VOYAGERS Read online

  She smiled, and said, "I understood you. Do you think I'm stupid, as well as scarlet?" Now he was embarrassed by her frankness, and yet she had the nerve to pose another question. "You don't approve of me, Mr. Shane?"

  "I don't think a public gathering is the place for this candor, Miss Roscoe."

  "No, of course you don't. Sarcasm and veiled insults are the appropriate forms of conversation for clergy."

  Aaron's chagrin stoked toward anger. "You enjoy candor, Miss Roscoe? Let me speak plainly. Do I think you're stupid? No, indeed, you are very bright. Too bright, in fact, to be catering to men as you do. You can't tell me that a woman of your obvious caliber--regardless of where her birthright placed her--could not ascend to any stature she pleases. So you explain to me, Miss Roscoe, what moves you, what reward can you possibly be seeking? Do satin and diamonds mean so much more than your soul's well-being?"

  Aaron hoped to unnerve her as she had unnerved him. He wanted her voice to tremble as his was beginning to tremble. And, indeed, he had marked a moment as he spoke when the victory and cynicism faded from her eyes. She had seemed surprised. There had been only that moment, though. When she replied, she was as cool as the champagne in his glass, her voice never growing shrill, never rising in volume.

  "My, what insight, my heart just flutters. You must be much older than you appear, having such a deep understanding of human nature."

  "I don't see. I'm 26, but I don't see…"

  "Oh, well, I'm even more impressed. How did you manage, so early in life, to be graced with such stunning sanctimony?"

  "I beg your pardon."

  "You should. Barely out of seminary, and already you've abandoned one of the basic tenets of your own faith." She pointed a graceful finger at her right eye. "Do you see a mote, Mr. Shane? Well, perhaps you should consider how it got there. I didn't pluck it off the ground and force it in myself. And believe me, I'm doing what I can to remove it even as the clergy stands passively and watches." Miss Roscoe's smile seemed both sad and satisfied. "You haven't fallen far from the tree, have you, little acorn?"

  Aaron was mute with rage as she turned and walked away, her movements as silky as if they had been exchanging mere pleasantries. Trollop. What did she know of him? How dare she speak as if she did. Stunning sanctimony. Indeed! As if she was 30 years his elder. She couldn't be more than 25- or 26 herself. Mote in her eye? If she thought selling her body was a mote, then what did she think was a beam? Yes, that's what he should have snapped back. He rallied some consolation by imagining Miss Roscoe's face after being so artfully put her in place.

  His father was at his side, saying, "Aaron, boy, what are you staring at, didn't you hear me?"

  He had to take a moment, had to take a deep breath before he could reply. As always, he wanted to retort, 'Don't call me Aaron boy, Father, it sounds like 'errand boy'.' Instead he said, "I'm sorry. What?"

  "I said Carroll Enderly is waiting on us."

  That jolted Aaron out of his dolor. His attention returned to the reason he and his father were even at this party. Carroll Enderly, senior warden of Saint Anthony Episcopal; Father Elliot Alcott's parish. Saint Anthony's was the most prestigious church in St. Louis, after the Cathedral.

  "I found him speaking with the mayor and Judge Tandy," his father said. "He's waiting on us now."

  Enderly was important, having his fingers in the Diocesan pie as well. But Saint Anthony's senior priest would be the real decision-maker. "What about Father Alcott?"

  "He won't be coming tonight. Mr. Enderly tells me a late supper or something. Don't worry, Enderly will get you in nicely."

  Aaron hesitated before following his father. He looked in the direction Miss Roscoe had walked and saw her talking with Marshall Fielding. Her profile betrayed a tension Aaron sensed more than saw. She didn't look his way. Aaron pressed his lips together, reminded himself of what she was, and hurried to catch up with the elder Shane.

  Back at home, back in his father's house, Aaron watched the yellow and blue play between the grates of the parlor's gas fireplace. He wasn't sure what time it was. The house creaked and ticked in the quiet, the dark giving the sounds definition. Somewhere upstairs the elder Shane was settled in bed; the elder Shane, who had smiled patronizingly at Aaron 30 minutes ago. Aaron was still a little drunk, though he had stopped drinking after their talk. He had stopped when he had realized it wasn't God who had told him the time was right to share his calling; it was the mix of champagne at the party and the brandy in Father's den.

  "Yes, yes," the elder had said, reaching to pat Aaron's hand as if his son were eight again. "Aaron, boy, you've always been an idealist. That's what your mother loved about you, God rest her. But you need to think like a man now. Put what you learned at seminary in perspective, this is the real world you're entering. I'm just trying to warn you, because I don't want you disillusioned. I had, well, I had high hopes myself, once. You'll come to understand how things are done. Maybe further down the road, maybe you can get some of those dreams going in one form or another. Just try not to dwell on them too much. Dreams…they are their own reward. But they lose form once your eyes open, don't they? Harder and harder to recall them."

  Aaron didn't answer the question. He knew this was not the point in conversation his father expected a reply. And, too, Aaron was certain his elder was speaking to himself as well as him. Then, quite suddenly, the elder Shane chuckled and Aaron's stomach knotted. That chuckle was something he had heard many times before; after nearly every wonderful thought Aaron had ever dared tell his father (the only exception Aaron could recall was his decision to become a priest). His father's look was one of amused apathy, and when he repeated Aaron's inspiration aloud it sounded foolishly grandiose, draped in the elder's voice.

  "Apprenticeship centers for the poor. What sort of training did you have in mind? Going to turn the drunkards into doctors and the pickpockets into lawyers? Or how about into politicians, they can't do worse than the ones we've got, eh, Aaron, boy? Son, you mustn't forget an important fact: most of the sorry souls are destitute by choice, really, no matter how they protest otherwise."

  "No," Aaron had objected. "What looks like choice is despair. I acknowledge that most are so warped in their despair that they're beyond hope, but what about those who can be saved?"

  "Boy, if you really want to be of service open up a soup kitchen. The needy children always benefit from that, and it's a very worthy goal. Remember Deuteronomy: 'For the poor will never cease from the land.' Temper your idealism, Aaron, or you'll grow sick over things you can't control. Very sick. I've already learned those lessons for you. Don't put yourself through them." Aaron's father placed his hands decisively atop the wingback's arms, worn from years of the ritual. "Well, I'm off to bed. But one more thing. If you mention these ideas of yours to Carroll Enderly you won't be asked on at Saint Anthony's. The vestry's budget for Outreaching Ministry is fixed, and they've had many more years' experience than a young priest at such things. They already know what works best, and Father Alcott won't appreciate a lofty assistant rector telling him how it's done."

  "I'm not suggesting these goals aren't long term."

  "Good. Then wait a few years. Make sure you're firmly established before trying to make your mark. You're goals will become much more realistic, in the meantime. More attainable. For now, you just practice your sermons. Hear the occasional confession, be there to celebrate weddings and comfort at funerals. That's all a parish really wants. Goodnight, son."

  Firmly established? Hadn't he meant firmly chastened? Wait until the wheels of officialdom have so ground Aaron's self-respect that his ideas will have turned to powder? How his father had wasted his years. He lived in a hollow sanctity that had repulsed Aaron for as long as he could remember. Guarding his place in the Diocesan hierarchy was easier than working on spiritual needs; his own and the community's.

  Aaron closed his eyes and leaned into his own wingback chair. The image of his father's weary amusement was still in h
is mind's eye; an expression all too familiar. Long ago he'd recognized his father's likeness in his own features. The hazel eyes, the high, tapered forehead and square chin. Well, he couldn't help resembling the elder Shane physically, but he did not have to resemble him spiritually.

  Just practice his sermons? Just spew words toward the people? No, that was not what the priesthood was about, regardless of what his father said. His father had conveniently leaned on Deuteronomy and had ignored how the verse ended: For the poor will never cease from the land; therefore I command thee, saying, 'Thou shalt open thine hand wide unto thy brother, to thy poor and to thy needy, in thy land'. And then Aaron was jolted with another quote, Miss Roscoe's voice haunting like that passage in the Bible: "Do you see a mote? Believe me, I'm doing what I can to remove it, even as the clergy stands passively and watches."

  Aaron was that passive clergy already. He was already becoming his father. That was her meaning; that was what Miss Roscoe saw. He could recognize the need in the gaunt harlot desperate on the street, but he could not see the need in her elite sister. He had been blinded by Miss Roscoe's deceptive veil; the finery of satin, the mask of confidence. Blinded even while he had told himself that she was the same as the common sporting girl. What a hypocrite he was.

  Practice sermons and confession, his father had advised. Well, he would start with a confession of his own: an apology to Miss Roscoe the first thing in the morning. Then an inspiration struck him, surely God's own voice whispering to him, and he pulled his watch from his pocket, holding its face close to the hearth's grate. It was half past midnight. He and his father had left Mr. Fielding's party at an appropriate time for clergy, but that party would still be on. And it was likely that Miss Roscoe would also be there, that Judge Tandy had not yet removed her. But maybe so, maybe they were gone. Anyway, it would hardly seem proper for Aaron to appear at the door at such an hour. Hang it! It was the chance to be taken. Had Jesus cared about appearances when a wrong was to be righted? Aaron rose from the chair and hurried to put on his coat before his nerve could waver again.

  Strange. The house was nearly dark. There was light glowing behind the curtains to be sure, but the door's lamps and its beveled glass inset were dim. The windows held no silhouettes of revelers. All was uncomfortably quiet. Aaron's senses were tingling, but he attributed this to the liquor and the cool autumn night.

  He looked up to the third story where the ballroom was. For whatever reason, Mr. Fielding's Festival party had not included dancing, so its darkness didn't seem peculiar. There was a dim light at one small portal off to the side; obviously a storage room or pantry tucked behind the ballroom's wall. He saw a slight figure--like that of a girl--come to the window, then recede. A servant, Aaron assumed, an explanation that satisfied. But how to explain the absence of the cheery gathering?

  The party may have been the first of Marshall Fielding's that Aaron had attended, but he knew through social circles that Mr. Fielding often entertained until the threat of dawn. So it seemed strange that the house would be still, especially during Festival month. Unless Mr. Fielding was attending to some unsavory business. Those same social circles gossiped of Mr. Fielding's reputation, as well. Rumors; the legacy of his late father. It was said that old Burgess' ghost leaned heavily on his son.

  Aaron's nerve began to fail, but the courtesan's words stole into his mind once again to torment him. Had he forgotten why he was here? No, God wouldn't allow that, why else would Miss Roscoe's words sting so? Still, the party was over, no one was there, most certainly not Miss Roscoe. She was surely with Judge Tandy.

  But then on the first floor, at one of the western windows, a silhouette appeared. It caught his eye for it was so like her profile. Yes, that had to be her, and just as Aaron moved toward the front door, another silhouette, large and masculine, appeared beside Miss Roscoe's. The movement in the window was tense and agitated, Aaron could hear an argument. Then the man was violently shaking Miss Roscoe.

  Unsavory business indeed. Aaron hurried to the window and stared through the lace. It was Marshall Fielding bullying her, his face so red, his grimace so warped he seemed more demon than human. And to see the stark terror in Miss Roscoe's eyes, her hair shaking loose from the violence, her jeweled aigrette flung free, and striking the pane just above Aaron.

  Aaron raised his fist and was about to pound at the window outraged at this sight. He was full of pride to be wearing his collar, eager to see Fielding's face when the blackguard realized a priest was witnessing such shame. But this was before another man rushed into view, his back to Aaron, his face obscured, gun in hand. This was before the pistol's barrel was thrust into Miss Roscoe's ear and the trigger pulled.

  Aaron's bellow was so loud he didn't hear the shot, but he saw the blood scatter like a halo around Miss Roscoe's head, her arms flung outward, her legs kicking once. He saw Fielding's gore-spattered face stare on in horror before turning to look at Aaron, roaring and pounding the glass.

  And that was the last Aaron saw. A sharp pain bit hot into his neck, stopping his shouts, stopping the flow of air from gasping mouth to throat and lungs. He struggled violently, and sheer terror fueling him. Had the garrote not sliced into the throbbing arteries of his neck, perhaps he would have wrestled free. But within a few minutes he lost control of his arms. They dropped limply at his side, his knees buckled. In total blackness, held upright only by the wire around his neck, he was amazed at his own calm as he listened to his heartbeat slow to nothing.

  Chapter Three

  The Passage

  "It's all over, Marshall! You can't stop me from taking Tess out of here any longer. We have an ally now and you won't destroy us like you did Father." In spite of all her shouting, Marshall wasn't looking at Greta. He was staring as if dumbfounded at the place from which she had risen. She screamed at him, "Look at me!"

  Only then did she notice the blood on his face, only then did it occur to her that he didn't hear her. She turned to see why he was staring. She couldn't remember opening any doors to escape from the horror. She only knew that she was running across the west lawn and that to keep running was her goal. Nothing was in her mind except that horror, until she heard someone call as clearly as if he were at her shoulder.

  "Miss Roscoe!"

  The first time she heard it, she didn't stop. But the voice called again, "Miss Roscoe, it's Aaron Shane!"

  His cry was plaintive, as if Mr. Shane was amazed and happy to see her. The concern in it brought her to a stop. She tottered and might have fallen--the heaviness in her limbs was so great--had she not willed herself to wheel about to face him.

  But Mr. Shane wasn't at her shoulder at all. He was near the west windows. She watched him move clumsily toward her, and tried to keep the horror in her mind at bay so she might think more clearly. She had no room left in her thoughts to wonder why the priest was there. It was all she could do to merely focus on his approach. He hesitated a few feet away, as if he was afraid of what he saw. When he moved forward it seemed to take some effort to make his legs obey. His expression was one of awe.

  "You look perfect," he said, in a whisper. "I was sure you'd be horribly…didn't I see…"

  Without meaning to, Greta said it. She had to, she knew she must say it if she were to be free. "I saw myself. I saw myself lying dead at Marshall's feet." She reached to the left side of her face. "I was half gone, torn away…"

  And suddenly she was free. To know she was dead still left her feeling dizzy and astounded, but the horror was receding. Mr. Shane was looking at her as if to say, poor, poor thing.

  "I understand," he replied. "You've had a terrible shock, but you're all right."

  "I'm not all right, you fool. I'm dead."

  The effort of raising her voice made her swoon. Mr. Shane moved to support her, but he seemed as sluggish as she, and by the time his arms were outstretched Greta had knelt slowly onto the frosted lawn.

  He followed, and said, "Miss Roscoe, someone has just tried to murder you, but yo
u're very much alive. Here we are, face to face, speaking. I know you're weakened from the experience--I was just attacked myself and I can hardly control my limbs--but we must make the effort to get to the authorities right away." He glanced back at the house. "I don't know why the brutes aren't after us. Perhaps Mr. Fielding…"

  He abruptly stopped and Greta looked in the direction of his stare. What was that just under the west windows? A dark shape. It seemed to be a man, sprawled and unconscious. Or dead.

  A deep voice said, "Yes, dead, Greta. That's Aaron's shell. You're right, you're both very dead."

  Greta turned as her lethargy allowed. Standing over her was a man--large, robust, his hair in neatly oiled waves close to the scalp. He was wearing impeccable white evening attire and smiling like an old friend long gone and just returned. The man was as brilliantly white as the clothing, yet with regal, African features. An albino Negro? No, it was that glow. He was the glow. His whole countenance was hazy within it.

  "Who are you?" she whispered.

  The man bent over as if to take her arm. "Here let me help you up. The heaviness you're feeling passes, but it's the devil 'til it does. Here, Aaron, up you go." Mr. Shane tried to resist, but he couldn't respond any more quickly than Greta, and the man pulled them both easily to their feet. "Now just brace yourselves against me."

  "Who are you?" she insisted.

  "How about Aridite, will that name do? I know you'll still be accustomed to names for a while. Try walking again. Lean against me." The man pulled them toward the fallen shape beneath the window. "Your deaths are why the 'brutes', as you call them, aren't after you. They've run for it, leaving Marshall to his own devises. He should be out here any moment to stare at Aaron's body while he thinks something up to tell the police." He gave Greta and Mr. Shane a little squeeze on their arms. "You've tossed a stone between his gears, haven't you, Greta?" Now they were next to the body. Aridite said to Mr. Shane, as if coaxing a reluctant child, "Go ahead and look, Aaron. It's just a shell, a husk. If that were all you were, you wouldn't be standing here with me. Go ahead."