A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  What would he do if she were gone? Eileen being gone was unthinkable. He certainly wouldn’t spend the rest of his days sitting on the bench in front of the coffee shop, poking at the ground with a cane. He didn’t really want to go back to the Old Country. America was home. The valley and the ranch and the Hill were home. This place belonged to him, as he belonged to it, if not in title, then in blood, sweat, and spirit. His heart and soul were here. Eileen was home. Her face, her smile, from that first day he had come to work at the ranch as a raw, naïve young man with no more than a few phrases of broken English. She had stolen his breath that day. In his eyes, she was still the most beautiful thing. . . .

  He shuffled his feet impatiently. She might have been right though, in what she said last night. He had protested the notion vigorously when she voiced it over dinner, but she might have been right, as most often she was. The way things were going, it was possible that this year might be the last year the flame would burn on the summit, that the era was coming to an end, as all eras eventually must. But what more could be done? He shook his head, every fiber of his soul rejecting the finality.

  The street lamps and store lights had come on around the plaza. A shiver went through him as he watched the looming mass of the Hill darken against the blue-green sky. He pulled his jacket more snugly about him and stared at the summit. Could it be that the last time had already come and gone? Had last year been the last?

  “Any time, young man – any time,” he urged. “This old man isn’t going to live forever, you know.”

  * * *

  Toby James, boy-terror and general nuisance of Aurum Valley, had quietly climbed the eight ladders to the ninth level of the narrowing space, to as high as a boy could reasonably ascend and still find room enough to stretch his legs, stand upright and properly store his things. The interior of the cathedral’s steeple was his scavenger’s lair, his crow’s nest high on the mast of his pirate ship, his treasure room in the tower of his castle’s keep.

  A slip from this height would mean a tumble of eighty feet to the ceiling of the vestibule below. Across the open metal trusses he had laid a floor of boards smuggled from the wood stacks behind the Church’s maintenance shop. Stored neatly along three of the inward-canting walls were boxes of candles requisitioned from the refectory, a carton of miscellaneous hand tools collected from the carpentry shop, coils of discarded rope scavenged from behind the drama stage of the school auditorium, and boxes and bins of sundry items collected for use or entertainment.

  Three wooden shelves supported by milk crates housed his library, which consisted predominantly of volumes permanently borrowed from the town and church libraries. On the right end of the top row was a history of Aurum Valley. On the left end was a Bible, King James Version. The row was bookended by two bare-breasted hula dancers carved in black basalt, a matching pair Toby had obtained at a garage sale in exchange for raking leaves. The Bible was in the collection chiefly because, being a James himself, he had taken a fancy to the “King James” moniker embossed in gold on the spine, enough so that he was considering having his own name legally changed to “King James” when he came of age. He hadn’t yet decided if he would keep the “Toby” as a middle name. He had read the Bible, as he had the other books, cover to cover, though skimming and skipping the “begats” and other monotonous sections. His favorite character, indeed the only character that had held his interest at all, was King David – slayer of giants, lions, and bears; master of the slingshot, sword and harp; leader of armies; administrator and judge; husband to eight wives – David the lowly shepherd boy, the nobody, who by skill, courage and cleverness had risen to the highest station in the land. Toby had practiced with his homemade slingshot until he was able to hit a baby-food jar with a ball bearing at fifteen yards. He estimated that this was accurate enough to kill a giant, if and when the opportunity should arise.

  Along the fourth wall lay a long red cushion, discarded when the Church refurbished the pews in the chapel. A shorter chair cushion, duct-taped into a roll and stuffed into a large t-shirt, sufficed as a pillow. A section of red velvet curtain from the auditorium’s old stage skirting served as a blanket. Draped through the open metal trussing above, imparting the atmosphere of a nomad’s tent, was a faded Basque flag from the cultural center, a Nevada state flag which had disappeared from the courthouse flagpole in the middle of a Friday afternoon, and a United States flag that had been left flying in front of an attorney’s office one night. The latter Toby judged to be fair game given that displaying the United States flag after sundown without proper illumination was unacceptable flag etiquette. He had learned this from the manual of the Boy Scouts, the organization from which he had been permanently disinvited after attending only his second meeting for having taught the other boys how to make tennis-ball cannons out of soda cans and lighter fluid, resulting in a deputy’s patrol car running over a fire hydrant on the corner of Third and McKinstry.

  The steeple’s subcutaneous metal sheathing was frigidly cold in the winter, but enough heat rose from the auditorium to keep the space tolerably warm at night, at least until the few hours before dawn. Summer afternoons were unbearably hot, but a boy had other places to be on summer afternoons. The maintenance staff never ventured into the steeple. Toby had caulked and sealed two leaks himself to guard against there being any cause for them to do so. He had memorized the schedules and habits of the cleaning crew, avoiding them as he did the Angels on security duty, tracking the sounds of doors being locked and unlocked, opened and closed. Late at night, Reverend Lundquist’s personal lavatory behind the main stage served for sponge bathing, toilet use, and emptying the jar kept in the steeple for emergencies.

  He seldom visited home anymore. His drunk of a father evidently preferred it that way; his abused mother, usually high on one substance or another, had left long ago. He hadn’t attended school in over two years, having come to an understanding with the county truancy officer – the truancy officer left Toby alone, and Toby didn’t make the truancy officer beg to trade jobs with the animal-control officer.

  The location in the steeple had been chosen as a hideaway and home by a number of criteria, not the least important of which was that it was the level with the highest accessible air vents, one on each side. On this particular evening, a half hour before sunset, he had unscrewed and removed the louvered cover to the northerly vent and had pulled it inside. A section of a wooden shipping pallet on the floor raised his eye-level to the opening’s height.

  Though the spring weather had remained ideal outside, the afternoon sun had warmed the interior of the steeple considerably. By mid-afternoon, Toby had removed his shirt. By late afternoon, his trousers were off. By the time he was removing the vent cover, he was naked, glistening with perspiration.

  With the vent opening uncovered, the evening’s coolness whistled through the interior. When his body had dried and the first chill shivered the length of his frame, he wrapped the red curtain from the bed around his thin shoulders, pinning it beneath his chin with a drapery hook.

  As the shadow of the Garnets took the Hill’s summit, the caped captain of the cathedral steeple was standing silent and still at the vent, one eye pressed into the working half of a pair of broken binoculars, the other eye squeezed closed, the breeze shifting his dirty-blond bangs across his bronzed brow. Next to him, hanging from a hook at the end of a length of shoestring, tied to a crosspiece above, was an antique, glass-bulbed oil lamp from the church’s prop room. The lamp’s reservoir was filled with oil. The wick was primed.

  Toby waited, watching, scanning. Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes.

  Covering the walls of his little room were pictures and posters of beautiful women, fast cars, and sports stars. In the place of honor, centered on the wall above the top row of his books, was a single, smaller image, a page cut from a French society magazine. The photo accompanying the article was that of a dashing, wealthy young American, one Aaron Hale. Dressed in a perfectly cut tuxedo, h
e was assisting the beautiful Stephanie Delacroix, in a shimmering haute-couture evening gown, out of a limousine. They were attending the opening night gala for the Paris Opera Ballet. Her long legs were turned out of the car, knee to knee, the toe of her designer shoe extended elegantly. She was looking up at her escort confidently, coyly.

  Toby checked his wrist. The man’s watch he’d found beneath the auditorium pew on the night of his last birthday – it was too large for his arm, but he liked it and he didn’t care – showed that it was forty-three minutes past sunset on the summit, forty-three minutes past the moment the flame should have been lit, forty-three minutes past the moment it was lit every year without fail. Toby, however, was unconcerned. Not a shadow of a doubt had crossed his mind nor would it. He lowered the binoculars, put his hands on his hips and kept watch. He knew all about Rising Day, from the Aurum Valley history book. On this Rising Eve, Aaron Hale would light the flame on the summit, as a Hale always had and always would. It was a simple fact, a reality he wouldn’t think to question. Toby would stand there all night if necessary, lamp at the ready, to witness the lighting when it occurred, to acknowledge it, to answer it.

  It was the least he could do.

  * * *

  Skye hurried into her room to find her roommate sitting cross-legged on the bed, transfixed, staring at the empty chair that had been turned away from Skye’s desk.

  “Melanie, what’s wrong?”

  “He was sitting right there.”

  “Who?”

  Melanie opened her mouth but no words came. She stared on, buttery-eyed and speechless. Melanie was never speechless.

  Skye had no time to solve a mystery. She crossed between Melanie and the chair, to her bed, where she reopened her half-packed suitcase, and from her closet and dresser began retrieving socks, shoes, blouses and skirts.

  “Why hadn’t you introduced me to him before, Sister Skye?”

  “To whom, Melanie?”

  “Oh . . . umm . . .” Melanie’s tongue traced between her lips. “He is so good looking! Better than good looking, simply divine. Just melt-in-your-mouth, sinfully delicious!”

  Skye sighed. “I’m sorry, Melanie, but I really don’t have time for this now. Who was here?”

  “Aaron. Aaron Hale.”

  Skye stopped packing. “Aaron was here? In my room?”

  “In our room. Sitting right there in your chair.”

  “When?” Skye dashed to the door and looked up and down the hall. “Oh no – when did he leave?”

  “I don’t know, about an hour ago maybe. Maybe forty-five minutes. I don’t know. Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “Maybe an hour – I don’t know. He was sitting here when I came in. I can’t imagine who would have let him in downstairs. Then again – who wouldn’t have – ? Then I missed dinner, talking with him – as if I cared about dinner.” She sighed. “He was waiting for you.”

  “Waiting for – me?” Skye’s world had stopped moving. She stopped hurrying. She turned and sat on the bed as Melanie prattled on.

  “I thought for sure you would be back before dinner, Sister Skye, and that’s what I told him. Believe me, I kept him here as long as I could! I hadn’t ever seen him up close, really, only from across the auditorium. Funny, at first I thought maybe he was one of those angels, you know. I mean, not a Flock Angel, mind you – but one of the real ones, you know, like, from heaven. Like the kind of angels that used to show up in the Bible at someone’s house with a message from God, and the people didn’t even realize they were angels until they were gone. Or like the one that came for Brother Obadiah in the desert and took him back to Jesus’ time. I mean, I had seen him once or twice in church from a distance, but up close – this close – oh my goodness, Skye, he is just beautiful really. And he just has this way about him – kind of like he might live forever and nothing could ever bother him. You just know he could do anything he wanted with a girl and she’d like it, you know. . . .” She paused for a quick sigh. “He did seem disappointed when you never showed up.” She had turned to Skye. “And just how have you been friends with him for so long, being that he’s not Flock? How could any woman just be friends with a man like that? I have to be honest, Sister Skye – I would sin for him. Forgive me and help me, Jesus and the Prophet, but I would sin for that man. I’d rip my clothes right off in a second if he asked me to. Or better, if he told me to. Or, good heavens, if he would just do it himself – ”

  “Sister Melanie!”

  “I’m sorry, Sister Skye, but well, wouldn’t you? I mean, really. I’d just have to beg God for forgiveness afterwards. Yes, God would just have to forgive me. I mean, how many chances could a girl get for something like that? Wouldn’t it be worth it?”

  “Really, Melanie.” Skye’s face had warmed. She tried to focus on folding the blouse in her hands, but she couldn’t get it right. She stuffed it in the suitcase. “I thought you said you wanted to be in the Vestals.”

  “Yes, well, sure, I mean eventually – but not necessarily tonight. I mean, the Vestals is great and all, but it’s for your whole life, you know, and my whole life could wait until at least tomorrow. Of course you’re supposed to still be a virgin to get into the Vestals, but I know for sure of at least one or two Vestals who aren’t technically virgins, or even untechnically virgins, from the stories I’ve heard. But – why isn’t he Flock, Skye? He was there in church next to his mom last Sunday, wasn’t he? Though I do remember he got up and left early. That was kind of awkward, wasn’t it? Why do you suppose he would do that?”

  An urgent knock came at the door. “Sister Skye?” It was Jonathon, filling the door frame. “We’re running late, you know. Can I take your suitcase down?”

  She stuffed her toiletries kit into the cover pocket, her shoes into a shoe bag, and the shoe bag into the suitcase. Hurriedly, she zipped it closed, lugged it off the bed and rolled it towards the door. “Thank you, Jonathon. I’ll be right down.”

  “We need to hurry, Skye,” he said, taking the bag. “The airport is going to be really busy with everyone leaving after Passion.”

  “I know. I’ll be right down, I promise.” Her fingernails dug into her palms. She would have been back in the room before dinner. She would have readily skipped dinner altogether had she known Aaron was coming. But as Evening Prayers were letting out, Sister Williams had collared her and just had to tell her about the video call she wanted to set up between Skye and her Middle Lambs class when Skye had some free time on the film set. She just had to tell Skye how much the students would enjoy knowing all about what it was like making a movie – and then she slid into a rambling litany of her own personal problems, of how she would be so grateful if Skye would remember her in her prayers, being that Skye surely had a special place in God’s heart –

  “Oh, Melanie,” she implored, “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Well, he was asking all sorts of things, to fill the time, I guess, while he was waiting for you, but I do remember him asking if I knew if you had plans later tonight. Which seemed odd. Of course your suitcase was right there on the bed, so of course I told him you had to fly back to Los Angeles. Hey – you don’t think he was going to ask you out on a date or anything, do you? I mean, you couldn’t actually go out on a real date with him anyway – I mean, you of all people, Sister Skye. You would never sin, especially with a Stray, with someone who isn’t Flock. Anyway, he was asking about how you’re doing, what you’re doing, what I thought you were going to be doing in the future. And we just talked and talked and talked. Well – ” she laughed at herself – “I probably did most of the talking, and I guess I ended up talking about myself mostly, but he waited as long as he could. That’s what he said. And oh – I almost forgot – he left you a present!” She squeaked with excitement and bounced in her chair, pointing. “I can’t wait to see what it is!”

  On the sill of the window was a small rectangular gift box wrapped in a white satin paper that was
embossed in delicate floral damask, tied with a thin velvet ribbon of lavender. Beneath the box was a note, a page of Skye’s marigold stationery, folded down with the corner tucked in, just the way Skye had taught Aaron when she was six and he eight.

  She slipped the box into her purse, eliciting a mewling protest from Melanie. The note she unfolded and read, to herself.

  Dear Skye ~

  I’ve had your sketch framed. It’s on the wall now, across from my desk.

  I’m sorry I’ve missed you this evening. I was hoping you might be able to join me again on the Hill tonight. Hopefully next year.

  I came across this in a shop in Paris and thought of you, naturally.

  Yours ~ A

  Her focus lingered on the “Yours” before returning to the mention of the Hill. She looked up at the Church calendar on the wall in alarm. The Little Lamb’s artwork for the month was a child’s drawing of a cross on a hilltop, with wildly colored spring flowers growing up all around, in the corner of the sky a big yellow sun, its bright rays emanating from a broad smiling face. Tomorrow’s date leapt out at her. She had circled it in purple pen as soon as the calendars had been distributed, as she always did. With Easter having fallen on the day before Rising Day this year, tonight was Rising Eve. She had been so busy that she hadn’t glanced at the calendar once since she’d been home.

  She went to the window. From her first year in the dorm, on the bottom floor, she had insisted on a room facing north, though the northerly side was less desirable to most girls, as it never received direct sun, even in the summer. The groundskeeper couldn’t have guessed the real reason why she solicited him, every year and ever so sweetly, to keep the branches on the big pine on the north lawn trimmed back. No one but Skye knew that it was so she would always have an unimpeded view of the Hill’s summit. No one but she would have made the connection that if the summit could be seen from her window, her window could be seen from the summit. Anyone would assume, naturally enough, that her preference for the view was out of a singular devotion to the prophecy.