And still he remained, consuming the last of the rancid pig meat. Before the next moon came and went, he vomited violently again and again until he had to look to see that his stomach had not fallen out. The vomit stink that defiled the small bowl between two fallen trees was nothing like the sweet breath the flower had exhaled during its twelve suns and twelve moons. That breath had escaped the earth’s soft lips; this stink leaked from the earth’s rumbling bowels.
Lingering memories of the flower’s insistent pleasure continued to assail the chieftain day and night. But even its powerful magic could not stir what was beyond stirring. He ate and drank little and did not return to the head of his family or the governance of his village. He became weak and delirious, assaulted by the fearsome, misshapen creatures of darkness without his having chewed a single betel nut.
He faded in and out of the world. Day and night ceased to take turns ruling his life and became one gray mass. Someone ignored his edict and brought small parcels of food and water while he slept and left them inches from his face. Sometimes he drank a little and took a bite or two; the rest he left for the jungle creatures that worked far too hard for their meager nourishment.
Gradually life above, beside, and beyond the clearing returned. It always did following the death of the flower. He heard the chirrups and caws, the screeches and scratches of life all around him. He also perceived the chuckles and coughs, the snorts and hoofbeats of monsters, sent to test his dying will. They stamped and cavorted about his body, and occasionally one would take a nip from a bare arm or toe. Devils feeding.Scavengers! Cowards nibble a man gone. Take me whole!
What of the albino? He did not wish his last thought to be one of frustration, yet no one brought news of any villages falling into ruin. Was he, a chief, to be denied the satisfaction of knowing that the white one paid for his transgression? That is the way of revenge. It cannot be rushed. Death, however, had a way of speeding up once the ancestors determined the manner. All other sounds faded now, but for the gurgle and rush of the stream. It intensified and filled his head with roaring.
He wished for just one of his ancestors to meet him halfway and offer a hand across.
None came.
He listened to the thud of his heart slow, stutter, stop. The old warrior tried to rise but couldn’t, caught his breath without knowing from where the next would come.
None came.
Chapter 27
Fr. Byron lifted knobby knees higher, hoping the cramps at the backs of his legs would subside. They didn’t.
Jogging effortlessly at his side, Nicholas Dixon asked, “So how about it, Reverend? What do you say to a man when the dream has died?”
Fr. B veered to the right and flopped onto the park grass in the shade of a giant maple. He massaged protesting thighs and thought about interceding for a Good Humor ice cream truck. He peered up at Nick running in place. “You tell him to acknowledge that while the dream has died, not a single thing has been lost. The man who has God lacks nothing.”
Nick stopped running, planted hands on hips, and began a series of deep squats. “That’s the . . . book answer,” he said, grunting in midsentence. “What’s your . . . gut say?”
Attempting to ignore the fire that had now spread from thighs to calves, Fr. B flopped onto his back, locked fingers cushioning his head against the hard ground. “It says what C. S. Lewis heard his gut say: ‘This tension fuels my faith.’ ”
His running companion sank onto the grass. “I wasn’t sure clergy had guts that talked, but if they did, I always imagined them saying something like, ‘Shut up and don’t ask so many questions.’ ” Nick’s smile was rueful.
Fr. B considered that for a moment. “We’re no different than anyone else. Some of us ignore the still, small voice whether it speaks to us from the belly button or from somewhere inside the cranium. Ordination guarantees neither insight nor compliance. Have you talked to God about it?”
Nick groaned. “These days, prayer feels like I’m talking to myself. I know that when the chips are down, you’re supposed to cry out to the Almighty. But every time I do, I hear the echo of my own voice. Crazy?”
The leg spasms appeared to subside. With lumbering effort, Fr. B got to his feet. He walked in tight circles and shook his arms to stay loose. “Not crazy, and more common than you might think. The cause is simple. Think of it in terms of a man who ignores his wife. He pays attention to his golf, his career path, his investments, but little or none to the one he promised to cherish to the end. For the longest time they don’t talk; there’s no time, what with the golf and the career and the portfolio. When at last he senses a wall there, it has thickened to such a degree that it appears nearly impenetrable. He speaks but all he gets is bounce-back. Next comes the isolation, followed by feelings of abandonment, followed by stony rejection, when all the time the wall is of the man’s own making.”
Inverted, the small of his back braced against his hands, Nick began pedaling an imaginary bicycle. “So it all comes back to my spiritual neglect?”
“As it does for all of us, Nicholas. God is not indifferent.” Fr. B thrust forward in a slow stretch. “Most of us lack the humility to return on bended knee” — he flinched at the sudden creaking of joints — “and miss the fact that it wasn’t God who moved, it wasn’t he who built the wall.”
Brow furrowed, Nick said, “I’m afflicted by my faith, Father. Even before everything collapsed. My faith jabs me, stabs me, throttles and interrupts my thoughts and my plans. Cass is closer to a breakthrough than I am. I feel like my membership in God’s realm has lapsed and there’s no renewing.”
Fr. B shook his head. “There were seven me’s and my’s in that statement. Nick, it’s not your membership that’s lapsed. What has lapsed is your passion.”
Nick wiped an arm across a forehead as wet with frustration as with perspiration. “Perfume is my passion; can’t you see that? Can’t God?”
“Perfume is your god.”
Visibly staggered by this blunt verbal blow, Nick said nothing. He studied his running mate a moment. Fr. Byron waited. Not every day did a man see a dripping wet priest in lime green Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt declaring him to be a “Holy Terror.” Yet the clergyman kept his countenance as solemn as if he were in full vestments administering the Lord’s Supper.
“Now you’re losing me,” said Nick at last, sullen and defensive. He twisted his torso alternately clockwise and counterclockwise to stay limber.
Fr. B winced, though unsure why. Maybe because Nick was so reluctant to see God’s handwriting on the wall. “When you have God, Nicholas, you have everything. But if you start the day scheming how you and your desires can impact the world instead of seeking God’s direction, the thing you desire quickly becomes an idol.”
Nick stopped moving and watched a man sail a Frisbee into the jaws of a leaping golden retriever. “We built that altar you kept talking about,” he said finally. He told the priest about the early-morning gardening session and his wife’s meltdown that ultimately resulted in a hallowed pile of torn dahlia blooms. “Pretty unconventional, I guess, but it brought us comfort, maybe even a kind of closure. When there was nothing more to say, we just held each other and waited. No big thunder and lightning display, no burning bush. Just a whole lot of headless dahlia plants and a hunger to know what had happened to us. Maybe that night was the beginning of a new direction of some kind. Maybe it was God’s way of gaining our attention, a second chance that might have been lost had we had the success we wanted. I don’t know and it’s maddening.”
Fr. Byron was deep in thought. “Perhaps God yet has a higher purpose for your knowledge of the sense of smell. I have heard that certain aromas could help improve the appetites of the elderly. Or as one freak theory goes, future wars may end a great deal sooner by the use of odorant weaponry that pacifies the enemy and renders the battlefield benign. Peace by fragrance.”
For a time they were silent. Before long the evening breeze blew chill off San Franc
isco Bay. Nick visibly shivered and Fr. B patted him on the shoulder. “I smell the beginning of wisdom,” he said. “What do you say we put an end to this torture and continue our probe into the unknown over waffles at that breakfast joint at the bottom of the hill? My treat. I find that exercise heightens the senses and leads to a ferocious appetite.”
Nick laughed, loud and long. “You’re on, preacher man. I’ve always said that if you served bacon and eggs at the cathedral Sunday mornings, it would be standing room only!”
Ready to fly?”
Well rested, properly stretched, hands thoroughly rosined, and nothing to eat but a single celery stick in the past four hours, Cassie nodded. She wanted trapeze. She wanted to soar above the floor and feel the stuff of life whoosh through her veins. Flying trapeze was the stiff bottle brush that scrubbed away anxiety, indecision, and the scummy buildup of disappointment. She had a lot of scum.
“Ready!”
Ruggedly handsome Blair was training today, and his unquenchable attitude gave her confidence.
“Up you go.”
Today she would execute her first knee-hang, progress that constituted but half a victory because Mags was not there to share it. Still, Cassie had promised to visit later that day and fill in her friend on every dizzying detail.
She waved to Beth on the minitramp. Judging by her dreamy expression, Beth had also discovered Blair. Her daughter responded with a distracted flutter of fingers.
Amused, Cassie tightened the leather grips she wore to help soft hands avoid rips. Just in case, she kept a tin of Badger Balm in her gym bag. The balm was a blend of beeswax, olive oil, and birch essence ideal for quick healing.
In white tee and gray tights, she climbed the ladder to the beginner’s bar. All about her, flyers at different levels of competency engaged in a variety of aerial maneuvers. The gymnasium echoed with commands and the occasional cry of anguish as someone plummeted to the net after a missed try. The thrum of the rigging, the crack of bullwhips, and the comic patter of jugglers passing pins gave the illusion of a three-ring circus.
Cassie looked down to the benches in the waiting area. They were empty except for one gangly kid sulking in the corner. He must have succumbed to every boy’s dream and cracked his whip inappropriately. “Uncontrolled and unscripted” use of a whip had doomed more than one budding Zorro to the timeout bench.
The front doors opened and in she walked, lithe as a bowstring, skin gardenia white against designer black leotard and sweatpants. She glanced up and offered the slightest of nods. Cassie was glad Brenda had been exonerated by the police in the death of her ex-husband. Richie Marin had confessed to the entire plot to aid his cousin in murdering Cassie. The charge was kicked down to attempted manslaughter because, as the police well knew, few said no to John Lexington and lived.
Cassie excused herself to Blair, descended the ladder, met Brenda halfway across the floor, and took her by the hand. “How’s your mom?”
Brenda grimaced. “Stubborn. Demanding. Opinionated.”
She caught herself. “Better.”
“I’d say a lot better,” Cassie said, and they shared a knowing smirk that quickly faded. Both understood, though it remained unsaid, that Mags’ aerial career had come to an abrupt end.
“As for us,” she continued, “I can’t say as we’ll ever get to the place where we dare to catch one another in the air. That takes more trust than we may be prepared to build.” Cassie felt a surge of concern for the woman. It surprised her how much her words rang with regret. “For now, I’d like to spot you on the trampoline, help you gain a sense of being lighter than air.”
Brenda regarded their clasped hands, as if that were as strange a sight as the incredibly young twin brother and sister in clown makeup who fearlessly swung by their knees high overhead. “I am told that eventually my ‘air awareness’ will enable me to flip, fall, and sail through space with the greatest of ease,” she said. “That’s a great deal of grace for just eighty dollars a month.”
Cassie smiled and let go of Brenda’s hand. “That’s why they call it amazing.”
Brenda studied her a long moment, appearing to consider all the possible ambiguities in Cassie’s statement.
Cassie nodded toward the trampoline.
Brenda paused, drew a last deep breath, and took a determined step forward.
Don’t miss the next book in the Sensations series!
Echo
C. L. Kelly
While the Dixons continue to put their lives back together after the perfume scandal, they are called to the wilds of the Sierra Nevada to help locate the lost son of a business associate. Because the boy is just eight years old and deaf, his father employs the Dixons’ sensitivity to the human senses to help in the search and rescue effort. In the child’s last desperate hours, the Dixons are required to put not only their skills, but their marriage to the ultimate test.
Softcover: 0-310-24302-5
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