The Perfect Place Of Knowledge Read online

The Perfect Place?

  Elaine Fields Smith

  Copyright 2010 – Elaine Fields Smith

  ISBN 0982769008

  ISBN 0982769008

  Any reference in "The Perfect Place" to characters, places or things is purely from the author's memory and/or research and it is not intended to be a historical account of any particular happening.

  Part One

  The Journey

  "Hey, Cricket! You want to go for a walk?"

  The black and tan Dachshund gave her answer by hopping into a chair and disappearing under a fleecy throw. With a sigh, I stepped through the front door. Cricket wanted nothing to do with rain. Neither did I, but an important letter was due to arrive. After walking only a short distance from the porch, I suddenly stopped. Rain was falling, just as the intelligent little dog perceived. But it wasn't raining on me. Well, this wasn't exactly rain. It was a cold, February drizzle that filled the air, finding every crack and surface imaginable. But no moisture could seem to find me. The thought crossed my mind that usually when faced with such unpleasant circumstances; I would retreat into the safe and dry space within my home to curl up with a treasured quilt and a good book. But that course of action was not an option at this particular moment—nor was it necessary. Curiously, my body was warm and dry, safely shielded from the nastiness of the day. Simultaneously, I sensed my current location was in a place far different from my well-known and well-loved home in the country. That in itself was somewhat disturbing, as I had just gotten bundled up and walked outside to go to the mailbox—some quarter of a mile from my house.

  Directing my attention to the sanctuary shielding me from the disagreeable atmospheric conditions, I focused on more immediate surroundings. Describing this phenomenon as a "sanctuary" seems accurate as that is exactly how it felt. Warmth, love, and caring were in the very air around me. The sensation led to the revelation that the space within the sanctuary held three separate personas in addition to myself. Further, it was rather astonishing that I felt no fear whatsoever, as each of those personas was known to me.

  Before these thoughts could further develop, the sanctuary propelled me to walk along a sidewalk. This was an inner city sidewalk unlike anything I had ever seen in real life. Similar surroundings could be seen on television shows set in big cities. But no such location existed in my little world in the country. Wrought iron railings guarded large cubic voids drenched in darkness and drizzle. We, (this "we" is expressed as the grouping of those of us within the sanctuary), glided effortlessly across the concrete walkway. The sensation was quite odd—like walking on one of those long, moving sidewalks in a big airport. With one step, my body smoothly moved forward much further than humanly possible. The airport apparatus is somewhat similar to an escalator, but on a solely horizontal plane. A brief idea flashed across my mind that such a contraption should be called a "levelator" as we took these giant, gliding steps along the sidewalk. But that play on words was quickly cast aside when the sanctuary suddenly halted.

  The three personalities gently guided me to the end of one of the numerous, identical wrought iron railings. We turned, and as a unit descended the concrete stairway. Each tread was covered with a dark green anti-skid compound of some sort—an unnecessary feature since my boots did not make contact with the textured surface as we descended the stairway. Rather, the four of us—linked together—glided downward into the darkness and through a large door. The unit that was "us" quickly and easily separated, allowing me to be "me" again. Squeezing my eyes shut and pressing the tip of my right middle finger with my right thumbnail to induce a physical pain reaction verified I was indeed present and intact. This realization was undeniably a relief.

  The basement door had not been opened—that was a certainty. A suspicious glance toward that door revealed it to be a large, seemingly solid wooden slab with no windows. The door had six picture-framed panels and an average looking doorknob with a separate deadbolt lock. My brow creased, as confusion and a bit of concern clouded my mind. But any distress was quickly dissolved as a large, weathered hand appeared before my eyes. The fingers of that hand gently smoothed the frown away.

  "It’s all right, Katie-bug," a soft bass voice said to me. The words didn’t actually enter my consciousness through anything as physical as eardrums. But I definitely recognized who was speaking.

  "Daddy?" My actual vocalization echoed loudly in the dark basement-like room. There was no audible answer—but my father’s presence was unmistakable. Then I heard another voice, higher in timbre, even a bit squeaky with an adolescent quality.

  "Hi, Katie. Remember me?" Memories did indeed flood my mind. This was a friend—a boy from my childhood—whose young life was tragically cut short when he was killed in a construction accident some forty years earlier. I had been in seventh grade when he was in eighth—infamous within his circle of friends for doing impressions of TV characters. His was the first death to touch me closely, leaving a sorrow-filled empty place in my little world.

  "Dennis. Oh, my…" Unable to finish the thought or sentence—I simply did not know what to say.

  "And you don’t know me, Katie. But I know you." This voice originated from about three feet above the floor and was that of a child. I abruptly knew exactly who he was, though I had only seen photographs taken in happy moments before his battle with brain cancer was lost. His mother was a college friend whom I had not seen in several years.

  "Patrick." With a touch of fright, I focused on my father. "Daddy, am I dead?" His hand on my shoulder immediately relieved my fears.

  "No, Katie. Certainly not. But we who have passed can pretty much move about as we wish where you living folk cannot. So, we have come to take you with us for a while. There is something we simply must share with you—a Perfect Place that is really quite wonderful." My father’s articulation rang true in my mind—a voice for which he was well-known before Parkinson’s disease robbed his body of strength and mobility—eventually taking even his voice from him.

  The three familiar beings who now had genuine identities moved with me toward a window. "With me" isn’t exactly right. My body was gently propelled along with them; yet, once again my feet never made contact with the surface of the floor. The window was some type of slider installed high up on the outside wall. In a basement as this seemed to be, one would expect to be looking out such an opening directly onto the rain-soaked sidewalk. But as we drew closer, a totally unexpected scene appeared. Like one of those marvelously clear, plasma television screens, the window displayed a sky of an unimaginable blue with a mere scattering of white, wispy clouds. More of the scene was revealed as we moved toward the window. Tall, magnificent trees with full green canopies rose above fields of the greenest of grasses as far as could be seen. It was a picture in 3-D, but infinitely more real. It was real.

  Patrick’s small, soft hand grasped mine, and my father squeezed my shoulder with encouragement. I felt the concrete floor under my boots just before my childhood friend did his Jackie Gleason impersonation. "And awaaaaay we go!" Dennis tilted his head toward the window scene. Suddenly, the three forms shimmered into various colored lights, flashing happily, taking me with them. We again became one, soaring up and through the window like the last bit of a milkshake being pulled from the bottom of a cup through a straw. Then we, or rather I, was standing alone on that field of very green grass. They were gone. Those familiar and loved personas so recently reclaimed were gone.

  But curiously, the protection and guidance they had provided had been replaced. Turning my attention inward to give myself a thorough scan, the analysis quickly revealed all was well and unharmed. Focusing that attention to the air and area around me quickly allowed a determinat
ion that the general ambiance was contentment and knowledge. Also, goodness and love surrounded me. I began walking—taking normal steps, as apparently I was under my own power, and there was no need to hurry. The essence of the place permeated my skin—was taken in with my breathing and lifted my spirit.

  Knowledge and the comfort of knowing was a soft blanket enfolding me. The realization that this was a perfect place of knowledge stunned me. There was no need—no evil—no distress. Wisdom flourished. Knowledge was everywhere, filling every potential requirement before any such need could be detected. Walking along a trail, other people appeared here and there, but no one seemed to have any interaction with anyone else. Somewhere along the way, my clothes had transformed from the raincoat and boots I had worn on the other side of the window. Here, there was no need for those things. My favorite T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes felt good and familiar.

  I moseyed along, a notoriously slow walker, discovering buildings where knowledge beyond what was in the air could be experienced. Upon closer inspection, the structures weren’t exactly buildings. The first was like gigantic entry gates to some grand cathedral or castle, with beautiful gothic arches and flying buttresses. The knowledge came to me that it led to the home of Science and Mathematics. Passing by, I felt—no—I knew—through that gate one could pursue all levels of knowledge in those fields.

  Continuing my exploration, a living gate appeared. Having a particular interest in horticulture, I stopped to study the flora. There were ancient vines, as thick as tree trunks, supporting a plethora of green and flowering plants. Ferns, delicate climbing creepers, small trees and all colors of unrecognizable blooms grew among the extraordinary vine-trunk framework. A fog, really clouds, hovered among the plants. This gateway led to Language and Philosophy. With a knowing smile and no doubt my father would be in that particular place of knowledge, I continued walking, as yet another gate appeared.

  The façade of this gateway caused me to stare in awe. There was intricate stonework set in a gentle, sweeping arch. Varied plant life and flowing water was integrated into the stone. Yet, one could not call this a waterfall. Incredible as it may sound, among the stonework a steady stream of water was flowing uphill along the rocks—ascending, not descending, according to the earthly laws of gravity. The streams meandered their way to the top and disappeared into the cap of vegetation. Gradually, a more subtle visage was clear. A rainbow framed the entire gate, very definitely a key component of the structure. Magnificent sounds and radiant beauty filled the atmosphere. This was the place for Art, Literature, and Music.

  For a brief moment the realization that these gates led to more knowledge, when seemingly one already knew everything, struck me as very curious indeed. But, of course, there are various levels of education and levels of thought, depending on the interest and intellect of the individual. So, one obviously didn't know everything by just being in this place—just everything one needed to know. Shaking off that distracting thought, I continued my exploration with full intention of returning to the gates.

  The air temperature felt seventy-eight degrees, and there was a slight breeze. This was a certainty, not a guess. Also, the understanding that the temperature stayed reasonably constant became fact in my mind. Suddenly, a large, white monolith appeared to my left. It actually resembled the Washington Monument in miniature—though still some twenty feet tall. Near the top, a clock face was etched in the stone, though there were no numbers or hands to distinguish it as a timepiece. Below this a lighted sign of sorts gave some more specific information. It was easily read, yet did not seem to be English. However, I knew now that three-quarter inches of rain would fall between the hours of 3:00 P.M. and 6:30 P.M. on Tuesday. After reading this, my eyes focused again on the clock face, and I was now able to see the time display. Again, it was not in the standard format, but nonetheless there was no doubt the time was 2:30 P.M. on Saturday. Planning plentiful rainfall well in advance and to fall at a prearranged time so folks wouldn’t get caught unprepared seemed like a very good idea to me. Nodding to myself, I continued my walking and taking in of knowledge and information as if by osmosis.