part of about someone having visions of the past.”
“Well, again, please remember you are quoting from a novel,” answered Williams. “But I would say I certainly believe in the principles behind that novel. For one thing, I don’t think God experiences time the same way we do. We are like characters in a play who must act out our scenes in their proper order, not knowing what comes next. But God is like the author, who can see all the pages at once.”
“You said principles—plural,” noted Laura.
“So I did,” replied Williams. “I also wanted to make it clear we are sometimes called to bear one another’s burdens—quite literally.
“Do you mean moral support, financial help, that sort of thing?” asked Tom, knowing even as he spoke that Williams had something more in mind.
“That much, at least,” said Williams. “But also the principle I discussed in my lecture—Co-inherence.”
Tom groaned inwardly when he heard that strange word, and he wanted to find his way to some more common ground. Rather than following Mr. Williams back into those mystical mists, he broke in and asked Laura, “Does that answer your question? Is that what you wanted to know about Descent into Hell?”
Laura gave Tom a little frown, as if she knew exactly what he was up to, but she went ahead and answered. “Actually, my question was simpler than that. I just wanted to ask about the possibility of people having visions of the past—not memories from their own lives, or imagined re-creations from things they’d read in books. Direct viewings of long-past events.” Laura picked up a spoon and stirred her coffee as she said this, even though the cup was almost empty by now.
“Do you feel this has been happening to you?” asked Williams gently.
“Something has been happening. I don’t know what it means. That is part of why I wanted to come to England. It seems to me somehow the answers must be over here.”
Tom was feeling uncomfortable again and was wondering if they could go back to the topic of Co-inherence. He touched Laura lightly on the arm and asked, “Would this be a good time for me to excuse myself?”
Laura thought a moment and then said, “No, that’s all right. You can stay if you want to. You have more right to be here than I do. You’re writing a book. I’m just having dreams.”
“Could you tell me something about these dreams?” asked Williams. He studied Laura’s face intently as he spoke, as if all his learning and wisdom were entirely hers for the asking. Laura paused to collect her thoughts and then explained: “There are certain dreams I’ve been having since I was a little girl. I have the usual dreams, the kind you forget two minutes after you wake up. But other dreams of mine come over and over, and they don’t even feel like dreams. They feel more like visions.”
“Can you describe what makes them feel that way?” asked Williams in the same quiet, earnest tone.
“It’s hard to say,” said Laura. She thought some more and then gave it a try: “I’m not much for movies, but perhaps this might help. When I watch a film, I’m looking at pictures on a screen. I’m always aware that I’m in the real world looking at something make-believe. But in my vision dreams, it is as if they are what is real and it’s me that’s make-believe.”
“And you remember the dreams?” asked Williams.
“Every single detail,” said Laura, “as far as I can make them out. They’re always just the same. A sleeping king with a lion at his feet. Some sort of crypt with strange writing on the wall. A Celtic cross as tall as a lamppost. An old village church with animals going in and out.”
“Do you have lots of these dreams?” asked Williams.
“No,” said Laura, “there are exactly five. Always the same ones. Some still, like a picture, others moving, like a film or a play. That’s why I wanted to come over here. It seems to me the answers are here somewhere.” Without waiting for what seemed to be the obvious next question, Laura continued: “The sleeping king with a lion at his feet. He never moves. Is he dead? Lying in state? But the crown and the flowing robes. I can’t imagine such a thing in America. And the village church. It’s not like anything from home.”
“But why cross the sea?” asked Williams. “Do you find the dreams disturbing? What do you hope to find?”
“I don’t find them disturbing—except for one,” answered Laura. “But they seem like parts of a puzzle that demands to be solved. Do these images say something about me? About my past? My own ancestors are from England, Quakers who were driven out by the Puritans. I hope this doesn’t sound too grandiose, but maybe what I hope to find here is a part of myself.”
“I get it,” said Tom, not quite getting it. “So when you read that passage in Descent into Hell about the young woman, it made you think of yourself.”
“More than you know!” answered Laura, pressing her hands together. “There’s one other dream I haven’t mentioned yet. But it’s something like the one in the novel.” Laura paused for several seconds and stared into the nearby fire as if waiting for the scene to appear before her eyes. Then she began speaking, softly and slowly in low even tones: “There has been a great battle. The dead and wounded are still lying on the trampled earth. Armed men on horseback are gathering up shaggy-headed warriors who have thrown down their weapons. One of the prisoners, a man with braided hair and beard, is dragged before the victorious general, who’s wearing a golden wreath and a silk tunic. The prisoner clasps his hands and pleads for mercy, but the general orders one of his captains to strike the prisoner down, right then and there. The captain steps forward and unsheathes his sword, but then sadly shakes his head. The leader raises his fist and screams out another order, but the officer refuses him again, taking off his own helmet and kneeling beside the shaggy-haired man. He sets his spear on the ground, crossing it with his sword. The two men bow their heads together, side by side, as the general shouts out one more time. The other soldiers close in on the two kneeling men and raise their swords for slaughter.…”
Laura closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to watch and held them closed a long time. Then she opened her eyes, blinked, and looked around the room, as if awaking from a trance. Tom felt mesmerized himself and had nothing to say. But Williams was nodding his head, as if he had seen the vision too. Can you describe the surrounding terrain?” he asked.
“It’s in the mountains,” answered Laura. “Rugged country, with tall dark trees and patches of snow.”
“And the captain who disobeys?” asked Williams. “I wonder if he has darker skin than most of the other soldiers?”
“Yes, he does!” said Laura, her eyes widening. “How would you know that?”
“The whole scene sounds like the martyrdom of St. Maurice in the third century,” explained Williams. “He was a Roman general from north Africa, but also a Christian. He was executed by the Emperor Maximian because he refused to kill some Gaulish rebels who were fellow Christians. Some say his whole command, the Theban Legion, was martyred by the hundreds, or even thousands, because they wouldn’t bow to Roman gods or execute fellow Christians.”
“And where did all this supposedly take place?” asked Tom.
“In present-day Switzerland,” explained Williams. “The town of St. Moritz is named in honor of Maurice.”
Laura’s
