Part One

Morgan Mackey savoured every fragment of his life. He had an enchanting wife, whom he loved very much for her heart, her mind and her ravishing beauty. He had a well-paying job, which he enjoyed very much, but not too much. He had seen half the world and still travelled, for he wanted to see the other half as well. And he had an assortment of friends and co-workers, so friendly and affable, his frequent mingling with them might have driven his wife jealous, had she not been as forthcoming and understanding as she was. Besides, much of the aforementioned applied to her as well, as to their friends and acquaintances, but this story is not about her, nor is it about them. This is the story of Morgan Mackey and of how he learned the true nature of life. And life, it seems, is rather simple and easily unravelled, which is why this story will take so short a time to tell.
         It all began when Morgan and Martha – that was his wife’s name – were sitting in a café with their mutual friend from college, William Reeves, whose wife was also welcome to join them, but had been detained at her workplace, which she found was no greater discomfort, for she enjoyed her work quite as much as her husband and the couple previously introduced did. They were sitting at their table in the café, enjoying their espressos and their delicious pastries, and talking about the essence of life.
         ‘Life,’ Martha continued – because, you see, it is in the middle of their conversation that we come to intrude, ‘is a wonderful gift. It is made up of ups and downs, but in the end, if we’re fortunate enough, we find that which it is worth living for.’
         ‘Indeed,’ Morgan agreed. ‘Some live for work, others for their spare time. And others still,’ he said and held Martha’s hand affectionately, ‘find love in the world and see what life is all about for them. I love my job and I love all my hobbies, but I love my wife above all and would give my life for her, if required.’
         ‘I love,’ William interrupted, ‘that life itself knows us as well as we know it and that it would never force us into such a predicament. But, I agree, I love my job and my spare time and my wife above all, and I, too, would give my life for her, but I know that I will never have to, for life is too fair for that to occur.’
         And smilingly they found themselves in complete agreement and equal appreciation of life. Everyone around them was also smiling; the other people seated in the café, the waiters and waitresses, even the pedestrians who passed the happily polished glass of the café windows. But neither Morgan, nor Martha or William took any particular notice of this, because smiling was what people did all the time.
         Having finished their espressos and their delectable desserts, they paid and left for a nice stroll across the bridge and to the part of town they all called home. But the moment they exited the café it started to rain. What had previously been a bright summer day had turned into a rather dark, cloudy and wet afternoon. This, however, did not seem to dishearten anyone. People laughed and smiled at the constant surprises that life had in store for them, as did Morgan, Martha and William as well. And so they proceeded in the direction of the bridge.
         On their way there, they made plans for the weekend, which was only a couple of days away that day. Already back at the café, they had agreed to invite their mutual friends to come join them for a picnic on the meadow near their houses, just on the other side of the bridge. Now that the sudden change of weather had taken them by surprise, they found that additional plans were necessary. They weren’t going to postpone the picnic, however, oh, no.
         ‘Perhaps we could set up one of those enormous tents, just in case it starts to rain then, too,’ William suggested.
         ‘That sounds like a marvellous idea,’ Morgan agreed.

They were halfway across the bridge when it happened. It was a rather long and wide bridge, with two lanes for cars to manoeuvre along in the middle and a slim sidewalk for pedestrians on either side. There was a railing, too, and a metal net stretched between it and the pathway, as to prevent anyone from slipping underneath the railing and tumbling down the hundreds of feet to the river below. This never happened, though, of course, for life was too fair for such a disaster ever to occur. But then suddenly and for a moment, they thought it would.
         It was exactly at the time when Martha had explained that Morgan and she had a tent of significant proportions stowed away in their attic that the winds picked up speed and the rain came gushing down on them with a force that made it difficult for them to maintain their jolly appearances – although they did their best to do so anyway.
         With a tremendous crash, part of the protective net just next to the promenading trio was torn off by the wind and slung down into the now wild and ravaging waters below. Martha cried out, but in a way that seemed to say, ‘oh,’ rather than one denoting actual fear.
         ‘I’ve got you,’ Morgan shouted over the storm and grabbed a firm hold of Martha’s arm.
         ‘Don’t let go of me, darling,’ she said. ‘The asphalt is rather slippery and the winds are very strong.’
         ‘I won’t,’ he replied.
         ‘While you’re at it,’ William interceded, ‘you may as well hold on to me, too. I fear I wore the wrong shoes for this type of weather.’
         A strong gust of wind picked up on the other side of the river. It swept across the railing on the other side of the bridge, crossed the street, dodging the few cars that were still out and about and on their way to the warm and dry safety of their garages, and, very suddenly, lifted Martha up from the ground, so that she slid through the hole in the net. Now she cried out once more, but not in a manner that seemed to say, ‘oh.’
         As Morgan still had a firm hold of her, he slid on through the gaping hole along with his wife, but just in the nick of time was able to hold on to the railing with his free hand, so that his wife and he, himself, now formed a human chain leading only a fragment of the way down to what was now a murderously wild river. And for the first time in what seemed their entire lives, Morgan, Martha and William had a sensation of true fear and a true lack of faith in the overwhelming goodness of life.
         ‘William!’ Morgan shouted.
         ‘I’m here!’ William responded and knelt down by the hole with great trepidation.
         Summoning all the strength he could find in himself, Morgan pulled his wife up by her arm and William took over from there, pulling her completely to safety.
         The winds were now stronger and there was little light that managed to shine through the thick black clouds that concealed the summer day. And the rain. The rain, now large and heavy drops of water, in collaboration with the wind, fell at a downwards trajectory and turned toward Morgan before it hit the ground, making it very difficult for him to hold on. Adding to that that the railing was wet and slippery, he found himself in quite a predicament. He could hardly see a thing, as his eyes were constantly bombarded by beads of water and the wind that cast him from side to side as he hung from the railing of the bridge, gave him the impression he had turned around perhaps fully, perhaps not, he did not know, and thus robbed him of his sense of orientation.
         ‘I’m coming, Morgan!’ William shouted at the top of his lungs and, after making sure that Martha was all right, made an attempt to leap to his friend’s aid.
         But the winds would not let him. Each leap, however forceful, was countered by an equally strong gust of wind that held him back.
         ‘Morgan!’ Martha cried out to no avail.
         And in that instant, in that very moment, Morgan felt his grip on the railing of the bridge failing. He turned his head and found that he was now looking down at the river. It was a long way down and the water that rushed along and formed the river made him think of times gone by, good times and bad, foremost the latter. He thought of illnesses and pain, and of the suffering of people all around the world that had been forgotten. All this could he see in the water under the bridge. Then he looked up again and for a split second saw the faces of his dear wife and his good friend. He thought of what he had said back at the café, when the weather and life itself had been on his side, and he decided he still stood by his word.
         ‘I’m about to die,’ he thought, ‘but that’s all right. I can live with that.’

And just as he realised that his life was at an end, his grip failed completely and he fell. For a moment, the world refused to stop spinning around and then all was wet and dark as the river engulfed him.

Part Two

Several hours later Morgan awoke, his torso rather awkwardly entangled in the branches of a tree that had fallen over – another victim of the horrendous storm. The clouds had now long since scattered and the rain had abated. Once again, the sun shone down on the ground and the skies were blue.
         Looking around, Morgan ascertained that he was now in fact closer to home than he had been before, but he stayed put a while longer. The river ran for several miles, connecting two lakes. It was by one of these that he now found himself and he could even hear the children playing on the beach on the other side of it. He could not understand, however, how they could possibly be enjoying themselves as the water was terribly cold. The air was cold, too. In fact, much was different now, he thought, compared to how it had been before the storm. The colours of his surroundings seemed faded in a way, the air was full of dust that sparkled in the sunlight, and the bark of the branch that he was, at the time, clinging to was rough and coarse.
         It soon dawned on Morgan that he ought to try and get himself back on dry land, not because he wanted to go home and reassure his wife of his safety, but rather because he felt so very cold. He didn’t feel up for the task of dislodging himself from the branch, though. It was the only way out for him, sure enough, but he felt very tired in a way. Finally, however, he decided not to think about it any longer and pushed and pulled until he managed to climb on land. And it was with some discomfort that he did so, for nature had not supplied him with any handles or ropes or anything other that would somehow facilitate his return to civilisation. There was a road only a minute’s walk from the waterfront and it would lead him home in only another few minutes, but as soon as his feet touched the asphalt, he felt tired again. He looked back at the tree and though part of it was left on land and looked less disagreeable to be seated on than the asphalt felt to be stood on, it seemed awfully far away. So Morgan sat down on the asphalt instead and sighed.
         He must have sat there for at least an hour, doing nothing in particular, thinking about nothing in particular, when a car horn was heard behind him. As he was sitting in the middle of the road, he constituted something of a roadblock and this was obviously what the person in the car was trying to convey by honking at him. Slowly, Morgan turned his head and looked with a kind of unintended nonchalance at the vehicle.
         ‘Oh, my God! Are you all right, Morgan?’ Came a voice from behind the windshield, and out of the car stepped Marissa Thompson, Morgan’s next-door neighbour.
         ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine,’ he replied calmly.
         ‘What are doing here? Oh, dear, you’re soaking wet! What happened? How did you get here?’
         The woman seemed intent on asking more questions than was reasonable to assume anyone to be able to answer at any one time, Morgan thought.
         ‘There was a storm,’ he began, ‘and I fell from the bridge…’
         ‘You fell from the bridge?’ Marissa exclaimed.
         ‘Yes.’
         ‘The storm was ages ago! Are you sure you’re all right?’
         ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine,’ he repeated.
         Marissa offered to take him to his house in her car, but he said there wasn’t anything special he could think of that needed to be taken care of at home right away, so he thought he’d just remain seated a little while longer until he felt up for it.
         ‘Nonsense! You’re not staying here!’ She said with a tone of voice that might have been meant to sound either threatening or supportive, but which she probably intended to be perceived as the latter.
         ‘I can move out of the way of your car, if that’s what you mean,’ Morgan elaborated. ‘Just give me a moment, please.’
         But Marissa would not take no for an answer and, adamant as she was, managed to coax Morgan into her car, which took longer than expected. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the strength to move on his own, but rather that he lacked the inclination.
         The drive to his doorstep took about half a minute, which was much less time than it had taken him to get into the car, yet which felt just as long, if not even longer, to Morgan. Martha had heard the car park outside her doorstep and she had seen her husband in it from the bedroom window, and subsequently came rushing out, her arms flailing about in the air wildly, and tears in her eyes. Morgan climbed out of the car, taking his time as though this was just any other day, and was soon embraced by his wife, who wouldn’t stop crying and kissing him.
         ‘We thought you were dead,’ she said.
         ‘So did I,’ Morgan added.
         ‘God, you’re freezing cold. Let’s get you into some dry clothes.’

Half an hour later, Marissa had received many thanks and hugs from Martha and William, who had also been at the Mackey house to comfort whom he had believed to be a grieving widow. Now all three of them; Morgan, Martha and William; were seated in the lounge. Three cups of tea were on the table. Morgan left his untouched. Martha came back from the kitchen, having called the police and told them that her husband was indeed all right, despite the fact that she had reported him missing and presumably dead only hours before. She noticed his lacking desire for tea, which was unusual for this time of day, she thought.
         ‘You must be starving,’ William said to him.
         ‘Must I?’
         ‘Well, it’s way past dinnertime and the last thing you had to eat was that pastry back at the café. Granted, it was a delicious pastry, wasn’t it?’
         ‘Was it?’
         ‘Don’t force him, William,’ Martha said. ‘He’s probably tired from the whole ordeal.’ She turned to her husband, who was now wearing several dry sweaters, one on top of the other. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re feeling all right?’
         ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine,’ he said for the nth time.
         She pressed the back of her hand against his brow and shivered.
         ‘You’re still freezing, dear. Shall I call a doctor?’
         ‘No, it’s too late,’ Morgan said.
         ‘Well, would you like to go to bed? A good night’s sleep might do you some good.’
         ‘Would it? I just woke up,’ he commented.
         His voice was a monotonous hum. Martha and William, and Marissa as well, had noticed this, yet not mentioned it aloud.
         ‘Fine,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll go to bed. Might as well.’
         ‘Do that, dear. I’ll call the doctor in the morning just in case. I mean, it can’t hurt, what with all you’ve been through.’

William helped his friend to the upstairs bedroom, and left when he had said his goodbyes to Martha and told her he would see them both at the picnic in two days.
         The night was somewhat unorthodox for Morgan and Martha. Morgan, who usually tossed and turned in his sleep, lay absolutely still all through the night. Normally, he slept on his right side, but he lay on his back this night and didn’t give off a sound, although Martha had always complained that this particular sleeping position caused him to snore tremendously. Martha, in turn, who usually slept as close to her husband as possible, had taken the whole blanket to herself and lay huddled up as far away from him as possible, as though she were looking to sleep somewhere warmer.
         Morning arrived and so did the doctor. Martha was downstairs, clothed and ready to receive him. Meanwhile, Morgan was still sound asleep.
         Having received no reply to the knock on the bedroom door, the doctor opened it and stepped inside. The air was cold and stale and dry, and for a moment he wanted to open the window up a bit to let some fresh air in, but he noticed that it was already open. Strange, he thought, for he could hear the leaves of the trees in the garden rustling as they were rocked by the pleasant summer breeze and still it felt as though there was no life in this room.
         ‘Mr. Mackey?’ He said carefully, not wanting to shock his patient.
         ‘Yes,’ Morgan replied immediately, as casually as before, and sat up straight.
         ‘Oh, did I startle you?’
         ‘No, it’s fine.’
         ‘Right, well, I’m the doctor. Your wife called me this morning and asked me to come round and have a look at you.’
         ‘She said she would.’
         ‘Yes, well, she’s downstairs preparing some tea for us, but before you indulge in your breakfast, I’d like to check up on you, if that’s all right.’
         ‘All right.’
         ‘Good, now your wife tells me you took quite a tumble yesterday,’ the doctor said and pushed the glasses that had rested on the tip of his nose up with his forefinger.
         ‘I guess so,’ Morgan confirmed monotonously.
         ‘Are you in any pain?’
         ‘No.’
         ‘In cases like this…’ The doctor stopped himself. ‘Well, to be honest I’ve never encountered a case like this. It’s a miracle you’re still alive!’
         The remark seemed somehow ironic to Morgan.
         ‘Anyway,’ the doctor continued, ‘in cases of people falling in general, the head is usually the part of the human anatomy which we’re most concerned about.’
         ‘We?’
         ‘Yes, doctors, that is.’
         The doctor opened up a case that he must have carried with him, although Morgan had not noticed it before, and took out a stethoscope.
         ‘You see, Mr. Mackey, if nothing else, then most likely you have suffered a concussion.’
         ‘I see.’
         ‘So, while I get my things in order,’ he hung the stethoscope around his neck and rummaged through his case, ‘could you please tell me if you have a headache?’
         ‘No.’
         ‘Pardon?’
         ‘No, I don’t have a headache.’
         ‘I see. Any bad dreams?’
         ‘No.’
         ‘Your dreams, and please forgive me for asking, but did they differ this night from your usual dreams in any respect?’
         ‘In a way, yes, they did,’ Morgan explained, ‘I had no dreams.’
         ‘I see and this is normally not the case, I take it?’
         ‘No, but it’s of no importance,’ Morgan retorted, showing the first sign of humanity since his accident, ‘Life is but a dream and now I have finally awoken. I tell you, it’s of no importance.’
         ‘Life is but a dream?’ The doctor thought to himself. ‘These are the ramblings of a man with a concussion.’

Moving with the grace of a man who had practiced medicine for nigh on sixty years and spent most of that time sitting down uncomfortably, the doctor seated himself on the edge of the bed next to his patient and placed the back of his hand against Morgan’s brow.
         ‘Yikes!’ The doctor exclaimed and retracted his hand. ‘You’re as cold as an icicle!’
         He put on his stethoscope. Without having been asked, Morgan unbuttoned his pyjama shirt. Although he could not feel it, he could see the doctor moving the stethoscope in a criss-cross across his chest, without apparent luck. Finally, the doctor returned it to its flaccid position around his neck and, with some restraint, put his fingers around Morgan’s right wrist. Seconds afterwards, he shot up from the edge of the bed and stared at his patient, fearing he had finally reached that age when his licence to practice medicine would be revoked.
         ‘I’m not sure how to say this, Mr. Mackey,’ he stuttered, ‘but you don’t seem to have a pulse.’
         There was a slight pause in activity in the room. And outside it, too, for that matter, for the leaves had temporarily halted their rustling.
         ‘Don’t tell my wife,’ Morgan said calmly.

Part Three

The previous day, the day before today, which was the day of the great picnic, had in some respects been a troubling day for Martha. The doctor had left almost as soon as he had arrived, having refused the cup of tea she had offered him and only quickly assured her that, concerning her husband’s health, all was at it should be. Morgan, in turn, had decided to spend the entire day in bed. In fact, he was still lying under the covers and was still in his pyjamas. He had hardly said a word to her all day, nor had he this morning or even just now, when she had knocked on the door to tell him he had best get his affairs in order and join her and the others on the meadow post haste. But she wasn’t worried. The doctor had said he was fine and he had said so himself, too, so why worry? The weather was far too nice for worrying.
         Finally, she had to enter the bedroom and tell him he had to get dressed right there on the spot. He obeyed.
         ‘Is it that you don’t want to meet our friends today?’ She had asked.
         ‘No, I have nothing against them.’
         ‘Then what is it? Do you feel ill or despondent, dear?’
         ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

They took the car to the meadow. The tent was already set up. They didn’t have that much to carry there. And it was only a ten-minute walk from their house, but Morgan had attempted to use the ‘excruciating geographical distance’, as he put it, as an excuse to remain in bed. The attempt, I’m sure you’ve gathered on your own already, however, had failed.

The meadow was located precisely in the middle between their house and the bridge. It was glorious. That is to say, to any other than Morgan, it was glorious, glorious and vast. Morgan just found it to be large. One edge of the meadow ran along the road that ran all the way from downtown, across the bridge and to their house. The opposite side was too far away to even imagine. Morgan was contemplative, perhaps, but although to onlookers he appeared also to be sad and depressed, keeping to himself without uttering a word, he was in fact neither.
         About a hundred yards or so from the road, they had set up the tent, or at least William had, although the tent itself belonged to Morgan and Martha. And it had been with some difficulty that he had accomplished this task, since it was a task that usually required at least two Herculean labourers to be accomplished. But he didn’t complain. His friend was still in a mild state of shock after his experience, he thought, and, besides, the weather was too nice for complaints.
         It didn’t take long for everyone to arrive. About twenty of them, all in all, were gathered around the table of food and drink that stood protected under the roof of the tent. But no one remained under there for long. They filled their plates and then mingled under the sky, for there was no sign of a storm to appear on this day. All but Morgan, of course. Not that he stayed in the tent, oh, no. He stood outside of it. But he did not fill his plate, nor did he even fetch a plate to begin with.
         ‘Why don’t you join us?’ William asked him.
         ‘I’m here.’
         ‘Yes, but come talk to us. Please. It would mean a lot to the others. They’ve been very worried about you.’
         ‘Fine,’ Morgan agreed and followed William to the others in his own pace.
         But this turned out to be a big mistake. Everyone was in such a jolly mood. They were all smiling and talking about things they deemed worthy to smile and talk about. And as soon as they caught a glimpse of Morgan, they practically assaulted him with questions about his experience of late. He could not understand their amazement. He couldn’t see what had been so special about it all, not from their point of view at least. It was he who had experienced something special. It wasn’t the experience itself that had been special though. He found this line of reasoning too arduous for his inner monologue and so he subsided into his cove of neutrality again.
         ‘How do you feel?’
         ‘Fine.’
         ‘Isn’t the weather lovely?’
         ‘I guess so.’
         But it was only his appearance that he rendered calm and untroubled. His inner thoughts were all but untroubled. They were calm, to be sure, but they were not untroubled. He was thinking about the bridge. Always the bridge. And his fall. And it took only his wife’s placatory words, and the realisation that only minutes remained until his friends would bring up the topic of the essence of life again, to reveal these thoughts.
         ‘Are you all right, dear?’ She asked.
         ‘Yes,’ he said and looked at her and at the others in obvious annoyance, ‘for the millionth time, I’m all right! I should be asking you the same question.’ A cloud appeared on the horizon. ‘Why are you constantly asking me this? I’m fine. I’m great. I never felt this good while I was alive. And I feel nothing now. So how are you feeling?’
         ‘You’re not making any sense, old boy,’ William said in a calming voice.’
         ‘I’m sure you think I’m not, but I am. Everything makes sense to me now simply because I now realise that nothing made sense before.’
         ‘What are you talking about?’ Martha asked him.
         ‘Yes, what do you mean?’ Someone in the crowd added.
         ‘I’m talking about life!’
         ‘Hear hear!’ Someone shouted and raised his glass.
         ‘Shut up!’ Morgan interrupted the toast. ‘Life is a dream. It wasn’t until I lost mine that I realised that.’
         ‘But you didn’t lose your life, Morgan,’ William said. ‘You survived the fall.’
         ‘Did I?’ Morgan asked rhetorically. ‘I lost my life before I hit the bottom. My mind gave it up before it realised that my body would not need to.’
         Thunder was heard and suddenly all those attending the party looked up and found there to be a gathering of clouds in the skies above them. Morgan was already out of sight by the time they had lowered their gaze again.

He was running, running for his life, one might say, for there was none left in him to compel him to stay. He ran with all haste toward the bridge and he had not even come halfway before the rain started to pour down on him again. Another few minutes of battling against the rain in his summer attire, and he had reached it. He wanted to cry, but life was required for that to happen, so he didn’t think he could muster a single tear. The raindrops trickling down his face would have concealed the truth either way.
         The wind had picked up again and it came in from behind him now, pushing him towards the middle of the bridge. He obeyed it without question or hesitation.
         Stepping towards the railing, observing the recently repaired net beneath it, he spoke to the wind.
         ‘The essence of life escaped me the last time that I stood on this bridge. I gave my life for someone else, but as I know not whom I gave it to there is but one way to balance the scales.’

His voice followed the river to its source, to the great lake whence the water under the bridge had once sprung, and above it a cluster of breezes gathered to form a wind. It travelled the length of the river, increasing in strength and in speed as it did so, to the bridge, dodging a passing car, and just as Morgan Mackey felt the chill of it against his neck and not only found this to be the first sign of life in what seemed to him like ages, but reclaimed the essence of life as well, it lifted him up and so, as involuntarily as before, he fell once more.