Ben Soul

by Richard George

inquiries validate the unicorn’s reasoning.” She smiled. “Your old friend, Minnie Vann, was the final advocate for your stewardship.”

  “I didn’t know you and Minnie were acquainted.”

  “We have a long professional history. We both served, each in our own way, to keep the balance. We considered ourselves colleagues.”

  Ben looked out the window at the fog. “I know nothing about auras, or the care and feeding of children, and only myths and legends about unicorns.” He looked at La Señora again. “Do you think I’m the right person for the job?”

  “I think you are the only person for the job. You have a wisdom forged in the fires of grief, and this has made you strong. Everyone else has a long history with me, and that breeds expectations and perceptions that can interfere with a just distribution of property, let alone the spiritual oversight of a child with a unicorn companion.”

  “I’m not trained in psychic or spiritual things.”

  “That is a benefit, as well. You are honestly yourself, without doctrinal contamination.” She sighed, and leaned back in her chair. “Your gentleness and quiet strength will balance Dickon’s passion and impulses.” She looked into Ben’s gray eyes. He saw pleading in her black eyes. “Do you wish to think it over, Mr. Soul?” She reached for her cooling cup of tea and swallowed a quarter of the cup.

  Ben swirled the tea in his cup. He sipped at it. “No, Señora, I do not feel qualified, but I trust your judgment, and Minnie’s. If the two of you think I can do it, I’ll find a way.” La Señora smiled and closed her eyes. Her weariness lay on her like a gray blanket.

  “Thank you, Mr. Soul,” she said. She coughed again, opened her eyes, and swallowed more of her tea. She consulted her watch. “I believe Willy will have lunch ready for us soon.”

  She rang her bell. “I must ask you, Mr. Soul, to say nothing about being a godparent to Dickon until I have had opportunity to sound him out. He should be free to agree to serve without undue pressure.”

  “Certainly, Señora. Shall I say nothing to him about being your executor?”

  “There is no reason not to tell him that. It will explain your visit today.” She put her empty cup and saucer beside her.

  “Willy promised me a treat for luncheon,” she said. “I think he is making Veal Marsala, with haricorts vert in a butter sauce. Wickedly fattening, but so delicious.”

  Elke entered the room.

  “We are ready, Elke. Please wheel me to the table, now.”

  “Certainly, Señora. If you will follow us, Mr. Soul?”

  Ben finished his tea and put the cup gently on the tray that held the pot. Then he followed Elke and La Señora to lunch.

  The Grand Ball

  Ben elected to walk down the Chapel trail rather than ride back in the funicular. The fog had lifted enough he could see Obaheah and the white waves pirouetting around its black feet. Westward the leaden sky merged into the leaden ocean. The grasses and flowers, just coming to life for their winter dance, sparkled with cold droplets the fog had left on them. Ben’s shoes were soon wet, and so were his trouser cuffs, but the walk alone gave him time to ponder what La Señora had asked of him.

  He was passing Dickon’s cottage when Butter raced up from the beach trail to greet him. Dickon had taken her for a walk as he had promised Ben he would. She had evidently been playing in the wavelets in the cove, because her feet were wet and left sandy wet paw marks on Ben’s trousers.

  Dickon came briskly along the trail behind Butter. His red hair was tumbled about his skull, and his green eyes sparkled with highlights like the sun left on the sea’s green wavelets. He waved to Ben. “Hi,” Dickon said, as he came up to Ben. “How did lunch go with La Señora?”

  “It was a good lunch,” Ben said. “Veal Marsala with haricorts vert in a butter sauce. Some nice little potatoes, too, pared in round balls and bathed in olive oil and basil.”

  “Fancier than I’ll have for you tonight. What did La Señora want with you?” Dickon tweaked his right earlobe.

  Ben looked out over the cove, leaden as the sea was leaden. “I’ll go into that later. La Señora has asked me to wait before I say anything.” He looked back at Dickon. “I agreed.”

  “Bummer for the curious.” Dickon smiled wryly. He searched Ben’s round face and saw his determination to remain quiet. He didn’t push. “Do you want to come over now, watch me open cans and boxes?”

  “No, I need to rest and think. What time should I come for supper?”

  “At six. It won’t be anything as fancy as your lunch was.” Dickon spread his hands apologetically.

  “That’s fine. Fancy food only goes down easy once in a while,” Ben said. “Butter and I are going to take a nap. If we’re late getting up, come wake us.”

  “Will do.” Dickon quickly pecked a kiss on Ben’s cheek and turned toward his own cottage. “Be sure to bring Butter,” he called over his shoulder. Ben smiled at Dickon’s back, whistled for Butter (who was investigating an interesting clump of grass) and turned toward home.

  Once inside his cottage, Ben yawned, contemplated a cup of tea, and decided to delay making it. He sat in his recliner, leaned back, closed his eyes, and started to think about his commitment to La Señora. The weight of his commitment overwhelmed him. He wondered at his easy agreement to godfather a child yet unborn. Ben knew very little about children.

  Butter jumped into his lap. He rubbed her behind her ears. She reached around and licked his hand. He smiled, and began rubbing her back. His hands gradually slowed and stopped. He drifted into sleep.

  Ben was at the Grand Ball. In the musicians’ gallery, slender men with powdered perukes and velvet coats sawed a minuet from violins and flutes. A harpsichord played continuo for the melody. Ben was sitting on a low love seat, his coattails spread out beside him, his tight-encased legs crossed right over left, and the silver buckle on his dancing pump winking in the candle blaze that lit the room. He had gossiped with My Lady This and chatted cattily with My Lord That on the usual level of inanity common to ballroom small talk. Everyone knew, of course, that serious conversations at a ball only occurred while one was dancing.

  The musicians altered their rhythms and broke into a gavotte. Ben frowned at his twitching foot that wanted to dance. A shapely leg in green knit interrupted his reverie. His gaze ravished the well-turned calf past the knee and up the manly thigh to the crotch he devoutly hoped was not just an over-sized codpiece. On past that point of great interest his gaze traveled to the shapely waist in its green and gold velvet waistcoat, past the frilled shirt obscuring, yet still suggesting, the manly pectorals under broad shoulders. On he lifted his gaze to fall at last into the deep green pools of Dickon’s eyes.

  “Shall we dance?” Dickon said, and held a hand out to Ben.

  Ben took it, and rose as gracefully as he could. “Why, yes,” he said. The musicians abruptly stopped playing, laid aside their instruments, and headed for the punch bowl.

  “Perhaps later,” Dickon said. “Shall we, instead, refresh ourselves at the punch bowl as well?”

  “I do discover a certain thirst,” Ben said. Dickon still held his hand. Ben tingled with excitement. Dickon took a punch cup from the server and passed it to Ben. Then Dickon took one for himself. Ben sipped the punch. It was terribly sweet, and strongly alcoholic. Dickon drank his off in four swallows, and set aside his cup.

  “Come,” he said. “I am told the jasmine is lovely tonight on the terrace.”

  “Yes,” Ben said. “So My Lady Wishfort said to Sir Fopling Flutter.”

  “There’s a moon, as well,” Dickon said. His green eyes glittered with fun. Ben set aside his punch, let Dickon take his hand, and walked out with him into the night, the moonlight, and the scent of jasmine.

  “Oh, see,” Dickon said, “there’s a bench there, just in the shadow of the maze. Shall we sit a moment to look at the moon?” Ben went unresisting as Dickon dr
ew him toward the bench. It was cool to sit on, and scarcely large enough to hold the two men. Dickon put his hand on Ben’s trembling knee, and slowly caressed Ben’s thigh. Ben turned to Dickon and kissed him full on the lips. Len’s ghost appeared above the jasmine over Dickon’s shoulder. It smiled at Ben, and nodded, as though approving his new romantic interest. Ben kissed Dickon again.

  And woke up when Butter barked at the door. She needed to go out. Groggily, and half-aroused, Ben got up, and let Butter out into the twilight, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. He went into the bedroom and dressed for dinner with Dickon.

  Spamming the Gap

  It was dark when Ben set out for Dickon’s place. The wind was off the sea, and its edge was cold and wet. Ben shuddered inside his warm jacket as a cold wet finger of wind scratched at his neck. Butter kept close to Ben’s path, unlike her usual free-ranging self. Something threatened in the shadows, though no monsters appeared with gnashing teeth or slavering jaws. Ben and Butter both were glad to reach Dickon’s cottage, and go into the light and warmth redolent with intriguing smells.

  “Hi, guys,” Dickon said. He kissed Ben a long moment, before he stooped and scratched behind Butter’s ears. She wagged her tail furiously. Ben would have wagged his tail, if he’d had one. Dickon took his coat and waved him toward a chair.

  “Supper will be ready soon,” he said. “It’s just simple