by Trueax, Rain
He dug the shovel into the dirt, working a sizeable hole before he stepped back out. "Like I guessed. Slick clay under the surface, no rock to anchor to, no drainage. This site won't work." It wasn't strictly speaking true, but he was betting George wouldn't know that.
"That's not possible," George said through his teeth. "It's been chosen."
“By Lane?”
George didn’t like that question either.
S.T. shrugged, water running down his neck, his hair soaking wet, his boots now caked with mud. "How would you get a septic permit? You would need bathrooms, wouldn’t you?"
"We'll get whatever we have to."
"My bet is this site won’t pass a percolation test. You won’t get any building permit up here. How would you anchor your foundation? We do get earthquakes in Oregon." He shook his head. "Let's look around for other possible sites."
George almost literally jumped into his path. "Hardly!" When he saw the smile on S.T.'s face, he said, "We need to talk to Reverend Soul first. I'm sure we can find some way to work the problems out. If the Lord wants it here, it will be built here."
"The sky pilot get messages from God, direct like?" S.T. drawled.
"Sky pilot?" George asked frowning.
"Western term for pastor."
"Oh."
"Hey, George, don't look so worried. We'll find a better place to build." He pointed toward the hill behind the compound. "How about up there?" he asked innocently
George was growing more and more perturbed. “Definitely not up there."
"The view would be inspirational; the roundness of the hill seems promising. We could incorporate its shape into the design. Let's just walk up and take a look."
"Not without permission," George said stubbornly, moving to block S.T.’s way.
S.T. had no intention of pushing George aside but he now knew where he’d be looking when he got a chance. What was on that hill?
#
After dinner, a meal S.T. ate at a small table with Soul, George and a woman called Sharon as his only companions, Soul suggested S.T. come to one of their healing rituals.
"What's that?" S.T. asked sipping the herbal tea he'd finally yielded to. He didn't like it and it did nothing for his caffeine withdrawal headache, but it had been the only thing offered. Juice was evidently available in the mornings only. Even water wasn’t offered and when requested didn’t appear.
"We meet in small groups, where various spiritual issues are discussed."
S.T. looked around the room and guessed maybe a hundred people had driven up to dine at the compound this evening. He knew by now that only a fraction of those lived on the site. Going to some sort of ritual had an advantage because maybe he'd get to talk to someone outside Soul's careful control.
"Sounds interesting," S.T. said.
"Wonderful."
Five minutes later S.T. found himself in a covered area behind the building. The floor was of gravel, the area lit with candles, in the center a small bonfire had been lit. Unfortunately for any hope he’d get a chance to speak to someone alone, Soul was leading a group of eight men and seven women.
S.T. was beginning to feel a frustration at the close watch under which he was being kept, at never being able to evade Soul’s company. He had half expected it, but had not realized how much he would dislike it.
Soul looked at him. “We would like it very much if you would participate, Storm Walker, but you are free to simply watch if you prefer. When we finish the ceremony, there will be time for discussion over what we’ve done and what you’ve seen.”
S.T. didn’t the use of his given name and didn’t want to participate but refused to admit even to himself that he was beginning to feel uneasiness, and so he moved into the circle. Soul smiled, increasing S.T.’s sense of discomfort.
Soul raised his hands looking into the darkening sky. “Creator, we ask that you be with us, that you bless this ceremony as you have for so many centuries.” To S.T.’s surprise then, Soul was handed a small, leather skinned drum. He’d seen others like it on the Rez. What kind of service was this going to be?
The drumming began, and the people began to dance to the rhythm, their bodies swaying, their feet moving in a pattern they all seemed to know as they slowly circled the fire. S.T. felt like a fool but he couldn’t stand still and so he also began to dance, his steps ones he remembered from one of his few visits to his mother’s home. The music was hypnotic as he realized another instrument, a flute had joined the drumming, the speed increasing as the dancers picked up their pace to suit the rhythm drummed by Soul.
To his surprise, S.T. stopped feeling foolish and felt himself caught up in age old, genetic memories, the flickering light of the flames, the shadows shifting and moving, all seemed part of something he’d seen and done over and over, yet he hadn’t.
Suddenly there was an abrupt cessation of all sound, the dancers froze as they were, then dropped to the ground in a kneeling pose. S.T., feeling again like a fool, was forced to join them. Soul stood over them, the drum gone, his arms now raised. The words he said were none S.T. understood and the litany seemed to go on and on.
Soul stopped, then looked back down at the assembled people. “Bring the offering,” he called and in moments a pottery pitcher was in his hands. “The healing elixir,” he said, moving his hands over the surface of the pitcher, again speaking in a language S.T. didn’t recognize.
Sharon appeared at Soul’s side and in her hands was a tray, many cups on it. Soul filled each from his pitcher, his hands again moving over the cups, seeming to trace some design in the air.
Soul’s gaze swung around the circle, then settled on S.T. He picked up a cup and walked to him, holding it out. “Drink,” he said, a smile on his face. “It is the healing brew of the gods.”
“I have no need to be healed,” S.T. said and heard the intake of breaths all around him.
“We all have need to be healed. Some of us just know it better than others.” Soul’s self-confident smile was infuriating.
S.T. shook his head. “I don’t drink anything I don’t know.”
From the edge of his eye, he saw that the others were taking their cups from Sharon’s tray.
“You are afraid. Fear is cause of much illness.”
S.T., starting to deny it, nodded instead. “Maybe so.”
“You will someday drink from my cup,” Soul said never losing his smile. He then turned his gaze in a circle, from one to another of his. Some were kneeling. “My brothers and sisters, we drink to wholeness, of mind, body and soul. We drink to a future where all men are brothers and sisters, where the world will be united in one goal.” He took a cup from the tray and all drank whatever the cups contained in one gulp.
There were nods and cries of assent.
“Amen!” Soul cried as he put down the empty cup and again raised his hands skyward, before he bowed his head. There was silence for several moments, then Soul looked back up, a smile again on his lips. “My children, it is time for the teaching circle.”
S.T. thought of Jim Jones and knew these people would likewise drink whatever they were given. He wanted to leave, but he had a purpose in staying. He sat back with the rest. The fire was the focus now. Soul stood just outside its light.
“There are new wisdoms for us to ponder,” Soul said and looked again at S.T. “I have been granted insights not given to men, insights the gods reserve for themselves. Tonight we are to talk about being vessels for God.”
The people nodded as Soul went on expounding on that, saying it again and again. “Men are vessels for whatever is poured into them.”
“Is it possible for anyone else to talk?” S.T. interrupted finally, knowing it must not have been for the shock he saw on the faces nearest him. He had determined though that to be deliberately rude was his only chance of breaking through this hold Soul seemed to have over his followers. It was as though after the dancing, the drink, they were caught in his thrall. S.T. was anything but enthralled.
/> “Of course, you may ask questions,” Soul said, lifting his hands and spreading them generously. “We are all brothers and sisters here.”
"I don’t understand all of what you’re trying to do here, but man is more than an object."
"Did I say he wasn’t?"
"Well, what's a vessel?" S.T. asked, determined to get the others to react. "Seems to me it's a blank piece of pottery, a tool in a man’s hands. Men are more than that, at least unless they have their brains scrambled." He looked at the others who were now looking at him. Had these people lost their ability to discern, to listen and evaluate what was being said? What had been done and why had they let it happen?
"Who are you to argue with Reverend Soul? How dare you deny his truths?" a girl cried, her thin voice raised, her eyes at last alive with emotion.
"Isn't that what life is all about?" S.T. asked. "Finding questions, then answers, searching, doubting and maybe eventually finding something worth believing in?"
"Noble words, but has your life worked that way?" Soul shot back.
S.T. met the gray gaze. Soul had him there. He hadn't realized until he'd said the words that he wanted to believe there was something more in which to believe. Christine had said she saw nobility in him. He wanted to believe that was so, not just in himself but in all men. Wanting didn’t make it so.
"I'm glad I finally found you all." As though conjured by his thoughts, he looked up in surprise to see Christine in the doorway, golden hair shining in the firelight, framing her face almost as though with a halo. She looked like an angel dropped to earth. Her gaze traveled over him, then shifted to Soul.
"I thought you were coming tomorrow, fair lady," Soul said, rising to take her hand and draw her into the circle.
"I had a cancellation in one of my appointments and thought why not come early," Christine said, "so I could spend more time."
"But in this rainstorm?"
"I like the rain," she said. "Coming from California, I don't see nearly enough of it."
"Well then, I'm delighted you came. Have you eaten?"
"On the way down. So what's the argument I interrupted?"
"How do you know there's been one?"
"From the tone of your voices," she said pointedly, as she raised her eyebrows and looked toward S.T.
"No arguments," Soul said. "Just vibrant discussion. I think we've had enough for tonight though."
"And I was hoping to join you," Christine cajoled, her beautiful blue eyes deliberately widening.
"As I told you before, I can refuse you nothing." Soul motioned for the others, who had risen to sink back to the ground.
"So what was the discussion?" Christine asked, putting her shawl down first, then settling onto it.
S.T. had never seen her looking more beautiful, more desirable, clad in a pale tan leather skirt, a white blouse, and leather boots that were shaped to her slim calves. He'd also never felt more like throttling her. He hadn't wanted her here, even more so after he'd seen the people who followed Soul, seen their mindless devotion. This was a situation that could easily get out of hand. He couldn’t stop now.
"I think we were discussing the concept of Original Sin," S.T. answered, continuing his baiting of those followers who seemed to have no minds of their own. He knew what he said didn't bother Soul, could see the answering gleam of a challenge in his eyes, but it did bother those who held him in awe. Interestingly he saw they were of all ages from what appeared to be early twenties up to one woman who appeared to be in her sixties.
"You're using a déclassé religious term that has no meaning for today," Soul said. "It's a term used by a dying church to keep men in chains and subjugation."
"As is so much religion," S.T. retorted.
Sharon glared at him but at least there was a spark of aliveness in her eyes now. Soul only smiled. "I agree. Religion is intended for that purpose. We don't call our beliefs here a religion. We are not bound to an organization, but to each other through the grace of God."
"No relationship is without a catch. What do you have to do in reality?" S.T. asked, his gaze going from one face to another.
"Are you trying to be deliberately offensive?" Christine asked, blue eyes flashing her own irritation.
He smiled, making her frown deepen. "Am I succeeding?"
"I'd say so," she shot back. "You don't come into people's homes, then attack their beliefs."
S.T. laughed. "Depends on why they're there, I'd say. In my case, I'm being asked to do a job, not join a cult."
"Cult!" Soul reacted finally with his own irritation. "This is a church. How can you call it a cult?"
"Pretty easy, I'd say. You tell them what to think and they think it. Tell them what to do and they do it. Sounds like a cult to me." He turned to Sharon. "What's your name?"
She frowned. "You know my name."
"No, your real name, your whole name."
"None of your business."
He smiled. "I rest my case. You only have the name Peter Soul gave you."
"How dare you!" Sharon said, rising from her chair. "May I be excused?" she asked Soul. "This evening is giving me a headache."
Hers wasn't the only one, S.T. thought, although he knew his aching head was totally due to caffeine withdrawal.
"You have a headache too?" Christine asked, her gaze again on him.
He nodded.
"You probably deserve it," she muttered.
Soul laughed. "Come my children. Let's have peace. I think Mr. Taggert is not feeling well. We can continue this discussion at another time... if he decides to stay with us."
S.T. rose, his headache becoming worse as he stood.
"I have aspirin that might help," Soul offered.
"That's permitted?" S.T. asked cynically. "I'm amazed."
Soul stared at him. "I will send someone to you later with it and some juice to drink with it. Or would milk suit you better?"
"Juice is fine." S.T. looked at Christine then, saw her large eyes on him and wished he had the intuitive ability she had. He had no idea what she was thinking. Was she actually angry with him? Had she changed her mind about Soul? The growing headache was making his thinking fuzzy, and he found no clues on her beautiful but irritated face.
When S.T. was in his room, he lay on the bed, an arm thrown over his forehead. A cup of coffee, that's what he needed, not aspirin, which wouldn't even touch the pain in his head, then he worried about Christine. Where was she? What kind of game was she playing? He hadn’t liked the look in Soul's eyes when he'd watched her. It was clearly an attraction. Was Christine encouraging that unknowingly or was she playing two men against each other as he'd seen so many other women do?
His speculations were interrupted by a knock at his door. He only realized who he'd hoped it was when he opened it and felt a shaft of disappointment at seeing Sharon, a glass of orange juice in one hand and two aspirin in the other.
"He ordered me to bring these to you," she said, leaving no doubt she'd have preferred just about any service but that one.
"Why you?" he asked as he took the aspirin and slugged the juice.
"Because I was angry at you. It was important that I serve you," she explained, her voice that flat monotone he had begun to hate so much.
"And who told you that?"
She slammed her mouth shut, her eyes again flashing anger at him. "You are ridiculing a great man," she said, obviously straining to keep her voice under control. "And you're doing it deliberately."
"I thought people here were free to say what they thought."
"They are."
"Then, I'm just doing that."
She glared at him. "You need Reverend Soul more than you know."
"For what?"
She ignored that question. “If you keep going the way you are, you will be punished, and it will be a terrible thing that befalls you."
"Are you cursing me, Sharon?" he asked or at least that's what he thought he asked as his thoughts became confused. She said somethin
g back but he couldn't seem to make sense of it.
He started to say something, but forgot what as the room seemed to sway. He sank to his bed, holding his head in his hands. He heard the door close, knew she was gone, he was alone, but couldn't work up the energy to care. He remembered he'd planned to investigate, to get into Soul's office when everyone else was asleep, but the dizziness told him he would be going nowhere. He lowered himself down on the bed, the room swirling around him, his thoughts muddled and confused.
Chapter Six
"How are you feeling, Storm Walker?" the voice asked, penetrating the fog that seemed to be swirling around S.T. He forced his eyes open and saw Soul standing over his bed. He lay there, trying to think of the answer to the question, then found he could no longer remember the question.
"Come over here and sit in this chair," Soul said, pulling a chair close to S.T.'s bed.
S.T. looked at it, tried to think of what he wanted to do, why he didn't want to do anything Soul ordered, but he seemed incapable of doing anything more than struggling to rise, moving to the chair, grateful it was so close to the bed.
Soul stood in front of him, he bent and S.T. felt his fingers at the thong that held his hair clubbed to the back of his neck. It was loosened, the hair falling free. He tried to move away to say he didn't want this, but Soul put his hands on each side of his face and said, "No. You may not move in any way."
S.T. found himself incapable of disobeying.
"I will help you," Soul said, his voice soft but somehow frightening to S.T.'s confused mind. He felt Soul's hands on his chest, looked down and saw him unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it apart to bare his chest. Then Soul moved behind him, his hands came down firmly on S.T.'s shoulders and began a massaging motion, working first the muscles in his shoulders, then his neck. "You were in pain tonight," Soul murmured, his fingers strong and forceful as they worked the muscles. "This will help you to relax. You must relax, let go of the tension that is holding you captive."