A Single Eye (41 page)

“Maureen,” I said, and waited until she looked up. “We have to go now.”

Outside, a crate on pulleys groaned in the wind. It must, I thought, have been what they used to get that one chair up here. I looked from Maureen's slender body to the crate. She'd be an easy fit.

“Where does the pulley crate go down to?'

“The river, a bit beyond the fork that leads here.”

There had to be a means of controlling its descent; I'd choreographed stunts in way worse than that. If I tucked the sleeping bag around her . . .

“The carriage goes all the way at the bottom?”

Maureen pushed herself up. “I'm not going downhill in that thing! I'm fine; I can walk down.”

“But it's—”

“Wait, you're the one who freaks out in the woods, right? Okay, for you, the walk down'll be hell, but I'm okay. I may have to help
you
!” She slapped the sleeping bag into folds and ignored it as it slithered out of them. “Okay, let's go,” she said, and before I could answer she blew out the candle. We left the skull alone in its aerie.

I stepped outside, and a gust of wind knifed through the seams in my jacket. I could just imagine how easily it cut between the stitches in my heavy green sweater that Maureen was wearing. Suddenly the steps down from the tower seemed flimsy, the footing slippery, and the railing unsafe. I never would have okayed a stunt on them, not without checking every board and joint. The steps were wide enough for only one person. It went against my grain to expose Maureen, but in the end I decided it was safer for her to go first: if she slipped I could grab her, rather than her missing a step behind me and sending us both tobogganing into the river. When I suggested she lead, she smiled, and said, “You just keep your eyes on me and you won't have to deal with the woods at all.”

“I'm okay.”

“Uh-huh,” she said sarcastically.

I felt such a burst of indignation—unreasonable, shaking outrage—that it was all I could do to clamp my teeth together to hold the words back. I had been afraid coming up here, but dammit I had managed it, and managed it for her! Likely, I'd be afraid again when we got down from here into the woods. It would have been annoying to be derided for that fear then. But right now, up here, I wasn't worried about the woods, and it was exponentially more insulting to be scorned for a fear that I didn't have. I rapped her shoulder and pointed down. Maureen flipped the switch, sending the empty carrier clanking down the hill. She took off at a distressingly fast clip. If I'd had any question about whether her emotional distress affected her balance or fortitude this romp down the stairs stuck the answer in my face—a face that was well behind hers. That made me madder yet.

Rage is encompassing. It focuses its full attention on sustaining itself, stoking its fires with replayed insults and expectations undeservedly denied. It aerates the blaze with speculation on the vile motives of the offender. If the fire dims, it rekindles with recalled offenses. It fosters sulking and shouting, allows no entry to kindness, comfort, or logic. In a well-nurtured rage, even an apology can be an affront. Rage lets nothing in.

It's rare that anger benefits the one seething, but it did now. I was too furious to be afraid. I stoked and nurtured that fury. I'd made this long trek into the last place I wanted to be and what thanks did I get from Maureen? Zip. Less than zip. And more to the point, I had traveled across country to sit a sesshin with a master, and was I getting any teaching? Ha! I'd been replaced as his jisha and thrown out of his cabin.
You got more teaching than anyone here
, a voice reminded me. I shoved that thought away. I'd come here to face my fear—
Well, you are in the woods, girl
. What about sitting zazen? This is where I was supposed to learn to sit in meditation without escaping. I sure hadn't done that.

But two out of three wasn't enough; I could feel my rage slipping away and the trees closing in.
One
out of three.

Then, in a burst it came:
If you look a man in the face and shove him off the bridge so he lands on his back, and go on, mouthing the dharma, sitting in the zendo hearing the sounds, feeling the air on your face, seeing your own thoughts for six years, what value is Zen practice, Leo? Can you fucking fake it that long? And what about the lessons you gave me with the cocoa, was that all fake, too? We trust you to show us how to open the lock and you can't even recognize the door. What you did to Aeneas, you do to us all
.

“Damn you!”

We were on the hillside, stopped. Maureen was standing in front of me, her face open with fright. “I'm sorry,” she murmured.

It took me a moment to realize she assumed I was still stewing about her condescension. “Wasn't about you,” I said, lamely.

“Him?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she said, and squeezed my hand, and I felt the odd, empty bond that joined us.

And I wondered how much stronger, how much deeper was her rage than mine. She had harbored Leo's secret for six years and he'd rewarded her by tossing her aside, and tossing the secret aside. He'd undermined her practice and her being.

“Maureen, if you poisoned Roshi, I can understand.”

“Someone poisoned Roshi?” Even in the shadowy moonlight here in the woods I could see the horror and distress on Maureen's face. “Is he—omigod—is he . . .” She didn't even seem able to form the word.

“No, he's not dead. He's had spikes of fever and he's weak.”

“Why didn't he call me?” Her voice was almost a whisper but it held within it a wail she couldn't completely suppress.

Above us the wind whipped the redwood and pine branches. Below, the stream smacked the rocks as if to make sure neither of us forgot how Aeneas died.

She wrapped her arms around her ribs. It was the only time I had seen her actually admit cold. Her eyes shut and her breath became shallow. She looked as if she was tightening smaller and smaller, becoming more and more compact till she reached a solid, lightless ball of energy. It exploded in one word.

“You!”

She grabbed my shoulders and gave one sudden shake that knocked me off my feet. The cold air shot under my arms and legs; I was wind-milling, grabbing, my hand on something round, abrasive, my feet hitting, slipping, wet. And then a thud and a yank on my arm socket, and I was down the bank, the water rushing over my feet. A wave of panic shot through me. I grabbed onto the tree trunk with my other hand and pulled my feet out of the water, scrambling for purchase on the steep bank.

“Darcy!”

Maureen was reaching down. There was a branch to her left and I took that and pulled myself halfway up. Her hand was still out, as if she hadn't processed my move, but I wasn't about to trust her. I bypassed the hand and grabbed her elbow. She let out a small gasp of surprise. She felt solidly braced and I locked on with the other hand, managed a couple quick steps on the slippery bank and was back on the path, shaking with cold, shock, and anger.

“What is the matter with you? You could have killed me!”

“Darcy, I'm so sorry. I don't know what . . . I just lost it. Omigod. I'm so so sorry. I never meant to—I know you didn't keep me away from Roshi on your own. He told you to, right? It's just that after all those years . . .”

“Never mind,” I said and meant it. “I'm thinking of Aeneas and how easy it must have been to knock him off the bridge. Just a burst of anger . . . and wham!”

I wanted to tell her how bad I had felt when I'd blocked her from seeing Leo, but I couldn't speak the words, not after her outburst here. I'd been sorry then, but more right than I'd realized. But I was also remembering sitting in the zendo after Roshi first spilt the cocoa and how amazed I was at the fury he lit within me. How very dangerous was that trait? Maureen was the most volatile, but everyone was on edge now. And Leo's door was unlocked!

“Come on. We need to move.”

Maureen nodded and moved fast. I raced after, my hands no longer on her shoulders. Maybe, I thought, the paramedics would already be at Leo's cabin when we got there. I knew I was fooling myself but I clung to the hope as if it were real. I tried not to think about how bad the road was, how far Barry might have to go to find a phone, or if the paramedics would be on a call, or if they even came this far into the woods at night. I thought instead of Barry kneeling down by Leo's side and Leo wishing him luck. And I wished with all my being that Barry was back here by Leo's side giving that luck back to him.

Before I realized it we were at the end of the path, over the bridge, and half running up over the quad. The grounds were empty, the dark broken by the spots of light from the kitchen, the twinkling glow of the oil lamps through the high zendo windows. It had to be one of the evening zazen periods. I'd lost track of time. Ahead of me Maureen was panting, her feet hitting heavy against the macadam, pushing hard to thrust her forward. She'd was running on emotion alone. I was panting, too, but I passed Maureen as we rounded the bathhouse and veered onto the path to Roshi's cabin.

The light coming through his open door was dim, but against the dark night it glowed like neon. Silhouetted by it was part of a standing figure, the part not hidden by the half open door. A leg from knee to boot.

“Boot,” I hissed back to Maureen.

Her breath caught. She understood the danger. No one coming to see his roshi enters his cabin with boots on. Socks, yes. Shoes, rarely. But muddy boots, never. Only someone who doesn't care, or can't stop himself would charge in there with boots on.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

B
arry was dreaming. He knew it was a dream, like when he fell asleep in zazen. In a minute he'd jerk awake. But right now he was in town, in Doctor Jeffers' examining room, pulling the short blond doctor away from the old man clutching a blue paper sheet across his gut, and insisting, “I said go take care of Roshi. Now!” Darcy was smiling at him, though she wasn't there. But that's how dreams were. He could still feel the warmth of her smile, but something was wrong. He shook his head, focused on the muddy, unpaved road.

He was in the Chocolate Hall behind his display, the chill of the over-air-conditioned room seeping through his sweater, watching Gundersen or Grummond and a plump red-haired woman judge he'd never seen as they took in the sheen of his perfect bars.
Seventy-two
percent cocoa
. He couldn't keep the pride from his voice. Gundersen and the woman each picked up a bar, sniffed. The woman smiled, but Gundersen was poker-faced. They snapped the bars in half and the woman smiled again at the crisp cracking sound. They cut slivers and, closing her eyes, the woman placed a sliver on her tongue. She smiled and sighed orgasmically. All around people gasped. Barry held his breath. Now Gundersen put his chocolate on his tongue. Barry went tense. Gundersen puked.

Barry jolted awake. “Just a dream,” he said aloud. Sweat coated his face and back. “Focus on the road, dammit!”

He had the window open wider than was absolutely safe for the chocolate, but the vent kept the draft from hitting the boxes. No choice. He had to stay awake. He stared ahead, eyes open wide. This had to be another dream, it couldn't be real! He shook his head hard, and stared back at the road. Nothing had changed. He hit the brakes. The boxes were halfway off the seat before he caught them.

In the middle of the road was a car! A new, metallic green number, one of those American jobs made to the specs of a Honda or Toyota. Who the hell . . .?

Jeez, this was the last thing he had time for. Some stupid tourist “exploring!” Jeez! And now he was stuck. The guy'd better be ready to do some heavy pushing.

Banging open the door he lowered himself onto the ridge at the edge of the road and slogged toward the car. He was a couple yards away when he could see two things. The mud was over the hubcaps, like the car had been sinking for days, and, there was no driver.

He braced his arms on the hood and pushed. The car didn't budge. It might as well have been sunk in cement. He pulled open the passenger door, surprised it was unlocked. A rental contract lay on the seat. Rented to Gabriel Luzotta! Shit! That fuckup Luzotta! What kind of jerk abandons his car in the middle of the single lane halfway to the coast road and can't be bothered to get a crew to trot out the path from the monastery to shift it? Luzotta'd been here before; he knew the layout, and the fuckup knew it rained, what kind of . . .