Ben Soul

by Richard George

it’s too hot in this kind of weather for anybody to acclimate to, except the occasional lizard.”

  “Too true. I avoid the inland areas in all weathers. I am a coastal creature, I fear.”

  Butter whined. She had been circling around, sniffing nearby bushes, fence posts, and rocks. She was ready to move on.

  “Would you care to take a tisane with me?” Malcolm asked. Ben sensed the man’s loneliness.

  “What about Butter?” Ben said. “She’s on her daily walk.”

  “Will you be through with her walk in a half hour?”

  “Probably, give or take a few minutes.”

  “When you’re through with her walk, stop by, and I’ll make a tisane for us. That will allow me to finish fertilizing my dahlias against the heat.”

  “I will,” Ben said. “I’ll be by in about thirty minutes.” He glanced at his watch to mark the time.

  “Until then,” Malcolm said, and turned back to his watering can. Ben whistled Butter up and they had a nice, though subdued, stroll along the surf line. Butter wasn’t quite ready to go home when Ben called to her, but she obeyed. When he left her at home alone, she barked her frustration after him. He had learned to ignore her. According to Emma’s report, Butter usually stopped barking as soon as Ben was out of earshot, and didn’t start again until he was almost home.

  Ben opened the little gate to Malcolm’s yard and walked up the white gravel path, neatly lined with rounded river stones, to Malcolm’s front door. He knocked, and Malcolm came to welcome him.

  “Come in, come in,” Malcolm said. He beamed a bright smile at Ben. He had shed his great apron, and was again in full dress with his coat, vest, ruffled shirt, bow tie, dapper trousers creased to perfection, and brilliantly polished shoes. Ben wondered how he kept himself so neat in a place like San Danson Village that lacked sidewalks and other amenities for easing the preservation of one’s appearance.

  Ben looked around curiously at the cottage. Its furnishings were very like what Ben imagined he’d find in a London gentlemen’s gentleman’s club. Two large wingback chairs, upholstered in black leather dominated the room. Each had its individual lamp, shaded with a pleated shade adorned with a fringe of tiny beads. A deep red rug, spotlessly free of lint, covered the living room floor. Books and display cases lined the walls. It was too dark for Ben to see what they contained. Every window was blocked with shelves crowded with African violets. Malcolm indicated a chair and bade Ben sit. Ben sat, and Malcolm pranced off to the kitchen.

  Very soon, Ben heard the kettle whistle, and the pouring of water into a pot. Real tea, Ben thought, properly made. When Malcolm brought the two cups in on a tray, Ben hid his disappointment on discovering the “tisane” was an infusion of rose hip and chamomile. “A sort of té manaznilla con el sabor de limón,” he later described it to Dickon, who laughed. He knew Ben’s fastidious preferences in teas. Ben accepted the delicate lavender china cup, fashioned to resemble a tulip in bloom, and silently thanked whatever gods might be present that the cup was a small one.

  “Swami Fendabenda tells me,” Malcolm began, “that he had you try to find the power he believes resides in his Boddhisattvas.”

  “Are those his statues that he keeps on a shrine?”

  “Yes. He’s very attached to them. They are, somehow, a major part of his religious and philosophical beliefs.” Malcolm sipped at his tisane. “I do not hold his belief that they contain some sort of transcendental power. I am most skeptical of such things.”

  “I’m no ready believer in such magic, either,” Ben said, “yet I have seen a unicorn here in the Village.”

  “As have we all,” Malcolm said. “I remain skeptical, though, for I once owned one of the set, and Mae Ling the two others.” Malcolm got up and took a photograph from one of the bookcases. “We found manuscripts in them. This is a picture of us with the Chinese Consul when we handed the manuscripts over to their government.”

  “How did they come to be in this country?”

  “That is a lengthy story,” Malcolm said.

  Get Me to the Chapel

  Butter woke Ben. She lavished doggy kisses on him. She had learned early on that Ben woke in a happier mood if she licked his face; he woke irritable if she barked in his ear. Butter knew which side of her boss to soften with a higher priced spread.

  Ben yawned, and Butter went on kissing him. After a few pleasurable minutes of this byplay, Butter lost patience. She jumped to the floor, went to the bedroom door, and barked. Ben sighed.

  “Yes, Butter. She who must be obeyed has woofed.” Ben threw back the covers and pulled on his jeans. Then he put on his shoes and a shirt, and went to the back door and let Butter out. The morning sky was clear, for a change, and the bright sun persuaded Ben to go with Butter.

  Ben and Butter walked seaward toward Dickon’s cottage. Ben hoped to encounter Dickon. On this far side of his anger with Dickon, he experienced a great desire to know more about the man. He wanted to see Dickon’s cottage from the inside. He wanted to know what the contents might reveal about Dickon that Dickon hadn’t thought to share before. When Ben and Butter got to the end of the Village Lane, they saw Dickon staring at the Chapel door, which was ajar. Butter raced up to Dickon.

  “Hello, old girl,” Dickon said to Butter. He nodded to Ben. “Something’s screwy,” he said. “I know I locked the Chapel yesterday after I swept it out. Someone’s been inside.” He started for it at a run. Ben followed as quickly as he could. Butter, of course, outpaced them both, and waited at the narrow opening by the slightly opened door, whining. Dickon, puffing a little, caught up with her. Ben, puffing a lot, slowed and walked toward Dickon.

  Dickon opened the door slowly. It creaked on its hinges. Ben thought of the Inner Sanctum radio shows of his early boyhood. A shiver traveled up and down his spine. Dickon stepped inside, alert for trouble, and switched on the lights. Ben blinked in the glittering reflections from dozens of mirrors that made up a series of mosaics on the walls. Each mosaic was surrounded by a frame made of broken bits of sea shells. The Chapel had no stained glass windows, but, with the lights, the mosaics made the light in the building dance.

  A man lay on the floor, before the dais, face up. He was clad in a very thin T-shirt and worn jeans. He was very thin, and his complexion was very pasty under blushing sunburn. His breath whistled in and out of his lungs like an asthmatic teakettle. Dickon went to him and knelt over him.

  “He’s got a fever,” he said to Ben. “See if you can rouse Dr. Field.” Ben and Butter turned and hurried toward Dr. Field’s cottage. When they got there, Beau, in his full Kentucky Colonel regalia, answered the door. Ben hoped he could make the man understand his need for the doctor’s services.

  Stranger on a Floor

  Beau answered the door in his full chicken colonel regalia. Ben could see, standing this close to him, age lines around Beau’s eyes and mouth. “Is Dr. Field available?” Ben asked. Beau stared at Butter wagging her tail tentatively behind Ben. She barked sharply, once, and wagged her tail harder. Ben hushed her.

  “Is that a dog of war?” Beau responded. Ben looked for a good response.

  “Yes,” he said. “The General has often used her to carry secret messages.”

  Beau drew himself up to stand at attention and saluted Butter. “Enter the doctor’s quarters, sir,” he drawled to Ben. “The doctor will be with you soon.” Beau disappeared without opening the screen. Ben opened it and stepped inside. The cottage living room was similar to his own in size. A bright orange couch occupied the left wall under a window. A bright blue recliner and a dull beige one sat on the opposite side of the room. Both recliners looked well worn, but clean. A thin layer of dust lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. There was no dust on the small triangular tables beside each recliner. A floor lamp, not lit, stood between the recliners. Bookshelves crammed with books line the wall facing the door. Ben itched to cross
and read the titles, but forbore. The floor was plain pine, scrubbed clean many times over. A few nicks and gouges marred its surface in a charmingly rustic way.

  The room reeked of mentholated liniment. The scent was so strong Ben’s eyes soon began to water. He was very glad Dr. Field, clad in a short robe, appeared.

  “Oh! Beau didn’t tell me anyone was here.” Dr. Field tightened the sash on his robe.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Field…” Ben began.

  “Chester, please.”

  “Chester then. There’s a man lying in the chapel with a bad fever. At least Dickon thinks he’s got a fever. He sent me for you.”

  “Let me get my clothes on, and I’ll be right with you.” Dr. Field darted into the back of the cottage. Dickon heard drawers opening and closing. Dr. Field re-appeared very soon, dressed in neat khaki trousers and a soft yellow shirt. He carried a black Gladstone bag in his right hand.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “Beau will be all right,” he said, looking over his shoulder. He’s lecturing the sparrows on the dangers of Yankee imperialism. That usually keeps him occupied for an hour or so.” Dr. Field held the screen for Ben, and followed him out and down the porch steps. Dr. Field walked rapidly; Ben found himself pressed to keep up, and vowed to exercise more strenuously.

  When they got to the chapel, Dickon was sitting on his