“Oh, yes, of course,” replied Takara. “He spends most of his days here with us. Amida could not run the farm without him. Business is doing very well. We have been fortunate.”
“You work hard and offer people products that truly nourish. How could blessings not grow from such seeds?” Matthew then turned to Amida. “I only hope this so-called Dead Zone has not hurt your business in any way.”
“No, not really hurt,” said Amida. “We have adapted to the change. We’ve been meeting our distributors with our electric trucks full of products. They’re most grateful that we would keep supplying them, despite the traffic issues. I’m wondering, though, how long this Dead Zone might continue?” Though the question seemed rhetorical, Amida stared at Matthew as though waiting for some answer.
“These kinds of things are unpredictable,” replied Matthew, smiling.
“And what kinds of things are you talking about, exactly?” asked Amida.
“You know,” said Matthew, “the formation of clouds…the flights of birds…a whirlpool in a river.”
Takara had been watching the exchange between Matthew and Amida closely. “Amida commented only a few days ago about a flight of birds,” she interjected. “He is always noticing such auspicious things.”
“Yes, he is,” replied Matthew, still looking at Amida. “And so you must know how long the Dead Zone might last, Amida?”
Amida nodded and smiled. “A good long while,” he replied, “a very good long while.”
Matthew smiled and nodded in return. Takara poured some more tea, and the four drank tea and discussed all the events that Matthew had missed since he’d left Cottonwood and even more events that he’d missed since he stopped writing.
At one point, Matthew turned and glanced at all three of them and said, “On my way into town last week, I noticed some freshly cut flowers on my parents’ memorial. Have you been keeping that up for me?”
Miki was the first to reply. “After we deliver to our distributors, we always try to put some fresh flowers out for your parents.”
“You know it’s important to us,” added Takara. “Even when you stopped writing, we never stopped putting out flowers—just like you did for so many years.”
“I appreciate that,” said Matthew, “more than you know.”
The four talked for some time before Takara and Miki retired upstairs to bed, and Matthew and Amida stepped outside into the darkness of the backyard and the beautifully landscaped garden. Though it was dark, the well-sculpted bushes and forms of a Zen garden could be seen in the dim light. Matthew and Amida walked along a path that wound through the garden.
“You have changed,” said Amida with a calm voice.
“Is it that noticeable?” asked Matthew.
“To me it is, yes. You have found the face you had even before your parents were born—the original face—the face of everyone. How did it happen?”
“How does it ever happen? It fell upon me, or perhaps I fell upon it. Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Amida, looking closely at Matthew. “When you arrived tonight, the first thing I thought of was that flock of birds Takara was talking about. I spotted it the same day the Dead Zone started. It was a most unusual flight of birds, and I puzzled greatly about it—until I saw you.”
“You were always good at seeing those connections,” said Matthew. “What did the flock of birds tell you?”
Amida stopped walking and looked at Matthew. “So you are now going to believe in my old superstition—watching the flights of birds?”
Matthew smiled. “What did the birds tell you?”
Amida smiled and nodded as the two continued to walk. “Well,” he began, “I saw the flock take off from the northern meadow. I did not see anything to cause them to fly, so I believe the flock was agitated by something hidden—some mystery I could not identify.”
“That sounds like the right beginning,” responded Matthew. “Go on.”
“The flock flew in an agitated circle—not smooth and uniform. There was much turmoil. I noticed a total of six birds that flew in a distinguished manner.”
“Six?! You’re sure it was six?”
“My eyes may be older, but I still can see and count. Yes, it was six.”
“Sorry, but the number has meaning for me. Tell me about the six. How did they all fly?”
“Four birds separated from the flock almost immediately and followed behind. The four didn’t fly together, but each took its own path. Two of those four rejoined the group after some time. One of the four seemed to lose its way and flew off in a separate direction entirely. I lost track of it, but I believe it never rejoined the flock. The final bird in that group of four was almost like the one I just mentioned—the one that lost its way—only this one was never completely lost from the flock, but remained very distant.”
“What happened to that one? Did it ever get back to the flock?”
“This is important to you?”
“It may be very important—I would like to know, yes.”
“I do not know. The bird was struggling very hard to catch up as the flock disappeared over the hilltop. It began flying like it may even have been injured. I didn’t see what happened to it.”
Matthew was silent for a moment and then said, “Then it was not for you to know what happened to it. But you’ve only told me about four of the six—what of the other two birds which distinguished themselves? How did they fly?”
“They were both strange in their own ways—very puzzling. Neither was part of the original flock, but one of them flew in from the east, circled on its own in what appeared to be a perfect circle, and then eventually joined the flock. The other came in from the north, seemed to act oddly—almost like a drunken bird—and then it too eventually joined the flock.”
“Interesting,” said Matthew. “I knew he had potential.”
“Who had potential?” asked Amida.
“The northern bird. You don’t know him yet, but I suspect you will.”
“More secrets and riddles? What’s going on here? What’s happening here in Cottonwood?”
“Just change,” said Matthew plainly. “Eternal change.”
The two walked in silence a bit further until Matthew said, “I’ve missed our talks, Amida. Those were important times for me—I never realized how important.”
Amida stopped and Matthew stopped. They faced each other.
“And yet now you have changed,” began Amida, “and perhaps have seen further into the mystery than I—and that is all for the good. But I also know you well enough to know you are troubled and are hiding more than you need to. Trust your friendships—write me that letter from prison you never wrote. How may I help you?”
Matthew looked up at the stars above and could feel a deep and growing hurt in his heart. He’d felt it earlier as he walked alone on the road from town to the farm. He knew the pain involved Rebecca. Some misty darkness had fallen over her. She was alone and in pain.
“Someone I love is in pain, and that causes me sorrow,” said Matthew weakly.
“Have you caused this pain?” asked Amida.
“No.”
“Can you remove it?”
“I can try.”
“And what is holding you back?” asked Amida plainly. “Are you afraid of death?”
“No, not death—that is nothing. Death is not the enemy. It is selfishness I battle.”
Amida laughed. “Isn’t it always the enemy? That old ego!”
“Indeed. So I’m wondering—is it selfish of me to want to hold on to love?”
“Unselfish love is everything and is given as a gift. How can it be selfish to want to keep a gift you’ve been given?” said Amida.
“We pass gifts along all the time,” said Matthew, “so others may enjoy them—whatever spreads joy.”
“Is this love you’re holding onto something you can pass on?” asked Amida, his eyes, even in the dim light, twinkling like two tiny stars.
> “There is selfishness in my way—a battle is ahead.”
“Then there is a battle ahead. There is always a battle ahead. We have moments of peace in between battles, like the beautiful evening we are enjoying right now, following the storm that passed through.”
Amida turned from Matthew, and the two continued to walk slowly toward the back of the large garden. They came to a simple stone bench and sat down. The garden’s evening air was full of multiple scents, with each plant or tree having been hand selected and planted lovingly by Amida himself, so that the effect of the garden was not only a work of art for the eye to behold in the daytime, but at night it presented a bouquet of complementary fragrances that harmonized with each other into an aromatic symphony of perfumed and spiced delight.
“Despite the change that has come over you, you are still flesh and have been taken up by love—caught up in it,” began Amida. “This is as it should be. The darkness of selfishness always stands in the way of this love. The unselfishness of love and selfishness always follow each other around—just as day and night follow each other. You know all this, but I think the pain and growing turmoil inside of you might have muddied up your brain—thickened it up a bit, I should think! You know the battle between selfishness and unselfishness is unending. Being in the light, your nature is to battle the darkness; being unselfish, you stand against selfishness. There is no other choice—even if it means facing death.”
“I understand and know these things,” said Matthew. “I am not afraid of death or suffering. It is the suffering of another I have compassion for; it is her pain and loneliness that trouble me now.”
“Is that not her own darkness then, that she must face?” said Amida. “Her pain and loneliness would be her battle. It is never-ending, just as night follows day to be followed by night again—never-ending. If you’ve had some moments of love with her, then you had the day. Darkness would eventually follow somehow.”
“To be followed by day again?” said Matthew.
Both of them laughed lightly, and Amida said, “We would all like the cycle to stop there, wouldn’t we? Eternal day!”
“The flesh in me would, yes,” said Matthew. “You see, I was strong and determined until I felt her pain, and now…I have doubts. Perhaps…my actions…” Matthew’s voice trailed off and he looked away.
“Your actions!” said Amida. “Look at me!”
Matthew turned back to Amida. “Perhaps my actions have brought this pain to her.”
“Such nonsense!” snapped Amida. “You’ve done no such thing! I understand your doubts, but to take such credit! Whatever brought you back to Cottonwood, wasn’t you! You’ve been swept along in a continuous river here. In a world where everything is connected, did you forget there is no boss? You think you’re the boss?! I am now suspecting that you may even hold yourself responsible for some clever things you think you’ve done—like this Dead Zone, for example—and who knows what other things. When we get caught up in the mystery, and wonderful things can sometimes happen—miracles even—we can get tricked into thinking we’ve done this or that thing. But who really is it that is doing these things? Not you! Remember, the mystery came to you! You were caught up in it, like a swimmer caught in a wave! Somehow, this mystery something has caught you up and changed you—and that mystery some-thing is no-thing less than every-thing. We know not what it is, and to call it anything at all would miss it. We can only know it as the timeless face of eternity. It is part of the way of eternity that there would be suffering and pain—but do not think you are the cause of any of it. You are just a ripple in an eternal ocean.”
Matthew was silent as Amida continued, “Doubts are always normal. They are part of the experience of being flesh, and it is the flesh that allows us to feel and experience both pain and pleasure. If you did not have these doubts and the pains of the flesh, you could not know the joy either. You must know both your pain and pleasure through the flesh. This is why you should expect to face your enemy in the flesh—it is, and must always be, flesh-versus-flesh on the battleground. So do not take credit for your actions creating the battle! You did not cause anything. It is the eternal battle—there simply can be no other way.”
“I understand,” replied Matthew after a pause. “To smell a rose I must accept its thorns. These are things I know, but…”
“But sometimes need to hear again—from a friend?” said Amida.
“Yes. What a fool I was not to have written all those years.”
“Perhaps, but you had your job to do in prison, and now you’ve come back to Cottonwood and apparently have another task to complete. I will pray for you to face your battle with a full heart, the way of the warrior—never giving up and facing victory or defeat equally, with honor. Either way, you will have played your role in this eternal and beautiful dance.”
The two men stood up from the bench, facing each other. “Thank you,” said Matthew as they hugged.
“You’re welcome,” said Amida. “In some ways I envy you. You seem to have a great battle ahead, and my battles are now smaller, daily, and more trivial. I battle an aging body’s aches and pains.”
“You are a wonderful father, grandfather, and husband. You have served your family well, gave me a home—which allowed me to remain in Cottonwood—and taught me to appreciate what a true farmer gives to the world,” said Matthew. “You have provided real nourishment and healthy food for your customers.”
“And I will be worm food soon enough,” said Amida.
“As we both shall be, someday,” said Matthew.
“Then we will serve our duty to the worms well!” said Amida.
They laughed a few moments, and then Matthew said, “I would like to stay here in the garden tonight—if that’s all right.”
“My garden is always your garden,” said Amida. “Stay as long as you wish.”
Amida retired to the house, leaving Matthew alone in the garden. He found a spot of grass not far from the bench where he and Amida had been seated and stretched out under the stars. The night was warm, and a soft breeze washed across his face. He looked up at the ocean of stars above him and could feel the countless stories and lives, loves and passions that swirled among them—battles of light and darkness, worlds being born and worlds dying, tender private moments between lovers, and majestic tides of history, sweeping across billion of lives. These battles, passions, struggles, and lives were the very reason for the sunlight streaming from the stars overhead. It was the great dance—the only dance—a wave of passion, pleasure, and pain that rolled eternally across the cosmos.
Then the wave rolled and crashed back onto him. At that moment, as he reached out, he could once more feel her—Rebecca! The other half of him called out. She was alive but alone. Darkness and pain surrounded her. Her pain became his pain. He wanted to share it, to take it away from her—to bear it all, if he could. But he knew the time was not yet. She would have to be strong on her own. He couldn’t remove her from the pain, and that inability pierced him and tore at him. His body ached and trembled with the frustration, then mixed with great sorrow and rage. In the furnace of his soul, that mixture hardened him, tempering him like a sword for the battle ahead.
Eighty-Two
Diane’s Web
Diane D’Arcy’s heart was in turmoil—torn between what she wanted to believe but didn’t want to accept as possible. Part of her didn’t want to believe that Rebecca had run away with Matthew, yet another part of her wanted to believe that she had—for if Rebecca was not with Matthew—Diane knew that something else far worse might be true. That possibility was too painful for her to face. Her mind closed it off from her. If Rebecca had run away with her new husband, Diane would not betray her daughter’s decision, no matter how foolish an act she personally thought it would be. Diane knew that love could force one to act both foolishly and impetuously at times—and then sometimes asking for forgiveness later. She only hoped that wherever Rebecca and Matthew had fled to, they were wise enough to
stay clear of the reaches of Sheriff O’Neil.
Diane D’Arcy had just opened the door leading from Rebecca’s kitchen to the garage and was reaching for the light switch when the sheriff stepped up just behind her.
“I’ve checked out there already,” said the sheriff.
Diane said nothing at first, but found the switch and flipped it on. Before stepping inside the garage, she said, “I’m not looking for Rebecca. I’m checking to see if her bike is here. She would have ridden it to work tonight.”
Diane stepped into the garage, and the sheriff followed her. Rebecca’s car was parked as expected, but her bike was missing.
“She obviously left for work,” said Diane, her voice steady.
“Or left for somewhere,” replied the sheriff.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Diane as she turned and glared at him.
“Diane,” began the sheriff, “I hope you don’t mind me being informal here, but I think it’s time for some honesty between us. We’ve known each other for many years, and if I’m going to have any chance of finding your daughter or Matthew Duncan, for that matter, I need to have all the information I can get my hands on. I think you may know more than you’ve told me so far.”
Diane’s heart began to pound harder. She felt her body stiffen. I won’t betray my daughter or my promise to her and Matthew!
“I’ll do whatever I can to help you, Sheriff,” she said, hoping he hadn’t detected any tremble in her voice.
“Good,” he replied as he studied her. “So, let me just ask you this question flat out—do you know any reason why Rebecca may be helping or assisting Matthew Duncan right now? Any reason at all?”
He had come to the point far quicker than she expected. She had to keep him off the trail. Diane looked blankly at the sheriff. “I’m not sure I’m exactly following you.”
“Look,” said the sheriff, “you may or may not know this, but your daughter came to see Matthew at the office today. Did you know that?”
Touching Cottonwood Page 66