Chapter 1    table of contents  

The directions had been difficult to follow, but Pendergast knew he was at the right place. It was in the atmosphere; the lull of the crickets in the tall grasses, the sheen of the afternoon sun warming the still river, the Spanish moss hanging in the trees—even the smell of the woods and the river and something else, a heady vapor on the breeze unlike anything he’d ever smelled before. Something about it made his muscles tighten with trepidation.

He crossed the plank bridge over a tributary to the unpainted, tin-roofed shack, hyperaware of the silence after all the racket that it had taken him so long to grow accustomed to in New York City, where he’d lived for several years. With his steps on the plank bridge, even the crickets had quieted. The sky, reflected in the tea-colored river water, was a bright, beautiful blue. A few cottony clouds overhead, as stationary as if they were stuck to the blue with Elmer’s Glue. Nothing moved but him.

He steeled himself and raised a fist, knocking softly on the door. It was opened immediately by an ancient woman of indeterminate age and race. She looked at him as seriously and sternly as anyone ever had. “She is waiting for you. You remember the rules.”

“Yes.”

“Recite them.”

“No food, liquids, or smoking. No conversation. Do everything she says without question, and only what she says, nothing more. Do not touch her unless she asks. Once I’m in, I stay in until she is finished, no matter what happens.”

The old woman’s eyes measured him. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I have to.” He was appalled, but not really surprised, to feel sudden tears well in his eyes.

She nodded and stepped back. Pendergast took a last look around the secluded cabin at the beautiful, sunny day, and stepped through the door into another time.

***


The cabin was clean and unadorned. A wooden table and three chairs were placed on one side of the room near a woodstove, not needed on this warm, spring day. A dilapidated sofa took up most of the space on the other side. There was no television, no video equipment, no stereo, no personal computer, no electronics of any kind, not even a toaster or electric clock. And probably, way out here, no electricity with which to run them.

The windows were open on both sides of the room, admitting wisps of moving air that could not accurately be referred to as a breeze. It felt more like tiny playful ghosts dancing and flickering around his exposed face and hands. He was growing warm in the black wool suit, and he liked being warm. It had always comforted him. He associated the cold with certain unwanted memories of subbasements, crypts, and the hearts of family members.

The old woman said, “When you feel thirsty, tell her. It is important. You will probably lose...a lot of fluids.”

He nodded.

Her expression softened somewhat. “Do not be frightened by anything you see, hear, or feel. There is no harm here. Only love, and...release.”

She motioned him toward one of the closed doors at the rear of the room. He bowed slightly, went to the door, and turned. “What is her name?”

“She has no name that I’m aware of. I call her Gem.”

He opened the door, walking through quickly, before he had time to feel anything.

Chapter 2    table of contents  

The room was not large, but appeared so because there was so little furniture, so little of anything at all. A double bed stood in the center, under the largest window, which was open. The bed’s clean white sheet sparkled, freshened by outdoor air. A low wooden table, more of a slab, really, was nailed to the wooden plank floor about six feet from the bed on one side. A rocking chair on the other side of the bed was the only other furniture. A young woman sat there, rocking slowly, quietly, her eyes closed, her lips forming a slight smile.

Pendergast closed the door softly behind him, not wishing to disturb the woman. He noted her long brown hair, parted in the middle and falling almost to her waist; the high cheekbones and rather severe planes of her face; the shapelessness of her faded green dress. Her arms, legs, and feet were bare. He saw the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks and felt her on his own pale cheeks and hands like more of the warmth he craved; the serenity that emanated from her shone on him like a heat lamp. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the door, and just stood there, numb.

He had been numb for a while now, had been going on autopilot. Had recognized the signs of an impending breakdown. It had been coming on for a long, long time. Little things, like forgetting, like overlooking. His ability to perceive, and to act on what he perceived, getting sludgy. A slight, constant feeling of anxiety, almost despair, that had crept up on little cat feet and then grown almost overnight into dinosaurian proportions. He found himself saying things he would not ordinarily say, taking more and greater chances, seeking any kind of emotional input to drown out the despair. Seeking escape. He had thought his brother’s death would ease the pressure he’d felt for so long, but it had not worked that way. If anything, the horrible emotions had worsened.

For years he had lived with a degree of emotional anguish that would’ve defeated most in a matter of days. Everyone has a breaking point. He had finally reached his. He did not believe in coincidence, so when someone he trusted had mentioned learning of this woman and what she could supposedly do, he had inquired further. And now he was here.

He had known the stab of fear many times in the field and, by now, could overcome it automatically and do what needed to be done. The fear he felt now was different. A part of him, a part he kept shackled, groaning, in a subbasement of his mind, insisted that he was about to lose himself completely. That what little control he maintained at this point would be stripped away and replaced with nothing. That he would be left with only the horrible anxiety, depression, and despair that had finally outgrown his ability to suppress them. Insanity was far more horrible than injury, far more terrifying than death. He felt his body jerk. His hand reached for the doorknob behind him and he may have turned it and fled had his hand not been intercepted by a smaller, softer one. He opened his eyes.

She stood before him, smiling, holding his hand in both of hers. The top of her head was even with his Adam’s apple. Her hazel-green eyes met his and a tiny line appeared between her brows. She released his hand and held up both her own, empty, harmless, and he knew that she sensed his fear, and his aversion to touch. To show good faith, and because he was raised that way, he reclaimed her hand, bent his head, and brought her fingers to within an inch of his lips, then stepped back and let go. He opened his mouth to say, “I am pleased to meet you” and remembered the no-conversation rule. He assumed a position of subservience that was not at all natural for him but said what he wished to say verbally—eyes cast down, head slightly bowed. He would do whatever she required. He waited.

She stepped toward him, lightly, delicately, as though to capture a butterfly that might flit away at the slightest disturbance of air upon its wings. Bent her head to catch his eye and bring his gaze up to meet hers. She raised her empty, harmless hands, moved toward him, then shook her head slightly and touched only air—reaching up to glide her hands by his face, close enough for them to feel one another’s heat, but not touching. Not touching. Her hands continued downward, moving close to his neck, his shoulders. She outlined him to the waist, then took back her hands, her face a study in...what? He saw great emotion there but could not identify it. As his silver eyes held hers, he finally recognized the look on her face, a look he had not encountered in so long that it jolted him enough to make him take a step back as though she’d struck at him.

The emotion he saw on her face was the most compassionate, most empathetic...love. Love and great, great sorrow. As he watched, the green eyes filled slowly with tears. He knew they were for him, and knowing this filled him with regret that it should have to be so, with shame and guilt that his pain was causing pain to another, and with the most profound gratitude. Even Pendergast felt the need for understanding, sometimes so deeply that he barricaded himself in his apartment for days, absorbed in purely intellectual pursuits, lest he slip and somehow show this Achilles heel of which he was so ashamed, though he knew it was ridiculous to be so. He privately thought that all the world’s troubles could be solved with the addition of one simple ingredient: understanding. Empathy. He thought that, without realizing it, most people craved it more than sustenance, and spent most of their time and energy in search of it. He thought it should be at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy, along with breath and food. He believed these things, but he realized that his own pain and need were the basis of these beliefs. He wanted to reach out and catch her tears before they overflowed, as though this would also stop her pain, but was bound by the rules and his own reserve.

***


Gem did not think in sentences or pictures, but in feelings. Emotions. The emotions she felt from this man hurt her deeply. Loneliness. Guilt. Shame. Longing. Pain. So much pain. She had never experienced anyone like him, for along with all the dark, harmful energies she also perceived the greatest tenderness, hope, compassion, iron will, and discipline. She understood the uncountable hours of solitude, meditation, and practice it had taken to achieve this discipline. It was discipline that had kept him on his feet and functioning. She sensed his mind, as open and deep and filled with wonders as the sea.

She closed her eyes. His greatest pain came not from unrequited desires or earthly wants, but from his inability to help others as much as he wanted to, and from memories of others he had failed, or thought he had. She knew his other incarnations—geisha, king, shaman, priestess, physician; always helping roles, always serving others—and understood why failure, even imagined failure, hurt him so. She sensed the material wealth that fed his affectations, making it possible for him to use these habits to buffer the pain.

She felt how near he was to collapse, to losing himself, and a picture formed in her mind of a great concrete skyscraper, though she had never seen one. This great edifice, though strong and nearly invincible, was trembling as though from an earthquake. Pieces of mortar and concrete were falling from it, first a few, then more and more, until great gaps appeared in the façade and she could see through to the steel supports. As she let the vision continue, the supports also began to crumble. She opened her eyes, silently thanking Spirit for the analogy that helped her understand him.

Since childhood, she had felt the emotions and thoughts of others on her skin and in her heart as one feels the heat of the summer sun or the icy winds of winter. She had felt their pain and fatigue in her own body. She had learned to block, when need be. But she knew her purpose, and it was to feel these hurtful things when called upon and, with the guidance of Spirit, to help as much as possible. She did not question why this was so, why this was her calling, her gift, or her curse. She loved this man as she loved everyone who came to her, everyone she met, every blade of grass and bird and drop of water, seeing in each the same energy, the same Divinity. The love was not her own, but came through her, as light through a projector, the same way the healing came through her. She knew herself only as a conduit. She was aware of no desires, no dislikes, no ego. She was merely a tunnel through which the love of Spirit could reach those who needed to be reached. This man needed love more than anyone she had ever encountered.

***


She gestured to the bed with one hand, to the slab table with the other, and he chose the table, moving to stand beside it, awaiting more instructions. She pantomimed removing his jacket and shoes and lying down. He unbuttoned the jacket, opened it, and noticed her eyes taking in the shoulder holster and gun sadly, so sadly. He removed them quickly and laid them on the shelf under the table, covering them with his jacket, out of sight. He removed his shoes and lay down on the slab on his back, arms by his sides, almost rigid with apprehension.

She came to stand beside the table, looking down at him. In her eyes, the tears were now gone, but the love remained. She smiled encouragement, placed her hands into a prayer pose, closed her eyes, and bowed to him. He understood this to mean namaste, the Divine in me recognizes the Divine in you. A gesture of profound respect. He wished he were standing so he could return the gesture, settled for doing it as best he could. Opened his eyes to find her smile brighter. He was glad to see it so. Perhaps she would not feel any more pain. It hurt him badly when he saw the pain of others.

She stepped to the table and held out her hands, palms down. He tensed. But once again, she did not touch. Her hands moved over him again, pausing at his crown, his throat, his heart, solar plexus, abdomen, groin—he recognized each area as that of a major chakra, or energy center. Her hands returned to hover above his heart. Stayed.

She closed her eyes. He felt a stirring in the area beneath her hands, as though a breath of warm air circulated through and around his heart. He held his breath and her eyes opened immediately. She shook her head, took a deep breath, indicated he should do the same. He began to breathe again, and again she closed her eyes, her hands hovering an inch above his shirt, over his heart. He watched her fingers perform a slow, clockwise spinning motion, and the warmth around his heart increased. Memories flooded through his mind, a mental waterfall. His mother’s scent, his father’s hands, his late wife’s eyes, the infant Diogenes grasping his older brother’s index finger with his small, star-shaped hand—

His breath caught and he sat up suddenly, straight up on the table, found himself hyperventilating and fought to control his breathing. Perspiration cooled his brow and adhered his shirt to his shoulder blades. A sudden burst of adrenaline, and he pictured himself leaping from the table, screaming, tearing at the woman, the room, himself as though it were happening. He grasped the edges of the table, knowing he’d been wrong to come here, knowing he had to go before something terrible happened. He opened his mouth to explain, looked at the woman through a fine white curtain of bangs, and saw that she was not afraid, had not even moved from her position beside him. While his chest still heaved and his body trembled, she stepped to him and gently, so gently, enfolded him in her arms. He stiffened as even more adrenaline infused his system, felt his body vibrating with the need to rampage, to lash out, but before it could, a sudden coolness enveloped him, as though he’d stepped into a cave...a cave not of this world, but of loving, eternal peace. He shuddered as the madness dissipated, now soaked in sweat, now trembling not with rage, but weakness. She held him, and after a while, his head turned, bent slowly, and lowered to her shoulder. A moment later she lowered him back onto the table and he slept.

She stood looking down at him. Put out a hand, and lightly clutched his index finger.

Chapter 3    table of contents  

Pendergast awoke slowly and unusually. He always woke with instantaneous knowledge of exactly who and where he was, the day and date and how he planned to use it, and the time, within five minutes. He awoke now with only the vaguest sense of self, time, or place. The few times in his life when he’d had a drink too many or had indulged in recreational drugs, from curiosity or for professional knowledge, he’d felt something like this.

He was on his back, on a hard surface, and he looked straight up at an unpainted plank ceiling. He was itchy and sticky in his clothes and wondered if it was sweat or blood that caused the feeling. He inhaled and did not smell blood. He smelled flowers, with an unidentifiable undertone. He wondered if he had died, and the idea was not a distressing one.

He turned his head slowly to the right and saw Gem, standing patiently by the table on which he lay, smiling her faint, loving smile. He wet his lips to ask what had happened, remembered the rules, stayed silent. Felt her hand slip under his head, lifting it gently. The cool rim of a glass touched his lips. He sipped the water gratefully, a little at a time, until it was gone, watching her with his silvery eyes over the rim of the glass. His hair felt tousled and hung over his forehead, and he thought to brush it back but couldn’t muster the will or strength to try to raise his hand. Gem placed her small, cool hand on his forehead and did it for him. She let her hand rest on his forehead for a moment, then raised it a little and made the clockwise spinning motion between his brows. A moment of vertigo, then he saw himself, whole and healthy, walking jauntily down a street lined with the most beautiful, fragrant magnolia trees, nodding and greeting passersby, a smile on his face. The vision faded and he looked up at her. She nodded. He felt tears sting his eyes, and before he remembered, he whispered an automatic, “Thank you.”

She inclined her head slightly and slipped an arm under his shoulders. He sat up, the effort increasing his heartbeat and respiration. She looked into his eyes and touched his tie and his top shirt button. Waited.

He nodded.

She grasped the knot in his tie, pulled it gently down, lifted the tie over his head and off. Started unbuttoning his shirt slowly, tugging the tail from his trousers, unbuttoning the sleeves. She stepped behind him and slid the shirt down off his shoulders. He moved his arms to help her, and was relieved when the sticky fabric was away from his skin. Air from the open window swept over him, cooled him, and he took a deep breath.

Gem stepped back to his side and held up a washcloth and a bowl of clear fluid that smelled of wildflowers. She dipped the cloth in the bowl, pressed out the excess, and touched it softly to his brow. He closed his eyes as the cool cloth caressed his face and neck. She continued, dipping the cloth, pressing it, applying it to his shoulders, his chest and stomach, her touch light and sure. She hesitated over his scars and he saw her blink back tears. Guilt and pain suffused him and he started to move away, to stop her sadness. She paused, moved closer, looked into his eyes, shook her head slowly. Touched his chest lightly, over his heart, and he felt a sudden spasm of sorrow, intermixed with the greatest joy. He knew he was feeling her emotions, and that she was sad because of his pain, but happy because she could help. A voice whispered in his mind: Do not deprive me of this joy, Aloysius. She picked up his hand, held it to her cheek, kissed the palm. There was nothing sexual in the gesture, only great love and kindness. He relaxed, the last of his apprehension fading away.

She moved behind him and washed his back, returned to stand beside him. Touched his belt buckle. He nodded, and she set down the bowl and unfastened the belt. Paused with her fingers on the tab of his zipper, saw acceptance in his eyes, and slid the zipper down. He lay back and let her slide the trousers down and off, the cool, pleasant air stirring the pale hair on his legs, tickling. She dipped her cloth and washed his thighs, calves, tugged gently at his socks and washed his feet. He was reminded of the washing of feet in the Bible. No one had ever done this for him, or touched him so gently, or understood him so well. Gem gestured for him to turn onto his stomach, and he complied, resting his head on his arms. She washed the backs of his thighs, his calves.

He felt a finger hook into the elastic of his boxers and raised his hips a little. She skinned them down and off, leaving him naked on the slab, dipped her cloth, and applied it to his buttocks. His muscles stiffened reflexively, then relaxed. He concentrated on the coolness of the cloth, the relaxing properties of whatever it contained. She washed his back again, giving him more time to get ready, then indicated that he should turn back over.

He did, surprised that he didn’t feel embarrassed or hesitant, because he had not been naked in front of another person since Helen, had not felt any but the most fleeting sexual desire, nor even pleasured himself. He performed exercises before sleep to discourage wet dreams, because they were usually about his late wife, and left him feeling lonelier when he awoke, or they were a kaleidoscope of violence and pain gleaned from the crimes he investigated or, to his mortification, his own subconscious.

He felt the cool, soft cloth on his abdomen, his hips, his inguinal area. She gently parted his thighs and applied it to the sensitive flesh between them, then to his scrotum, and he gasped softly, but did not move to stop her. Lastly, she dipped it again and clasped his penis gently, enfolding it, caressing it lightly with the cloth, letting go. He felt a growing tumescence, tried to will it away. She shook her head slightly, set down the bowl, spread her hands to indicate his long, lean, muscular form, and repeated namaste. The Divine in me recognizes the Divine in you. Loves the Divine in you. The responses of the body were designed by Divinity, and are nothing to be ashamed of.

He had never known what it was to be himself and be accepted as such, in every way. He felt himself relaxing in ways he hadn’t known he needed to. Even when alone, he maintained an air of careful control and a certain dignified manner that he had thought natural, until now. Now he knew what natural really was. Natural was just feeling and reacting. He closed his eyes, feeling himself sinking into the slab, really relaxing for the first time since, as a child, he’d first felt the intense scrutiny and hurtful criticism of others. He knew he was an enigma; at once totally self-confident and a partial masquerader. He masqueraded because it was expected and saved time and explanations; he was confident because he knew that, in the end, he would be who he was despite what was expected. But until now, he’d never realized how much energy was spent on the masquerade. He wondered if he would be able to leave this place.

Chapter 4    table of contents  

Gem put away her bowl, aware of his eyes following her movements, aware of the change in them. From partially veiled fear and trepidation when he’d first entered the room to what she saw in them now—trust, and love. She felt the love as that of a child for its mother, as that of any helpless or wounded thing for anyone who sought to aid it. But some of the wounded ones’ love was that of the vampire—draining, sucking at her life force, greedy. The love she felt from this man carried with it a psychic shield, and she wondered if he knew what he was doing. That he was trying hard to keep his need, which was boundless and raw, separate from his love, in order not to cause her pain or sap her strength. She had never encountered anyone so aware of the potential pain and danger to one such as herself. Anyone who, though there to heal, was more concerned for her pain than for what he himself must endure, though she still sensed some fear of what was to come, as well.

She knew he had been badly frightened by his reaction to her experimental test of his heart chakra. She had seen what he envisioned, felt what he felt, and now knew that his horrible physical scars paled beside the emotional ones. But the emotional damage was what must be healed for this man to continue. She saw in his aura the darkness of impending destruction—either by his own hand, by illness, or by unconsciously maneuvering himself into a potentially fatal situation. She knew he faced such situations regularly, as part of his job, and knew that he had no choice—his own need to help others was as great as her own, and he used his own talents in the way best suited for him to do so. She also knew that, if he could not attain—or allow—the healing he’d come for, his job would make it very easy for him to leave. She was aware of one particular instance in his recent past when he had made the conscious decision to sacrifice his own life for that of a dear friend, and she felt the joy he’d known at that decisive moment, the subconscious relief that he could exert control over his life in this one way, and that it would be meaningful.

She knew that, when the energy centers were opened and unblocked, he would probably relive the terrible physical and emotional traumas that had hurt him so badly. She sensed that he suspected this, that he had studied and searched all his life, and that he understood the metaphysical and spiritual world far better than anyone she had ever worked with. He was afraid because he knew what was in store, and knew he must lose control to regain it. He was afraid of losing control for many reasons, but his greatest fear was of hurting her.

She listened for the still, small voice that guided her through these things, and was not surprised when it suggested a way to allay more of his fear and show him that she was strong enough to do what needed to be done.

***


Pendergast watched Gem switch her bowl of clear fluid for another. Into this one, she dipped her fingers. When she touched his shoulder, he realized this bowl held some type of oil. It felt warm on her fingers, warmer on his skin, and grew even warmer as she massaged it in. She worked his shoulders and arms, her fingers moving quickly but strongly over the well-defined musculature, and paused at his right elbow, which bore the scar of a gunshot wound. Her small fingers traced the scar, applied more oil, traced it again. Again.

As she traced the wound, he suddenly found himself back in the basement under the Riverside Drive mansion, mortally wounded, pursued by Fairhaven. He heard the shot and felt the blow that had ruined his elbow and knocked him off his feet. He gasped at the pain and heard Gem do the same. He looked at her and saw his pain reflected in her eyes, couldn’t bear it, tried to pull away, and her small hands caught his arm with such strength that he could not. She held on to the scar and he watched drops of perspiration form on her forehead, watched her face go pale. Her eyes began to roll upward. He made as if to catch her and she held onto his arm even more tightly, her eyes meeting his, and now he saw in them determination that outweighed the pain.

He began to feel a lifting sensation, as though the scarred skin was trying to pull away from the rest. On her right arm, holding the scar, a vague image of it began to form, first very faintly, then growing more and more prominent. As he watched, the scar faded from his arm and appeared on hers. She released him and leaned against the table and again he reached out, afraid she would fall, but she stopped him with an upraised left hand and simply stood there, head bowed. In a few minutes she raised her head and showed him her arm. The scar was gone.

He looked at their unmarred skin and turned incredulous eyes on hers. Moved his arm with a free range of motion it had not possessed since the wound. She smiled and indicated the scars on his chest and abdomen. He shook his head slowly, unable to bear the thought of her enduring the pain he had felt when those wounds had been inflicted. She motioned to the terrible scars, shrugged; then laid her hand on his heart, her smile fading to a serious countenance. The message was clear. The physical scars were nothing. His worst wounds were not physical, but emotional. They were the ones that would require the most effort to heal.

He wanted so badly to speak, to tell her how amazed he was, how thankful. To tell her why he was going to leave. He wanted, more than anything, to be free of the physical scars that reminded him of so much pain, and the emotional scars that still inflicted it, but, though he saw her strength and willingness to endure what must be endured to help, he simply could not let her do it. He had hurt too many already, or had been the reason they were hurt, and this knowledge haunted him every waking moment and often intruded into his dreams. He could not knowingly hurt Gem.

Suddenly her hand was on his forehead, not soft and gentle as before, but firm and commanding. Her green eyes had turned sharp, penetrating. Her palm, resting between his brows, grew warm. Her other hand slipped between his legs and beneath him, resting on his coccyx. Her face and the room vanished from his mind, replaced by a field of red, overlaid by a creeping layer of gray. She was showing him his base, or root, chakra, which related to the will to live. It should be a bright, vibrant red. His was changing from red to that horrible, sick gray. Her hand moved from his coccyx to his sacrum, and he perceived a darker gray, almost black cloud. The sacral chakra, the sexual center, was completely blocked, and when she moved her hand from under him to rest it on his genitals, the same dark cloud remained.

When she touched his solar plexus, he saw a bright, healthy yellow, but it was changing to a sickly pale whitish gray. He was no longer firmly grounded, feeling his place in the universe. He saw groups of cords extending from his solar plexus, cords that had once connected him to those he trusted, needed. Now there were few remaining complete cords, and the ends of the incomplete ones floated, disconnected and fragmented.

She touched his heart area and he saw brilliant green, but it was tinged with a darker, more olive hue. More short, fragmented cords floated there, cords that had once connected him to those he loved. Their ends looked withered and dead. She slid her hand beneath his shoulder blades and showed him how his ability to decide and go after what he wanted was declining. Touched his throat, where a beautiful blue was being swallowed by more gray-black clouds, showing that he no longer took responsibility for his personal needs in an effective manner. She laid her hand on top of the hand on his forehead, and showed him the indigo blue of the healthy pituitary chakra, then the fading version of his own, which meant that even his mental abilities were declining. Lastly, she touched the crown of his head, where the bright white of a healthy personal integration and connection to Spirit only gleamed dimly, like a bright bulb glimpsed through a dirty shade.

When his vision cleared, he saw that her eyes, though still sharp, were also filled with tears. She shook her head—no, no, no! He knew she had sensed his decision to leave and that she was not going to let him go willingly. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table and a touch of dizziness made him pause, but only for a moment. He stood up and bent to retrieve his clothes from under the table and felt her hand on his wrist, strong as a steel clamp. He tried to pull away and could not. Stood up and looked down at her small hand holding his wrist so tightly, then at her face, which was as set and determined as his own. As he watched, it softened to a look of pleading. The soft mental voice again: Please, Aloysius. Please. You are dying.

I don’t care!

Yes, you do. Or you would not have come. Please let me help you. It is what I live for.

He swallowed, looked at the floor, unable to meet her eyes lest she see the moisture in his own. The hand not gripping his wrist rose and touched beneath his chin, raised his head. Again she caught his gaze with her own loving eyes, smiled at him. Saw his resistance fading, and led him to the bed.

Chapter 5    table of contents  

Pendergast lay down on the clean white sheet, barely feeling the cooling, refreshing air from the open window above the bed as it caressed his naked body. He felt numb again, numb and disconnected. The feeling was not new to him. Like the anxiety and despair, it had started small, as only an occasional vague sense of unease, and had grown to an almost constant feeling that he was walking through a mirage, or a dream; or that he himself was not real. Gem had said he was dying. He already felt dead inside. He would stay and do as she asked, because it was important to her that he try. He would do his best not to hurt her. If he did, he would not be able to bear it, and would simply leave, drive far enough away, take out his pistol, and blow his head off. It would be inconsequential. He was already dead inside.

She watched him, frowning slightly, and he felt himself becoming irritated that his thoughts were not his own, that he could hide nothing from her. Immediately, he felt shame for the irritation. This woman was willing to go through hell to help him, and he...

She touched his hand and shook her head, discouraging his train of thought. Took up her bowl, and dipped her fingers into the warm oil. Massaged it lightly into his face, his neck, then, fingers pressing more strongly into his skin, she began working it into his pectoral muscles, his arms, his sides, down to and over the scar on his chest from the would-be murderer’s knife and the surgeon’s scalpel. He held his breath, almost praying that she would not stop and try to remove that scar, and she didn’t.

He could not relax, though, because now her fingers were moving over the worst of his scars, the one on his left side, made even more terrible because he’d had to work on the wound himself to remain alive long enough to get professional medical care. He started to remember probing into himself, the horrible pain and nausea it had produced, and, with an alacrity borne of long practice and desperation, banished the memory, again mentally begging her not to attempt work on this scar, either. She glanced at his face, at his shadowed eyes, and did not linger over the area; she merely rubbed it once with the oil and moved downward.

She massaged his flat, hard belly, his thighs, again parting them to reach the inner thigh area. He held his breath, both dreading and desiring her fingers on his genitals, but she moved on down to his knees, calves, ankles, feet. His body was suffused with the warmth he craved and alive with the ghost of her touch. His flesh drank the oil in, leaving not so much as a sheen on his pale skin. She motioned for him to turn over, and he did, taking care to remain near the edge of the bed so she could reach him. He rested his head on his arms.

She started with his shoulders, and he thought her touch a little gentler now. She seemed to linger, taking more time, and he wondered if it was because he was not watching her now. He knew that his eyes made some people uncomfortable, and sometimes he used their discomfort to his advantage. But he had no wish to make this woman uncomfortable. Not for the first time, he wished he looked less exotic, wished his eyes did not bear witness to the intensity of his soul.

Her hands moved down his back, and she had set down her bowl now to use them both, one on each side of his spine, moving in sync. Down to his waist, to his low back. Again he found it slightly difficult to breathe, awaiting her touch on his buttocks, and again she skipped to his thighs, but the skin there was almost as sensitive, and he inhaled sharply as her fingers dipped between his thighs again. She touched behind his knees and the pressure and warmth there made him move slightly, his skin growing more and more sensitive to her touch. Down his calves to the bottoms of his feet, her touch there firm enough not to tickle. Each toe received her individual attention.

He was relaxing again, sinking into the mattress, when he felt her hand on the back of his neck, and wondered if she’d simply forgotten it before or had returned to it now for a reason. He tilted his forehead downward, allowing her better access; found himself wondering what was in the clear liquid and the oil, and blanked his mind as best he could. He was not in control of this situation, a thought that no longer made him feel afraid, but still seemed very alien to him, like the subservient posture he had assumed upon arrival.

Her hand lingered on the back of his neck, then lifted, and he felt the movement of the tiniest current of air, as though she moved her fingers just above his skin. He saw himself suddenly, dressed in his usual black suit, going about his job with confidence, dedication, and skill. This vision was overlaid with a radiant, sky-blue color. Then he saw himself sitting at home alone, reading, writing, painting, seeking enough intellectual stimulation to make up for the loneliness, and the sky-blue faded to a washed-out denim color.

As the tiny air currents increased, he became aware of his need for more companionship, a need he had always recognized, but had never experienced at this level. He felt as though he walked the earth alone, as though he was totally disconnected from everyone and everything, as though he would never be touched or loved or even noticed again as long as he lived. The emotions hit him so powerfully that a sudden sob escaped his throat, and he bit down on his forearm to stifle any further vocalizations. He tried to return to the image of himself at work, but it would not come. Instead, he saw himself sitting alone, reading, reading, turning pages, and in the vision he grew older and older, looking more and more lost and unhappy. His heart broke for the old, lonely man he had become. Tears streamed silently down his face. His chest and shoulders quaked with unvoiced sobs, and he tasted blood and realized he’d bitten through the skin of his arm.

He felt Gem’s lips on the back of his neck, not a kiss but a soft intake of air, as she sucked delicately at the area she’d been massaging. The image of himself as a lonely old man dimmed. Her lips stayed on his skin, gently drawing, and the image faded away. The soft mental voice said: Release your fear, Aloysius. That need not be you.

He realized he’d been visualizing something of which he was so afraid that he’d never allowed it into his conscious mind—growing old alone and lonely. He didn’t know what to do. How do I release my fear?

Just trust me. Let go, and trust me.

He thought of her eyes filling with tears upon sensing his pain, seeing his scars. Thought of her small hands, so strong and insistent that he stay and allow her to help him. He realized that he did trust her, more than he’d trusted anyone in a long time. Trusted her, and loved her because she wanted so badly to help him. The realization relaxed him somewhat. He pictured himself opening his arms wide, feeling the need to give up this particular fear and the pain that came with it, and her mouth and hands moved on his skin and the emotional storm passed.

For a long moment, she let him rest, her hand still caressing the back of his neck. Then she bade him again to turn over.

Chapter 6    table of contents  

Pendergast surreptitiously wiped his wet face on the sheet before turning onto his back. He kept his eyes closed, afraid that if he looked into her eyes, he would become emotional again. He was ashamed of his display, though another part of him knew he should not be. He was aware of his constant reticence, though part of him always wanted to open up more. He knew this dichotomy existed because of certain fears and beliefs that he should be glad to have the opportunity to lose. He was glad, but could hardly bear emotional outbursts such as the one he’d just experienced. He was afraid that, should he allow himself any emotional leeway at all, he would lose control completely and perhaps never regain it. This was his greatest fear, and he knew it came from his family’s history, from the lifelong fear of insanity that had kept him searching, learning, practicing anything and everything that might help him maintain himself, always second-guessing, wondering if he could be slipping without realizing it.

Now he was slipping, and he did realize it. He wondered how long it had gone on before he’d noticed it. Wondered if anyone else had noticed before he had.

He felt Gem’s small hands on his feet, felt them getting warmer and warmer. He raised his head and looked down across his body and fancied that he could see a warm golden-white light glowing around her hands and his feet. He knew about energy meridians and reflexology. He wondered where the energy she was channeling to him would flow, knowing it should accumulate where his energy body was most depleted. He felt a growing warmth in his chest. The heart chakra.

He saw Gem’s eyes travel up his legs and stop at his heart chakra, as though she could see where the energy went. He supposed she could. He’d met people who saw other beings as pure energy, had been entertained by their stories of childhood, when they’d run to others, throwing their arms about them, trying to merge with them as they’d merged on other levels of reality, only to find their intended perplexed and sometimes angry to be grabbed unexpectedly. For a time he had practiced seeing auras, thinking how handy it would be when evaluating a suspect, and had been able to perceive certain colors and patterns when he’d become too busy with other things to continue practicing, and the ability had waned. He thought how wondrous it must be to be born with such an ability.

Gem moved up to stand beside him, looked into his eyes, nodded, and laid her hands on his chest, the right below his heart, the left above it. He felt the energy as heat, felt it flowing between her hands, and again a mental waterfall of images rained across his consciousness. Hurts, minor and major, flitted across his mind. The first time he’d seen something die, a baby robin that had fallen from a nest and expired in his cupped hands five minutes later. The first time his mother had slapped him. The first time he’d realized that, though he was part of a family and a neighborhood and a culture, at the end of the day he was alone in the universe and would have to do his own living and his own dying. The first time someone had told him, “I don’t like you.”

He saw and heard other children in first grade ganging up on him and shouting, “Snowman!” and, “Casper!” and, “Ghost, he’s a ghost!” and, “Halloween’s over, take off your costume!” Felt the rocks and punches they had thrown. Remembered thinking why are they doing this to me? I have not hurt them. Remembered thinking he did not belong here in this cruel world. Remembered wanting to leave.

He felt more tears on his cheeks and held up his hands, indicating STOP, but Gem didn’t stop. If anything, the energy increased. He heard Diogenes’ screams in the mad machine, heard again his brother’s nails breaking as he tried to claw his way out, heard the gunshot, and bolted off the bed, eyes wild, backing away from Gem, hands raised unconsciously in a defensive martial arts posture.

Gem stepped toward him and he heard the soft mental voice again: Let me take away the pain, Aloysius.

But I have to feel it for you to take it.

You are already feeling it.

It will get worse.

Perhaps, but then it will be gone. Be strong.

She raised her hands toward him and he felt the energy again, as though her hands were on his skin—one below his heart, one above. His mind’s eye blanked again and he found himself waking one morning, happy that there was no school and he could spend the day training his friend, Incitatus, to do more tricks. Then rubbing the sleep from his eyes and seeing the little mouse crucified at the foot of his bed, his plump white belly dotted with blood, his tiny feet torn where he’d struggled in agony, his shiny black eyes dulled forever.

He gasped as he had that morning, whispered, “Diogenes,” as he had then. Started to slump to the floor again, as he had after trying to stand to go free the body.

Gem caught him and guided him back to the bed, supporting him with an arm around his waist. He fell across the bed and drew into a fetal position, hugging himself silently. Gem stood by the bed for a moment, then shook her head slightly and placed a hand on his chest and one on his back. His grief and misery impacted her suddenly, worse than anything she’d ever felt from anyone—the horror of his brother’s experience, the subconscious guilt and great, puzzled pain when, seeing Incitatus, he’d felt not only grief at the death of his friend, but also how much Diogenes hated him...and did not remember why.

Gem swayed, then fell onto the bed beside him. As soon as she felt able, she reached for him again.

Chapter 7    table of contents  

Pendergast came back to himself slowly, confusedly, wondering if there was school today, groping one-handed at the spot near his pillow where Incitatus slept. Then he felt someone touching him, thought of his brother, and his hands balled into fists as his eyes flew open wide. He saw Gem, lying close and facing him, her arms reaching out toward him, and remembered where he was, and why he was there. He realized that she had one arm around his waist, her hand between his shoulder blades, and one hand over his heart. A curious drawing sensation trickled through his chest.

As he lay still, watching, she closed her eyes and moved her face toward him, lips parted, and he wondered if she would kiss him. The thought brought him neither pleasure nor consternation. He was more numb than when he’d arrived, but underneath the welcomed numbness, he was aware of his nerves jumping like crickets on a griddle, of varied and myriad emotional pains compounded into anguish, and he welcomed her embrace, knowing she was somehow potentiating the numbness to help him tolerate the pain. He watched her head turn slightly as her face approached his. Then she lowered her chin and brought her mouth to his chest, to his heart, inhaling softly against his skin. His heart seemed to lighten somehow, and a wash of scenes and sounds and feelings flowed across his consciousness and diminished, like water down a drain. He took a deep breath and relaxed a little.

***


Gem raised her head and looked at him, at his pale face, even paler now than when he’d entered the room, at his eyes, shadowed with pain and sadness. As she watched, his eyes slowly slipped closed. She decided to let him rest a while. She would continue to work, but in an area that should not cause him so much trauma. She blinked and changed her perception to take in a different space of reality. She was looking for his strongest, most controlling thought forms—observable realities resulting from habitual thoughts.

Thought forms begin forming in childhood according to one’s most frequent thoughts and beliefs. Based on a child’s reasoning, they are not necessarily logical, but are very hard for the adult to ignore, because they are integrated into the personality. Some are beneficial, but some are harmful. Gem looked for those thought forms that could be causing pain, or causing a source of pain. She intended to bring them to the focus of his consciousness so the harmful feelings associated with them could be released. In order to do this, he would have to express those feelings.

The largest, most obtrusive thought form was guilt, an ugly, puce-colored, irregularly shaped blob. She looked at it and blanked her mind and saw its source, which related to his brother and the awful machine. She felt again his horror when he’d heard his brother’s screams, the terrible realization later of what had happened, what he’d done. His brother, who had been warped even before the incident, had become an abomination afterward. Their perfectionist parents had blamed Aloysius not only for his own childhood mistakes, but for everything his brother did. This constant guilt and stress had resulted in a thought form that was always present on the edge of his consciousness, always insisting that he could’ve done better, could’ve tried harder, could’ve seen farther, no matter how well he did or how many lives he saved. It caused him a great deal of pain. Now she stared at it, making the connection to activate it.

His eyes opened. “Diogenes,” he whispered. “What have I done...”

She watched as his face crinkled like that of a child and his eyes filled with tears. He spoke as though the listeners were standing in front of him. In his mind, they were. “I’m so sorry, Diogenes...father...I didn’t mean to... please...”

He hid his face in his arms and sobbed. She continued staring at the thought form and he continued to remember the harsh words of blame, the unfair punishment. Finally he cried himself out and lay silently, his face still hidden, hiccupping softly. She touched his face gently and he flinched, then raised his eyes to hers, and she touched his temples with her fingers, massaged them lightly. He acquiesced to her touch and closed his eyes again. She bent her head toward him and put her lips to first one temple, then the other, inhaling softly against his skin, tasting the beads of perspiration that had welled during his outburst. When she raised her head, the thought form was very much diminished. As she watched, it vanished. She smiled down at him, kissed his eyelids gently, and he opened his silvery eyes. They seemed a little less shadowed now.

She looked again to his aura and saw the second-largest thought form. It related to the idea of touch being uncomfortable, a bad thing. She saw its origin—saw his father’s rough hands grabbing his shoulder, spinning him around, again and again, to proclaim that he had ruined his brother, had ruined everything. She saw that the family, even before the horrible incident, did not demonstrate tenderness or affection much at all, and never with touch. The boy was rarely touched with love, but only in rancor. He associated touch with pain, and the boy’s thought forms, still alive inside the man he’d become, still did, though he didn’t really know it. He only knew that touch made him very uncomfortable, that he had to fight to avoid flinching away from even those he cared for and trusted, and that he did not want to be that way. She stared at the thought form, activating it, and laid her hand on his arm.

He reacted immediately, a sudden quick motion that threw her hand from his arm. He opened his mouth to say he was sorry—she heard the apology in his mind, though he never uttered it, because she put her hand back on his arm. He gasped and jerked his arm away. She knew he had trusted her and needed her enough to overcome the thought form earlier, but she had activated it so strongly that he could not ignore it now. She took a deep breath and grabbed him around his naked waist as he rose to move away from her. She did not convey any comforting feelings to him this time, only hung on, feeling his aversion like porcupine quills through her own aura, and put up a quick block to stop the painful sensation. He growled and grabbed her shoulders suddenly, pushing her back onto the bed, looming over her, breathing hard. Eyes glittering, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Stop it.”

She shook her head and reached up to stroke his cheek, touch his lips. Wide-eyed, he drew back as though to strike her, then paused in an agony of restraint. She let her hand rest on his cheek for another moment, then slid it down his neck to his chest, his stomach and abdomen. She felt his skin literally crawling into gooseflesh beneath her fingers. His hands tightened on her shoulders. She stroked his hip, his thigh. His hands moved to her throat and he spoke again in a low, hoarse voice. “Stop! You have to stop. I can’t...”

She reached around and stroked his buttocks slowly, her touch growing ever more intimate, ever more intrusive. She let her hand drift back over his hip to his groin, stroked him there. He moaned and his hands tightened around her throat. He seemed to be watching them in horror, unable to control what they were doing. He saw them start to squeeze and moaned again.

She reached for his temples again, massaging them as the world began to grow dark. He squeezed her throat. Her eyes fluttered closed. She massaged until, a moment later, her hands fell away from his temples. She heard him gasp, felt his choking hands loosen, let go. Heard him moan softly yet again, and felt him touch her neck, feeling for a pulse. Felt him near her face, listening and looking for respiration. She took a deep, painful breath and opened her eyes, smiling at the relief in his. She rested for a moment and pulled him down gently, down to her. He did not resist now. Again she put her lips to his skin, to his temples, inhaling. Again the effect was almost instantaneous, and he relaxed against her.

She reached into a pocket of the faded green dress and brought out a white handkerchief. Blotted his damp face. There was one more thought form that she wanted to obliterate. It was the one that related to being secretive as better and safer. She saw that he never divulged anything about himself or his plans unless it was absolutely necessary, sometimes holding out long past the most logical time to do so. She saw that he had learned to be that way when his brother, knowing of his plans, would lay traps for him, or set him up somehow, or find some other way to hurt him, such as destroying whatever he planned to use or somehow diverting him from whatever he planned to do. He had learned as a child that to divulge his plans, his needs, or even his feelings was dangerous, and now, as an adult, it was nearly impossible for him to do any of those things, though at times he needed to and wanted to. She stared at the thought form, a smoky white cloud, and activated it.

He became aware again of her in his mind, reading all his thoughts, and shrank from it like a vampire from the sun. His strange eyes bored into hers and she felt the shield he put up, very strong and effective for one not endowed with powers such as hers. But she knew how to get around it, and she did. He felt it and his face hardened to a cold mask. She felt the iron control he could exert over his own mind, felt it put into play, saw the technique, hard won through long hours of solitary practice, that he used to do it. But he couldn’t keep from thinking forever, and they both knew it.

She increased her intrusion into his mind tenfold. His silver-blue eyes were icing over like the surface of a clear, deep pool in winter. The mask was fading, being replaced by anger. Spirit warned her and she pulled back a second before the attack came, yet the force of it still surprised and hurt her. A mental spear ripped through her shield, followed by a series of explosions, as though he had lobbed mental hand-grenades into her mind. She had not realized how schooled he was in metaphysics, how well he knew the power of imagery, of thought. She shook her head slightly and sent a tentative probe into his mind, where the shields were back up, stronger than ever. He was definitely feeling the emotions associated with the secretive thought form. She reached for his temples and was surprised again when, quick as a cat, he caught her wrists.

He leaned toward her and she flinched as their auras made better contact, feeling the aggressive male energy of his dominating the nurturing female energy of hers as she’d never felt it from any man. She perceived another thought form, one she hadn’t noticed at first because it was almost hidden by the secretive form. This new one was being in control. She had activated this one along with the secretive form, and now both were exerting all their years of energy-building and pressure on him. She saw suddenly that it was not enough that he evict her from his mind. He was going to see to it that she never came back. As she realized this, another barrage of mental grenades detonated in her consciousness, stunning her. She looked into his eyes, closer now, and saw triumph and a darkness there that frightened her. There was something more to this man than she had perceived. Something dark and dangerous and wild and perhaps uncontrollable, once unleashed. No trace seemed to remain of the kind, considerate, cerebral man who had entered the room. She was alone with someone or something else now.

She felt Spirit calling to her, infusing her, and suddenly felt It move through her in a gust of power that darkened her consciousness momentarily, like a power surge dimming a light bulb. When she opened her eyes again, he was lying on his side, arms flung out, unconscious. She knew he was not hurt—Spirit would not do that—but she crawled to him nonetheless, seeking to comfort. He would be frightened when he awoke. As she waited, she breathed a prayer of thanks and another, questioning. And it came to her.

As a boy, this man had had a terrible experience with his brother in the maw of the mad machine. He had not seen what his brother had seen, but he had heard, and he had been close enough to sustain his own damage, and not just damage of the mind from the horrible experience. An actual discarnate entity had invaded his life force and had been with him ever since. She knew there were such entities, spirits who no longer lived but had not crossed over, and that some of them were evil and would take any opportunity to invade a living being and try to control it. She sensed the power and monstrous intent of this one and was amazed that the man had been able to rein it in, to go about his life with any degree of civility or consideration, actually fighting the entity in himself by fighting against those like it who still inhabited bodies and sought to hurt others. He did not know of the entity, did not know how he was fighting it, but he knew there was a part of himself that he did not recognize or understand, a part that craved to do harm, to destroy, to overpower. He’d been pressuring this part, forcing it down, for so long that he’d forgotten he was doing it, no longer realized the will it took or the strength it leeched from him. She had never faced such an entity, such a situation.

She knew she would not be able to really help this man unless she could defeat this evil entity. She breathed another prayer, and put her arms once more around him.

Chapter 8    table of contents  

Gem lay with an arm around him, resting. She did not try to enter his mind, nor send him any psychic comfort nor energy. She did not know which man would awaken—the kind one who had come to her, or the other one, who wished to harm her—and she was not worrying about it. She would know what to do when the time came. She dozed, as placid as the still surface of a country pond.

A short time later, she felt him stirring, and opened her eyes. He was looking at her, his face expressionless. As she watched, his features pulled into the triumphant sneer she recognized as the other. He moved then, too fast for her to even try to elude him, and had his hands on her, holding her hands tight against her breast, before she could even move. His hands were like iron bands around hers, his hard body pressing into her almost painfully. She looked up at him quietly as he rediscovered his own nakedness, watched his brows climb suddenly in surprise.

He grinned, whispering savagely, “Do you make the ugly ones undress? Or just the hunks?”

She sent him a thought: You are dead. You have nothing to fear in death. Cross over, and leave this man in peace.

“I think not.” He was not whispering now, but his voice was different. Not soft, as before, but harder, and mocking. He scanned her body and his grin widened. “Under that shapeless hausfrau outfit, you’re quite delectable, aren’t you? Let’s find out.”

He grabbed the neck of her dress and ripped downward. The dress parted along the shoulder seam. Immediately she felt Spirit move through her again, though not as powerfully as before. He jerked his hand back with a muttered curse. “What sort of witch are you?”

I am for helping this man. If you do not leave him willingly, I will cast you out.

“Would you send me into a herd of swine, chase them over a cliff?” He maintained the sneer, but there was something else in the dark silvery eyes now. Fear.

No. Only out. Where you go is your choice.

“Well, I don’t know—” Again he moved so quickly that she had no time to guess his intent. She saw only a hand, raised and pulled back, fingers tucked tightly in on themselves, flying at her face. She felt a surge of power blow through her, felt it strike home. He yelled and fell back, the hand that would’ve struck her grabbing at his chest. He collapsed on the bed, gasping.

Tears stung her eyes. Please, stop this and leave. I do not like to cause pain. It hurts me, too. Please just go. You cannot prevail.

She watched as his lower lip began to tremble, as tears brightened his eyes. “Are you God? I have always wanted to believe...please, if I could only believe, I could change...I know I could...”

No, Spirit whispered. Do not be fooled.

She sat up on the bed, looking down at him, at the wide, innocent eyes, the slight, hopeful smile. She changed her perception and saw his aura, as dark and treacherous as a tornado. Buried in the cloud, she perceived the aura of the man who’d come to see her, throbbing faintly, trying to break through.

You are lying. Go now. Leave him be.

With an inarticulate shriek, he threw himself toward her, then stopped so suddenly his head whipped forward and back. He stared at her, gritting his teeth, breathing hard. His eyes changed from hot aggression to fearful desperation. The thought swept into her mind like a flood, pushing everything else away. Gem! Get out of here! Hurry, I can’t hold him!

It was the kind man. He had somehow taken control, was warning her away. She reached out and touched his face. Do not worry. I am safe. Soon, you will be, too.

He gasped and his eyes rolled back as he seemed to lose consciousness. Then his face changed again, became a mask of fury, and he snapped at her hand like a rabid dog. She rose onto her knees and leaned over him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Immediately he fell back, his arms crossing over his chest protectively, then freezing there. He became immobile, as though a great weight had descended upon him.

She moved her hands to his head, to the crown chakra, and envisioned the intruding spirit being drawn out through it. She felt an icy coldness in her palms, and knew the other was slowly losing its hold, slowly rising toward her hands. She kept them in place. Her hands started to ache, then her arms, as though from a coldness that had sunk into her bones.

She felt the kind man pushing, exerting all the force he could against the invading entity. He pushed, she pulled. It exited slowly, fitfully, and she watched his face turn gray with the awful rage and hatred loosed in its passing. But, though the entity tried to muster the strength, he could not try to harm her again. The kind man had enough control now to stop him.

Suddenly her hands were pushed away as though an icy blast of winter wind had burst from the top of his head, and she felt it leave him, saw in her mind’s eye a swirling, dark miasma of terrible emotion and intent, heard a raging psychic scream of such magnitude that it shut her down momentarily. The rocking chair rocked furiously. The window on the side wall, which was not open, blew out with a musical tinkle of glass.

It was gone.

She sank onto the bed, hugging herself, trying to banish the coldness that had engulfed her. Felt the kind man moving closer to her. This time it was he who held her, rubbing her arm as though to warm it, pulling her toward his heat. This time the thought came to her softly, lovingly: Come here and let me hold you. Let me help you, thank you, for what you’ve done for me.

She relaxed and let him hold her close, feeling the warmth of his body and his heart.

Chapter 9    table of contents  

For some time, they lay in silence while he held her and warmed her. Finally, she pulled away enough to look into his eyes. He looked back, waiting for the message. She sent it: You have questions. You may speak them aloud.

She had found that his voice did not bother her, did not make it difficult to concentrate, as most did. His voice was soft, almost musical, and when he murmured, “Thank you,” she found herself enjoying the sound of it, and the feel of his strong, muscular body against hers. She was untroubled. While she inhabited a body, such feelings were to be expected, and had been created, like everything else, for a reason. There was nothing bad or evil about them, or about the act that they inspired.

A large part of her consciousness resided always in the spirit world, but she was also conscious of the needs of the body—for food, drink, shelter, and touch. His touch was the gentlest, his energy the purest, least confused, she had felt from anyone she had helped. He had problems, but he was sure of himself, of who he was and what he intended. He maintained care not to steal her energy. She basked in his gratitude like basking in the rays of a sentient, caring sun.

He spoke again. “I am so very sorry—”

Do not be sorry. Be glad. Because he came out, he is gone now. You are free of him.

He studied her. “How did you know?”

Spirit told me.

He inclined his head slightly, accepting her answer without question. “How did he...invade me?”

It was the machine. He was attracted by the evil intent that made it. He was waiting there for someone. Anyone.

“Was my brother...?”

No. He had no invading entity. He made his own evil.

She watched him digest this, saw his sadness, sought to comfort him. Had you not been there, he would have invaded your brother. The result would have been...atrocious.

His mouth tightened. She knew it had done so to keep from trembling. “Had I not been there, my brother wouldn’t have gone in.”

Though she had banished the guilt thought form, he still retained the knowledge of his past, of what he had done. He would no longer be disabled by it, nor automatically assume guilt when it was unjustified, but he was too caring not to feel remorse. She reached up and smoothed his hair back. Do not feel so sad. Everything happens for a reason.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “The reason was my anger, and my obstinance.”

Do not be sure. Sometimes we do things to facilitate fate without knowing why we do them. It was your fate to be your brother’s brother. It was his fate to be what he was. There is much you cannot see through the veil.

“I know that some believe that. But I cannot understand why people like Diogenes would be...on purpose.”

Some are here to be hammers, some nails. The hammer is often surrounded by the nails.

“Because of karma? Cause and effect?”

Because they believe in karma. The law of karma does not have to apply any more than any other law, unless one believes it applies. If one believes so, one may come here as a nail, in order to satisfy the law of cause and effect, and move on.

He was silent, thinking.

Aloysius, things here are not as they seem. On a higher level, everyone is in charge of his own fate, for reasons he may not begin to know while here. You know this.

“I know it intellectually. It is hard to believe, though, when you see suffering...when you see people in pain...dying...”

But you know there is no death.

He shook his head slightly. “Intellectually, I understand the concept. But it’s mind-boggling to think about.”

She smiled. Then stop thinking about it. Your brother is here. Would you like to talk with him?

His pale brows flew up. “Diogenes is here?”

The spirit who was your brother in his last incarnation is here, yes. Would you like to speak with him?

She felt his conflict—his love and hatred for his brother, and his fear of him, of what he might say. Then, as always, he mastered his fear. He raised his eyes to hers and spoke with the same calm certainty that marked everything he said and did. “Yes. I would.”

Chapter 10    table of contents  

The moment he acquiesced, Gem closed her eyes, as though making sure he wouldn’t have time to renege. Pendergast thought of several questions, opened his mouth to ask one, then decided to just wait and see what happened. He felt nervous. His brother’s ability to hurt him with words, and his willingness to hurt him physically, haunted him.

Gem was still a moment, then her eyes flew open. Pendergast moved away from her quickly. Her entire countenance had changed. Her face was still her own, but had pulled into an expression so reminiscent of Diogenes that, for a moment, it seemed as though his brother was on the bed with him. From the stark but cold intelligence in her eyes to the slight leering smile on her lips, she had changed completely. Her lips parted and the smile grew. She spoke aloud for the first time, and it was the dry, mocking voice of Diogenes that issued from her. “Ave, frater.”

Aloysius froze. He was not surprised, exactly—after what he had already experienced in this room, he could hardly be surprised anymore—but he was shocked nonetheless. There could be no question that he was facing his dead brother. He felt rage blushing his cheeks and noticed his vision growing more acute and his muscles tensing. The room seemed to take on a red hue as his breath grew short and his body automatically geared up for combat. But Diogenes sat where he was, smiling calmly, apparently not a threat. Aloysius harnessed all his self-control and made a conscious effort to relax his muscles, to stop the adrenaline rush. Finally, he was able to gather enough air into his lungs to reply, “Hello, Diogenes.”

The leer disappeared, leaving a genuine smile in its wake. The eyes grew warmer, though the intelligence in them diminished not one iota. Diogenes spoke again. “I see that I have your attention by appearing and sounding as I did when you last knew me. From here on, you will see and hear me as I am now.”

The voice was not mocking, not dry, but warm, and softer than before. The face was obviously still Diogenes, but without the constant mocking leer or the conniving slyness that Diogenes had managed to hide so well when he wanted to. He had rarely bothered to hide his true expression, or his true self, from his brother. Aloysius realized that Diogenes was waiting for a reply and said, “All right.”

“Aloysius...Aly. How good it is to see you, or, rather, to be seen by you...I actually see you any time I wish. And I have watched you these last few months, since I left. You haven’t been well. I am glad to see you’re getting help.”

“You...are?”

“Yes!” Gem’s arm reached out and her hand touched his shoulder. “I bear you no ill will, Aly. All that has changed. We see things from a much clearer perspective over here.” Diogenes grinned. “For one thing, I remember us as we were in other incarnations when I was your friend, your mother. Your husband. And I remember you as you are when you are here, in between.”

Aloysius felt his brows creeping up, his eyes widening. He had known all these things, as abstract ideas, but to have someone he recognized confirm them...but Diogenes had never been particularly truthful when he was here...

His brother laughed. “Oh, I’m not lying. It’s impossible to do that here. Everyone knows what everyone’s thinking, so dissembling is quite impossible. Of course, there is no fear here, so there is no reason to lie.”

Aloysius believed one hundred percent that he was conversing with his dead brother. There could be no doubt. His brother’s words had calmed him somewhat. He saw the change in Diogenes and was glad for him, and for himself. Here was the brother he had always wanted. A calm, feeling person seemed to have replaced the monster he’d known, loved, hated, and feared for so long. He thought a fervent thank you to the vague, omnipotent Something he believed in without knowing much about. He realized that he should have about a million questions, about death, about the Something, about...everything. But, at the moment, he could only think of one. The one that had plagued him since he could remember. The one that plagued most people.

He cleared his throat, preparing to speak through a surreal fog that made the whole situation seem a dream. “Diogenes...please tell me, if you can...why do such horrendous things happen to people?”

Diogenes studied him. “I am not surprised that you would ask that, Aly. The answer is...for many reasons. None of them involving the wrath of your Something.”

Aloysius waited.

“Sometimes, as Gem said, it is due to a belief in karma, in cause and effect. Sometimes it is fated for learning purposes. Sometimes an event or situation happens just because one fears it so strongly, thereby giving much energy to the thought. In the end, everyone is in control of his own destiny, and creates his own false realites. Just as we are all creating the universe we collectively believe in, and everything within it—your dimension, and mine, and the others.”

Aloysius had known of all the hypotheses Diogenes mentioned, but was somewhat disappointed that they all applied. It seemed he knew no more than he had before asking the question. He had studied Jung and many other works, both channeled and human in origin, and he knew of the Higher Self and the difference between that perspective and the one that insisted that people were separate, alone, and somehow pitted against one another. The whole subject was too vast and complicated to delve into now. He suspected Gem would not be able to continue this dual existence for long, so he voiced the other question that was uppermost in his mind.

“Do you know anything of...Helen?” It still hurt when he mentioned his dead wife’s name.

Diogenes answered at once. “She is here.”

Aloysius felt his heart speed up, his breath grow short.

Diogenes seemed to sense his reaction. His eyes softened even more. “Would you like to speak with her, Aly?”

More than anything, Aloysius wanted to speak with her. But he was afraid of what she might say, of how badly it might hurt. He shook his head.

“You have nothing to fear, brother.”

He bit his lip and shook his head again.

“Very well.” Diogenes paused, then seemed to change the subject. “Want to know something funny? All the animals I knew in life are here with me now. Even though...well, you know how I treated them. Still, they are here, and were happy to see me when I arrived.”

“You must have been very surprised.”

“Indeed I was! But not anymore. Not since I’ve realized how little what happens on your side of the veil matters on this side.”

Aloysius frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’d be surprised, Aly, how many people talk to their loved ones who have passed on, vowing to avenge them in some way. But you’d be even more surprised to learn that, no matter how angry or vengeful one was over there, it all fades away here. It’s like waking from a dream, or leaving a role-playing game. I believe I am a very good example of that.”

Aloysius smiled grimly. “I would imagine you are one of the best.”

“Yes!” Diogenes laughed softly. “Perhaps the best. Aloysius...” He paused, waiting until his brother’s eyes rose to meet his. “Don’t be afraid to speak with Helen. She bears you no enmity.”

“I...can’t.”

“Very well.” Diogenes sighed. “I want to apologize to you, Aly, for all the bad things...for all the bad times. I am sorry for all the pain I caused you. I am sorry it had to be that way.”

Aloysius wondered briefly at Diogenes’ choice of words, then resolved to analyze it all later. “I’m sorry, too, Diogenes. Perhaps...perhaps when we meet again, things will be different.”

“They will be,” Diogenes said, with utter conviction, causing Aloysius to wonder again. “I must go now. Gem is expending an enormous amount of energy, and she is tiring. She asks that I tell you to give her some water as soon as you can after I leave.”

“All right.”

Again, Diogenes reached out and touched his brother’s shoulder. “Just remember, brother...things are not as they seem. You might think of your earthly experience as a very vivid dream. One that you dream while resting in the one true reality of Spirit. Of Oneness. Be comforted by that.”

Aloysius nodded.

Diogenes gave his brother a surprisingly strong one-armed hug, but Aloysius had just started to put his own arms around Gem’s body when she collapsed
against him. He lowered her to the bed, where she lay with eyes closed, features once more molded into her own harmless, calm countenance. She was so still that Aloysius listened and felt for her breath, checked her pulse. Then he settled onto an elbow, looking down at her, his other hand moving to gently brush a strand of dark hair from her forehead.

He thought of everything she and Diogenes had told him, thought of his brother’s happy, benevolent expression, and their apologies, and felt as though a huge burden had been lifted from his heart. Then he thought of Helen, and wondered if he had disappointed her again. He wondered if he could find the strength to try to speak with her, and he knew that, somehow, he had to.

Chapter 11    table of contents  

Pendergast watched Gem sleep for a few minutes, then decided to try to wake her for water. He got up and went to the pitcher from which she’d poured for him, filled the same glass. He thought how odd it was to be standing in this strange room with a woman he’d just met for the first time, naked as the day he was born. He supposed a lot of people did such a thing on a regular basis, for sex, but it was new to him, and he was still somewhat amazed that he didn’t feel strange about it. As much as he’d been injured and been handled by doctors, he still could hardly bear that, and that was a handshake compared to the way Gem had touched him. But she had also entered his mind, and he had, to some extent, entered hers. He supposed that connection made the situation different enough...

He stopped ruminating and turned to find her awake, watching him. She smiled and stretched. He carried the water to the bed and put an arm around her to help her sit up. Held the glass for her to drink. Like a child, she put both hands on the glass, her green eyes watching him over the rim. She sent him a thought, and he was reminded of a ventriloquist speaking while drinking. I am glad you feel better, Aloysius.

He answered in a low voice. “I am much in your debt.”

No. I am here for you, and others who need me. It is what I live for. She finished the water. I am glad you spoke with your brother.

“Yes. I, too, am glad, though I was...apprehensive.”

In this learning experience, those who give us the most trouble are our best teachers.

He thought about it, thought that, if it were true, Diogenes was to teachers what Einstein was to physicists.

Gem caught the thought and smiled. Put down the glass now, and we will continue.

“There is more to be done?”

Yes, there is. But it will not be as traumatic as what we have done.

Obediently, he took the glass back and set it by the pitcher, then returned to the bed. She patted the mattress beside her and he sat down. She turned to him and, smiling, cupped his face delicately in her hands. Let her fingers slip down his neck, over his clavicles, out to his shoulders. She closed her eyes and lingered there, her touch feather light. Then her hands slid down over his pectoral muscles and met in the center of his chest. He watched her expression become slightly quizzical as she evaluated whatever it was she was feeling. Her arms slid around him, her hands meeting this time in the center of his back.

Suddenly he was too aware of her warmth, and of her small breasts touching his chest through the worn dress, and he shifted, automatically pulling back slightly. With her incongruous strength, she pulled him closer again, her hands moving to his lower back, then around to his belly. She opened her eyes and lay back, motioning for him to lie down beside her. He hesitated and she smiled again. Do not be afraid, Aloysius. I lay down because I need all my energy for what is to come. I may lose consciousness briefly.

“I’m not afraid,” he whispered.

Then lie down and let us begin.

He lay down beside her, on his back. Now it was her turn to lean on an elbow, looking down at him. You trust me completely now.

It was not a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes.”

That makes it easier. She sat up, placing a hand on each of his temples. I am going to draw the pain of certain memories from you. We have dealt with the worst ones already. This will be like a dream, and will not hurt so much. It will be a cleansing.

He thought to tell her that his worst painful memory had not been dealt with, but couldn’t bring himself to mention the death of his wife. Later, he told himself. I’ll tell her later. Perhaps if she is not seeing it, it is because I deserve to feel it. Maybe Helen wants me to feel it.

Gem closed her eyes and her fingers pressed into his temples lightly. He felt the curious drawing sensation, and suddenly a slideshow, like a speeded-up film, began to flicker across his mental screen. He felt the disbelief and anguish he’d experienced when, at sixteen, he’d told his first love, a girl he’d thought gentle and sweet, how he felt, and she had called him an ugly albino freak and laughed about it with her friends. He felt as he had on the night he’d returned from Oxford to find his home and his parents in ashes, felt the horror of Diogenes’ words and the hatred in his brother’s vulpine grin. Saw fellow soldiers and Vietnamese women and children dying in his arms, felt the impotent rage and pain that went with knowing he could do nothing for them. Memories of the death camp, so horrible and buried so deep that recalling them now was almost like living them again for the first time. Seeing other men tortured, hearing their awful high-pitched screams, knowing he was next. The feel of a hot coal on the scrotum, the taste of feces and the bitter tang of little yellow spiders that squirmed frantically between the teeth. The extra attention and effort he’d drawn to himself, diverting it from friends who had died anyway. He twitched and jerked, felt tears leaking through his tightly squeezed lids and running down his face. Felt Gem’s hands leave his temples.

Aloysius...

He turned away from her, curling into a ball again, retreating into himself, trying to reach his memory palace and the beautiful, quiet nook where Helen waited to comfort him. He couldn’t get there. Instead of Helen, he saw the young Vietnamese girl who had died even as her dead son was delivered into his bloody, shaking, young hands. He screamed hoarsely, bit it off, fisted his hand and struck the wall by the bed hard enough to break two boards and create a new window.

Aloysius, I am so sorry...yours are the worst memories I’ve ever encountered...I did not realize...rest now...rest...

He felt her small hands on the back of his head, on his crown, and fell into a sudden, dreamless sleep.

Gem got up, moved quickly to the blown-out window, and vomited up the water.

Chapter 12    table of contents  

Gem lay back down and took the naked, worn-out man in her arms, pondering. She had never encountered a situation, or a person, quite like this one. She couldn’t understand how the man had kept going as long as he had, with all the darkness pulling at him, all the pain dragging him down. Though his burdens were the worst she’d ever become privy to, his strength must have been even more formidable. He had somehow remained upright and useful and compassionate to the plights of others when many people, despite having few problems or burdens of their own, were oblivious or callous to anyone else’s pain or needs. She admired him, and she didn’t want to hurt him again. She closed her eyes and waited for Spirit to inspire her.

The answer came in a manner and a form she’d never before experienced, but she knew at once that it was right.

***


Pendergast awoke slowly to the feel of Gem’s small hands stroking his hair back from his forehead. He kept his eyes closed, wishing he could go back to sleep, maybe forever, and avoid any more of this painful healing that had unearthed such terrible memories. And the worst was yet to come. Gem’s hands moved to the back of his neck, stroking softly, and the memory it evoked made him squeeze his eyes more tightly shut and compress his lips to keep them from trembling. Only one other person had ever touched him quite that way.

“Aloysius.”

He started a little to hear her speak aloud, then grew very still as he recognized the pitch and timbre of the voice. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, sure that it must’ve been his overstressed mind playing tricks. Then she spoke his name again, and, trembling with hope, he raised his head and opened his eyes.

Helen.

Gem’s hair was swept back from her forehead in the style his late wife had favored. Her countenance duplicated Helen’s mischievous, loving expression and, as he stared, her coloring seemed to change gradually until her hair and eyes and skin matched Helen’s. He felt his lips part in astonishment, then move again of their own accord, and he knew that, despite himself, despite his fear, a hopeful smile was blossoming on his face.

Her mischievous smile touched her eyes. “Well, Aloysius. I never thought I’d catch you naked, in bed with another woman.”

He forced a tiny vapor of air through his larynx. “I...”

Helen’s smile grew. “Shhhh...be easy, my darling.”

She held him. She held him, and it was as though the last ten years had never been, as though he’d never sat catatonic for hours at a time, too stunned to think; as though he’d never stared at his pistol all night, thinking that, with just two quick movements, he could join her, or at least maybe find out where she went. She sighed, and he knew she’d caught his thoughts.

“I saw what you went through, Aloysius. I saw how you suffered. I am so sorry I had to leave you. I’ve missed you so much.”

He drew breath, tried again to speak. “I...I’ve missed you.” The understatement of the millennium, but he could not seem to find the words he needed. Perhaps there were no words to describe the pain of losing her. There was something he had to say, but he didn’t know how. He tried, and emotion choked him. He spoke through it, his voice a strained whisper, almost a sob. “I’m so very sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I...what?”

“You had nothing to do with it. It was not your fault.”

“But I wasn’t...I couldn’t...”

“You weren’t supposed to. It was my time to die.”

He was silent, from relief and...horror. Horror because she’d said the word die. Though he knew it was ridiculous, he’d spent all these years both grieving her loss and expecting, somehow, to see her turn a corner and walk toward him, whole. Expecting her to be home when he got there. To be in his bed and in the morning kitchen, fresh faced and smiling and reaching out to touch him. To be there somehow, loving him. Seeing her now, in this situation, was wonderful, but it would put an end forever to that silly but somehow uplifting expectation. He knew that, hopeless as it was, he would miss it.

“Aloysius...I have been with you. That’s why you felt that way. I have been in your bed, in the kitchen. I have been there loving you. I will always be there.”

He could only draw her to him, burying his face in her neck, remembering the taste of her skin and her essence and remembering the little sounds she made in pleasure, the delight she’d taken in his pleasure. He could no longer control himself, and his tears wet her hair, her skin, as he sobbed almost silently, his joy and anguish voiced only in shaky, hitching breaths. He heard himself murmuring, “I love you...love you...love you...” over and over, making up for all the times he’d wished it possible to tell her just once more, for all the times he’d whispered it into the vacant darkness, hoping that somehow, somewhere, she could hear him.

“I did hear you, my darling. And I love you.” She pulled him down and kissed his mouth gently, and kept kissing, light, almost chaste pecks on his lips, his cheeks, his chin and neck. Then she moaned softly and pressed her lips firmly to his, opening her mouth, parting his lips with her tongue, once more caressing the back of his neck, his bare shoulders.

Time stopped for Pendergast. Time stopped, and the world ceased to exist. There was only this room, this bed, and this beloved woman, lost to him for years and now, miraculously, found. He buried his hands in her hair, holding her face gently, returning her kiss. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her, to meld with her, for all eternity. To never again be alone, and lonely, and cold.

“Wait...wait...” She whispered it into his ear, her breath warm and tickling and shivery, and she sat up, pushing him gently down. She moved over him, on her knees, and took hold of the hem of the shabby dress, lifting it away.

He drank in her beautiful body, remembering how she’d sometimes complained about her breasts being a little asymmetrical and too small, her hips being a tad too wide, her chin too sharp, and how she’d always seemed perfect to his loving eyes. He remembered the small mole just below her left collarbone, reached up and brushed her hair back and saw it there. She leaned down and kissed him again, and his arms tightened around her. He stroked the soft skin of her back and hips as her hair made a curtain around their faces and tickled his neck and shoulders.

She broke the kiss, raised her head, and smiled down at him. “Let me look at you. Feel you.”

She caressed his chest, running her fingers along the scar there, then moved her hand lower and traced the other scars. “I saw this happen, and this. I felt your pain. I saw you save those people, and so many others.”

“But I did not save you.”

“Yes you did, my darling. You saved my life, made it worth living. You made joy of the time I had here. You taught me so much, and you gave me faith, faith that enabled me to continue learning and advancing even after I left here. You thought so often that you’d disappointed me, but you do not know how you saved me, Aloysius. You will understand someday.” She bent her head and traced his scars with her lips, looked down the length of him at his long, slim, muscular legs. Caressed his scrotum and grasped his awakening penis in her small, warm fingers. She raised her head again and smiled into his eyes. “You are still beautiful.”

”You are beautiful. Let me feel all of you...let me...” He guided her to lie on top of him, the full length of their bodies pressed together, and put a hand on her head, urging her to rest it on his shoulder. His favorite way to hold her, his favorite position for the nocturnal conversations that had sometimes continued until dawn. Sometimes they’d fallen asleep like this, sometimes with him still inside her. So warm. So warm. He sighed, suffused with an emotion that had become so foreign that it took him a while to recognize it. Contentment.

Chapter 13    table of contents  

He heard her echo his sigh. Then she spoke into the sensitive area where his neck and shoulder met, and he shivered. “Darling...I had hoped that you would find someone. Someone else you could love and be yourself with. I hate seeing you alone.”

His contentment vanished like a warm bubble that had suddenly burst and disappeared. His fantasy ended abruptly. She was dead, and this was just a miraculous interlude that would soon end, and nothing would have really changed, except that he would miss her all the more for having held her momentarily. He hitched a breath and his arms tightened automatically around her.

“Aloysius, be easy. I’m not going anywhere until you say it’s all right.”

“I never will.”

She paused, then raised her head to look into his eyes. “Where I live now, it is so beautiful. So peaceful and lovely. My home is an exact duplicate of our home, down to that special place where we spent so much time. That is where I go when I want to look in on you, to see how you are.” She saw him remembering their special place and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I no longer suffer from any pain or illness, and I spend a lot of time outside. It never rains, unless I want it to rain. Whatever book I wish to read appears on my shelf. I need only think about it. I see other people when I wish to see them. I study when I wish to study. I have everything I want.” She traced his lips with her forefinger. “Except you. And I know that you will someday be there.”

It was his turn to pause. Then he asked the question. “Do you know when?”

She smiled. “It is not for me to know, or you to know, when or how. But you need not dread nor fear it. You saw my body, what happened to me.” She saw his eyes darken with pain and hurried on. “But I left my body so quickly that I barely felt anything. As I remember now, being born was much more painful than dying. That first breath of air was much more traumatic than the last. You leave your body whenever you wish, Aloysius. You know how easy it is.”

“But I leave in meditation, peacefully, not like...” He couldn’t finish.

“These things are automatic. It happened so fast, I had no time to feel pain nor fear. I remember only being...surprised, and wondering what had happened. Then I knew.”

“But you had to be terrified...”

“I was afraid, but only until I died.”

He was silent.

“I know you are surprised. But it’s that way for most people. You may read about or speak with people who have died and returned to your world. There are many.”

“I know. I have read the accounts. But I didn’t know whether to believe them.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

Her voice held that teasing, loving lilt that he adored. He stroked her hair. “Of course.”

“Then you know you need not mourn me. I am fine. It is you, and others who remain here, who feel pain and sadness and uncertainty. Someday, you won’t, anymore. Hell is a metaphor for this world, but it doesn’t have to be hell. Not if you understand it.”

For a moment they lay still. Then she said, “When you cross over, we will not be man and wife. You will know us both as we have related to one another in many lives, in many times and places. But we will always be close, for we are in the same soul group, as are you and Diogenes, and you and D’Agosta. You know these people when you meet them here. You recognize them. I hope someday you will recognize another woman and make her as happy as you made me.”

She saw the look in his eyes and continued. “This does not mean that I don’t love you, darling. It only means that I see things from a much broader perspective now, and I want you to be happy.”

He looked at her solemnly with his silver eyes and she smiled and kissed his neck the way she knew he liked it. Then his chin, the corners of his mouth, finally his lips. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that it would never end, that his arms would never again be empty, his heart never again forlorn. That what she said was not true, and she would be his wife forever. She caressed him, stroking his chest and shoulders, and he opened his eyes and touched her in turn—the curve of her cheek, the soft line of her lips, the graceful line of her neck. He cupped her breasts in his long white hands, traced their pink tips with his thumbs, glided his hands down her ribs to her hips, barely touching her, then cupping her buttocks firmly, reveling in the soft, firm shape of woman. The only woman he had ever loved. The only person with whom he had ever shared his most private thoughts and the extent of his almost alien divergence. The one who really knew him, and the extremes, both wonderful and terrible, of his mental landscape, and his physical and metaphysical capabilities. The one who knew what he really was, and loved him because and in spite of it.

She bent her head and kissed his chest, rested her cheek against the scar in the center. Her lips moved lower, to his belly, and she kissed the taut skin over and over, softly, open-mouthed, tasting him, and he was so caught up in the feel of her warm, moist mouth that he was unaware of her fingers, tracing the scar on his chest again and again. He subconsciously ignored the stirring memory of the dark street and the sudden realization that a knife was aimed at his heart, and the instinctive reaction, to turn slightly at the last moment, that had saved his life. Unaware of the pulling sensation as the scar on his chest disappeared. She was bent over him, and he could not see the scar form between her breasts, then slowly disappear.

Her lips moved downward, kissing softly, her tongue flicking out to taste his navel, his hipbone, the juncture of torso and thigh, and he raised onto his elbows to watch her. She saw him watching and swept her hair behind her ear so he could see her licking him. She began with his thighs, then parted them and buried her face between them, her movements not wildly passionate so much as gently loving, giving. She licked his inner thighs, his scrotum, made sure to include the creases between scrotum and thighs, the juncture of scrotum and penis, before raising her eyes to his and running her wet lips and tongue slowly up and down his shaft.

He felt the wild need building, and he also felt the love she was proving, the gift she was giving, the ecstasy she was intending, for him. His penis grew harder under her loving mouth and hands, and, with his whole being focused on that pleasure, he did not notice that one of her hands remained on the terrible scar on his side, tracing it again and again, or that the scar began to feel as though it might be trying to pull free of his skin. She looked into his eyes and sucked down on him, first gently, then harder, and he gasped and reached for her, whispering, “Wait, wait...not yet...” and his need for release, conflicting with the wish to prolong the pleasure, eclipsed the memory of the bullet that had torn into his body. She sucked him, caressed him, a moment longer, then paused, eyes closed, and opened them again, smiling.

She moved up on him, kissing his mouth, caressing him, and he tangled his hands in her hair and clasped her back and stroked her buttocks and brought her higher so his searching lips could reach her breasts, cherishing her soft moans and whispers and the way she positioned herself over him and sank onto him slowly, sucked him into her tight wet heat, so warm. So warm. He did not wish sexual gratification so much as union, merging, becoming one with his love. He breathed, “Please...” without realizing that it was a prayer, a prayer that this moment would somehow last forever.

She moved on him slowly, so slowly, looking into his eyes, smiling, loving him, and he cupped her lovely face in his hands, urged her down to him, kissed her softly. He clasped her to him fiercely. He would never let her go. Never let her go. Never...

He climaxed, an orgasm as much of emotion as physical ecstasy. He poured his love into her and his heart seemed to burst open in a way that made him realize how guarded it had been. He was overcome by the knowledge of his humanity, overjoyed with knowing that, in this moment of purest love and ecstasy, he was at his physical and spiritual pinnacle, and that he shared that rapture with everyone and everything, and was One with all creation and with the Creator; and that even in total solitude, he was never really alone.

Chapter 14    table of contents  

“Aloysius.”

The whisper stirred the hair just above his ear, tickling. He moaned a soft protest and refused to open his eyes, his arms still wrapped around her. Soft lips touched his ear, his temple, his eyelid. He breathed in her special scent, held her in his lungs as long as he could before slowly exhaling.

“Darling, I have to—”

“No.” He rolled with her suddenly, finishing the quick movement atop her on the other side of the bed. His eyes blazed into hers. “You will not.”

She reached up and caressed the back of his neck. She had never feared his intensity, as people often did. “My love...if only I could stay...but you know I cannot.”

Moisture slowly extinguished the fire in his silver eyes. He touched her cheek. “Why...oh, God, why...can’t I have just this one...”

“I will always be with you, Aloysius. You will feel me with you. Even after you find another special woman, you will feel me always.”

“There will be no other.”

She smiled. “Yes, there will.”

He felt her fingers at his temples and a touch of the now-familiar vertigo, then a vision coalesced in his mind’s eye. He saw himself sleeping in his bed at the Dakota, a little older, his hair long enough to fan out on the pillow, his chest and abdomen, usually covered by a black silk pajama top, bare and unmarred. A sheet-covered shape in the bed beside him hinted at voluptuousness. A soft hand crept out and rested on his chest. As he watched, he smiled in his sleep and moved his own hand to cover it gently. He blinked as a pang of something like recognition touched him. Above the bed in the vision, another presence appeared, taking the shape of a woman’s head and shoulders. It was Helen, and she was smiling down at him. At them.

“You will know her when you meet her, Aloysius. Don’t turn her away. Now I must go.”

“Helen...” But he had said it all, and now could only voice what he knew he must. “All right, dearest.” His voice broke and he swallowed. “All right.”

“It will be, darling.” She kissed his lips, her fingers still caressing his temples. “Sleep now...sleep...”

***


He awoke to the feel of a cool breeze from the open windows and the instantaneous knowledge of who and where he was, the day, date, and time. As he stared at the unpainted plank ceiling, details of the long, strange day took shape in his mind. He didn’t have to look around to know she was gone, but he turned his head anyway and saw Gem, in the faded green dress, sleeping beside him.

“Helen...”

He whispered it into the still air of the silent room, and heard a faint answer from somewhere far, far away. “...love you...Aloysius...” Then a male voice. “Love you, Aly...”

Gem’s eyes opened, as though she’d heard the voices much more loudly than he had. She turned toward him and smiled. He was surprised to find that she was returning his own smile. She spoke softly in his mind. Helen helped me continue working with you while you slept. How do you feel, Aloysius?

“Free.” The word slipped out, surprising him again, but it was true. He felt as though the weight of a thousand sad, wounded worlds had left him. “I feel...free.”

Then we have finished.

She sat up, leaned over, and kissed him softly on the lips. Go now. Go now and be happy.

He took her in his arms and held her, murmuring his gratitude again and again into the dark thickness of her hair.

***

Pendergast eased the bedroom door open slowly, unable to really believe that his ordeal was over, that an experience so horrible, so lovely, and so life-changing could have occurred in the space of only a few hours. He saw the elderly woman standing by the table.

She evaluated him seriously. “How are you feeling, dear?”

He crossed to her in three long strides and caught her thin, strong hands in his. “Wonderful.” It was not enough. He threw his arms around her in a bear hug. “I feel wonderful.”

She rested her hands on his arms. “I’m so glad.”

He pulled back and looked at her, eyes sparkling. “I want to help you...you and Gem. To give you everything you need.”

“But dear,” the old woman said quietly. “We have all we need.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Yes. We all do, really, don’t we?”

She smiled and nodded.

***


Once again, Pendergast stepped onto the wooden bridge over the tributary, looking up at the blue, blue sky, where cottony white clouds, perhaps the same ones, still hung suspended, reflected in the serene river water. This time he carried his shoes, each one stuffed with a black sock. He had not wanted to get dressed again and had removed his shoes and socks to feel the cool, green grass and the warm earth beneath his feet. The planks were warmer, though the sun lurked dimly behind the billowy clouds.

The air smelled so fresh, so clean. A faint breeze meandered across the water and touched his face gently, mussing his hair. He stopped on the bridge and loosened his tie, then lifted it off over his head and shoved it into his pocket. It wasn’t enough. He began unbuttoning his white shirt, tugging it free of his pants. When it hung completely open, he turned, surveying the peaceful scene. Colors seemed brighter. He felt the presences of the trees, the birds, the crickets in the tall grasses, as old friends. How very natural and beautiful. Spanish moss floated toward him from the branches of a nearby tree and he laughed softly. “I called your hair Spanish moss when you got up that first morning. How you fussed at me.”

A very faint tinkle of laughter. He felt her watching and suddenly whipped off the shirt and let it fall onto the bridge with his shoes as he stepped off into the cool water. Spinning as gracefully as a dolphin as the water reached his shoulders, he took a deep breath and floated on his back, bare toes pointed at the sky, gazing up into the clouds, smiling when he perceived a trace of Helen’s delight and Diogenes’ glee. The future loomed before him, as bright and open and full of possibility as the heavens above. He swept his strong arms through the water and the movement took him out the mouth of the tributary, into the river. As though inspired by his motion, the fat fluffy clouds finally shifted a bit, and the sun broke through, like a harbinger of new life.

So warm. So warm. It would be enough now, for a while.

The end.

***



Author’s Note:
You Trekkies might remember a Star Trek episode called “The Empath.” Gem is based on the empathic character in that story. Some of Gem’s energy techniques are taught in Barbara Ann Brennan’s Hands of Light: A Guide to Healing Through the Human Energy Field, Bantam, 1988, as well as many other publications and workshops (these techniques are ancient), but some have been modified and/or invented especially for Aly.

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