Ben Soul

by Richard George

“Don’t suppose La Señora will mind our informal clothes. This summons sounds like don’t wait for the tux and cummerbund. Need a comb?”

  “Do I?”

  “You’re a bit windblown. I’ll lend you a clean one; I keep a supply on hand.” Dickon went to the bathroom and got a purple comb for Ben. He tucked a green one in his own pocket. Then he wrapped plastic wrap around the eggs and toast he had put on a plate for Beau. They would drop these off on the way.

  “By the way,” Ben said, “how many people live with Dr. Field? I thought Juan Loosa, the man I met at the beach party, lived with him.”

  “He does. So does Beau.” Dickon stared down at the plate he had wrapped. “Also Luis.”

  “Luis?”

  “A young boy.” Dickon looked up at Ben. “You might as well know. You’re definitely a Villager by now.”

  “Know what?”

  “Three people, Juan, Beau, and Luis, all live in the same body. Dr. Field takes care of them.”

  “Oh. I’ve heard about such things.” Ben smiled at Dickon. “I reckon one plate of eggs will feed all three of them, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you suppose La Señora wants with us?”

  “Probably a first-hand account of the man in the Chapel,” Dickon said, as he put a light jacket on. Ben had a heavier shirt, and needed no cloak to warm him.

  “Butter should stay here,” Dickon said.

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “She’s a good dog,” Dickon said. “I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

  Ben bid Butter stay and guard the house. Butter objected, but to no avail. When they closed the door on her, she lay on the hearthrug, dejected, and slept.

  After they had delivered Beau’s breakfast, Dickon led Ben behind the Chapel, and pointed out the trail. It was a worn track between the sagebrush and wild grasses on the mountain. It wound back and forth with many switchbacks, make the ascent not steep, but rather longer than the distance between the house and the chapel seemed to be. Dickon stopped several times to look at the ocean and catch his breath. Once they sighted the llamas in the shade of some small trees chewing their cuds. By the time they got to the top of the mountain, the sun had lanced through the shield of the clouds and wrapped the manor house in a noose of gold. Ben wished he had a camera to capture the moment.

  Conference

  Dickon led Ben around one end of the great house to the front door. He pressed a small button on the doorframe. In a moment, Elke Hall came to let them in.

  “It’s good you have come,” she said. “La Señora is waiting. She is troubled, I think.” Elke motioned them in. “La Señora has just taken breakfast on the patio,” she said. “Have you eaten?” She looked from Dickon to Ben, and then back to Dickon.

  “Yes, we have eaten,” Dickon said.

  “Shall I bring you hot cocoa?”

  “That would be nice,” Dickon said. Ben nodded his agreement.

  “Come, then.” Elke led them down the hall, past the dining room and the library all the way to the end. A small door opened out on a semi-enclosed patio. The sun at this hour had warmed one corner of it. La Señora sat at a small table there. She looked frailer than Ben remembered her. Dickon went to her.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you are well?”

  “As well as can be expected, Dickon, for an old woman like me.” Her voice was strong and steady, and the force of her personality had not faded. Ben smiled at her.

  “Welcome, Mr. Soul,” she said. “I’m glad you are both here. I’ve need of every ally.”

  Dickon and Ben took seats on the brick benches built into the patio walls.

  “What’s happened?” Dickon asked.

  “You know part of it,” she said. “You found that man on the Chapel floor. Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “The name on his identification said ‘Haven Fitz’,” Dickon said. “He didn’t have an address.”

  “I think he might have been in prison until recently,” Ben added. “He was awfully pale.”

  “Willy says he has been scrambling up and down the mountain for a couple of days. Willy thought at first he was just a stray camper from the Coastal Commission Park, but we found out early this morning the park is closed to campers temporarily. He hasn’t bothered the llamas, as far as we can tell. Nothing in his gear or his behavior suggests he is a naturalist, or bird specialist.”

  “Why do you think he was here?” Dickon asked.

  “I think he’s a spy,” La Señora said. “Not a very effective one, perhaps, but I definitely think he was looking us over.”

  Elke brought the hot cocoa just then. Tiny pink marshmallows floated in the rich dark liquid. A subtle touch of cloves rose with the steam. Ben sipped the hot fluid with care and great appreciation.

  Within the house, the telephone rang. Ben and Dickon could hear Elke answering it. La Señora did not appear to hear the telephone. She looked out over the small garden just beyond the patio. The marigolds and zinnias were overblown and ragged. It meant to her the melancholy of autumn was upon them, that last full ripeness that comes before the persistent wet of gray winter. She sighed. More than most years, it oppressed her. She said nothing to her guests about her mood. One did not discourage one’s allies with news of one’s own uncertainty.

  Elke came out. “I’ve just talked with Dr. Field,” she said. “There’s some confusion about identifying the man in the Chapel. His papers say his name is Haven Fitz. He came out of his stupor long enough to name himself Haakon Spitz. He made Dr. Field promise that would be the name on his tombstone, if he didn’t make it.”

  “Here’s another mystery, then,” La Señora said. “Too many mysteries piling on mysteries.”

  Willy Waugh joined them, coming in from the garden. His jockey shorts were dusty, the first time Ben had ever seen them in anything but pristine condition.

  “What to do about mysteries?” Willy asked.

  “Do we need more eyes and ears on the mountain at night?” La Señora asked.

  “Might help. Might not. This one was a daylight stalker.” Willy appraised Ben and Dickon. “Not much good at it,” he added.

  “He was sick,” Dickon said. “Probably has been for several days. Maybe he was just confused. Strong illnesses can do that.”

  “Spy.” Willy put his opinion into one spat out word.

  Elke said, “Dr. Field told me Deputy Sharif is looking into the official records to clarify the confusion. Meanwhile, the man is responding as well as can be expected to antibiotics.”

  “If it should become necessary to patrol the Village and the mountain, may I recruit you, Ben and Dickon, for such duty.”

  “Certainly,” Ben said.

  “Sure thing,” Dickon said.

  “Who would want to spy on us?” Elke inquired.

  “Vanna Dee.” Willy was emphatic. Dickon nodded vigorously.

  “She’d try anything to get her way,” Dickon said. The cold note in his voice chilled Ben’s soul.

  “Perhaps,” La Señora said.

  “Probably,” Elke said.

  La Señora stared a long moment at the ragged marigolds. She nodded once, as though she had decided a point. After a further short silence she spoke.

  “For now we do not know enough to be certain this Fitz-Spitz man was a spy. We must be on guard, however, against the possibility. Please keep alert, all of you.” She looked at each of them in turn. Each responded to her stare with a solemn nod.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go lie down for a bit. I have not slept well this last while, and need a nap to recoup.” She got unsteadily to her feet. Before Ben or Dickon could move, Willy and Elke were on either side of La Señora, ready to support her. Their movement had the grace of long practice.

  “Old ladies are bothered with old bodies. What a nuisance!” La Señora said, and went in.

  “We’ll see ours
elves down the hill,” Dickon called after her and her two attendants. Elke waved goodbye at them. They made their way through the house and down the hill to the Chapel.

  Irate Butter

  When Ben and Dickon reached the Chapel, Dickon stopped Ben and kissed him. Ben resisted at first, and then yielded. Mischievous smiling lights danced in Dickon’s green eyes and over his cheeks dusted with the palest possible freckles. Ben wanted to lick those freckles, to see if they’d wash off. He restrained himself. Dickon backed off, frowning.

  “Sorry,” he said. He went to his cottage and let Butter out. “I’m going to have to go to Wong Brothers,” Dickon said. “I’ve got to do the shopping. Do you want to come?”

  Ben smiled shyly at him. His gray eyes pleaded for understanding. “Yes, I want to come, but I’d better go home and feed Butter,” he said. She’s probably feeling neglected about now.”

  “You’re probably right. See you later?”

  “Yes,” Ben said.

  “When? If you stop by my place later,” Dickon said, “I’ll get us something for a late lunch. Probably salami; that’s all Wong Brothers has had lately.” Dickon shrugged. “Bologna would be nice for a change, or even souse.”

  “Anything but liverwurst. I don’t do liverwurst.” Ben twisted his nose and scrunched up his cheeks to indicate his dislike.

  Dickon laughed. “I don’t like that stuff, either.” Ben and Dickon started walking toward the Station. A playful finger of wind tousled his red hair, and went on to disarrange Ben’s thinning brown strands. Ben stopped at his gate. Butter raced to the door, barking furiously that she wanted to go inside. “I’d better get in