VOYAGERS

by K. L. Nappier

  For a moment Greta and Mr. Shane were quiet, stepping back out of habit as the procession reached them; acolytes with golden cross and the wands to light the altar candles, the canon swinging the smoky censer, the priest, then St. Peter's two deacons. Mr. Shane looked at Greta.

  "Impressive, having Father Alcott as your funeral celebrant."

  With that petulant remark, Greta realized Mr. Shane was jealous. How could she resist such a ripe opportunity? "Yes, it is that he'd choose my funeral over yours. I mean, that must be the case."

  "It is not unheard of to conduct two funeral masses in a day…"

  "Oh, even for a priest of Alcott's stature? No, no, he probably owes Marshall a favor. Probably true of that 'upstanding' Episcopal businessman, too, that Enderly fellow."

  Mr. Shane understood she was making light of him. He muttered, "Very funny," and pretended to ignore her.

  They watched the procession bow before the altar, the acolytes lighting the great candles that flanked it, then suddenly Mr. Shane was again grabbing Greta's arm. She turned at his urging to see Enderly shuffling past people to the end of the pew. There he slowed and glanced in Dixie's direction before heading to the doors. A few paces behind, Dixie followed. Odell joined them. Mr. Shane was incredulous.

  "I don't believe it. I don't believe it."

  Greta spun, looking for Aridite. He was already walking toward them. "Should we follow them?"

  "You'd better hurry."

  She did, towing Mr. Shane by his hand. Enderly stepped into a carriage as Dixie held the door for him. Greta was flooded with panic.

  "Lord, how will we follow them?"

  "Wait, wait. Miss Roscoe, can you ride bareback?"

  Greta looked at the coach, then back at Mr. Shane. "The carriage team?"

  "Yes!"

  "How can we mount the damn horses? We'll slip off like our bottoms were buttered."

  Dixie climbed in after Enderly as Odell settled next to the driver. The driver clicked his tongue and the horses began trotting. Frustrated, Greta wailed the obvious.

  "He's getting away!" Mr. Shane slid his arm around Greta's waist. She snapped, "What are you doing?"

  Mr. Shane closed his eyes, and said, "Please, horses, may we come with you?"

  He had barely gotten the words out before Greta felt herself pulled forward, as though something of incredible strength were sucking her into it. She felt Mr. Shane tighten his grip as they were drawn toward, then filed chest-to-back atop one of the horses. Greta caught her breath, then burst out laughing. She looked over her shoulder at her companion.

  "You're a genius."

  "Just a lucky guess."

  "No, you're getting good at this spirit business."

  When the driver reined the horses to a stop in front of a grand house in prestigious Bell Place the destination seemed obvious. This, no doubt, was Enderly's home. Mr. Shane dismounted and helped Greta down, and they passed through the front door as it was closed behind Enderly and his henchman. Enderly handed his coat to a servant, then led Dixie and Odell into a study to the right of the massive foyer. Waiting there was the elder Father Shane, coffee in hand. Greta glanced at her companion. This was difficult for him; she could see it in his face.

  Enderly said, solicitously, "How are you holding up, Father?"

  "Well enough," came the reply. The old priest looked even more haggard than the last time they'd seen him.

  "I'm sorry I had to suggest we meet here instead of the rectory. But you know, it would be next to impossible to have an uninterrupted chat there today. Did you have company when you left?"

  "No one wants me to be alone during a time like this."

  "What did you tell them?"

  "No one suspects."

  "Still," Enderly persisted, "what did you tell them?"

  "That I needed a quiet ride to myself," the elder Shane replied. "To think. To pray."

  Enderly smiled as if the reply satisfied him, then walked over to the silver service and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Father Alcott is conducting a fine mass for Greta. I'm sure he'll do the same for your son this afternoon." Greta felt a victorious nudge from Mr. Shane's elbow. Enderly fished a brown envelope from his pocket and walked over to the elder Shane. "I know you can't stay, Father, with so much to prepare. But, please. Won't you accept this as a token of condolence?"

  He handed the envelope to the old priest, who set his cup down, accepted it, and looked inside. Greta could see the rifled edges of money, a thick bulky stack.

  "I can't say I know how it is to lose a son," Enderly continued, "but I can appreciate your grief. Nevertheless, I'm sure you'll hold up in spite of this tragedy, being a man of strong faith. We can still depend on you, can't we?"

  The elder Shane stuffed the envelope into his suit coat's inside pocket. "Of course you can," he replied, his voice mechanical and raspy.

  Enderly studied him a long moment before saying, "Good. There's a message you need to give to Mr. Fielding. He won't be able to attend your son's service, naturally. He'll be at his home and duties, receiving people after Greta's funeral. But he'll be visiting you during your own reception this afternoon. Take him into your study where he can offer his condolences privately."

  "All right."

  "There's a note in your envelope. For Mr. Fielding's eyes alone, as usual. Give it to him, please."

  The elder Shane pulled his gaze up to Enderly, as though his eyes were leaden weights. It was obvious he wanted to say something, but impossible to guess what it may be. He checked himself, his lips barely trembling.

  "Is there a question, Father?" Enderly asked, with menacing suspicion.

  "No, no." The old minister's gaze dropped away. "No."

  Again, Enderly regarded him a long moment. "Fine. Well, I shouldn't keep you further. Thank you so much for coming. I'll see you, of course, at the funeral."

  Greta looked at the younger Shane as his father plodded toward the doorway. She was worried about her companion; his face was so contorted with fury and heartbreak.

  Before she could offer any solace, he shouted, "Damn you, Father, damn you!"

  The elder Shane stopped abruptly. He turned, his face flushing a hot red, and his eyes fixed staunchly in Greta's and Mr. Shane's direction. Greta gasped, and cupped her hand over her mouth. He looked to the left of them, then to their right, then at Enderly. As quickly as his face had flamed, it now drained of all color.

  "What's wrong, Father?" Enderly asked.

  "I just heard…I'm sure I just heard Aaron."

  Enderly was unimpressed. "Father, honestly. You're under too much strain. I insist that you rest when you get home."

  The elder Shane lingered a moment more, eyes searching uncertainly before shuffling off. Dixie came up and pulled the pocket doors shut, then turned to Enderly.

  "You want him watched?"

  "Yes, Dixie, most certainly."

  Odell left the study, as though the three men had been this sinister team for so long he didn't need a direct order to follow the old minister. Enderly stepped over to the windows and parted the lace curtains enough to watch the henchman stride down the street.

  "I believe the good father understands more than he should," Enderly said, letting the curtain slide off his fingers. He sighed. "It was bound to happen, I suppose, thanks to that foolhardy son of his. I wish the timing was more to our liking."

  "He should be taken care of, then?" Dixie asked.

  "No, we don't dare. Fielding's botch-up has created too much attention."

  Still Dixie persisted. "An old man drownin' in grief is liable to do somethin' desperate. It could seem real natural."

  Enderly looked thoughtful as he turned back to Dixie. "Not now," he said. "It's something to consider if push comes to shove, but let's not toy with Fate if we don't have to. Check around the house. Perhaps the old man did hear something." Enderly smirked. "Other than a ghost."

  Greta looked at Mr. Shane. "He heard you! Your father heard you!"

  "Yes.
He must have."

  "How did you do that?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you have to know. Don't you see what this means? If he heard you, maybe Tess can, too. You have to know."

  Mr. Shane held up his hand, a request for quiet, then closed his eyes. In a moment he sighed. "I don't know how I did that. Maybe Aridite will help us understand. Why don't we go back to the flat, there's not much we can do right now. But we can be at Father's later to wait on Marshall's arrival."

  "Yes, Aaron, excellent thinking." Aridite came up behind them.

  Greta turned to the angel. "But, Tess…"

  She stopped herself. Somehow she knew Mr. Shane was right. There was nothing more to do. She thought of the vision Aridite had helped her create: the current, the leaves and twigs upon it. Aridite smiled.

  "Very good. Now, let's have the two of you go to the flat on your own. We'll stroll out to the lawn first. You think these people upset you and that might interfere."

  She did it. She had closed her eyes as Aridite suggested and visualized the flat until it was as real as the morning's river scene. When she had opened her eyes, she was there! She was alone, but just as she was eyeing the oaken cabinet and wondering how to get tea out of it she heard a startled gasp behind her. She turned to see that Mr. Shane had arrived looking a little pale.

  "I find myself wishing I could just do things normally," he said, walking toward her.

  "Where's Aridite?"

  "He's not here?" Mr. Shane looked around, before saying nervously, "I suppose he wants us to be on our own for awhile, again."

  Greta watched him, curious about his unease. But enough had happened that morning to explain his discomfort; and the way he circled around her now implied he preferred she not ask. Greta turned to the cabinet.

  "Do you happen to know how to get tea out of this thing?"

  Mr. Shane was eager for the diversion. "Yes, I do. Aridite taught me how to conjure some coffee this morning."

  He walked over to the cabinet, stood quietly for a quarter minute as if in prayer, then opened the little door and pulled out a tea set on a tray. There were biscuits and jam, and the teapot even had a quilted cozy over it.

  "I'm not as fast as Aridite," Mr. Shane said, walking over to the divan, "but he said the timing improves as the mind becomes less cluttered."

  Greta went to sit next to him as he poured. "He mentioned cluttered minds to me this morning, and spoke of information we think is important. Do you know what he means by that?"

  "Yes, in a way." Mr. Shane handed her a plate of jammed biscuits. "Do you pray?"

  She hesitated at what seemed a change of subject, then replied, "No. I used to, of course. As a girl."

  "Well, a lot of people still pray that way. As a child, I mean. But if your prayer life matures you learn to still the mind. At least to a certain point. When I was alive, though, my mind was never as still as I can make it now."

  Greta smiled. "You said that so casually."

  "What?"

  "'When I was alive.'"

  Mr. Shane smiled modestly, as if she had complimented him, and drank his tea. His expression was so wonderfully different from that stern mask he had worn when she first met him. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen that nasty face since the night she told him about herself.

  "You were looking around when we were at Enderly's, weren't you?" she asked.

  "'Looking around'?"

  "Well, that's what I call it. Aridite taught you how to follow the river current?"

  Mr. Shane looked puzzled, so Greta explained what she had visualized earlier in her bedroom. Her companion smiled again, but shook his head.

  "Well, no, he didn't. I just fell into it. When I woke up this morning I thought I'd pray and there I was. Looking around."

  "What did you see?"

  "Nothing specific. I wasn't looking for anything special, so I just experimented. But later, when we were at Enderly's, I wanted to know where to go to understand what to do next. I looked in on the rectory and Mr. Fielding's, back over to your funeral, but nothing really came to mind, nothing important seemed to be happening. That's when I thought we should save our energy for the reception."

  Greta felt as if she had been one-upped, but she accepted his talent gracefully. "All that in a few seconds? You're a lot better at looking around than I am."

  Mr. Shane shrugged. "It's the prayer discipline. You could have done the same if you'd been a priest."

  They both had a good laugh at the odd image his comment provoked: a woman priest. Never in a million Episcopal years. But Greta's thoughts turned to events at Enderly's house.

  "How do you suppose that happened that your father heard you?"

  He shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know. I felt so focused on him." Greta watched his forehead work as if his words held a revelation. "Focus. That's the thing."

  Greta frowned. "No, that's not it. If that were true when I went to Tess after I died, she would have heard me. I was certainly focused on her. I was screaming like a witch, trying to get through."

  "Are you sure you were focused?"

  "What did I just tell you?"

  "Yes, but what were you thinking?"

  "What do you mean? I was thinking of Tess, of what Marshall had just done, of my death."

  Greta pressed her lips together before raising her eyes to her companion again. Yes, she understood. He was right. Mr. Shane brightened and quickly set down his tea.

  "When I said 'damn you, Father', the only thing that occupied my mind was my anger toward him. Nothing else was in me for that moment. And when we 'look around' again nothing is in us but the looking, do you see?"

  "Even when we invite things to move," Greta replied, "even coming to the flat without Aridite?"

  "Yes, Miss Roscoe, exactly."

  So she could talk to Tess. Excitement surged in Greta. She saw it flaming in her companion's eyes, too, and she took his hands in hers.

  "I can talk to Tess."

  "You, Miss Roscoe, can do anything."

  "Yes. My God, this is wonderful."

  "It is. Miss Roscoe, kiss me."

  Greta could hardly believe her ears. She could hardly believe the look on Mr. Shane's face, it was…

  "Quit calling me Miss Roscoe." She grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him against her lips.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Passion Play

  Aaron slipped as quietly as possible out of Miss Roscoe's bed. Greta lay dozing beside him, and though he knew she wasn't asleep, he was doing his best not to disturb her. She stirred and murmured something pleasant, but didn't open her eyes. She settled onto her belly, her face away from him. He picked up his unmentionables from the floor and clutched them to his abdomen. He tiptoed to the common door of their rooms, passing through it rather than opening it, hoping he'd avoid attracting her attention. At last he was safe inside his own room. But he wasn't really. Sooner or later he would have to face her. He dropped his shorts and wrapped a dressing robe around him as if he had caught a chill, then sat shakily before the gas hearth.

  What have I done?

  Once, years ago, still hardly more than a boy, he had joined a classmate at Principia who had pilfered a bottle of brandy. Safely tucked away in the forested outer grounds they became disgustingly drunk. The crowning atrocity was when Aaron's partner passed out, face down, on the tennis lawns. Like the victorious David Aaron stood grandly above the fallen boy. He perched one foot upon his friend's shoulder and shouted his thanks to the wind-tossed trees for their applause. His etiquette teacher found the boys by following the trail of Aaron's voice as he regaled the branches on how he had conquered Goliath. Aaron remembered the next day vividly: the illness, and the livid glare of the dean, but most of all the utter embarrassment burning in the face of his father. Aaron would never forget how he had humiliated himself, how totally degraded he'd felt, an absolute fool. He, the son of a respected priest, falling-down drunk.

  He was suffering that degradation
again. And now he was the priest, in the name of God. What had gotten into him? His emotions had caught him off guard. He had been feeling so liberated, so sure he had discovered one of the keys to coming forward.

  And Miss Roscoe--or, rather, Greta--had been so radiant; her face practically glowed like Aridite's. Beautiful. Beautiful, her shining face, and she was dressed in that stunning, high-necked black silk and lace. It was far more seductive than any plunging bodice could be.

  His manhood was swelling again just to think of it--mental images were too vivid in the afterlife--and he stood, cursing himself and pacing as though the blood might rush from his groin to his feet if he walked fast enough. He had betrayed Miss Roscoe's trust in him. He had betrayed his calling and mocked the sanctity of matrimony. He was a priest.

  Quite suddenly he wondered: could Miss Roscoe have known this had been his first intimacy? Did she know that he was...that he'd never...? Aaron groaned as if ill, the swelling failed and he slumped onto the bed. Of course she knew. Perhaps his own trust had been betrayed, rather than the other way 'round. It was comforting to be as disgusted with her as with himself. She had to have known, it was her business to know. Her business. That was what drove her to accept him, wasn't it? It was like a reflex for her. A man makes an offer, she accommodates. Why else would she have so easily allowed him? Why else?

  Then just, as quickly, he turned from them. What a deception he was at, what a cruel and cowardly vindication. They were both caught up in that sinful moment. And it was his responsibility to never let it... He heard a soft rustling and her voice.

  "Aaron?"

  He looked up quickly. She was standing at the common door, her smile tentative. She smoothed her hair, an unwitting gesture ripe with sensuality. Thank God, she at least had put on her dressing gown.

  "I thought you left to freshen up a little," she said. "What are you doing here?"

  He shrugged, he swallowed. "I couldn't sleep."

  Miss Roscoe's smile turned languid. "That's no reason to leave the bed."