The Saint

by Melanie Jackson

“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?” Cyra smoothed back her daughter’s silken hair.

  “I dreamed of the lady again. She’s supposed to come here with Uncle Kris.”

  “Is she?” Cyra asked, but knew it was true. It just surprised her that Meriel knew. She shouldn’t be shocked— not really. Thomas had warned her that the ability to communicate with the faerie mound was an inherited trait.

  “Uh-huh. And guess what, Mommy?” Meriel looked up. She sounded more cheerful.

  “What?”

  “She’s sort of like . . .” Meriel paused, clamping down on what she was about to say.

  “She’s like the dragon?” Cyra guessed. She and Thomas were certain that their reptilian friend had shared his secret name with their daughter on her birthday, and that the child was doing her best not to betray his confidence.

  “Yeah. She got mad at a bad man once and lit his shoes on fire.” Meriel giggled. Cyra and Thomas had tried explaining to their daughter that lighting things—and especially people—on fire was not amusing, but they hadn’t yet convinced her of it. All the dragon’s pyrotechnic tricks were harmless and amusing—and allowed— because the canny beast was still being very careful not to expose the children to his true nature.

  “Hm. Well, I am looking forward to meeting her,” Cyra said diplomatically. “But in the meantime, I think we would both do well to get some rest. I don’t think we’ll be getting much sleep after Uncle Kris comes home.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  You’re like a fish in a pond. You’re so busy staring at the juicy worm, you don’t see the hook underneath.

  You know, Joy, I’ve looked it up. Talking back to the voice in my head is one of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia, Adora snapped.

  And your point is?

  My point is, I’m not sure the whole split-personality thing is healthy. I mean, this usually indicates that something dreadful happened to a child before the age of five. But nothing happened to me, so I shouldn’t need you to cope with everyday life.

  There came sudden silence from Joy that was unexpected and a bit unnerving.

  Joy—nothing did happen, did it? Adora asked.

  Joy still didn’t answer. One of the most annoying things about her: she would often up and disappear just at the point when Adora wanted to talk. It seemed that was the case now.

  The sunlight and the crowd began to weigh on Adora as she and Kris walked, and she sought the shade provided by the pepper trees at the edge of the paved lot. There were fewer people there, and Adora felt like she could breathe again.

  They weren’t alone, though. Adora glanced warningly at the cooing birds above. They were halfhidden in the pink pepper berries, but she was aware of their mood and of their guerilla-bombing techniques used to chase everyone away from their feasts.

  “You don’t like pigeons?” Kris asked, seeing her scowl.

  “Sure I do—roasted with a side of risotto and asparagus,” she muttered.

  Mugshottz made a strangled barking sound that Adora realized was a chuckle. When the troll laughed, his cheeks creased into deep folds like fissures. She half-expected to see bits of stone crumbling from his face.

  Kris smiled too. “Mugshottz has been known to eat pigeons Tartare. It’s revenge for all his cathedraldwelling relatives, condemned to live under mounds of their poop.”

  Adora blinked, then recalled that Mugshottz was supposedly part gargoyle. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. It was getting easier to read the man, even if he wore less expression than the standard English butler.

  “Please help yourself to squab,” she said. “I mean, don’t hold back on my account.”

  Mugshottz smiled but shook his head. He was now walking almost abreast of Kris, more of a peer and less a servant or bodyguard.

  “Have you ever heard the song ‘Poisoning Pigeons in the Park’?” she asked. Mugshottz shook his head but looked intrigued—at least, Adora thought so. “Look for it the next time you’re in a music store. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Title like that, I’d have to.” His voice was like gravel, and Adora winced in sympathy. Maybe Mugshottz didn’t say much because it hurt to talk.

  Kris found an alley of deeper shade between the cement-bound trees and guided her under it, switching sides so that he walked in the partial sun and shielded Adora from the odd passers-by.

  “I’ve just recalled something about Saint Nicholas’s church,” he said, smiling with sudden pleasure. Adora felt the familiar empathic swerve in his direction. His stories, however odd and improbable, resonated with her, stirring in her brain chords of some half-forgotten song. He went on: “The temple overlooked an older home—one they built for me when I was Poseidon. We had some real wild festivals there,” he said.

  The song met a note of discord.

  “Poseidon . . . ?” Adora stumbled over a small crack in the uneven pavement, and as Kris caught her she thought: Here we go again. She half-expected Joy to say something snotty, but apparently Joy had given her up as a lost cause. Left on her own, the best Adora could manage was a weak: “You were Wodin and Poseidon? So, you were the one responsible for making the Queen of Crete fall in love with that sacrificial bull.”

  Kris didn’t blush. He even grinned.

  “That was all her idea. She was one of the dark fey, you know. I had nothing to do with the conception of the Minotaur. She did that to get even with her husband, who liked that poor bull more than her.”

  “I see.”

  At her flat tone, Kris became wary. “But it was all a long, long time ago. I can barely remember those times. My brain is so scrambled that I can barely recall this life. Maybe I’m not remembering properly. That happens sometimes.”

  Adora made a tsking sound. “Kris, you’re not supposed to lie—even to comfort me.”

  “My brain is scrambled,” Kris insisted. “I could have it wrong. I’ll have to ask Thomas.”

  “Maybe the details of architecture or the geography are hazy, but you do recall being Poseidon, don’t you? I mean, it’s not just everyone who is worshipped as a sea god. One would tend to remember that,” she groused.

  He hesitated a second. “Yes. I recall it.”

  “So, though it may have been a long time ago, the underlying message of what you’re saying is that you’ve been worshipped as a god at least twice, and that this Santa gig—though the latest and greatest for us modern-day humans—is just not that big a deal. I mean, what are flying reindeer and a sainthood when you can command oceans?”

  Kris shook his head, clearly dismayed by her reaction.

  “I didn’t ‘command oceans.’ That isn’t my main . . . gift. It was more mistaken identity. They were looking for a sea god when I arrived in town.”

  Adora snorted.

  “And Santa is a ‘big deal,’ ” he insisted. “We are talking about faith, so of course that incarnation is important. In these days of mass communication, branding’s more important than ever.” Kris exhaled in a rare show of frustration. “I would let it go, you know. I’m not an egomaniac. But Santa isn’t being interpreted in the right way, and the concept has been corrupted. It’s doing more harm than good. I don’t know why this happens. I never wanted to be worshipped. I don’t need adoration. All I ever wanted was for there to be peace among races, to unite in a common goal and to love all things in this world. But the message always gets lost. Goblins always get brainwashed, and humans . . .”

  “Humans?” she prodded.

  He looked at her, perhaps weighing what he should say. He looked unhappy as he answered. “Humanity needs gods, I guess. And most of them can’t seem to embrace a formless deity. For some reason, God can’t simply be love. God has to be something smaller—something tangible and flawed that allows loopholes for men to war and do hateful things in that name.”

  For the first time ever, Kris looked sad and discouraged, and Adora found herself equally disturbed. She was used to empathizing with her subjects, but this was something else—
something she didn’t entirely like. She needed to keep her emotions separate. She couldn’t afford to head into another emotional spiral.

  “Even after all this time, there are some things I still don’t understand. Man is so frail,” Kris said more softly. “Knowing he can be broken, I don’t understand why he does what he does. Like aggressive hedgehogs, men do terrible things to one another. Then, when vengeance comes, they curl about their pain, almost treasuring it even as they put out their quills. Those quills keep everyone away, even those they love, so they never receive comfort. And the cycle goes on.” He sighed.

  “Strangest and most illogical of all, the entire time they are posturing and threatening, they’re also hoping no one will notice their vulnerability and hurt them more.” Kris shook his head. “The most frustrating part is that they never learn. Millennium after millennium, it’s the same damn mistakes, the same damn denials that anything is wrong with the way they organize their lives, and the same refusal to admit that anything can change. They’re fatalists.” Kris shot Adora a look that she could not decipher.

  Adora swallowed and looked away. It actually hurt to see Kris’s frustration. His pain was suddenly her own, a dark stain blossoming in her heart that made her want to pull away from him. Maybe it was because she understood this “curling about one’s pain.” At her core, there was already a vast hurt. And fear. Fear that she might never be well and whole again. And fear that if she loved—true, deep, forgetful love—she might very well end up like her mother. And that terrified her, because she knew such love could be shattered—was almost always broken, in fact—and then what would become of her?

  The question left her feeling bereft, and more alone than she had ever felt in her life. And that was saying something. A part of her had always been lonely. Her parents’ intense—

  Admit it, that was a gloriously selfish relationship, Joy interjected at last. In fact, you could say it was hermetically sealed with you on the outside.

  Their love had left Adora feeling displaced, not a part of a family. She often wondered if she’d been an accident, or conceived on a whim then conveniently forgotten, an unwanted houseguest or a pest that lived in the attic. She was like a mouse, often sneaking into the kitchen for food when no one was there to see because she hadn’t wanted to spend another moment at a dinner table where she was unwanted. Though it had never been expressed to her in so many words, she had always had the feeling that she was allowed to stay in her home only because she didn’t make any trouble.

  It was a harsh thought. But all too frequently, when her parents would awake from their dreamy enchantment with one another, they’d stare at her as though her presence in their home—or at the dinner table, or in the back seat of the car—came as a complete and not entirely welcome surprise.

  Even when her mother decided that life without her husband was no life at all, she hadn’t remembered her daughter long enough to think of leaving a note of good-bye and absolution. Adora had needed that desperately; to hear that it wasn’t her own fault that they weren’t close, that her mother’s sorrow and loneliness hadn’t been caused by her daughter’s inadequacy.

  But there came no release, no absolution from such suspected guilt. The dark, hurt place from childhood remained inside, and Adora wrapped herself around it; yes, she did. And though sometimes she wanted to scream with frustration and pain, she couldn’t because fear gagged her, made her mute. She wanted to lash out but was bound tighter to this pain than any mummy in a tomb.

  Adora, Joy whispered sadly. Don’t.

  Weird to think, but when she had buried her dead she had somehow buried part of herself with them—maybe because it felt safer than leaving herself open to the world that had hurt her.

  But that was no way to live life, encysted by her loss, by fear, by anger. She understood that now. But how to escape?

  After her mom’s death, Adora’s life had slowly stalled. First her career and then her health, and she’d been left treading water while the tide of change rose around her, taking her further from her goals. She was haunted by the almost chronic fear that she was physically vulnerable like her father, or emotionally weak like her mother, or—heaven forbid—she was both, down deep inside where the pain lived, eating away at her self-confidence.

  She was also revolted to discover that she had an endless wellspring of tears inside that flowed at any provocation. The tears were endless because loss seemed endless, renewed daily as she saw other families who were open and generous and loving and felt the sharp pangs of envy in her heart. Her tears fell at movies, in parks, when she saw stray dogs or hurt birds.

  But finally, since the weeping fixed nothing and made people around her—even total strangers—act crazy, she had given it up. Who needed a casual lover’s hysterical sympathy? The pain was internal and would have to remain that way until she figured out how to deal with it. There were better ways to express sorrow, she’d decided—when you couldn’t avoid it altogether.

  And then your cocoon of pain washed up on Kris’s shore and every day is filled with sunshine and roses. Joy was sarcastic, bracing as a whiff of ammonia.

  And what of it? Adora demanded. Wasn’t it a good thing that recently things had been better? She hadn’t felt either the familiar pain or fear since meeting Kris. Something about him had coaxed her to uncurl her clenched heart, and to consider letting the old hurt go. She had caught her first breaths of fresh air. She felt ready—or nearly ready—to cut her ties and open herself to new experiences.

  Are you sure? ’Cause I think you have issues, girl— stuff you aren’t even aware of.

  Suddenly Adora was again aware of her body. Her restless blood was pounding. And though she wasn’t the least bit cold, she felt herself shiver. Lust—she had all but forgotten what that was.

  Oh, yeah. I’m sure. Issues or not.

  She was aware that Kris’s eyes rested on her while she ruminated, his gaze intent. He reached out now for her cheek, his fingers finding a tear that she hadn’t been conscious of spilling. He stared at it, mesmerized. Then he looked into her eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, if he could somehow see into her mind. He’d said he was psychic— and he’d fixed her headache last night. . . .

  He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.

  Is that supposed to be scary, Joy? ’Cause it’s not.

  If you’re not scared, you’re an idiot. How can you be so trusting?

  I don’t know.

  Though she complained about the intrusion, a part of Adora was glad to have Joy back because the snotty comments helped balance her—not that she would say so.

  Like I don’t already know what you’re thinking. When will you wise up? You have no secrets from me.

  I’ll never wise up—or give up. Not ’til I’m old—too old to feel or care about anything. I am not my mother. Adora felt defiant.

  “I’m so glad that this tear does not belong to me,” Kris said, his voice slightly dazed and his eyes unfocused. “I wonder, though, for whom you shed it.”

  “Not who—just what,” she whispered. “It’s history.”

  “Ah.”

  For a moment, Adora thought that perhaps Kris would touch the tear to his lips, but instead he rubbed the moisture between his fingers and dazedly shook his head. She thought to herself: I am so glad I didn’t run into you when I was a teen and my hormones were raging.

  Kris’s eyes snapped back to hers.

  “I’ve found that getting older is not a problem. Getting wiser is another matter,” he said suddenly. Could he be eavesdropping on her thoughts at this very minute? she wondered. No. Didn’t psychics have to go into a trance or something? But then he added, “I wouldn’t worry too much about having mental crutches. You break something, you need some support for a while until you heal.”

  Adora inhaled sharply. Kris’s conversation could be a lot like Chinese mustard—an assault on the senses if you got too big a bite or weren’t expecting it. However, it le
ft one’s nasal passages clear and ready to breathe fresh air. And she liked the image he suggested. She had broken something, and needed a crutch until she mended.

  Therapy wouldn’t hurt, either. Why not see another shrink if you want someone rummaging around in your head? Joy suggested.

  Was he rummaging? Adora didn’t like that idea.

  “What do you mean, I need a crutch? Look, I’m a few beans short of a burrito today, but that’s no reason to be impolite,” Adora said aloud with a deliberate scowl. Kris only laughed. The sound shifted the last of her sadness aside.

  “I am never impolite,” he assured her. “And I am certain that all your beans are there and fully cooked.”

  Adora’s stomach rumbled loudly, and her mouth flooded with saliva. She changed the subject. “Speaking of food—that roll was good, but keep an eye out for something with protein in it.” She swallowed. “Besides pigeon. All these wonderful smells are making me feel piggish. I suddenly have such an appetite.”

  Kris went along. “Good. You could use a couple of trips to the trough,” he said. “Let’s find something tasty, and I’ll stand you an early lunch.”

  Glancing up at him, again struck by his impossible beauty and kindness, Adora said, “You’re on. I have to warn you, though, today I feel very greedy. This may cost you some big bucks.”

  “Excellent. Greed isn’t always bad, you know. Not if you’re greedy for the right things: love, faith, family, education—Polish dogs.” Kris sniffed the air. “Has anything ever smelled so wonderful? I only just learned about hot dogs. They’re great.”

  Adora caught the clear scent of sausages, and it made her mouth water. She hadn’t been this hungry in months. It suddenly seemed that she was a starving person awakening from a coma, and she couldn’t wait to taste everything.

  She glanced over at Mugshottz. He looked dubious at Kris’s choice of comestibles, but perhaps a gargoyle would consider barbecuing to be an abuse of perfectly good meat. Or maybe he was one of those people who had actually read about what was in hot dogs, and was therefore unable to think about them with enthusiasm.