The Saint

by Melanie Jackson

  “If you believe this to be true . . . then, I am a blasphemy,” Niklas pointed out. “ ‘I am the Lord thy God and thou shall have no other god before me,’ ” he quoted. “You could hardly want me associated with this church.”

  “New religions also tend to be somewhat simplistic,” the old human said diplomatically. “But they evolve. And I believe—in time—that we can grow to accommodate other points of view. My task—and yours—is to see that this faith has the time to develop, to be cultivated.”

  “You wish to make me a farmer of men?” This amused Niklas.

  “Of men’s souls. Yes.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was seven o’clock. The last few despairing rays of sun slid off the buildings, and the deep blue of night eased itself into the air. The sky turned a velvet indigo that showed no stars: It would get no darker above the city and those would remain hidden by lights no matter the hour.

  Standing at a stoplight, Adora sighed with relief. With the sun gone she could enjoy herself a bit. Things had been frantic since they returned to the hotel, people rushing about and phones ringing endlessly.

  Adora admired the cars piled up at the light, all thoroughbreds, engines snorting and their riders ready to go the moment the signal turned green. It made no sense to take the Packard out when they were wandering from store to store, but she wished they had anyway. That was an automobile with a pedigree, even among these finest of the fine. It made Mercedeses and Jaguars look like stable nags.

  She hadn’t planned on doing any sightseeing, but there was no avoiding it or the tourists. Rodeo Drive, like its well-heeled visitors, had kept itself in good shape and demanded attention, was beautifully dressed and accessorized. There had been a facelift or two on the older buildings, some dermabrasion for the younger facades and chemicals all around so things were smooth and glossy. Exhausted as she was, Adora wasn’t sure if she loved or hated its artificial beauty.

  There were strange women too, dressed exotically in embroidered togas and golden veils sitting behind large plate-glass windows. Mugshottz explained that they were lutin women whose virtue could be negotiated—though the sliding scale apparently stopped far short of bargain-basement prices. This was Rodeo Drive, after all. Adora wasn’t certain how she felt about that, either.

  Mugshottz was distracted, constantly scenting the area and scanning their surroundings with hard eyes that didn’t give any clue about his feelings. Still, he followed without protest as she went from boutique to boutique, searching for the things Kris had instructed her to buy: hat, coat, gloves, an amber pendant. And they ended up in several unlikely stores because this wasn’t coat season except for furs, which though perennially popular she wouldn’t wear. She had never been able to tolerate fur on her body. It was the curse of a too vivid imagination, but it had always seemed to her that she could hear the pelts whimpering and feel their blood on her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly to Mugshottz, “but I just can’t wear any of these coats. They’re . . . awful.”

  “It’s okay,” he assured her, finally showing some animation. “It’s important that you find something that doesn’t bother you. . . . What about that one?” he asked, pointing at a coat displayed in front of an old movie poster of Casablanca. Awe entered his voice. “Isn’t that great?”

  “Do you think it’s me?” Adora asked dubiously.

  “Oh, yeah! Don’t you love Humphrey Bogart?” Mugshottz sounded wistful. “Anyway, it isn’t fur.”

  Adora had some misgivings, but she said, “Okay. I’ll try it on.”

  “Here—I’ll help you.”

  This is a mistake, Joy warned.

  I know.

  But unwilling to quash Mugshottz’s new enthusiasm, Adora trailed after him, trying to smile when he proffered the coat.

  Kris eyed her over the rim of his cup, and Adora scowled as his eyes began to twinkle. Annoyed as she was, she couldn’t help but notice that he still looked gorgeous—like the best man at a wedding, or perhaps the officiate, a well-heeled judge who favored Italian designers. He had on an exquisite coal-colored suit with a white silk shirt and tie, and his long hair was pulled back tight. From well-shod feet to silvery locks, she was attracted to every inch of him.

  Can’t you just see him in sexy red bishop’s robes? Joy asked—but softly, as though afraid of being overheard. She had been behaving oddly since Adora’s fainting spell.

  Actually—no. She couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. The thought of the clergy made her feel uncomfortable, and desiring a priest was just—well—icky.

  “Um . . . admittedly I am not up to the very latest in women’s fashion, but what are you wearing, a parachute?” Kris asked, leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched before him, elegant hands putting his porcelain cup aside. The act should have looked effeminate but didn’t.

  “You said to be discreet and get something full-length. This covers everything.” Adora peered at him over the top of her giant sunglasses.

  “My dear!” He positively grinned. “This is your idea of discreet? Anyway, that looks like it would fit Mugshottz. Didn’t they have anything in your size?”

  Frowning, Adora turned and checked herself in the full-length mirror and gave a start. Not having seen the outfit in its accessorized entirety, she hadn’t quite comprehended the extent of the fashion disaster she had perpetrated on her hurried shopping trip the night before.

  “Damn.” That’s what came of shopping when one was exhausted.

  And from taking advice from a gargoyle.

  Joy was right. The expensive coat truly looked ridiculous in the bright light of morning. The sleeves were a hand’s breadth too long, and it was absolutely the wrong shade for a blonde. It made her skin look muddy green. She had on a fedora as well that was a shade too large and compounded the sins of the coat—also purchased yesterday for an outrageous price at a vintage clothing store under advisement from an enthusiastic Mugshottz, who said it completed her outfit. Which it did, in a horrible way.

  Maybe it was the way she was wearing the hat, she thought, adjusting it. The brim was pulled down until it almost met the upper rim of her oversized sunglasses, which were so dark that she could barely see her hand in front of her face, and which forced her to wear them down on her nose so she could walk without falling. That made her nose look awfully long.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, she had the collar of her trench coat—which sported entirely too many pockets and shoulder flaps for her taste, but what could you do on short notice in the spring when the stores had no selection?—turned up so it reached past her cheekbones. She had thought herself dashing, but really she was a walking cliché. All that was missing was a walkie-talkie wristwatch and a handgun. So, fine. She had to admit—to herself, anyway—that perhaps she had overdone it with her accessories too.

  Also bony as she was, the effect of all that fiapping fabric was a bit scarecrow-like. She should have known better. She did know better. This wasn’t her style. She’d been a steady 29-29-29 until her sophomore year of high school. She’d filled out a little then in the traditional places, and gotten a lot taller, but though her statistics had improved, she was still far from curvaceous.

  And it was annoying, because what she had really wanted was the white marabou coat with the coral satin lining paired with those silly beaded sandals. But those had been hideously expensive, and no one except perhaps Liberace’s ghost would have thought it “discreet.” Still, she wished now that she had bought those instead. It was deflating to have Kris look better than she did.

  Adora pulled off her sunglasses and tossed them aside.

  “Well . . . I thought people would see me and think: There goes a spy,” she invented glibly, trying not to sound despondent. “Or maybe a private eye. They probably have lots of those here, what with the movie stars and all.”

  “And the addition of a spy to my entourage helps how?” Kris asked politely, though she sensed hidden laughter.

  “Well . . . if th
ey think I’m a spy, they won’t think I’m your biographer. Hell, they probably won’t even notice you. Anyway, don’t you like the hat? It’s classic.” She offered her profile, changing the subject. “Do you think a cigar would help? Or a flask of whiskey? A gun?”

  “Hmm. You do know that I don’t like to lie unless there is absolutely no other choice?” he said.

  Adora dropped her chin and made a face, which only amused him more.

  She said, “This might be a good moment to say nothing, then. This damned hat and coat were expensive. And Mugshottz really liked them.” Adora flipped down her collar and pulled off the fedora. “This is all a bit new to me, you know. Usually my jobs are much less exciting or dangerous. My biggest danger is paper cuts—and absolutely no one has ever cared that I’m a biographer.”

  Which wasn’t strictly true, but she was willing to stretch the point.

  “Of course,” Kris said soothingly. “And I am very sorry about all this haste and skullduggery. Just to satisfy my own curiosity, how many pockets does that coat have?”

  Adora grinned. “Seven visible, three hidden and a place for a small holster. I got it in the Spies-R-Us department at Kingman’s, if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, I’m fascinated, believe me. You see, I think the coat was designed for an unmodified goblin. That’s against city ordinances.”

  “Oh.” The idea hadn’t occurred to her. The coat did seem to have double pockets in the right places and plenty of space for an extra set of arms.

  “But, please—let me atone for causing this distress. I shouldn’t have sent you out when you were so tired. Or with Mugshottz. I’ll arrange for someone to take it back for you. I am certain that we can do much . . .”

  “Yes?” she prompted as he paused.

  “We can find something that suits you better. The coat is simply not doing justice to your intelligence or beauty.”

  “Good save,” Adora remarked with a half-smile.

  Kris grinned fully. “Thank you. If you live long enough, you finally learn what to say to women. In certain circumstances.” He called out: “Penny-wyse!” Then, to Adora: “So, what would you really like? You know, all it need do is keep the sun off and offer a small degree of warmth at night.”

  “Well . . .”

  Tell him about the pink coat.

  I can’t. You know I can’t. It’s a bimbo coat. He’ll think I’m a frivolous ditz—and an expensive one at that.

  “Um, something in a tasteful camel-hair would be nice,” she said, but without enthusiasm, as she peeled off the olive monstrosity. Yes, it definitely looked like it was made for someone with more appendages. Maybe Mugshottz could use it. . . . But no, big as it was, it was still too small for him.

  Pennywyse materialized.

  “Do you have the receipt?” Kris asked Adora.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to add to your work, Pennywyse, but this coat must be returned, and since Mugshottz is out—”

  “I feared this would happen,” Pennywyse said.

  Adora protested, “I can go myself. I don’t need a bodyguard—it’s broad daylight on Rodeo Drive, for heaven sakes.” But both Kris and Pennywyse shook their heads.

  “But . . .” Adora faltered. She had no way of knowing Kris’s regular travel routine, but she was certain that it didn’t usually involve so many furtive phone calls in foreign languages or hurried packing assisted by a bodyguard and political adviser. There was, though she hated the stray thought that wedged in her brain, a sense of soldiers preparing for battle and evacuating the noncombatants from the war zone. What they didn’t need to worry about was her shopping.

  And yet that was exactly what was worrying them.

  “Trust me. You don’t want to wander a goblin city alone. Not today,” Pennywyse said. “Not right now, when there is so much unrest. And anyway, it isn’t my burden. The hotel will take care of this. Believe me, it’s what the concierge lives for.”

  This made Adora feel somewhat better.

  “I have also decided that discretion is not called for in this instance due to a change in plans, so please choose a replacement that’s”—Kris tilted his head and squinted at her—“pink. With feathers or fur, or something frivolous.”

  Adora stared at him. “Are you reading my mind?” she demanded. “Damn it, Kris! Are you some super-psychic? If you are, it’s really impolite to peep in my brain without telling.”

  “I am Santa Claus,” Kris pointed out. “But I also simply know about the other coat. Mugshottz said that you stopped dead in your tracks and forgot to breathe when you saw it.”

  “It’s too expensive,” Adora began, regret strong in her voice. “And I’d probably drop fifty I.Q. points if I wore it.”

  “Please!” he scoffed. “And it’s entirely my fault that you need a coat. This is a business expense, and my responsibility to bear. Anyway, I know the young goblin designer who made that coat; I’ve taken an interest in her career. You would be doing her a favor by wearing it.”

  Pennywyse had gathered up her discarded trench coat and was waiting for her decision. He didn’t fidget, but she felt his impatience. She had temporarily forgotten—probably because no one had explained why—that they needed to make haste from the city. Their trip to the farmers’ market and Caveman Joe’s still seemed like a strange dream.

  “You know, the Puritans got it all wrong: Not everything that is fun and beautiful is sinful,” Kris remarked softly, studying her face. “You aren’t afraid to have fun, are you?”

  That sounds like a challenge, Joy pointed out.

  Was she afraid?

  You’re sure out of practice at the fun thing.

  “Adora, if you could just accept that you are different!” Kris stood and came toward her. She had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. “For some people it is enough to grow up in the dirt of civilization, to bloom briefly, to reseed their bit of ground and then die. They draw in their horizons, root in one place and keep their world small so it seems less frightening. They live brief, tiny lives. And though the world is full of magnificent things that feed the mind and spirit, these people have sad, starved souls that never know joy or wonder.

  “But that isn’t the destiny of all people. Writers, artists, musicians, poets—these are touched by the finger of Gaia, and though they may try not to see how vast the world is, still the wide world comes to them and forces them—and then to share their vision with others. The gift sometimes destroys them, forces their talents into early, painful flowerings that leave them too spent to go on. But these are the chosen messengers of Divinity, and they are so beautiful, so filled with light.”

  Kris looked at her—into her—and Adora felt suddenly beautiful, luminous. He said, “You were not born to live an ordinary life. Even had you been planted in the barest soil, your vision would still grow to light the world. And when the time is right, the ground will tremble and your destiny will burst forth and bring beauty to all you touch.”

  And maybe this was the time when it would happen, she thought, caught up in his words even though she was aware they were a bit over the top. Perhaps this time, her book would reach the masses and move them.

  “Bloom,” he commanded.

  Easily conjuring to mind a field where dreams and magnificent stories looked a lot like wild blue coastal lupine that sprang up in the barren rocks every April, Adora had to admit that Kris was something of a poet himself.

  Or a very good psychiatrist, Joy suggested. Adora’s field began to fade.

  But Kris went on: “Though scythes of disbelief and fear may cut dreamers down, it does not matter, because others will remember and the ideas will live on, feeding still more. That is immortality.”

  The whole scythe thing was probably meant metaphorically, but Adora didn’t care for this part of Kris’s speech as much. Possibly because her deplorable taste in movies had shown her too many masked maniacs wielding farm equipment to grisly and effective purpose.

  She sig
hed. The earlier vision was gone. Something told her that this matter was important to Kris, though. And he had more energy than she had, and would be relentless. This was too much argument over a small thing, anyway.

  “Okay, I give up. Get the pink coat—but not the shoes!” Mugshottz had likely mentioned her drooling over them, too. Then, unable to help herself, Adora dumped all her lingering feelings of guilt— after all, she couldn’t end world hunger by denying herself—and let a broad smile come to her face. “And thank you. I will enjoy wearing it. Even if it makes me stupid.”

  Kris and Pennywyse both beamed.

  “Wonderful.” Kris looked for a moment like he wanted to embrace her, but instead he backed away. He was being very careful about touching her today.

  Which is probably for the best, Joy said.

  Adora turned and picked up her sunglasses. Joy, was I just bribed?

  I’m not sure. But the die is cast. You may as well enjoy it.

  You just want that coat, Adora grumbled.

  Are you nuts? Of course I do. It’s gorgeous. And I hope he gets the shoes, too. This was said loudly, and Adora wasn’t entirely surprised when Kris nodded his head.

  He hears you, Joy, Adora hissed.

  Not if I whisper.

  Kris smiled a little.

  Adora answered: I’m not so sure about that.

  The shaman came again in secret on the holiest night, the Eve of Baal’s Fire, when Sol’s path crossed between the Equinox and the Solstice. A great famine was upon the land, so need-fires were set ablaze atop the highest mounts so that the Sun’s light might be called down to Earth, where all the beasts of the field and grains did falter and die. In defiance of the Worshippers, the Celebrants who remembered the story of an ancient savior danced around the fires calling on the Goddess and their lost saint, Niklas Rhédon, to reappear and help them in their time of great hunger. Their prayers were answered. At midnight Niklas Rhédon did come, stepping out from the eadar dà theine Bhealltuinn, where he shone brighter than the purifying fire that birthed him. Many wept with joy as he caused all other fires to be extinguished in the land, and even the moon darkened. Only flames from the holy need-fire remained, and those were used to rekindle the Celebrants’ hearths, again bringing the saint’s blessings and good fortune into their households and fields.