Lorrieann’s World

 

The walk from the garden to the grand doors of the house had never been especially interesting, but everything changed with Arcana’s newborn life. Gabriel lingered up the path, allowing his mind to wander from his guests for the moment, marveling at the beauty of the setting sun as it played on the deep green-blue leaves of the holly that lined the walk. He reached for a brightly colored blossom, remembering that Malus had called it ‘flower’ and that one should always stop to smell them — though Gabriel had neglected to ask how one went about ’smelling’ things. I have so much to learn of this humanity. He touched the blossom, delighting in the softness of the petals. He made to grab the holly leaves to see if they, too, were as soft as the flowers, then jumped back startled when one of the thorny leaves stuck the end of his finger.

“Zounds! What beast of a bush be this?” he yelled to the sky, then stood mesmerized by the tiny red pearl forming at the tip of his finger. “Well now, I believe I know what this is,” he sighed, examining the droplet. “The stuff of human kind . . . the giver and taker of life — blood of the veins.” A breeze caressed his face as if in reply. “I’m human . . . I do not think I shall ever fully believe . . . I suppose I must.” Instinctually, he drew his finger to his mouth and sucked off the little red dab, before continuing up the walk.

It was when he reached the bottom of the stairs that another curious sensation crept over Gabriel — the strange and sudden urge to draw in long, deep breaths while stretching his mouth to a ridiculous size. He paused at the bottom of the front stairs, leaning on his walking stick, as once again, unbidden, he felt the strange little pop in his ears before his jaw stretched and his lungs sucked in what seemed to be gallons of air. “Oooooh mmmyyy!” He blinked, shaking the sensation away as best he could. “What in the name of Armageddon — ”

“I believe it is called . . . uh, a yowl, sir.”

Gabriel looked up to see Malus standing in the opened doorway, beckoning him to follow. Malus walked briskly along the polished marble corridor, speaking over his shoulder as he led the way.

“No, no, that’s not quite it. Oh, yes, a yawn. That’s it. Yawn.”

“A yawn? Is it normal?” Gabriel asked, trying to keep pace with Malus.

“Well, from what I’ve been able to tell from my observations, it is something humans seem to do quite frequently. Mostly when they are fatigued, but often when they are engaged in a particularly tedious task, or when they’re not very interested in the person they happen to be conversing with.”

“They do?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, it seems a bit odd, don’t you think? To have your jaw crank itself open as wide as the abyss?”

“I find much about human beings to be odd, yawning is the least of it. Ah. Here we are, your chamber has been made ready.” Malus stopped before a set of grand double doors that didn’t seem at all familiar to Gabriel.

“Chamber?”

“Your bed chamber, sir.” Malus pushed the doors open and swept into the room, crossing to the window and pushing aside a voluminous green drapery.

Gabriel stood in the entry curiously surveying the room that was filled with many strange furnishings. He knew what the tables and chairs were of course, and the chests filled with drawers, and the shelves lined with tomes, but the largest and most dominating piece of furniture was completely new to him — a cushioned platform of sorts, surrounded by posts, with folds upon folds of the same green fabric that hung at the windows.

“It is called a bed,” Malus explained as he turned down the coverlet and fluffed a pillow.

Gabriel ran his fingers over the silky draperies, transfixed by the way the light played upon the folds and ripples. “It is very pretty … ah, is this the place I will, …” he paused, searching for the word he wanted, “… sleep?”

Malus smiled and bowed. “Very good, sir.”

“And has each of our guests been provided with a … bed?”

“Of course. I must say they are a curious lot,” Malus said as he continued preparing the bed. “I took great pains to put each at ease with the place. Yet they remain suspicious and . . . ungrateful.”

“They are strange to Arcana, Malus. Patience. Is that not what you always advise for me?”

“Indeed,” Malus agreed, with a trace of a smile. “Now then, it is time for you to sleep. I believe the custom is that you should lie down here,” he indicated the now exposed bottom sheet, “and place your head here, on this.”

Gabriel pressed his hand onto the pillow, allowing it to sink deeply into the feathers. “Oh, that is pleasant.” He sat upon the edge of the bed and swung his feet up. “Like this?” he asked, slowly lowering himself against the pillow.

Malus frowned, placing a hand to his chin.

“Am I not lying down?”

“Oh, yes, but something is … ah! You are still dressed.”

Gabriel looked down to his garments. “Are they inappropriate?”

“For sleeping, yes. Fear not.” Malus hurried across the room to an ornate cabinet, and swung wide the door. “Ah yes, this is what this if for. I wondered what it could possibly be since it is so different from all the rest of the clothing. But it makes perfect sense.” He pulled a voluminous white frock from the cupboard and shook it out. “This, I believe, is called a nightshirt. Humans wear them for sleeping in. They are . . . ” he turned the garment front to back examining it, “… less confining.”

Gabriel saw no reason to argue with the man. After all it was Malus who had traveled beyond Arcana to observe these human creatures in detail. He would know better than Gabriel what a night shirt would be. As he stripped off the confining clothing he’d been wearing, he realized for the first time how truly restricting and uncomfortable it was to wear cloth and fabric against his newly sensitive skin. The shoes, in particular, were a great relief to shed. He stretched his toes and flexed them into the deep pile of the carpet, reveling in the tenderness of his soles. Trousers and shirt, shed he felt the breeze from the window brush against his newly exposed flesh.

“Oh. . . Malus, would that you could feel . . .”

Malus only watched, waiting patiently for Gabriel to reach for the night shirt. But Gabriel found he wanted nothing to come between himself and the breeze. “Must I?”

Malus put the nightshirt back where it came from, and closed the cupboard. “I see no reason. The whole idea in sleep, is to be comfortable while you do it. I quite agree it seems a silly habit these humans have, draping themselves in all this . . . stuff.”

“But you are wearing … a stuff.”

“Only because they expect it. Apparently it is frowned upon to allow your form to be exposed, though I cannot for the existence of me understand it. We are as we are, as I’m certain they are too.” He pulled the coverlet completely off the bed, setting it on a seat on the far side of the room. “After all, the beasts of the forests and fields, and creatures of the water and sky do not weave cloth in which to dress. No, they are content with the form they were given. And wiser for it, says I. What has clothing brought to humanity but yet another complication and means if division? There you are, all ready. Now, I believe you are ready to lie down.”

“Thank you, oh yes, it does feel much better.” Gabriel laid back, his head sinking into the feather pillow. “Oh, this. . . this is truly — ” Again, the unexpected stretching of his face and the quick intake of breath surprised him. “Am to experience this … yawning … often?”

Malus shrugged. “Probably.”

Gabriel folded his arms over his stomach and felt a sudden wave of fatigue wash over him. “What happens now?”

“You will sleep, I imagine.”

“Sleep. I’ve often wondered about it. How is it done, Malus?”

“I believe it just. . . happens. You close your eyes, and become limp, and unaware.”

Gabriel closed his eyes and completely relaxed. “Am I asleep?”

“No, I do not believe so.”

“How can you tell?”

“You’re still talking.”

“Does that stop?”

“Oh, yes. You will become completely oblivious to your surroundings.”

Gabriel opened his eyes, alarmed. “Will it hurt?”

“I do not think so,” Malus said, gently.

“How will I know when I am done sleeping?”

“You will awaken. Just as our guests did in the garden.” Malus placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and smiled kindly. “Fear not.”

“Thank you, Malus. What shall I ever do without you?” Gabriel closed his eyes after another deep yawn. “What. . . shall . . .”

 

Malus stepped quietly to the door, looking back for a moment to Gabriel. He tilted his head at the odd site of his master lying still. “So human,” he said to himself, then slipped quietly from the room. “I suppose I should have warned him about those things called dreams.”

 

Gabriel surveyed the large round table, noting the place settings Malus had laid out. No two settings were alike, the china and table linens each bearing differing patterns, some depicting whimsical animals or flowers, some adorned with symbols. The tablecloth was embroidered with gold and silver lines connecting at seven points, forming a star of sorts with the place settings at each of the points. The center of the table was completely barren of any dish or ornament, save for the coruscating stars of silver and gold borne of the sunlight shining on the embroidery threads. Gabriel had been seated at ‘north’, and was pleased to note that Malus had placed his walking stick against his chair. He reached for it casually, finding a surge of comfort in the smooth silver globe of the handle.

“You really expect us to just sit—” Maggie began, but was silenced when Malus spoke up.

“Madam, I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare this meal, and to see that you want for nothing during your stay in Arcana. A bit of civility on your part is small thanks to ask.”

“Excuse me?” Maggie glared.

“Please,” Janie placed her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie pulled away sharply, her jaw tense around her tightened lips. “Please,” Janie implored, reaching again to Maggie’s arm, her almond eyes welling with tears. “No more fighting, please?”

Maggie sighed, the fight seemingly drained from her by Janie’s touch on her arm. She took a quick visual survey of the others, and noting that they had all wandered toward the table without quarrel, she relented, giving Malus a noncommittal nod. “Yeah, sure. No more fighting.”

That one will be the life . . . death of me, Gabriel thought, as he took his place at the northern point, watching as each of his guests chose a place at the table. Seth was the first to find a place, choosing the seat set with terracotta plate and cup to Gabriel’s right. Propped against the simple glass water goblet was a card painted with the image of a young man dressed in buckskins and barefoot, skipping along the edge of a stream, a fishing pole resting on one shoulder, his catch jauntily swinging from a string in the other. Seth examined the painting for a moment, then turned the card to see the other side was blank. He shrugged, placing it back against the goblet, then slipped the flaxen, rustic-looking napkin from its clay ring and spread it politely on his lap, all the while keeping his head bowed, his long hair concealing his face.

Spenser chose the place to Seth’s right, offering the boy a comforting pat on the shoulder, as he took his seat. “Very nice,” he said, admiring the rich brown and green plate at the place he’d chosen. He traced the gold tipped edge of the plate, noting the iconic animal shapes painted into the border. “Swahili?” he asked. Gabriel smiled, tipping his head in response. “Very nice,” Spenser repeated, then picked up the card that was placed at his goblet. His depicted a tall, dark man, garbed in a colorful dashiki, a long wooden staff in one hand, a lantern in the other as he gazed onto a rich lush valley where gazelles and lions were co-existing. He pointed his card out to Seth, commenting, “The Peaceable Kingdom,” then placed it back against the goblet.

Yes, well done Malus. At least two of them have found a place to their liking. “Please,” Gabriel said, looking up to the remaining guests, “I’m sure there is a place for each . . . sit, my friends. Sit.”

Janie gave Maggie a quick pat on the hand and led her to the table. “Why not,” Maggie muttered, glancing around the table. “I’ll take this place I guess,” she said, taking the seat to Spenser’s right, nearly directly opposite Gabriel’s seat. She gave a cursory survey of her place setting of ruby red, the plate and cup each adorned with a four-sided knot-work figure rendered in gold. She made a scoffing little chuckle at the card propped on her glass depicting a statue of a woman wearing a blindfold and holding a scale. “Cute,” she mumbled, haphazardly dropping the napkin of finely tatted lace to her lap.

Janie took the next seat, sitting quietly and looking small in her seat. “Oh!” she gasped quietly, tracing the delicate pattern on the plate at her place. “Cherry blossoms,” she explained to Maggie, pointing out the pattern. “My grandmother had a set of china with nearly this same pattern. It was very old . . . had been handed down from mother to daughter for seven generations . . . until most of it was lost during the war . . . ” she admired the cup, noting the lack of handles, just as her grandmother’s set had been. She picked up the card at her place, smiling at the delicate image painted in muted tones of apricot and pink and outlined with wisps of blank ink depicting a lovely woman holding an infant, and dressed in a flowered kimono. “So delicate and so strong . . . ” She showed the card to Maggie, then pulled it back, almost protectively when Maggie rolled her eyes.

“May I see?” Elizabeth asked, taking the seat next to Janie. Janie held the card to show, pulling it back when Elizabeth went to take it from her hand for a closer look. “That is pretty,” Elizabeth said, gently, then turned to her own place. “Well would you look at this. I’ve not seen one of these since I left New Orleans,” she said to no one in particular marveling at the bleeding heart emblazoning the dish and cup. “Momma Joe would snap this up for her collection that fast if she saw this.”

“It’s lovely,” Janie commented, though her brow wore a severe crease at the image of the heart skewered by a sword.

Elizabeth laughed lightly, then reached for the card that was set at her place. Elizabeth’s card, slightly bigger than the others, looked like it had been rendered in waxy crayons, and depicted a smiling, dark-skinned woman wearing a colorful caftan, a matching turban wrapped high on her head. She held an ornate chalice above her head as if in offering. There was a serpentine symbol on the chalice, that seemed familiar, as though she’d seen it recently, then realized it was the same symbol that Gabriel was wearing on his cravat.

Gabriel traced his finger along the twisted serpent pin. Elizabeth blushed and quickly looked away. She knows I know her thought . . . interesting.

Kohler was settling into his spot now, the seat to Gabriel’s immediate left. “This is Ming!” he marveled holding his cup close to look at it.

“You have an excellent eye,” Gabriel said.

“The cup alone is worth a fortune at auction, but the plate, too . . . do you realize what you have here?” Kohler asked, a grin curling the side of his mouth.

“It is a cup and a plate,” Gabriel replied, lifting a brow. “Is it not to your liking? Malus bring something else for Mr. Kohler would you?”

“No! No . . . it’s . . . I like it very much.” He set the cup down and picked up his card. His was similar in style to the one at Janie’s place, having been rendered in watercolor and ink. Kohler’s card depicted a man wearing ancient Samurai armor, seated on a golden throne, a large golden sphere shining above his head. He put the card down, and turned to his host. “So . . . now what?”

“Now,” Gabriel replied, “we dine. Malus?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, a formal bow of his head. He gave one sharp clap of his hands and a chorus of surprised gasps sounded from the guests, as one by one, silver domes appeared over each of the plates. A basket containing several varieties of bread and rolls dominated the center of the table. Sparkling water bubbled up from the bottom of each goblet until they were filled to the brim. Bowls of colorful relishes and sweet butter danced into formation around the bread basket. At each place, a candle twinkled happily in a votive cup that matched the place setting. When the table had settled, Malus said, “There, I believe you have everything,” then turned to go.

“You’re not leaving are you?” Gabriel asked quietly from the side of his mouth, reaching out to touch Malus’s elbow.

Malus gave him a patient smile, and tapped the ball of the walking stick that rested next to Gabriel’s chair. “I shall be close by should you, or your guests, require my service.” He bowed to the assembly, then walked away quickly, vanishing into the lush green of the garden.

Gabriel grasped his walking stick before looking up to the stunned staring faces on his guests. Perhaps I should let them dine alone . . . . The slightest of tremors created a pattern of concentric circles in his water goblet, in answer to his thought. Yes, milord . . . it was only a thought. He beamed to his guests, motioning to the domes covering the plates. “Please . . . enjoy.” He lifted the dome over his dish, jumping to his feet, sending his chair scraping against the stones, his walking stick clattering to the alabaster. “Zounds! What manner of creature is this?” He dropped the dome crown-down into the middle of his dish.

Spenser let out a guffaw he quickly checked. Maggie laughed more at Spenser than at Gabriel’s startled reaction to his dinner.

“Far out! Baby lobster things!” Seth said, craning to see what was on Gabriel’s plate.

“Baby lobsters?” Elizabeth laughed. “Son, those are Louisiana crawfish in black butter.” She drew in a long breath over her dish.

“Crawfish?” Gabriel said, trying composing himself, as he stared at the creatures swimming in a pool of glop and vegetation.
“They look all the world like . . . scorpions. Are you certain they’re . . . edible?”

Elizabeth cracked a shell, sucking out the meat, licking her lips after. “Mmm, sure are. Delicious.”

Janie let out a polite, nervous giggle, lifting her dome. “I guess we all have the same dinner. I half expected them to be different like the dishes. I’m glad though, I love creole.”

Kohler rolled his eyes, shaking his head at Gabriel. “You’d think the man had never eaten,” he muttered under his breath, removing the dome from his own place. “I’m not much for creole, myself.” He looked into his bowl, and jumped to his feet as Gabriel had, sending his dome splashing into the bowl. “What is this? There’s . . . there’s eyeballs in my bowl!”

Spenser howled, slapping his hand on his leg, and pointing. “Lamb’s eye stew! Peek-a-boo!” He laughed, until Kohler scowled at him. He swallowed his laughter, and spread his napkin on his lap.

“Guess our dinners are not all the same,” Maggie chuckled, sarcastically. “What’s wrong, Kohler, never eaten before? I suppose I’ve got chilled monkey brains? Stuffed cockroaches? How ’bout deep fried tarantulas in garlic? Whatever it is, I’ll bet it isn’t . . . ” she lifted her dome, her eyes going wide, the first genuine smile crossing her face, “corned beef and cabbage!”

“Me too!” Spenser beamed, rubbing his hands together merrily. “Red potatoes, carrots . . . mmm. Well done, sir.” He tipped his brow to Gabriel, who was just settling back into his seat.

“Uh . . . thank you, Professor, but the bill of faire was not my doing. You have Malus to thank. Please sit down, Mr. Kohler,” he said, not looking up, but poking at the crawfish with his fork. “I’m sure you can subsist on bread and butter if the soup is not to your taste.”

Seth snickered then lifted the dome of his own plate, letting out a slightly disappointed sigh.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Kohler snorted. “You get stuck with eel a la mode? Not so funny when it’s your plate that’s full of chum is it?”

“Hmm? Oh, no it’s fine,” Seth replied, not looking at Kohler. “It’s my favorite lunch. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” He offered Gabriel a shy glance, and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Gabriel felt an odd vibration on the arm of the chair, quite different from the tremors that had come before. Yes, I heard him . . . He leaned slyly toward Seth, pointing alternately between his dish and Seth’s, then raised a conspiratorial brow with a wink. Seth grinned, and handed his plate to Gabriel, accepting Gabriel’s crawfish in exchange.

“You have a taste for the exotic?” Kohler asked Seth, as he watched the exchange. “Try some of this.” He held the bowl of lamb eyes in Seth’s direction. Seth shook his head, then planted his sight only on his food. “How ’bout you, Gabriel? Anyone?” The others paid him no attention as they hungrily ate the meals they were given. “I’m talking, here . . . ”

“And they’re eating, Mr. Kohler. As you should be.” Gabriel took a roll from the bread basket and offered it to Kohler.

Kohler scowled, refusing the offering. “I’m used to far better treatment.”

Gabriel ignored him, and picked up one triangular half of the cheese sandwich, sniffed it, then nibbled at the corner. “Oh my, that is delightful.” He took another bite, savoring the sensation of the buttered bread and cheese in his mouth. He took another bite, a bigger one. “MMmm. Mimplymelightful!” He mumbled, his mouth full of sandwich.

“Try dipping it in the soup,” Seth suggested. “It’s best that way.”

Gabriel swallowed. “Oh?” he asked, then did as Seth had suggested, soaking the corner of the sandwich. “Mmmm! Marvelous! Simply wonderful. Thank you, lad.” He glanced up to see Maggie looking at him, a curious tilt to her head, an amused grin on her face, watching him as he enjoyed the sandwich. She looked away quickly when she realized he’d noticed her staring. “Is your dinner to your liking, madam?” he asked her.

“Oh,” she nodded, swallowing the mouthful of cabbage she’d just forked in. “Yeah…not bad.”

“Good,” Gabriel replied, and looked in turn to the other diners. “And yours? Professor? Doctor?” Each nodded enthusiastically, and continued eating. Janie made the politest little burp, then pressed her hand to her lips, looking around, apologetically, then resumed eating her dinner.

“I’m not satisfied,” Kohler grumbled, sitting back folding his arms over his chest.

“Not enough bread? There’s water too . . . go on, eat up,” Gabriel encouraged.

“You should have traded with me! The kid could have eaten that sandwich. You didn’t even offer! What makes some snot-nosed teenage hippy more important than M. Robert Kohler?”

Seth looked up, stung. Gabriel raised a soothing hand in his direction. “Eat your crawfish, with my compliments, lad.” He turned to Kohler, his hand finding the handle of his walking stick. “There are none here who are any more or less important as any other, Mr. M. Robert. All are equal at my table. But if you require an explanation I’ll give you a simple one. You see, even though this young man was disappointed with the meal placed before him, he did not berate his host and then demand something new. He simply said ‘thank you’ and was prepared to eat it.”

Kohler’s face flushed, but he had the grace to hold his tongue. The others stifled snickers as they swallowed their dinners, save for Seth, who seemed to shrink down into his chair keeping his eyes fixed on his dish.

The remainder of the meal passed in near silence, broken only with polite requests for bread or butter to be passed.

Spenser made the one true attempt to start a conversation. “I noticed the pillars . . . Doric aren’t they?”

“Doric? I’m not certain. I believe they are marble,” Gabriel replied after moment’s thought.

Kohler and Maggie both laughed into their cups. Janie and Elizabeth exchanged a silent giggle. Spenser nodded, smiling, and did not pursue the issue.

Gabriel leaned toward Seth. “Have I said something . . . inappropriate?”

Seth gave a quick glance to the others, then answered softly, “He was asking on the style, sir. The pillars are Doric, but made of marble.”

“Well isn’t that what I said? Marble?”

More snickers around the table.

Seth drew his lips tight, glancing around the table at his dinner companions. “Yes, sir.”

Gabriel smiled, giving Seth a pat on the hand. “Thank you, I have learned something. Doric. . .interesting.”

Kohler shot a haughty sneer toward Seth, and muttered something snide under his breath.

“Are you finished with your bowl sir?” Malus inquired, politely.

“Where the hell—?” Kohler jumped, startled, when Malus appeared behind him as if stepping out of mid air.

“Your bowl? May I take it?”

“Uh . . . yeah sure.”

Malus bowed then waved his hand over Kohler’s bowl. It shimmered then dissolved into the table, leaving no trace of its former existence. He then moved gracefully around the table, removing each place setting in a like manner, followed by astonished gapes, that he seemed to not notice. When he finished clearing the dishes he stood back, taking the dutiful posture of a maìtre d’.

Gabriel stood slowly. “Your rooms have been prepared—”

“Rooms?” Elizabeth asked? “We have rooms?”

“Of course,” Malus said, rolling his eyes. “Does that surprise you? Did you expect to be berthed in the garden?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Honey, I don’t think anything would surprise me anymore.”

“That will do, Malus,” Gabriel said, grinning. “If you would please follow Malus, he will show you the way. I shall see you all in the after-dark.”

“The what?” Maggie laughed.

Malus leaned toward Gabriel, whispering.

“Oh. I meant, the morning,” Gabriel said. “Morning . . . that time when the light returns.” He looked toward Malus for confirmation.

Malus nodded, then walked briskly down the alabaster path toward a solid hedge of holly. A wave of his hand, and an arch appeared. He turned to face the guests. “This way.”

“Not surprised, at all.” Elizabeth muttered to Janie, as the six guests formed a single file row and followed Malus through the hedge.

Gabriel stood back for a moment, until the hedge closed behind the last guest, Seth. He turned his face sky ward and raised his hands palms up. “Are you certain?” A grumble below his feet was the reply. He sighed, retrieved his walking stick and made his way slowly toward the hedge, feeling the heaviness of his new-found humanity growing with each step. “Yes, yes . . . I know. . .I know . . .”

Gabriel stood unmoved by the astonished faces of his guests. He had expected this reaction—skeptical, suspicious. How to proceed was a bit of a dilemma. How much should he reveal? How little? Do they understand where they are? How they arrived? He wasn’t even certain of those details himself. So little of his task had been left to his own control. He chewed the inner part of his lip, mulling his situation, surveying each of the faces of those who sat before him. Which one? Milord, which one? Surely there has been a mistake. Surely they are the wrong lot . . . How can I choose from . . . the barrier, milord, have you forgotten the barrier? What is to happen . . . oh, what have I . . . ?

“Master,” Malus whispered, leaning close to Gabriel. “Faintheartedness will not serve you, now,” he said quietly, a stern lift to his brow.

Gabriel turned from his guests, and replying solely to Malus, “Does my face betray me? How did you know of my thoughts?”

“Your hands, sir. You worry them together so as to rub off the flesh.”

Gabriel glanced to the knot of his hands realizing that Malus was correct. “‘Tis an odd thing, this . . . humanity. The body seems to have a will of its own, you see. One is never completely aware of what one limb may be doing of its own accord.”

“Excuse me,” a quiet voice interrupted from behind, “Mr. Gabriel?”

Gabriel affected a careful smile, forced his hands to relax, then turned to face the one who had spoken. Janie stood next her bench, worrying her hands in much the same manner Gabriel had.

“Gabriel if you please. Just Gabriel.”

She smiled timidly. “Gabriel . . . I have been trying to recall . . . but I’m a bit muddled. It’s just . . . you seem familiar, though I don’t think we’ve met.” She looked to the others, seated around the pavilion. “You all seem . . . oddly familiar.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth spoke up, before Gabriel had a chance to answer. “Yes! I know you, too, you were standing . . . somewhere.” She laughed a bit, then sipped some more of her drink. “Hell, this is just a dream, anyway.” She swept her eyes around taking it all in. “More vivid than most . . . but still a dream. I’ll just sit here and watch it go by.”

Spenser clapped his hands together suddenly, startling the others with the sharp smacking sound. “No, this isn’t your dream. It’s mine.” He patted his arms and legs as further proof. “Yes, mine. I feel me.” He stood and held out a hand to Elizabeth. “May I feel you?”

“I beg your pardon?” She glared up under a brow, then burst out laughing and took his hand. “Must admit . . . you do feel real to me, too. Freud would be all over this one like red on blood.”

“Yes, indeed!” Spenser agreed, giving Elizabeth’s hand a gentle squeeze. “He would at that!”

“No!” Maggie was on her feet, waving her hands. Her coffee cup toppled off the bench, crashing to the brick. “No, no, no, no, no! You’re not dreaming, and neither are you, or you or me or any of us . . . don’t you see? This is real!” She wheeled to face Gabriel. “And this creep has kidnapped us!”

“Kidnapped?” Kohler was on his feet with that. “Is that your game? The Gabriel? Extortion? You won’t get away with it! I’ve got important contacts . . . congressmen and senators at my beck and call! My people are probably already hot on your trail—”

“What? Kidnapped?” Janie cried out, also leaping to her feet. “But I have nothing . . . ” She crumbled to her knees, burying her face in hands, dissolving into disconsolate sobs.

Elizabeth was on her feet as well, and ran to Janie’s side. “Easy, ma’am, they’re wrong, this has to be a mistake . . . ” She shot an angry glare to Gabriel, “Ok, so explain it!”

“Yes, yes, please do!” Spenser implored, more excited than angry, rushing to take Gabriel’s hand. Maggie and Kohler rushed up as well, each shouting demands for explanations, while Janie’s sobbing and Elizabeth’s cooing consolations grew louder still. Gabriel backed away, raising his hands to ward them off.

“Please . . . ”

“Tell us!”

“Peace, please . . . ”

“Where are we?!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please . . . All will be made clear.”

“What is this place! Tell us!”

“I know where we are.”

The mêlée silenced at once as all heads turned to face the young man who had spoken last. He sat peacefully, a sad half-smile on his face, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. “We’re dead,” he said simply.

Gabriel shot a look to Malus. “Oh dear,” the servant whispered.

The guests stood silent, looking from one to another for a moment, then back to Seth.

“Dead.” Seth whispered again, then lowered his head.

“That’s ridiculous,” Maggie said, the angry edge to her voice faltering a bit. “You’re a little confused, kid, that’s all. He’s tricked us all . . . we’re not dead.”

Seth looked up to each of the gaping faces, turning his palms up with a shrug. “What else could it be? The last thing I remember is—”

“What? What do you remember?” Gabriel asked quickly, stepping through the crowd, rushing toward Seth. “Tell me. It could make all the difference, and make this ever so much easier for everyone. You must tell—”

“Gently, master,” Malus cautioned, placing a hand on Gabriel’s arm.

“Forgive me,” Gabriel sighed, seeing the panicked expression on the boy’s face. “It is not my intent to frighten you.”

Seth drew a long breath, relaxing a bit, but keeping his eyes wide and unblinking on his host. “I’m right, aren’t I? We’re all dead.”

Gabriel felt the others moving slowly toward him, though he did not turn around. He enclosed one of Seth’s hands in both of his own, and looked the boy in the eye. “Please. Tell me what you remember.”

“Why won’t you answer his question?” Kohler demanded, taking a step forward. Gabriel locked his jaw and kept his eyes only on Seth. But Kohler would not be ignored, and dropping a heavy hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, forcibly turned him around. “I said why—”

Gabriel lifted his arm quickly, flinging Kohler aside as easily as he would flick a crumb from his sleeve sending him hard to the ground next to his bench. “You son of a—”

“Do not do that again, sir!” Gabriel’s command was punctuated by a sudden rumbling in the ground—the first he was ever glad to hear as it silenced his unruly guest. He glared at each stunned face in turn, then nodded, satisfied that no one else seemed ready to advance on him. Slowly he turned back to Seth. “Now, please. Tell me what you remember.”

Seth drew in his bottom lip for a moment, then looked up to Gabriel and leaned forward. “I saw you on the stairs when I ran out of the school,” he said quietly, as if he didn’t want the others to hear. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Gabriel lowered himself to one knee, bringing himself down to Seth’s eye level, never taking his gaze from the boy. “It was,” Gabriel admitted, quietly. “Anything more?”

Seth closed his eyes for a moment. “I saw you on the stairs . . . I was afraid I was going to knock you down, so I tried to avoid you . . . I fell.”

“Do you recall your arrival here?” Seth shook his head. Gabriel sighed, giving the boy’s hand a pat.

“Should I, remember?”

“Apparently, you should not,” Malus answered for Gabriel.

“The man in the ER,” Elizabeth whispered. Gabriel braced for the cacophony of questions to begin anew. When all was quiet for a moment, he turned to look to Elizabeth.

“Yes.”

“The man on the curb?” Janie asked quietly.

Gabriel nodded.

“Yes . . . in the foyer. You were standing by the door,” Spenser added excitedly, “just as I was going to my ten o’clock lecture . . . ”

“You were on the balcony!” Kohler took a step forward, immediately backing off when Gabriel shot him a warning glance.

“In the morgue?” Maggie asked softly. “Was that you, too?”

Gabriel took a long breath, and turned to Malus in a silent plea for guidance, but the servant would not meet his eyes.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” he began wearily, “there is much to tell, and little I may reveal. I know that sounds a contradiction, but it is as it is. But I will offer you this assurance: I have not . . . what was that word? Kidnapped? I have not kidnapped any of you. You are here by design, yes, but it is not my doing. There is a greater purpose at work, that I am not at liberty to explain—”

“Are we dead or not?” Kohler blurted. The others looked to Gabriel with anticipation for an answer, each drawing a step closer, closing in on him like an avalanche. Only Seth remained seated, his head bowed quietly over his folded hands, his shoulders quivering.

Gabriel placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, giving one more imploring glance to Malus. Malus nodded once, then busied himself at the table. “Not quite,” he answered simply.

Seth’s head snapped to look up to Gabriel, a hopeful, nervousness in his eyes. “What?”

“You are not dead. But,” Gabriel said, raising a hand to stave of another barrage of questions, “You are not quite . . . living, either.”

Janie swallowed a little gasp, clinging to Elizabeth’s hand. Elizabeth was shaking her head in disbelief, exchanging a questioning glance with Maggie. Maggie threw her hands in the air in frustration, dropping heavily down on her bench.

“What sort of answer is that?” Kohler huffed, voicing Maggie’s unspoken frustration.

“Logical,” Spenser offered, stroking his chin.

“Logical?” Maggie shouted, wheeling on Spenser. “There is nothing logical about any of this. We’re dead but we’re not, we’re alive but we’re not? He’s not kidnapped anyone but he took us here?” She spun on her heel and marched toward Gabriel, one hand closing into a ball the other pointing in his face. “I’m not some rookie you can just screw with!” She made to grab Gabriel’s collar, until Kohler jumped in, pulling her back. “Let me go, asshole!”

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Kohler grumbled sarcastically, being sure to keep out of Gabriel’s reach.

“Let go!” She twisted, landing her heel on Kohler’s foot.

“Ouch! Fine! Let him toss you around, then. I think you broke my foot!”

“Serves you right!” She growled, grabbing for Kohler’s collar.

This time it was Seth who jumped in her way. “Can’t you see he’s trying to do you a favor? What’s wrong with you?”

“Shut up, kid,” she hissed, pushing Seth aside, renewing her march toward Gabriel. “Besides, it’s you I want answers from, anyway.”

“But, lady, geez—” Seth began, but was halted by Spenser, who was gently guiding him back to his bench.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman, lad . . . scorned or otherwise, it’s best to stay out of her way,” the professor said, with a wink.

“You got that right, old man,” Maggie growled, “let me the fuck at this guy!”

“Must you be so vulgar?” Elizabeth scolded, taking a step away from Janie, who was just standing silently, her head turning back and forth as if watching a tennis volley.

“Stay out of this!” Maggie yelled.

“No! I won’t! I’m standing here in this . . . wherever it is, with you, and I have just as many questions as you do. But I’m pretty sure that beating up on the man with the answers is not the way to get them!”

“Ladies, please . . . ” Spenser said waving his hands as he would to unruly students. It only served to fan the flames of the argument, and soon Kohler and even Seth were drawn into the riot.

As they argued and brawled amongst themselves, no one took notice of Gabriel as he slowly backed his way around the table to where Malus was calmly setting places with plates and flatware. “Malus . . . what are you doing?”

“I believe I am preparing the table, sir,” Malus remarked calmly, as he placed meat knives along side all of the plates.

“Are you mad?” Gabriel asked, incredulously, speaking in a low tone. “The last thing I want these silly creatures to have are blades. Look at them! They’re wild animals! Malus, where did I lose control?”

Malus looked up, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Forgive me, master, but in my observation . . . you never had it to begin with.”

Gabriel sighed in agreement, then made a sudden dive under the table to avoid being struck by the stray coffee cup that went flying past his head—flung by Maggie. “That one will be the very life of me!”

Malus chuckled, crouching down next to the table, peering under the cloth to where Gabriel sat, sulking. “You mean, death, master. She’ll be the death of you,” he corrected.

“Yes, yes . . . Malus, but if you had an ounce of compassion in that ancient heart of yours, you’d be helping me, instead of correcting my choice of words.” Gabriel flinched as another round of shouting erupted and cups crashed to the brick, broken handles and rims coming to rest under the table.

“Do you intend to stay under there?” Malus asked, ducking to avoid a flying goblet.

“Yes!” Gabriel snapped, drawing his knees to his chest. “What is the point of coming out? I’ve lost before I’ve begun. You were right, Malus, this lot is all wrong . . .” The ground began to tremble, rattling the dishes and cups set on the table above him. The combatant guests seemed not to notice as the table itself started shifting, its legs scrapping on the alabaster. Tiny cracks began to appear in the bricks, branching quickly along the walk. In the east beyond the valley, a low tympanic rumbling rocked the clouds. Still the guests fought and argued, some shouting obscenities while others called for peace, the thunder crescendoing in a maniacal accompaniment. The barrier! Please not now! I’m not ready! They’re not . . . 

“Dinner is ready.” Malus informed him, crouching, as if all were peaceful and it was the most normal thing in the universe for his master to be cowering under a table with his fingers jammed in his ears.

“Dinner?” Gabriel exclaimed incredulously. “Can you not hear the thunder?”

“Thunder?” Malus asked, a tilt to his head. “No, master. There is no thunder. Only this insufferable arguing going on. Unruly lot, no manners at all, it seems. This truly will be a most difficult—”

“You don’t hear it?”

Malus shook his head.

Gabriel tentatively pulled his hands away from his ears. The thunder had stopped—if it had been genuine at all. A quick glance to the ground and Gabriel could see that the bricks were still whole, no running cracks marring the pristine smoothness of the alabaster. Why must you play at tormenting me thus, milord . . . yes, yes . . . I understand . . . “Yes, Malus . . . dinner.”

“As you wish.” Malus rose to his feet, clapping his hands sharply. “Enough!” he shouted, his ancient voice echoing off the monoliths.

Instantly, all went silent, the guests ending their scuffling and pushing where they stood, all frozen into a near humorous tableau. Well, I could have done that! Gabriel thought, as he cautiously crawled out from his shelter under the table.

“That’s better!” Malus said, scowling at the tussled assembly. He gave a nod to his master, then extended his hand toward the table. “All is prepared, sir. I am ready to serve,” he said pleasantly.

Gabriel drew a breath and forced a smile, “Yes, thank you, Malus.” He turned to his guests, still standing frozen, staring. Thankfully, none of them had seemed to take notice of his flight under the table. “If you would all find a place that pleases you, I would like to invite you all to dine with me,” he said, offering a polite bow. After a moment, they relaxed, the tableau melting away, each stepping slowly toward the table.

 

 

Gabriel stood on the marble balcony of the fortress he’d called home his entire existence, looking out over the lush, green valley of Arcana for the first time. He leaned on the railing, the marble cool beneath his palms, and planted his face into the stream of a passing breeze, drinking in the smell of the living valley. Above him, a flock of starlings dipped and swirled within their perfectly choreographed air-dance, moving as if they were of one mind. The river sparkled like diamond shards as it meandered through the valley, and Gabriel smiled at the thought of the fish that were swimming beneath the surface, going about their business of feeding and spawning, blissfully unaware of their own existence.

“Oh, that it could stay this way,” Gabriel sighed, turning to his companion. Malus nodded, his ashen face expressionless. “I wish you could know how this feels, Malus. Then perhaps you would not be so gloomy. Perhaps you could even feel glad for me.”

Malus shrugged his shoulders. “I am neither gloomy nor glad, Master. I am . . . practical.”

“Practical?” Gabriel asked, amused. “You tell me you don’t feel the slightest bit of envy for me? When I tell you of the wonders of touch and smell, and the feel of my own heartbeat within my breast . . . I can laugh, Malus, and dance! I know what it is to feel warmth, the coolness of the breeze, the kiss of the sun. Look into my eyes, and tell me you do not envy these things.”

“Laughter and joy or tears and sorrow I know well enough without being mortal. But I imagine, that with touch comes pain, with taste comes hunger and thirst and with life comes . . . no, master, I do not envy you,” he replied, quietly.

Gabriel turned quietly and looked down from his balcony to the garden below. The walk that lead from his house—he’d never thought of it as a house until now—was paved in alabaster bricks leading into the center of the garden. Four other brick-paved paths, each beginning from a different stone monolith bearing an elaborate mysterious carving, crossed the garden from point to point. From Gabriel’s vantage point, one could clearly see the pentagram created by the brick paths. He drew his attention to the raised pavilion in the center of the garden, where the benches had been placed for his guests. He noted that Malus had gone to lengths to make the pavilion comfortable, with cushions on the benches and a table set with an array of drinking vessels and jugs to help his guests feel at home.

“Are you certain of the drinks?” Gabriel asked, stroking his chin. “Are they appropriate?”

“Oh, I believe so. I should think they’ll enjoy them,” Malus answered, a bit defensively. “I’m sorry about the suit, master, all human fashion looks about the same to me, how was I to know it was a hundred years, out of—”

“Peace, Malus.” Gabriel held up his hand, and smiled. “I trust you. And what know I of fashion? Besides, I rather like this suit. Even if it is a century out of date.”

Malus allowed a rare smile. “Yes, sir.” He glanced toward the garden. “They’re waking,” he said simply.

Gabriel followed Malus’ gaze, to the benches in the center of the garden where his six guests were sleeping on the velvet cushions. Each was beginning to stir slightly. “Yes, you’re right.” He clutched the ball of his cane tightly in his hand, a sudden tremble worming its way down his middle. “It is time. Join me?”

* * *

“They look so peaceful,” Malus remarked as Gabriel moved from bench to bench, quietly observing each resting occupant. “Perhaps we could let them rest for a while longer, yet.” A low grumble in the distance followed by a tremor beneath their feet was his answer.

Gabriel glanced to each of the four monoliths that surrounded the garden, frowning at the hairline cracks that were appearing with each grumble that shook the ground. “Would that I could, Malus. Would that I had not brought them here at all, but as you see . . . it must be now.”

Malus sighed, and walked into the open space at the northern point of the pentagram. A slender bell tower wrought of the same alabaster as the paving tiles rose skyward from the center of the point. At the top, a silver bell shown brilliantly against the newborn Arcana sunshine. The bell had been there forever of course, but today would be the first time its song would be heard in Arcana. Malus grasped the golden bell pull, giving one more glance to Gabriel, his eyes saying, “are you sure?”

“Ring the bell, Malus,” Gabriel said gently, his heart leaping with anticipation. “Wake my guests.”

Malus pulled the cord, the bell rocked slowly until the clapper at last made contact with the side and the tone echoed sweet and clear across the valley. He pulled again, allowing the momentum of the swaying to set his timing—one chime per second. The echoes grew louder with each ring, lapping at the monoliths, reverberating from every corner of the garden. As if in answer to the wakening call, a gentle breeze swirled around the center of the garden, breathing life into the table linens.

Gabriel looked up to the top of each monolith. The pennants that had adorned them for ages, that had always hung perfectly still, suddenly billowed to life, flaunting their colors to the sky, white, red, black, and yellow, respectively on each of the four stone sentries.

Another tremor shook the ground. Gabriel raised his hand signaling Malus to stop. He stood as still as a statue until the last echo died, and the ground no longer shook. The breeze departed with the echoes, and once again the pennants hung limply from the monoliths. Gabriel closed his eyes and whispered, “Please, allow me this in my own time, milord. Have I not been faithful these eons in your service that I must be rushed through this most monumental task?” The breeze returned and caressed on his face. He relaxed a bit. “Thank you.”

He opened his eyes, and forced a confident smile to Malus, motioning him to the table to stand ready to pour drinks for his guests as required.

One by one, they started to move and stir. Malus hurried to Gabriel’s side, handing him a slip of parchment, then hurried back to his station at the table. Gabriel glanced at the list he’d been given, then approached the first bench. He lowered himself to one knee beside the bench and called gently, “Janie.”

“Hmm?” She yawned, bringing her hands to rub her eyes. “What time is it? I have to go . . . ” Her eyes opened full, and she gasped in surprise. “Who . . . what?”

“Peace, dear lady,” Gabriel smiled, snapping his fingers to Malus. Instantly, Malus placed a cup of orange juice in Gabriel’s hand. He gave it a curious glance and a sniff, then handed it to Janie. “For you, just as you like it.”

Janie stared dumbly, accepting the cup automatically. She took a sip then looked into the cup surprised, thirstily drinking down the rest of the juice. She looked up sheepishly, and handed the cup back to Gabriel. “I . . . thank you, that was . . . I didn’t realize I was so thirsty . . . I’m sorry if I’m being rude, staring but . . . ”

“Oh, tut. You are not capable of being rude, milady. I’m glad the juice was to your liking.” Gabriel stood, still smiling, and bowed politely, moving to the next bench, leaving Janie still staring at him dumbly.

Gabriel glanced at his list. “Professor Fairbank, I presume.”

Spenser blinked twice, setting his sight first on Gabriel, then all around. He spun quickly on the bench, looking up to each of the monoliths, then to Gabriel again. His eyes were wide, and for a moment Gabriel feared the man was about to panic and run, when suddenly the professor burst into a gleeful laugher. “Marvelous!”

Gabriel laughed a little with him, catching Spenser’s amusement. “Welcome,” he said, as Malus presented him with a cup of coffee. Gabriel handed it to Spenser.

Spenser sniffed in the aroma grandly, then sipped. “Hazelnut!” he exclaimed, then settled on the bench to drink as Gabriel moved onward.

The woman on the third bench was already sitting up, covering her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Holy shit, what a dream.” She lowered her hands to see Gabriel kneeling before her. She gasped a bit, then sat gawking. “And it ain’t over yet is it?”

“Welcome Dr. Staunton,” he said, handing her a cup of something bubbly that stung his nose as he sniffed it. “For you.”

She accepted the cup, as the others had, and took a sip, and laughed a little. “First time I ever drank a coke in a dream. Even tastes real.”

Gabriel chuckled, and moved along, careful not to look back at those he’d already woken. Perhaps they all believe it is a dream . . . good then. That may make it easier. He knelt to the fourth bench and paused, watching the gentle breathing of the woman lounging on the bench. Of all of them, she seemed the only one who had not begun to stir at the sound of the bell. The breeze played on her hair, tossing one long auburn tress across her cheek. Tentatively, he brushed the hair from her cheek, allowing the strand to linger on his fingertips. How soft it is. Behind him, he felt Malus’s impatient glare. “Yes, Malus,” he said, reaching for whatever cup Malus was holding without turning his gaze away from the woman sleeping on the fourth bench. He glanced into the cup, then turned a confused look to Malus. “Water?”

Malus gave him a curt nod, then moved back to the table.

Gabriel shrugged, turning back to the woman. The wind had blown the hair back to her face and he resisted the urge to reach out to take it in his hand again. “Maggie,” he said, gently. “Awaken, please.”

Maggie opened her eyes slowly, haphazardly raking the hair from her face. “What is it?” She asked dreamily, then bolted upright. “Who the hell are you?”

“Peace, milady. You are my guest, I bid you welcome,” Gabriel replied calmly, offering the cup of water to Maggie.

“Back off, Jack,” she spat, pushing the cup up suddenly, soaking Gabriel’s face. She jumped to her feet, then froze, taking in her surroundings. “Where the hell am I? Who are you? How did I get here? I want some goddamned answers!”

Gabriel stood slowly, biting his tongue against the sharp rebuke he wanted to shout against her coarse language. He raised his hand toward her shoulder, she glared and pushed it away. “Sit!” he commanded, bringing his hand down to her shoulder. She went silent immediately, lowering herself to her bench, her hazel eyes flashing furious curses to Gabriel. He kept his voice calm, but the gentle velvet he’d used before was replaced with a harder edge. “All of your questions will be answered in time, madam. In my time. In the meantime, you are my guest.” He reached out for the cup Malus was holding, and offered it to her, noting with a bit of amusement that it was now filled with fresh hot coffee. Gabriel gave Malus a slight nod of gratitude as he stepped to the next bench, wiping his soaked face with his sleeve.

The occupant of the fifth bench was just pulling himself up to sit when Gabriel bowed in greeting. “Good day to you, sir. I bid you welcome.”

The man looked up, startled. “You!” he pointed an accusing finger. “I know you. You’re . . . you’re . . . ” He dropped his hand, confused.

“Yes, I am.” Gabriel smiled, handing him the cup that Malus had provided, containing a bloody looking substance. “For you, sir. I hope you find it to your liking.”

“Thank you,” the man said absently, taking the cup then sipping. He nodded his approval, holding out a hand in greeting. “Kohler, M. Robert . . . the M. Robert Kohler, and you are?”

Gabriel grinned and accepted Kohler’s handshake, more fascinated with the sensation of the touch of his flesh than of the odd way the man squeezed his hand. “I am . . . your host, sir,” was his reply as he withdrew and stood to his full height. Again he turned his back and walked to the last bench, being careful not to look behind him, but knowing his guests were all watching.

He approached the last bench quietly. The lad lay with his back to Gabriel shivering, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, his face concealed beneath a tussle of long, curly hair. Gabriel walked around the bench, and knelt. Gently, he pushed the hair from the boy’s face and saw the silver trail sparkling from the corner of his eye down his cheek. “So young, this one,” Gabriel whispered. “What folly have you lead me to, that you throw children into this ring? Surely there were others . . . ”

The boy sighed, drawing his knees up tighter for a moment before opening his eyes. He said nothing, but sat up slowly, his back still to the others. He faced the monolith to the east, its yellow banner swaying gently in the breeze, glancing from it, to Gabriel, to the lush valley beyond. “Sir? What is this place?” he asked quietly.

Gabriel held out his hand toward Malus, receiving the appropriate cup. “This is my home. You are my guest, Seth. Here, drink this.” As Gabriel handed Seth the cup, he shot a surprised look to Malus. Of all the drinks that had been offered, he thought it strange that the youngest of the party should be offered a strong barley ale.

Seth took a sip, then recoiled, handing the cup back to Gabriel with an apologetic half-smile. “No thank you, sir. I prefer not to drink.”

Gabriel accepted it graciously, with a tilt of his head. “As you wish.” He stood and walked to the middle of the platform. Seth turned to watch, then gasped at seeing the other five guests seated similarly on their benches. Gabriel offered a reassuring smile to the boy, then addressed his guests.

“I would like to welcome you.” He swept his arms to the valley and all around. “This is Arcana, my home. I am your host. My name is Gabriel.” He gave a sly grin to Kohler. “The Gabriel.”

* * *

M. Robert Kohler

“Are you ready for your messages, Mr. Kohler?”

M. Robert Kohler, Fortune 500’s Corporate Man of the Year, turned his contemplative gaze away from the window of his penthouse office on the twenty-seventh floor of the glass tower bearing his name. “Yes, Julia. Come on in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kohler caught his reflection on a polished bronze plaque awarded to him from some Japanese mogul hoping to garnish his favor. If nothing else, it makes a good mirror, he chuckled straightening his tie, and smoothing a graying wisp of hair at his temple. To bad I had to liquidate them a month after I acquired them, but only a-hundred mill in earnings is small potatoes. But the plaque is nice.

“Ahem.”

Kohler looked away from his image to see his secretary standing in front of his desk, a bulging calendar book and a stack of pink ‘while you were out’ slips in her hand. “Fire away, Julia.”

“Your accountant, Fred Pederson, wants to know what to tell your wife, sorry, ex-wife—”

“Which one?”

“—the last one—about the stipend fund. Should he go ahead and send her another hundred-thou this month or wait for new instructions.”

Kohler rocked back in his imported leather chair, thoughtfully turning a solid gold letter opener in his hand. “The woman took eight-mill in the settlement and she still needs my hundred-thou?” He shook his head, laughing. “Ah what the hell, tell Fred to send it, along with a note that she should spend every dime on plastic surgery. She looked a bit puckered last time I saw her. Next?”

Julia’s lip curled slightly as she took the note. “Mr. Ludlow from Arthur, Davies and O’Neil has left four messages since yesterday asking for a meeting to discuss your decision to dissolve your interests in Medireach Health Services. He insists the clinics cannot subsist without the funding—”

“Next.” Kohler waved his hand impatiently. Julia understood, crumpling the Ludlow messages in a single wad, dropping them into the chrome wastebasket next to the desk.

Kohler chuckled. He appreciated Julia’s cool detached manner with his decisions. He had all the dealings he could stand with the bleeding heart advocates for this group or that; the environmentalists, the animal rights zanies, and every special interest group in between who besieged him daily, waving their banners of injustice and exploitation, calling him everything from corporate bastard to warmonger. They attacked him daily as though it was his own personal fault that a silly little owl in Idaho was dying for lack of a particular tree that was cut down by one  of his subsidiaries, or that some old woman in Tucson died because some doctor didn’t know the drugs he’d prescribed were not available any longer because Kohler Pharmaceuticals had spun off the research lab developing the drug. Couldn’t they understand the simple concept of wise business decisions?

“Anything else?”

“Combank . . . .”

He sat up straight, anticipating news he had been waiting to hear. She looked down, her grin broadening as she placed the slip of paper on the desk before him. “Congratulations.”

He slapped his knees, his face splitting into a gleeful chortle. “Yes!”

“Ravencroft Savings and Loan has already switched over to the corporate accounts and should be fully integrated in the national system by the end of the month,” she reported. “Assets approaching eight-hundred mill. Not a bad day’s work.”

“A month in the family, we keep the bigger loans, sell off the rest, then dump it off to a smaller holding firm and let it build again.” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. “The beauty of it is, Julia, that I can buy them back in about ten years and do it all over again.” He jumped from his chair suddenly, heading to the bar on the far side of the office. “This calls for a toast.”

“It’s only ten am, Mr. Kohler.” Julia chuckled. “And you’ve a pretty full schedule for today.”

Kohler laughed and pulled a can from a small refrigerator. “Julia, you wound me.” He held the can, displaying the label. “V8. Good for the heart, you know.” He winked, and poured the contents into two martini glasses, then carried them across the room, handing one to her. “Cheers.”

She laughed quietly, and took the glass, clinking the rim with his before taking a polite sip. “Thank you.” She placed the glass down, and opened the calendar book to the ribbon that marked the current day. “You have a board meeting in a half an hour, small agenda, not everyone could make it.”

“Who’ll be missing?”

“Jack Ramsey is in Myrtle Beach, golfing, and George Ballard is in Aspen.”

“Again?” Kohler laughed. “I suppose he’s claiming that to be business related? Checking out the corporate condo for us?”

“Of course,” she replied, and went on, efficiently, “after that you have a press meeting at city hall to discuss the stadium construction—we put a great spin on that one, even the EPA is happy.”

Kohler grinned and downed his drink, heading back to the bar to pour another.

“Lunch with the mayor after that and you have an invitation from your son . . . ”

Kohler stopped cold, can poised over the glass. “My son?”

Julia looked up over the rim of her glasses, her tone suddenly changing to something less than businesslike. “It’s the fourth one he’s sent, Mr. Kohler.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on. “I went ahead and fit him into your schedule after the mayor. . . you had the opening, and you’ll be in that part of town anyway—”

“I can’t, Julia. Not today. Send him my regrets . . . I’ll fit him in . . . next month. I promise.”

Julia bit her lip, and scratched a note onto the calendar. Good girl. Just do your job and don’t argue. Oh, don’t look at me that way, I said I’ll see him next month . . . on my terms. Is it my fault the kid has no head for business? English lit! God, what sort of degree is that to have in this day and age. He’s lucky I pay his tuition . . . He turned away, but still felt her disapproving gaze on his back. He chided himself for his waffling where his son was concerned. Surely a man who had built the empire he had from the ground up, had the wherewithal to make sound decisions regarding his own family—four failed marriages notwithstanding. Four marriages that had yielded him only one son to place his hopes of lineage on, and that one had utterly turned his back on everything M. Robert Kohler stood for.

He went to set the V8 down when a movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced toward the sliding doors to the balcony. “Did you see that?” he asked.

“What, sir?”

“There’s a man on my balcony . . . I just saw him walk by the glass.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the balcony, looking both left and right. The door quietly slid closed on its automatic spring. At finding no one out there, he laughed to himself. “Must have been a bird.” He turned to go back into his office, reaching for the latch on the door, then jumped back, suddenly startled by the reflection of the black bearded man he saw in the glass, who appeared to be standing right behind him. He spun on his heal, losing his balance in the process as he grasped at the railing—too late to keep himself from toppling over the edge.

* * *

Maggie Coughlin

“God, I hate stakeouts,” Maggie Coughlin groaned, resting her head on her bent wrist in the front of the non-descript sedan they’d been issued for the assignment. She glanced at the glow of her digital watch. “Ten o’clock and alls . . . dull.” They’d been parked in the lowest level of an inner city parking garage for more than five hours, staring at the door to the stairwell that led to the Medireach Clinic. An informant had given them a tip that one of the most notorious drug-dealers in Ravencroft, a man known only by the moniker ‘Jade’, found that lonely stairwell the perfect place to do business. Even though the information had been sketchy, and the source dubious at best, Maggie had lobbied for the assignment of staking out the garage.

Her partner of eleven months, Ted Baylor, had been fresh out of the academy, and as wet behind the ears as a newborn pup when he’d been partnered with her. Maggie had resented being paired with him in the beginning, but he’d proven his grit a couple of times, and she begrudgingly had to admit that they worked fairly well together. Perhaps not as well as she’d worked with John Knight, her former partner, but good enough.

Ted yawned and reached over the seat for the thermos of coffee. “Refill?”

She pulled the lid off her travel mug and held it out while he poured. “Thanks.”

He drained the thermos into his own mug. “Make that one last. We’re on empty, chief.”

Maggie huffed, shaking her head. “Why do you call me that, Baylor?”

He smirked a little. “Just showin’ respect for my elders. You do have ten years on the force over me, you know.”

“Rookies,” Maggie groaned, rolling her eyes, and they both chuckled a little. “Be careful you don’t trip over my walker when we make the collar, sonny.”

“Right,” he replied with a chuckle, sipping his coffee.

Maggie turned her attention back to the stairwell, staring in both anticipation and dread, waiting for something to happen. Where are you, Jade? Come on, you bastard, don’t disappoint me . . . A flicker beside one of the darkened pillars caught her eye. A tiny flame shot up from a lighter, then disappeared behind a cupped hand and was magically replaced by a glowing orange dot. “You see that?” she whispered.

Ted nodded, instinctually placing his hand on his service revolver. “Is that our boy?”

“No . . . too short, but I’d bet the baby’s college fund that he’s here to do business. No one walks down three levels of garage just to stand in the dark and have a smoke.”

“They do if they ain’t smoking cigarettes,” Baylor pointed out. “The place wreaks of weed.”

“Uh uh.” She shook her head. “That’s a cigarette. Watch, when he drags  Just in and out . . .  no toke to that smoke.”

“Well done, Holmes, I suppose next you’ll tell me what he’s had for breakfast, and how many whores he’s laid in the past week,” Baylor joked. Maggie allowed the sarcasm, recognizing the nervousness in her partner’s voice. This was his first undercover work, and if all went well, his first major bust and his first exposure to the dangers of working drug enforcement.

Maggie could not deny her own trepidation. She’d worked the hard cases before, but not with Baylor, and not since her last encounter with Jade—the day he shot John Knight.

The cigarette tumbled to the floor, leaving a small trail of embers. The man in the shadows pulled up his collar, and started walking slowly toward the stairwell. He flashed his cigarette lighter once, then doused the flame, dropping it back into his pocket. The signal was answered with another flicker from behind the glass window on the stairwell door, and the shadowman quickened his step.

“Show time,” Maggie whispered as she drew her revolver slowly out of its holster. The door latches of the sedan had been heavily greased, allowing the pair to open the doors silently. They slipped out on either side of the car, each crouching as low as possible while holding their revolvers at the ready. Maggie skittered from behind the car door, to a pillar across the lane. She stood up tall, her back pressed against the pillar, and signaled for Baylor to move to the pillar opposite her to flank the stairwell.

Baylor moved as stealthily as a cat, nimbly taking his post behind the pillar. They were close enough to hear the muffled voices coming from the stairwell. Maggie’s hands trembled slightly in anticipation; she had to force herself to wait for the right moment to move, she needed the proof that a deal was going down or Jade would be out on some technicality before the ink on the arrest ticket was dry. Come on, bastard, make the deal. She held her breath when she heard Jade’s familiar, smooth voice.

“You’ve got company,” Jade was saying, in his ever calm, yet dangerous tone, followed by the breathless stammering of the contact.

“No . . . I d’n’t see no one. Honest . . . no one caught my scent comin’ down I swear.”
Maggie signaled Baylor that it was time to move before Jade withdrew. Baylor jumped out from behind the pillar, pistol raised, shouting, “Police! Freeze!”

Shadowman started to run, Maggie jumped out and tripped him, sending him sprawling onto the concrete floor. Jade slunk into the shadow, seeming to melt into the darkness. “Baylor, go!” She shouted. Baylor raced into the darkened stairwell, while Maggie deftly cuffed the shadowman’s wrist to loop of re-bar that protruded from the pillar.

She was two steps from the doorway when she heard the shot, the groan and a series of thuds as Baylor tumbled down the stairs. She was at his side in a flash, shouting obscenities to the darkened stair. “Baylor! My God, Ted . . . Ted!”

Baylor coughed. “I’m . . . it’s ok. Just a fall . . . vest held,” he groaned rolling slowly to his knees, then stood up.

A door slammed on the next level, accompanied by the sound of running feet, and Maggie was certain she’d heard Jade’s smooth, mocking laughter echoing with it. Satisfied that Baylor was okay for the moment, Maggie went back into action. “Go call for back-up, now!” Before he could move to stop her, she was running up the stairs, following the sound of the laughter. The door on the first landing was still swinging when she rounded the stairs. She pushed it open with her hip, emerging into a lime green corridor in the morgue level of the clinic, all the while keeping her gun in front of her. The hallway was dingy, and shadowed at the far end, and all was silent. He’s not here, the door was a decoy . . . she was about to turn and go back into the stairwell when she saw the shadow at the end of the hall. There you are, you son of a bitch.

She raised her gun, and ran down the hall yelling, “Freeze!” She was stunned to see it wasn’t Jade who stepped out of the shadow, but a tall, dark haired man, dressed formally in old fashioned clothing. Before she had a chance to wonder who he was, or why he was there, the shot came from behind, and she saw nothing more.

 

Ten O’ Clock

Spenser Fairbank

The clock on the cluttered bookshelf tolled off the hours, one chime per second for ten seconds, before a gaily painted Bavarian figurine burst out of the little doors to pirouette around a tiny balcony to the tune of some merry little polka. Her dance being finished, the doors sprung open and she snapped back to her hiding place to wait for her next performance, an hour to come.

“Hmm? Must be running fast again.” Spenser pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket, springing open the cover with his thumb. It validated the Bavarian dancer’s assessment of the time— ten o’clock. “Oh, dear!” He snapped the watch closed and quickly dropped it back into his pocket, jumping from his leather chair, startling the fat tabby sprawled on the desk next to him. “I’m sorry but I’m late again, Horatio. My lecture starts in five minutes.”

He pushed a stack of notes and journals that cluttered his desk aside, searching for his glasses, knocking his pipe holder to the floor, the apple wood tobacco spilling out onto the ancient hardwood. “Where are those blasted glasses!” He went to scratch his head, as the spectacles fell from his forehead down onto his nose. “Oh, there you are,” he muttered with a bit of a chuckle.

Grabbing the tweed jacket from the back of his chair and scooping up the stack of notes he’d made for his final lecture of the semester, he gave a quick glance about the little office he’d called his own for the last twenty-five years. There was so much of his life here that he could not imagine how he would ever be able to pack it up in crates and boxes to be hauled off to some storage bin that the university would provide for him until he found another position. The smell of twenty-five years of journals, notebooks, periodicals, ancient leather tomes of the masters, mingled with the ever-present scent of his pipe and coffee. Three walls of bookshelves were piled high with memorabilia and photographs of his favorite students over the years. He’d been there so long that some of the students he’d taught in recent years were the sons and daughters of those in the oldest photos. Every corner was stacked with magazines and old newspapers. The windows were large and arched at the top, taking up the entire wall behind his desk. A ponderous philodendron snaked around the sill and up the drapery cords and across the curtain rod, making the whole window appear to be encased in some wild jungle. The plant had been there since the beginning as well, and he’d never really taken much notice of it other than to water it once a week. Now, it seemed to look as desperate as he felt; moving it from its well ensconced sill would surely diminish, if not kill it outright.

“Ah, well, parting is such sweet sorrow, is it not, Horatio?”

Sadly, Spenser turned and left the office on his way to deliver his last lecture. The next time he entered that office would be to empty it to make way for a new generation.

Scolding himself for dawdling about his mementos too long, he hurried down the corridor off to the stair well. His office was on the fourth floor of the old Marcus Wainsworth Building—commonly referred to as ‘the attic’ by the student body—the second oldest building at Ravencroft University. He raced over the warped hardwood to the stairway, pattering down the stairs and around the landings, each step as familiar to him as his own hand, his thoughts more focused on the last class he was about to teach rather than watching his way. At the bottom of the stairs, the double paned glass doors were propped open, leaving his way unobstructed across the polished marble foyer. Spenser raced by the doors so quickly, he failed to notice the ‘caution wet floor’ sign that was propping open the door.

“Morning Professor Fairbank!” A student called out, breaking Spenser’s concentration for the moment. He looked up in time to see one of his students disappear through the heavy doors into the lecture hall.

“Oh, hello Rich—,” he began, but never finished his greeting as his feet suddenly turned rebellious under him.

“Careful, sir!” Someone called.

“Watch out!” Someone else shouted, as Spenser struggled to catch his balance with his right foot, while his left foot skated across the polished marble, planted firmly on a wet sponge that had been left by the janitor.

“Help!” he cried as his frantic ballet came to a cataclysmic finale when his head made contact with the marble floor. The last thing Spenser would remember seeing before the blackness overtook him, was the fleeting impression of a tall man, dressed in antique clothing watching quietly from the side.

* * *

Janie Stanley

When the foreclosure letter arrived a week ago, Janie Stanley had been only mildly annoyed, knowing her account was up to date. As a matter of fact, she had been consistently three months ahead on her mortgage for more than fifteen years. She was certain that some young clerk, just learning the data entry, had probably keyed in something wrong and accidentally generated the dunning letter proclaiming Janie to be in default. A simple phone call and a quick check of her account should clarify the error—or so she assumed.

Janie prided herself on her politeness. No matter how tired she was from shopping, or how long she’d had to stand in line, she would take pains to be as pleasant and patient with the tellers at Ravencroft Savings and Loan as possible. She’d seen too many angry bank patrons shout and fuss at those poor girls behind the glass, and on many occasion she’d wanted to kick them right in the pants or yell at them to stop being such meanies! But she never did. She always held her tongue, and made sure that when her turn with the teller came she was a friendly as possible. After a while all the tellers knew her by sight, and would greet her with a smile. A few even argued over who would get to handle Janie’s transaction that day.

Janie was well known with the lady who guarded the vault containing the safety deposit boxes, too. She was there often in the days after David’s accident, to retrieve or return this document or that for the lawyers. Widowhood had forced her to learn the ins and outs of bank accounts and mortgages, insurance policies and codicils, stocks, bonds, wills, and now . . . foreclosure proceedings.

She had called the bank right away when the letter arrived, and was assured that all would be taken care of; yes, her account was in order, yes, the letter was sent in error, no, foreclosure proceedings were not underway. This morning, however, a second notice letter arrived, declaring her twice at fault, first for being late with her payment, second for not responding to the first notice.

Furious, she had dialed the familiar phone number for the bank, expecting Louise, the receptionist to answer as always, “Ravencroft Savings and Loan, how may I help you?” but was stunned to hear an automated message instead, stating, “You have reached Combank Mutual, a Kohler corporation, formerly Ravencroft Savings and Loan. Please listen to the following menu options . . . ”

Janie had had to listen to the message six times and redialed the number twice before successfully navigating her way through a confounding phone maze of menu options, none of them being quite where she wanted to go, and none of them leading to a real human being. Several times she was asked for a pin, and had no idea what sort of pin they had in mind, and where she could possibly find one.

Finally, after more than an hour of nonsense with the phone message, a blessedly human voice answered the phone. “May I have your account number, please?”

“Hello, I’m so glad to finally hear a voice! My name is Janie Stanley, and—”

“What is your account number please?” the voice interrupted, in a flat and emotionless tone.

“Oh . . . I, just a moment, I have to look at my statement, it’s in the other—”

“We’re very busy here, ma’am, please call back when you have everything available. Have a nice day.” The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

“No wait! Please.” She slammed the receiver down, hollering at the letter in her hand, “After fifteen years with you people, I deserve better than this!”

She felt her heart begin to race and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. “I’ll simply have to go to the bank, and see them in person.”

She freshened her makeup, chose an appropriate sweater, tucked the letter into her purse, along with two years worth of cancelled checks clearly proving her payments had been made. If she’d learned nothing at all since David’s death, it was to have all her paperwork in order before setting out to do battle with the PTB, as he always called them—the powers that be.

Well armed, her confidence bolstered by the strength that came from knowing that she was right, she drove the three miles to the bank calmly, even humming along with the radio. By the time she arrived, and pulled into a parking spot in front of the bank, she was in full control of her anger, and had rehearsed her speech several times silently to herself.

“Lady, you can’t park there!” an impatient voice called to her as she walked away from her car. She turned to see a young man approaching her, wearing a uniform with an embroidered insignia spelling “Kohler Security” in gold braid.

“But, I park there every time I do business here,” she replied calmly, even offering a little smile.

“Not no more, you don’t. Lot’s across the street. Move it.”

Janie pursed her lips, and glared. “Not any more, and yes I am aware there is a parking lot across the street. Will you please explain why I should . . . move it?”

The young man sneered and pulled a pad out of his back pocket, “Because this spot is reserved, and because I told you to move. And you will move, or I’ll write you up. No one but authorized personnel are allowed to park this close to the bank.”

“I see,” Janie said, coolly, retrieving her car keys from her purse. She stalked past the man, and got into her car, slamming the door. Before she pulled out of the spot, she lowered the electric window on the passenger side. “Oh, young man?” she called in a pleasant, grandmotherly voice.

The man leaned down, resting his hand on the car door to look through the window, a smug grin on his face. “Yes?”

“I know you’re just doing your job, so there is no need for any . . . misunderstanding, right?”

“Yes, I am, that’s right, ma’am.” The man stood away from the door, and began to walk away.

“Oh, young man?”

He turned around impatiently, “Yes?”

“Just so there is no misunderstanding, please let me show you how I really feel.” In the most defiant act in her forty-five years, Janie lifted her right hand, folded it into a fist and raised the third finger as she floored the gas pedal and squealed out of the parking spot.

She would have reveled in her rebellion longer had the man with the walking stick not chosen that moment to step off the curb. Janie slammed the break, and cranked the wheel hard to the left, sending her car directly into the path of an oncoming truck.

* * *

Seth Walker

“Sorry to call you out of class, Seth. But I thought it would be better to hear it from me, now, than to get blindsided by the letter going to your home.” Mr. Jonas, the interim head of the English department at Nathan Birnbaum Memorial High School, fumbled with the letter typed on RU letterhead. “I know we haven’t worked together very long . . . ” He sighed, and handed the letter to Seth.

“I didn’t get the scholarship.” It was more of a statement, than a question. Seth had become all too familiar lately with the look and tone the faculty affected before delivering bad news. His senior year had been a study in disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Jonas replied.

Seth let out a heavy sigh, and allowed his overloaded book bag to slide off his shoulder and onto the floor as he dropped down into a chair. He hadn’t truly expected to win the ten thousand dollar scholarship to Ravencroft University he’d applied for by way of an epic essay. But when he had gotten the letter congratulating him on making the semi-finals, and was asked for a second essay, he’d allowed himself the luxury of optimism. When his second essay made it to the finals, and the prize was within his reach—there were only two finalists—he’d begun to believe he had finally caught a break, and his dream of going to RU on scholarship would truly happen.

Seth would not have even entered an essay if not for the encouragement of Mr. Stanley, the former head of the English department. Seth had struggled throughout all of his school years, often being shunted from one special-ed class to the next. But for whatever reason, early in Seth’s freshman year, Mr. Stanley had taken a bit of extra time with him, helping him to understand the Shakespeare he’d been assigned to read. During their one-on-one help sessions, Mr. Stanley always seemed to explain the complicated text in a way that made sense, but when it came time to take the tests, Seth would barely be able to garnish a passing grade. But one afternoon, Mr. Stanley asked Seth to stay after class and had surprised him with a pop quiz, delivered orally. Seth aced the quiz, and it was then that Mr. Stanley took the extra step that turned the corner for the young man by recognizing the symptoms of dyslexia.

Soon, Seth was receiving help he never knew he needed, or was even available, and a special program was developed just for him where he was able to take his tests differently than the other students. Before his freshman year was out, Seth had gone from barely passing to the honor roll. His life had brightened considerably then, particularly at home, where his father had finally begun to show some interest in his son. Earning his father’s respect had been a never-ending challenge. Years of discouragements and verbal beatings on report card day had finally come to an end when Seth presented his first report card of straight As, and his father had actually told him he was proud of him. And he owed it all to Mr. Stanley.

The day Seth found out he’d made the finals, he’d nearly cart wheeled down the corridor to Mr. Stanley’s office to show him the letter. But when he arrived at Mr. Stanley’s door, he was met by a group of dour faced teachers, and a few sobbing students. Seth had been so excited about his letter that he’d not paid attention to the morning announcements, and had not heard the principal call for a moment of silence—Mr. Stanley had been killed in a single car wreck on his way home from school the night before.

Mr. Jonas leaned forward, placing a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “There are other schools, Seth. Other scholarships. Baker Tech, the community college over in Falldon, comes to mind. They’ve an excellent program for their size. If you’d like, I can make some calls for you.”

A one-legged chimp could get into Baker. Seth shook his head, not looking up to meet Mr. Jonas’ gaze. “It was more than just a scholarship, Mr. Jonas,” he replied quietly, stuffing the letter haphazardly into his book bag. “It was everything.”

“It may feel that way now, but chin up, there’s always options. Come see me again tomorrow. I’ll have a list of alternatives for you,” the teacher said, then crossed the room and opened the office door, signaling the end of the meeting.

Seth hefted his bag onto his shoulder, gave the teacher a half smile and left without saying anything more. It was only ten in the morning, and he still had four classes left that day. He headed down the science corridor toward his biology class, then impulsively turned, and started walking toward the exit door instead. He kept his eyes on the door at the far end of the long corridor, the daylight spilling through the wired window as he walked, each step a bit faster than the last until he was running.

A teacher stepped into the hall way, shouting, “Mr. Walker! Slow down! Where are you going?”

Seth kept running, his heart beginning to race. He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as his vision started to blur through the moisture that was forming on his lids. It was everything! It was . . . I’m not stupid, Papa!

“Walker! Where’s your hall pass?”

Seth charged past the teacher, ignoring her, hearing only the echoes of his father’s old verbal assaults. Why won’t you apply yourself . . . special program my ass! You’re just lazy . . . you’ll never amount to anything . . . you’re different . . . you’re stupid . . . no college will take a lazy kid . . . you’ll wind up at Baker with all the other losers . . .

“I’m not stupid!” he yelled, throwing himself against the door, it crashed against the doorstop and slammed closed behind him. The front stairs of the old school were steep and made of concrete. There were fifteen stairs that ended at a brick walkway. Seth had descended these stairs hundreds of times, but never at this pace, and never half-blinded by tears. Three steps down, he was startled by the sudden appearance of an oddly-dressed man standing on the first landing. Seth jagged to the left to avoid plowing the fellow over, but it was then that he lost his footing and tumbled head over heels to the bottom of the concrete steps.

* * *

Elizabeth Staunton

“Dr. Staunton to ER stat, Dr. Staunton to ER stat.”

Elizabeth S