by Heide Goody
"When we’re anxious, we sometimes think that God has abandoned us. I’m sensing a lot of anxiety from you at the moment, Michael."
Michael shook away his hand angrily.
"You have no idea what you’re talking about," he yelled. "I’m trying to do the right thing. I ALWAYS do the right thing, and you’re treating me like an idiot! How can you even call this a church when everyone’s more worried about tea and biscuits than they are about the meaning of the holy scriptures?"
The word biscuit caused a wave of blue-rinsed ladies to swivel as one and head towards Michael in a solid wall of proffered plates.
"No more biscuits!" he shrieked. "Don't you understand that nobody even likes them! Especially the ones that say Nice on them. They should say Nasty to at least be accurate!"
Blue rinses bobbed and wobbled nervously as Michael glared around at everyone.
"I'm really, really disappointed in you all. I came here because you're Christians. I thought that would mean that you'd at least spend time in your lives thinking about God. Who here has really thought about him, really spoken to him? Who?"
He rounded on Gladys who rallied after a moment. "Well I did ask him to find my cat for me."
"And did he?"
"No."
"You see?"
Michael shook his head and stormed towards the door. A bulky figure, dressed in a sweater embroidered with a large silver cross stepped in front of him.
"Erm, you will still be coming to cubs, won't you?" asked Darren.
Michael turned to face him.
"Cubs! Those dreadful beasts are the worst of the lot. If I could see even the slightest glimmer of goodness in any of them I wouldn’t mind, but they’re wretched little demons, all of them. I know you can’t see that, but then you look in the mirror every morning and think you’re fit to face the world when you dress like that, so frankly, your views can’t be trusted."
Darren looked down at his mother’s handiwork, no doubt wondering what Michael could be talking about. The door slammed shut, rattling the teacups and leaving ladies with plates of biscuits adrift with nowhere to go.
~ooOOOoo~
Nerys made herself her first cup of tea of the day and sat down in Molly’s armchair. Even after moving the furniture around and clearing out the last of Molly’s things, it was still Molly’s chair. It struck her, not for the first time, how her mundane routine must be an echo of Molly’s in the years before she’d come to live with her. Get up, have a cup of tea. Go to work on a week day and go shopping if it was the weekend.
Was she destined to do this until she dropped dead, or smelled of wee and didn’t care anymore? The same places, the same things, the same people, and for what? Her job paid the bills, but she wasn’t going to pretend that she found it even slightly interesting, let alone fulfilling. She lived in a dull suburb, where nothing ever happened and she had no real friends to speak of. She had her flatmates, who were really more like drinking buddies than actual friends, but what did they really mean to her?
She drifted over to the window, sipping her tea. Clovenhoof was outside, crouching over something with intense concentration. He moved slightly and she saw that there was a dead fox at his feet. Hadn’t she seen that in the gutter up the road yesterday? What was he doing with it? He worked a knife for a few moments and came away with the brushy tail, which he tucked proudly into his waistband and gave a couple of experimental twirls, cackling with laughter as it swished around his hips. She turned away from the window in disgust.
Moments later, she was through to the estate agents.
"Yes, I’ve got a property I’d like to sell."
~ooOOOoo~
Michael pounded the treadmill, his face set in a stony grimace. His induction, weeks ago had stressed the importance of doing everything as smoothly as possible, so that he didn't cause injury to himself or the equipment but he ignored that advice today. He worked his arms to the accompaniment of crashing weights. He moved on to stomach crunches, indulging in the brutal grunts that he'd always frowned upon in others. It felt good to express his frustration in physical ways, but the anger still simmered inside him.
"Hey, Michael."
Andy walked over from the changing room, a towel rolled neatly under his arm.
Michael smiled, but knew that his face wasn't up to it.
"You're not looking yourself today," said Andy. "What's up?"
"Oh, you have no idea," with more emotion than he intended. "I don't think I have the words to explain."
Andy sat down beside him.
"Let me get you a coffee and you can try to find the words."
They went through to the gym’s cafeteria where Andy ordered skinny lattes for the pair of them.
Michael sat down with his coffee and sighed.
"Most people I've come across wouldn't understand. I've been searching for a direction, for a meaning ever since I got here."
"Here? Birmingham?"
"No, well, yes. Here. The people that I meet aren't interested in spirituality. Everyone's too wrapped up in their selfish, materialistic lives."
"Too true," Andy nodded in sympathy.
"I've found nothing, nothing at all that works for me," Michael continued. "Do you know the worst thing?"
"What?"
"The one place that I thought for sure I'd at least fit into was the church, up at St Michael's."
"It's even got your name on it."
"Well, absolutely. Anyway, it seems to be more like a place where confused people go to gorge on tea and sympathy."
"The church is a hypocrisy, Michael."
"They treated me badly there, and it's made me unutterably sad."
He looked away as he felt again the pang of rage that he'd felt when his gift to the church was questioned.
Andy placed a hand over Michael's.
"You know, the church has a long history of being unkind to people like us," he said.
Michael's brow creased with confusion.
"People like us?"
"Exactly. I get your frustration, I really do. I've experimented with all sorts of things, looking for spiritual meaning in my life."
"Really?"
Andy drew back, a mock hurt look on his face.
"Don’t I strike you as a spiritual guy?"
Michael shrugged.
"I just thought you were…"
He waved his hand vaguely at Andy’s chest, toned and hairless and now concealed beneath a white T shirt.
"A gym bunny?" said Andy. "I do have the abs of an Adonis–"
"They’re amazing," said Michael honestly and then remembered his conversation with Clovenhoof. "I mean, you’re not just a walking torso," he said quickly.
"What?"
"I mean, you’re a well-rounded human being with interests and a face, a really nice face, and a rich personal history."
"A really nice face?" said Andy, arching an eyebrow.
"That’s just my opinion," said Michael.
"Thank you, Michael. I was going to say that I do have the abs of an Adonis but I’m a spiritual creature too."
"Exactly. That’s my point. Spiritual how?"
"I spent three months at a retreat in Thailand, and I was privileged to stay in a Lamasery in Tibet a couple of years ago."
"Tibet?"
"You know, the place with the yaks. Those things brought me great peace, they really did, but if you need something here and now, and it sounds as though you do..."
"I do. I’m lost."
Andy stood up.
"I might know just the thing. A spirit guru, here in the West Midlands."
"A spirit guru?"
"Someone to guide you, to teach you. If you want inner growth and spiritual healing, they can help you to achieve that."
"Sounds interesting," said Michael, sitting up straight, only half aware of the ball of paper falling out of his pocket as he did. "How do I meet him?"
"I'm due to see him tomorrow. I can call and check it's all right to…" And
y beamed at him. "To bring a friend."
He bent and picked up the screwed up paper. As he unfolded it, Michael saw that it was one of Clovenhoof’s offensive posters. He reached across the table for it but Andy already had it open.
"’Have you seen this cock?’" he read and nodded thoughtfully. "I’m sure I would have remembered. But a man sees so many…"
Michael agreed.
"I once spent a night looking at so many, I thought I’d go blind."
Andy laughed.
"You are a strange one, Michael," he said, but, coming out of Andy’s mouth, it didn’t sound at all bad.
~ooOOOoo~
Nerys came home from work to find Michael carrying a large box towards the front door. She moved in front so that she could open the door.
"Looks exciting!" she said.
"It's a new coffee machine," said Michael. "I need cheering up and I decided to treat myself."
"I never knew you drank coffee," said Nerys.
"Well, I don't, but some of my friends do," smiled Michael. "Besides it’s una macchinetta con i contro-coglioni, and I couldn't resist."
"Well, I'm very happy to be a guinea pig, if you want to try it out," she said.
In Michael’s kitchen, she helped him unpack and unwrap the monstrous device.
"Do you know any more phrases like that in Italian?" Nerys asked, taking the tissue from a measuring jug.
Michael shrugged.
"How about non mi rompere le palle, la mia giornata è già brutta abbastanza?"
Nerys shuddered with pleasure. The Italian words brought to mind a hazy view in her mind's eye of a dark-eyed man gazing down at her from the prow of a gondola. If she sold the flat, maybe she could go travelling? Balmy weather, surrounded by handsome Italian men, talking in that most seductive of languages…
"Italian is such a beautiful language, isn’t it?" said Nerys. "Can you teach me a couple of phrases?"
"Yes, of course. It's really pretty simple."
"If you say so."
Michael plugged in the machine and consulted the manual.
"Do you have any appreciation of Latin at all?" he asked.
"Not all of us went to a public school, Michael," she scowled.
Michael shrugged and filled the reservoir with water at the back of the coffee machine.
"Let's start with something simple. ‘A quale santo è dedicata questa chiesa?’"
"Lovely!" said Nerys, "what does that mean?"
"Which saint is this church dedicated to?" said Michael.
"Hmmm," said Nerys. "I can't honestly see me saying something like that."
"Really?"
"How about a useful phrase like 'Which way to George Clooney’s villa?'"
"So that would be ‘da che parte è la villa di George Clooney?’"
Nerys muttered the phrase over to herself, committing it to memory. Michael kindly corrected her pronunciation whilst measuring out coffee grounds.
"Oh," she said, as a thought occurred to her. "I'd love to know what something means. The most handsome Italian waiter once said this to me. I was certain that there was a chemistry between us, and he whispered this to me. I've never forgotten it. 'Non sei brufolosa come la maggior parte di queste sciacquette inglesi palide, ma smetti di fissarmi, mi fai venire la nausea '"
"Er, it's not really polite," said Michael.
"Oh good! Tell me, please!"
"It means 'You're not as spotty as most of these pasty English tarts, but stop staring, you're making me queasy,’"
"Oh, poo," said Nerys. "Come on then, let's have some of this posh coffee."
It was good coffee.
Nerys's mind raced as she sipped the frothy cappuccino. Here was an almost perfect male specimen: cultured, well-mannered, with an appreciation of the fine things in life. He would have been an ideal boyfriend if he had shown the least bit of interest in her (and she harboured certain suspicions about why that was). Mom and dad would have no reason to gripe if she turned up with him on her arm. If only he was hers, or at least appeared to be hers…
"You know, I think we might be able to help each other," she said. "I get the idea that you feel a bit awkward in certain social situations."
"Well, that is the case sometimes, certainly," replied Michael.
"My people skills are second to none. How about I help you out with that, in exchange for the language lessons? Spend a bit of time with each other, helping each other out?"
"Of course, that would be very pleasant."
"Fantastic! Let's start tomorrow. I was planning to do some Christmas shopping, and I bet you've been agonising over what to get us all!"
~ooOOOoo~
On Wednesday night, the cubs gleefully exploited the shortage of adult supervision. In Michael’s absence, Clovenhoof had to break out his most demonic bellow.
"Right, cubs!" he roared. "Tonight's session will be supervised by me. Baloo will be assisting. We have an exciting new topic to look at today."
He frowned at a group in the corner.
"Baloo, are we practising first aid skills tonight?"
"Er, no."
"Well, Kenzie over there has gone a funny shade of blue, so we might want to re-think that. I imagine that the first aid he needs most of all is for Spartacus to take the rope from round his neck."
Darren lumbered over to free the unfortunate boy as Clovenhoof continued.
"Tonight, we’re going to do some geocaching."
"What happened to Akela Michael?" asked scabby-faced Jefri.
"He’s had a nervous breakdown," said Clovenhoof cheerily.
"When’s Akela Angela coming back?" asked another.
"When we’ve raised enough to pay her kidnappers. Enough. Who here has heard of geocaching?" he asked.
A few shoulders were shrugged.
"It will mean sweets for everyone who gets it right," said Clovenhoof. There was a small murmur of approval, and more faces turned towards him. Spartacus was absorbed in knotting the rope. He'd proven most proficient at snares and traps so he was rarely without a rope in his hands. At least he'd stopped throttling the smaller boys.
"It's like a hi-tech version of a treasure hunt. I will hide the sweets in some special containers, and then give you the co-ordinates. All you have to do is to find the containers and you can take one of the sweets. That's one of the sweets."
He glared round at them.
"The cool part is that you get to use one of these to find your way."
He held up a GPS unit.
"Or you could use a smartphone, like yours!"
There was a tittering from behind and he swivelled to see who was mocking his phone. Spartacus, it had to be! But no, he was still knotting his rope, seemingly oblivious to the subject.
"We'll try it inside the hall tonight, and then we'll do it for real, outside, on the day after Boxing Day. Right! Let's split into groups. Half will go with Baloo... where is Baloo?"
He turned around again to see that Darren was hanging by his foot from a snare that hung from a light fixture, over by the windows.
"Oh, really. Well I hope the people that caught Baloo in their snare know what they're going to do with him now they've got him. How did you get him to walk into it by the way?"
Darren held out a hand with a half-eaten Twix, clearly chomping on the other piece as he hung from the snare.
Clovenhoof sighed.
"Cut him down carefully, boys," he said. "Just make sure he lands on his head."
~ooOOOoo~
Michael turned off the A road and down a small, rural lane, where the nearly leafless trees met overhead to form a tunnel.
"I didn’t know you had a Merc," said Andy, running his hands over the white leather.
"I didn’t," Michael replied. "Not until yesterday."
"You’ve been splashing the cash about?"
"Don’t I deserve some luxuries?" grinned the archangel.
"What did you drive before?"
"I didn't drive before."
Andy gave him a startled look. Michael realised that his skills did not tally with what he had just said.
"I mean, I can drive but I never had to drive myself."
"You had a chauffeur, huh?"
"Something like that," said Michael doubtfully.
"Wow. Down here."
He steered into a courtyard outside a large, low house. It had the look of a Mediterranean villa, all whitewashed walls and red tiled roofs, albeit in wintry north Warwickshire.
A tall, spindle-legged man appeared at the door as Michael locked the car. The man wore a tie-dyed shalwar kameez and an air of absolute self-assurance.
"Michael, this is Elk Davis," said Andy.
Elk clapped Michael on the shoulder and shook his hand.
"This is a fine place you have here," said Michael.
"Appearances are meaningless and geography more so," drawled Elk, in an accent that Michael couldn't place. "But you've come to the right place, brother. You're looking for answers and I'm the man to help you find them."
Michael was equally impressed by the house’s interior.
Styled with simplicity and serenity at its heart, there were few furnishings and distractions. Those that were there had been chosen for their significance. Backlit niches showed off a row of prayer wheels, some aboriginal totems and small carved idols. He realised that the dreamcatchers and hanging crystals that he'd used in his own flat were ridiculous trinkets compared to the startling collection belonging to Elk. He ran his fingers over a set of stylised antlers, carved from some highly polished wood.
"I take my name from my spirit totem," said Elk. "It empowers me with its strength and nobility. Come."
Michael followed Elk into a room with no chairs.
"Let us relax on my textured surface," said Elk, indicating a huge rug with a pile so deep that Michael's feet disappeared.
Elk sat down and arranged his legs into a lotus position. Andy did the same. Michael worked out how to do it and sat opposite, trailing his hands through the rug.
"Hands on knees, Michael. Neutral position. I want your focus on me now," said Elk.
Michael obeyed.
For a long time, Elk stared at Michael with an intensity that was unsettling.
