Day 16

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

Edgar Allan Poe

I went back.

Back to the sea at night. All week it called me, despite fear, despite the strange reaction I had last time. It seems that, once you have done an impossible thing, you find you can do another. And so, all week I prepared. I found a lovely, protected place on the beach between two undulations of the dunes, near to the action, but not in it. Each day I visited it and spoke to it, sitting for a few minutes and chanting. Making friends with it. One morning I asked this space if I might come there at night. “Am I welcome here?” The response was a deep rumble of laughter. “You are called here because you are welcome here.”

As well as making friends with my new resting spot in the dunes, I also spoke to the trees. I held the trunks of the great, protective pines and thanked them for their presence. I listened to the song of birds, and most particularly to the beauty that is the magpie’s call. There are many beautiful and exotic bird calls in Queensland that thrill and delight me every time I hear them. For me they still sound like something out of a science fiction or a fantasy novel. And yet, for me, nothing is quite so reassuring as the melodious carol of the Australian magpie. I stopped and watched them in the early mornings, thanking them each time one came close and sang for me.

Then, last night, I knew myself ready. Or as ready as I would ever be. Someone had flicked a switch in the sky and the season had changed, just like that. The air was entirely different now, and I knew that, no matter what temperature fluctuations might still occur, a shift had irrevocably occurred. The time of the cooler months had begun. Thus I dug out my only jumper and walked out the door, pretending confidence and insouciance. At the last minute I changed my mind about heading immediately to the beach. First I walked through the nearby streets, enjoying the permanent Christmas-like atmosphere generated by the presence of fairy lights in all the trees of the main street. It was not yet loud with revellers, so I could walk with peace and enjoyment. I almost did not care if I saw someone I knew from work, who would question the state of my supposed ill-health. At least, that’s what I defiantly told myself. Then I saw a bat. And another and another. A whole colony of bats, more than I had ever seen at one time, flew overhead, before the waxing moon. It was beautiful in the most eerily magical way possible. That was my sign. It was time to head for the beach.

I had packed carefully, taking with me a notebook, pen and torch. Even extra batteries, just in case. My idea was to pretend that I was a journalist, so that I could focus on the people I saw instead of on my own fear. I decided I would take notes and record the experience. As it turned out, there were two things I had not factored in. One was that my beautiful hollow in the dunes felt very different at night. It was remote, distant, sleeping. In the shades of night, greyed out yet filled with stark contrasts, it became almost alien to me. The second thing was that there were no people to watch. Unlike last time, there was no one there at all. I had arrived later this time, it is true, but not so very much later as all that. But there were no walkers, no children running and shouting at the privilege of being allowed to play on the beach at night. No groups challenging the waves and not even a game of night volleyball. The beach was entirely silent and deserted. Thus I found myself lying on my back, looking at the moon – so bright! – drifting through a passing panorama of clouds. The whitecap waves shone almost as brightly as the moon, and there were stars. City stars are not easy to see – they do not reach down to welcome you as those in the country do. But still they were there. There was one particularly bright one on which I focused, and I stared until my eyes could gather more and more of its feeble light, revealing to me some of the fainter stars surrounding it.

At first I tried to imagine myself as another person and thought I would tell myself a story about who I was and why I was there. But my wide, staring eyes would not allow it. They would only continue to stare, taking in every detail as though it might save my life to engrave every image, every sound, on my mind. Periodically my head would whip round in response to some imagined sound, but always there was nothing there. Eventually I saw a couple, two women in long skirts, walking north up the beach. I watched for them to return. They did not. Where were they going? Were they staying at the hotel to the north? If not, where did they stop? There were no more houses, no more apartments, no more civilisation that way. Gulls swooped past, very low to the sand, and I was surprised to discover just how much air traffic there is. Both birds and planes. The lights of some of the planes, heading directly toward me through the cloud, produced great flares of diffused light, creating mini fireworks in the clouds. Others simply glided past, impossible to hear over the roar of the surf, enormous silhouettes punctuated by tiny blinking red and white lights.

Eventually another couple, this time two men, walked past on the distance shoreline. They also headed north and they also did not return. Finally an older couple, man and woman, headed south towards the brightly-lit urban areas. I wondered if there was an unsuspected world hidden along that lonely northern stretch of beach, but the night did not seem good for creeping after people to see where they went. I was not concerned about the lives of the individual passers by, whose privacy I had no wish to invade. But I found myself not only curious, but delighted by the abstract idea of secret stories and knowledge revealed to anyone willing to pay close attention. So many stories written clear and plain, but seldom do I stop to read them. On this occasion I did not follow. Instead my senses cast further out and I lay on the sand, wondering how many tiny animals rested within a few arm lengths of where I rested. I particularly hoped that the brown snakes were all well and truly curled up for the night and would not be tempted to come seeking warmth beside me!

Infinitesimally slowly the moon continued in its westward course and I had to strain my neck further to see it. If the trees, plants and grasses had deserted me in this night-time hour, the moon had become very much my friend, bathing me in its purifying glow. I watched its slow passage and also the shifting cloudscapes it revealed, marvelling at their richly three-dimensional nearness. I grew sleepier and sleepier but knew that I would not, could not sleep. Despite my heavy exhaustion of the day, I had not allowed myself the luxury of additional sleep. Long habit kept me to a rigid routine of hours, at least until the moment when I chose to step outside my own front door at night. Why did I do that? Why did I not deliberately make time for extra sleep in order to be fully awake for the night’s coming adventure? Perhaps by depriving myself of sleep beforehand, I was setting a limit to the time I could spend out in the unknown. I was unconsciously creating a boundary around this new excursion into fear and wonder, making it more manageable for myself.

I had become quite proud of the length of time I had remained on the strangely quiet beach, listening to the surf and wondering what made up this alien world, when I heard a voice inside me, saying simply and firmly “Go.” I startled and looked round, just as if the voice had come from someone else. Then I settled back down, attempting to relax back into the soft dune. But again, stronger now: “Go. Now!” I could neither see nor hear anything to explain the urgency of this command. Everything seemed just the same, silent and peaceful. Carefully I looked behind and around me. No one. But the feeling did not leave and I decided it would be folly to ignore the voice, especially as my ability to remain fully conscious was slipping. Slowly I got up, making a big show of unhurried calm. What was I trying to prove? To whom? It made me feel better though, to remain apparently calm and unruffled, still in full ownership of the experience.

Automatically I turned towards the nearest exit onto the beachside path, but the voice was clear. “No. Not that way. Go the other way. Go right down to the beach, head south and then back up into the brightly-lit area.” It was a longer walk, but I obeyed, with as much fake nonchalance as I could muster, pretending that I was not frightened by the commanding urgency of the alien voice. When finally I reached the park by the club, I was surprised to again find evidence of humanity. Of course it was still relatively early by most people’s standards, but the celebrating couples and families, clicking back and forth on evening heels between cars and club, provided a surreal contrast to the almost unrelieved emptiness of the beach just metres in front of them. Strange that the volume of voices and music was so effectively imprisoned within a small, bright bubble by the surf, as though this club scene were merely a mirage within the deeper reality of Night.

Even the park was largely deserted, which surprised me. The occasional groups loitering by convenient picnic tables did not appear interested in any kind of party, but seemed silently brooding, jealously guarding the privacy of the space they had carved for themselves. The silent shadows they cast made them seem bigger, darker and more menacing than they ought to be. I sat for a moment myself on a brightly-lit bench, keen to watch and learn more of the night’s vocabulary, but quickly realised I was standing out too much. So instead I walked. This, I quickly discovered, felt better. Powerful even. When I walked, I owned the night. To my surprise, even the trees came back into life as I walked among them, their energy apparently more roused to sympathy by my quiet, confident movements than by my dormant observations. The more I walked, the more powerful and at home I felt. Exhilarated even. At last, unable to stay awake any longer, and no longer able to take in the information around me, I returned home. Remembering the secret of movement, I set my alarm for 4.00am and settled in for a short sleep.

Despite its darkness, 4.00am, I convinced myself, was morning, not night. Anyone bent on either partying or privacy would have retreated, opening up the beach to my own explorations. So it was with a heightened degree of confidence, if not alertness, that I slipped once more out into the dark and headed for the water’s edge. Briefly I wondered what it would be like to walk the streets instead and I had a sudden vivid memory of an intercity bus ride when I was a child. I do not, for some reason, remember where we were headed, but I do remember that I was on a bus journey with my mother, travelling through the night on a Greyhound coach. I think perhaps we may have been on our way to Adelaide, to visit an ill relative. It is the only bus journey I ever remember taking with a member of my family. One of the few journeys I remember taking with them at all, in fact. My parents are not keen travellers. They travel enough for work and conferences; it does not interest them to waste money on expensive recreation.

But this night found us on a bus, and the most beautiful part of the whole experience, for me, was slipping through dark towns at night, all lights extinguished, all windows dark. Through the accident of finding ourselves on this bus, we had the incalculable privilege of seeing these towns as its residents perhaps rarely, if ever, saw them. We saw the towns’ sleeping faces, and by virtue of being awake while all else slept, ours became lives of power. I say “we”, but my mother slept as usual. It was strange and uncomfortable to find myself so close beside her, and so I sat quietly, afraid to disturb her. But I could not help smiling as I watched and imagining the bus stopping, allowing me to run off into the night and explore the unsuspecting streets on my own.

Now I really have the power to walk those streets myself and this morning I wondered why, in the couple of years I have had to make my own choices and decisions, I have not thought to do it. But only in the unaccustomed darkness did memory return. For a moment I imagined abandoning my intention and travelling the back streets, but decided to stick to my original plan, knowing that I could, of course, return at any time. This would be the first of who knew how many adventures? And so I headed onto the beach.

If nothing else, the water remained awake and glad to see me. The gulls were resting quietly on the shoreline and I wondered if they resented my interruption of the last peaceful moments they would know until the sun once again set. The twin lamps of the club no longer stared out, blindingly, to sea, but the interior remained brightly lit. TV screens continued to flicker and they appeared lonely, abandoned. At first it felt like waste to leave so many powered appliances and lights operating, but then I understood the secret. The patrons did not know it, but they were leaving all this to me. All those people paying for the privilege of crowding together for a few short hours, and here I was, Queen of the early morning, gifted with the entire coastline for free. The knowledge made me laugh with surprise.

I headed south, towards the main thoroughfare, eager to see how the world would change as morning invaded. Excavation equipment remained in utter darkness, like frozen statues sleeping in this world soon to wake. Apartment buildings remained mostly in darkness, but in nearly every building, at least one window was lit, and in some, a flickering and shifting of colours hinted at yet more TV screens. Who could not sleep and why? Or who routinely did not sleep at this hour? In one building, an entire 180 degree sweep of expensive apartment was lit, and yet I could see no evidence of life through its windows. Another, small and expensive building, poured light outwards in a protective circle, no doubt to discourage would-be burglars. Again I thanked them with a smile. These people were paying my lighting bills! So much richness, here for the taking, and all of it more mysterious, more full of ghostly possibility, than anything the daylight could hope to offer.

My eyes strained with gladness, drinking in everything they possibly could. The moon had, of course, long since disappeared, but the stars were still my friends, brighter now in the absence of the moon. It was a shock when, at last, I saw my first person: a woman, running lightly through the soft, wet sand (how did she do that?!) with her dog. I realised that, keen as I was to experience everything, sleep deprivation had taken its toll and I was missing important details. When I looked up to the road, I saw more pedestrians than I would have expected, and even a group of Lycra-clad cyclists powering along the for-once nearly empty roads.

It occurred to me that, while it had not become lighter, the darkness was somehow less intense. And in the short time it had taken me to curiously investigate what the road might have to offer, my friends the stars had disappeared. I was sorry not to have said goodbye. Soon I saw more people in the distance, and by the time I reached the main thoroughfare, there were distinct signs of life and the sky was noticeably lightening. A lone fisherman stood in the shallows, battling the waves, taking on an appearance of exaggerated heroism in the darkness that made the crashing waves so fiercely brilliant. He looked very small in comparison. A man with a metal detector moved slowly and methodically up and down the beach, as careful in his movements as the most fastidious golf-course lawn mower. His sweeps of the metal detector were slow and rhythmic, so much so that he seemed as much machine as the long “wand” he carried. He seemed strangely disconnected from everything around him.

I found a seat for myself on the beach wall and was soon joined by another silent observer. And then a third. As the sky paled, the smell of cooking meat came in bursts from McDonald’s, behind me. Tourists began to flock to the beach, eager to witness the sunrise. I had not expected that. At my end of the beach, only surfers and other crusty locals braved the early hour, everyone else no doubt too busy preparing for a busy day at work. But here they came in droves, tentatively and quietly at first, and then with increasing noise and confidence. The hush went from the world and the gulls, responding to the change of atmosphere, began to mewl and scream. There was now a distinct swagger to the steps of the tourists and their chattering rivalled the gulls’ for dominance. They knew that the world had changed. My time was over; the world now belonged to them. Only the metal-detector guy remained oblivious to the change and continued on his methodical path, back and forth, seeming not even to see the people around him. Sweep, sweep, sweep. Time was all one to him.

The experience of dawn, then, was not the exhilaration or celebration of previous days, nor did I feel the same sense of hope and promise. It seemed to bring with it, not gladness but sadness, as though its coming heralded, not a beginning, but an ending. As if realising this, the promise of sunrise glory, peeping at first hesitantly at all the waiting photographers, disappeared irretrievably, swallowed by the gathering cloud.

I sat and watched for some time, watching still with fascination the ever-shifting pattern of the clouds. At last I stood and made my way slowly back up the beach, smiling and hugging to myself my new-found secret knowledge. Eventually, shortly after 8.00am I unlocked my door, closed it, slipped into bed – and slept. Slept with more delicious sweetness than I have known in a long time.

The night calls my name. I want to be a creature of the darkness, free and untamed, ranging the urban wilderness, greeting at last each sunrise and sleeping as and when I choose.

There is a deep resonance of the soul of abiding mystery and light. A place where shadows form to merge and dance in tapestries of fire. There, in that place of knowing, the whispered secrets of the flames silently commune with pain. Consigned to dreams, our silent selves abhor the darkness of the mind. Lonely silhouettes we dance, against a brighter wall of fear, painting dragons in the sky – the mythic shapes of being. But passion born of stillness weaves darkness with the light, and, walking deeper realms of self, creates a place where souls collide.