Free The Memory Tree by Tess Evans Page B

earth, which there obviously was, then there must be a heaven and if there was a heaven, well, Paulina still existed and one day . . . As Godown said— logic . Hal had moved right to the edge of his chair. ‘Yes. I see. Go on.’
    ‘And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
    ‘And God said “Let there be light”; and there was light.’
    The beauty of the words. Hal had no idea that the Bible was so beautiful. He felt he could have closed his eyes and listened to Godown’s voice forever.
    ‘And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness . . . do you see, Hal? It don’t just mean night and day, it means light and dark in our souls— good and evil, Hal. We got to reach for the light and refrain from enterin’ the dark.’ The pastor paused and sat back. ‘You have to work at this, friend. Where is the light and dark in your life?’
    Hal searched for an answer. Light. Let’s see. Light . . . Paulina, of course. But she wasn’t actually in his life anymore. Or was memory enough to call it light? Maybe she belonged with darkness because her death was the source of his sorrow? Paulina and darkness? His face twitched with anxiety. Perhaps he should move on and return to Paulina later. Light . . . Sealie and Zav. That went without saying. His businesses? Mundane. Yes. But true. Mrs Mac’s roast dinners. The magnolia. Mrs Mac herself, now he thought about it. Cold beer in summer, the Lions winning the premiership. He was on a roll. Slim Dusty. Elvis Presley. The beach. Ballet . . . no. Not anymore. Ballet. That had disappeared into the dark.
    So Hal, for all his melancholy, found light easier than dark. When he tried to shine a light into the far corners of his mind, he discerned amorphous shadows but averted his eyes before they solidified into the real shapes. Finally, because Godown was waiting, he whispered the two words that huddled there in the dark—loss and fear.
    ‘Tell me about loss, Hal.’ Godown’s voice was gentle, like he was speaking to an invalid.
    ‘Loss. I lost Paulina. She was the brightest light of all.’ Hal stared out the window at the magnolia. ‘When she died I lost something of myself. I’m different, now. Even the children . . .’
    ‘The children. A great blessing, Hal. And part of her, too.’
    ‘I know that. But I fear losing them. I try to be a good father. I really do. But there’s always a terrible hole . . .’ Hal was struggling. ‘I’ve been reading this book—it’s science fiction, but the author’s a real scientist. He talks about the death of a sun and how matter finally falls into this black hole—I don’t really understand it, but that’s like the darkness I feel . . .’ He grappled for an explanation, his hands coming together to demonstrate the collapse of the sun. ‘This matter is so dense, so heavy . . . it was a sun—alive and warm and then . . . do you understand what I’m saying? It— troubles me. It drags my spirit down.’
    Hal had never spoken like this before. There had been no-one to listen. Father Murphy would have admonished him for the sin of despair. The children were too young. Mrs Mac, good woman though she was, was a very literal person and Bob was more comfortable with ledgers and sales figures. His other mates were happy to discuss the football and cricket but not their feelings. Now, here he was, ranting like a madman to someone he hardly knew.
    The pastor’s response was so kind that Hal wanted to cry. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about black holes, friend. But I do know that even the Lord knew despair, and somewhere in the blackest of holes, there’s a light and lovin’ arms waitin’ for us all.’ He bowed his head. ‘Let us pray that we can find that light.’
    For the first time in a long while, Hal began to feel some hope.

    That night, the night they spoke of light and dark, was one Hal