Fury

by John Coyne

  “Jenny, please.” He stepped into the narrow kitchen.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “I’m not going to touch you. I just want a gingersnap before you devour them all.” He grabbed one and stepped away, then chanted plaintively, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” Jennifer reached up into the overhead cabinet and took down another large tumbler. “Would you like a glass of milk?”

  “Yes, please.” He grinned and stepped closer.

  “Don’t touch me,” she ordered again.

  “I’m not!” His hands shot into the air. “I’m just trying to get along here, you know. Get through the next few minutes, that’s all.”

  “It’s not something to joke about. I don’t want to be jollied out of my mood. Okay?” She turned around and looked at him. “I want you to take me seriously, that’s all.”

  “I do.”

  “This morning over coffee you told me I needed to see a shrink—but wasn’t I right about David?”

  Tom nodded, munching on the cookie.

  “Look, I don’t understand what’s going on with me any more than you, but I need your help. I need you to support me. Is that too much to ask?” She looked up at him, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

  “Of course not, darling. Of course not,” he whispered, and wrapped his arms around her.

  Jennifer let herself be held by Tom, taking comfort in being held and cuddled. For the moment neither one of them spoke. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, then used his hairy chest to wipe away her tears.

  “Stop it! No!” Tom laughed, edging away. “That tickles.”

  “Good!” She nibbled his right nipple, then licked his breast.

  “See!” he said at once, “you’re doing it again. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s wonderful, but you’re much more—”

  “Careful, Tom,” she said, stepping away and opening the refrigerator door to put away the milk.

  “I’m just telling you how much I like it, that’s all.” He tried to recapture her in his arms, but she moved his hands away and walked back to the bedroom, where she stripped out of the bathrobe and stood naked for a moment in the shadowy light of the room.

  Tom came to the bedroom door and watched her while he finished his glass of milk. Jennifer crossed to her bed and pulled back the quilt.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said from the doorway.

  “Thank you.” She knew she was. She felt beautiful. Having sex always made her feel beautiful, and she was aware, too, that the shadowy light on her body aroused Tom. She turned toward him, and beckoned him toward her. He was right; she was behaving out of character. She felt as if she were watching herself on film.

  “Jenny?” Tom whispered, approaching her. He sounded slightly nervous.

  She smiled, inviting him closer with the coy downward slant of her lips, enjoying her control over the pace of their lovemaking.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered, and she reached for him, slipped her arms around his shoulders and brought his face close to her breasts. “Here,” she told him, “they want you,” and then she slowly, softly tumbled him over onto the bed and made love to Tom again.

  O boy with the slim limbs,

  I seek you but you do not listen, For you see not me,

  Nor know you are the charioteer of my soul.

  Anakreon set down his split-reed pen and his papyrus, then leaned back against the cool wall of the palestra. The boys had come into the center of the gymnasium and were stripping off their clothes and lathering their young bodies with olive oil, and his eromenos was among them. His heart tugged at his throat, spotting the lean youth. He could not take his eyes off Phidias, who now, among the other boys, was laughing at some remark, enjoying himself. Anakreon smiled with pleasure, simply enjoying the sight of him. He had waited there in the shade of the colonnade for just the chance of seeing him.

  “Ah, there you are, Anakreon,” a voice said from down the hallway.

  Anakreon reached out and rolled up his piece of papyrus, hiding his poem from his friend Xenophanes, another of Athens’ aristocrats.

  “Writing to the Gods, huh, Anakreon?” the man asked, folding his cloak beneath him and sitting down next to Anakreon on the bench. He was a large, fleshy man who was already sweating beneath his white cloak in the hot Athenian morning. “And which of these lads has your fancy this season, my friend?” He watched the pupils as he spoke, squinting his eyes against the bright sun.

  “The finest of fair,” mumbled Anakreon, pulling himself up on the bench.

  “They’re all fair at the age of puberty,” whispered Xenophanes, still keeping his eyes on the courtyard.

  “True, Xenophanes, but my soul sings for young Phidias, the son of Ptolemy, there!” He nodded toward the courtyard where a red-cloaked instructor had divided the boys into wrestling teams, setting an older pupil to instruct the younger ones.

  “Do you remember our days here, Anakreon?” Xenophanes asked, glancing at his friend, who still watched the courtyard and his young eromenos. When Anakreon did not respond, Xenophanes asked, “Have you coupled with the boy?”

  Anakreon shook his head and sighed. “I have showered him with gifts, told him of my love. His family knows, of course.” He redraped his blue cloak and glanced at Xenophanes, adding, “Life was simpler, my friend, when we were the loved objects, not the lovers. The boy drives me mad with his cleverness.”

  “His coyness, you mean,” Xenophanes answered, laughing.

  “True. True. I would not have him be a prostitute, but by Zeus, his passivity drives me mad. He’d rather be with his friends, at his games, instead of walking about the city with me. There is much I could teach the boy.”

  “I’m sure there is, Anakreon,” Xenophanes commented, glancing at his friend, “but your time will come, it always does, doesn’t it?” Xenophanes whispered, leaning closer. “You have had your way with many of these palestra boys.”

  “It is my poetry, I confess, Xenophanes, and not my gross flesh that keeps their interest. And yes, I have had my way with some. I know. Yet the wait is always maddening.” Anakreon sighed. “And my loins ache.”

  “So meanwhile, you have your poems to keep you company, to sing your song: ‘For my words the boys will all love me: I sing of grace, I know how to talk with grace.’”

  Anakreon smiled, pleased by his friend’s acclaim, then said in verse,” ‘Again I am in love and not in love, I am mad and not mad.’ ” He nodded toward the boys. “So goes my life. I’d rather have one moment with his flesh than a room full of papyrus poems or an olive wreath at the Olympic games.”

  “The games! Come, come, your days of sports are over.”

  “I am not yet thirty, my dear Xenophanes.”

  “And they are not yet fifteen,” Xenophanes commented, with a gesture toward the young sportsmen.

  Flute music began and at once the athletes threw themselves into their wrestling matches. A chorus of shouts came from the courtyard, and the dust from their trampling feet rose in clouds, obscuring the men’s view.

  “We’d do better in the Agora, buying hares from Boeotia, than standing in this dust storm. Let us go to the baths. My skin is filthy. I spent the morning with a Sophist at the foot of the Acropolis, and even there, the dirt and dust from the Agora were awful.”

  “My loins sing for the boy,” Anakreon answered, “that boy is my muse.”

  He glanced back at the courtyard. The instructor had called a halt to the wrestling matches and the dust had settled. Anakreon could see his young eromenos, wet with sweat and oil. He stood with his hands on his bare hips, panting in the bright sun. The fine gray dust of the courtyard clung to his lean frame, glistened in the daylight. Then the boy looked up, saw Anakreon standing there beyond the colonnade, and smiled. His white teeth flashed in his face, his bright blue eyes gleamed.

  Anakreon’s heart soared. Tentatively he waved back and then went gladly with Xenophane
s, swelling now with joy, for he had been noticed. In time he would plan to visit the family again, shower the lad with gifts, and someday soon, soon

  His heart ached with anticipation and he said to Xenophanes, buoyant with his good fortune, “Come, my friend, let us go drink some wine at the baths, and I’ll write a poem about you, sing of your long-gone days of glory at the games.”

  “It was only for you, Anakreon, that I wanted to win,” Xenophanes said, pausing to look at the poet.

  Anakreon stopped walking. The two men were in the narrow street outside of the gymnasium. Below them lay the wide expanse of the Agora, the Athenian market square, above them was the Scambonidai, where all the wealthy of Athens lived in two-story stone houses with wide porticos and courtyards, and gynaecea, rooms for the women.

  “I never knew,” he said seriously.

  Xenophanes nodded. “Ah, my dear friend, we, too, suffer who do not have Apollo’s gift for poetry.” He tightened his cloak on his shoulder, smiling sadly at Anakreon. His round, fat face was losing its shiny glow. He seemed suddenly older in the fierce Aegean sun.

  His abrupt confession had stunned and silenced Anakreon, and the poet reached out and touched Xenophane’s arm, whispering, “I will go to Delphi and sacrifice a goat to Apollo, so that he will send me the muse to write a poem in your honor, Xenophanes. Soon, you will be known throughout the world, the great Xenophanes. Schoolboys and students at the academy will recite my poem of your heroic deeds.”

  “I have no heroic deeds, Anakreon, except for the number of kraters I can consume at a banquet.” He was smiling, trying to shake the moment of melancholy, and the two men turned again to walk to the baths.

  Together on the narrow street, jockeyed as they were by the press of people and animals going also toward the center of the city, Anakreon reached over and gently touched his old friend, saying, “We have had more than one moment of bliss, my dear Xenophanes. We have had a lifetime of shared brotherly pleasures. We heard Aeschylus together at the theater and saw Alkaios win the stadion at the Olympics.”

  “I’d give it all up to have had you once look at me the way you gazed on young Phidias.”

  “I didn’t know, Xenophanes. I did not know.”

  “Ah, the pity of it, as you poets would say.” Anakreon looked up, and in the distance he could see the sea, blue and calm to the edge of the horizon. He thought of his current quest, the young Phidias, and recalled the look of his lean limbs, his bright eyes, that wonderful innocent smile, and Anakreon’s heart tugged in his chest. Then the lumbering Xenophanes brushed against him on the rocky street, and Anakreon felt the weight of the big man, felt his sweat and gross flesh, and he, too, whispered, “Ah, the pity of it.” Then he fell silent and the two aristocrats walked in silence down the steep Athens hill to their drinking club.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “I THINK IT’S TIME for us to try to discover who you really are,” Phoebe Fisher said, after she had listened to Jennifer’s account of her recent behavior. It was the first time that Jennifer had seen the channeler since she killed her attackers. It was early in the afternoon and the midwinter sun filled the rooms and reflected off the waxed hardwood floor. Again Jennifer thought how lovely and charming the apartment looked. She wished that she could bring this kind of warmth to her own Brooklyn Heights place. It was all the wall hangings, the fabrics and the exotic plants, she decided, that gave the living room its special quality.

  Jennifer had not told Phoebe about the killings but did allude to the change in her behavior with Tom, how she was becoming increasingly more aggressive in her lovemaking.

  “And was he upset?”

  “No, I guess not,” Jennifer answered, laughing. “But I was! I mean, it makes me nervous to be that

  way.”

  “There’s no need not to enjoy your new intenseness. You are just experiencing what is truly you. Your essence.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to frighten him away,” she told Phoebe, as if to make a joke of her fierceness in bed.

  “Do you want to talk to Dance?” Phoebe asked next.

  “Oh God, I don’t know. That’s scary.” She sat back in the oversized mission rocker.

  “Good!” Phoebe said, smiling. “Being frightened is good. It clears out the pores, makes us more aware of our surroundings.” She lifted up her teacup and took a sip.

  Jennifer looked again toward the flames of the fire. Phoebe was giving her time to decide. She wasn’t rushing her, but that only made her more nervous.

  “How do I talk to him? I’ve never done anything like this.”

  “Well, when I go into a trance,” Phoebe explained, “and he comes through, he usually says something that shows he understands your problem, and then he’ll say something like, ‘How may I help you?’ That’s his signal. Then you may ask anything, talk about anything, whatever. There is no such thing as a stupid question. Out of the most mundane questions have come answers and information for all of us. To him nothing is boring, everything is for the first time. This is what he has been sent to do for our society. If he feels a reluctance on your part to talk about something, he will not volunteer information. If he feels you want to get the ball rolling, he will go as far and as fast as you want to take it. He reflects whatever energy you put out.”

  “But can he help me understand what is happening?”

  “Jennifer, I don’t know. I think he might be able to point you in the right direction. He might even have some specific answers. He might be able to look into your spirit life and see where you have been, in what ways you have been reincarnated. “

  “How will I know that Dance is here? Do you tell me or what?”

  “Well, when the connection is made you’ll see my body go through a few little reactions. Nothing about this is painful to me, you should know. The experience is very energizing and very valuable. For me it is like a very deep dream. I really don’t hear the words because consciousness is not focused in that way. I am aware that there is an interaction going on, and I feel the emotions, I feel the energy, but that’s all. I don’t listen to your conversation. Dance and I are having our own conversation.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “They don’t use language at all in his world. His mind sends thought, and because my consciousness is diffused, it allows his mind to sort of imprint its vibration on mine. So basically my energy is being used as a translator box for him. Whatever language I’m programmed in, that is the language in which his thoughts will emerge from my mouth. That’s what you hear. He is not actually speaking at all.”

  She paused a moment. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess.” Jennifer laughed nervously.

  “All right, then, help me prepare myself to be receptive. Let’s meditate for a few minutes.” Phoebe drew herself up and crossed her legs. “Let’s close our eyes. After the meditation, when I’m in my trance, you can drink tea, whatever, but at the beginning let us be quiet and keep our eyes closed. Get comfortable yourself and try to breathe as fluidly as you can.”

  Jennifer did not close her eyes. She was afraid of the darkness, afraid of not knowing what Phoebe Fisher was doing.

  The small woman linked her legs together and laid her arms loosely in her lap. Her eyes were closed and her head was bent forward as she softly spoke.

  “I ask the salamanders to put a ring of fire around us tonight, to protect us during this session, and Dance, I ask you that you only bring the spirits for our highest good to us.”

  For a moment Phoebe was silent, meditating. She had lit small candles in the room, and in the gathering darkness and the dying fire, they glowed like distant vigil lights.

  “I want you to see yourself surrounded by a big ball of blue,” Phoebe said, whispering now. “A very bright, vibrant blue color. All around you. It covers you from head to foot like a big cocoon. It goes through you, permeating you. This beautiful blue brings peace and serenity and spiritual awareness. In front of you, b
ehind you, over your head, through you. Now clothe and purify us. I want to bring down on white light through both of us. See it entering through the top of your head, gently coming into every part of your body. Don’t block it, Jennifer. Let it gently wash through you from head to foot. See it entering every cell and every pore. This beautiful beam of white light.”

  Jennifer closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the beam of light.

  “Now, Jennifer, I am going to say a few words. Let your mind freely associate with these words in a positive way. This is an exercise in raising your vibrations so we invoke only the higher entities.”

  “Love.”

  Jennifer thought of Tom, of the first time she had seen him striding into a courtroom, and how he seemed to overwhelm everyone else with his presence and authority.

  “Joy,” Phoebe whispered.

  She thought of running across the meadows of the nature center at Planting Fields. She had been with Kathy Handley and Eileen. It was a wonderful warm spring day, and they were all skipping school.

  “Peace.”

  She had made love to Tom and was lying in his sleeping arms. It was a quiet afternoon in the city, and she did not want to be anywhere else in the world, ever. And she had thought then that that was real peace.

  “O Master of Creation,” Phoebe went on, “Thou art the sky full of happiness that displays all the stars of the universe. I humbly ask to be a channel today to Jennifer, that I be out of the way, that I give up control of my body to the spirits so that they may come and speak to her. We want to thank all of you who are with us today for coming and giving us your time and your energies. God bless you all.”

  “Let us now return to the silence. Be very still and quiet in guiding the spirits to come and to speak.”

  Jennifer opened her eyes again. They had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see clearly. Phoebe was before her, still sitting in her yoga position. Her head was still bowed, but her body moved, as if she were unsettled and disturbed by a nightmare. Her small shoulders drew tight, and like a reflex, her arms jerked, then settled down again into her lap. She took several quick, deep breaths.