The Magic Cottage (18 page)

I shook his hand, already becoming used to his unfinished sentences and his entreaties to forgive. ‘That’s okay, we’ve been a bit busy ourselves. I’m Mike Stringer.’

‘Peter Sixsmythe.’ He pumped my hand. ‘The Reverend Sixsmythe.’

‘We have to get back, Mike,’ Gillie interrupted. ‘It was so good of you to help us – I hope you’ll allow us to repay the debt.’

‘No problem,’ I said, now feeling a trifle embarrassed (smug, none the less). ‘And nothing to repay. I’m just glad I happened along. See you soon, eh?’

‘You will, most definitely.’

I hadn’t meant it as an invitation. To my surprise, both girls took turns to lean forward and kiss my cheek before climbing into their car. The vicar and I stood aside as Gillie reversed the Citroën from the parking space, and she waved from the window as they left the carpark.

‘Mr Stringer,’ said the Rev. Sixsmythe, his schoolboyish face grave, ‘are you, er, well acquainted with those people?’

I frowned. ‘Not really. Gillie and a couple of her friends have dropped by the cottage from time to time. They’re very neighbourly.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ The words were drawn out as though he were considering the implications. ‘Look, would you mind if I came over to see you tomorrow. I know I should have done so before, but as I explained . . .’

I hesitated. Religion wasn’t one of my strongest points – not organized religion, at any rate – and I couldn’t see myself turning up for Sunday Service on a regular basis; Midge, maybe, but definitely not me. Not that I’m a non-believer – far from it – but such beliefs are a personal and very private thing to me, and sharing only makes me feel uncomfortable. Churches make me fidgety. Still, what could I say to this anxious cleric?

‘Sure, that’ll be fine. I’ll tell Midge you’re coming.’

‘Midge is your good lady?’

‘My girlfriend.’

‘Ah.’ That was a small ‘ah’, no ‘living in sin’ judgement involved. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you both. Will some time during the morning be all right?’

I nodded assent.

‘Jolly good. And I do hope the little incident today hasn’t left you with a bad impression of our village, Mr Stringer. Such upsets are very rare here, I can assure you.’ He opened his car door, but didn’t climb in immediately; instead he asked me a question. ‘Did you know that these new friends of yours belong to a sect called the Synergist Temple?’

‘I found out today.’

‘I see. They hadn’t mentioned it before?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, it was Mr Hoggs in the hardware store who told me.’

‘I wonder if they have said anything to you about Gramarye itself? Anything at all?’

Weird question, I thought. ‘Uh-huh. They’re interested generally in how we’re getting on there, but nothing more. What makes you ask?’

He checked his watch. ‘I’m rather late for an appointment right now, so I must park my car and get along. Perhaps we might discuss this further tomorrow.’ He ducked inside the car, then his head came back through the open window again. ‘A word of caution in the meanwhile: be very careful of these people, Mr Stringer. Yes, be very careful.’

I left him reversing into the parking space vacated by Gillie’s Citroën and walked on to my own car, not sure of how seriously I should be taking him. Perhaps he just didn’t like maverick religions. Or maybe there really was something sinister about these people.

One way or another, I was sure we would soon find out. I had a feeling in my bones.

Synergists

Kinsella arrived later that evening, alone apart from two bottles of homemade wine.

I was sitting on the doorstep, tossing bread crusts to Rumbo, who was storing them nearby on one side of the path, nimbly catching each piece and dashing back with it, kicking up a storm to warn off the late-shift birds. Midge was inside, clearing up the dinner things.

‘You’ll need a suitcase to carry that lot home,’ I advised Rumbo and he chattered back at me to get on with the game. I’d always thought that squirrels only ate nuts and acorns and berries, so it came as a surprise that the rascal would chomp anything offered to him.

This time Kinsella arrived in a different vehicle, a red Escort, and I looked on curiously when the car drew up outside the gate. When I realized who it was something inside me sagged: the vicar’s cautionary words had obviously reinforced my own reservations about this blond bomber and his companions.

He waved to me from the other side of the gate and, for some reason, he stayed there as if waiting for an invitation to enter. It occurred to me that neither he nor his friends had ever set foot on Gramarye property, our conversations always conducted over the fence. Sheer politeness, I told myself, plain old-fashioned good manners on their part. Heaving myself up, I sauntered down the path towards him, Rumbo showing his irritation that the game had been interrupted by clenching his tiny fists and squawking fiercely. I dropped the last crusts onto his pile as I passed, and this soothed him somewhat, although I could still hear him grumbling behind me as he tidied up his hoard.

‘Hi there, Mike,’ Kinsella called as I approached, the wine cradled in one arm as he raised the other. He was grinning broadly, all suntan and white teeth. ‘I’ve brought a little somethin’ to show our appreciation for what you did today.’

‘Oh, you mean the trouble in the village?’ I said humbly and feigning surprise. ‘They were only kids out for a bit of hooliganism.’

‘Not quite kids, as I heard it. Gillie told me you gave ’em hell. She and Sandy send their love and thanks once again, and I bring you wine.’

‘That isn’t necessary, you know.’

‘Sure it is. Look, why don’t we open a bottle of this stuff right now? I promise you, it tastes real good.’

He stood there holding the wine bottles by the necks over the gate and it would have been churlish of me not to have invited him in. I swung open the gate and waved him through. ‘Sounds like a great idea,’ I said.

I expected him to sweep right past, full of bonhomie and sunshine health; but he didn’t – he stood on the threshold like a nervous bride. I stared and it was only when he became aware of me once again that the old swagger returned.

‘Uh, sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I suddenly wondered if I were imposing. You might be very busy just now.’

‘Not this time of day. To tell you the truth, I could use a drink.’

He stepped inside and I thought – I
only
thought – I saw him shiver.

‘Boy, you’ve worked hard on the patch,’ he remarked as I led the way.

‘Midge has done most of it. She’s amazed me the way she’s coped with all these different flowers. I think moving down here has revived all her horticultural instincts.’

Rumbo, who no doubt had been pondering on how to get his groceries back to the nest, jerked his head around at our approach and his small sharp teeth bared in alarm. I was amused to discover he was so shy of strangers when he shot off like a rocket, streaking up the embankment at the side of the cottage to disappear into foliage.

‘Cute pet,’ said Kinsella, chuckling aloud.

‘Not so much a pet, more of a regular house-caller. He’s usually more friendly.’

We reached the front door and I went straight in while Kinsella lingered on the doorstep, evidently to admire the garden further. ‘Fantastic colours,’ I heard him say. ‘Incredible.’

‘Midge?’ I called out. ‘We’ve got a guest.’

She emerged from the next room, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and with an expectant smile on her face. I pointed and she peered around the door.

‘Hub, what a nice surprise!’

‘’Lo Midge. I’ve brought this hero of yours a token of gratitude.’

‘Hero? Oh, you mean his knight-to-the-rescue act this morning.’

(Not being the strong silent type, I’d thought the incident worth mentioning. However, I hadn’t said anything about the Rev. Sixsmythe’s words on the Synergists; I’d leave that to him tomorrow when he could also explain himself to me a bit more.)

‘He certainly saved our sisters from some serious hassle. They came back kinda shaky but full of praise for Mike.’

‘Hey, don’t stand outside,’ I said, feeling my face going red, ‘come on in.’

He accepted the invitation and it seemed to me he was as hesitant as before. Maybe tentative is a better word, because he stepped inside like a diver walking underwater, his movement slow and deliberate. As dusk was settling it was more gloomy inside the kitchen than usual and he had trouble adjusting his eyes to the change in light, blinking them rapidly as he peered around.

‘We thought we’d open a bottle now,’ I told Midge and the idea apparently pleased her.

‘I’ll fetch some glasses,’ she said, going to the dresser. First she pulled open a drawer and tossed me the corkscrew, then she crouched at a cupboard door and brought out two glasses.

‘Aren’t you going to join us, Midge?’ asked Kinsella, rubbing at one of his bare arms as if he felt cold.

‘Never touch the stuff. Tell you what, I’ll join you with a Coke.’

All three of us sat around the kitchen table and I poured wine for the American and myself, while Midge drank straight from the Coke bottle.

‘We’re very grateful, Mike,’ said Kinsella, raising his glass.

‘Aah, you know the type – all piss and wind. They saw a coupla girls on their own and thought they’d have some fun. They wouldn’t have bothered if you’d have been with Gillie and Sandy.’

‘I don’t know about that. Seems we’re not too popular around this place.’

‘Is that right?’ I said, as if it came as a surprise.

He nodded grimly. ‘They imagine we’re a bunch of religious freaks or somethin’. You know what it’s like in these tiny backwater communities, suspicious of all outsiders, especially when they’re involved in somethin’ the locals don’t understand.’

‘The Synergist Temple? I’ve got to admit, I don’t understand that either. What is it, some kind of new religion?’

He grinned, and Midge raised her eyebrows.

‘Synergist?’ she asked.

‘Someone in the village has already told you about us,’ said Kinsella.

‘Yeah, the owner of the hardware store.’

‘Then you already know they don’t like us.’

I felt as if I’d been found out in a lie, but Kinsella was smiling across the table at me.

‘Synergist?’ Midge repeated, noisily tapping the Coke bottle on the wood surface for attention.

Kinsella turned to her. ‘That’s the name for our Order.’

‘Strange name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before. What does it mean exactly?’

Kinsella sat forward in his chair. ‘Firstly, we’re not a crackpot religion, not like many that are around today, so please don’t associate us with any of those. We’re not a charity, nor are we a religious sect in the strictest sense.’ He was still smiling, but now looking reassuringly from face to face. ‘So, let me explain about Synergism. Fundamentally, it’s the belief that the human will and the Divine Spirit are the two agents that can cooperate in regeneration.’

That statement took time to sink in with Midge and me. We stared back blankly and his smile broadened to a grin. Despite his relaxed manner, though, I detected a serious intent in his eyes.

‘Just as various chemicals act upon each other,’ he went on, ‘so we believe that the thought processes of the human mind – which are, y’know, only a complicated series of chemical reactions – can combine with the Divine Spirit, our collective souls, if you like, to produce a unique power.’

I kicked Midge’s foot under the table, but she ignored me.

‘What kind of power are you talking about?’ she asked Kinsella.

‘Oh, it’s diverse. The power to cure, to influence, the power to create . . . it can be manifested in so many ways.’

‘You mentioned regeneration . . .’

‘Regeneration is a word we use to cover all aspects of our doctrine. It means the regeneration of our own spirits, and that of . . .’ He broke off there, now his smile apologetic. ‘You’re probably thinking this all sounds crazy, right?’

I had to agree, although I kept quiet.

‘But look, all religious devotees pray to their particular deity, whether Christian, Moslem, Jewish – the list is endless. Most times they pray for Divine Intervention, for certain things to happen, or maybe
not
to happen. They could be praying for themselves, their loved ones, or even the world in general. The point is, they’re trying to direct the natural course of events, their own particular god the intermediary or catalyst, or specifically the creator of those events. Our doctrine isn’t so different from theirs.’

He sat back in his chair, waiting for us to absorb the revelation.

‘But there is a difference,’ I prompted.

‘Only inasmuch as we, with the help of our founder and guide, are learning to combine and direct our energies in a more physical sense and, of course, acting in conjunction with the Divine Spirit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I’m still not quite with you. This, uh, “Divine Spirit”, is what?’

‘You, me, our thoughts.’ He waved his arms expansively. ‘The very air around us. And the earth itself, the very power it generates.’ His voice had become hushed and I found even I was holding my breath. His enthusiasm had somehow charged the atmosphere.