by Frank Lauria
She put her hand on his. His skin was cool. A cold-blooded creature. “There’s no problem.”
“Good.” He casually unbuttoned her tunic as he spoke.
“Irate parents can be inconvenient.” He slipped the tunic off her shoulders. “You’re such a little bird.” He stroked her arms and the swelling nipples of her breasts, touching her lightly with his fingertips. Wherever his calm hands moved they created areas of intense heat.
With a small moan Addison pulled him down next to her. She squirmed under his hands, helping him to pull the clothes from her body. He took his time, exploring her slowly, bringing her to a long aching frenzy before taking her.
She dug her nails into his back and put her mouth over his ear and begged him frantically for everything.
Later that night they made love again and he asked her to recite a prayer while they were together. Addison was puzzled, but she did as he asked—for as long as she could remember what she was doing…
III
Orient waited until Malta had finished breakfast before going up to speak to her.
When he came in she was sitting up in bed, looking out into the garden.
“Good morning,” he said quietly. “Did you have a good sleep?”
“Good morning.” She turned from the window slowly. “No dreams. Yes, a good sleep.” There was a trace of an accent in her speech.
“Hap was very concerned for you.” He sat next to the bed.
She smiled slightly. “He’s so good.” She pushed her hair back away from her face. There were blue circles around her eyes, and her skin was still very pale.
“Who are you?” she said, suddenly aware that she was talking to a stranger.
“I’m Doctor Orient. I’m an old friend of Hap’s. He called me when he couldn’t revive you from your trance.”
Malta smiled. “There was no need for that. I would have been up in a few hours. Just basic auto suggestion.”
“You were in a trance for almost three days.” Orient moved closer to the bed.
“That is serious,” she said, almost to herself. She looked up. “Are we in a hospital?” she asked apprehensively.
“You’re at my home. You’ll need a long rest, I think.” Orient took her pulse. It seemed normal, but just under the steady throb he sensed a subtle acceleration.
“I think I have been resting too long now.”
“Perhaps,” he smiled. “How did you manage to get yourself in such a position?”
“Position?” She wet her lips, and withdrew her hand from his.
“I mean in that deep trance.”
“My mother taught me how to hypnotize myself and receive thoughts.”
“Hypnotism?” Orient frowned. “Was that a hypnotic trance you were in?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I don’t know much about it.” Her eyes watched his face for any reaction.
“I see.” Orient appeared unconcerned. “Have you done this sort of thing long?”
“What sort of thing?” she demanded.
“I mean, read minds for a living.”
She relaxed slightly. “Oh, yes, I did it before I met Hap, but my assistant—“ She paused, then, “my assistant had to leave me suddenly.”
“And then you met Hap?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that I’m trying to help you?”
“Yes.” She turned to the window.
“Do you remember anything while you were in trance?”
She didn’t answer him immediately. “No,” she said finally. “It was like being in a deep sleep. I couldn’t even hear Hap.”
“I’ve had a little experience with matters of trance and I thought that perhaps there was something other than simple suggestion involved with what happened to you.”
Malta turned suddenly, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
Orient continued easily. “I just thought that you might have met with a psychic accident.”
“I don’t know, Doctor.” Her voice was softer now. “I make my living using hypnosis. I don’t really believe in magic.”
“Not many people do.”
“But you do, is that it, Doctor?”
Orient regarded her carefully before he answered. Malta. The name clattered through his mind. He searched her face. The long fine bones of her face. Her chiseled mouth. Her name rose in his thoughts when he looked at her eyes. He knew Malta. He remembered a song. A child’s song. “Yes,” he said, “I believe in magic.”
“Spells? Witches?” She seemed amused.
He waited for the rush of sound to subside. “In a way.” He began breathing carefully.
She leaned close to him. “Possible, I suppose.” Her amusement shifted suddenly to melancholy. He felt the change and instinctively moved closer. She reached out and touched his face gently with her fingertips. “Have we met? I feel we have.” She said.
“We met last night in your trance.”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t mean now. I mean some other time.”
“Perhaps.” Orient touched her hand. Her skin felt cool but he could feel warmth radiating from her.
“Your touch feels familiar,” she said, closing her eyes.
“Familiar?” The ragged sing song of the child’s tune expanded inside him.
“You make me sad,” she was saying, “sad to recall a sweet touch. Like a song you can’t remember.”
As she spoke a pang of sheer pleasure pierced his chest, disrupting the deliberate pattern of his breathing.
Orient lifted his head.
She was staring at him, compassion softening the precise curves of her face. “We have the same color eyes,” she mused.
The pleasure intensified as she spoke. Her words dropped into his consciousness like stones in a pool, sending ripples of delight across his mind. His brain bounced crazily with the sound of a child’s voice singing the same phrase over and over as he relaxed his grip on thought and began drifting inward…
The sharp tickle of grass under his bare legs worried him back from his dream. For a moment his mind refused to function. Then he saw the carved figure of Urvashi and he knew where he was. He must have fallen asleep while he was meditating in the temple garden. He yawned and adjusted his short robe around his shoulder.
A sound behind him catapulted him to full awareness. As he whirled his hand was already easing the sword from the scabbard at his belt.
When he saw her his hand relaxed. A full rush of joy exploded from his throat as he opened his arms and reached out for her.
He rocked her back and forth, still laughing at the absurdity of her loveliness.
“Where have you been? Why didn’t you let me know where to find you? If I hadn’t spoken to the servant girl, I would never have known you’d come to the sacred garden,” she reproached him, her green eyes flashing alternate facets of relief, fear, anger and love.
“Why are you so upset?” he whispered, lifting her face and gently brushing her damp cheeks with his lips. “I just wanted to spend some time with our protectress Urvashi before I sail.”
Her stricken expression chilled his amusement, and he drew her close to him. “What is it that’s frightened you?” he demanded.
“I’ve had a terrible dream. I don’t want you to take that voyage. Please. For the sake of Urvashi, don’t leave me.”
“You’re as foolish as the old goat woman,” he whispered.
She pulled away and he saw her face was grave. “Are you sure you love me?” she said.
In spite of his efforts the smile broke through.
“I love you only, for all time.”
“You’ll grow tired of me and take another woman.” She persisted, playing at her favorite game.
He put his hand over his heart. “By my most solemn oath, I vow to Urvashi that I shall never have knowledge of another woman’s love.”
Her delighted laugh tinkled in the warm wind, filling him with joy as he held her. He began h
umming the simple little song they had shared since childhood.
As her voice joined with his, his joy was stabbed by a sudden doubt. There was something he had to remember.
The ragged cadence of the song had made it difficult to concentrate, but even as they both sank to the soft grass, and he moved his hands over the cool smoothness of her skin, the thought clung. He nuzzled her hair, inhaling its peppery cedar scent, trying to shake loose the gnawing anxiety. It resisted, and grew stronger, drawing him… guiding him back…
“Something I must remember.” The sound of his own voice cut through a lush blanket of warmth tucked around his senses.
“Is something wrong, Doctor?” Malta was close to him, the cedar scent of her hair lulling him back to the distant garden.
Orient pulled back from her and got to his feet. He took a long, deep breath.
She was looking up at him, her head cocked to one side.
“Are you all right?” Concern furrowed the space between her hazy green eyes.
He looked away. “I’m okay.” He tried to subdue the shakiness in his tone. “Just a sudden dizziness. Perhaps a side effect of the roller coaster we were on last night.”
“Roller coaster,” she half laughed in confusion. “Doctor, I’m afraid your wit is obscure.”
He looked down at her, his gaunt face serious. “I know exactly what kind of trance you were in, Malta,” he said carefully, “because I was there.”
She shifted slightly, coiling away from him.
“Why are you avoiding my help?” He kept his eyes on her. “I know you were touched by a negative force and so do you.”
She stared back at him. “We were together just then, when you were dizzy.”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause as Orient waited for her to speak.
“When I first saw you, I felt that we had met before.” Her eyes were soft. “Did you have that feeling, too?”
“You know I did.”
Her eyes were pleading now. “Then please understand when I say that you cannot help me. There were only those moments for us, nothing more.”
“Perhaps,” he nodded, “but what about your trance?”
“I don’t know about the trance,” her voice rose. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You must let me help,” he said softly.
“Help me,” she sighed sadly. “Perhaps you could help me.”
Orient waited.
“My mother taught me to hypnotize myself. She had what people called second sight. After she died I was forced to use what my mother had taught me to earn a living.”
Orient nodded.
“But as I used my trance I discovered that my powers were erratic. I couldn’t always control them fully. But I still had to use them, I was dependent on them.” She fell back on the pillow. “I’m so very tired.”
Orient put his hand on her forehead. She was feverish.
“What do you mean when you say you couldn’t control your power?” he asked. Doubt dragged at his words. He was sure she was avoiding the truth.
“I’ve had trouble coming out of my trance a few times before. Each time it’s lasted longer than the last.” She closed her eyes.
“Anything else?”
“When I awake I have a horrible feeling of intense fear, Fear all around me.”
Orient straightened up. Malta wasn’t telling him everything. He could feel it.
“Can you tell me anything else?” he said.
“No,” she said, her voice weary.
“Later, perhaps.”
“I’ll try.” She looked up at him. “I’m so tired that nothing makes sense.”
Orient nodded. “I’ll look in later. Call for Hap if you need anything.”
‘Thank you.” She tried to smile. “Perhaps soon I’ll be able to think clearly.
Orient left her looking out the window at the garden below.
As he slowly climbed the stairs to his room his doubt gave way to depression. He knew less about Malta now than when he began. But he was more involved. His long training in psychic and emotional control was worthless. It had all broken down the moment he saw her. His brain was making emotional equations, based on need.
He was a fool for expecting better. He’d spent too much time training and not enough doing. He still didn’t know how to ride his emotions full speed.
He looked up. He was standing in his bedroom. Still absorbed, he began changing his clothes.
His journey had begun as a search for total freedom. A search for the path that led away from the genetic drama of the marketplace. Away from the cities where emotions are measured and exchanged as game tokens.
Paradoxically, his quest had taken him back to the cities. He wondered if he had taken his journey just to escape a game he couldn’t play.
He stepped into a pair of brown Battaglia loafers and looked at his reflection in the wall mirror. He was healthy enough, even younger looking than his thirty-odd years, but he felt stiff and unsure. His lean body showed the result of constant exercise. Another methodical form of training, Orient reminded himself.
His black sweater and custom trousers suggested a dynamically aware city dweller. But they only reflected his taste. He should have worn a plastic bag, he decided. That would reflect his condition.
He moved to the stairs and on his way to the garage tried to concentrate on solving immediate problems. Conflicts were an indulgence. Malta needed positive help.
In a recess of his ear he could hear the shredded echo of a sing-song tune. There was something missing inside Malta.
Something he had to find. There was a void of despair inside her he had to cross. He stepped into the limousine and pushed the button that activated the garage doors. Then he pulled the starter and listened to the deep full roll of the seven-litre, straight six engine. For a moment he heard nothing else.
The Ghost was one of Orient’s few material enthusiasms. He’d discovered the Rolls Royce moldering in a barn in New Hampshire, on property owned by an American Yoga instructor. Orient had spent the rest of that summer having the car restored and rewired. Originally it had been built at the Rolls shop in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1925, during the time that the firm was experimenting with maintaining a factory in the States. The body was a special design by Brewster and bore a strong resemblance to the Bugatti Royale coachwork. It seated nine.
It wasn’t a fast car, working up a top speed of perhaps eighty, but Orient wasn’t concerned with the Ghost’s speed. He had other, more efficient methods of travel. He found the integrity of the workmanship on the car almost spiritual in its attempt at perfection. To him, it was a piece of sculpture that worked.
He lingered on the throb of the motor as he eased the long car out into the crisp fall sunshine. Behind him the garage doors folded shut.
His mind rippled with Malta as he drove. He could feel the emotion washing over his logic. He knew Malta and she knew him. They had been together before today and would be together again. His Karma was intertwined with her time. But he knew the void there. The negative charge within her wasn’t casual. She had been drawn more from empathy than accident. The only accident had been the location. She became trapped when she came to New York. But the time had already been established and eventually would have taken her. The time of her.
She was too close to the negative. She could easily come under the influence again. He wondered if she had participated in the forbidden rites. When she had been close to his ear he thought he’d heard… He shook it loose from his mind and concentrated on the view of the Palisades. He parked the Ghost in front of an ornate townhouse in the West 90’s that served as a rectory for Bishop Redson. Gargoyles. Very yang.
He wondered if it would do any good to get Redson involved in this. He was still trying to decide when he rang the bell.
Redson’s secretary wasn’t happy to see him. He tried to smile and block the door at the same time. “Here again, Doctor?”
Orient walked pa
st him. “My research calls for the bishop’s own fine hand today, Mr. McGowan.”
“He’s in conference with the Bishop of Panama.” McGowan ran to block the stairs.
“He’ll know where to find me,” Orient said over his shoulder as he executed a sharp right turn at the foot of the stairs and made for the study.
He spent the rest of the afternoon researching Malta’s symptoms. Redson had a large collection of volumes concerning the occult. They were rare books, frequently written in longhand, occasionally illuminated, all valuable, which described the mathematics of magic—the techniques, measurements and conditions of practice. Redson maintained the collection partially as a connoisseur and partially to aid him in his clerical duties. As a priest he had been chosen to study the secret art on behalf of his church. This wasn’t unusual procedure. The Church still trains a few men each year in the occult and there is a rite of exorcism inherent in both the sacrament of Baptism and the process of Holy Orders by which a man achieves priesthood.
It was much later when Redson came in carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and two cups.
“All right now.” He set the tray down elaborately. “What’s your trouble?”
The man was amazing. Sixty-three years old and he looked like a fullback. He practiced no Yoga, ate no health food, fasted infrequently, was overly concerned with the politics of his calling, and still he radiated the clear open energy of an exuberant young man. Orient grinned at him.
“Good to see you, Bishop.”
“Will you cut the hosannas and tell me what you want?” Redson said evenly.
“I’m still not together on it myself.” Orient took a Player from the bishop’s back and lit it. “But I’ll try to explain what’s happened since yesterday.”
Redson was silent as he listened to Orient describe how he entered Malta’s trance. He was especially absorbed in his equation.
“As you know, electrical energy travels from a point of high electron count to one of lower count, from more to less. I discovered after a few months’ work with our group of pilgrims that telepathic and telekinetic energy run much the same course. My findings since then have borne out that theory.”