The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone

by George C. Chesbro

My brother thought about it, then slowly shook his head. “No. That didn’t occur to Garth.”

  “At the very least, you should have called Mom and Dad. They’ve been worried sick about you. We thought you might be dead.”

  “Garth has been all right.”

  “You should have called and told them that.”

  “Garth will call them if you think it’s a good idea.”

  “Garth, don’t Mom and Dad even mean anything to you anymore?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then why didn’t you think of them—or me—during the past four months? I’m trying to understand.”

  “But Garth did think of you,” my brother replied evenly. He paused and studied my face, may have noticed the beginning of tears. “Garth is sorry for the pain he has caused you, Mongo. He just didn’t … you, Mom and Dad … Garth knows who you all are, but you don’t really have anything to do with him, the way he is now. It’s as if Garth’s parents and brother belonged to some other person’s life.”

  “But you do remember things from the other person’s life?”

  “Yes. But it’s as if they happened to someone else.”

  “Do you feel any different now—physically or mentally—from the way you did the last time I talked to you, at the clinic?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Garth is sure. Why do you ask?”

  “The last time the doctors ran tests on you, you were still passing NPPD in your urine. The drug was still metabolizing in your system.”

  “So what?”

  “So, maybe the damn stuff is still in your system, and that’s why you don’t feel any different; so maybe when it all breaks down and is pissed away, you will feel different—like you. Will you let me take you to a medical lab for a urinalysis?”

  “Garth thinks not.”

  I sighed. “Why does Garth think not?”

  “Garth is the way he is. The idea that he will one day change back to the way he was before is a hope of yours—a false one. Garth does not want you to be hurt anymore.”

  “You let me worry about that. How about it? One little pee in one little bottle is all I’m asking. How can that hurt?”

  “Garth’s time is better spent doing other things. He thinks not.”

  “Do you believe you’re some kind of messiah?”

  Garth abruptly laughed. It was the first time I had heard him laugh in what seemed like years, but was only months; it was a rich sound, and it made me feel very good.

  “You still think Garth is crazy, don’t you, Mongo? There can’t be any messiahs when there is no God. The reason Garth is doing what he’s doing is because there is no one else to look to for help outside ourselves.”

  Garth and I studied each other for a few moments, and then I pointed toward the door. “Some of the people out there think you’re the Messiah. Braxton and Carling do, and I’ll bet there are a lot of others.”

  “That’s not Garth’s problem, is it?”

  “But do you ever tell them you’re not the Messiah?”

  “If the subject comes up, yes. Otherwise, it’s not something Garth gives any thought to. Garth tries not to concern himself with silly things. What Garth thinks about is telling the truth, even if no one listens, and helping those who need it and who will allow Garth to help them. Is Garth doing wrong?”

  “No, Garth,” I said quietly, “you’re not doing anything wrong. As a matter of fact, you’re doing an enormous amount of good, and I’m terribly proud of you.”

  “Are the people working with Garth doing wrong?”

  “Not intentionally. But I think they may be harming you, even if they don’t mean to.”

  “No one is harming Garth, Mongo.”

  “What do Braxton and Carling say when you tell them you’re not the Messiah?”

  “They don’t believe Garth.” My brother paused, smiled wryly. “Siegmund Loge would have found all of this very amusing, wouldn’t he? He’d have laughed and said, ‘I told you so.’”

  The words momentarily stunned and disoriented me. “Jesus, Garth,” I finally managed to say. “You understand that?”

  “Of course Garth understands that. Loge may have been mad as a hatter—like you think I am—but he understood exactly what he was doing when he manipulated all those people.”

  “Aren’t you manipulating people?”

  “Garth is manipulating no one. All of the people who work with Garth are volunteers. They came here of their own accord, and they can leave any time they like. It makes no difference to Garth what they do. These people aren’t anything like the Children of Father.”

  “Aren’t they? One of the things Loge was demonstrating was how easy it is to manipulate people who want or need something supernatural, occult, to believe in. They’re always looking for humans to set up as gods to replace the heavenly gods who are never around when you really need them. Loge maintained that this flaw existed on a very deep, genetic level, and he predicted that it would be the ultimate cause of our extinction. How nice your followers are isn’t the point; they’re exactly like the Children of Father.”

  “Garth does not set himself up as a god.”

  “But others are—just as Loge predicted would always happen.”

  “Garth can only be responsible for his own actions. Do you disagree?”

  “No, Garth; you know I don’t disagree with that.”

  “Then where do you find fault with me?”

  “I’m not finding fault with you. I’m just worried that you’ve become a part of something that can eventually prove very dangerous and destructive. I can’t tell you how it’s going to become dangerous and destructive, because it’s just a feeling I have. But history is on my side.”

  “Garth will never be a part of anything that is dangerous and destructive.”

  “I’m talking about the whole movement that has grown up around you.”

  “Garth is not part of any movement. Garth goes where he must go, and does what he must do. He will not allow what others think or believe to stop him from doing the things that must be done.”

  “Garth, what do you say to all those people out on the streets?”

  “Why don’t you come out with Garth sometime and find out for yourself?”

  “Maybe I will,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t. I wanted nothing to do with Garth’s People.

  “Garth tells them that their confusion is his; their pain is his pain, as is their cold and hunger. Garth tells them about his experiences with Siegmund Loge, and Valhalla. Garth asks them to help ease his pain; he says that the way they can help him is to allow themselves to be helped, and then perhaps go out and help others. To a woman who keeps all her belongings in a bag, Garth says that he knows what it is like to have virtually nothing, and not have anyone to share even that with. Garth tells them how he hurts, and then begs them to come with him to seek food, clothing, shelter, and comfort. Some do. They know Garth is telling the truth.”

  “That’s nice, Garth,” I said quietly, meaning it.

  Garth shrugged, smiled thinly. “Garth also cries a lot when he’s on the streets. That seems to mean a lot to the people Garth must help. Garth can’t help crying, because he has been broken. He really does feel their cold, hunger, and loneliness. It’s what … Garth feels most of the time.”

  “I know.”

  “All this pain is in the place where Garth’s I used to be.”

  “I know.”

  “And so what Garth does now is really very selfish; he’s simply trying to ease his own suffering. That suffering doesn’t allow him much time to think of anything else. Now can you understand, Mongo?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is Garth wrong to try to stop his own hurt by stopping the hurt of others?”

  “No.”

  “Forgive Garth, Mongo, for the hurt he’s caused you, Mom, and Dad. Garth didn’t mean to be hurtful. All of the suffering that he sees and feels is much more … immediate.”
<
br />   Now the tears in my eyes spilled over my lids and rolled down my cheeks. “I don’t want you to hurt, Garth. That’s why I want you to stop all this, come back to the clinic and let the people there help you to get better.”

  “Can the people at the clinic make Garth’s pain go away, Mongo?”

  “I … don’t know. I don’t think anybody can promise that.”

  “Then Garth must continue to do what he can to help himself.”

  “There are dangerous people around you, Garth. They could bring harm to you, or to others.”

  “Who?”

  “Marl Braxton, for one.”

  Garth shook his head. “Marl isn’t dangerous any longer. If you knew what he’d been through, if you’d met his maid of constant sorrows, you’d understand why he behaved the way he did in the past. All he needed was for someone to understand, and truly feel, all that he felt.”

  “Have you met Marl’s maid of constant sorrows, Garth?” I asked in what I hoped was a neutral tone of voice.

  Garth did not reply, and I pressed.

  “Who is she, Garth? What is she?”

  “Garth can’t tell you,” my brother replied simply. “He doesn’t have the right.”

  One last try.

  “Garth, you haven’t done anything wrong or hurtful. But, in the end, I believe that great harm can come from this thing that’s growing up around you. This is definitely a religious movement, whether you want it to be or not, and it’s centered on you. Religious movements, whether they’re centuries old or only months, always end up at some time or another with blood and destruction as fertilizer as the people in them try to make them grow even more, and faster. People are nailed to crosses, wars are launched in the name of holiness, bodies are broken, women’s breasts are cut off and their babies’ brains bashed out, kids are pushed down elevator shafts, rattlesnakes end up in dissenters’ mailboxes. The souls of whole nations can be swallowed up. The religious impulse is an insane one, Garth, and it’s probably at the core of all the rest of humankind’s insanities—a lesson driven home to our hearts by Siegmund Loge.”

  “Garth agrees with everything you say, Mongo. Siegmund Loge taught us both the same lesson.”

  “Then come home with me, Garth. First, we’ll have ourselves a good, stiff drink, and then I’ll drive you back up to the clinic.”

  “Garth isn’t a part of any religious movement. He doesn’t lead, and he doesn’t ask anyone to follow. He wants only to help people who need it.”

  “The movement exists, Garth. If it ends up smelling of death and mental slavery, I don’t want any of that smell rubbing off on you.”

  Suddenly, Garth’s eyes filled with tears. “Have you smelled what’s out on the streets, Mongo? That’s where the death, destruction, and mental slavery exists, and that’s where my battle must be fought.”

  I sighed heavily, bowed my head. I tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t think of anything. It was time for me to leave. Again, I wanted to hug my brother—but that gesture was still beyond the wall, beyond me. I stepped forward and held out my hand; Garth gripped it.

  “Good luck to you, Garth.”

  “And to you, Mongo. Thank you for all the years … Thank you for truly being Garth’s brother, in spirit as well as in flesh.”

  “Good-bye, Garth.”

  “Good-bye, Mongo.”

  My eyes were still wet when I walked out of the office—into a hall filled with a couple of hundred people, all staring at me. I pushed and shouldered my way toward the main entrance, tensed when I felt somebody’s hand grip my shoulder.

  “What will you do, Mongo?” Tommy Carling asked in an anxious voice.

  “About this? Nothing. I’m gone. Thanks again, Tommy, for what you did for Garth. Good-bye, and good luck to you.”

  When I emerged on the street, the strange odor I’d noticed inside the bathhouse was gone. And I still didn’t know what it had been. I remembered words from Ulysses, something about the “cold smell of sacred stone,” and I wondered if what I’d smelled inside had been what Joyce was referring to.

  16.

  It was at the beginning of the second week in December when my parents unexpectedly appeared at the door of the apartment I had once shared with Garth. Their visit surprised me, since we’d already made plans for me to visit them in Nebraska at Christmas; it also embarrassed me, since—although it was only four o’clock in the afternoon—I was half lit. I’d been very much out of sorts for the past two months—drinking too much, not eating right, and generally not taking care of business. I’d been turning down P.I. work, and a book on urban patterns of juvenile crime I’d been planning to finish in my newly acquired spare time still sat on my desk in piles of uncollated sheets, pages of statistics, and notes on half-formed ideas. I found it impossible to concentrate for extended periods of time. I felt defeated, frustrated; I also thought I knew how Dr. Frankenstein must have felt after his creation had gone lumbering out the door to terrorize the villagers. Garth wasn’t terrorizing anyone; quite the contrary. Still, I desperately wished I had never brought Der Ring des Nibelungen to the clinic to play for my brother, and couldn’t help but wonder how things might have worked out if I hadn’t “imprinted” him with the music of Richard Wagner. Whatever might have happened, at least I wouldn’t be sitting around feeling guilty and responsible for creating an entirely new personality for Garth.

  “You don’t look well, Robby,” my mother said as she shifted slightly on the living room sofa, where she sat next to my father. I sat across from them in an overstuffed easy chair.

  My mother, dressed in her Sunday best for her visit to the big city, still looked the embodiment of what I thought of as country simplicity and virtue. Her white hair had been neatly coiffed, and she looked beautiful to me in her simple print dress. She sat somewhat tensely, with her hands folded in her lap; her blue eyes were fixed on me with a gaze that was both loving and anxious. My father’s gaze was a bit more stern; he knew Scotch when he smelled it.

  “I’m all right, Mom—just a bit tired. I assume the two of you came to New York to see Garth. Have you been to his place downtown?”

  “We’ve been down there,” my father said in a slightly curt tone, “but we didn’t see Garth.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess it’s hard to know when he’s going to be around. Maybe later the three of us can go—”

  “We went to the place where we were told your brother lives and works now,” my mother interrupted in a soft but strong voice. She clasped, then unclasped, her hands. “We spoke with a man who looks and sounds like your brother, but it wasn’t him. That was definitely not my son.”

  “That’s him, Mom. Like I’ve told you over the telephone, he takes some getting used to.”

  My father, who was the embodiment of what Garth would look like in twenty years, with twenty less pounds, cleared his throat; it seemed an ominous sound. “Robby, what are you doing about it?”

  “Doing about what, Dad?”

  “Your mother and I assumed you were still watching over your brother, doing all you could to help him get well. This man who looks like Garth says that he hasn’t seen you in over seven weeks.”

  “Garth and I don’t have much to talk about anymore, Dad.”

  “In the beginning, after his collapse, you were by his side constantly. In fact, you told us you thought he was getting better—until all of these very strange events began to occur.”

  “I told you what happened.”

  “You told us about the traitor, and about the killings at the clinic; you told how Garth was taken away by this Tommy Carling, who’s with him now and who seems to think that Garth is some kind of god. All of this you explained to us. What your mother and I are asking is why you’ve left him alone in that situation.”

  I choked off a bitter, slightly drunken laugh which my parents would never have understood. “I wouldn’t exactly describe Garth as ‘alone’ down there, Dad. Right now, I’d say he’s the most famous Fre
derickson there ever was, or ever will be. He’s supported by a cast of tens of thousands of people all over the country, and more believers are coming out of the woodwork every day.”

  “Don’t joke about this, Robby, please,” my mother said, her voice quavering slightly. “You know exactly what your father means. Garth is alone, because none of the people who surround him really know him, or love him the way we do. Garth is in terrible trouble, and we don’t understand why you’re not doing anything about it.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about it, Mom,” I said, swallowing the sour taste of afternoon Scotch which lingered at the back of my throat. “There’s nothing anybody can do. Even if we tried to have him committed, which I think would be virtually impossible at this point, I don’t think it would be right. If you’ve talked to him, then you know he’s perfectly rational. He’s doing exactly what he wants to do, and he’s doing an enormous amount of good. Anyone who watches television or reads the newspapers knows that.”

  “People are saying he’s the Messiah,” my father said, scorn and disbelief in his voice. “They say he performs miracles.”

  “Where’s the harm?” I asked, a shrug in my voice. “Besides, in a way he is performing miracles—just like all those TV preachers do, except with more grace, style, and wit, and denying all the time that he’s doing anything. The blind man Garth supposedly cured has to be a phony, but I’d say that most of the others aren’t. There are people who claim to have been cured of everything from warts to paralysis just by seeing his picture, or watching him speak on television. And they probably have been cured—because whatever they were suffering from was psychosomatic to begin with. All miracle cures are psychosomatic, but that doesn’t mean they’re not cures; just because pain is in the mind doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. People have faith in Garth; they believe he can make them well, and so a lot of them get well. Flip the TV dial any Sunday morning, and you’ll see a host of guys with toupees and capped teeth doing the same thing—and then asking for money. I prefer Garth’s style.”

  “There are groups of these so-called Garth’s People springing up around the world,” my father said in a flat voice.