Tales of Corwin

By Friday, the warm spell seemed finally to be running out, and there was a dire weather forecast for the weekend. There was no doubt that something heavy was on the way; the only question was how much would be rain, how much would be ice, and how much would be snow.

At the Prime Way, Mark heard people sharing their juiciest forecasts. The man in front of him in the checkout line said, “Ready for the big storm? Supposed to be eight inches, is what I heard.”

“Twelve, I heard,” said the kid bagging the groceries. “And that’s after the ice.”

Mark was inclined to discount such predictions; supermarket forecasts were always exaggerated. But by Saturday afternoon he wasn’t so sure. The official forecasts were still threatening, and now the air did feel different, with a damp and unquiet breeze blowing fitfully.

Terri put out the word that the Figgy Pudding Singers were making their first public appearance that night. Sandra agreed to close up the tavern early—“It’ll be a slow night anyway,” she said—and the group met there at nine. They put on their Santa hats.  Sandra warned the few people lingering in the tavern that they were about the close, and the group warmed up with a few numbers while the stragglers paid and left. Then Sandra locked up, and off they all went. Terri led the way and called out the numbers. Vicente had a tambourine, and Pythagoras had a dog-eared concertina—“my old squeeze-box,” he called it. Otter brought his flute.

From the Rose and Feather, they walked around the corner and down a block. Here, they were already among little houses, and there was so little traffic that they could easily walk in the street; the business district of Corwin was only a street or two deep. Up and down they walked for an hour, singing and laughing. They stopped at any house with lights on, ringing doorbells and singing for anyone who opened the door. Mark had prepared little Christmas cards to leave behind. On one side, they read, “Yuletide blessings from the Figgy Pudding Singers.” On the other side, there was a note offering emergency cold-weather assistance, and giving phone numbers for the tavern and the church.

After an hour they circled back to the Rose and Feather, where Sandra had some hot cider for them. It seemed like a successful debut—but everyone was aware that it wouldn’t be so easy in rough weather.

“The flute was nice,” said Mark to Sandra, as he helped her close. “But I don’t suppose he’ll be able to keep that up, once it gets cold. Bare fingers on bare metal, and all that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Otter,” replied Sandra. “He never gets cold.”

While Sandra was locking up behind them, Mark looked up to the night sky. It was black and featureless. “Maybe I’m just jumpy,” said Mark, “after hearing people talk about ‘the big storm’ all week. But the weather does feel sort of threatening to me tonight. Am I just impressionable, or do you feel it too?”

“It certainly feels like it’s changing,” Sandra agreed.

“And it’s so dark!” Mark observed. “I can’t see the moon at all. There must be a lot of clouds.”

“Well, that doesn’t follow,” said Sandra. “The moon is a waning crescent tonight; it’ll be new in three more days.”

“So?”

“So, the waning crescent doesn’t rise until a couple hours before dawn. A monkey knows that.”

“A monkey might, but I don’t. Most people don’t.”

“Well, it’s time you learned about the phases of the moon, if you’re going to hang out with Wiccans. But you might be right about the clouds anyway. I’m glad our generators are ready to go.”

 

Winter arrived late Saturday night with a literal bang. It started as a thunderstorm, and then became a thunder-and-ice storm, and the temperature plummeted. The next morning, Sunday morning,

Monday morning early, Mark was just getting back to the house from a run, alone. Since Sandra had moved in, she’d tried running with him a couple of times, and he had tried joining Sandra’s yoga practice. But when it came to exercise, they didn’t seem to be compatible. Mark liked to push himself hard on the road, which Sandra apparently found unpleasant; she’d teased him about it, saying that she didn’t want to run with someone who was punishing himself for his sins. Mark had decided, for his part, that Sandra’s yoga was far more fun to watch her do than to do himself.

So now, Mark was back to running by himself. It was nice to be able still to enjoy an outdoor run, this late in the year. He usually drew the line somewhere in the upper twenties; any colder than that, and he’d take it indoors, to the town’s municipal gym. He began stretching on the front steps. As he did so, he watched a white van come all the way down Amber street, and finally pull into his driveway. The driver-side door opened, and Chris hopped out.

Mark was surprised. Chris usually came in a company truck with “Eco Electric” signage. Also, Chris usually dressed to pass as conventionally male, on the job; today’s outfit was softer, and weirder—jeans and a tool belt on the bottom, but on top, a red bodysuit with a green flannel shirt over it, tied off at the waist. And Chris’s dreads were tied up in a matching red scarf.

“Hey, Chris,” said Mark. “You’re looking very festive this morning. What’s up? No ‘Eco Electric’ today?”

“Not today, not ever, any more. Done with them.”

“Really?” asked Mark. “Does that mean you’re setting up on your own?”

“Exactly. Kinda scary, really. But, felt like it was time.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Mark, “and blessings on your venture. Did you—if you don’t mind my asking—part on good terms with Eco?”

“Course I don’t mind,” said Chris. “Yeah, pretty good terms. The boss was sweet about it. Sorry to see me go, he said, but he wasn’t surprised. Said he understood. And, we talked about a couple of accounts I wanted to take with me—including yours, of course, if that’s okay. I think he was relieved about that. They already have more work than they can handle, even with me on the team.”

“And so now you’ll be able to be yourself, a little more, on the job?” asked Mark.

“Hope so. A little more, anyway.” Chris grinned. “Think Corwin is ready for an independent, black, genderqueer electrician?”

“Shocking,” said Mark. Chris laughed, and spread their hands, and a little arc of electricity jumped from one hand to the other. “No, really, I think it’ll work,” Mark went on. “Corwin’s a pretty conservative, white-bread sort of town, in some ways. But it’s also leavened with a fair number of unique characters. You’re a good person, and you do good work, and word gets around. Anything I can do to help?”

“Just recommend me to your friends,” said Chris, “when you get a chance. Give you some business cards, when they’re printed. ‘Wiring by Chris,’ I’m calling it. I figure, no sense in hiding.”

“Of course I’ll recommend you, every chance I get,” said Mark. “So now—what’s on for today?”

“Well, now that we’ve got your new service panel in, and your generator, I’m ready to think about wiring your third floor. I just need to poke around this morning, plan some wiring runs, see how much help I’m gonna need. Crazy old house, you know.”

“You’re telling me!” Mark laughed. “Poke around as much as you like. Sandra’s off to yoga. It’s my day off, and I’ll be around the house all morning. Let me know if you need anything.”

An hour later, Mark was eating breakfast in the kitchen, when Chris came in from the back door.

“Hey, Mark? Can you come outside for a minute? There’s something I want to show you.”

Late Monday night, after Mark’s parents had gone home to Maine, Mark sat alone, high in the branches of the old tulip tree. He was within ten or fifteen feet of what appeared to be a squirrel’s nest, and he had come to talk to the squirrels.

His encounter with a tool-carrying squirrel in the Starved Rock State Park had helped him reach clarity about the fate of his tree. It would be hard for the squirrels (and any other inhabitants of the tree) to lose their home now, he thought, but it would be far worse for them to be in the tree if it fell in the middle of a winter storm. The tree had to come down now, before the weather turned. He’d called the tree service, and they’d said they could be there Wednesday or Thursday.

“Hello, squirrel-friends,” Mark began, feeling rather foolish. He didn’t know if they were really in that nest, or if they could hear him, or if they could understand him. But he felt he had to make the effort. “I’ve brought you two gifts, and a warning. The first gift is this bag of acorns. I collected them from under an oak tree near the church where I work. I pray that they will give you sustenance and strength.” Mark drew a paper bag full of acorns from his backpack and set them in a crook of the tree.

“I’ve also brought you this,” he continued, taking a little screwdriver out of his pack. “I met a cousin of yours, away east of here, who was carrying a screwdriver. And having learned that you like such things, as I do, I’ve brought you this little one of mine. The handle unscrews, you see; and then inside, there’s another, smaller screwdriver, and so on, down to a very tiny screwdriver at the end. I hope this is useful to you. Or,” Mark amended, “well, I wish you joy of it, in whatever way tools give you joy. I’ve certainly enjoyed having it, and maybe you will too.” He left the little screwdriver wedged between the trunk and the limb on which he sat. He was feeling more than a little ridiculous; after all, maybe he was just talking to himself. But he didn’t really think Sandra had just been pulling his leg about the squirrels. And was that a scuttling sound from the nest?

Trying to sound natural, he continued. “Then, as I said, I’ve also brought a warning. Friends, I’m very sorry, but I think you should clear out of this tree tomorrow. The day after, or the day after that, the tree will be cut down. I’m sad about it; I love this tree, as I hope you know. But I believe that it’s too weak now to stand through the winter storms that are coming. I pray that you will find another, safer home. Please heed my warning, and don’t be in the tree when the men come with saws.

“Thank you, and bless you, squirrel-friends.”

Mark waited for a minute, listening, but there was no further sound from the nest—if it even was a nest, and not just a pile of leaves stuck up there where the trunk divided. He pulled his backpack back on, then took a deep breath and dropped out of the tree. (How that would have terrified him, not long ago!) He flew once around the house, then back down toward his front porch. He was tempted to stay in the air a bit longer—he had a feeling this might be his last chance before spring. But Sandra was waiting for him below.

“Mission accomplished?” she asked when he landed on the porch.

“Yes. I’m not sure if they heard me, but I did my best.”

“Sure you don’t want to do a ‘goodbye tree’ ceremony with the Circle?” she asked him.

“Yes, I’m sure. I wrote that song, and I’ve said goodbye in every way that matters to me. And no one else knew this tree like I did. I’m content.”

“Okay,” Sandra said, giving him a hug. “Then come inside and let’s talk about our class.” They had agreed to teach a class together on the Wheel of the Year—Sandra teaching her Wiccan traditions celebrating the cycle of the seasons,

In the morning, Sandra’s ankle was still tender and swollen. Mark called his parents to postpone breakfast, and he convinced Sandra to go to the urgent care first. There, they put a compression bandage and a walking brace on her ankle, told her to ice it and elevate it, and told her to get some rest. Sandra was indignant.

“I can’t bloody well ‘get some rest’ the day before Thanksgiving, with your parents here! Look.” She made an effort to walk a few steps to the car without limping. “See? I can do this.”

“I’m sure you can,” Mark countered. “But I’m also sure you shouldn’t. Let’s go get breakfast first, anyway. You’ll feel better with something to eat. And hey, there’s an upside: you look very pathetic with that thing on your foot, my dear.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

“No, I mean: it’s an advantage. It’ll make meeting my folks that much easier.”

So when Mark and Sandra walked into the dining room at the Shaughnessy Hotel to meet Mark’s parents, Sandra was limping along with a walking brace on her right foot. It did indeed serve as a conversation starter. Both Mark’s parents exclaimed over her, and Mark’s dad got someone to bring a stool for her foot.

“Thanks, Mr. Collins,” said Sandra.

“You’re welcome, Miss Shelby,” said his father with a smile. “But please call me Paul.”

“And I’m Rhonda,” said Mark’s mom. “You know, we thought Mark would still be limping, but we never expected to see you like this. You poor thing! And, my goodness—Mark never told us how pretty you are. Do you have to work at your bar, your restaurant, today?”

“No, I’ve already given myself the day off. And I’m sure I’ll be better soon,” said Sandra. “I’ve got a wonderful meal all planned for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, no, dear!” said Mark’s mom. “Mark said you’re supposed to ice your ankle every half hour, and keep it elevated. Doctor’s orders!”

“Not really a doctor, just a nurse practitioner,” said Sandra. “And I can still—"

“Here’s my idea,” said Mark’s dad. “Let me cook the dinner! I don’t know if Mark told you, but I always do Thanksgiving dinner at home. It’s my specialty.”

Sandra protested. “But that’s … no, that would be awful, to invite you for Thanksgiving dinner and then make you cook it!”

“You’re not making me do anything, Sandra. You can sit with your leg up, and Rhonda can keep you company, while I do the dinner. And if I need help in the kitchen, Mark can help me—it’s time he learned how to make good stuffing.”

“And we’ll take good care of you, you poor thing,” added Mark’s mom.

“As someone told me recently,” Mark put in, “we share what we have for sharing. Right?”

“Well ….” Mark could have sworn she was about to insist, but something in his parent’s entreaty seemed to get to her at the last moment, and instead she gave a shaky smile. “All right,” she said. “Thank you.”

Good girl, thought Mark.

“But,” Sandra continued, “will you both be my guests tonight at my tavern, the Rose and Feather?”

“Yes, please,” said Mark’s dad immediately. “I’ve been looking forward to it. So, tell us about your place, Sandra. How long have you been there?”

 

In retrospect, Sandra had to admit that Thanksgiving Day went very well. Mark’s dad, Paul, did a good job with the turkey; it was an organic turkey from a local farm, not his accustomed Butterball, but he adjusted. And it was nice to be waited on, for a change.

Mostly nice. Of course, it meant that she had to sit in the living room with her foot up, playing Scrabble with Rhonda. And the woman turned out to be an expert—a walking dictionary—a stealthy Scrabble assassin. Rhonda wasn’t competitive, exactly; she seemed as delighted by Sandra’s occasional high-scoring words as by her own fre...

The Monday before Thanksgiving, Sandra woke up and looked out the window. It was a beautiful fall day, sunny and dry. There was no shortage of things to be done, at work and around the house. And yet …

“Mark,” she said.

Mark opened his eyes. “Hey, beautiful,” he said.

“Let’s get away for a little while today—can we?” Sandra suggested. “What do you think?”

“What did you have in mind?” he asked.

“How about Starved Rock?” she replied. “A little hike, and a picnic lunch? I’ll pack it.”

“You’re on,” he said. “Just let me get a quick shower first.”

Unspoken between them lay the sense that this might be their last chance to get away together for a while. Mark’s parents were coming to town on Tuesday and staying through Thanksgiving. Then there was the looming threat of the winter weather foreseen by Timi; the warmth of this strange November couldn’t last forever. Who knew when they might have a chance like this again?

They ate breakfast at Mark’s favorite place, a tiny diner in a tiny nearby town. Then they drove on to the park and hiked in. The trees were bare, and the dry leaves crunched underfoot. They started out in long sleeves, but by noon the air had warmed so much that they started to feel uncomfortable, and they took off their outer layers and stuffed them in Mark’s pack. Mark didn’t say anything about the way she looked in her sports top, but she could tell he was watching her. Very immature, to enjoy making the man look, she thought. So sue me.

They arrived at their favorite spot—a grove of trees on a high bluff above the Illinois River—and Sandra spread a blanket on the ground and began unpacking lunch. There was cold beef (leftover from the French dip special Saturday night) and cold chicken (leftover from fried chicken Friday). There was a baguette and a pasta salad. And she’d packed a bottle of champagne—ill-advised, perhaps, since it would be warm by now and rather shaken up, but it had seemed like the thing to bring at the time. Mark opened it, letting the cork fly: it shot up into the trees, and they couldn’t see or hear it fall. Perhaps it was falling all the way to the river.

“This is perfect,” he said, taking a sip.

“And you, sir, are a liar,” she retorted. “You’re drinking warm champagne from a paper cup. That’s not perfect.”

“Perfect,” he repeated. “And so are you. Will you marry me?”

“No,” she said shortly. “But thanks for asking.”

“I don’t want to be a nuisance, you know, but could you give me, like, one good reason why not?”

She certainly could, and did. “Well, look,” she said, “no matter what they told you at that meeting, your people will have expectations for a pastor’s wife. She attends the Lunch Bunch every week; hosts a Christmas open house; visits shut-ins sometimes; exercises a kind of informal leadership. Right?”

Mark thought about it. “Maybe,” he allowed. “They might sort of expect that kind of thing. But it’s been a long time since they had a married pastor; I don’t think it would be that hard for them to let go of expectations like that. And anyway—hey, how do you know about all that stuff? I mean, I’m guessing, in the Catholic church you grew up in, the priest didn’t have a wife.”

“Oh, I hear stories,” she said.

Mark smiled and looked as if he might be going to say something more; but then he took a sip of champagne and changed the subject. “This is where we sat, the first time we ate together.”

“I remember,” said Sandra. “You shared a stale Granola bar with me.”

“What’s mine is yours,” Mark laughed. “Actually, I’m not sure how long that thing was riding around in my backpack before we ate it.”

“Years, from the taste of it,” said Sandra. “You don’t get out much.”

John Quick woke up the next morning feeling restless. That was better, he thought—better than feeling nothing. Near his door he found a note from Sandra:

Food in the fridge. Call at need. See you tonight.

The note was on a pile of folded laundry—good grief, they’d done his laundry—and there was a business card with Sandra’s cell number on it.

John took a shower and dressed. He was so tired of being so tired. He found his coat and made his way downstairs in the huge old house. He made a piece of toast and buttered and ate it—that felt like an accomplishment. Then he dared the door and went outside for some fresh air.

The air was unexpectedly warm, and the sun was out. He had a sudden apprehension: could he have been asleep all winter, and could this be spring? He took the phone from his pocket to check the date, but it was dead. Oh, of course—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d charged it. There were probably a thousand messages, too. The very thought of all those messages was exhausting, and he almost went back inside, but a sweet breeze encouraged him to stay where he was. Anyway, there were leaves on the ground and no buds on the trees. Clearly it was still fall.

He wandered around the grounds. Away behind the house there was a stand of old apple trees. He found the remains of a bonfire in the middle of a clearing there. If I die here, he thought, these could be my ashes. But the air smelled nice, and he didn’t really want to die. He didn’t really want to do anything. His feet rooted, and he stood for a long while, not thinking about anything in particular.

“Feeling a little better, then, John?” said a voice. He unrooted and turned to look. It was Mark—Mark Collins, his host.

“Yes, a little,” he answered. “I made toast. Hardly a great accomplishment, I know, but it’s the first thing I’ve done for myself in days. You have a great place here. Isn’t this what people used to call the old Collins house?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Mark, coming to stand nearby. “Marna Collins was my grandmother, and she left me the house. I didn’t grow up here, but I used to visit my grandparents here when I was a boy.” He watched John for a minute, then continued. “This grove we’re in is what they used to call the orchard, but as you can see, it hasn’t been tended as an orchard for ages. It’s where we had our Samhain circle. Hey, thanks for the cider you sent, by the way—much appreciated.”

That’s right—I did that. “Are you a part of the Rose Feather Circle, then?” asked John.

“Well … yes, in a way I am,” Mark replied. “An honorary member, perhaps. But I’m also the pastor of the Corwin Congregational Church.”

“Seriously? And you’re with Sandra?”

“It’s a long story,” said Mark, “which I’d be happy to tell you—but I don’t want to wear you out.”

“I’m okay. I’d like to hear it.” This had to be good, John thought.

“Well, would you feel up to taking a drive with me? I have to go make a visit at a nursing home this morning. I can tell you the story while we drive. And you don’t have to come in or anything—you can relax in the car, listen to music or something. Really, you’d be doing me a favor. Those drives get pretty boring.”

“Boring is okay,” said John. “Yeah, I’ll ride along. Thanks.”

It was a good story, as it turned out, and the ride wasn’t bad either. It wasn’t the prettiest time of the year for driving in the countryside, with the corn and soybeans all harvested, and the stubble and chaff mostly left on the land, dry and brown. But even so, John’s eyes lingered on the gentle lines of the resting fields. They seemed to reflect his own inner landscape: dry, colorless, dormant. Lifeless?

On the way home, Mark asked a tentative question: how would John feel about consulting Eunice McCutcheon for...

The next day, when Mark came home in the early afternoon, a delicious, savory smell met him at the kitchen door. Sandra had acquired some new kitchenware, and she had something simmering on the cooktop, something in a pot far larger than any of his. Mark lifted the lid and sniffed, then grabbed a spoon and took a sample. Chicken soup of some kind, he thought, but with a Thai touch: lemongrass, maybe coconut milk. And—he took another sample—something zippy. Chilies?

He went through to the living room, and found Sandra sipping tea and laughing with Timi and Terri. “You’re home early,” said Terri. “Is this our cue to exit?”

“Oh, stop it,” said Mark. “I’m just gonna make a phone call. A tricky phone call, actually; my conscience is pricking me, and I have to call my parents.”

“Do they know about you guys, moving in together?” asked Timi.

“Not yet,” laughed Mark. “They’re about to find out.”

“Well, then,” said Sandra. “We’ll get back to our project in the kitchen and leave you to it.” She stopped on the way to give Mark a kiss. “That’s my brave fellow,” she said to him. “Invite them for Thanksgiving dinner, if you like. I roast a mean turkey.”

When they had gone, Mark picked up the phone, thinking about how to break the news to his parents. Better to act like it’s no big deal, he thought. They’re sure to ask about Sandra at some point. Then I can say, “She’s fine. And speaking of Sandra …” He took a deep breath and dialed their number.

They both picked up, one after the other, as if they had been waiting by the phone—by two separate phones.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. You’re home—I’m glad,” Mark began.

“Mark, honey! How are things with you?” asked his mom.

“Couldn’t be better!” he replied. “I was going to write a letter—” He stopped short; was he sounding a little tense, maybe? He needed to relax, to be more natural. “I mean to say that everything is going really well. The church is good, my life is good, there’s nothing more to tell.”

“Mark, you sound a little odd, son.” That was his dad. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Meanwhile, out of earshot in the kitchen, Timi was asking about Mark’s parents. “So, Mark’s parents—you haven’t met them?”

“No,” Sandra replied. “I don’t know much about them, really. His father used to live here, in this house, when he was a child—I know that. They live in Maine now. He went out to visit them in August. They have a house on a lake there, which sounds lovely. And Mark loves them very much, I think. But he doesn’t always confide in them. And I think ….”

“Yes?” Terri prompted. “You think?”

“Well, Mark gave me the impression—I can’t remember quite what he said—but I got the feeling that they’re not too happy about their son getting involved with me. Whether it’s because I run a tavern, or because I’m a witch, I’m not sure.”

“Well, don’t waste any time worrying about them. I’m sure you’ll win them over,” said Timi. “They want Mark to be happy—and anyone can see how happy he is with you. But maybe you could just keep the Circle stuff in the background for a bit?”

“Um, guys,” interrupted Terri, “speaking of the Circle stuff: did either of you leave this spoon here on the stove?”

“No,” they both said.

“Neither did I,” said Terri. “In which case—”

Their eyes widened, and they rushed back to the living room—just in time to hear Mark saying, “She’ll be cooking dinner, and it’s sure to be a winner, and we won’t be getting thinner, when the—“

“Mark!” Sandra interrupted. “Um, Mark, honey, we’re having a problem in the kitchen. It’s an emergency. Here, give me that”—she started to pry the phone out of his hand—“and I’ll talk to your parents for a minute.”

“Um, sure, okay, whatever you say.

“Holy shit!” Eunice snatched her hand back and put her fingers to her mouth as if she had received a shock. Mark opened his eyes and blinked.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Mark,” said Eunice, sitting down hard on the edge of the desk. “I’m sorry.” She took a moment to collect herself. “I just—whew!—I was just sensing your energy flows, when some of that energy flashed out toward me. It was—it was quite unexpected.  Imagine you’re administering a blood test, and the patient suddenly tries to give you a pint. It just—it just took me by surprise.”

“Did I hurt you?” asked Mark.

“No, no, nothing like that. It just took me a moment to shield myself. I hope you know I would never have done anything dangerous or experimental, not without the Circle around us. This has never happened to me before.”

“I had a very powerful dream,” said Mark. “Did you—did you see my dream?”

“No, only your energy. You have a very generous energy, a giving energy.” She smiled. “I’m glad Sandra found you.”

“Well, yes,” said Mark, “me too.”

“Speaking of Sandra,” she said, “I’ve just thought of something I need to tell her. Will you excuse me for a minute, while I make a quick phone call?” Eunice drew her gloves back on and went out of the room, leaving Mark alone. He rubbed his face, which still tingled where she had touched it, and, closing his eyes, he tried to recapture his vision of Xanadu.  Could I revive within me, he thought with a smile, that symphony and song ….

It seemed only a minute before Eunice returned. Mark thought she was laughing to herself when she came in, but she tucked her cellphone away and quickly resumed their conversation. “So, Mark,” she said, “what I tried to show you there was the passive side of my talent: sensing, but not manipulating, your energies. Usually, that’s all I use in my practice. If you were a patient, I might use what I learned about your energies to direct our discussion. And I might ask you about your dreams. But now, would you care to see the rest of my space?”

“Sure,” said Mark. “Love to.”

The reception area opened onto a separate therapy space with a sofa and chairs. Mark could picture John lying on the sofa, and Eunice sitting in a chair taking notes, like a conventional therapist. Knowing John, he would probably just fall asleep on the sofa. But then, Eunice probably knew how to deal with that.

Behind that was another, larger therapy room. This one looked more like a little spa, with wall hangings, subdued lighting, and a wide massage table. Mark imagined John lying there, and Eunice giving him a massage, with her smooth, pretty hands and her dark red nails. Then he firmly suppressed the thought and said something complimentary about the decor.

Back in the consulting room, Eunice became businesslike once more. “So now, Mark,” she said, “about John Quick. You’re wondering whether he might benefit from therapy with me?”

“Yes, thanks, that’s it,” said Mark. “He came to us in quite a state of exhaustion. Well, you saw him at the Rose and Feather that night—he collapsed there, and he’s been scarcely more responsive than that for the past three days. He eats a little, and uses the bathroom, but otherwise seems to sleep, almost all the time. He insists that there’s nothing wrong with him medically, and that he’s a doctor, and so ought to know.

“I’ve spoken with him just a little. He tells me that he thinks he’s having a depressive episode. He seems unable to account for it—tells me that his life was going great. Sandra learned that he’s just completed a very strenuous eight-year course of study, leading to a combined MD and Ph.D. And he’s just received a job offer, which he was pleased with—or, at least, remembers being pleased with. He says he’s unable, now,

Not that scary, Mark insisted to himself, walking down Main Street toward her office. Not that scary. He wasn’t sure why he found Eunice the scariest of the McCutcheon women, but he did. Her mother Lois was grandmotherly—though he sometimes had the sense that he might be one grandmotherly hug away from being fed to the worms. Her daughter Timi was spooky-scary, but in a vulnerable way that made her seem less threatening. But Eunice herself ….

Eunice was a woman of about forty. She had a striking face—beautiful, perhaps, in Mediterranean way that was quite unlike either her mother or her daughter. She didn’t seem to be fat, but whether she was muscular, or rounded, or rail-thin, Mark couldn’t have said, because she always wore clothing that concealed. She’d always been polite to Mark, and perhaps even friendly, but with so much reserve that he couldn’t really be sure. In fact, there was a sort of sheathed sharpness about her. Mark sometimes imagined her as a secret agent or an undercover assassin. And she always wore gloves. Maybe she only takes them off when she delivers the coup de grâce, thought Mark.

Then he shook himself. She couldn’t be that scary. She was, after all, romantically involved with Vicente, the martial-arts teacher, and he was as open and friendly as they came. Maybe she was just shy.

Next to the door to her little main-street office was a modest sign: Hecate Holistic Health. Counseling and Massage Therapy for Singles and Couples. Eunice McCutcheon, LPC, LMT. Mark pulled on the door, and found it unlocked. He stepped inside.

In the businesslike front office, a woman sat behind a desk, typing at a computer. When she looked up, Mark recognized her: an occasional attender at Corwin Congregational Church. Damn, what’s her name? he asked himself. Harriet? Ellen?

“Helen!” he said. “Hi, Helen—I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Yup. Three years now. Ah … sorry I haven’t been in church for a while, Pastor. I’ve just been so busy ….”

“Hey, I’m not the church police, Helen. Come back when you can—you’re always welcome.”

“I will, I will. Ms. McCutcheon is expecting you, Pastor. She’s in the consulting room—just through there.” She gestured to a closed, glass door. “Go on in, please.”

In the consulting room, Eunice sat behind a small desk, working at a computer. She takes the gloves off for typing, observed Mark. But she drew them back on quickly.

“Hello, Mark,” she said evenly, offering her gloved hand. Mark shook it, resisting an impulse to bow over it. “Have a seat. How are things at your church?”

“Going well, thanks.”

“Good. And is Sandra getting all moved in?” She used an even, polite, businesslike tone.

“Yes. But Sandra thought we should ask for your advice about our guest, John Quick.”

“Oh?”

Heck with this, thought Mark. “Yes. And she thought I should be the one to ask you, because she knows I’m afraid of you, and she likes to see me squirm.”

Eunice burst out laughing, a deep and uninhibited laugh, and Mark relaxed just a little. “I’ll tell her you didn’t flinch!” she said. “But now, Mark, tell me this: why should you be afraid of me?”

“Oh, well … I don’t know. Of course, you Wiccans are all a bit of a stretch for a poor pastor. But you’re the most mysterious of Sandra’s friends, to me anyway. I can never tell what you’re thinking, and that’s a little unnerving.”

“Yes,” she said. “I veil myself to avoid frightening people, you know, but that itself frightens people. Then, too, it’s part of an ancient pattern. Men fear women of power. Especially women of powerful sexuality. Especially Wiccans.”

“I see that,” said Mark, trying not to feel defensive. It was probably true—if not the whole truth. “Plus, your friends don’t help you there.

They sat in silence for a minute. Terri, on a kitchen chair, tucked up into a ball, hugging her knees and staring into space; she looked like a little lost waif, Mark thought. But the moment passed, and she brightened again.

“So! I’ve had an idea,” she said, “and I want to run it by you guys.”

“Get a glass of wine, then, and tell us about it,” said Mark. Mark put his fudge pot in the sink to soak, while Sandra got Terri a glass of wine.

“Something’s not right,” Terri began, once they were all seated around the kitchen table. “This winter of storms we’re preparing for—I just feel like we’re missing something. The generators and all that, that’s great. But, somehow, it still feels sort of depressing. Like we’re all just hunkering down. Like we’re bracing ourselves for a hard time.”

“Bracing ourselves,” repeated Sandra. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

“That’s how I feel too,” Mark said. “That was a pretty grueling vision Timi had. It’s given me … I don’t know … sort of a feeling of impending doom. So, how should we be feeling?”

“It’s yuletide,” said Terri simply. “So, we should be feeling the same as always: exuberant. And defiant. Somehow, we should be showing winter what we’re made of. Facing down the short days with yule lights. Facing down cold with a warm fire. You know?”

“Facing down snow with a snowman?” suggested Mark.

“Yeah—like that. And that’s what I think has been missing. We’re making all these practical preparations, but I think we need something impractical, just as much—maybe more. If it’s gonna be that hard, people will need cheering up.”

“So,” said Sandra, “what’s this impractical idea?”

“Singing. Lots of singing. Let’s ‘wassail, wassail, all over the town,’ like the song says. We’ve got lots of good voices in the Circle—almost everyone, except for Flora, who’s sort of creaky, and Vicente. I think maybe he can’t carry a tune, or thinks he can’t. His mouth moves, when we sing, but I never hear anything coming out. Funny for such a big tough guy. But we could give him a tambourine, or something.”

“Back up a minute,” said Mark. “This would be more than just a one-time thing? Like, the Circle should practice together—work up some numbers?”

“Practice together, for starters, and then go out over and over. At least once for every storm, to show that we’re undaunted. And not just the Circle, but your guys too. The ones you sang with tonight, for instance—they were good!”

“Rosa and Rick,” said Mark.

“And Rick’s your choir director, right? Maybe he could find us some more singers, and some music. How about sort of a mixed choir—the Circle and the church together?”

“Ooh, I like this idea,” said Mark. “Would you be okay with singing some Christmas carols?”

“Sure,” said Terri. “And maybe something for Hanukkah.” Terri’s parents were Jewish, Mark knew; he’d met them, and had the impression that they considered Terri’s Wiccan path to be just a phase—a youthful enthusiasm she’d soon outgrow. Mark didn’t think so. “But there’s tons of stuff that isn’t religious at all,” Terri went on. “Everybody likes ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.’ And even when it says Christmas, it sometimes isn’t full of, you know—”

“Christian hoo-hah,” said Sandra.

“Christian hoo-hah?” protested Mark.

“Sure,” said Sandra, “veiled in flesh the Godhead see, and like that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“Right,” laughed Terri, “Christian hoo-hah. Only sometimes, there isn’t any. Like, ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’—it’s a little about Christmas, but mostly about figgy pudding.”

“I like it,” said Sandra. “I hereby nominate you as director of the Figgy Pudding Singers. All in favor?”

Sandra and Mark both said,