by Frank Lauria
"Why, it’s a finger print burned into the dress," she exclaimed. She looked up at Orient, her forehead furrowed with confusion.
"There’s a museum of marks like these at the Sacred Heart Church in Rome," Orient told her. "All made by departing demons."
"You know," Sybelle mused as they continued to stare at the charred imprint, "you two must have natural psychic ability. Or you wouldn’t have been able to get so far. Maybe I can show you how to avoid the dangers of occult power."
Gregory shook his head and smiled. "Not right now. We need a rest before we can think straight about anything. I’m going to take Isis back to the Coast. She’s been through a lot these past few months."
"I think you can stop calling me Isis," his wife yawned. "My real name will do for a while."
When the couple had fully recovered, they decided to leave, declining Sybelle’s offer of a place to sleep. After they were gone, Sybelle rummaged around the bar, found another unbroken bottle, poured herself a drink, and came over to the couch.
"I think Gregory and Is—I mean Linda—will be fine," she said, frowning at him. "But I’m not so sure about you, Owen."
Orient smiled. "Ohm, I’m fine. And I want to thank you for your help." He looked across the room at the debris and overturned furniture around the bar. "I’m sorry it cost you a chunk of your pride and joy."
Sybelle dismissed the rubble with a wave of her plump fingers. "That’s easy to straighten out," she said. "But don’t think you’re going to change the subject again." She took a sip of her drink. "You’re being strangely evasive with me, Owen. You haven’t fooled me a bit with this vague research business. There’s a lot you’re not telling me."
Orient shifted uncomfortably. "I just really haven’t worked it out yet. Hard to explain right now."
"I see." Sybelle took another sip and set the glass down. "Well then, I won’t pry, of course. Still, I remember when you told me almost everything about your work," she added hopefully.
Orient sighed, and wondered what he could say that would make sense to her. Sybelle leaned forward. "I want you to do something for me," she said. "Let me give you a reading. I feel something troubling you."
Orient agreed, but he wasn’t enthusiastic as he watched Sybelle go for her tarot cards. In his unsettled state the reading wouldn’t be of much use to either of them.
"My cards were scattered all over the drawer," Sybelle muttered in exasperation. "And the bedroom’s a mess." She glared at Orient and thrust the deck into his hands. "Here, you skinny clam," she grunted, "shuffle these."
Orient ruffled the cards carefully through his fingers as he mixed them. He knew that, unlike most seers, Sybelle used the cards in a special way. Instead of just reading fortunes, Sybelle also drew impressions from the cards themselves, reading the vibrations left on the deck after it had been shuffled.
He handed her the cards and waited as she took them in both her hands and closed her eyes. For a long time she was silent. When she opened her eyes again, Orient saw a tear streaking the makeup on her fleshy cheek. Without saying a word she put three cards face down in front of him. She turned over the first and studied it. "The Fool," she said softly. "It’s the first card in the tarot deck, the Joker. It’s a spiritual card, a card of quests. You are on a long journey but you’ll reach a fork. A friend will betray you," she added, with emotion in her voice. She looked at him.
Orient didn’t say anything. Sybelle looked down and turned over the second card. "The Queen of Wands," she whispered, "the card of Venus." She put her finger on the first card. "When she joins the Fool she becomes spiteful. But it also means a very deep love." She turned over the last card.
For a few seconds she didn’t speak. "It’s—it’s very confusing. The knight of Swords is the card of heroism and honor, but it has a negative aspect with the Fool." She looked up. "It’s very difficult to read. I suppose I shouldn’t have insisted." She started to pick up the cards.
"Now you’re clamming up," Orient said. "Out with it, don’t let it disturb you."
Sybelle’s voice was flat. "It means death, Owen."
Orient hesitated. "We all die, you know," he said smiling, "and the cards don’t specify when." But he felt a blanket of ice settle across his brain as he saw Sybelle open her mouth to say something, and stop. Something was burdening Sybelle, something she didn’t want to tell him.
Orient tried to keep the conversation light for the next half hour, but he could see that Sybelle was still depressed from her reading. He decided to let her sleep it off.
"Cheer up," he told her at the door, "and if you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t hold any séances for me."
"Be careful, Owen," Sybelle said, trying to force a smile. She gave it up and looked at him gravely. "When I held your cards, I felt that you were lost somehow, trying to find your way. Lost and confused." She shook her head. "It made me sad to think of you that way."
Orient put his arm around her shoulder. "Everything is as it should be," he said. "And no reason to worry." But that night, not even Sun Girl’s body, close against his, was enough to warm the doubts that were chilling his restless sleep.
CHAPTER 7
As Orient became more adept at dealing with his daily tasks, he slowly recovered the confidence he had lost during Project Judy. He had to agree that Joker was right about the fringe benefits of the gambling profession. It put him in touch with people of all kinds, and he came to understand many things. Including Doctor Ferrari’s arrogance at having fought his way from the ghetto to a place of eminence in the medical profession.
However, he still held off making any attempt to develop Joker’s telepathic potential. And the experience with Gregory and his wife had made him more cautious than usual. The one thing Joker didn’t control was his ego. He wasn’t sure that the cowboy would use his powers objectively. He was addicted to instant gratification. And then there was the feeling, lately, that Joker was holding something back. He remembered the first card that Sybelle had turned over. The Fool. The Joker in the deck.
But even though Sybelle’s sobering impression of his situation returned to disturb his thoughts from time to time, like a mosquito stinging a peaceful slumberer, Orient was busy, and content.
It didn’t last long.
Exactly a week after he’d gone to see Sybelle, his routine was shattered. He had just finished his meditations and was starting to tally up the daily receipts when the telephone interrupted him. He waited to see if it would stop after four rings, the prearranged code for bets, but it persisted and he picked up the receiver.
"Owen?" Sun Girl’s voice was unusually agitated. "Owen, can you meet me right away?"
"I don’t know. Joker’s not back and I should be here to take calls."
"Forget the calls. This is special."
"What’s up?"
"Kind of a surprise," Sun Girl said. She didn’t sound enthusiastic. "Please come." She gave him the address and hung up.
On his way to meet Sun Girl, he took a deep pleasure in the blinking store windows, the neon posters, and the flow of style and color in the streets. A fresh breeze was rising to cool the fire in the hearts of men. And he was a real element in the movement of that breeze. He’d found his contact with the human condition. For the first time he understood the simple, elusive lesson of the life of the Siddharta/Rama.
As he approached his destination, Orient’s thoughts were distracted by a familiar flash at the base of his brain. For a moment he was confused. Then the picture formed and cleared away the disturbance.
An African witch doctor dancing in the dust. The image faded and Orient knew the nature of Sun Girl’s surprise. He quickened his pace.
In a few minutes he was standing in front of a small brick building that looked like a garage. A sign on the door read: BLACK ARTS MESSAGE SERVICE. He went inside.
"Argyle?" he called, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light.
"Right on, Doc." Argyle Simpson’s voice boomed through the gloom
and Orient saw the tall figure of his friend coming toward him, arms outstretched.
Argyle grabbed his shoulders, pulled him into a quick embrace, then held him out at arm’s length.
"Well, look at this," Simpson laughed. "The prodigal professor." He pulled Orient into the center of the room. "You look terrific, Doc. You’re even getting to be some kind of dude in your old age."
"Now all your secrets are out," Sun Girl called from somewhere behind him.
"Wah, wah, wah!" Julian hopped around Orient and Argyle. "I’m a witch doctor too!"
Orient grinned with happiness and confusion. "Seems like I’m being put on by the whole neighborhood," he said.
"Listen to that. Put on, the man says." Argyle hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Doe, you’re the king of put-ons. Just when I thought I had you figured as a respectable, quiet kind of nut, you melt into the night and then pop up as the reincarnation of Jack Kerouac."
Sun Girl jumped off the apron of a small stage at the end of the room and came over to where they were standing. "That’s right," she said reprovingly. "Here I thought you were a poor wandering medic and now I find out you’re a mad scientist of the occult."
"Telepathy," Orient corrected automatically as he dropped into a nearby chair. "But will somebody please explain what’s going on around here?" He waved his hand toward the stage. "What’s all this?"
Argyle sat down across from him. He pulled a chair over with his foot for Sun Girl. "This, my friend, is the Black Arts Message Service. Yours truly, producer, director, and general handyman."
"And what is that?"
"It’s Argyle’s community theater project for teenaged kids," Sun Girl explained as Julian squirmed in her lap. "I came here last week looking for a part and got involved helping Argyle teach theater arts to the neighborhood Barrymores."
"Today while we were talking, your name came up and wham-the mystery of the disappearing doctor was solved," Argyle said.
"Argyle told me all about your work, Owen," Sun Girl said softly, "and how you helped him develop his talent."
Orient leaned back and looked from Sun Girl to Argyle.
The black actor had been the second potential he had found when he returned from Tibet and began his research. Argyle had the ability to translate what he learned from Orient into other areas, including his own acting profession. As a result of his experiments with Argyle, Orient discovered a great deal about the possibilities of telepathy, beyond using it for efficient communication. Argyle was an innovator and he had stimulated Orient’s own ideas.
"Listen, Doc," Argyle was saying, "I hope you don’t mind my busting your privacy like this. You must have had pretty good reasons for shutting down like you did."
Good reasons. Orient’s mind went back to Ferrari and Project Judy. It had been only a couple of months but it seemed far away. And very unimportant.
"I don’t know, Pilgrim." He smiled wearily as he caught himself reverting to the term he’d always used to describe his small group of telepathic seekers. "No reasons I can explain rationally. Just something I had to do."
Argyle nodded, his long, aristocratic face serious. "Guess every now and again it does a man good to get down there in the street and listen to what the people are saying."
Orient looked at Argyle. The tall actor was leaning back in his chair casually scratching his chin. "Yep," Orient agreed, "I guess I finally"—his eyes met Argyle’s-"got with it."
For no discernible reason, the two men simultaneously burst out laughing. Sun Girl looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression as both men tried to control the outburst, couldn’t, and finally just dissolved into hilarity. Their laughter died down, then began anew as soon as they looked at each other again.
"Must be some secret-society joke, like the Masons," Sun Girl commented to Julian, sending both men into a fresh wave of laughter.
"It’s—it’s—it’s nothing really," Argyle managed. "One of those things you can’t explain."
"Had to be there," Orient chuckled.
"Sure good to see you again, Doc," Argyle smiled after he had calmed down.
"Same here. But I thought you were in Hollywood adding up your grosses."
"Yeah, well," Argyle’s tone became serious, "it’s one thing to rake in a bundle of bread letting them take pictures of my Afro. But then it comes time to decide whether you’re gonna buy some more real estate or start paying back on your good luck."
Orient nodded. "I guess I know what you mean."
"I guess you do, Doc. So, anyway, I bought this shack and fixed it up some."
Orient turned around as Argyle waved his hand.
The room was large and cluttered with an array of folding chairs, wires, tools, sound equipment, and spotlights. The small stage at the end of the room was jammed with half-painted sets, microphones, speakers, and prop furniture.
"We’ve got one section in shape’—Orient turned again to see where Argyle was pointing; there was a small balcony above the entrance which held a neat row of spotlights and colored jells—"But it’s slow going. I’m trying to teach the kids how to use the equipment properly as we install it. And at the same time, I’m trying to teach them something about the creative side of it."
"He’s doing a wonderful job of it too," Sun Girl said, her eyes glowing with something Orient hadn’t noticed before.
Argyle snorted. "She’s a good press agent. But I still have hopes that by the time my next picture comes up, which is soon now, the kids will be able to handle the theater themselves."
"Argyle’s been trying to pressure some of his actor friends to come down here and kind of help keep the group going," Sun Girl said, frowning, "but it’s not easy."
"Yeah. Those hotshots don’t mind donating some tax-deductible money. But asking them for some of their free time is like pulling the caps off their teeth." Argyle shook his head. "But it’s gonna work out okay. I managed to get one or two to agree to help out."
"Good work," Orient congratulated.
"Aha—and that brings me to something else." Argyle stood up. "I’ve been doing a little dabbling in your game these days as well."
"My game?"
"I found me a potential. A budding telepath. And I just started working with him. I only hope I’m as good at it as you are, Doc."
"You’ll probably be better," Orient said, remembering the difficulty his students had adjusting to his austere presence.
"I don’t know how you missed him. He’s been living with you for a couple of months now. In fact he’s right there in front of you," Argyle grinned.
For a moment Orient was confused. Where had Argyle met Joker? He looked around for the flamboyant cowboy.
"Here, Doe," Argyle was saying. "It’s Julian."
Orient stared at Julian still sitting on Sun Girl’s lap. The boy was beaming at him. "I’m a telepath too," he said proudly.
Of course. It was obvious now. Orient recalled that every time there had been a mind contact the boy had been receptive to it. The first night dining the riot, and again today, he had verbalized or acted out the pictures. But like most adults, Orient had heard it merely as childish prattle.
"I told you that Julian felt pure vibrations when we first met," Sun Girl said quietly.
Orient nodded. He felt somewhat chagrined. He had been so preoccupied with his new life and the problem of Joker’s telepathic potential that he had completely overlooked Julian. It was fortunate that Argyle had been receptive to the boy’s talent.
"We’re just working on concentration right now and some simple breathing patterns." Argyle reached over and tickled Julian’s stomach. "But he’ll be handling telekinetics before he’s a year older."
Orient smiled as he watched Julian giggling in his mother’s lap.
Telekinesis was the science of imposing the energy of the mind over matter. Orient himself had taught Argyle how to fuse his will to the vibrations of inert objects and use the leverage to move those objects
through space. It was the third stage of telepathic control and one of the most difficult abilities to attain.
"Well, Doc, what do you think?" Argyle asked.
Orient looked up. "I think you’re fulfilling every best hope I ever had for you, Pilgrim," he said.
"Thanks, Doc. Coming from you, that’s more than a compliment."
In the pause that followed, Orient noticed a questioning look pass between Sun Girl and Simpson. Argyle turned away, obviously uncomfortable. Orient sensed the change in vibration, but didn’t know what to say. Finally, Argyle broke the long silence.
Orient waited.
"We weren’t going to go into this scene right now but I don’t think I can hold back on you, Doe." Argyle’s brow was furrowed with concern. Orient still waited. When Argyle looked up, he saw the appeal in his friend’s eyes.
"Perhaps it would be better without words," Orient suggested.
Argyle frowned. "Right on, Doc. The damned things are too tricky to explain anything really heavy anyhow."
Orient closed his eyes and went receptive. He felt the tentative probe at the base of his brain as the picture lit up the darkness behind his eyelids. As the image cleared, his mind tasted the troubled quality of the message. A sense of profound joy mingled with sorrow.
A crystal pool surrounded by forest. The sun’s rays streamed down through the spaces between the limbs of the tall trees, sending ripples of light across the water. Sun Girl and Argyle swam lazily through the dappled pool, while Julian played at the water’s edge.
They were alone, supremely happy, but haunted somehow. The picture receded, leaving only the sense of melancholic solitude. Orient kept his eyes closed for a moment after the image had faded. He understood why Argyle had been troubled.
Sun Girl and Argyle were very much in love. He opened his eyes. Sun Girl was watching him, an anxious expression lining her small, gentle face.
"That’s it, Doc," Argyle whispered. "If I’d known before it happened that you were involved, maybe..."
Orient cut him off. "No blame, friend," he smiled. "Love’s what the whole universe is about, isn’t it?"