We are on our way to Paradise. Some say we are there already; and it is true that the soft green hill the angels are leading us towards, and the fountain perched on top with its retinue of birds, could well be a Garden of Eden. The angels are forbearing: they know we’re likely to make a slow start. Some of us look to have registered the new light in the sky, and are caught between an eagerness to go onwards and fear or perhaps puzzlement. An angel in red stands next to me. The crowd on the other side of the angel appear to be simple folk – I’m not priding myself on my tonsure and Roman nose – but they too are focused on the light from above. One of them lunges skyward with a theologian’s arm, explaining to the flock. All this group are erect. Others, a little way off on the grass, are seated, as if not ready to move on – perhaps not interested. I myself have no memory of having just exited from the earth. (Uprightness is my natural element. I stand tiptoe on two small feet.) But it could be, nonetheless, that this is the beginning of the Last Judgment, and that the man and his attentive wife nearby, being looked after by another angel, are barely out of the grave. The man too seems to be explaining things, or maybe registering and reiterating a point the angel has just made.
