“How might that be? She is here.” “Ah, presently that identifies with the second piece of your guidance.” The Patriarch recovered his seat. “My kid, the Mysteries don’t yield effectively to investigation. It’s actual enough to say that they are passing, the spot to which demise concedes us, where we may—in case we are appropriately ready—pick the way of our resurrection. For the people who look to enter the Family, the decision is straightforward. Possibly they will discover their approach to us, a lucky few, or probably they will fall everlastingly through the dull, suffering tortures that far surpass those portrayed in the well known portrayals of misery.” He grunted in scorn. “For hell’s sake! What a charming thought! That evil could have so basic a geology and populace. Red devils with pitchfork tails and goats’ horns. Or then again besides, that evil could be so conveniently and for the most part characterized like it were a packaged dark juice you’d find at the neighborhood pharmacist. These Christians and their God!” He made another negative clamor. “I’ve lived in occasions when divine beings were six a penny. Truly, I’ve spoken with a few, and trust me, they’re no deal. Take this Jesus, for instance. The popular Messiah. One of my youngsters came only this nearby”— he held up thumb and pointer together—”to giving him a little kiss. What’s more, would have done if chance hadn’t mediated. Clearly the man—or should I say, the god?— was asking for it.” Beheim, actually obsessing about Giselle, regardless figured out how to stand amazed at the Patriarch’s dispositions, how rapidly he moved from danger to caprice to decrepit meandering aimlessly. “However, to proceed,” the Patriarch said, “Secret has a more than passing comparability to the Bardos as depicted in The Tibetan Book of the Dead. One may expect from this that different Tibetans have encountered Mystery. Assuming this is the case, in any case, they have mistranslated the experience, for Mystery is undeniably more moldable and complex, and less exact a substance than the Bardos. It would be more precise to say that Mystery is a vast quintessence embodyinga sort of powerful topography populated by disappointments of the soul. Lost spirits, maybe. However not even that is altogether precise. To get Mystery, to comprehend it totally, one should stay in it as I do. In any case, for the reasons for our discussion, you should realize that inundation in it doesn’t block one’s essence somewhere else.” He waved recklessly at Giselle. “Presto!” At his signal, the divider at Giselle’s back and a part of the flagstones connecting it dissolved away, supplanted by the dark, featured field of Mystery, a sight that was coming to appear to be typical for Beheim. The haziness swell toward them, as though limited by a meniscus. It created the impression that Giselle was to some extent inserted in the field, her heels balanced near the very edge of a pit. “Watch presently,” said the Patriarch. “Watch as she flies.” A second, clear Giselle emerged, superimposed on the first figure and indistinguishable in quite a while however two: she wore no robe, and she seemed, by all accounts, to be stressing, battling against the dimness, winding about, moving her head, as though the darkness were a severe material where she was wrapped. Step by step this subsequent picture took on robustness and wealth of shading, while the first became as unclear and spooky as the second had been. The flawlessness and weakness of her stripped body made Beheim’s heart hurt. Then, at that point her lips separated the merest part of an inch, and a stream of darkness leaked forward, spilling onto her jaw, appearing as pointedly as might a break against the fair skin. “So did you, at the end of the day, when fly,” said the Patriarch in a thoughtful tone. “So did we as a whole. Soaking in the alcohol of death, becoming saturated with it.” Shame overflowed Beheim. Disgrace that was just unexpectedly worried about Giselle’s destiny, and related primarily to the way that what he lamented most was his inability to pass judgment on her, the information that he had everlastingly lost his opportunity to control her. That would have consistently been the personality of their relationship, he understood. Prevailing and accommodating. Of all the Family, just with Alexandra had he accomplished even the similarity to uniformity. However none of these acknowledgments broke down his sensations of regret. “Bring her back,” he said. The Patriarch chuckled. “I can’t. What’s more, regardless of whether I could, I would just prevail with regards to dragging out the inescapable.” “Bring her back, damn you!” Beheim shouted.”Are you distraught?” The Patriarch got to his feet. “Control yourself. This isn’t appropriate. Not at all.” But rather Beheim was out of hand; he shot forward, thinking—against reason—that he may grab Giselle from the void; before he could contact her, nonetheless, a hit to the rear of his head dropped him to each of the fours and sent lightning shooting once more at him. “It’s reasonable,” the Patriarch said, “that you will benefit undeniably more from this discussion once all interruptions are dispensed with.”