San Francisco Covens: Crucible

by Manuel Tiger

  “Yet you seem to be holding it against me that I was.”

  I sighed. “If it seems that way? I’m sorry,” I said. “Just don’t lie to me to try to make it seems I’m unique enough to be brought here when others have been here before me.”

  “Amusements are never brought here, Mister Sullivan.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  “You still don’t believe me do you?”

  “Why are you trying so hard to make be believe otherwise? To believe that you don’t bring anyone else here? For all I know you could have weekly orgies!”

  “Not that such a thought hasn’t crossed my mind a few times, but I’m afraid that my home is no sex den, Mister Sullivan. I do not bring anyone off the street through the front door.”

  “Fine! You don’t fuck anyone here!” I said exasperated. “Why are you so determined to convince me of that? A nobody?”

  “Do you believe yourself to be nobody?”

  “I don’t believe,” I said. “I know I am.” I looked away and held up the camera. “I believe I’m here to take photos as you requested. I wish to do such.” I said in a quieter tone. I could hear the whispering, the click of my demons approaching, but I pushed them away, ignoring them. “Please?”

  We stared at one another before he gave an incline of his head. “Very well,” he said. “We are here.”

  I turned back around and discovered that we had reached a gated entrance to the back portion of the house. The gate, it too keeping to the scroll work design of flowers and vines, stood invitingly open. It was between two white washed brick columns that were a much smaller scaled down version of those at the entrance road.

  I looked at him and he merely nodded toward the gate.

  I stepped through and found myself once again in awe of this man’s home and land which surrounded it.

  The sunken garden was boarded by a crescent shaped wall that rose to nearly knee level and looked quite old. The middle portion of the wall was open with stone steps leading up to what had to have been the original level of the land. Smooth river rocks created a path that started at the top of the stairs and passed between rows of oak trees before ending at what looked to be a very large greenhouse situated on a manicured lawn.

  What was there to say of the garden? It was a gardener and flower lover’s joygasm. Flowers of every type and hue could be found growing in terraces that followed the curve of the wall. In the center of the garden, surrounded by box hedges, was that of the largest four tier fountain I had ever seen.

  It was built of polished white marble with each tier carved with scenes from Roman antiquity of gods and goddess. At the very top was that of an upright seashell from which water shot up every few seconds to fall into the overflowing tiers that splashed down into the basin below.

  I moved toward the fountain, passing between rose bushes that lined the way to it, their sweet, spicy scent filling the warming air around me.

  I knelt down and took several photos before moving around the boundary of the fountain to take a few more.

  I stood up and moved over toward the fountain to stare down into the depths of the basin. I watched the play of sunlight within the depths, becoming nearly hypnotized by it.

  “It was imported from Italy stone by stone and reassembled here,” Damiano said coming to stand beside me. “It once resided in the garden of my mother’s childhood home and my father wanted her to have some part of her old home here in her new home.”

  “A very romantic gesture,” I said reaching out to let the water from the middle tier run over my hand. “In the home I grew up in we had a garden and a fountain. Nothing as grand as all this mind you,” I said drifting in my thoughts for a moment, seeing that garden once more in my mind. “When something bad would happen to me I would go there and play, become lost in the stories I created in my head of kings and princes. Only after it was ruined for me did I wish a king or prince would come to save me.”

  “How was it ruined for you?”

  I cursed myself silently for having said so much, of recalling that memory that had been invoked by the fountain along with another memory connected to that garden and fountain. It swirled around me, whispering softly and bringing back the vividness of That Day.

  No, not here, not again in two days.

  “I-It’s not important,” I whispered swallowing the lump that had risen in my throat. I could however not swallow away the memory that now took hold of me – a spring day, hot, only in swim trunks sitting on the rim of the fountain splashing my feet in the water. I was all of twelve with gangly limbs and a mop of brown hair thinking of my coming birthday in a few days. A shadow then fell over me followed by the touching, the groping and then the…the ending of my childhood on that spring afternoon. That Day.

  I drew myself out of that moment feeling chilled as I rubbed my arms. “T-That greenhouse there?” I said refocusing my thoughts elsewhere. “It looks quite old. Is it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Damiano said softly. “Are you okay Mister Sullivan?” there was a tone of concern in his voice that I hated hearing.

  Pity the damaged broken boy. But he didn’t know did he? I had to squash this before “that look” came into his eyes like so many others before him when they could piece together the puzzle of Henry Sullivan.

  I looked at him nodding my head rapidly. “I’m fine, peachy keen,” I replied hearing my voice still choked with emotion. I stepped away from the fountain clutching my camera tightly in my hand and started toward the stairs.

  I sensed him directly behind me moving silently, or for that matter, barely making a sound that I wondered if I was only imagining him behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see him keeping a few steps back, moving with the quiet grace of a jungle cat on the prowl, a predator stalking prey. This thought, this imagery, was only further compounded by his eyes that were locked on me as intensely as they had been last night.

  I felt a shiver pass through my body feeling suddenly the prey as I resisted breaking into a run and making for the trees that hovered at the edge of the vast lawn.

  “C-Could you just walk beside me, please?” I asked when we had reached the middle of the path. “I…I have a slight issue with people coming up on me from behind.” I tried to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

  “Of course,” he said softly, coming to stand beside me as I waited, getting my emotions, my thoughts in check or back into the mental trunk and locking it tight. “The greenhouse was built a few years after our arrival to this land. Another gift from my father to my mother.”

  Given this new topic, this line of thought, I could focus on that easily, could run with it. “Your father must have loved your mother very much to go to such lengths as to import the fountain from her childhood home and to build this greenhouse for her.”

  “I think some of it may have been guilt,” he replied staring at the greenhouse.

  “Guilt?” I glanced at him.

  He looked at me, a crooked half-smile on his lips. “He often found other beds to lay in than that of the marital one, Mister Sullivan.” He stared me directly in the eyes. “Perhaps that is where I have inherited such behavior from, hm?”

  I looked away saying nothing and began walking.

  “I sometimes grew frustrated with my mother,” he said breaking the silence that had settled over us as he began walking beside me again.

  “And why is that?” I asked coming to a stop as I brought my camera up and took a photo of the greenhouse framed in the draping branches of the oak trees, a natural frame.

  “I could not understand how she could still love him when she had to have known what he was doing. It was not as if he hid his dalliances for he rather seemed proud of his conquests and parading them about at one of our many gatherings. My mother simply was always looking the other way.”

  “Some people are blinded by love,” I said. “Or they are content with the position that their marriage brings them and question no behavior that would remove them
from said position.”

  “Mm, perhaps so,” he said. “Tell me Mister Sullivan,” he said walking over to a nearby oak tree to lean against it, kicking back one foot against the base and then folded his arms across his chest. “In this garden of your childhood, when you created your stories of kings and princes?”

  I lowered my camera and slowly turned to face him.

  “How did your stories end with them? Happily ever after?” he asked with a grin playing along his lips.

  “I never found my prince or king to make happily ever after come true, Damiano.” I lifted my camera and snapped a photo of him.

  “Should I turn my head in profile? I was told once my left side is my best side.”

  “Then the person who told you such must have been blind.”

  He arched a brow now. “Oh? Why do you say that? Do you not think me at least handsome?”

  “I think you’re quite handsome, perhaps more,” I said taking another photo of him, this time stepping back to get the full comparison between him and the oak tree. “But I feel also that you have quite the ego as well and any further compliments? You should find your partners from last night to feed it.”

  He pursed his lips then pushed off from the tree. “So you have never found the so called The One in which to sweep you off your feet.”

  “He probably got hit by a car or struck by lightning,” I replied starting back toward the garden as he quickly fell in step with me, softly chuckling.

  “Not even one? To make you think he could possibly be the one?”

  “The longest relationship I have had has been with my hand,” I honestly said. “I’ve learned that most if not all men usually want one thing and once they have received it from you they are up and on to the next person. And honestly? It’s easier being a one night stand then being a relationship.”

  “Why such thinking? Don’t you want someone to come along and sweep you off your feet?”

  “Hoping that someone will come along to sweep you off your feet is merely setting you up for disappointment. For happily ever after is like wishing on a star and hoping your wish comes true.”

  I had wished on enough stars to know wishes never, ever came true. Think you very much Disney for the disappointment.

  I looked at him. “And you,” I said. “Have you ever found the one? Or are you still sampling the aisles?”

  “I had a relationship, once,” he said staring forward. “They said they were going to be gone for a week and never came back,” he looked at me. “That was several years ago and I haven’t heard from them since.”

  “I wonder if I should pity you, or feel elated for them.”

  “Have I rubbed you the wrong way, Mister Sullivan? For normally it takes me at least a week or sometimes less to typically achieve that.”

  Had he? No, he hadn’t for my walls were going up due to last night and the recalled memory I had moments ago by the fountain. I was the fuck up here, the one striking out, and hiding behind my asshole armor.

  Not him.

  I looked him directly in the eyes. “I don’t mean to be a bitch toward you. I apologize,” I said. “It’s just that my defenses are up today, more so than normal.”

  “Why so?”

  I looked up toward the trees, watching a squirrel journey across a branch before leaping to one that seemed too far away, yet taking that chance possibly knowing that they could fall to the earth.

  Should I take that chance in telling him why? I didn’t think I would probably see him again after today. Perhaps at some town function, but even then I felt as if that would be more a passing nod or wave if anything at all to exchange between us.

  He dwelt in a world that I had once dwelt in and maybe that was another reason why I was acting toward him as I was – he reminded me of those that I had once knew, how they had behaved, how they viewed most others as people to use for their needs then discard.

  Yes, I would probably never see him again after today.

  I also noticed that the squirrel had made it to the other branch it leapt to, scurrying along it rapidly.

  I drew in a breath and released it, returning my attention back to him. “You’ll think me crazy for the reason why.”

  “Don’t assume that I will, Mister Sullivan. Books and covers after all right?”

  I gave a half smile and nodded though I knew the smile did not quite complete itself on my lips.

  “You didn’t stay all evening at Rowdy’s did you?”

  “I’m afraid that I left after you saw me dancing,” he replied. “Why?”

  I laughed softly, bitterly. “I had a meltdown in the parking lot. One of the waitresses had to drive me home.”

  “What caused you to have a meltdown?”

  “This is the crazy part,” I said bending down and retrieving a twig from the ground, twirling it between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Please tell me.”

  I looked up at him seeing genuine interest or was that concern, on his face. Or worse, was it the familiar stages of pity setting in?

  I rose back up staring at the twig pinched between my fingers. “Two simple words that anyone else could easily brush aside, but brought up a rather painful memory to resurface.”

  “What was those words?”

  I stared at the twig, the pressure of my fingers on it increasing till it snapped in two, the upper half falling to the ground. “Dirty boy,” I whispered dropping the rest of the twig to join its other half on the ground.

  I looped the strap of my camera around my neck and wiped my hands on my jeans. “We should finish up with the photos,” I said clearing my throat. “Was there any other area of your place you wished me to photograph?”

  Instead of answering he reached out and rested a hand on my arm, his touch firm, warmer than the day was becoming around us.

  “Whoever said those words to you? Let me apologize for surely they were not aware of what those two words could have triggered for you.”

  “Maybe I just need to get over it,” I said. “It’s what I was told once.”

  “Whoever said such is clearly an idiot, to put it mildly.”

  I wanted to smile, but was not in the mood. I withdrew my arm from under his hand and continued walking back toward the garden.

  I was so fucked up. There were days I craved a touch, to feel the intimacy of human contact and the intimacy of sex itself. Then there were other days I simply did not want to be touched, where I viewed sex as something bad, disgusting. And then I combined the two and became a whore, the only way in which I could have sex by letting others use me, abuse me if they desired, for that was what I felt was all I deserved, had been imparted to me – to be a walking cum rag to be used and discarded till next use.

  “The fountain.” Damiano said walking toward me.

  I spun around arching a brow at. “The fountain?”

  “Yes, I wish to be photographed by the fountain.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course,” I said taking my camera strap from around my neck.

  He led the way back to the garden, taking the stairs that led down to it two at a time. He approached the fountain and turned around looking like a god come to earth, the sun bathing him in its warm glow.

  “Is this a good pose?”

  “It works for me,” I said bringing my camera up and snapping a photo of him.

  “Now, take one of me seated on the rim,” he requested as he sat down on the edge of the basin.

  “Of course,” I said moving into a position that framed both him and the top of the position.

  “Now,” he said staring at me through the lens. “Come take a photo with me.”

  “W-With you?” I lowered the camera.

  “Yes. That camera has a timer on it right? Well, you can set it there on that planter.” He pointed toward another cast iron planter near the fountain. It was overflowing with ivy.

  “You want me to take a photo with you?”

  “Yes. Is there a problem with that?” he asked with a hint of
a smile on his lips.

  “I don’t really take photos,” I said. “I’m not photogenic enough.”

  “Nonsense, you are.” He suddenly feel to one knee, clasping his hands before him and took on a sad puppy look. “Won’t you indulge my request Mister Sullivan?”

  “Will you stop making that face and get off your knees?” I asked looking around, but there was only us.

  “Why? Is it working?”

  “No, it looks like you’re straining on the toilet.”

  He laughed, clapping his hands together and stood up, retaking his seat on the rim of the basin. “Then come join me and take one photo.”

  I shrugged. “Why not.” I moved toward the planter and set the camera up, making sure it framed the scene he was wanting. I figured I could crop myself out of it later.

  Once the camera was set up I walked over to the fountain and sat down beside him, but kept a few inches of space between us.

  “What’s the timer set on?”

  “Five seconds,” I replied as he scooted closer and slipped an arm around my shoulders.

  I tried not to freeze up.

  “It is getting rather warm today isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you swim?”

  “If presented with a situation which calls for it.”

  “I think one is presenting itself.”

  “What do you – ”

  He pulled us both backwards into the basin.

  It happened so fast.

  One minute we were seated on the rim of the basin, and the next I found myself underwater floating in the ice cool depths. Damiano swam toward me grinning as I tried to feel the bottom of the basin with my feet – I couldn’t, it was that deep.

  He suddenly grabbed me and we shot up toward the surface, breaking it.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” I said sputtering, splashing water at him which he splashed back at me with a grin, releasing me.

  “Thought you might like a swim,” he said swimming toward me.

  “I do when I’m aware that I am going for a swim!” I said splashing him with more water which only caused him to laugh and in turn led to me laughing and shaking my head. “Jerk,” I muttered turning in a slow circle watching as he swam around me. “This is deeper than I thought it was.”