Gillie and her friend picked up their pieces and put them in the back of the car, and I noticed the cleric was watching them with barely concealed disdain.
"Thanks for helping out," I said to him. "I was beginning to lose my temper."
He faced me and his hostility was evident in both voice and expression. "Yes, well, such incidents are unfortunate. However, I do wish you people . . ." For the second time he left a sentence hanging in the air.
Her task completed, Gillie came over to me while her friend closed the hatchback. "Oh, Mike, how can we thank you? Sandy and I were so frightened."
"They were only kids," I said modestly.
"Thugs," she corrected and I shrugged noncommittally. The other girl, Sandy, joined us and I could tell she was still shaky. "You're Mike?" she said. "The others have told me about you and Midge. I hope you've managed to settle in at Gramarye."
The vicar appeared to do a sudden reappraisal of me. "You're the couple who've moved into Flora Chaldean's cottage?"
"One half of the couple," I admitted.
He immediately stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "Then please let me welcome you to the parish and ask your forgiveness for not having popped out to see you and your good lady by now. I'd heard you'd arrived, of course, but my pastoral duties have kept me rather busy of late. I had intended . . ."
I shook his hand, already becoming used to his unfinished sentences and his entreaties to forgive. "That's okay, we've been a bit busy ourselves. I'm Mike Stringer."
"Peter Sixsmythe." He pumped my hand. "The Reverend Sixsmythe."
"We have to get back, Mike," Gillie interrupted. "It was so good of you to help us—I hope you'll allow us to repay the debt."
"No problem," I said, now feeling a trifle embarrassed (smug, nonetheless). "And nothing to repay. I'm just glad I happened along. See you soon, eh?"
"You will, most definitely."
I hadn't meant it as an invitation. To my surprise, both girls took turns to lean forward and kiss my cheek before climbing into their car. The vicar and I stood aside as Gillie reversed the Citroen from the parking space, and she waved from the window as they left the car park.
"Mr. Stringer," said the Reverend Sixsmythe, his school-boyish face grave, "are you, er, well acquainted with those people?"
I frowned. "Not really. Gillie and a couple of her friends have dropped by the cottage from time to time. They're very neighborly."
"Yes. Yes." The words were drawn out as though he were considering the implications. "Look, would you mind if I came over to see you tomorrow. I know I should have done so before, but as I explained . . ."
I hesitated. Religion wasn't one of my strongest points— not organized religion, at any rate—and I couldn't see myself turning up for Sunday Service on a regular basis; Midge, maybe, but definitely not me. Not that I'm a nonbeliever—far from it—but such beliefs are a personal and very private thing to me, and sharing only makes me feel uncomfortable. Churches make me fidgety. Still, what could I say to this anxious cleric?
"Sure, that'll be fine. I'll tell Midge you're coming."
"Midge is your good lady?"
"My girlfriend."
"Ah." That was a small "ah," no "living in sin" judgment involved. "I shall look forward to seeing you both. Will some time during the morning be all right?"
I nodded assent.
"Jolly good. And I do hope the little incident today hasn't left you with a bad impression of our village, Mr. Stringer. Such upsets are very rare here, I can assure you." He opened his car door, but didn't climb in immediately; instead he asked me a question. "Did you know that these new friends of yours belong to a sect called the Synergist Temple?"
"I found out today."
"I see. They hadn't mentioned it before?"
"No. As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Hoggs in the hardware store who told me."
"I wonder if they have said anything to you about Gramarye itself? Anything at all?"
Weird question, I thought. "Uh-huh. They're interested generally in how we're getting on there, but nothing more. What makes you ask?"
He checked his watch. "I'm rather late for an appointment right now, so I must park my car and get along. Perhaps we might discuss this further tomorrow." He ducked inside the car, then his head came back through the open window again. "A word of caution in the meanwhile: be very careful of these people, Mr. Stringer. Yes, be very careful."
I left him reversing into the parking space vacated by Gillie's Citroen and walked on to my own car, not sure of how seriously I should be taking him. Perhaps he just didn't like maverick religions. Or maybe there really was something sinister about these people.
One way or another, I was sure we would soon find out. I had a feeling in my bones.
SYNERGISTS
KINSELLA ARRIVED later that evening, alone apart from two bottles of home-made wine.
I was sitting on the doorstep, tossing bread crusts to Rumbo, who was storing them nearby on one side of the path, nimbly catching each piece and dashing back with it, kicking up a storm to warn off the late-shift birds. Midge was inside, clearing up the dinner things.
"You'll need a suitcase to carry that lot home," I advised Rumbo and he chattered back at me to get on with the game. I'd always thought that squirrels only ate nuts and acorns and berries, so it came as a surprise that the rascal would chomp anything offered to him.
This time Kinsella arrived in a different vehicle, a red Escort, and I looked on curiously when the car drew up outside the gate. When I realized who it was something inside me sagged: the vicar's cautionary words had obviously reinforced my own reservations about this blond bomber and his companions.
He waved to me from the other side of the gate and, for some reason, he stayed there as if waiting for an invitation to enter. It occurred to me that neither he nor his friends had ever set foot on Gramarye property, our conversations always conducted over the fence. Sheer politeness, I told myself, plain old-fashioned good manners on their part. Heaving myself up, I sauntered down the path toward him, Rumbo showing his irritation that the game had been interrupted by clenching his tiny fists and squawking fiercely. I dropped the last crusts onto his pile as I passed, and this soothed him somewhat, although I could still hear him grumbling behind me as he tidied up his hoard.
"Hi there, Mike," Kinsella called as I approached, the wine cradled in one arm as he raised the other. He was grinning broadly, all suntan and white teeth. "I've brought a little somethin' to show our appreciation for what you did today."
"Oh, you mean the trouble in the village?" I said humbly and feigning surprise. "They were only kids out for a bit of hooliganism."
"Not quite kids, as I heard it. Gillie told me you gave 'em hell. She and Sandy send their love and thanks once again, and I bring you wine."
"That isn't necessary, you know."
"Sure it is. Look, why don't we open a bottle of this stuff right now? I promise you, it tastes real good."
He stood there holding the wine bottles by the necks over the gate and it would have been churlish of me not to have invited him in. I swung open the gate and waved him through. "Sounds like a great idea," I said.
I expected him to sweep right past, full of bonhomie and sunshine health; but he didn't—he stood on the threshold like a nervous bride. I stared and it was only when he became aware of me once again that the old swagger returned.
"Uh, sorry," he said quickly. "I suddenly wondered if I were imposing. You might be very busy just now,"
"Not this time of day. To tell you the truth, I could use a drink."
He stepped inside and I thought—I only thought—I saw him shiver.
"Boy, you've worked hard on the patch," he remarked as I led the way.
"Midge has done most of it. She's amazed me the way she's coped with all these different flowers. I think moving down here has revived all her horticultural instincts."
Rumbo, who no doubt had been pondering on how to get his groceries back
to the nest, jerked his head around at our approach and his small sharp teeth bared in alarm. I was amused to discover he was so shy of strangers when he shot off like a rocket, streaking up the embankment at the side of the cottage to disappear into foliage.
"Cute pet," said Kinsella, chuckling aloud.
"Not so much a pet, more of a regular house-caller. He's usually more friendly."
We reached the front door and I went straight in while Kinsella lingered on the doorstep, evidently to admire the garden further. "Fantastic colors," I heard him say. "Incredible."
"Midge?" I called out. "We've got a guest."
She emerged from the next room, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and with an expectant smile on her face. I pointed and she peered around the door.
"Hub, what a nice surprise!"
" 'Lo, Midge. I've brought this hero of yours a token of gratitude."
"Hero? Oh, you mean his knight-to-the-rescue act this morning."
(Not being the strong silent type, I'd thought the incident worth mentioning. However, I hadn't said anything about the Reverend Sixsmythe's words on the Synergists; I'd leave that to him tomorrow when he could also explain himself to me a bit more.)
"He certainly saved our sisters from some serious hassle. They came back kinda shaky but full of praise for Mike."
"Hey, don't stand outside," I said, feeling my face going red, "come on in."
He accepted the invitation and it seemed to me he was as hesitant as before. Maybe tentative is a better word, because he stepped inside like a diver walking underwater, his movement slow and deliberate. As dusk was settling it was more gloomy inside the kitchen than usual and he had trouble adjusting his eyes to the change in light, blinking them rapidly as he peered around.
"We thought we'd open a bottle now," I told Midge and the idea apparently pleased her.
"I'll fetch some glasses," she said, going to the sideboard. First she pulled open a drawer and tossed me the corkscrew, then she crouched at a cupboard door and brought out two glasses.
"Aren't you going to join us, Midge?" asked Kinsella, rubbing at one of his bare arms as if lie felt cold.
"Never touch the stuff. Tell you what, I'll join you with a Coke."
All three of us sat around the kitchen table and I poured wine for the American and myself, while Midge drank straight from the Coke bottle.
"We're very grateful, Mike," said Kinsella, raising his glass.
"Aah, you know the type—all piss and wind. They saw a coupla girls on their own and thought they'd have some fun. They wouldn't have bothered if you'd have been with Gillie and Sandy."
"I don't know about that. Seems we're not too popular around this place."
"Is that right?" I said, as if it came as a surprise.
He nodded grimly. "They imagine we're a bunch of religious freaks or somethin'. You know what it's like in these tiny backwater communities, suspicious of all outsiders, especially when they're involved in somethin' the locals don't understand."
"The Synergist Temple? I've got to admit, I don't understand that either. What is it, some kind of new religion?"
He grinned, and Midge raised her eyebrows.
"Synergist?" she asked.
"Someone in the village has already told you about us," said Kinsella.
"Yeah, the owner of the hardware store."
"Then you already know they don't like us."
I felt as if I'd been found out in a lie, but Kinsella was smiling across the table at me.
"Synergist?" Midge repeated, noisily tapping the Coke bottle on the wood surface for attention.
Kinsella turned to her. "That's the name for our Order."
"Strange name. I don't think I've ever heard of it before. What does it mean exactly?"
Kinsella sat forward in his chair. "Firstly, we're not a crackpot religion, not like many that are around today, so please don't associate us with any of those. We're not a charity, nor are we a religious sect in the strictest sense." He was still smiling, but now looking reassuringly from face to face. "So, let me explain about Synergism. Fundamentally, it's the belief that the human will and the Divine Spirit are the two agents that can cooperate in regeneration."
That statement took time to sink in with Midge and me. We stared back blankly and his smile broadened to a grin. Despite his relaxed manner, though, I detected a serious intent in his eyes.
"Just as various chemicals act upon each other," he went on, "so we believe that the thought processes of the human mind—which are, y'know, only a complicated series of chemical reactions—can combine with the Divine Spirit, our collective souls, if you like, to produce a unique power."
I kicked Midge's foot under the table, but she ignored me.
"What kind of power are you talking about?" she asked Kinsella.
"Oh, it's diverse. The power to cure, to influence, the power to create . . . it can be manifested in so many ways."
"You mentioned regeneration . . ."
"Regeneration is a word we use to cover all aspects of our doctrine. It means the regeneration of our own spirits, and that of . . ." He broke off there, now his smile apologetic. "You're probably thinking this all sounds crazy, right?"
I had to agree, although I kept quiet.
"But look, all religious devotees pray to their particular deity, whether Christian, Moslem, Jewish—the list is endless. Most times they pray for Divine Intervention, for certain things to happen, or maybe not to happen. They could be praying for themselves, their loved ones, or even the world in general. The point is, they're trying to direct the natural course of events, their own particular god the intermediary or catalyst, or specifically the creator of those events. Our doctrine isn't so different from theirs."
He sat back in his chair, waiting for us to absorb the revelation.
"But there is a difference," I prompted. /
"Only inasmuch as we, with the help of our founder and guide, are learning to combine and direct our energies in a more physical sense and, of course, acting in conjunction with the Divine Spirit."
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm still not quite with you. This, uh, 'Divine Spirit,' is what?"
"You, me, our thoughts." He waved his arms expansively. "The very air around us. And the earth itself, the very power it generates." His voice had become hushed and I found even I was holding my breath. His enthusiasm had somehow charged the atmosphere.
Nobody seemed to want to break the silence between us for a while and I noticed it was becoming quite dark in the kitchen. The evening had taken on a chill, too.
Midge picked up the Coke bottle to drink from it, her eyes never leaving Kinsella. "Are there . . . are there many of you at the gray house?" she asked before touching the bottle to her lips.
"Between forty and fifty, I guess. We call the place our sanctuary, by the way; it's our retreat as well as our temple. And we're growing in numbers all the time." He leaned his elbows on the table, his head jutting forward. "You know, you two should come over and see us, I really think you'd find it an interesting experience."
I spoke up before Midge could say anything. "We're still pretty busy around the place . . ."
He laughed and reached forward to pat my arm. "Don't get nervous, Mike, we won't try to convert you. No, that's not the way we operate at all."
I remembered Hoggs's words in the village that morning indicating otherwise.
"You'd meet some very interesting people," Kinsella continued heartily, "and from many different parts of the world. You'd maybe get the chance to meet Mycroft, too."
Some of my wine spilled as I picked up the glass. "Mycroft?"
"Uh-huh. Eldrich P. Mycroft, our founder, and a very unique man." Kinsella had hardly touched his wine, but now he took a large swallow. "This is good stuff, huh? We make a little money from selling this juice. Never ask for donations, y'see, we always sell our home-made goods."
"Does that bring in enough to keep the organization running?" asked Midge.
"The Temple,
Midge, we call it the Temple. The answer to your question is no, not really. We do have private funds, though. It's turned a little cold, don't you think?" This time he rubbed briskly at both upper arms. Oddly, there was perspiration on his brow. "Yeah, it's turned cold." He drank wine again, his eyes roving around the room.
"Perhaps I should close the door," suggested Midge, already beginning to rise.
"No, it's okay," he quickly said, looking over at the open doorway. "Uh, it's nice to take in all those wonderful scents from the garden. The flowers out there are a real joy, Midge. Yeah, Mike, you were great helping out the girls like that today. Everything okay in the cottage? No big problems yet? Apart from the bats. You still worried over those bats, Mike?"
Midge and I exchanged glances. Was this guy getting drunk on one glass of wine?
"They haven't bothered us yet," I replied. I tasted my drink again and it didn't seem that powerful to me.
"You can always count on us to help in any way, you know that." His fingers twisted his glass around on the tabletop. "Gets dark early in this neck of the woods," he said, then laughed, the sound sharp against the stillness of the evening.
"Feels like a storm's brewing," I remarked.
"A storm? Yeah, that's it, there's a storm coming." Kinsella was still wearing that inane smile, but somehow he looked uncomfortable—almost trapped. He was beginning to make me jumpy.
I think Midge was trying to calm him when she inquired, "Are all the people at the Temple around your age, Hub?"
"Oh no. No, we're all age groups. As a matter of fact, even one or two of our Fosterlings are in their sixties. That's what we call the followers, y'know—Fosterlings."
Jesus, I thought. "Is that what you are?"
"No, Mike, I'm a first officer."
"Sounds big stuff."
"Well, it's a high number in the Temple, carries a lotta weight. Hope it's not going to be a bad storm out there. Can you feel the thunder in the air?"
I could. It was almost tangible. I felt that if I snapped my fingers, they'd spark.
Kinsella gulped down the last of his wine and I raised the bottle toward him. He waved it away. "I really oughta be going, it's getting late."
Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land Page 13
