The Saint (22 page)

“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 sighed. 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.

—
Niklas 26:5

The one who had been Niklas looked into the starry sky where the lights of a billion souls blazed. Nothing had ever seemed so beautiful to him. Nothing except . . .

But as beautiful as this place and time was, tomorrow, at dawn, he would give up this body, this life, this world. His work was done and it was time to go home.

Adora and her new pink coat walked into the small hangar behind Kris. The only occupant was a pudgy single-engine aircraft painted the same bright red as her childhood wagon. In spite of Kris's oft-repeated need for haste, she approached it slowly and unenthusiastically.

“What is that?” she demanded—meaning,
Where's the jet?

“That's an Aeronca Chief—quite an anachronism in this digital age. Just look at the control panel!” Kris threw open the door. Adora peered in and had to admit that her old Volkswagen Bug had had more dials. In fact, so had her fourth-grade soapbox-derby entry. The plane was also equipped with a bench seat that reminded her of her father's '57 Chevy. Very cute.

But she still didn't like it.

“Very nice. But, Kris, I think I mentioned before that I don't like small planes.”

“I know, but we have little choice. Roadblocks are up, and I had to send the others off in the jet as a decoy. Understand, the rebels are trying to topple Molybdenum. If they succeed there will be a bloodbath. There are parties—short-sighted and stupid— who would see this as an excellent time for something to happen to us. Anyway, you've nothing to worry about. She's easy to handle, safe as can be. It only took me a couple of hours to learn to fly her.” Kris took Adora's arm and vigorously assisted her into the plane when she failed to move on her own. “And this little lady is a complete wolf in sheep's clothing. My nephew, Jack, has tweaked the engine so she's a real screamer.”

“So am I,” Adora muttered, but she let Kris help her inside. As he climbed in after her and reached for the ignition key, she said, “Can you wait a sec? I need to meditate a bit.”

“Sorry, no time.” Kris glanced out the hangar doors. “We have company, and I can't know of what persuasion.”

He reached for the keys and Adora tensed. A part of her began to whimper. He didn't understand: She needed time to get ready! This plane was much smaller than the Storch. It was stupid to get so freaked out, she knew, but hell, for a while after her mother's death she had even been afraid of her car. Sometimes she would look down at her hands clenched on the wheel of her Honda and wonder if there wasn't some part of her that was like her mother. Certainly there were days when she felt as lost and wanted an easy way out.

But you never did it. And you aren't driving, anyway, so quit panicking before you pee your pants.
Joy's voice was sharp, a kind of mental slap in the face. It slowed Adora's hysteria.

No. You're right.

And those days were less frequent now. She didn't need the little white pills anymore, those tablets of indifference the doctor had given her when she was unable to eat or sleep or work. In fact, they made her quite sick these days—even the sight of them.

Sick? They made you despise yourself for being weak.

Yes, that too. Being weak wasn't acceptable.

And you're all better now.
Joy's voice might be slightly mocking. Adora accepted the goad because anger could make her strong. And she needed to be strong now.

She said,
Damn straight, I'm all better. So shut up. I need to do some alternate nostril breathing before I throw up on my new coat.

Fine, so breathe already.

Feeling Kris's eyes on her, Adora turned her head and offered up her best smile. It probably fell somewhat short of the genuine article, but it was all that she could manage at the moment.

“This was one of the first planes that didn't need anyone on the outside to turn over the prop. Bit of a safety hazard that,” Kris said informatively. He might have been reciting “The Jabberwocky” for all the sense it made to Adora. She grabbed her nose and started breathing.

The plane answered his observation with a soft knocking sound.

“Why is it making that noise?” Adora asked between exhalations.
Inhale, one-two-three-four-five, pinch off right nostril for a slow five count, then a long exhale—one-two-three-four-five.

“That's its normal sound. They call them air-knockers. Isn't it melodic?” Kris asked. He didn't comment on her nose-pinching.

“I guess.

“Kris?” she asked, as they rolled out of the hangar and onto the taxiway. The plane gathered speed quickly as it headed for the line of headlights coming in their direction. He wasn't giving her time to back out. Or maybe he was worried about the police cars speeding toward them from left field. Were those police cars?
One-two-three-four-five.
“Aren't we supposed to go down some kind of pre-flight checklist or something?”