The Five Lives of John and Jillian

by Greg Krehbiel

  John remembered something he’d read about the Wheel of the Year and began to think that there may be something to these cycles and rhythms of life. Some corner of his mind seemed to say “yes, this is right,” as if someone had read his subconscious desires and written the script for this party.

  A knot of revelers interrupted his train of thought. In the center of about six shouting, laughing and singing drunks, a man held a large wooden bowl about the size of a couch cushion. A wildly flirty and clearly intoxicated woman produced a pewter mug from somewhere in the folds of her gown, filled it from the bowl and set it to John’s lips. Before he had a chance to think about what he was doing a warm, sweet, frothy, spiced and slightly carbonated liquid poured down his throat and dribbled around his lips. The woman laughed and began to lap up the spills from his chin — apparently unconcerned about his makeup. A moment later the sensation changed and he realized the woman was kissing him.

  She laughed at his surprise, kissed him again and moved along with the wassail bowl.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” a voice said, and John was surprised and somewhat embarrassed to see Jillian smiling at his elbow.

  “Jillian, I ....”

  “Don’t try to explain. I saw what happened. Come with me.”

  She took him by the hand and led him to a quieter spot on a pile of straw near one of the free-standing fire pits. John was somewhat alarmed at the idea of sitting on straw next to a fire, but he saw a couple fire extinguishers sitting in strategic positions. Jillian returned a moment later with a blanket and two large mugs of wassail.

  He quickly downed a large portion of the strong beverage and found that there was always someone ready to refill his mug. The evening went by easily. A few people had brought stringed instruments and set up a performance on the edge of the patio. They were surprisingly good, and when someone retrieved a bongo and a recorder from the house, the music was either quite good, or John was getting very drunk.

  Things started to go by in a blur. There were songs and dramatic readings — or were they long, bad jokes? — various kinds of pumpkin cookies and bars and pies, apple cobbler, dried apples and, to John’s chagrin the next morning, lots and lots of wassail.

  He soon realized that he had underestimated the stuff and wondered what he was going to do about getting home. Jillian seemed unconcerned. Later in the evening she guided him to a dark corner between two bales of hay.

  * * *

  They awoke in the morning in each other’s arms, under a bedewed blanket, perilously near a well-tended fire. John’s head was pounding even before he opened his eyes.

  “You passed out before we could give you the antidote, my friend,” said a rather large, bearded, blue-painted Pict, who leaned over him like a man searching the wounded after a battle.

  “There’s an antidote for this?” John scowled.

  “Well, such as it is. RU-21, lots of water and three aspirin. But at this point, there’s nothing for it but another draught. Cheers,” he said, handing John a two-quart mug that had, apparently, been handed around to the other victims. John couldn’t help but think of the common bowl of the Vikings in The Thirteenth Warrior, but he didn’t care what was in it if there was any chance it might stop the pounding in his head.

  The next order of business was the bathroom, where he discovered that the night had been more interesting than he’d remembered. He fervently wished he could recall exactly what had happened.

  * * *

  They didn’t leave the party until after lunch on Saturday. John dropped Jillian off and headed straight home for a hot bath, more aspirin and a good night’s sleep, and then spent Sunday relaxing. By Monday morning he was ready for a normal day at the office.

  After the beginning of the weekly staff meeting, John dove into a new and rather exciting project. It was almost a drug for him. By mid-morning, if his work was sufficiently interesting, John often attained a state of mind that a Buddhist monk might envy. The world didn’t exist. He didn’t exist. There was only the project as it grew and took shape before his mind’s eye. He had trained himself to deal with normal interruptions in a kind of semi-consciousness, so when the phone rang his brain was only half engaged.

  “Mr. Matthews, it’s doctor Jacobs’ office,” the female voice said on the phone.

  Doctor?, he wondered, vaguely. Then, considering he hadn’t seen a doctor in more than a decade, figured it had to be some irrelevant clerical thing and let his mind slip back into his creation.

  “This is rather embarrassing,” the voice continued, “but we’re calling to let you know what’s happened. Our computer people say that someone hacked into our network, and that it’s possible someone broke into our database, which means it’s possible that someone was able to view your medical records.”

  Even in his semi-conscious state John realized that he ought to try to pay attention, so he allowed the words to play over again in his head, understanding them slightly better the second time around.

  “Mr. Matthews, are you there?” the woman continued after a long pause.

  “I don’t understand. Do you mean you’ve lost some of my records?” He was almost back now, wondering if he should be alarmed or angry.

  “No, I mean that our computers may have been hacked, and someone might have had access to your records. They might have copied them. I’m calling all Dr. Jacobs’ patients as a courtesy. Nothing is missing, but the computer experts say they think someone broke in. They didn’t access the financial database, just the medical records.”

  “Uh, okay. Is there something I need to do about this?” What do I care? My records have to be pretty boring.

  “No,” she said. “We just wanted to let you know.”

  John paused a moment to see if there was anything else he should say.

  “Thank you very much,” he said, and ended the call.

  A moment later he was descending into the world of cross beams, electrical lines, environmental control and bathroom space.

  * * *

  “Haven’t seen you in the kitchen all day,” Joe said as John stopped in to get a glass of water. “You’re usually putting that old coffee pot through the paces.”

  “I was in the zone, Joe,” John said. “But the lack of caffeine is taking a toll. I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

  “Nothing cures that like an aspirin and a glass of whisky,” Joe said with a wink.

  “Yeah. Along those lines, do you have time for a drink? I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Sure,” Joe said. “I’m pretty much done for the day. Wanna get out of here?”

  Ten minutes later they were considering the rye whiskies at Maddy’s Tap Room. They spent at least ten minutes talking with the bartender about the history of whiskey — and whisky — and the relative merits of bourbon, Tennessee, Canadian, Scotch, Rye and everything else. But as the room filled the bartender had less time for them and had to earn his keep.

  “So you had a question for me,” Joe said as the conversation lagged.

  “Yeah, Joe,” John began. “I’ve been talking to some pagans recently.”

  He expected Joe to react to that, but he didn’t, so John continued.

  “And they have some ideas that I’m not exactly sure what to do with. You probably think a lot more about morality than I do, so I thought you might be able to help me sort it out.”

  Joe shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said with a smile.

  “Okay. So I have a friend who’s a Wiccan, and they have this thing they call the Wiccan Rede. ‘An it harm none, do what you will.’ It sounds reasonable, but ... I have a feeling it’s a little too simplistic. I figured you might have some thoughts about that.”

  “It’s a perfectly fine ethical standard if you actually know whether you’re causing harm,” Joe said. “That’s where it breaks down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People have an enormous capacity for self-justification,” Joe explained. “They don’t want to believe they’re hur
ting anybody, so they make up all kinds of excuses for their actions. Talk to somebody who steals music, or somebody who uses porn. Do you think they can judge whether their actions are harming anyone?”

  John nodded thoughtfully.

  “That’s why we need some fixed rules,” Joe continued. “They’re somewhat like tear-stop nylon for the moral life. You start to justify yourself, tearing up the moral fabric of your mind, and eventually you run into one of these ‘thou shalt nots’ and it stops you in your tracks. It’s not perfect, but it’s a whole lot better than letting morally ignorant people come up with their own rules based on what they think is harmful.”

  “I knew you were the man,” John said appreciatively. “You think about this stuff.”

  “Sometimes,” Joe said. “I usually avoid that philosophy stuff, but I pick up a thing or two here and there.”

  “Cool,” John said. “So let’s try another brand of rye. My treat.”

  * * *

  Over several visits, John had found it hard to get out of Total Wine without spending a hundred dollars. The place was a veritable paradise for the beer, wine or liquor connoisseur. John had to set limits for himself. No more than one box of wine and one case of beer per month. Unless he was going to have company. Or unless he was going fishing.

  He walked the familiar path through the center aisles back to where they kept his five liter boxes of Franzia Merlot, but along the way he saw an unescorted child sitting right in front of the Cabernets.

  There was something wrong with the picture. It wasn’t only that a child was sitting by himself in the middle of a liquor store. The child was dirty, and dressed in odd clothes. His hair was a muddy jumble, festooned with sticks and straw. His feet were so dirty they were almost black, and they looked hard and leathery. It was as if a child from Medieval England had been transported back to modern Maryland.

  Then he noticed the tattoos. Pentagrams and runes were roughly scrawled onto the child’s arms, and some sort of crescent moon was painted in blue in the middle of his forehead. John’s indignation boiled over. Who in their right mind would tattoo a five year old child? He looked around for a parent and noticed one of the store clerks.

  “Frank,” he said with some relief, recognizing him from the Saturday wine tastings. “What’s going on here?”

  He turned and pointed to where the child had been, but there was no sign of him.

  “Can I help you?” Frank asked, stepping up next to John and looking for something out of place.

  John shook his head, bewildered, and couldn’t speak for a solid minute.

  “No, Frank,” he finally said. “Everything’s fine.”

  * * *

  “Good choice,” Sean said as they found a table at the DuClaw restaurant in Arundel Mills mall. Sean stood for a solid minute, right in the middle of the restaurant, slowly taking the place in. He seemed to note every poster, and smiled at anyone who looked his way. He eventually noticed John’s discomfort and took a seat.

  “Sorry,” Sean said quietly. “Sometimes I forget my manners.”

  “Sean,” John said, somewhat tentatively. “I had a weird experience the other day.”

  Sean looked at him with an “I told you so” expression.

  “Yeah,” John said, reading the look. “I had a vision, or a waking dream, or a hallucination, or ... something.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sean encouraged.

  “Actually, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” John said, suddenly reluctant. “But I’m curious if you’ve ever had … a hallucination, or a waking dream, or something like that.”

  Sean shook his head.

  “No. The Goddess speaks to me in other ways, which, quite frankly, would be hard to explain.” He pulled his cards out of his pocket. “Until you’ve spent a couple hundred hours studying these things, and trying to read them, .... Well. It’s like you wouldn’t have the vocabulary for it.”

  John nodded. He still didn’t believe in tarot cards or spiritual readings or any of that, but after weeks of vivid dreams, and after seeing that kid in the liquor store while he was wide awake and sober, John thought he was beginning to understand. When you immerse your mind in something, your mind adapts. It’s almost as if you retrain your brain to express things in a new language.

  “Shall I?” Sean said after a moment.

  John nodded.

  “This is going to take me a few minutes, so if the waiter shows up go ahead and order for the both of us. Whatever you pick will be fine.”

  With that he went into a kind of waking trance, shutting out the sights and sounds of the restaurant.

  John ordered club sandwiches and the Bad Moon Porter, then waited patiently as Sean slowly organized his cards on the table. When the waiter arrived with the food, John insisted that he leave the table clear and put everything on a tray to the side. The waiter was intrigued by the cards. Sean made a bit of a sight, with his large frame, unkempt beard and bright gray eyes, but when you added a deck of genuine Tarot cards, he amounted to a bit of a sensation. The waiter clearly wanted to stay and watch, but John politely told him to clear out.

  Despite his trance-like state, Sean managed to drain two glasses of porter while John patiently waited, sipping at his beer and taking his time with his sandwich.

  “I think we’re ready,” Sean finally said.

  He started turning over cards, interpreting them in keeping with what they both knew about John’s recent life. He talked about Jillian, John’s skepticism, his growing connection with spiritual realities, and then he went into a long monologue that John didn’t understand at all. The words were all English, but John couldn’t put them together. It wasn’t quite gibberish, but it didn’t add up.

  Then Sean suddenly stopped. He picked up one card and looked at it intently for a long time, then he shook his head and the trance-like look immediately left him.

  “I’m going to have to disappoint you, John. There’s something I see here, but I can’t speak of it. It would betray a confidence. I realize that sounds like a lame excuse, but ... there’s nothing I can do.”

  “You can’t … talk around it?” John asked, not sure if he was disappointed or amused. His inner skeptic was taking a victory lap.

  “That’s not the way it works with me,” Sean said. “I read the cards until I see a single, organizing principle, and then all the other cards start to fall in place around that theme. I can’t say any more.”

  They both fell silent, and it took the rest of their sandwiches and another Bad Moon Porter before they were able to resume anything like a normal conversation.

  Chapter 8: Blue Cohosh

  The seasonal transition to early darkness always took some getting used to, and John was — as he always was in the fall — ever-so-slightly surprised that the world outside Jillian’s kitchen window was completely dark at 7:30. Several odd thoughts played at the edges of his mind. Normally he would simply have moved on to the next thought, but for a moment he tried to let the undifferentiated confusion tease at the corners of his consciousness. Slowly, and perhaps reluctantly, his rational faculties started to step aside and he felt something else assert – another way of thinking and knowing – come forward.

  Something didn’t seem to fit. The shocked-at-nothing, pagan Jillian of the Halloween party, the straight-laced Jillian who seemed almost Victorian in her ethics, and the Jillian who studied herbs and discussed poetry with friends on Monday nights .... How did they all fit together? And how did he get pulled into her orbit? And why had he let this go on?

  Before his mind could do more than revel in the absurdity of the situation, the doorbell rang and he was enslaved to the mundane: greeting E.J., taking his jacket, offering him a drink.

  In a few minutes the house was full and John was dutifully playing host while Jillian finished a business call from the other room. Anne’s friend Joan joined the normal crowd. An occasional participant, she was lured back when she heard they were doing Tolkien. And then Sean arrived
.

  “You didn’t know?” he said, seeing the surprise on John’s face. “I’ve been a regular with this group for years. I took a break recently.”

  And, indeed, a moment later he was chatting freely with the other guests like they were old friends.

  John wanted to ask Jillian what was up, but she came out of the kitchen and greeted Sean with a kiss. “Hello, my love,” she said.

  John wasn’t sure, but it seemed that the corner of her eye twinkled in John’s direction, as if she desperately wanted to see his confusion.

  After that, the rest of the night was a bit of a blur. John couldn’t pay much attention to the conversation in the room because of all the conversations going on in his own head. Confusion about Jillian and Sean was only a part of it. His philosophical materialism was starting to feel like a thin, tattered thing, that a stiff breeze might blow away. He felt as if some larger, spiritual world was stalking him, slowly taking pieces of his mind.

  While these currents ran deep in his soul, on the surface he felt like a bone that had been tossed aside. Jillian sat with Sean on the couch, hand in hand, and everyone else in the room seemed to accept this — as if it had always been this way, and always would be. John was the stranger.

  A fierce jealousy welled up in him. Part of his mind tried to replay all the events since his first meeting with Jillian, trying to make sense of it all. But the active part of his consciousness tried to keep a hold — however small — on this group, and on Jillian. He didn’t want to embarrass himself. He had to live through this nightmare.

  After a while he realized that this was supposed to be his swan’s song. Jillian and Sean were trying to embarrass him. He was supposed to leave with his tail between his legs, defeated. But John had two minds now. While one was brooding and thinking about his behavior in the book club, the other was interpreting, connecting the dots and forming a plan. And so everyone was surprised — even John — when he invited them all to his house for the next week’s meeting. They were all too shocked to do anything but accept.