Seeking Samiel

by Catherine Jordan

  Wheat coloured hair gathered on Eva's head in a loose knot. The gauzy white dress embraced her from chin to bare feet. She lowered her dress's neck, sinking a slim finger deep into the collar, flashing her throat. That glimpse of flesh.

  An invitation to open her package.

  "Very pleased to meet you, Miss van Hollinsworth," I said.

  "Jeffrey," she replied, her mouth forming into a pretty bow. "I'm glad to hear you're taking over for the firm." That last word reminded me why I was there, and so I told myself to be professional. "And call me Eva."

  "Thank you, Eva," I said. The sound of her name on my tongue was like that first sip of wine; it sounded sweet, then bitter, like something I shouldn't have said. And it had an effect on me that I did not expect. Astonished at how much straighter I stood, how much lighter I felt, I became quite pleased with myself. She asked me to call her Eva. Of course Eva was glad to have me stay on as her solicitor. I was a fine solicitor, one of the best.

  Eva tugged her collar again. Gads, I wanted her to rip off that dress. As quickly as that thought entered my head, I chastised myself. That was not like me, to ogle a woman with my girlfriend right next to me.

  An old man stood at Eva's side like an impotent guard. I took a closer look and saw that the old man was Edward, Caroline and Eva's father. One arthritic hand cradled his tumbler and he planted the other firmly inside his tweed pocket. He looked old enough to be Caroline and Eva's great-grandfather. His pilled, threaded jacket hung on him, the sleeves too short, the white shirt yellowed. The trousers hugged too tight, their high, worn cuffs exposing faded ankle socks. This man was a political figure, an appointed Labour Representative from the Kingdom of Lesotho. Caroline was proud to call him, "Daddy".

  "Good evening, Mr. van Hollinsworth," I said, holding out my hand.

  "Caroline," he croaked, as quietly as possible, ignoring me, "There's a reason you weren't invited, beside the fact that your mother and I forbade you to come. Stay outside where I can keep an eye on you. And if your mother finds out, tell her I told you to go home." Then to me, "Now I know what it was I never liked about you--you remind me too much of your father." He made no attempt to hide his disdain. Caroline had tears in her eyes. I looked quickly to Eva, to see if she wore Edward's expression. It was then that I remembered what my father had said about her.

  6

  "Melanoma," my father had said off hand, "She gets it every time." Father never clarified, and I blamed my father's drained whiskey bottle on the strange remark. Caroline never mentioned cancer, either. Odd, how Eva was more of an aside that a sibling.

  I saw no signs of skin cancer. By "every time", he must have meant that she went in and out of remission. Regardless of her disease, I didn't see a blemish on her. Granted, she only exposed her glassine face; unlined, un-weathered. Creamy, like milk.

  Who could resist drinking her in?

  There was that voice in my head again, lewd and suggestive. I looked into the jeweled goblet in my hand. It didn't taste like alcohol, but it had to be the drink loosening my thoughts.

  Eva excused herself, to my disappointment. "I have others to greet," she said, and when she and Edward walked away together, I took a step with them.

  Leaving Caroline behind, I envisioned myself in Edward's place, strolling alongside Eva, my ear up to her fleshy lips as she whispered into it. I thought about living with her behind the white wooden siding, master of the home and its household. The daydream didn't seem too farfetched. Gads, I was hot for her. When a sweat bead dripped over my eyebrow, I put my glass to my forehead and saw the remaining liquid steaming in my glass. My shirt cuff was singed. I dropped my glass and patted myself down in a feeble attempt to put out the flames, but there were none. My blood was boiling; I was overheating on this woman's lawn. I wanted to ring out my shirt, now bathed in sweat. Wiping at my brow, I shrugged inside my jacket, the armpits wet. To anyone else, I probably looked the fool. Nobody else was fidgeting in their suit. Whilst fanning my jacket open and closed, it seemed to me that everyone was more than relaxed. They looked sedated.

  "Madam," I read on the lips of a man as he addressed Eva, and then tipped his head in a reverent bow. Dark ink crawled out the back of the man's collar when he bent his head low. A tattoo. The woman with him curtsied in front of Eva. I found myself staring at the woman's neckline, searching for the same markings. I spotted the tattoo on her left hand, the ink wisping out of her wrist cuff like a curl of smoke.

  "I don't think they want us eavesdropping," Caroline said as she approached. "Stop staring at her," she added, her Afrikaans accent heavier than usual, vowels pronounced short and quick. She slipped her hand inside my elbow then yanked it away. "You're hot," she said, wiping her hand on her dress. I stammered, about to apologize.

  "Mena. Mena. Damn it!" Edward yelled as he waved his arm in the air, trying to flag down one of the two uniformed servers. Mena, the one with a crew cut--hair completely grey--wandered in and out of a group of people, her strut loose and awkward. The other maid approached, the ponytailed one facing me, carrying a handled drink tray at her hip.

  Her hollowed cheeks and shadowed eyes were almost as disturbing as the black tent hanging from her emaciated frame. Fine, white hairs covered her cheeks, upper-lip and chin. Her nametag read, "Guert". She passed me, closed in on Edward, and he swiped a drink off the tray. She paused in front of Eva, and genuflected.

  I whispered to Caroline as I watched Guert back away from Eva, head bowed, "Have you noticed their tattoos?"

  "No," she answered, a bit too loud, "I haven't been staring."

  "Oh, gads, Caroline," I said, whipping a handkerchief out of my breast pocket. "You yourself said these people were strange." I dabbed my forehead, and the hanky came away dry. My shirt, my armpits; dry. I suppose it was possible that my cotton shirt had dried quickly. It was possible that I hadn't been as hot as I had felt; that my nerves were getting the best of me.

  "This isn't a carnival," Caroline said. "And it's a little too obvious that my sister has made quite an impression on you."

  I stuffed my hanky into my pocket and turned to Caroline, trying to keep a peripheral eye on the party. "We both know I need Eva as a client. Didn't you hear what she said to me? She said she was glad I was taking over the firm. I'm the new guy. Remember that I've had to take out a loan to keep my flat? I can't walk away from that loan like my father walked away from his responsibilities. The people here are as rich as she is, and if they're her friends, they can be mine, too. Since I now know how your father feels about me and your mother may very well think the same, I have to change their opinion of me if we ever want to get married."

  Caroline's mouth fell open. She must have decided against whatever she was about to say, because she snapped her mouth shut, then said, "All right." She clenched her purse under her arm like a crutch, and said, "I have to use the bathroom," then walked towards the house.

  Of course, the bathroom--an excuse to walk away and prevent an argument. She'd probably linger a little and tour as much of the inside of that house as she could since she may never get this close to it again. I hoped that Caroline was resigned to stay and see Eva's little performance before we went home.

  7--CAROLINE

  Caroline's nose burnt from Mena's stale, acrid breath. She smelled like a wet dog. "I thought you might enjoy a show," Mena said. "Follow me."

  She stood with Mena in an extensive foyer that formed an open circle. A grand staircase leading upward branched off into a labyrinth of halls. The stiff, pungent air filled Caroline's lungs, irritating her throat, bringing on an erratic cough.

  She startled. A tall shadow at the top of the stairs shrunk from sight. Another popped into its place, then vanished. Shadows slid down the stairs. Some stopped to rest on the wall. A chill tingled from hair to forearms to toe. She swayed, putting her hand to her mouth, racked with coughing.

  "Stop," Mena said, holding up a hand. "Listen." A low whistle echoed from the top of the steps. A gush of warm air follo
wed, hitting Caroline in the face, its fingers in her long hair. "It breathes."

  8--JEFFREY

  My apprehension grew as my eyes searched the small crowd for Caroline. She'd been gone for . . . I wasn't sure how long. People filed past me, making their way towards the chairs on the lawn. The show was about to begin.

  Caroline wanted to see this "out of body", a rehearsed performance, no doubt. I knew little about what would or could happen and thought the whole psychic phenomena, the psi, as Caroline called it, a bit street magik. Caroline had proclaimed Eva the real thing--a master and well versed in the subject. Where is she?

  Caroline's fine, the voice reassured as I sat in the front center row, close enough to see a nine-line symbol, an Enneagram, drawn in the dirt within a circle--the bare spot Caroline had pointed out earlier. Nine torches staked the circle's perimeter at each line intersection. The ancient symbol, as Caroline had explained, conveyed nine ways to experience the world through nine distinct personality types. She wouldn't want to miss this.

  She's fine.

  No one spoke and I respected the silence, my eyes wandering to other's collars and cuffs as they quietly sat beside me on white folding chairs. I looked down at their shoes, hoping to catch a naked ankle with the curious markings. After the last person sat, I raised my head. Should I go find Caroline? But there Eva stood, alone in the circle.

  Shadows sprouting around the torches cast an eerie light on Eva's skin and hair shimmering in that orange glow. The bottom of her dress draped the tops of her bare feet, toes clenching the dirt. Long arms hung at her sides. Eyes fluttered then closed. Her forehead stretched against her skull, cheeks hollowed, nostrils wide, eyelids pulled tightly to her brow line.

  Her chest heaved up and down, splayed fingers tensed, arms trembling. The flames, the wind, the people, all mute. Even my mind silenced. I grasped the chair seat, shivering, my back and neck bathed in a cold sweat.

  Eva's lips moved, issuing words in a mysterious, raspy language. Her chin dropped to her chest then slowly rose until the top of her head touched the small of her back. Her nonsensical, "Uh ya, ungali sis . . ." grew louder. She balanced on tiptoes. Voice louder. Pointed toes hovered over the ground. Eva shouted. Her body rose higher.

  I no longer feel the weight of my body, the cold, or the chair beneath. I no longer "see" her levitation; I participate in it and the out of body experience that takes me back in time with her.

  Her outer eyes are rimmed in black kohl, the inner in green malachite. Tightly braided, black wool bangs frame her blackened eyebrows.

  We are in Egypt. She is royalty and sits alone on a cushioned chair in a corner of the palace garden waiting for me. Guests gather in the gardens and alongside a lotus blossom pool fully stocked with fish. Harpists pluck. Oboes, flutes and lyres fill the evening air. Gold, silver, and bronze dishes piled with goose meat, fish and barley loaves pass amoungst the guests. Greedy hands empty each plate. Thirsty guests drain the contents of large flasks that continually fill chalices with beer and wine fermented at the palace. Side dishes of melons and grapes are gorged by the handful.

  Alongside the pool's edge sits Hatshepsut's priest. Young men and women have gathered around him to watch as he tattoos a henna paste onto a woman's shoulder. The image of a snake trails down her chest, its head at her throat, its tail pointing to her nipple. This priest has markings on his body as well. The dog's head across his breast invokes Anubis, protector of the dead. Hatshepsut is known to fear death. The snake tattooed around the priest's neck is biting its tail, symbolizing the sea, which Hatshepsut fears as well. Hatshepsut has asked her priest to tattoo her guests so that they may also honour these fears.

  I am Sennemut, Royal Vizier to the Crown Princess Hatshepsut. She is not yet married, and with her three siblings recently deceased, I stand as second in line to the throne. When I walk towards her through the palace courtyard, well armed sentry stand in my way. I am not nervous, but impatient. They guard Pharaoh and his family, their bulking chests protected under leather armour, daggers in hand at the ready. One day these same men will guard me.

  Her height forces me to look up. The look in her green eyes says she doesn't give a damn that she towers over the tallest Egyptian. I know that she couldn't care less about her dramatic presence and haughty disposition. Stares to her back and trails of gossip mean nothing to her. She makes out the words they speak, reading their lips like a scroll. "These simplistic people will time after time bring about their own ruin," she says. And then there it is: that tilt to her chin and the quick meeting of our eyes--her sensual way of telling me that our bond is total and our thoughts are one.

  Pharaoh sits in the garden's center on a gold traveling throne embedded with blue lapis and red carnelians. The false beard of royalty hangs from his chin and upon his head sits the elongated double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt. He grips the royal crook and flail in each hand.

  Unable to stand too close, I nod, not daring to raise my head or look Pharaoh in the eye; Amonhotep is her father, divine Pharaoh, king and god. To look him in the eye without invitation would mean arrogance, and arrogance towards Pharaoh leads to immediate death.

  In the distance Hatshepsut says, "He may pass," and the guards step aside for me.

  Suddenly, Pharaoh beckons me close. He inquires about my past, insulting me with underhanded accusations. As her chief steward and chief architect, I would take charge of the royal palace, its estate and revenue. I would command a great labour supply with orders to create and destroy as I pleased.

  I am aware that Pharaoh doesn't want to hand over such power to an unworthy man. His insecurities do not concern me or Hatshepsut. Her need for me is more basic than her father realizes.

  Breech clothed servants interrupt with flasks and trays of delicacies. These servants of hers were tattooed at birth with snakes and intricate geometrical cuneiform shapes that honour her. She is their idol, and I sense that some are aware of this fact, whilst others are not. Pharaoh announces, "Hatshepsut and I are thirsty." A servant hands the filled jeweled goblets to an unarmed attendant who sips first. We wait. When the taster doesn't swoon or drop to the ground the drinks are accepted and handed to Pharaoh and his daughter.

  She stands, with guests bowing and parting as she walks away with Pharaoh. I follow. The sound of marching brings us to a standstill.

  A group of Egyptian soldiers march past, their embroidered kilts bobbing against their thighs. Four of the soldiers carry a load on their shoulders from a recently docked ship. Many people stare, and even I wonder what hidden treasures lay beneath the multi-coloured linen blankets. "Gold from the southern region of Africa," she turns and says to me as the soldiers march inside the palace. "With this gold, I will make the most of this time I have," Hatshepsut says to me. "You will help me."

  9

  I exhaled as if I'd been holding my breath, unable to recall how long she teetered in the air. A second, an eternity. Neither. The duration didn't exist. Time wasn't perceived. When had it all begun and when had it ended?

  Eva stood within the circle on the ground. I spotted the red leather clutch she held to her chest--Caroline's purse.

  My mind struggled with what had just happened. Magnets, air pressure-- those explained the silence. The levitation--wires. But the vision--hypnosis? What other explanation was there? Simple parlour tricks. Had to be.

  I remembered I had read somewhere, or maybe heard it from Caroline, about a famous magician--a skeptic who offered a million US dollars to anyone who could prove the paranormal's existence. I wracked my brain for the magician's name. I did remember that he had yet to part with one dollar.

  A weak hand rested on my shoulder. Caroline. She clutched a paisley Hermes scarf in her hand. My heart skipped a beat. "Where did you get that?" I asked, stunned and angry. A different vision struck me--my mother hanging from the door with that exact same scarf squeezed around her neck by one end, the other looped around the door jam. Only this vision was more than unsettling; it was an
unwelcome memory.

  Caroline's face was ashy. She's not fine, I told myself, concern replacing my anger. "Where've you been?" I asked, berating myself for not searching for her as I should have.

  I wanted that scarf and pulled at the dangling corner. It couldn't possibly be the same scarf. Caroline balled it in her fist.

  She pushed me down into my seat and collapsed on the chair beside me. "I don't feel very well." Her cheeks were bruised, lips cracked and bleeding. She heaved then swallowed.

  "Oh, sweet Jesus," I said, hoping for an answer to the quick prayer, wondering how to get her away from all these eyes before she embarrassed herself.

  That selfish voice spoke inside my head; she's embarrassing you. But a groan from behind interrupted those thoughts. I turned, and Eva, along with all her guests, knelt on one bended knee. With heads buried deep into their chests I heard a cumulative hiss.

  Edward startled me with a hand on my back. "Get her home," he said.

  "What happened?" I asked, the group behind me now on their feet.

  "Might have been something she ate," Edward said.

  "No, I mean them." I nodded towards the others.

  "Them? They're concerned," Edward said, looking into the woods and back to the house, as if seeking the nearest escape route. Then he put his mouth to my ear and said, "Don't ever say that name in her presence again."

  I wasn't sure what he meant. Edward didn't explain, but said, "Now, now," hurrying me along. "Have Caroline stand."

  "Daddy," Caroline said with a groan. Louder she said, "I can't see. This light, ahh, I can't see." She gripped her head, inhaled deep, and grimaced through swollen gums and pink-tinged teeth.

  "Caroline," I cried.

  "Where was she?" Edward asked. "Inside?"

  "It wants out," Caroline said, pushing herself up, one hand on her stomach. She slid, losing a shoe. Extending the other hand as a feeler, people parted as she wavered further onto the lawn, running towards the driveway like a wild woman, her body bouncing up and down as she skipped on one high-heeled shoe.