A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  “So, do you follow trouble or does trouble follow you?”

  It was Ian. Small town indeed, she thought, smiling to herself.

  “Following trouble is my job. I can’t seem to get away from it.”

  She showed him the paper. Sandal, without needing to ask if or which, slid Ian a beer as she passed.

  “Is that what came through the window here last night?” he asked.

  “Sandal found it in a puddle of fuel on the floor. If there was any writing, it was dissolved by whatever was meant to ignite this place. Somebody failed at making an effective Molotov cocktail. Probably not by much. This place could have been ashes today.”

  Ian shifted on his barstool. “I’m surprised they would do this during Passion Week.” His voice had lowered and slowed. She could tell he was angry. “Then again,” he said, “I hear the Angels were pretty upset about the Hales wanting the Flock off the hill yesterday.”

  “Well, we were trespassing.”

  “We?”

  “My relationship with trouble, you know.”

  He studied her for a moment. “The Flock has been making the pilgrimage to the gate every year for generations. I would think they have a legal right of way.”

  “I don’t know, but the gate guard was insisting they needed to have a written permit of some kind, which they couldn’t produce. It didn’t stop them though.”

  “I don’t suppose it would. I’m surprised the Flock hasn’t pulled down the gate yet and marched right over it on their way to the top.”

  “You think they would do that?”

  “They believe the hill is holy ground. They believe the cross has to be raised again on the summit for Jesus to come back to earth and reign for a thousand years.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Only a thousand years?”

  “I know. Odd, huh? Rather arbitrary. There’s scriptural reference for it though.”

  “So what’s stopping them?”

  “That’s a mystery to me. The story is that Obadiah and the original Flock, which wasn’t more than a couple dozen people, had been allowed to take the cross all the way up the hill every year, right in the middle of the mining boom, when the headframe and hoist were in operation on the summit. But after Obadiah disappeared, Thomas Hale shut the West Gate on Easter weekend and posted a guard there, and that was as far as the Church was ever allowed to advance again. They’ve been stopping at the gate and setting up the cross next to it ever since.”

  “But now that’s changing.”

  “That remains to be seen. It’s hard to imagine the Church will accept being kept completely off the hill. They have a lot of economic and political power in the valley these days. On the other hand, I’ve never heard of Roger Hale backing off anything he’s set his mind to. That’s not the Hale way. Good Friday next year could be interesting.”

  Paige was aware of the nearness of his body, of his sitting as comfortably on the barstool as he had in the saddle, of his capable, confident hands –

  “You heard about what happened yesterday?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It was awful.”

  “From what I’ve heard. You saw it?”

  “I was right there, for all of it.”

  “I’m sorry, Paige.”

  “Me too.” But sitting there next to him, she didn’t want to relive it. She didn’t need to. “So, Obadiah – you said he disappeared?”

  “The Church claims he was taken up by God, raised directly to heaven from the cross as his reward for carrying the cross up to the summit every year on Good Friday, and for staying there, tied to it, until Easter morning – and for his years of dedication, for establishing the Church here as God had told him to.”

  Paige smiled wryly. “And what do you think really happened to him?”

  Ian shrugged and shook his head. “I have no clue.”

  They caught each other’s eye through the mirror behind the bottles at the back of the bar.

  “You think it was the Angels who tried to torch this place?” she asked.

  “Who else?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve a hunch that if the Angels had wanted to burn the bar to the ground, they wouldn’t have failed. It seems there’s not much they do only part way.”

  “Maybe they’re just trying to send a message.”

  “Maybe.”

  He drank his beer. She drank her wine. She folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into her purse.

  “You’re still leaving tomorrow night, then?” he asked, rather too nonchalantly she thought, his eyes on his beer.

  “I have to get back to work.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll be out on a fence line, doing some real work, as my father would say. I suppose this is the last I’ll be seeing you.”

  She said nothing as she finished her wine.

  “The gallery is open today,” he said. “We didn’t have a single walk-in though, so I put the sign on the door. Thought I’d come over for a break. Actually, honestly, I saw you walking across – thought you might like company.” He checked his watch. “I have to go back and close up. If you’d like to tour the gallery again before you go, you’re more than welcome. The gallery is closed tomorrow.”

  “It matters to you?”

  He finished what was left of his beer and turned to look at her. “I love the way you look at the art,” he said.

  Paige motioned Sandal for the check.

  “Please,” Ian said. He left money on the bar between them and nodded a thanks to Sandal. As Paige followed him out, she felt the eyes of nearly everyone in the room on them. It had to be common knowledge that Ian was engaged. Small town.

  * * *

  She had completed her circuit through the gallery, with Ian a pace behind and beside. He had let her enjoy the sculptures and paintings again at her leisure, answering her occasional question, sharing thoughts when she wanted sharing, remaining silent but near when she wanted silence – sharing his world, a world that had become, at least for a time, her world too. It felt right. She basked in what she could only think of as an exalted plane, but it was a plane that could have no permanence. Not for her. She had to go.

  At the door, she stopped in front of the display casting of the sculpture she had purchased.

  “We shipped yours yesterday,” he said. “I trust you got my text. I’ll track the crate, but if you don’t have it by Thursday latest, for whatever reason, please let me know.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine, thanks. . . . I know just where I’m going to put it.”

  He smiled. “Maybe you can send a photo.”

  “I’ll do that,” she answered. “Well – ” She stood, looking at him, hands at her sides. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Would you mind waiting while I close up?”

  Her heart skipped. “Of course not.”

  After he locked the door, they stood together on the sidewalk. The emptiness of the plaza on a sunny Saturday afternoon was still eerie, but at the moment, she was happy for the privacy. She glanced in the direction of the apartment. He stared ahead, examining one of the large oaks in the plaza.

  “Listen, I – ” he started, but didn’t finish.

  “You probably have to be going,” she said. “But you’re welcome to come up. I don’t have beer, but there’s an open bottle of champagne.”

  “Thanks, I would, but – I’m expected for dinner.”

  “Of course. Well – I guess I’ll head back over to the bar. I forgot to get something to eat earlier.”

  “Would you mind if I walked you back?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  The same eyes that had watched them leave watched them return. He brought her back to the same barstool.

  “Thank you, Ian – for everything.”

  “The pleasure was mine. I hope we can stay in touch. Maybe you’ll be back through the valley sometime. Someday. ”

  “Maybe.”

  He started to go but stopped and turned. “Listen, what I wa
s trying to tell you, in front of the gallery – ”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re sure you have to leave Monday?

  “I can’t stay here forever, can I?”

  There was a look in his eye that seemed like a warning, but she couldn’t tell if it was for her or for himself. He glanced away, then back. “I’m sorry, Paige, but I’m engaged. I have a fiancée. Not that you needed to know, but I just wanted you to know . . . that if I wasn’t . . .”

  “I knew. I had heard. But, thank you.”

  “Sorry, yes. Small town.”

  “Small town.”

  He turned and walked away. When he was halfway to the door he paused and cut left, through the tables. He stopped in front of the jukebox, dropped two coins in, pressed three buttons and turned back to face her. There was just enough space between the tables. He held out his hand.

  She went to him.

  Any eyes that hadn’t followed them before were on them now. There was no way his fiancée wouldn’t hear about it. Out of the corner of Paige’s eye, she saw one of the girls slip her hand into her purse for her phone. Ian was going to pay for this, surely, and dearly – and she loved him for it.

  When she came to him, his left hand took her right, and his right hand went to the small of her back. As he moved her in a slow circle to the country waltz, she closed her eyes, willing herself to let go.

  Would that you could be

  Mine then we would be

  All that two should be,

  Dancing in time. . . .

  He had drawn her close, and it was all she could do to keep from leaning in and letting her cheek rest against his cheek, from letting her lips brush his neck, to taste the leather and prairie grass after a thunderstorm. . . .

  Though close, I miss you,

  Long so to kiss you,

  It would be bliss to

  Write our own rhyme. . . .

  The world had gone away and she didn’t want it back –

  But she threw a cold steel girder across the abyss to arrest the fall of her tumbling heart. Her heart hit it hard, and it hurt, but she couldn’t get involved. Not here. Not with Ian. Not with anybody. She couldn’t have complications. She couldn’t be in anyone’s hold and sway. Her life depended on staying unencumbered, on remaining neutral, agile, flexible, free. Unencumbered she could do, and do well, but not the other. Not this. She knew how to fly, but only without a harness or net. With safety she would become careless, her focus slipping, her attention wandering – she would sleep too soundly, her awareness softening, reflexes slowing. She would make a mistake, and a single mistake could kill her, could send her crashing and burning down through any net no matter how strong. It was safer to fly when falling wasn’t an option.

  It was just as well that Ian was engaged. It was damned fortunate, really.

  She knew he had felt her bracing, stiffening as the song came to its inevitable end. After the last note played, there was silence in the room. Everyone was watching them, she knew. She didn’t care.

  He searched her eyes, looking for an answer.

  There was none there to be found. Letting go of her hands, he took a step back and nodded politely.

  “Thank you for the dance, Miss Keller.”

  “Thank you for asking, Mr. Argent.”

  He lingered a moment more before turning and walking away in his unhurried cowboy’s gait. He let the door swing closed behind him without looking back.

  She stood watching the door, asking herself what she had done, what she hadn’t done, before returning to the bar, ignoring the eyes of all.

  “Sandal, I think I’ll have tequila.”

  Sandal poured two shots, placing one in front of Paige, holding one for herself.

  Paige raised her glass. “To what we want but can’t have.”

  Sandal’s eyes widened, searching Paige’s, but there was nothing more for her there either, no more than there had been for Ian. She shook her head, bemused at the irony. She could smile at pain. She had smiled through each of her tattoos. She had smiled through each of her piercings. This piercing was deep, but she smiled anyway. “To what we want but can’t have – my friend.”

  Holding each other’s gaze, they tilted their glasses back and sent the doses of fiery elixir streaming towards their targets.

  * * *

  Back in the apartment, Paige laid the paper on the table and smoothed it down. Using a sharpened pencil, angling it low so that the lead lay flat, she made a light rubbing, brushing the paper’s surface gently, evenly. The curves, lines and squiggles began to show, but they were too faint to read, even when held up to the light. She took a photo of what she had, enhanced the contrast and reversed the image. Although a smattering of letters and parts of several words were still illegible, the verse could be read:

  Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.

  She looked up the text on her phone. It was from the first book of Corinthians, the sixth chapter, verses nine and ten.

  She took a swig of champagne straight from the bottle. She almost wished she had lured Ian into bed just to spite the Angels.

  Fourteen

  By the end of the day Saturday, all but the most hermetic in Aurum Valley were aware of the general facts and circumstances surrounding the death of Honesto Buenaflor Tolosa, yet the last thing the Flock expected when they arrived at the cathedral on Easter morning was the setting for a funeral. Most expected that the unfortunate unpleasantness would have been handled quietly in the smaller chapel, as customary, later that afternoon or Monday. Honesto had no relatives on this side of the world. He was not a well-known, popular, or distinguished member of the Church. But when the Flock arrived they found, front and center beneath the pulpit, a beautiful, expensive casket, with arrangements of white flowers mounded on each side and along the stage’s length. The Passion Play set had been struck. The stage had been returned to its usual configuration. With the organist playing softly in the background, it was all quite lovely, Paige thought, as she found a seat a few rows from the front. She noticed, on the wall above the organ pipes, the faintly darkened ghost of the cross, which had yet to be returned to its place.

  The half-lid of the casket was open. Honesto lay in repose, dressed in a white robe like the one he had been wearing in the procession, but of a finer cotton. His hands were folded across his chest, his face was serene. His lower body and feet were hidden beneath the closed lower lid.

  Without needing to be told, the congregants entering the auditorium made their way down to the front to pass by the coffin observantly, whether out of curiosity, respect, or sympathy, uttering quiet words of prayer for the young man’s soul. An Angel was posted at each end of the coffin to help keep the line moving, but even so, by the time Paige arrived, the viewing line extended to the back of the auditorium and looped partway down a second aisle. The video screens displayed, larger than life, a retouched, close-up photo of the deceased. Paige sensed a general, unsettled unease in the cathedral. Congregants glanced around to read how others were responding. Some of the younger children, particularly, seemed upset, clinging to their parents, questioning; for many, Paige realized, it could be their first close experience with death.

  Sophia Hale arrived in a dress of pale yellow gossamer, belted in white velvet and trimmed with white lace, her matching bonnet tied with a gay silk bow. It was an Easter dress. Like the others, she hadn’t been expecting a funeral. She didn’t join the line for the viewing. Taking her usual place, she sat rigidly, staring ahead. She wouldn’t look at the casket.

  When the choir began to file in, the Angels dismissed the hundreds still waiting in line. All returned to their seats without question or complaint.

  The choir sang of the promise of the hereafter, but it seemed t
hat no one in the present, with the exception of Sophia Hale, could take their eyes off the casket. One dead lamb held the attention of ten thousand living. The cameras were focused on him – the casket was on all the screens as Skye Emberly soloed a poignant song about the sweetness of the land across the River Jordan, of the release in the hereafter from pain and sorrow, of the reuniting with loved ones, of the rewards for a life of faith and devotion.

  At the song’s conclusion, four persons ascended the steps from the stage’s left. Three were the same as the Sunday prior – the worship director, the assistant youth minister, and Reverend Lundquist. An extra chair had been brought to accommodate the fourth, an elderly man with a wilted apple of a face, identified in the program as Brother Jonas McFadden, Senior Elder, Chairman of the Flock’s Council of Elders. He wore a dark brown suit that by Paige’s estimation, given the style and sheen, was at least two decades old.

  The worship director, Sister Shelling, led the congregation and choir in a song of hope and thankfulness as edited footage from the Passion Play and Friday’s procession scrolled on the video screens. When the assistant youth minister, Simon Paulson, came to the pulpit, the view on the screens shifted to scenes in which Honesto himself was visible in the procession, several rows behind the principals. When Honesto’s face could be seen, it was awash with tears, his lips quivering in pain. The video editor had lingered on a close-up view.

  Simon opened with an acknowledgement of a gentleman sitting in the front row, welcoming him first in English, then in attempted Tagalog.

  Honesto’s father, uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit, looked exhausted and confused, as though he hadn’t slept in days. Paige guessed that he’d just arrived from the Philippines that morning or the night before. She wondered if the poor man had ever been on a plane before or in a building anywhere near the size of the cathedral.