The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone m-6

by George C. Chesbro

  "Just tell me what happened, Tommy."

  "On that very first night, Garth started his work-talking to and comforting some of the others in the flophouse, walking the streets and talking to drunks, bag people, people living in cardboard boxes. Those people responded to him the same way the patients in the clinic responded to him. Garth explained to me that he had to do these things, that it was the only way he could keep from crying.

  "The next day, Garth went to the bank and emptied his savings account. He thanked me for taking him out of the clinic, and told me I should leave and go back to my old life. He and Marl were going to spend all his money on food and clothing for the street people, and then just do whatever it was they had to do. He wasn't worried at all about the future.

  Mongo, I just got caught up in the spirit of what Garth was trying to do. You may say I'm crazy, or a fool, but I didn't want to leave. I just had this feeling-and it's impossible to describe-that something wonderful and very important was about to happen, and I wanted to be a part of it. I had my own savings, and a trust fund with a not inconsiderable amount of money in it. I used that money to put the down payment on the bathhouse to use as a base of operations for what Garth wanted to do, as well as buy the first food and clothing supplies to give out to those who needed it."

  "If you used your money to buy the bathhouse, why did you put it in Garth's name?"

  "Because I wanted to." Carling paused, smiled thinly. "You still don't understand. It was Garth who was going to make this wonderful, important thing happen, not my money. Although I didn't fully realize it at the time, I'd made a commitment, like Marl, to give everything I had-including my life-to whatever it was Garth wanted to do."

  "Go ahead."

  "After we moved into the bathhouse, things just began to snowball. Garth and Marl were out all the time, walking the streets and bringing people back here for food, shelter, clothing-or just comfort. We were quickly running out of everything, including money, and then the wonderful things started to happen. The 'word' that I mentioned had already started to get around. The Salvation Army, as well as a number of other relief agencies that operate down here, began to help us and share their resources. Lines began to form, and still Garth and Marl walked the streets to bring more people here. I think what most impressed the other agencies was Garth's effectiveness; some of the men and women he got to come to us for help would never think of going anywhere else. Nobody had ever been able to get them to accept help; they had always been afraid to go to city shelters, even during the winter."

  "Afraid with good reason," I interjected. "They get ripped off in those shelters. Who keeps order here?"

  Carling thought about it, as if the question hadn't occurred to him before. "There's Marl, of course," he said at last. "He can be very intimidating-to anyone who's looking for trouble. Also, we have a couple of dozen Guardian Angels who work for us. But we've never really had any trouble. There's just this feeling of goodness and good feeling around here that's almost palpable, at least to some of us, and I really do believe that it's this sense of goodness that radiates from Garth which keeps away evil." He paused, flushed slightly. "Silly, I know."

  "Maybe not so silly," I said quietly. I was indeed most impressed with what was going on in the bathhouse-and terribly proud of my brother, despite all my other concerns and misgivings.

  "Anyway, almost before we knew it, we were getting all sorts of offers of money, goods, and services from other relief programs, wealthy individuals, and corporations; the jackets and headbands you see everyone wearing are donated-no advertising strings attached-by a sporting goods manufacturer. You want a jacket, Mongo? I'm sure we can find one that will fit you."

  "Let me think about it."

  "The point is that we ended up, virtually overnight, with a sizable financial structure-and the responsibility that goes along with it. Thank God for Sister Kate."

  "Sister Kate, I take it, is the nun outside?"

  Carling nodded. "She's with the Sisters of Mercy. They donated her, in a manner of speaking, and it was a most significant contribution. Besides being a nun, she's a C.P.A., with an M.B.A. from Wharton. She helped us organize, and she keeps the books. Without her, we'd have been swamped long ago. She's just wonderful. She's a gift from God-Who, as I said, provides."

  "But she's still a Catholic, in good standing with her order?"

  "Of course; as I said, they 'donated' her. Why shouldn't she be?"

  I pointed to the rings-and-knife mural on the wall behind the desk. "Is that a religious symbol?" I asked in what I hoped was a neutral tone.

  "No. It's just. . well, it's just kind of a sign that identifies. People seem to like it. Kind of 'catchy,' don't you think?"

  "It seems kind of militaristic for an organization like yours."

  "Not at all; not when you understand what the rings symbolize."

  "Wagner's operas."

  "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The great knife is Garth, struggling to defeat them."

  "Who understands that?"

  "People who understand it."

  "Who designed it?"

  "A Guardian Angel who used to be a graffiti artist. He'd been listening to Garth's stories about the Valhalla Project, and he came up with it. Everyone thought it was just super, so we adopted it as a logo. Why?"

  "Just curious."

  "Incidentally, I know now that all of Garth's stories about Siegmund Loge and the Valhalla Project are true, Mongo. Garth was never psychotic. He was simply telling the truth to the doctors, nurses, and patients in the clinic-but the patients were the only ones who sensed that it was the truth. Interesting."

  "Yeah, interesting. What do you call yourselves?"

  "We don't call ourselves anything. Others are starting to call us Garth's People."

  "Lousy name," I said as I felt a sudden chill.

  "Why?" Carling asked, and smiled thinly. "Because it reminds you of the name given to the people in Siegmund Loge's communes-Father's Children?"

  "Something like that." The notion that Garth, even inadvertently, might be taking up where Siegmund Loge had left off in the overall scheme of things was just too sour an irony to dwell on. The Triage Parabola. Human extinction. Loge had said that, given our present state of being, nothing could be done; history would keep repeating itself over and over and over, until. . "Forget it. What difference does it make what you're called?"

  "No difference. Names aren't important. The only important thing is Garth's mission on earth."

  "His 'mission on earth,' Tommy?"

  "Yes."

  I spread my arms in a gesture meant to encompass the room, the bathhouse, the streets outside-and perhaps beyond. "What's your thinking about how Garth fits into all this?" The sudden chill I had felt hadn't gone away; indeed, I was growing colder by the moment.

  "I don't understand your question," Carling said, leaning forward on the desk. His pony tail had fallen over his right shoulder. "Without Garth, this wouldn't exist. Garth is 'this.' "

  "Tommy," I said as I breathed a small sigh, "from the very first time I saw you working with Garth, I knew you were a hell of a good nurse, a solid professional. I also pegged you as a man with his head and heart in the right place, and both feet solidly on the ground."

  "But now you've changed your opinion of me?" the other man asked in a mild tone.

  "Tommy, I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate-am grateful to you for getting Garth away from that clinic when you did. If you hadn't done what you did, Garth could have lost his mind, and maybe his life. But now I have to ask you a question."

  "Please do," Tommy Carling said in the same mild tone.

  "Anyone can see that you're helping all sorts of people, doing all sorts of good works …"

  "But?"

  "Is what you're up to here good for Garth? Once, that would have been the first question you asked yourself."

  Carling looked vaguely surprised. "Good for Garth? This is what he wants and desperately needs, Mon
go. You don't seem to be able to understand-or accept-that. He's a man who feels the suffering of others to the very core of his soul. You know that he cries when he sees someone-man, woman or child-hungry, cold, or in pain? To help other people is not only a spiritual need for Garth; it is, without exaggeration, a physical one."

  "Tommy, my brother's an escaped mental patient, with his thinking seriously out of joint. I know this is selfish, and not at all in the spirit of the way things are done around here, but I have to think of my brother's welfare first. It occurs to me that all the business I see around here just feeds into his fantasies."

  "Fantasies, Mongo?" the male nurse said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Just what fantasies of Garth's are you referring to? Siegmund Loge, the Triage Parabola, and the Valhalla Project? Or maybe you mean his fantasy that he killed Orville Madison-and tried to kill somebody named Veil Kendry-because of the hurt inflicted on you?"

  I quickly looked away, angry for having trapped myself. "Maybe 'fantasies' was a poor choice of words. What you're doing is feeding into his problem-which is a badly distorted self-image and perception of reality. He belongs back in a mental hospital, not walking the streets playing Mother Theresa."

  Tommy Carling slowly shook his head, then absently brushed his ponytail back over his shoulder. "You're a hard man, Mongo. I honestly believe there's no sense of wonder-of awe or mystery-in you. I think I feel sorry for you."

  "Thanks, Tommy. Believe me, I can use all the sympathy I can get. I'd like you to feel a little pity for my brother."

  "Garth doesn't need my pity; he's the man who's given me a renewed sense of wonder, awe, and mystery."

  "Garth is very seriously mentally disturbed."

  Again, Carling shook his head. "You truly believe that, Mongo? Still?"

  "Still? Not so long ago you would never have questioned it. You didn't help Garth escape from the clinic because you thought he was well; you took him out because you couldn't bear to see a sick man made even sicker at the hands of a fool." I paused, swallowed, put my own hands on the desk. "I guess what I'm doing is asking for your support in trying to convince Garth that he should go back to the D.I.A. clinic. He'll be all right there now."

  "Garth doesn't belong in a mental hospital, Mongo," Carling said evenly. "Nor does Marl-not any longer, thanks to Garth. Garth is carrying out God's design for him."

  "What does that mean, Tommy?" I asked, feeling my stomach muscles tighten.

  Tommy Carling's easy, loud laugh startled me. "You've really been having a problem getting around to asking me what's really on your mind, haven't you? Well, the answer is yes, I do believe Garth is the Son of God, the Messiah. I believe just as Marl believes-and yes, I know about the conversation you had with Marl. If my thinking-knowing-that Garth is God's son, His personal messenger and our Savior, makes me crazy in your eyes, then so be it. I'm filled with more joy than you can possibly imagine, and what you think just doesn't matter to me."

  "Tommy, your brains have run out your ears."

  Carling merely smiled. "You hear something which disturbs you, and the only way you can react is with an insult. As I said, I feel sorry for you. I don't mean any offense, Mongo, but I can't help but wonder now if that scar on your forehead wasn't put there when it was for a reason."

  "That's cute, Tommy; it's a new twist, and I love it. When did this great revelation about Garth come to you?"

  "Now that I think back, I think I was beginning to realize it back at the clinic, even before I took Garth out," he replied, totally oblivious to-or choosing to ignore-my heartily felt sarcasm. "I began to realize it when I saw the incredible impact Garth had on sick people. Now … I'm just grateful that God chose me as His tool to save His son from destruction."

  "Marl Braxton didn't plant this notion in your head?"

  "No. I believe you were the only person Marl broached that subject to-and only because you're Garth's brother. I was the one who went to him with. . my conviction. That was when he told me about his. We had quite a laugh over it."

  "I'll bet you did. Tommy, you don't really believe that Garth made a blind man see again, do you?"

  "Absolutely," Carling said without hesitation. "There's no question that it happened. In fact, you had witnesses-including a New York City policeman, and a photographer. And there have been other miracles. The transformation of Marl Braxton is one-perhaps that was Garth's first miracle. Considering who-what-Garth is, it really isn't surprising that he should be able to perform miracles, is it?"

  "Tommy, are you people running around advertising that Garth is the Messiah?"

  "No. Even if we wanted to do that, Garth wouldn't permit it."

  "Because he doesn't believe it himself."

  "What Garth says and does is proof of who he is. Many people have already come to realize the truth, and their numbers will grow. Do you totally discount the possibility of miracles, Mongo?"

  "In the sense that you mean the word, yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because I had to take science courses, beginning in grade school."

  "What about the existence of God?"

  "I don't know what you mean by 'God.' If you mean a kindly old fellow who periodically sends one of his offspring to earth to do magic tricks, the answer is no. The notion of divine intervention is a very old superstition, as old as our species. In its various manifestations down through the ages, the business of looking for, and finding, messiahs has caused us a lot of grief."

  "That doesn't mean it couldn't happen."

  "It's silly on the face of it."

  "How do you explain Garth's impact on people?"

  "How do you explain the impact Jim Jones or Adolf Hitler had on people?"

  "Are you comparing your brother to mass murderers?"

  "I'm saying that I have no way to explain why all of us occasionally think and behave in an irrational manner. I can't explain why people believe the things they do, or why they react to certain people the way they do. If somebody like you, who's intelligent and well educated, begins touting miracles and messiahs, what can we expect of people who aren't as intelligent and well educated?"

  "But you don't understand," Tommy Carling said softly. "Garth really is the Messiah. When that sinks into your head, you'll feel the same joy and sense of wonder the rest of us feel. And your life will be changed forever."

  "If this Harry August tells you he was totally blind and Garth made him see again, he's bullshitting all of you. You tell him I said that when you see him."

  There was a soft knock on the door. Carling rose from behind the desk, walked across the office, and opened it. In the doorway stood the nun and the scar-faced man with the long, greasy black hair and dark glasses.

  "Excuse me," the woman said, curtsying slightly in my direction. "I hope we're not interrupting anything important. Harry and I just wanted to meet Garth's famous brother."

  Carling opened the door wider, stepped aside, then turned to me. "Mongo," he said evenly, "perhaps you'd like to deliver your message to Harry in person."

  15

  I put Sister Kate in her late thirties or early forties. The hair that peeked from beneath the tight white band securing her black cowl was red. She had a sculpted face, with bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and a full mouth which was now set in a pleasant, expectant smile. She wore no makeup. Aside from her nun's cowl, the rest of her clothing was strictly secular; the green jacket over a Mets sweat shirt, jeans, and sneakers. She was a handsome woman, with an unmistakable, no-nonsense air of authority: I certainly wouldn't want to skim money from any outfit whose books she was auditing, and the fact that all the money and goods that were swirling around Garth at the moment were being properly accounted for made me feel slightly better.

  The feelings Harry August stirred in me weren't quite so benign or reassuring. As far as I was concerned, despite his misshapen face, he had "phony" written all over him. His greasy hair and generally unkempt appearance made him an eyesore in a place where the watchword seemed to b
e cleanliness; obviously, he wasn't taking advantage of the shower facilities at the rear of the building. He was unshaven and looked thoroughly grubby. His facial features were twisted horribly out of shape by scar tissue which ringed both his eyes and radiated up over his forehead, down over his cheekbones. One milky brown eye was permanently tugged half shut by the scar tissue. I stared back into the one fully open eye of the "blind man" responsible for getting my brother on the front page of The National Eye.

  "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Frederickson," the nun said in a low, pleasing voice. "I'm Sister Kate, and this is Harry August."

  "You could have met me a lot sooner, Sister," I replied coldly, "if somebody in this organization had extended me the courtesy of picking up a telephone and calling me to let me know where my brother was."

  Sister Kate looked inquiringly at Tommy Carling, then back to me. "Then I must apologize for all of us, Dr. Frederickson," she said in the same mild, disarming tone. "Not all of us were aware that you didn't know; I guess we all just assumed that Garth had been in touch with you."

  "You assumed wrong."

  The nun's silence and slightly downcast eyes comprised a most eloquent response; other people shouldn't be blamed for failing to do something that should have been my brother's responsibility. She had a point.

  "There's something you wanted to say to me, Frederickson?" Harry August asked, peering at me with his one good eye.

  "I have nothing to say to you, Mr. August," I replied sharply. I was feeling colder, angrier, increasingly helpless and frustrated. "I came here for one simple reason-to see my brother. I believe I've outstayed my welcome, and I'd appreciate it if one of you good people would tell Garth that I was here. Now you'll have to excuse me."

  "Garth is here, Mongo." My brother's head and broad shoulders suddenly appeared in the doorway, framed by the nun and Harry August. Sister Kate and August moved aside at the sound of my brother's voice, and I could see that Marl Braxton was standing next to Garth. Behind them, crowded in a semicircle, were a number of tough-looking young men, all dressed in green jackets. "Welcome."