The Calling

• About the Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  

Inger Ash Wolfe is the pseudonym for a North
American novelist.

www.rbooks.co.uk

INGER ASH WOLFE

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781407034157

Version 1.0

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TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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THE CALLING
A CORGI BOOK:

ISBN: 9781407034157

Version 1.0

First published in Great Britain
in 2008 by Bantam Press
a division of Transworld Publishers
Corgi edition published 2008

Copyright © Inger Ash Wolfe 2008

Inger Ash Wolfe has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of
historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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is available from the British Library.

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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

For Margaret, David, and Alice,
with love and thanks

Friday, 12 November, 3 p.m.

He was precisely on time.

For most of the afternoon, Delia Chandler had
busied herself with small tasks around the house.
She had already vacuumed the upstairs and down-stairs
that week, but she did it again, taking care to
move tables and chairs to ensure she got the head
of the vacuum everywhere that dust could hide.
One of Simon's tenets was cleanliness: she did not
want to meet him for the first time with so much as
a speck of dirt anywhere in the house.

She ran the dishwasher and cleaned the dish
tray. She even washed the bar of soap in the bathroom.
In his communications with her, Simon had
said that the key to health was to take care of your
environment as you took care of yourself. She had
followed his advice very closely indeed, preparing
the teas exactly as he detailed, drinking them
at the prescribed times of day, taking gentle
exercise at exactly 6 a.m., and getting into bed at
9 p.m. to make sure she got nine full hours of sleep
every night.

His ministrations – however long-distance they
were – had been invaluable in keeping her strength
up until he could come. The cancer was in her
bones now, and it had spread like a moss through
her pelvis and into the surrounding tissues. Dr
Lewiston had laid out for her the palliative options:
once the pain got too intense, she would be moved
into the hospice where it would be 'managed'. She
imagined herself being put to sleep like a dog. Her
sons, Robert and Dennis, had said they would pay
whatever costs were involved to ensure her
comfort. Sweet boys. She agreed to whatever they
proposed, knowing that, when the time came, she
would not need their help at all.

At two-thirty, Delia went upstairs and changed
into something befitting the guest she was about to
receive. She pulled on a new pair of pantyhose, and
then stepped into a blue wool dress. Any movement
of her arms above shoulder level shot a
scatter of pain throughout her body, as if a tiny
grenade had gone off in her hips. She eased the
dress up over her chest and shoulders, and she sat
down to catch her breath. Then she stood and
looked at herself in the mirror. She was quite presentable
for an eighty-one-year-old, dying woman.
She put on a pair of black low-heeled shoes, but
thought better of them, and put the orthotics back
on. Simon would not want her to be in pain for the
sake of looking good for him. No, he would not
approve of that kind of vanity.

The doorbell rang at three o'clock on the
button. She even saw the second hand hit twelve
at that very moment. She took a deep breath,
smoothed the dress over her stomach, and opened
the door.

Simon stood on her doorstep, bearing a heavy
valise. He was terribly thin, perhaps one of the
thinnest human beings she had ever seen. It gave
him the appearance of height. He wore a long
black coat and a black derby on his head, and his
face was deeply lined. He had the aspect of a gentle
elder, even though she knew he was younger than
she was, by at least thirty years. His was a face with
all the blows of life nesting in it. Her heart went
out to him, even though it was she he had come to
succour.

'Mrs Chandler,' he said. 'Thank you for inviting
me to your home.'

She drew the door wide and gestured into
the house. 'Simon, I am honoured to welcome you.'

He entered and removed his hat, placing it
silently on the hall table. He undid a black silk sash
from under his chin, and slid out of his caped coat,
and handed it to Delia. The outside of the coat was
cold from the fall air without, but inside, where his
body had been, it was warm. She went down the
hall a little and hung it for him. When she came
back, he was sitting on the couch, eyes scanning
the room, and his long hands clasping his knees. 'I
imagined your house would be just like this, Mrs
Chandler.'

'Please call me Delia.'

'Delia, then. This house is as if I'd dreamed it.
Come and sit near me.' She did, lowering herself
uncomfortably into the chair beside the couch.
When she was seated, he lifted his valise onto the
table and opened it. A smell of camphor emerged
from inside. 'We needn't truck in chit-chat,' he
said. 'It's as if we are already old friends, no?' She
smiled at him and nodded once in assent. It
delighted her that his demeanour in person was
entirely of a piece with how he was in his emails:
grave, but not humourless, and quietly authoritative.
He drew out half a dozen vials from the
valise. They were filled with dried plant matter and
powders. He lined them up neatly on the coffee
table. 'How have you been?' he asked. 'How's your
pain?'

'It's manageable,' she said. 'I take the lantana for
the pain in my bones, and it works for a couple of
hours. But I don't mind. A little respite is all I need
while waiting for you.'

He smiled at this, and reached out to take her
hand. He clasped it gently. 'I choose very carefully,
Delia, who I come to see. Only those who are completely
committed will do. Are you still completely
committed?'

'I am.'

'And you are not frightened?'

She hesitated here and looked away from him. 'I
have told myself to be truthful with you, so I will
say that I have been scared, yes. A little. But not
now, not at this moment.'

'Good,' he said, and his voice told her that it was
all right to have experienced some trepidation. It
meant she had faced it and moved past it. 'We
should get started then.'

'Yes,' she said.

'I do have to ask you to do one thing for me first,
however. It will make you somewhat uncomfortable.'
Delia looked at his eyes and waited for him to
explain. 'I must look at your body, Delia. I need
to see your skin before proceeding.'

She blanched at this, and thought of herself
picking through the few dresses in her closet for
one that would make her look the most presentable.
Now he wanted her to stand exposed before
him? But she did not question him, rather she rose
and faced him in front of the low coffee table. She
reached behind herself with one hand and drew the
zipper on the back of her dress down, wincing in
pain.

'Hold on,' he said. 'I don't want this to be
difficult for you.' He stood and came to her, went
behind her and unzipped her the rest of the way.
The dress fell to the floor in a pool of blue wool.
She felt him unsnap her bra, and she shook it off
down her arms, and then her hands travelled down
the puckered, pale flesh over her belly and she
pushed her underwear and pantyhose down.
'Thank you, Delia. I'm sorry for the discomfort.
Are you cold?'

'No,' she said. She felt his finger tracing her
spine, and she imagined he was pulsing energy into
her, burning away the wild cells under her skin that
were eating her life. Simon held her shoulder and
gently turned her. She half-expected to catch his
eyes, as if this could be a romantic moment blooming
– and what would she do if it were? If the last
person to show her real compassion also wanted to
show her love? But no, all of that kind of love was
gone from her life forever. The last time she'd stood
before a man naked she had ruined lives. She
wondered how far into the past her own purity had
to extend for Simon's purposes, and she debated
whether she should tell him. Then, selfishly, so she
thought, she decided to keep it to herself. There
was only this now, no past, only this. He lifted her
arms and looked into her armpits, then lifted each
breast, one at a time. He touched his fingertip to a
shiny coin of skin beneath one breast. 'This was
a mole, I'm presuming?'

'I had it removed when I was forty,' she said.
'Vain of me.'

'It's all right,' he said.

When he reached her abdomen, he laid his hand
on a scar below her navel. 'My birthsmile,' she said,
looking down. 'Caesarean. Just Dennis. There'd
been no problem with Robert.' She shook her
head. 'Fifty-four years ago now, if you can believe
it.'

'Did they do a hysterectomy? Take out your
uterus?'

'No.'

He patted the scar. 'Good. What about your
appendix? You still have that?' She nodded. 'But
not your tonsils, I imagine.'

'No,' she said. 'Who at my age has their tonsils
any more?'

'It's always a bonus if someone does. But I don't
expect it.' He picked her dress up off the floor and
slid it down over her head, then put her hand in his
and held it there, in his palm. 'I put you at a
hundred and thirty-five pounds,' he said. 'Forgive
me for saying.'

'One hundred and thirty-seven,' she said, trying
to sound impressed. 'Did you once work on the
midway?'

He smiled kindly. 'It's only to help me with my
measurements. Dosages and that sort of thing.'

'Is there anything else?'

'No ... that's all, Delia. Thank you. You can put
the rest of it on and sit down now. Sit on the couch
if you will.' She pulled her underthings on, feeling
more shy than she had when she'd stood naked
before him. He leaned over to pick up a piece of
thread that had come off her dress. He rolled it into
a ball between his thumb and forefinger, and slid it
into his pocket. She watched him turn and go into
her kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. She
saw him inspecting the countertops and the
kitchen table. A couple of times, he went out of
view, and she heard the lid of her garbage can open
and close. She did feel frightened now. She wanted
to tell him, but she did not want him to change his
mind. He had told her she was special. She had
impressed him. After everything he had done for
her, now he was asking for
her
help. She could not
refuse him, and she would not fail him. What he
asked for, what he asked of her, was so insignificant
in the face of what she would reap from her
courage. She heard the kettle begin to whistle, and
Simon brought it back, a plume of white steam
trailing behind him, and he laid a trivet on the
table. He took a small white teacup out of his valise
and put it on the table beside the six vials. He
opened them one at a time and held them out to
her, to smell. Valerian to calm her, belladonna and
hops to help her sleep, herbal sedatives. In higher
doses, they acted as anaesthetics. He tipped out a
half-thimbleful of each and dropped it into the
teacup, then poured hot water over it. Immediately,
the air filled with an earthy smell, a smell of the
forest floor and bark and roots. He swirled the cup
in his hands.

'Are you ready?'

'Will it taste bad, Simon?'

'It will taste absolutely dreadful,' he said, and he
smiled for her. She took the cup and looked into it.
It looked like a miniature swamp, swimming with
bracken and bits of matter. 'Drink it all. Including
the solid bits. Try to chew them a little if you can
bear to.'

She tilted the cup into her mouth. The herbal
stew poured into her like a caustic, burning her
tongue and the back of her throat. She pitched
forward instinctively to spit the brew out, but he
caught her with one hand against her clavicle and
the other over her mouth.

'That's it, Delia. You can do this.'

She swallowed in fits, her eyes watering. 'God,'
she said, her voice choked. 'Is this poison?'

'No, Delia. The tea is not going to kill you.
Swallow it ... that's it, let it go down.'

He watched her settle as the last of the tea went
down her esophagus. She clamped a hand over her
stomach. 'My God, Simon. That was the worst one
yet.'

'Can you feel it in you? Spreading?'

She looked around, as if to check that her reality
was as she remembered it. She was in her living
room. In the house she had lived in since her
wedding day. Her sons had been born in this house,
and had grown into men against the backdrop of its
walls. Eric had died here. She had grown old here.
She would not make it to
ripe
old age.

'We'll activate the compounds now, Delia.'

'Oh, can we skip the chanting, Simon? If
you don't mind. I feel like I might throw up.'

'Every plant and mineral has its own sound
signature, and if you do not bring yourself into sync
with it, it won't work. Have you not been doing the
chants?'

'I've been doing them,' she said. 'They make me
feel silly.'

'They're an essential part of the treatment. I'll
do this one with you. A head tone for belladonna
and low breath drone for the hops. Come on now.'
He held his hands out to her, and she took
them. He lowered his head, as if in prayer, and she
did the same. He breathed in deeply, and a sound
began to flow from the middle of his head, from the
space behind his eyes and nose. He opened his
mouth and the sound flattened. Delia followed him
as best she could, alternating between the high,
ringing tones, and the low, breathy ones.

When they stopped, she released his hands. She
actually felt warm. For the first time in months,
she felt warmth in her extremities. How pleasant, she
thought. She felt Simon's hands on her shoulders,
easing her back. 'Thank you, Simon,' she said
quietly. 'This is very nice.'

He brushed her hair away from her face, and
cupped his hand on her cheek. 'It is you who is to
be thanked,' he said. 'I thank you.'

Presently, Delia closed her eyes. He listened to
her breathing – low, long, soughing breaths. He
lifted an eyelid, but she was profoundly asleep.
He watched her for another minute, observing her
becalmed features.

He put his vials back into the valise and went
into the kitchen to wash his teacup. This too he
replaced in the valise. He took his Polaroid camera
out and checked that there was a film pack loaded.
He was too careful to have come without being
absolutely sure the camera had film, but he was also
too fastidious not to check again.

He laid the camera on the coffee table and went
to sit beside Delia. He took her wrist in his hand
and felt her pulse. It was faint, as he would have
expected, but steady. He ran his fingertips along
the outside of her palm, and up her pinkie, then
gripped the finger and snapped it at the bottom
joint. Her body jumped, but her eyes did not open.
The faintest moan escaped her lips.