Tales of Corwin

The train eased to a stop at the Corwin station that Friday night, but John Quick didn’t move. Or couldn’t move. He continued staring blankly down the aisle. Most of his brain was on hold, and the anodyne on-hold music that seemed to be playing in it was a bit annoying. Not quite annoying enough to do anything about, however. In the working corner of his brain, he wasn’t at all sure that coming back to Corwin was a good idea anyway. Maybe at some later stop, he’d have a better plan. Maybe Chicago.

“Sir? This is your stop, isn’t it?”

That was a conductor. He pulled his gaze away from the middle distance—with a great effort—and tried to focus on the stout woman in uniform.

“Um … yes … Corwin,” he managed to say. His voice didn’t seem to be working too well.

“Are you all right, sir? Do you need some help?”

No, he didn’t want help. To avoid being helped by someone, he would make an effort.

“No, thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m fine. Just tired, is all. Sleeping with my eyes open, I guess.” Well, that was close enough. He stood up, unsteadily. He thought he could feel his joints creaking, after three motionless hours.

“I’ll just give you a hand, sir,” said the conductor cheerfully. Damn.

On the platform, he stood with his carry-on in one hand and his laptop bag in the other. It appeared that one had to wait for the train to pull away, before crossing the tracks to the station. While John Quick waited there, his feet rooted somehow; and long after the lights and rumble of the train had passed off into the east, he stood and stared. The November night was strangely soft and warm. Maybe it was good to be home.

Except that, well, he didn’t actually have any family here anymore.

He thought about whether he was hungry, and about whether he had eaten anything today. It occurred to him that he knew a good place to eat. He didn’t know who to call, though, and it was too much trouble to try to use a phone anyway. He took a step, and an age of the world seemed to pass while he did so. He took another, and began to walk toward the center of town, ever so slowly.

 

In the Rose and Feather, it was open mic night, and Mark was up. He sat on a chair on one side of the little stage, with a big hand drum and a microphone in front of him. Another standing microphone was set up on the other side of the stage.

“Good evening,” said Mark, adjusting his mic. “The last time I performed on this stage, I did a funny song. But the song I want to share with you tonight is more serious. I’ve been feeling sad this week about a certain old tree—a tree I’ve known since I was a boy. It’s dying now, and it has to come down, but I wanted to write a song for it first.

“This is just called ‘Treesong.’ My friends here are going to help me with the refrains. Come on up, guys.”

Sandra stepped up onto the stage, along with Rosa and Rick from church. They all gathered around the standing microphone. Mark started a slow, deep drumbeat and let the crowd settle into it. Then he began to sing:

I will not miss my voice, nor speak, nor sing,

Though all the earth in every corner ring.

Though every moment all my soul rejoice,

My prayer will be too deep for human voice.

Human voice, voice, voice! Too deep for human voice!

Voice—too deep for human voice.

Human voice, voice, voice! Too deep for human voice!

Voice—too deep for human voice, voice, voice.

I will not miss my legs, nor dance, nor leap.

What dance could bear the secret that I keep?

But I will brace myself deep in the earth,

And pour me up to God in one long breath.

One long breath, breath, breath! To God in one long breath!

Breath—to God in one long breath.

Tuesday evening was Church Council night. When Mark arrived at the meeting, the room was already full of Church Council members. The meeting was held in the “parlor” of the church: a homey, smaller room just off the Fellowship Hall. The parlor housed a collection of odd sofas, chairs, and coffee tables; there were also two bookcases full of old Bibles and hymnals, and a fireplace that no one could remember ever having used. Eleven council members were already present, sitting in a loose circle. As soon as Mark sat down, Lynn Gertzig, the Moderator, called the meeting to order. Mark was asked to open the meeting with prayer; the minutes of the previous meeting were passed around and approved; and then it was time for the pastor’s report. Mark started by going over his logs for the past month, and then moved on to his plans for the month to come, up to the first Sunday of Advent.

Then came the hard part. “So now,” he said, “I guess I need to tell you all about a change in my personal situation. This is sort of a hard thing to talk about, but ….” People sat up straighter; Mark could almost hear an unvoiced “uh oh” echoing around the room. “No, don’t worry—it’s nothing bad. It’s just this: as you probably know, Sandra Shelby and I have been dating for a couple of months now. Well, we’ve decided to get more serious about this, and live together. She’s moving into my house.” He paused to let that sink in.

“Now certainly, you all didn’t bargain on this change in my life when you hired me, and I’ll understand if you want to … to reconsider things. Sandra is very firm in her own religious traditions, and I just want to say up front that I don’t think she’ll switch to ours—and, in any case, I wouldn’t try to convince her to do that. So, I guess maybe she wouldn’t be like any pastor’s partner you’ve known in the past. But I hope you’ll give me a chance, give us a chance, to show you how this can work.” He paused again and looked around the room. No one spoke. “Will you please let me know your reactions to this?” he asked. “Any thoughts?”

“Well,” said Lynn, “what I’m feeling is relief, right now. I was worried, when you started out like that, that you were leaving us. But instead, it sounds like good news. It sounds like you’re happy, and you’re looking forward to things, and you’ve got plans. And most of all, you know, it sounds like you’re staying. To be honest, that’s all I really care about. You’re settling in, you’re fixing up your grandma’s house, hopefully you’re finding a—a partner in life, here in Corwin. That’s good news to me.”

“Me too,” said Dick Slutz, the treasurer. “Now, old Carl Robinson was married—he retired as pastor here fifteen years ago, you know—and his wife played the organ. But, God rest her soul, she wasn’t very good.”

“Oh, terrible,” agreed Cassie Williams, the church’s financial secretary. “Slow as molasses. Mrs. Robinson taught Sunday school when I was in the sixth grade, the year they retired. All the kids used to make fun of her.”

The conversation digressed into reminiscences about the former pastor’s wife, until Lynn brought it back on track. “Anyway,” she said, “Mrs. Robinson was the last pastor’s wife we had. That was fifteen years ago, and times have changed. Nobody expects the pastor’s wife, or husband, or whatever, to be, you know, an automatic full-time volunteer for the church.”

There was a long silence, then; Mark had the feeling that not everyone was as relieved about this news as Lynn. Finally, Alan spoke up. “I like Sandra, Mark,” he began. “I really do. She’s good people. But … there’ll be talk. Sorry, but you asked us how we feel, and I’m worried about the way this looks in the community. It just looks sort of … you know, secretive, and that’s how rumors get started. It would be so much better if you two would just get married! Do a big public ceremony in the church,

They all rose from their seats, and Sandra began to lead the way out of the kitchen.  But suddenly, Timi cried out: “Oh! That’s—there’s something—I’d better just—” She began to shiver, and crouched down to the kitchen floor. Eunice ran to her daughter and crouched beside her.

“It’s awa-ake,” Terri whispered into the silence, looking around wide-eyed.

“Circle up now!” Lois said, in a commanding voice. “It’s a vision she’ll be having, and she could use our help.”

“Right here, then,” Sandra said. “Lois, your north is there by the window onto the street. Eunice, stay with Timi. Can you lift her onto the table?” Mark went to help, but too late: Eunice gathered Timi into her arms, rising as if her twenty-one-year-old daughter weighed no more than a baby. She sat on the table, cradling Timi in her lap. Everyone else went to their accustomed positions in the circle, forming it around the kitchen table.

Sandra watched Timi. The girl was in distress, like she had been Samhain eve; clearly there was a vision pressing on her, something she needed to see and share. No time for candles and all that, Sandra decided.

“Join hands in a circle around them,” said Sandra, “and let’s call the corners right now. It is protection for Timi that we seek.”

Lois spoke as soon as Mark joined hands with her at the northeast: “We call the spirits of the earth, bringing forth and giving birth!”

Flora Fludd linked in at the east, saying: “Spirits of the air we call, breathing life, inspiring all!”

Sandra called out from the south: “Fire and flame, we call your spark, warming cold, dispelling dark!”

Then, from the west, Chris called out: “Water spirits, healing grace, come and join us in this place!”

Then everyone spoke in unison: “Spirits of the Rose and Feather, now we join to work together!”

Sandra looked to Timi. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she seemed to be engaged in an inner struggle; she was panting, and looked for all the world like a woman in labor. Eunice held her and stroked her brow. Sandra called out an invocation, using a pattern her teacher, the Lady Corinne, and given her long ago:

Blessed spirits, hear and help us:

Let our love become her blessing.

Lord and Lady, hear and help us:

Let our love become her blessing.

Our beloved sister Timi:

Let our love become her blessing.

Strength to walk the path before her:

Let our love become her blessing.

Health and healing for our sister:

Let our love become her blessing …

Everyone in the circle joined in the repeated words: Let our love become her blessing … let our love become her blessing—

Suddenly, Timi arched her back and drew a long gasping breath. Then she cried out: “Winter’s rage!” The words seemed to tear their way out of her throat, and her body was wracked with the effort. And immediately Sandra saw the kitchen engulfed in a blinding wind-driven snow. In a moment the vision was gone, and Sandra could again see Timi panting in her mother’s arms.

Sandra thought that the effort must have exhausted her, but she was given no time to recover. Timi’s body was wracked a second time, and the words “Storm’s power!” shot out painfully from her throat. And again there was a blinding snowstorm, now with a wind that shook the whole table. Sweet Lady, breathed Sandra when the vision subsided, that’s enough!

But Timi was seized again, over and over:

“Waves of ice!” she shouted, and there was a vision of waves of weather passing through the room: snow, then bitter cold, then snow again.

“Seven storms!” she shouted, and the vision was of seven great waves of ice, stacked up one behind the other, poised to crash down on them.

Then, “Power fails!

In the end, not everyone wanted to sit at the kitchen table. Pythagoras perched on the counter by the sink, just as he had done back in her old kitchen, and Flora Fludd stayed by the cooktop, heating tortillas on demand in an iron frying pan. Vicente brought beer and lemonade, and also offered a nasty mixture of the two he called radler—apparently something he’d acquired a taste for in his travels. The food was good—nothing could beat Lois McCutcheon’s guacamole—but most of all, it just felt good to have everyone there. Seeing all her friends together in the kitchen made her feel at home.

“So: thank you all for coming,” she said, when the eating and drinking seemed to have slowed. “It’s great to have you here in my new home. And I would have wanted to get together for a housewarming anyway. But I also have another reason for wanting to get together with you all. Something happened on Samhain eve that I need to tell you about, and get your thoughts about. Something more, I mean, than the amazing things we all experienced in our Circle. It has to do with this great house, Mark’s house, which used to belong to his grandparents.”

She looked to Mark, and he took up the tale. “I guess most of you have seen the basement here,” he said. “If you haven’t, you should. It’s an unusual place. It has thick stone walls—not just the exterior, but all the interior walls as well. My grandparents told me that this house was originally meant to be a town library, and maybe that explains why the construction is so heavy-duty. But it isn’t only really heavy-duty down there—it’s also really deep. It’s a mystery to me why anyone would build and excavate a basement with ten-foot ceilings. My grandmother said—the last thing she ever said to me, I think—that the house holds many secrets. And, Halloween night, I think we bumped into one of them.”

He paused and looked at Sandra, and she took over. “In one of those deep stone rooms, about two weeks ago, I first noticed something else strange about the basement: there’s something about it that helps my magic. For me, opening a way always takes effort and concentration. I can usually open a way from wherever I am, to another place I know well. It takes effort, and sometimes—I’ve never known why—the way I’m focusing on is particularly hard to open, and I can’t do it. But down there, it’s different. When I open a way to that room, or from that room, it seems to open very easily—eagerly, even. I noticed this right away; it’s like there’s a helping hand down there.”

“Come to think of it,” interjected Mark, “I once experienced a similar boost down there. I hope you’ll all feel free to come down and experiment some time—maybe we’d learn more.”

“Anyway,” continued Sandra, “at our Samhain Circle, remember, I told you all about a strange encounter I had, one night when I was out on the Long Trail. I had been thinking about a treasure that was destroyed in the fire—a picture some of you may remember, of the Lady Corinne and me. I used to keep it on my bedside table.”

“I remember that picture!” said Pythagoras. “At least, I think I do. I asked you about your teacher, after a Circle one night, and you brought a picture down to show me. Was that it?”

“Yes, that was it. Well, Corinne appeared to me that night, as I told you at our Samhain Circle. What I didn’t tell you then was something she told me: she said that I could recover the lost picture, simply by opening a way to it, where it lay in the past. I’ve never done anything like that before. I didn’t know it was possible. It never even occurred to me to wonder whether it was possible. But Corinne told me it could be done. Not often, but maybe this time. ‘Try it, my dear, at Samhain, when the veil is at its thinnest,’ she said.”

“And that’s what I did. During Mark’s Halloween party, I went down to the basement to attempt the impossible.

On his day off, Mark ate lunch in the Rose and Feather, taking his time and reading while he ate. When he came out of the side door after lunch, he stopped in his tracks: David Caputo, pastor of the Bible Church, was just climbing out of his Cadillac across the street.

Mark hadn’t seen the older man since before the fire. He’d thought about calling him, or going to see him, but he just hadn’t been able to do it. He didn’t know what he’d say. Over the course of the previous year, David had harassed Sandra with letters and phone calls, believing her Wiccan way to be inherently evil. He had convinced his church to open a mission in the building across the street—attempting to use an obscure city ordinance to drive Sandra out of business. He’d had an unproductive argument with Mark about it. And all the while, his son had secretly pursued his father’s ends by more sinister means, with hate crimes against Sandra’s people and, ultimately, an attempt to kill Sandra by arson, along with Mark and a police officer.

Now that was all over: the son was in prison, and the father was said to be leaving town. His resignation from the church had been the talk of the town for a while; rumor was divided on whether his church board had accepted the resignation or had demanded it. However that might be, the Bible Church was clearly in disarray, and the building across the street from the Rose and Feather was for sale again.

And now here was David Caputo, going into his former mission building. Mark, unseen, watched the portly man let himself in. What do you say to the man whose son is in prison for trying to burn you alive? Mark was tempted to duck back into the Rose and Feather and let the moment pass. But David came right back out of the building, so Mark screwed up his courage and went across to meet him.

“Hello, David.”

“Mark.” David wore a guarded expression, his hands held stiffly at his sides.

“David,” said Mark, “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how sorry I am for your son’s troubles. I think of him often, and I pray for him when I think of him.”

“Mark, my boy.” Mark clenched his teeth; that “my boy” always got under his skin, even when uttered in a voice softened by emotion. “I want you to know,” David continued, “that I am deeply sorry for my son’s actions. You warned me that, in my zeal for Christ, I might be inadvertently placing a stumbling block before others, but I would not listen to you. I am sorry.”

After a silence, Mark said, “You’ve always been in my prayers, David. Well, almost always. I confess that I was very angry, the last time we spoke. But that didn’t last.”

“Thank you.” There was an awkward silence before David continued. “At the risk of making you angry again, Mark, I must tell you, in all honesty, that I still pray you will not have any further contact with Miss Shelby, or with any of these Wiccans. I have not been blameless. But I believe that Miss Shelby was manipulated by evil forces—that she was the instrument, the unwitting instrument I’m sure, of my son’s destruction. And I believe that she may be the instrument of yours as well.”

“I know you do, David,” said Mark quietly. He hadn’t really known it, but he had guessed how David would see things. And after all that had happened, Mark felt more pity for the man than anger—so far. But he thought it might be better now to change the subject.

“What are your plans now?” he asked.

“You’ve heard that I’m leaving the Corwin Bible Church, I’m sure. There is an opportunity for me in Tucson, and I do feel that the Lord is calling me there. In fact, I’m flying down there this afternoon, so I’d better be on my way now.”

“Best blessings on your journey, then,” said Mark, hiding the relief he felt. “I’ll pray for you—and for your son.”

“I will pray for you too,

When Sunday morning rolled around, Mark woke up enthusiastic. “Good morning, happiness,” he said, when he saw that Sandra was already awake. “And a happy Sunday morning!”

“Huh,” said Sandra sleepily. “What’s happy about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mark, getting up and stretching. “I almost always feel excited about Sunday morning. It’s like I’ve been cooking a fancy meal all week, and now finally I get to put it on the table.”

“You’re sweet,” said Sandra. “I used to dread Sunday mornings, myself. When I was a girl, I would lie in bed, hoping my parents would forget to get me up for Mass. I can’t remember that they ever did, though.”

“Well,” said Mark, “like I said last night: you’re welcome to sleep in. You don’t have to come to church, just because you’re living with the pastor. Or just because the pastor will be sad and lonely if you’re not there. Don’t give it a thought.”

“I won't.” Sandra turned over and pulled the covers over her head. But after a few seconds she poked her head out again, saying, “Oh, well. As long as I get to be first in the bathroom. Seriously, though: I do want to come. Don’t ask me why. I just sort of like watching you do your thing.”

At church, before the service, Mark greeted people as they arrived. He was surprised to see Lois McCutcheon arriving—surprised especially because of how she was dressed. He had seen her in her work clothes, and he’d seen her in a ceremonial robe at her croning ceremony in the Circle, but he’d never before seen her in her old-fashioned Sunday best, complete with white gloves and a fantastic hat. He knew that her late husband had been a devout Methodist—perhaps this was the same kind of thing she’d worn on Sundays when he was alive.

“Lois!” he exclaimed. “You look very elegant this morning. I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Good morning, Pastor,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “Young people just don’t know how to dress up these days. I thought I’d better show them all how it’s done.”

“I’m sure you’ll take the shine out of them all. Our usher this morning is Alan, here—Alan, this special guest is Lois McCutcheon. Take good care of her!”

People kept showing up at the door—it was going to be an unusually good crowd, almost like Christmas. Mark wasn’t surprised to see Marion and her daughters, and young Roger too. Roger was looking quite himself again, and he thanked Mark in a nearly inaudible mumble. Rose and Amelia still seemed to be avoiding eye contact. Something was definitely up there. But then, coming in behind Roger, were Roger’s parents, in church for the first time. Mark realized with a start that he knew the boy’s father: it was Lieutenant Stedman of the Corwin police department. The lieutenant had been in charge of the recent investigation of the hate crimes against Sandra’s circle, and he had earned Mark’s respect—not only for being professional and helpful, but also for taking the strange things that happened around Sandra’s people in his stride.

“Can I have just a minute after church, Pastor?” asked the lieutenant, as he shook Mark’s hand.

“Of course,” said Mark. “I’m so glad you’re here, Lieutenant.” He felt a little self-conscious about saying I’m so glad you’re here to so many people; but then, it was so often true.

As he greeted people, Mark kept half an eye on Sandra in the sanctuary. She seemed remarkably comfortable. There she was, talking to people she knew, and introducing Lois around, just as if she felt right at home. In fact, he thought, she had better social skills than he did. For him, it was always a bit of a strain; he’d learned to work around his natural shyness, but it took effort, and it didn’t feel natural. Didn’t feel like it looked natural. But Sandra made talking to people look easy. Mark wondered how hard it really was for her to appear so ...

On Friday, Mark visited Marion Swisher, a matriarch of his congregation—a disgruntled matriarch. She had been recovering from a bout of pneumonia, and Mark had let two whole weeks go by without visiting her. An obvious tactical error, there. In her place, and surrounded by her suffocatingly attentive family, he wouldn’t have wanted any visitors at all. But when he called to ask if he could drop by, she was very cross with him for having taken so long.

“I wondered when you were coming!” she exclaimed. “I was just saying to Amelia: ‘Is Mark Collins still pastor of this church?!’”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mark. “And I’m very sorry for having neglected you so shamefully. May I stop by now?”

The old lady allowed that this long overdue visit would be acceptable, and Mark headed out to her property. She owned a big hunk of the shore of a little artificial lake outside of town—Swisher Lake, of course. Two of her daughters, Rose and Amelia, were in the kitchen when he came to the door; these were the two youngest daughters, being only seventy and seventy-one, respectively. They greeted Mark politely, but with some hint of amusement in their voices. Mark got the impression that they were hiding out in the kitchen, and that they were glad to have someone to throw to the old lion.

They directed Mark to the back deck, where he found Marion sitting in state, looking out over the lake some fifty yards away. She was dressed elegantly and very warmly, with a hat and a scarf, though the day was sunny and barely cool.

“So there you are,” she said.

“Yes,” said Mark, “here I am. And very contrite for letting two weeks go by without a visit. How are you feeling today?”

She was feeling perfectly well, she said, just a little tired still. And Rose was nagging her to death about nothing. And that irritating man, that doctor, still wouldn’t let her sleep in her own bed. Mark settled in for a lengthy period of sympathetic listening, but it didn’t turn out to be as lengthy as he feared. Marion seemed to be friends with him again after the first fifteen minutes, and after twenty, she nodded off in her chair. She really was unwell still, Mark thought; usually, she could complain for nearly an hour.

Sitting by the sleeping woman, Mark leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked out to the little lake below. The day was fine, and the sun sparkled on the water, rippled by a gentle breeze. There was a raft moored there, a short distance from the shore, and there was a boy of twelve or so next to the raft in a little canoe. Mark thought it must be one of Marion’s great-grandsons, but couldn’t remember exactly—Marion’s extended family seemed to include half the town, and this boy was from some branch of the family that didn’t attend Corwin Congregational.

The boy seemed to be working on something on the raft. Mark guessed that they must be preparing to take it ashore. He was surprised, come to think of it, that the raft was still in the water so late in the season, but this warm weather had thrown off everyone’s calendar. Mark watched as the boy climbed onto the raft and then lifted a heavy box of tools out of the canoe. He stood, turned toward the house, looked Mark’s way, and waved.

Then the boy tripped over the toolbox.

It all happened so fast: the boy fell backwards, his head struck the corner of the raft, and his body splashed into the water. The sound reached Mark a moment later: a surprised laugh, a sickening thunk, and a heavy splash. The place where the boy had fallen was behind the raft, from Mark’s point of view, and he couldn’t see what became of him. But there was no further splashing, and there was no further sound.

Mark rose from his seat in the usual way—and then immediately rose from the deck in the other way. Without any kind of plan,

It was noon before they made it out to a restaurant. They got a booth at the Big Boy—breakfast all day—and Sandra watched Mark carefully. He had been an enthusiastic lover, but still: men’s feelings could be so easily hurt. Was he really taking her “no” in his stride, or was he hiding an injured heart?

“You’re watching me,” he conjectured, “to see if my feelings are hurt, about your not wanting to get married, aren’t you?” Damn, he was sneaky. This wasn’t going to be so easy. “Please don’t worry,” he continued. “Honestly. I’m just so happy you’re here—and I missed you so much when you were away. Nothing else seems all that important right now.” He sipped on his orange juice. “Of course, now, if you’d like to soothe my hurt feelings, I can think of several ways—“

“Cool your jets, pastor,” she protested. “You might at least give me a chance to catch my breath.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean right here in the Big Boy,” he said with a grin. “The church really would fire me for that. How about—“

“Just stop now,” she said. “Let’s be serious. I have a plan.”

“Okay, being serious now. What’s your plan?”

She took a deep breath. “I think we should live together.”

“Oh, yeah!” he crowed—loudly enough to turn heads in the restaurant. Then he continued, more quietly, but still beaming a great smile. “I like this plan! To tell the truth, I was working up the nerve to ask you to move in, just before you went off on your retreat.”

“I thought so,” said Sandra. “In fact, the idea sort of scared me for a while. But not anymore. It’s what I want. Except—look, I don’t want to do anything that will lose you your job, or, you know, alienate you from your community. If their pastor starts living in sin with a Wiccan priestess, will that make trouble for you?”

“Oh, of course it will. But first, I’ll deal with it; and second, I really don’t think it will cause a lot of trouble. It would be different if I were preaching one thing and practicing another. But I don’t usually let that phrase go by without challenging it. Living in sin, I mean—“ he continued, musingly, “the way people use it to signify living together, intimately, without being married—that really gets up my nose. I’ve seen couples who ‘live in sin’ in all kinds of ways, but it has little to do with whether they’re married to each other or not—” He broke off suddenly, and blushed. “That is, in my opinion—sorry—I shouldn’t preach at breakfast—but just don’t get me started on that one. Anyway, nobody who’s paying any attention in church will be surprised by my opinions there.”

“Okay,” she laughed. “Note to self: stop using the expression living in sin. But really, I only said it because I thought it might be something your people would say. It’s not something we get hung up about in the Rose Feather Circle.”

“Good,” replied Mark. “After all, sometimes people have good reasons for not marrying their true loves. For example, one of them might keep proposing, but the other might be too damn stubborn to—“

She kicked him under the table. “Oooh, I can see you’re going to be a lot of trouble,” she said.

“I’m worth it,” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Now, be serious.”

“Yes, ma’am. Totally serious now.” He made an effort to look serious, but he was also still beaming. The combination made him look unhinged. Damned attractive, too. Concentrate, she told herself.

“So, living together,” she said. “You’ve got a good kitchen and bathroom, and tons of unused space. And your third floor has that great room for Circle work—could the Rose Feather Circle meet there?”

“Absolutely. But you remember, there’s no electricity up there yet.”

“We like candles. And fixing it up could be fun. But there’s more: I’d like to use more of that space up on the thir...

It was long after midnight, that Samhain night, when Mark and Sandra came back to earth on the cliffs above the Illinois River. Mark had been so full of exuberant energy, out there among the dark winds of heaven! He had felt like he could fly forever, with Sandra clinging to him and shouting her delight into the night air; yet having her there, riding on his back, where he couldn’t touch her or kiss her or see the look on her beautiful, foxy face—it was too tantalizing to put up with any longer. As he landed and brought them upright, he felt Sandra slide off his back. He turned to her, put his arms around her, and kissed her in the moonlight. He wanted to say so much to her—but she just stepped back, took his hand, and said, “Come on, Mark Lucifer. Let’s go home.”

Home, he thought. Does she mean my house? And does that mean—but he didn’t have any more time to think. She opened a way for them, and through the portal he could see the basement of his house, the room she had told him she could always find. There was a candle burning there. Together they passed through the portal, and it closed behind them. There was a sudden silence. The scarcely noticed night sounds of the woods and the river were gone, and they were wrapped in the thick silence of the basement of the old house.

Mark took her in his arms again. “Thank you, Sandra. My dear Sandra. Thank you for everything. I’m happier right now than I’ve ever been in my whole life. Will you marry me?”

“Oh!” she said, and she pushed back from him. In the candle light she looked suddenly fierce and impatient. “This is so not the right time for that, preacher man. There’s a time for talking, and thinking, and planning, and being cautious and thoughtful and careful and polite. You’re good at those things, and I love that about you.

“But this! This is just totally not that time.” She stepped forward and grabbed him by the lapels of his cape, the Halloween costume of Dr. Strange that he was still wearing. She pulled him to her and kissed him hungrily. “Now it’s time to let all that stuff go.” She unfastened the cape and pushed it off his shoulders. “Don’t think about anything.” She pulled open the buttons that fastened his shirt. “Don’t worry about anything.” She took his hand and kissed each finger. “And don’t—don’t—don’t—say another word. I don’t want to hear another sound out of you right now, Mark Lucifer, unless it’s animal noises.”

She kissed him again, and then jumped up to wrap her legs around him and put her mouth to his ear. “I trusted you on the cliff,” she whispered. “Now, trust me. It’s time to be wild and free. Don’t worry: I’ll show you how.”

Then she jumped down and ran for the door. “If you can catch me!” she called to him, and she bolted for the stairs.

And that, of course, was that. Mark howled—rather well, he thought, for someone with no prior experience in the art of howling—and ran after her.

In the early morning, Sandra slipped out of the little bed where Mark lay sleeping. She knew she should be sleeping too—she couldn’t have had more than three hours of sleep—but she was wide awake, and she needed to be outside. She pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, went downstairs, and slipped out of the house by the kitchen door. On the screened patio at the back of Mark’s house, there in the grey dawn, she stood for a moment and sniffed the air. It was barely cool—more like a May morning than the first of November. She’d been grateful for the warm spell last night. Now it was beginning to seem like too much of a good thing. At this season, they’d usually be having a hard frost every night.

She closed her eyes and softly sang her five-point invocation:

“I call the spirit of the earth,

Bringing forth and giving birth,

Spirit of the air I call,

Breathing life, inspiring all,

Sandra began to move from person to person, advising them that it was time for the circle.  Some did need to make practical adjustments to their costumes.  Terri pulled a sweatshirt over her sexy but chilly Cat Woman outfit; Sarah took off her illuminated collar; Samantha removed her horned headdress.  Mark didn’t have any costume adjustments to make, but he went out to the old orchard and lit the fire he had prepared.  When she could see the light of it, Sandra led the others out to the space Mark had cleared.

Each person brought one of the new chairs with them.  They set up their circle around the fire.  The new chairs were beautiful, but Sandra still thought with regret of the beautiful working circle in her old house.  That was a proper memory, she thought, for a Samhain night.  Here at harvest’s end they would all recall what they had left in the past, and what they were carrying into the future.  Her house was there, in the past; but her friends were here in the present, on this fine night, in this special place of Mark’s.  And it was a perfect and evocative setting for a Samhain circle.  The smoke rose nearly straight up against the moon, and the firelight played strangely on the bare branches of the old apple trees.

Sandra guided the Lady Sarah to a seat, telling her a little about what to expect.  Then she looked around the circle.  Joni still looked wide awake, but she had elected to sit in her mother’s lap, as she had always done.  She’d be needing a chair of her own soon.  Mark looked very mystical in his Doctor Strange costume; he was watching her too, and she smiled.  Ever since she’d gotten back from the trail, he’d been meeting her eyes with this same look of delight.  When he said, “I’m glad you’re back,” he wasn’t just making small talk.

She pulled her thoughts back to the circle.  Everyone had found a proper place, so she settled into hers and closed her eyes.  She listened for a while to the noises of the night and the hot snapping and settling of the fire before her.

Finally, out of the darkness, Lois spoke: “We call the spirits of the earth, bringing forth and giving birth!”

Mrs. Fludd called from the east: “Spirits of the air we call, breathing life, inspiring all!”

Sandra opened her eyes and called the south corner: “Fire and flame, we call your spark, warming cold, dispelling dark!”

Chris called the spirits of water from the west: “Water spirits, healing grace, come and join us in this place!”

They completed the call in unison, and Sandra could hear Mark’s voice joining in: “Spirits of the Rose and Feather, now we join to work together!”

Star took up his bodhran and began a very soft 3/4 drumbeat.  After a time, Sandra spoke, while the drumbeat continued.  “And so we are met on this night of Samhain.  Let’s take some time to share our reflections.  What have you left in the past?  And, what are you carrying forward into the future?”

Flora Fludd spoke up first.  “Tonight, I am thinking of my dear husband, my Tony, who passed on seven years ago.  And this year, just this month, I lost my job as secretary of the Catholic church, which I’ve had for more than thirty years, so I guess that’s in the past now too.  But I’m feeling good about the future.  I’m being more open now with everyone about who I am.  I have all of you.  I have so many blessings.  And I know that beyond the veil, Tony waits for me.  Beyond the veil, he still loves me.”  Her voice caught as she spoke, and Sandra could see her tears reflecting the firelight.  But she held her head high.

Terri spoke next.  “Tonight, I’m thinking of how I was shot, and how close I came to dying.  I’ve learned that I am—well, not indestructible.  Mortal.  I’m also thinking of how shy I used to be, not so long ago.   I’m leaving that in the past.  I’ve learned to be less afraid.