Fool's Journey

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  A chill settled on the room. “And Deirdre . . .Professor Kildeer?”

  “She was one of the last ones and some people were bored by then. This guy Todd said we should do something more risky, something more personal. Last weekend some of us were down at the Market and we saw her there.”

  Mrs. Ruiz caught Panda’s eye and the quick mental communication between them was acknowledged in a blink. Nothing had been what they thought it was. There had been no single thread of evil in Deirdre’s recent days, only a scattering of angry stitches.

  Deirdre had said it once, that the occurrences felt like the layers of meaning in a poem she couldn't comprehend. Some part of her had known the symbols had been different.

  “So that’s what happened,” Panda went on. “The hair – your friend cut it.”

  Adam’s voice broke. “I’ve hardly slept since then. I didn’t want to go to class the next day. I didn’t want to see what he’d done, but I went anyway. She twisted her hair up so it didn’t show, but I knew anyway. Todd looked so smug, so pleased with himself. Look, I really like her, I mean I . . .”

  “It’s okay, Adam,” Mrs. Ruiz said. “You didn’t mean for it to happen. Sometimes things go crazy.”

  "He told me what he did later, with the wreath we saw her try on. It was sick and mean."

  "Shhhh." She put a hand on his head and blessed him silently.

  Deirdre poured out tea from a silver pot into pale china cups. Across from her sat an ancient Chinese who nodded and smiled. On his red silk robe dragons danced and breathed fire. Their tails sprayed gold dust in puffy trails as they leapt and circled mountains.

  “Some are filled with life,” he whispered. “Others are empty with death. Some hold fast to life, and thereby perish, for life is an abstraction."

  He made sense, although she could not have explained why. She tried to picture life and read the difference between what had been and what was. Something tugged at the edge of her mind, persistent and worrisome.

  "Do not heed the old echoes," the Chinese said. "They are no more real than spring or winter. They are only . . ."

  “Katie! Look at me!”

  Deirdre tore herself from the smiling face and spinning dragons and found herself staring into her mother’s eyes. She was young and smiling and full of radiance.

  “Mama! You’re all right!” Deirdre reached for her mother, stretching her hands forward.

  The form receded just beyond her daughter’s grasp. “Come away from here. Follow me, Katie. I want you to meet someone.”

  Deirdre came along behind, her feet barely touching the ground. Her heart filled at the sight of her mother, shining with love, looking happier than she had ever known her to be.

  “Do you see the door, Katie?”

  She shook her head.

  “Look hard, Katie. Try to see it.”

  Deirdre turned her concentration toward the empty space. Slowly the door took shape before her, white with panels and a round brass handle in the middle so shiny she could not help turning the handle.

  On the other side of the door, the landscape continued, but sitting on the grass was a young girl. Her long auburn braids glistened in the sun and a little white dog gamboled about, trying to get her attention. Deirdre sat down next to her.

  "The puppy wants to play," she said. "Don't you want to play?"

  The girl gave no sign she heard. Deirdre reached out and turned the girl's face toward her. There was nothing there. Not eye, nor nose, nor mouth. Her face was as empty and smooth as unmodeled clay.

  "She was always a child of light," Deirdre's mother spoke from the other side of the doorway. "I wasn't able to help her. But you can."

  Deirdre felt her heart break. "Poor sweetheart. Let me help you. I will give you anything I have. My eyes, my mouth, anything."

  "But can you forgive me?"

  "You’re just a child." Deirdre shook her head. "There's nothing to forgive." She put her arms around the girl and kissed her on the forehead. When she did, the light fell away and the world came spinning back.

  Manny heard a long sigh and his head snapped up. Deirdre was looking right at him. His heart caught as he realized she really could see him. She was there.

  Instantly, he reached for the call button, then for Deirdre’s hand.

  “Deirdre! I thought you were gone.”

  “We were for a little bit,” she whispered. “Now we're back.”

  XXXVIII.

  Cold weather and a rare snowfall descended on Seattle. The leaden sky hung low over the city and the wind was full of ice. Manny helped Deirdre step from the cab in front of her old apartment and steadied her on the slick sidewalk. She gripped his hand as she looked up at the windows. Aunt Rosa had been there ahead of time, and gold light glowed. “It looks good,” she smiled.

  "It is good," Manny assured her.

  Manny put his arm around Deirdre’s waist and walked with her up the stairs. Anyone and anyplace could be reborn. The apartment was to be the first office of Angel House, the first of many all through the country, located in regular neighborhoods with the front door always unlocked for those who needed an angel. Its first Director of Operations would be Rosa Ruiz.

  So much had happened since the last time Deirdre climbed these steps. Her mother was dead now, gone on to a place of rest and healing, Bess Seymour was dead, too, and she prayed that good soul had found her peace.

  There had been no trial for Eunice, just a short trip to a sanitarium for the criminally insane. As for Freemont Willard—she’d heard only three people attended his memorial service at the university. All of them were assistants filling for higher ups who didn’t care to be there. She was on medical leave now, but in January she’d return to the university teach one course: The Poetics of Pain and Gladness. Adam had already registered.

  There was so much work to be done, but for now, a slow but steady recovery and time to plan for the future were enough. She leaned against Manny and watched as huge wet snowflakes fell like pieces of lace, erasing the landscape, making the world new. Throughout the neighborhood, the laughter of children echoed as they ran and flung themselves down, making angels in the snow.

  Mary Chase Comstock is the author of several Regency romances. This is her first contemporary novel. As Mary Chase, she is an educational technology consultant and has written numerous articles and books on curriculum integration, visual learning and literacy. She holds a PhD in Literacy and Schooling from the University of New Hampshire, but only mentions it eight or ten times during a casual conversation. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her Scottish Terrier, Irish Wolfhound and Brazilian husband. You can contact her at mary@drmarychase.com