Sword of Aquarius
a romantic political tragedy novel by Rolf A. F. Witzsche
Volume 7 of the 12-volume series, The Lodging for the Rose

Page 43
Chapter 9 - Gethsemane.

      "To do what?" I asked.

      "To help you of course, Peter. To help you to become effective."

      "Are thinking of staging another world conference?"

      "No Peter, you are out of the rut now. You don't need those conferences anymore. You are free of that. You can move freely. The time has come for you to start running. You need to step into the shoes of Nicolai, and enlarge them. You need to become a great force in the world. You need to help humanity to uplift itself. That's what you must do. How else can you look at yourself in the mirror each night and say to yourself: Yes, my having lived this day has made a difference in making the world a brighter place for us all? That's what love is, Peter. Our love for our humanity, our self-love on which all love depends, forces us to do that. That's what it means to be human."

      She reached into her purse at this point and handed me a folded up sheet of paper, a bank statement as it appeared.

      "That paper says that you have ten-million Hong Kong dollars deposited in your name in a Chinese bank," said Olive.

      "What!" I heard myself say. I looked at the paper, indeed it was so. The statement had mine and her name on it, and it was for ten million Hong Kong dollars.

      "What's that?" I asked perplexed as I handed the paper back to her. This didn't seem real.

      "I have solicited a donation for you, so that you can work in very country in the world where your work is needed. The money is all yours, to use as required. All you need to do, is ask."

      "Wow!" that was all that I could say. I embraced her with such joy that I nearly lifted her off the ground in our embrace. "Does Fred know?" I asked.

      "Fred helped arrange it," she replied. "Many people have helped. But enough of that. Let's go to the gardens," she added.

      The gardens were as extensive, expensive, and as crowded as one might expect for a major tourist attraction, but they were also a terrific showcase of exquisite garden designs. The great sunken garden, built into an empty quarry, virtually hits one with a great surprise as one enters at a lookout point high above a vast explosion of colors and shapes.

      "This is Erica's flower garden," Olive exclaimed. "It has become our garden of life. That's what we are fighting for. We are fighting to maintain and enrich that garden, and this constantly, even while we have become one with it in ever widening circles of our love; a love for what we find there; what we care for; what we honor; what we embrace."

      We had English high tea at the gardens, at a special restaurant built for that purpose. The extravaganza added its own unique increment to the 'light' of that 'brilliant' day. I told Olive that having her with me for that celebration was like having one of the finest roses of the garden of life facing me every moment, without which the world would be empty and drab.

      "Oh you!" she scolded me, then smiled and answered with a kiss.

      We spend the rest of our week together at a tiny resort on the West Coast of the island, at a placed called, Point No Point. We went for strolls on nearly deserted beaches, watched the breakers roll in, collected all kinds of interesting stones from the pebble beds, and discovered how we could make then skip and jump.

      We ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the resort's own restaurant, high above the seashore with a view that seemed to have no limit. We realized, that if we could see beyond the horizon, the next human place we would see, would be Japan on the other side of the world.

      For our evenings a kind of hot tub was provided on the balcony. The tub was shaped like a giant bathtub made for two. We could both lie in it side by side and watch the stars come up when the afterglow of the sunset faded away.

      The view we had from the balcony of our cabin at the edge of the sea, was no different than the view we had enjoyed days earlier at the Beacon Hill Park. The sunset unfolded far to the right where the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Pacific Ocean merged on a fine line that existed only in the mind.

      Other, similar 'vistas' also made that evening memorable, vistas of the mind that were unfolding in the sunset. Olive was at the center of one of them. She stood at the railing, facing the mellow light of the evening and the glist of the reflections of sunlight in the waters that stretched endlessly below the cliff. It appeared that the cliff had been the key feature for which the site of our cabin had been chosen, and for which we had chosen that cabin from among many. Olive's hair shone like a halo in the sunlight that surrounded her graceful figure. Though she was facing the light, with her back to me, I could see the features of her face, and the joy and the love that illumined it, in my mind. And that brightness was just as real as the afternoon sun was in physical terms.

      She wore a light dress of a deep blue color. It suited her well. Sexuality wasn't much of an element in this context of a bright evening with bright vistas, among all the other aspects that made her beautiful, though it was still a part of the scene. It was a part of her that couldn't be covered up with a dress or a coat, nor did it need to be covered up. It was a part of the air in which we moved that one couldn't banish; and why should one. I realized that it had been like that from the beginning.

      I joined her on the balcony and suggested to her that when we first met, we did meet in the 'rare' atmosphere of the high mountaintop in the mental domain that is commonly called universal sovereignty. I told her that when we first met she was so special to me that I had to be careful not to alter what seemed like wrapped in a wonderful magic. I suggested that this hadn't faded. I also said that we were equal on that mountaintop and still are. There, all humanity is equal in all respects. There, human beings are neither celibate nor sexual, nor gay, lesbian, heterosexual, or bisexual, but are just human beings that include all of these aspects in their individuality in which unfolds the beauty of their soul; the riches of their love; the power of their gentle heart like the radiance of a summer's day that is reflected in their very being.

      "We met on that mountain top of universal sovereignty every time when we met," I said to her. "There, love is forever safe and most beautiful. Love can never be a tyrant there that makes demands out of lust, or rage, or in a quest for power. No one can carry that kind of baggage to the mountaintop. Such baggage is too heavy."

      Olive just nodded and smiled so as not to interrupt the light of that idea.

      "When we met for the first time," I continued, "my tears for humanity must have told you that I was there on the mountain with you, and you offered me your handkerchief to dry those tears since you stood at the same mountain with me. Still, it had always been a puzzle to me until today, why our sexual intimacies that happened that evening had been so easy and free, so human and so far removed from the lustful eagerness that unfolds at lower levels where a person's humanity is so easily overburdened by pursuits that are not human?"

      Olive just nodded and hugged me for the thought.

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