Drawn by a light she knew should not be there, Grand returned to the kitchen. She could have sworn she had secured her nook, yet, casting a glow candle soft, the oven light. "Zeke, did you turn the oven light on?"
"I did." His tone, Tao smooth she called it, implied query asked and query answered. Nothing more needed, nothing more forthcoming.
"Kinda late to be cooking."
"Wasn't planning on cooking."
"And the light?"
Zeke put his book down and looked over his glasses, his tawny face glowing warmly in lamp light like a lion facing twilight. "Feels like home when the light is on, that's all."
When I took the leap, arms outstretched, chest bowed and head held high, I can say without any doubt, for the first time in my life, I felt free. The leap itself, although mere seconds, remains to this day, the single most defining memory I have. Imagine a waterfall and you are standing behind the cascade and all that you see is vague, fuzzy, ear pounding and colorless. You fear the water until pushed and on the other side is peaceful quiet, vivid color and where there was wet cloak heaviness, now, only the lightness of a bird in flight, bones hollow, wings spread, endless vistas verdant and lush.
I had heard, and I expected, to feel regret. Instead, as strange as this may sound, a rebirth. The world I knew could not leap with me, would not dare to dare as I had dared and I felt a smile I could not repress, a joy I could not contain, a happiness as water to the fish, as air to the bird, as wisdom in the child. I won't say that time stood still. I was well aware of falling, but to fall without fear, to embrace death and in the embracing of death to experience life on a plane beyond my previous comprehension effected what I can only describe as an internal expansion, as if before I had to define the world with only a handful of words, now I saw with the eyes of a thesaurus, my mind burning in a light seen without eyes.
Then I hit the water (laughter here), and, I shite you not, I felt like a baby yanked from the womb, the sting of life upon me, my sentence served. Took three days to get the taste of salt out of my nose and I would by lying if I didn't say I enjoyed every sneeze and snort and ache and throb, which, much to my dismay, began to fade as the color from a rose plucked from the bush.
He sat, head in hands, heavy as stone. His eyes looked without seeing, the glitter of the night ocean lost before his mind; the wind, picking up as the moon rose, mute to his ears. Nor did he feel the goose pimples on his arms. The balance of one's life, what is taken and what is given, a question without an impartial answer. Worthy, what did that mean. To be worthy, the question felt as horn on horn, one falling upon the other, neither giving way, haunches sprung, necks swung, two rams banging heads.
And there was that sound again. Bruit was the technical term. Turbulent flow. No stethoscope necessary. Would they know? Would they care? He stood, expanded his chest and listened. No denying the sensation. Divine justice perhaps. But then, the question returned. Worthy? One would have to be worthy for the divine to give a frail. Kyra had said something similar. Staring into death, she saw a great nothingness. And it dawned on her, that all her beliefs could be nothing but lies. Worthy of what? Worthy to what?
Whether the ocean was listening or beckoning he could not tell. His eyes felt dry in the salt air, the flesh of his orbs paper thin, the light dimming from within. Numbness sat in his fingertips like lead weights, only his hair moving, dancing in the breeze, highlighted with moonlight. He took a step toward the edge of the outcrop, toes like claws grasping rock like bird. Could he fly or would he drop. Accident or intentional. Wouldn't be his frailing problem to solve. His shirt billowed like a kite and his legs appeared as a diver, arms outstretched, chest bowed out. As toe kissed rock goodbye, he expected regret and smiled. Even in his final act, he would be denied.
Trev ran. From Em. From Mairi. But mostly, from himself, or, as he might rationalize, to himself, whatever the hell that meant. The sand under his feet, between his toes, burned with coarseness or friction or heat or all the above but he ran anyway, ran till he felt his heart in his chest, heard it throb in his ears till even the surf sounded distant. Then he ran more, ran to extinguish the pain through sheer exhaustion as if his mind, like an old sludge-filled engine, simply needed to spin, to rev, to burn the gunk of regret through physical exertion.
For all his effort, he might as well have tried to kill the fly on his forehead with a sledgehammer. Perhaps then his bastard memory would reveal what was real and what had only been a dream or, maybe, just his over active imagination. Em asked the wrong question at the wrong time and Janus damn her for pushing the issue, an issue he himself couldn't reconcile, his memory a puzzle, complete it seemed except for those extra pieces, pieces she demanded an accounting and he but a mumbling idiot had not an answer. Not one frailing answer. Remember she had said. Remember frailing what. Remember frailing what.
Climbing wet rock, the air turned cooler in the aestival evening. A tide pool, calm as glass, reflected herds of cotton-ball clouds roaming a sky pristine. Trev leaned over, his face unrecognizable. His smile, a grin; his eyes hollowed. Indignation rose from gut to throat, stuck, lacking object to strike. Curses, ugly, tremored his cracked lips, held within to stew, for the stewing resonated a delicious pain, one familiar, welcomed as enemies joining hands against a common foe.
He played the events over in his mind, what he said, what he didn't say, what he wished he had thought to say. She looked so beautiful in her hurt, like a little girl discovering a cherished belief was nothing more than a lie, and the liar had nothing but excuses that belied not care and concern or even wisdom; rather, a glimpse, a look into the void, an opening into the chasm they called adulthood--code language for, we don't have a frailing clue and neither will you in time. She had that kind of look on her face and the image, static, unchanging, bore a hole between his eyes like a bullet, one he had fired come around the world, and in perfect symmetry stuck him dead stupid, tongue ripped from moor, throat afire, surrounded by water he couldn't drink. Licking his cardinalate lips, he could not deny some perverse pleasure in the taste.
He walked in the door like Janus himself, halo of light, accompanied by an angel. Ariel skipped and danced around him as children free from life's gravity do, her golden hair shimmering (without a light source), her eyes like stars, her smile as sunrise. Confidence, long lost and now returned, emanated from John, as clear to my senses as light to new born eyes. I reminded myself to breath and felt, simultaneously, elation and heartrending bottomless destitute sadness. His eyes, like gimlets, bore into my heart and his hand, upon my head, felt as a cradle made to catch the swoon. Speechless, I watched, a patient (secretly) glad to be ill, lost in the moment of what could never be, swimming, straining against tide, sinking deeper, engulfed by a force preternatural.
His smell, so close, was no smell and every smell, my memory working to reference, searching for what did not exist. As a palm before hurricane, I bent, stubborn, resisting, angry, holding on, fighting. He braced my weight on his arm, my waist spooning into his, lips separated by inches, anticipation, closer. I resisted. Then he spoke and as a finger in the bubble, the magic was gone. We were but two umbrellas one late afternoon.
I walked from hospital to chapel on an afternoon best remembered as a near perfect summer day. The sky, a deep blue, the kind of blue typically seen only at elevation; the trees, hardy in their battle against wind and rain swayed like majestic giants in a gentle breeze, whispering well wishes; the grounds, pristinely manicured, a sign of care and money communicating peace through order and design.
The chapel rose from the ground, stone by stone, each cut by hand, each unique, patterns of nature expressing beauty to shame great masters. I walked alone. My thoughts happy for the space. The chapel growing in size with each step and I felt as a son returned to the father, my shoulders heavy with lessons learned the hard way.
He approached and I thought nothing of it, an older soul in a body at ease, steps soft, eyes clear, a smile natural in the ways of smiling, as natural as the flower before the sun. I would have made nothing of the encounter, ordinarily, until he spoke, not to me as much as with me, as if his only mission was this moment, to greet, say hello; and I felt an energy I had not felt in a long time, an energy few possess, an energy with the power to move heart and soul rather than stone and soil. We talked for some time before he apologized and introduced himself as the chaplain. I enquired if the chapel was open and he said by all means I must visit, to spend as much time as I liked. His handshake felt warm, not of hand, but of heart and I believe he knew, from the touch, my soul needed the energy he gave. Before I could break the spell, he was gone and I smiled or perhaps he smiled me. I watched him walk away, his feet soft upon the ground and I thought that under different circumstances and another time, I'd like to share word and bread and I'd like to think he would have welcomed the occasion.
For the brief moment of our encounter, my fears took pause, and as the old soul disappeared into the distance, they returned, shadows of mind emerging for breath, begging for attention and so I drew breath and welcomed them to journey with me and together we would visit the chaplain's domain. I was not as alone as I had thought.
I entered not from the main door, but rather from the side, a smaller arched door adorned in carving that needed no translation. To the right rose the main tower, nankeen stone reaching into the sapphire sky, and I felt not alone. Looking into the bell tower, I saw no one and I knew at this moment no one would be in the tower. Still, I looked again and the feeling grew stronger. I drew breath and my hand began to tremble and before my mind flashed a vision or a dream or perhaps just a hope.
As promised the wooden door was unlocked, opening with heft, notably without squeal or squeak. Natural light spilled into the warmly lit narthex, a candle unto itself keeping watch over the darkened nave. Aisles lined the cavernous interior and from above hung embroidered banners, each a testament to trial, tribulation and triumph. I felt as if transported to the Tao Hall of Whales and, as if from instinct, the solemn weight of memory bowed my head. From light years removed, I felt a bond sewn in the sinew of brothers, a bond I feared I would never feel again.
Raising my head, I breathed in the cool air, letting the light from the stained glass walls illuminate the path before me in a kaleidoscope of color. The nave's belly held not pews but chairs, perhaps a thousand, all the same, arraigned with meticulous precision, slated backs slightly curved, reaching upward, ever upward, like soldiers in attention. I stood front and center, the alter some distance before me, not another soul to be seen.
Following the lead of the chairs, my eyes looked up and I saw arch upon arch, wood inlaid upon stone, receding as I imagined trumpets might. On either side of the alter, perched as owls at night, the gleaming instruments of divine calling. I spoke, almost unconsciously, two words, the only two words that seemed fitting: My Janus. What happened next, I should not have been surprised, made me smile. My voice, of what should have been only a whisper, resonated, not by accident, but by what could only be called intelligent design, and I longed to sit among many, listening to a single voice, the old soul, bring order to chaos, his voice as clear from the rear as from the front, as from the conversation of what seemed a long time ago.
Then, for some unknown reason, standing in the luxury of other men's labor, I felt utterly alone. The feeling started in my gut and like a wave rolled upward leaving my face flush. I seldom feel lonely, but in this moment, standing within this storied place, so magnificent, I missed my boy. I missed Ceru and the wonderful hues upon the smooth stone before me appeared to pool, the image more dreamlike with each remembering. I made the sign of the Tao and bending on one knee, lower my head.
I never heard the steps. His hand laid upon my shoulder like a heating pad. I rose without looking as he said come with me, and we begin to walk. In the center of the nave stood a fount, not of water, but of light. I stood to one side and the old soul to the other. He nodded his head and I placed my hands in the fountain of light. What happened next I cannot explain no more than music and be explained in words or a song by ink and paper.
__________
Younger C and me outside of All Saints Chapel on the campus of The University of the South, inspiration for the chapter posted above.
