the house and goes over to Rose, who remains motionless on the floor.

I remained silent. After a slight pause to make sure the message had sunk in, Life commenced.

You were too late. Rose might still be alive if you had succeeded in convincing Richard to return home in time.

Realisation crept up on me. I understood the Hurry.

Me (afraid for Richard’s life):

I understand.

Life (determined and worried):

Know this, conscience. Losing one of your servants in such a useless manner is bad enough, and I remain within my rights to blame this loss on you. Losing two, however, especially two from the same family, would disgrace my credibility. I may not be able to stop Hitler from massacring millions of Jews, but I can teach you a lesson. Millions of consciences are being rendered useless daily. I must prevail over Death soon. I must find a way to silence his minions, including Hitler. Especially Hitler. This massacre must end. Death is gaining too many souls and will garner a realm to defeat me in a matter of time. Should this happen, Sleep will undoubtedly swap his neutrality for a taste of power, the knave that he is.

Me (respectful):

How can Richard survive? How can this war be won?

A grown-up man and a world teeming with lively consciences.

Life:

Oh Richard will survive. You’d better make sure of that. The war may yet be won but…for now, everything hangs in the balance. Just keep Richard alive for the moment. He won’t stay with the nuns or the YMCA. Of that I am certain. He’d rather die than spend his next years living in extreme poverty, even though Malta’s at war. If Richard is still alive and kicking by the time this war ends, you will gain you my good graces. If we win the war.

Me (confused):

We?

Life:

The war between Death and I! Surely you haven’t forgotten that a war in the human world starts because of a war in our world?

Me (dismayed):

But how am I supposed to keep Richard alive? You said yourself he won’t stay with anybody!

Richard lies unconscious on the debris of the house.

Life (impatient):

Communicate. You have always helped Richard. It is your occupation.

Me (angry):

He never listens!

An ear.

How could he? I had no voice.

I could feel Richard stirring again.

Life (amused):

Consciences. Have you ever even considered talking?

A sudden feminine laugh startled me. It took a few seconds to realise the absence of images from her part in this last instance of the conversation. Life could talk. Then so could I.