Tuesday night was laundry-ministry night for Mark.  He and three other volunteers from the church met at the Corwin Coin Laundry Express.  They brought their own table and chairs; the manager of the laundromat was very agreeable about the arrangement, but had regretfully informed them that she had absolutely no storage space to offer them.  So at a quarter to seven they carried their things over from the church; they set up their table, with a supply of detergent, dryer sheets, and quarters.  By seven, a line had already formed.

Mark recognized some of their regulars.  There was a big guy, a Viet Nam veteran known as Cube-Steak, who wore shorts and a T-shirt to the laundry, whether in January or July, and always washed everything else he owned.  There was a young mother, Megan something-or-other, with two grade-school children, Timmy and Tracy, and a baby beside; she always had a big load of bedding, and needed one of the triple-load machines.  Mark had saved some coupons for the Dairy Queen next door, to give to Megan for the kids.

The church volunteers included two older ladies, who dispensed detergent and advice, not strictly limited to laundry tips.  Alan Crossley was volunteering that night as well; he seemed to know everyone in town, and went around chatting amiably and putting quarters in the slots.  He had a gift for putting people at their ease, and Mark was glad to have him there.

Around 8:30, Mark fielded a request he’d never heard before: a man named Roger, with a full ZZ-Top beard, was looking for some holy water.  People often asked for help with food or gas; sometimes they were looking for a homeless shelter, or an AA meeting, or a place to take a shower; occasionally they wanted someone to pray for them, or with them.  But holy water?

“I hate to let you down, friend,” said Mark, “but we’re the wrong church for that.  We sometimes bless water—like if we’re about to do a baptism?—but we don’t keep a supply of blessed water on hand.  Now, I don’t want to pry, but what do you need holy water for?”

“Well,” said Roger, “I’m living in this house, see?  And there are these strange noises.  My kid thinks it’s haunted.  Well, I don’t believe in that stuff, but I think he’d feel better if we did something about it.”

Mark repeated that, regretfully, he didn’t keep any holy water on his person.  He suggested the Catholic church, thought he didn’t think Father Turley would thank him for it.  He wondered what would happen when Roger showed up, looking to score some holy water.  He thought he’d better at least try to discourage that, so he suggested his own theory: that the strange noises in the house were probably just a squirrel looking for a home.  When Roger went back to his laundry, however, Mark began to wonder about that ghost.  There were witches in Corwin—who knew what other strange things might be going on?  Were there fairies in the fairgrounds, dryads in the city park, fauns dancing out crop circles in the cornfields?  He thought he’d better ask Sandra what she knew about such things.

He was still musing along those lines when Terri came in with two big laundry baskets in her arms.  Mark went over to speak to her.  She wasn’t there for the free laundry night, as it turned out; she had liquid detergent with her in the top basket, and a ziplock bag full of quarters.  She didn’t seem to know about the laundry ministry at all.

“Yes,” said Mark, “we’re here once a month, to help folks who have trouble paying for laundry.  Third Tuesday night of every month.”

“That’s cool.  Here, let me help.”  She counted out some quarters for herself, put them in her pocket, and handed the rest of the bag to Mark.  “I guess I’ve never been in here on a third Tuesday night,” said Terri.  “Out in the parking lot, I wondered why there are so many people here.”  She started filling a top-loader.

The next morning, Mark rose early, before his parents were up.  He put on his bathing suit, grabbed a towel, and went down to the dock.  The dawn was still grey.  The water was completely still.  Mark scanned the lake carefully, but there was not a boat in sight.  He reached down from the end of the dock into the lake, and blessed himself with the water.  Thank you for this beautiful lake, dear God, he whispered.  I’m your man, whatever comes.

Then he walked back to the foot of the dock.  He closed his eyes and tried to remember that feeling from his dream: you don’t make yourself go up, you make everything else go down.  Taking a deep breath, he spread his arms as if for flight, and ran down the length of the dock.

At the end of the dock he suddenly pulled up short, feeling completely ridiculous.  His momentum carried him a bit too far, however, and he lost his balance, windmilled his arms, and fell off the end of the dock into the water.

He didn’t dare to repeat the exercise that morning, for fear that his first big splash had drawn the attention of his parents.

The second morning, he decided he would just run down to the end of the dock and dive into the lake.  He would try to pay attention to that brief time between leaving the dock and entering the water—how it felt to be zooming horizontally through the air—but he wouldn’t try to make that time last any longer than usual.  He dove in as planned and repeated the exercise a dozen times or more; it didn’t matter if it woke his parents, since he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary.

The third morning it was raining gently.  At first, Mark decided to stay in bed; the sound of the rain on the cottage roof was soothing, and the thought of going out into that rain for a swim (or a flight) was unappealing.  But when he went back to sleep, he had a vivid dream: he was standing on a cliff in the Starved Rock State Park, well beyond where people were ordinarily allowed to go.  It was night time, and a gibbous moon was shining.  He was looking out off the cliff, and he was considering jumping.  Then suddenly Mark panicked; he realized that he was dreaming, and with a sick dread recalled how much trouble he could get into by dreaming of flying.  He woke in a sweat and lost all interest in going back to sleep.  He decided to get up and make pancakes.

The fourth morning, he awoke in the grey dawn to find that the rain was over.  The weather was cool and still, and banks of grey mist were slowly moving across the lake like surface clouds.  Mark resolved to try again.  He put on his swimsuit and grabbed a towel—then put the towel back down.  I won’t be needing it, he thought deliberately.  When he reached the foot of the dock, he immediately ran forward with his arms outstretched for flight.

 

Monday night, around nine o’clock, Sandra was reading at home.  In her favorite chair, in her bathrobe, with tea and biscotti on the table beside her, she was enjoying the privacy of an evening off.  Her attention wandered from the book, and she began to wonder—just idly—whether perhaps Mark was back from his trip home yet.  His parents sounded like nice people.  She could imagine what it must be like to want to spend time with your parents.  And a cottage on a lake in Maine!

She put her book down, and got up to get a fresh cup of tea.  Just then, there was a knock at the door.  Mug in hand, she went to the door and turned on the porch light.  Peeking through the window by the door, she could see Mark, in jeans and a hoodie.  His wavy brown hair looked wilder than usual, and he was smiling.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.  “Mark!” she said.  “Come in!  Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Hi Sandra, it’s good to see you,” said Mark.  “I feel like I’ve been away forever.  So much has happened—so much I want to tell you.  But,

Sunday after church, Mark stopped by the tavern to tell Sandra that he was heading out of town.  He found her sitting at the bar, doing some paperwork.  She had a copy of the Sun/Gazette beside her, and she looked very cross.

“Hi, Sandra.  You saw that letter from David Caputo?” asked Mark.

“Yes, I saw it,” she responded shortly.

“I sent in my response Saturday, so it should appear in Wednesday’s paper.”

“Great.”  But she didn’t sound like she thought it was great.

“I wish I could do more.  I wish I had done more in the first place.”

“I don’t want you to do more, Mark.  You’re a kind, sweet man, and I’m not mad at you.  But, look, right now I don’t want to be rescued by a man, any man.”

“Especially by a Christian, and a pastor?”

“Well, yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to wring that creep’s chubby neck.  I want to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his fatuous fat face.  But I can’t.  Even if I kicked him in his tiny little balls, he’d just get a martyred look on his face, because it would prove that he was right all along, and I am a dangerous minion of evil.  Did you see how he referred to this country as a Christian nation, as if the rest of us don’t really count as Americans?  Did you see how he backed up his points with scripture—because that’s obviously authoritative for everyone who matters?”  She growled and thumped both fists on the bar.  “I know there’s no way to argue with someone like that.  And after I read the letter, I resolved to ignore it.  But obviously, I can’t even do that.”

“Yes,” said Mark.  “Well, I don’t blame you one bit for being angry.  I wish I could think of something helpful to do, but I guess maybe I’m not the best person to help you right now.  Maybe take Terri with you, and go lift weights, or chop wood, or something?”

“Hah!  I feel like I could chop a log into matchsticks.”

“Well, perfect.  There’s a woodpile behind my house, and some splitting tools in the little shed.  Go knock yourself out.  I’d suggest making a little David Caputo doll and sticking pins in it—but, well, under the circumstances …”

Sandra laughed.  “Yeah … perhaps not the best idea.”

“You’re really scary when you’re angry, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” she said ruefully.

“I actually just came by to let you know … about this extra week of vacation,” he said.  “I’m going to spend it with my parents, in Maine.  Their place is on a lake there, outside of Waterville.  I just wanted to let you know that’s where I am, so you wouldn’t think … I mean, in case you need … well, anyway, that’s where I’ll be.”

“Okay.  Thanks,” said Sandra.  “Have a good trip.  Stop by when you get back.”

“I will.  Bye, Sandra.”

“Bye, Mark.”

Behind the bar, Terri watched him go, shaking her head. “You two are so irritating!  You are absolutely the slowest movers I’ve ever seen.”

“We’re back to that jump on his bones thing, aren’t we?” asked Sandra.

“I’m just saying … if you don’t, someone else will.”

“Like you, maybe?”

“Get a grip, boss.  I’m not the enemy here.”

“No.  Sorry.  Come split some wood with me?”

“Now you’re talking.”

 

Mark sat at his parents’ dinner table, enjoying the unaccustomed refinements.  His mom set an elegant table, even for just the three of them, with cloth napkins, placemats, water and wine glasses, and candles.  He’d blush for his mother to know it, but in his own home, if he cooked dinner at all, it was often just a can of soup, or rice and beans, or macaroni and cheese, eaten straight out of the pot.

“Finish up this rice, honey?” asked his mother.

“Thanks, Mom,

Sandra laughed.  “Are there any more back at your seminary like you and Mark?”

“Oh, yes,” Sarah replied.  “Televangelists give us a bad name, you know.  And now that brings me to my hidden purpose in wanting to speak with you.”

“I knew there was something,” said Sandra.  “But go ahead; I’m ready for anything.”

“Of course you are, my dear.  I wanted to meet you, first and foremost, because the way Mark spoke about you made me very curious.  But also, I must admit, I have a piece of advice for you.  There is, of course, nothing more impolite (and ineffectual) than offering unsolicited advice.  But for Mark’s sake, and now for yours, I’d like to make the attempt.  Will you listen to some advice now—not from a Christian, or from a professor, but from an old woman who wishes you well?”

“I can’t promise to take your advice,” said Sandra, “but I’ll certainly promise to listen to it.”

“That’s all I ask.  Sandra, my dear: I’m afraid for you and for your pagan community.  Mark has told me that you’ve been the victims of several attacks?”

“Yes.  Four that I know of.”

“And you have continued to keep your religious identity secret?  You have not told the police about your religious community, which you think is the real focus of the attacks?

“That’s right.  There’s so much discrimination against pagans.  Some of us, like Terri, are relatively open about our religious practice, but others prefer to keep their secrets.”

“I understand,” said Sarah, “but I think you should reconsider this.  Here’s my unsolicited advice: go public.  Tell the police all you know.  Be interviewed for the newspaper.  March in a parade.  Field a softball team in the church softball league.  There will be repercussions, I’m sure, and it will take courage.  But if you remain in hiding, I fear—and more than that, I strongly suspect—that the attacks you’re experiencing will continue, and worsen.  Televangelists are not the only ones who give Christians a bad name.  There is considerable ignorance and hatred out there, and it thrives in darkness.  Ask them in the LGBT communities, and they’ll tell you this truth: staying in the closet does not keep you safe.  Come out into the light and stand up for yourselves.  I think you’d find that you have allies—and not just me and Mark.”

Sarah stopped speaking and seemed to be waiting for a response.  Sandra didn’t know what to say.  She saw Sarah’s point, and yet … she found the whole idea irritating.  She knew that some of her friends would much rather keep their privacy.  Flora, for one, would probably lose her job as secretary at the Catholic church.

“I do see your point, I think,” she said.  “And I’ll discuss it with the community the next time we meet.  But … well, maybe it’s just petty of me, but it just pisses me off to think that some bully can force us to be public about something so private.”

“I do see that, my dear,” said Sarah, reaching out again to put her hand on Sandra’s.  “And I’m sorry for it.  Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Thanks for giving a damn about us,” responded Sandra.

“While we’re on the subject,” said Mark, tentatively pulling a paper from his jeans pocket, “I have something you both need to see.  Sandra, I’ve been dreading showing this to you, because I need to confess to you how useless I’ve been.  But here we go: this is a letter that I believe is soon going to be published in the local paper.  It’ll be signed by at least three area pastors but, as you can see, it was written by your old friend, David Caputo.”  He passed the letter to Sandra.  Sandra read it, and her heart sank.  She passed it wordlessly over to Sarah.

“I was given that letter at the Corwin Area Pastors meeting,” Mark went on, “and I was asked to sign it.  I didn’t sign it, of course,

Sandra was behind the bar with Terri at five o’clock on Friday night, waiting for Mark and his guest.  There were only a few tables full yet—two tables and two booths—but it would fill up, she knew.  Terri had a tray of pint glasses on her hip, fresh out of the dishwasher, and she was putting them on the shelf above the bar.

Terri was looking toward the door when she stopped in mid-sentence and her eyes got wide.  The tray tipped in her hands, and the glasses on it started to slide.  Sandra made a lunge and tried to catch them, but only managed to knock them further out of control.  Two of them slid off the tray and hit the floor with a prolonged shattering and scattering.

Heads turned and there was some applause.  Someone called out, “Nice catch, Terri!”  But Terri was still staring at the front door.  There stood an older black woman, with Mark just coming in behind her.  That must be his former teacher.  The woman was looking concerned, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her, or Mark, or whatever it was that Terri was staring at.   In a low voice, Sandra asked, “What is it, Terri?”

“Sorry, boss,” said Terri.  “I just—that woman with Mark—I’ve never seen anything like that aura.  It’s almost blinding, like a spirit-creature.  Beautiful, though—no harm in it—sorry, it just took me by surprise.  I’ll clean this up.”

“Okay.  If you’re all right, I’ll go take a booth with Mark and his friend.”

“Yes, I’m fine now,” said Terri, still not taking her eyes off the woman.  “Go ahead.  I’ll get this.”

Sandra went out from behind the bar to meet Mark’s friend.  “Hi Sandra,” he said.  “This is Sarah Wheatley—the Reverend Doctor Sarah Wheatley, my favorite professor from my seminary days.”

“Hi Sarah, welcome to the Rose and Feather.  I’m Sandra.”  They shook hands.  Sandra couldn’t see whatever it was that Terri saw, but she liked the woman’s smile and her confident bearing.  She certainly seemed to radiate a kind of relaxed energy.

“Sandra, it is such a pleasure to meet you,” she said, pressing Sandra’s hand in both of hers.  “Mark has told me a few things about you, and your tavern, and your circle.  This is a lovely place you have here.  Is that young girl behind the bar all right?  No injuries, I hope?”

“She’s fine, thank you.  I hope you get to meet her, later.  She’s one of the best on my staff.  In fact, she’s going to be in charge tonight; I’m taking the night off, to dine with you and Mark.  Let’s get a booth with a good view of the stage, for later.”  She had already had a word with James, the only server yet on the floor, and she guided Mark and Sarah to booth seven, farthest from the front door but closest to the stage.

They took seats in the booth.  Sandra chose the side without a view of the door to the kitchen—so she wouldn’t be tempted to watch the workings of her staff.  Sarah took the other side.  Mark hesitated, apparently unsure which side to sit down on, but Sarah intervened.  “Sit next to Sandra, dear boy, so I can look at you both.”  She gave Sandra a subtle wink.  “There, that’s fine.  Mark, I suppose you know what you’re going to perform after dinner?”

“Yes,” said Mark.  “I wrote this piece—sort of an irreverent interfaith number—a while back.  It seems suitable for the occasion.  It’s something I can’t do in church, but it might work here.”

“Nervous?” Sarah asked.

“Well, no, not nervous, but uncertain.  I’d never been to the Rose and Feather before last week, and I’ve never seen what they do here on open mic nights.  I got a few tips from Terri earlier.  But if my piece doesn’t go over—well, that’s Sandra’s problem.  She made me agree to this.”

Turning to Sandra, he said, “I saw Vicente yesterday, you know.  He assured me that if I suck, people will still applaud.”

Wednesday morning, Mark was working on his sermon in the office when a deep voice at the door interrupted his thoughts by calling his name.  He looked up from his desk to see a strongly-built man he thought he recognized from Sandra’s circle.  He hadn’t learned the man’s name that night, but he thought now that this must be Vicente, the owner of the hot tub.

“It’s Vicente, isn’t it?” he said, rising to shake the big man’s hand.  “Good to see you again.  What can I do for you?”

“Not a thing, brother.  Just the reverse: I’ve been thinking that you might be needing someone to talk to.  We didn’t get much of a chance to talk Sunday night.  I got your office hours from Flora and decided to take a chance and drop in on you.  How are you getting along?”

“Come on in,” said Mark, “and have a seat.  Well, as for how I’ve been getting along, that’s a hard question to answer honestly.  I’m untroubled, at the moment, but that’s only because I’m distracted by my work.”

“Is this a bad time?” asked the man.

“No, that’s not what I meant.  I’m happy to be interrupted today.”  Mark closed the door and went to sit by Vicente.  “I mean that I’m fine, but only because I’ve avoided thinking about some things that I’m going to have to think about, eventually.  So much has happened to me recently.  Including,” he remembered, “a great soak in your hot tub.  Thank you for that.”

“De nada,” said Vicente.  “I hope you enjoyed it?”

He spoke with a childlike sincerity that Mark found surprising.  What an odd affect for such a physically intimidating man!  Terri’s teasing had been easier to deal with.  But Mark decided to take Vicente at face value, and only said, “Yes, very much.  Thank you.”

“As you say,” Vicente continued, “a lot has happened to you recently.  Including, I think, more magic than just the magic of our circle?”

“Now, how do you know about that?” Mark said.  “Sorry—it’s just that I keep having this fear that it’s all going viral on YouTube.”

“No,” laughed Vicente, “and please tell me if this is too private.  I’m only guessing, based on something Terri hinted at.  She’s very perceptive, you know.  If you’ve been having … experiences of power, she’d see that change in you.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” said Mark.  “Well, you’ve called me brother, so as one brother to another, let me tell you what’s happened to me.”  He collected his thoughts.  “I woke up Monday morning in a tree, with no plausible explanation for how I got up there.  I had been dreaming of flying.  Sandra thinks I can actually fly, and did.  I may be unhinged, but I’m beginning to think she’s right.”

Vicente just regarded him steadily, with no change in his expression of grave kindness.  Mark went on, “But I’m not sure.  I’m not sure whether it’s true; and I’m not sure whether, even if it’s true, I’ll ever have the nerve to do it when I’m awake; and I’m not sure what the point of it is—what use it is, to me or to anybody else.”

Vicente reflected in silence for a bit, and then stood up in a surprisingly fluid movement.  He said, “Do you have any change?”

“Change?”

“Yes: change, coins, in your pocket.  Do you have any?”

“I think so.”  Mark fished in his pocket. “Yes, it’s, um, eighty-nine cents.”

“It’ll do.  I’d like to show you something.  Not to show off, but just because I hope it might be helpful to you.”  Vicente took another step back, and settled all his weight on his right foot, lowering his hips and bending his left knee so that just the toes of his left foot were gently touching the floor in front of him.  “Will you stand and face me, please?  At a distance of, say, about six feet?”

Mark did as instructed, wondering what could possibly be going on.  “Now take that handful of coins—that’s it—and throw the whole ha...

Tuesday morning, Mark pulled into the church parking lot feeling optimistic about the day.  It would be nice to get back to a bit of a routine after his strange weekend.  He would start by updating the web site and making CDs from Sunday’s service.  Then he’d look at the lectionary readings for next week, and see whether they sparked any ideas for music and preaching.

Mrs. Fludd was at her desk as usual.  Mark wondered whether, now that he knew her secret identity, she would behave differently, but there was no immediate change visible in her.  Their day began as always:

“Good morning, Flora.”

“Good morning!  How are we?”

“I’m well, Flora.  How are you?”

“You know me: bright eyed and bushy tailed!”  Then she continued: “The copier’s down—I called, and they’re coming out to work on it this morning.  Then Lynn Gertzig called, and said she’s coming to see you at 9:00.”

Uh oh, thought Mark—Lynn was currently the Moderator, the elected lay leader of the church.  Various thoughts flashed through his mind: was it about the Wiccan circle?  The hot tub?  Maybe there really was a YouTube video of him in flight?

“Did she say what it was about?” Mark asked.

“No,” replied Mrs. Fludd.  After a pause, she added: “The Church Council did meet yesterday evening.”

“Did they?”  Mark’s apprehension soared.  “There wasn’t a meeting scheduled, was there?”

“Nothing on the calendar,” Mrs. Fludd confirmed.

“Huh.  Well, thanks.  I’ll be in the study.”  Mark went down to his office, with a growing sense of impending calamity.  He flipped through emails with only half his attention; the other half was busily thinking about how much notice they would have to give him, and how long he could afford to be unemployed, and whether he’d be able to find another church ministry.  He was still at it when Lynn Gertzig knocked smartly on the door.

“Hello, Mark.”  She always pronounced his name Mahhk, showing her New England roots; that connection to his parents’ home made him feel a little steadier.

“Hi, Lynn,” said Mark.  “Come in and sit down.  Flora told me you called.  What’s up?”

“Well, Mark, we have a concern.  The Church Council has a concern, I mean.”

“Yes?”  Here it comes, thought Mark.

“We hear that you spent a night sleeping at your desk.  And we also hear—well, everyone has heard by now—that you’ve been doing some … well, some extreme sleepwalking.  We’re concerned that these are signs of stress, and the Church Council has voted to take some action on it.”

Mark’s pulse began to race.  But Lynn went on: “It’s just that we all think you’re doing a fantastic job, and we really don’t want to lose you.  So, the Council has given me three requests to pass on to you.  The first is to take an extra week’s vacation.  We realize that you may not be able to drop everything you’re doing on the spur of the moment, but we strongly recommend that you take this extra week as soon as possible—definitely this month.  Call me when you’ve settled on the dates, and I’ll arrange for a supply preacher to substitute for you.”

Lynn handed him an envelope, and went on.  “Second, please accept this.  It’s a check for four hundred dollars.  We want you to use it to help do something relaxing on your vacation.  It won’t get you to Club Med, obviously, but it will at least help you get out of town.  Get away from whatever it is that’s stressing you out.”

“Thirdly, we’d like you to talk to someone about it—about your job stress.  Is there someone in the Association office who can help you?”

“Yes,” said Mark.  “Yes, there is.  I’ll call them today.  Lynn, I …”  Mark suddenly felt like crying, and started to choke up.  No, mustn’t do that, he thought—they already think I’m mentally unstable...

Showered and dressed again, Sandra felt refreshed.  Her incipient headache was gone.  Her bones all felt looser in their sockets, and she felt much better about the idea of going to work.  She drove Mark over to the Rose and Feather for lunch.  He was very quiet, but it seemed like a relaxed, calm-after-a-storm kind of quiet, and she let it be.  He had taken everything surprisingly well; and at least he wasn’t running away.  And he had called her my dear—casually, as if he’d always addressed her that way.  Well, he was probably light-headed from the heat.

Parking on the side street next to the tavern, they met someone coming out of the empty storefront on the other side—a tall, thin man Sandra recognized as one of the ushers from Mark’s church.

“Hey, Pastor!  Climbed any ladders today?”

“Hey, Alan.  Yes, I figured everyone would be hearing about that soon.”

“Did you really get stuck up a tree?”

“Yes, I really did.”

“And did you really climb up there in your sleep?”

“It seems so.”

“But you weren’t really naked, were you?”

“No!  I was in a T-shirt and shorts, the ones I sleep in.  Where’d you hear this story, anyway?”

“Up at the Ace.  Al Skanderson had it that you’d been dreaming about Jacob’s ladder, and you’d climbed up a ladder in your birthday suit.”

Poor Mark! Sandra thought.  He was right; the story’s already all over town.  Aloud, she said, “I’m just taking him to lunch.  Sleepwalking really works up an appetite, you know.”

Mark said, “You remember Sandra, Alan?  She came to church for the first time yesterday.”

“Absolutely!  Nice to see you again, Sandra.  Take good care of our pastor, now.  I think he’s been working too hard.”

“Any action on that place, Alan?” asked Mark, nodding toward the storefront Alan had come out of.

“Not yet,” said he.  “Ever since the Wal-Mart came in, there just isn’t as much of a market for downtown retail space.  But I’m showing it again this afternoon.”

“Come on, Mark,” said Sandra.  “Time for that burger.”  She took Mark’s arm and started leading him firmly away, down to the back entrance.

“Be seeing you, Alan,” said Mark.

Alan waved a cheerful goodbye.  “Don’t climb any ladders, Pastor!”

They went in, and down the short hallway from the back entrance into the Rose and Feather.  Sandra steered Mark to a seat at the bar.  Terri was there in her corner by the register.

“Hi, guys,” said Terri.  “Hey, you’re glowing, Sandra!”  Her eyes narrowed.  “You too, Mark.  What have you two been doing?”

“Hot tubbing at Vicente’s,” said Sandra.

“Oooooh!  Do tell.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” said Sandra.  “Reverend Collins read me some very improving selections from Fordyce’s Sermons.”  Mark put his head down on the bar and groaned.  “Actually,” she went on, “we just went to talk about last night’s circle.  Go easy on the boy, today.  He’s had a difficult morning.”

“Okay,” said Terri, “but I want to hear all about it later.”

“Oh, you will,” said Mark.  “I can guarantee that.  But first, could I please have a Guinness and a burger?  Bacon, cheese, nothing else, medium rare?”

“Sure thing.”  She was already drawing the Guinness.  “Sandra?”

“Coke and a burger please, Terri.  Mark’s is on the house.  He’s earned it, as you’ll find out.”

“Back in a flash,” she said, and went in the kitchen to put in their order.  She was being unusually discreet, but she had a huge grin on her face, and Sandra knew that discretion wouldn’t last long.

“Mark, everything we’ve talked about, it’s safe with me.  But, you know, Terri’s about to ask you for the whole story.”

“It’s okay.

The jets of hot water were exactly what Mark’s sore muscles and joints needed.  He closed his eyes and took refuge in the sensation, paying attention to the enjoyment of the hot water, so that he wouldn’t have to think about the tree episode—and also, so that he wouldn’t have to think about the way Sandra’s two-piece bathing suit hugged her curves.  Just relax and enjoy the water, he told himself.

Vicente’s spa was in the walk-out basement of his home.  The basement was finished in pine and equipped as a gym.  A weight bench and a rack of dumbbells and free weights occupied one end.  An open area in the middle was dedicated to some kind of martial-arts training; there were traditional weapons mounted on the wall.  The spa stood at the other end of the room, next to a small bathroom with a corner shower.  The whole setup made Mark feel self-conscious about his own slim physique; he was pretty sure he couldn’t press half the weight currently racked up above Vicente’s bench.  He’d been relieved to get himself under the water.

Ahh, the water.  Now that he was in it, he was glad he’d come.  “This is perfect,” he said.  “Just what I needed.  Bless you for thinking of it.”

“No problem,” said Sandra.  She was seated across from him in the spa, which looked as if it had room for six—or, well, five, if one of them was Vicente.  Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail, which kept it mostly out of the water.  “So now,” she said, “tell me your thoughts about last night’s circle.”

“Well.”  Mark paused to think for a minute.  “You really have a great community.  I guess that’s point one: I was impressed with how well they worked together, how they were taking such good care of each other.  And I was impressed with your leadership.”

“Thanks.  They’re wonderful people.  But they don’t really take much leading.”

“Hmm.”  That didn’t sound right.  “I can’t tell whether you’re just being modest, or whether you actually don’t value your own skills as a leader.  But what I saw last night was leadership—before, during and after the circle.  It reminded me of something from the Tao: “When the best leader’s work is done, the people say, ‘We did it ourselves.’”

“Okay, so I’m a leader,” she said, rising to rest her arms on the side of the tub.  Her arms were tanned, and very smooth.  Mark submerged up to his chin, and concentrated on the heat.

He went on.  “The circle itself reminded me, a little, of a style of Christian gathering I used to participate in sometimes—a Quaker meeting for worship.  You know how I said the Correllians were like the Episcopalians of the pagan world?  Well, you guys seem more like the Quakers of the pagan world.  I mean, my Quaker friends might not recognize your ritual at the beginning and at the end, but I think they would recognize that long part in the middle there, where you all sat together silently until someone felt moved to contribute.  I’ve never imagined that style of collective soul-care as a pagan practice.  I found it very interesting, intellectually, and very powerful, emotionally.”

“Well, that’s not just a style thing,” said Sandra.  “I think it’s pretty central to who we are.  Our circles welcome each person’s contribution, each person’s agency and creativity.  And we experience the magic in the world as playful and spontaneous.  It wouldn’t be fitting for our circles to be heavily structured and rehearsed.  Like—sorry—like your Sunday morning worship.”

“Huh,” said Mark.  “I’ve always thought of our worship as comparatively light on ritual.  Compared with, like, a Catholic mass?”

“Maybe,” she responded.  “But still, it’s all planned out in advance.  You meet every week on the same day at the same time.  The ushers hand out a bulletin that tells people, step by step, exactly what’s going to happen for the next hour.  At the service I attended,

And then, when Mark woke up in the morning, it was his day off; it was exactly one week after he’d first met Sandra; and he was sitting uncomfortably on a limb, fifteen feet up in the old tulip tree.  With a fearful effort, he managed to stand on the limb and grab the branch above.  But he was unable to get comfortable, unable to get down, and entirely unable to account for having been asleep up there in the first place.

It was broad daylight, but Mark had no other clue about the time.  Sandra was supposed to drop by the house at around 10:00, he remembered.  Where was she, anyway?  He waited an uncomfortable hour for her to arrive—sometimes standing, sometimes sitting on his perch in the tree.  In the end, however, it wasn’t Sandra who arrived first at the house; it was Tom Bradford, the mail carrier, climbing the steps to the mailbox by the front door.

Oh, well, thought Mark.  Any port in a storm.

“Hello, Tom!” he called from the tree.  Tom looked around, but didn’t see him.

Mark released one aching arm from the limb above, long enough to wave it in the air.  “Up here, Tom!” he called.

Tom looked up.  “Pastor Collins!  Whatcha doin’ up there?”

“Trying to get down!  Can you help me?  The ladder’s right down there.”

“Sure.  Just a minute.”  Tom put down his mailbag and got the extension ladder.  “Pushed the ladder over, huh?  Whatcha doin’ up there, anyway?”

“I don’t know, really.  I must have been dreaming.”  Damn, damn, damn!  That would have been a really good time for a little white lie, Mark thought.  Would it have been so hard to say, I was trying to rescue a cat, or something?

“That must’ve been some dream!  Here, how’s this?”  Tom had extended the ladder fully and now propped it against the trunk, next to the big bottom limb.  It didn’t quite reach, but by sitting back down, Mark would just be able to get his feet on the top rung.  He found even this maneuver intimidating, but it was either that or calling the fire department.  And he didn’t want to look like a coward.  So, he sat down on the limb, lowered his feet to the first rung, and swung himself out onto the ladder.  The rungs of the ladder hurt his bare feet, and his legs were trembling embarrassingly as he climbed down.

“Thanks, Tom,” said Mark when he got to the bottom, shaking hands with the man.  “It’s a good thing you came along when you did.  I was starting to get thirsty up there.”

“Glad to help.  Hey, you don’t look so good, Pastor.  You better sit down—or maybe lie down.”

“No, I’m fine.  Thanks again, Tom.  I’ll just … I’ll just get a little breakfast, though.”

“Right.”  Tom looked as though he was going to ask a question, but then changed his mind.  He picked up his mailbag, and handed Mark his mail.  “Here ya go.  I’ll just get back to it then.  Be seeing you.”

He began to walk away, but turned back after a moment, and said with a broad smile, “Hey—maybe you dreamed you was climbing Jacob’s ladder!”

“Maybe that was it.  Thanks again, Tom.”  Mark had a brief impulse to ask Tom to please not tell anyone about the whole tree thing, but decided against it.  Trying to hush it up would only make things worse.  Sharing stories was Tom’s favorite pastime, and this one would be too good to pass up.  Might as well get used to it: half the people he met in town would soon be ribbing him about Jacob’s ladder.

 

Sandra woke up feeling bleary.  After the officer had taken her report, she’d sat up reading for another hour before she’d felt like she might be able to go back to sleep.  Now it was already 9:00, and she was running late.  Not a good way to start the day.  She did her morning routine on the yoga mat—a fifteen-minute flow that was part of her daily practice—and it helped her to feel more like herself.