A Survivor's Guide to Eternity(76)
He couldn’t see or hear anything apart from the super-loud rushing noise that virtually penetrated his ear drums. Next he was in a cavernous blue ceramic bowl, enveloped by total silence. A blinding sun shone warmly on his face. He drifted in and out of consciousness, things getting fuzzier and fuzzier until he finally awoke between two strange red brick walls. He looked down and saw an urban street scene; a deprived area with young men brandishing automatic weapons. They were firing randomly into the scruffy apartment block on the other side of the street. He felt like he was in an un-liberated East Berlin.
It had all the hallmarks of a war zone but not a war between countries, more a local riot or civil chaos gripped by lawlessness and anarchy. He was sinking down upon a small open-top lift, but when he looked down there was just a cobbled street, and no lift. He descended in relation to the building opposite but could still see over the wall next to him. He saw the young thugs fire their guns into the building once more. Shots were exchanged with the occupants, before the fighters inside changed sides and started killing the other residents.
He feared for his own life as he got lower and lower, and then out of the blue, commuters started passing between the two walls either side of him, brushing shoulders and pushing him rudely. He followed them, away from the young armed men and found himself crossing Brooklyn bridge with hundreds of commuters, packed in neat uniform lines. He chatted freely to his comrades and noticed that he too wore a dark blue pinstripe suit and duffle coat. The comrades commented on how hard it was living in such a deprived area of town and that they must really get out and escape.
Once over the bridge he found himself in an old Georgian style house. It was dark and he struggled with a huge bag of bongo drums. Dazed, confused and with no money he reached for the light switch, illuminating a bare and violently bright bulb. An angry voice shouted loudly and he was punched in the back of his head knocking him down. He came around to realise someone had nailed his duffle coat to the table, imprisoning him in a small kitchen. He was tormented and abused by his captors for waking their leader, Shirali. They ripped his coat from the table and kicked him out into the street, leaving him panic stricken, separated from his bag of bongos. He felt he must get back inside at any cost.
Nervously he sat in the street wondering how to get his drums back. Shirali emerged from the house to tell him he would never see them again, showing off his revolting oversized teeth in the process. The desperation grew stronger and stronger as he ran up and down the street like a crazed dog. Then a loud bang, a kaleidoscope of darkness and finally silence.
***
“Sorry about that.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Sorry about that.”
Soon the voice started to penetrate into Ed’s consciousness.
“Jumping over is never easy. I imagine you had a horrible dream. Was it the Brooklyn bridge one or the pyramids? I prefer the pyramid one myself.”
“Urgghh.” Ed stumbled up to his feet, catching sight of a fine white sand floor and a brilliant white granite tunnel wall.
“Umpgh, that was a dream then? Thank goodness for that,” he breathed, as he got to his feet to see himself standing in front of a small Indian man dressed in black silk Kota pyjamas.
“Yes, everyone who comes through the fortune teller has a nasty dream and thumping headache for an hour afterwards. Not ideal, but one must survive. That’s a ‘psyche jump’ for you, eh? Welcome to Denmark.”
“Denmark! I thought she was joking. Do you need to see my visa then?” replied Ed jokingly.
“No need for that down here. It’s not ‘that’ Denmark anyway. It’s just what we call this sector. How’s your head anyway?”
“Arghh, yes, you’re right, I’ve got a thumping headache,” said Ed in reply, realising he had a throbbing gelatinous medicine ball on his shoulders.
“You would be here to meet the Viking, I assume?”
“Yes, I am. Can you take me to him?” queried Ed.
“Yes, for sure. It won’t take long to get there, maybe twenty minutes or so if we keep a sprightly pace. Are you okay to walk?” enquired the mild mannered Indian gentleman.
“Yes, I’m fine. Let’s go. I’m Ed.”
“Hi, Ed. I am Pritvijaj,” replied the man as they set off into the white granite tunnel.
“Does he speak English, Pritvijaj?” enquired Ed eagerly.
“Yep, that and dozens of other languages fluently. Mind you, he has had nine hundred years or more to fine-tune it,” replied the gentle Indian man.
“Yes, I guess so. Time certainly helps, eh.”
“He was on the other side for four hundred of those, in the Basheri community.”