VOYAGERS

by K. L. Nappier

  "I can only hope so."

  "Have you any idea whom he wanted dead?"

  "No. What I heard came in fits and starts. Keyhole conversation, literally. Just a few nights before the Festival party Marshall had a guest up to his apartments. I heard them pass my door on the way to Marshall's chambers. Had I heard a feminine voice, I wouldn't have been alerted. But the guest was a man, so I knew Marshall was at some shady dealing. He used the privacy of his suite for sporting, of course, or very confidential business matters.

  "I was almost caught eavesdropping. Having my ear pressed to the keyhole didn't give me much, but it did let me hear them walking toward the door. I should have run; I was about to. If it hadn't been for the linen closet I might have died that very night. But I held my ground just a bit longer pressed against the wall, because I heard Marshall ask the fellow 'how will it be done'? The man replied that it would be by gun, of course. Best results. Messy, but a solid guarantee."

  Miss Roscoe swallowed hard. "They referred to the victim as a man. But Marshall was told to 'have her rooms ready' and that 'some of his clothes and personal items would be brought along'. For authenticity. I could hardly believe my ears. Marshall's a slug, to be sure, but I had no idea he was capable of murder. And I'm sure they were speaking of me, of my rooms. I just feel it."

  Aaron's throat was tight, but he managed to say, "It's the likeliest assumption."

  Miss Roscoe leaned toward him, setting her elbows on the table. "I believe they were going to implicate me as the murderess. I don't know to whom else they could've been referring."

  Aaron was weak and dizzy, barely able to cope with all he had seen and heard; most especially his father's involvement. His father. He looked around the dim little kitchen hoping to clear his mind, and Aridite came striding through a wall as if he had been on the other side eavesdropping.

  "I have no idea what to do next," Aaron said, feeling utterly helpless. He looked at Miss Roscoe. "Do you?"

  "We might check over at Marshall's. Something's bound to be happening."

  "Nope," Aridite said, "nothing happening there. Dixie--he's the one who strangled you, Aaron--was dispatched to Marshall's about the same time Odell--he's the one who shot you, Greta--was here threatening the senior Father Shane. But he's long gone. Marshall's just sitting in his rooms sulking. Nothing else will take place there tonight."

  Aaron rubbed his face, trying to ward off his vertigo, but it only seemed to be deepening. Weariness seeped into his limbs like a thick syrup. He blinked and managed to focus again on Miss Roscoe.

  "Something's wrong. I can hardly keep my eyes open."

  Aridite nodded. "Yes, finally. You only think you're fatigued, Aaron. Don't worry. I'm surprised you didn't feel it coming on before now."

  Aaron closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Maybe, Miss Roscoe, we should call it a night ourselves, return to Aridite's flat."

  He heard Miss Roscoe reply, "I suppose you're right," and when he opened his eyes they were once again in the apartment sitting on the divan. Aridite was relaxed in one of the wingbacks. Miss Roscoe was looking as pale and worn as Aaron felt.

  "But this isn't my flat," Aridite said. "It's yours and Greta's, for as long as you're voyaging. Ready for some sleep now? You shouldn't underestimate how exhausting it is to die."

  Aaron nodded and stood, Miss Roscoe followed his lead. She said her goodnights and used the doorknob to enter her room. Aaron found himself gazing toward her door after she left. Aridite stood next to him and leaned toward his ear.

  "She's a lovely person, isn't she, Aaron?"

  "Yes," Aaron replied, at first unaware of his tone. Then he struggled for better control. "Yes, a strong woman doing the best she can under horrific misfortune."

  They both stood there looking toward Miss Roscoe's door, and Aaron realized Aridite was waiting for something. Finally, the angel said, "You shouldn't be afraid to ask me questions. I may not be able to answer them to your liking, but you don't have to be afraid."

  Aaron swallowed hard. "All right. When can I petition God? Will He keep us in Purgatory very long?"

  "You put much too much value in that word Purgatory. More value, even, than the word God."

  "Well, it's what I understand best. So, will He?"

  "As long as it takes, Aaron."

  "But I am going to Heaven eventually?"

  "The word Heaven, well, never mind. Getting to Heaven depends on you."

  Aaron had one more question, but he couldn't bear to ask. It was something a priest should never ask, aloud or otherwise. He was already afraid the thing, cowering in his mind, was known to God. And it could send him to Hell.

  Instead he feigned a stretch, and said, "Well, I'm off to bed."

  "Rest well, Aaron."

  He opened his door, and when he did, his gaze went straight away to the door that adjoined his room to Miss Roscoe's. As if it were an afterthought, he asked, "By the way, who had this flat before us?"

  The angel grinned. "No one, Aaron. The flat has always been for you and Greta." Aaron's face flamed. Aridite's grin widened. "Rest well," the angel repeated. He stopped just before leaving and looked back. "Oh, and, Aaron, to answer that question you fear so…of course, there's really a God. And you are in for such a surprise."

  Chapter Fourteen

  New Lessons

  When Greta opened her eyes there was no morning drowsiness, no need to pull out of slumber. She sat up in bed and stretched, because it felt good. Dawn was at the window, lending its blush to the room. And wasn't it a pleasant room? Last night Greta hadn't really appreciated it, being too confused and distracted, then too exhausted. Now the soft dawn accented its creams and navies, the dusty rose, the deep greens. The comforter that bunched around her was thick and cozy, all patchwork and piping. The sitting area nestled near the windows would be perfect for tea and pastries, assuming the dead ate breakfast.

  She hopped out of bed, pulled the velvet robe she'd worn last evening over the old-ivory lace of her nightgown, wriggled her feet into heeled slippers and walked over to the vanity. Among the toiletries were all the labels she preferred in life. She freshened, then went to the closet. It had been remarkable last night to see a woman's full wardrobe there, styles and colors she would have selected herself. It was still waiting this morning, though her green satin evening gown was gone. She didn't miss it.

  Everything at her disposal was so reassuring. And yet nothing was particularly lavish, not grand and extravagant. Her chambers at Marshall's had been so, since he had her 'entertain' at the house whenever Elias would stay so late into the night he'd prefer that to a hotel suite. But those chambers had not been hers. She had resented them, because they were Fielding property, because of what she had to do in them. And because Tess was forced to sleep in a storage room.

  But this perfectly normal pleasant room…this really was hers. Certainly more than those chambers had been at Marshall's. More truly hers, somehow, than even the room in which she had grown up. She could stay here forever. But then, no. No, she couldn't. Not with Tess in danger. It was time to call Aridite and ask him what had gone on while she slept and what to do about it. She cleared her throat, feeling foolish about speaking to the empty air, and looked all about the room, not sure where he might appear.

  "Um, Aridite?"

  "Yes, Greta, good morning." From the corner of her eye, she saw him pass through the door. He was no longer in evening wear. Now he was in day dress, right down to the vest and watch fob, looking very much like any normal businessman; a normal Negro businessman who glowed. "Care for some breakfast? You must think you're hungry after sleeping so long."

  Greta was offended. She glanced at the window. "It's only a little past dawn."

  "And you and Aaron slept through two of them."

  "What?"

  "That's perfectly normal, you shouldn't feel like a lazy bones. Some voyagers sleep even longer."

  "This is a disaster, why didn't you wake me?"

&nb
sp; "I couldn't had I tried, Greta, it's as natural a phase as the lethargy."

  "Oh, no. What's happening with Tess? We've got to do something."

  "She's fine. There's nothing to learn with Tess. Try to relax." The angel took her hand and led her to the sitting area. She fitfully, and Aridite pulled the other chair nearer before settling in. "Remember that Tess' life isn't your goal…"

  "Yes, it is, Aridite."

  "No, it isn't. You're a voyager, not a ghost. Your goal is to come forward. Do you want to be left behind? Do you still want to be here when it's Tess' turn to come forward?"

  "If it saves her now, yes."

  "But it won't. The best way for you to help Tess is to continue toward your goal."

  "But how?"

  "STOP IT! Now!"

  His voice was like an echo off a canyon wall, and Greta was shocked into silence. The angel's face was fierce. Until now, Aridite had been so laissez-faire that Greta had hardly thought of him as one of God's lieutenants. Suddenly he seemed very much what he was.

  "Quit trying to force things through," he demanded. "Quit trying to twist what will come. You're not in the physical world anymore and in this place reasoning as you've known it won't work. It's time to leave the mortal ways of thinking, and begin feeling, begin listening."

  Greta tried not to tremble, but her knees quivered in spite of the effort. She whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm listening."

  And just as suddenly as Aridite had become fierce, he was again gentle. "Not to me. To yourself. As a voyager, you're closer to the core, intuitive being you actually are. Much closer than when you were mortal. Shut your eyes." She hesitated, and Aridite smiled. "Go ahead, Greta. There's nothing to fear. You're just used to thinking there is." Greta looked at Aridite, then willed her eyes shut. She felt the warmth of his hand on hers, resting on the table. "Now, learn to listen. Be still. At first your mind will chatter away with a million pieces of clutter, information it's sure is important. This takes time, but not at all as much time as when you were mortal. Don't try to analyze, don't let any one piece of clutter tempt you to linger, but neither should you struggle to force any of it away. Let them each float through like leaves and twigs on a river's current. Your worries about Tess are those leaves and twigs, don't let them fool you. Let them pass by. Be still and listen for the quiet. Good. Good. Now. You're listening, let yourself begin to see. Your true goal is coming forward, your goal is the river's current. What you do with the current, you do with the clutter. Greta, what do you see?"

  What do I see? But it's not what I see, it's what I feel . What calm. She hadn't expected that at all, an exceptional peace. Then by and by, she imagined the river scene Aridite had painted, and it was so pleasant; why, it was almost as if she were actually there. And then she was. This wasn't like her memories, vivid though they had been. With them, she had been the audience for their performance. This time, Greta was fully embraced by the vision. She was on the new spring banks, a breeze rippling around her, its scent sweet. The waters were greenish-clear, so that she could see trout undulating and minnows darting through long tendrils of marine grass. She could see right down to the smooth-worn bedrock. Leaves and twigs slid past on the river's surface, but they didn't seem important. No, she was transfixed by the movement of the current, not what it carried.

  Her eyes followed the water's graceful flow, and then she felt herself moving along with it or on it, she wasn't sure which. And when she felt herself slow, then stop, she lifted her gaze to the opposite bank and saw Saint Peter Episcopal looming upward, an array of dark carriages before it. A hearse was poised at the side entrance. Of course. She opened her eyes suddenly. Aridite was sitting before her, his hand still on hers. He was smiling, and she knew he was proud of her.

  "Of course," she said. "I need a black dress." Aridite began to reply, but she stopped him. "I know I don't need a black dress, but indulge me, all right?"

  "Have you checked the closet?"

  "There's no black, I just looked in there."

  "Really?"

  She smiled, went to the closet and opened the doors. There was a black dress of lace and silk, lovely and perfectly suited for the occasion. When she passed through the door to the parlor, she found Aridite and Mr. Shane, the latter in his smoking jacket and sipping coffee.

  "Put on your collar, Mr. Shane," she said. "We're going to my funeral."

  It was a distinguished crowd that had gathered for the politics of death. Elias Page was there, sitting appropriately mid-church with his wife. He was there for all the socially correct reasons, but he did seem genuinely somber. Impeccable as usual, yet--also as usual--not comfortably so; his well-oiled manner had always seemed an affect against his pear-ish physique. But he looked very natural there with his spouse. The Honorable Judge and Mrs. Page. They had that look-alike manner some husbands and wives acquire. Their hair--his tawny, hers deep brown--even had beginning hints of gray at the same places. Two rows up the Mayor and Mrs. Walbridge were in attendance, as well. Little tin lapel pins glinted against their dark clothes; a small sample of the campaign trinkets destined to be seen in a few months. Rather tacky, Greta thought, at her funeral.

  And in the front pew sat Tess. She was dressed far nicer than Marshall usually allowed. The young lady's black dress and veil had a crisp newness to it. Dear Lord. It was so difficult to watch her, head bent, trembling in grief. For her to have to endure Marshall's presence during such an awful time; Greta clenched her teeth against the threat of tears and anger.

  Movement at the entrance of the church distracted her, and she saw an usher escort Walter Tandy and his wife, Rachel, to the nave, where they knelt at the padded railing set before the sealed coffin, paying their respects. They seemed accustomed to being side-by-side, as though it were a rarity for them to be otherwise. They rose, dutifully walked over to Marshall and offered formal condolences. Then Mrs. Tandy knelt beside Tess, taking her hand and whispering what must have been sincere regrets judging from the dew in her bright eyes. Greta had not met the woman during life, but watching her now, she wondered if Mrs. Tandy knew something of Greta's story. When she rose she looked at her husband significantly, then tucked a wisp of snowy hair back into place. She took her seat, leaving her husband with Tess. The judge turned his attention to Greta's sister and took her hand.

  "My dear young, Miss Roscoe. What can I say to comfort you?" Marshall shifted in his seat. His hostility had to be obvious to the judge. Still, Tandy wasn't leaving Tess. Greta watched him gently lift the girl's chin. "I swear on your sister's memory, I am at your service."

  Greta's fingers went to her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "Thank you," came Marshall's tense reply, and he put his arm around Tess' shoulders. The girl stiffened. "We'll get by. We still have each other. Sit, Judge, the service will begin soon."

  Tandy turned a calm eye to Marshall. "I greatly admired Miss Roscoe. I hope you understand I have a keen interest in her sister's welfare."

  Marshall's face grew stonier. "She'll be fine. My friends are her friends. I'm sure you understand."

  Tandy turned back to Tess, as if to utterly dismiss Marshall. "Well, we can all use more friends, can't we, Miss Roscoe?"

  Tess lifted her eyes to the judge, and Greta could see a glimmer of hope in her veiled face. "Yes," she said, a little frantically. "Yes, thank you."

  Tandy left, and Marshall brought his lips near Tess' ear, hissing something that Greta couldn't hear. Tess jerked her head away defiantly. Mr. Shane nudged Greta's arm.

  "Look there." He nodded toward the church entrance.

  It was Odell, the threatening hulk of a man who had been at the elder Shane's house. He stood to the side of the door, hands in pockets, looking odd in a dark tailored suit. Mr. Shane looked over the assemblage before his gaze fixed rigidly to one man.

  His voice was strained, when he said, "Unless I miss my guess, that's Dixie over there."

  Standing against the east wall about midway was another man, equally out o
f place, large, though not as large as Odell. His complexion was pasty and stark against curly black hair, as though daylight treks were unusual for him. Mr. Shane looked up at Aridite.

  "Mr. Dubenshire's here, isn't he?" he asked the angel.

  "Yes, he is."

  Greta asked without thinking, "Where?"

  "I won't tell you that," the angel replied. "Your own discovery of him is integral."

  "For the love of the Almighty, Aridite," Greta cried angrily.

  "For the love of no other, in fact," Aridite replied, calmly. "You must learn to trust me."

  Frustrated, Greta stood craning her neck. "Wait a minute, we don't have to stand here. Come on."

  She and Mr. Shane headed down the middle aisle. Greta honestly didn't know who she expected to see. Had she hoped there would be someone who 'looked' as if he was Mr. Dubenshire? By the time they reached the fourth pew, there wasn't even anyone she recognized; only people whose bland expressions hinted they owed Marshall favors, or felt obliged to attend the funeral. But Aaron Shane recognized someone.

  "That's Carroll Enderly." Sitting toward the middle was a slender, rather handsome man. His features were sharp, his hair graying in distinguished streaks. He seemed alone. And bored. He pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it, and sighed. "How do you know Carroll Enderly?" Mr. Shane asked, as if he were accusing Greta of something.

  "I don't."

  "What do you mean? He's only one of the most influential Episcopal businessmen in the city. And he was at your Festival party."

  "Marshall's party, Mr. Shane. And I'm acquainted with less than half the people that ever attend Marshall's parties."

  It seemed Mr. Shane was about to object to her reply (and she was more than ready for him), but the organ's low, contemplative tones ceased. The moment of silence interrupted them. Then the mournful pipes struck up louder the congregation rose and the funeral procession began. The priest walking behind the canon and three acolytes was not Mr. Shane's father, as Greta had expected, but a thin man. He had a full youthful head of black hair, though the creases in his triangular face betrayed 50 years. Greta was surprised to see this unfamiliar priest. But his presence did make sense. The elder Shane would be busy preparing for his own son's funeral.