A wide plain, a river delta, low hills on all sides, sandy, dry grasses, warm and humid; gentle breeze. There at the edge of the sea is a terra cotta tower, straight on one side and sloping on the other. I walk through the sand, avoiding the thousands of rivulets. The sky is heavy, waiting to unload its rain.

I am welcomed into the tower by a wizened old man, an earth spirit; his room here on the bottom floor has rugs, incense, woven hangings. It is an earth-toned palatial hut. He is a fantastic artist in cloth and pottery. Another old man, nearly toothless, sits in a corner, grinning and grinning, and playing a stringed instrument with unearthly beauty.

My host leads me up stairs to the second level — a huge, dark empty space. I am unlear on why this is empty. Then we go up a rope ladder to the top of the tower, where we sit and have a smoke and look over the sea.

We talk: he has been incarnated physically many times, he says, and has enjoyed it, but is taking a break for a while. His talk is filled with long, comfortable silences.

As I leave, there is much thanking and your-welcoming; as a token of gratitude I give him a Pearl from my heart, and he kisses it and it bursts into a hundred tiny white ghostly butterflies that fly round my head.