Thirteen Crucifixions, 78

They were sitting on the white bench. “There is a history to this tree?” Ed asked.

“Oh, did Madge tell you anything?”

“I didn’t.”

“I am getting a strong—no—a powerful vibration that seems to be emanating from it.” He was staring ahead, not directly at the tree but past it. Sheila thought that he looked like he might be struggling over a crossword puzzle, or a game of bridge.

“This tree is very old”, he said.

“It dates back to the late eighteen hundreds”, Sheila said.

“Older. Much older. This tree”, his eyes closed, “Is ancient.”

“How old do you figure?”

“Ancient.”

“What do you mean by ancient?”

“There is no age to this tree.”

“Come on, Ed”, Madge said.

“This is the tree.”

“The tree”, Sheila echoed.

“THE tree”.

“What do you mean THE tree?”

“The first. The very first. The original.” His eyes were still closed. It was clear that he had become deeply absorbed.

“This house is in great danger.”

“What do you mean?” Sheila said.

“I see two figures. Two figures. A man and a woman. High Priest and Priestess… They are flanking the tree… The woman is on the left, the man is on the right… He is holding a sword… She is holding a chalice.”

“What do they look like?” Sheila said. Neither Ed nor Madge knew anything about the painting.

“They are both very handsome… Very beautiful. Long flowing black hair… both of them… They both have green eyes… They are the guardians of the tree… They are of ancient lineage… They are of the princes of Atlantis.

Speaking across Ed to Madge, Sheila whispered, “Mrs. De Souza, where was she from?”

“The Azores.”

“Remnants of Atlantis”, Ed’s eyes were open. He was squinting, as though the trance had ended. The robins were beginning to sing.

“Where are they?”

“In the middle of the Atlantic. They’re owned by Portugal.”

“Mrs. De Souza was Portuguese”, Madge said.

“She was born over there, wasn’t she?” Sheila said.

“Yes, I believe she was.”

“The Azores”, Ed said, “And a few other small islands are all that remain of the great continent of Atlantis. According to Plato it was destroyed and sank into the sea in a single day and night as divine retribution for the great wickedness of its citizens, some ten thousand years ago.”

“So the myth says”, said Sheila. To Madge: “Wasn’t this tree planted by Mrs. De Souza’s father?”

“He was a pioneer who helped open this area. Odd, given that he was the only non-Brit settling here at the time. Mrs. De Souza would have been very young at the time.”

“How old was she when she died?”

“In her nineties I’d expect. They had a farm here. This tree is from their orchard. The trees themselves were brought over from the Azores. Then, this and other houses were built here which subdivided the property, leaving one surviving tree.”

She listened intently to the robins. Ever since Glen had brought them to her attention had Sheila made a habit of listening for their singing every evening and every morning. “I’m getting a bit of a chill out here. Would you both like to see a painting I did recently of this tree?”

Stefan knew that he should have gone back.  It was getting dark. He could just see the clearing ahead. He was almost there. There. What was this “there” that he was going towards, this destination that seemed always to elude his reach? He came out onto a clearing, a field rather, which appeared to be on some sort of plateau. Ahead of him was the dark gabled outline of a great house. He went toward it. An enormous house. Maybe a hunters’ lodge? Certainly not a cabin. The grass was becoming short, even. He was stepping across a lawn. There were flower beds, shrubs. The place seemed vast. It looked well-tended. Manicured. The house was indeed huge. A mansion, all stone and wood with bay windows, dormers, terraces and gables. He had never heard of this place. It wasn’t supposed to exist. Was it? He stopped at a fountain with a stone bat-winged gargoyle in the centre out of whose mouth spouted a jet stream of water. There didn’t appear to be any lights on. He sat on the edge of the concrete basin, looking at the gargoyle.

He was waiting for something—perhaps the sound of guard dogs barking, or the sudden appearance of a security guard. There was no sign of any cars or other vehicles. He couldn’t even see evidence of a driveway, which made sense given that there was no motor access to this island. He climbed the stone steps of the terrace. The door wasn’t locked. Expecting the strident peal of a burglar alarm he  pushed it slowly open. More silence. From one spacious room to another the house seemed well-furnished, well-cared for. The maze of rooms seemed to go on forever.

As he entered another corridor—he hadn’t left the ground floor—he noticed a soft golden light flooding from a distant room. He approached silently, cautiously, wanting neither to be seen nor heard. The room appeared to be a library. Rather large with walls lined floor to ceiling with books. Next to a bay window sat in an armchair a solitary figure reading. It was a young woman wearing a white dress. As though suddenly aware of his persence, she turned around and looked directly at him. It was Leticia Van Smit, his welfare verification officer.

They were all together, Michael and the three most important men in his life. He had been to bed with each one of them. Only with Lazarus had he not actually had sex. It was late. Bedtime. They lingered at the table with steaming mugs of tea and copious amounts of the chocolate zucchini loaf that he’d baked today. Matthew was still a fastidious eater, approaching his slice with a delicately pronged cake fork, taking only the smallest, genteelist of mouthfuls which he would masticate so discretely as to not betray that there was anything at all in his mouth. Glen held his slice in his fingers, nibbling at it artistically, while Lazarus, after filling his face with two or three handsome mouthfuls had left his remaining half alone, neglected brown like a piece of dog shit on his white dessert plate. For three days and two nights they had been together. It had been beautiful. It had been bliss. Tomorrow Glen and Lazarus were returning to Vancouver. He didn’t want them to leave. No single man for Michael could ever be his truth, but these three together came a little bit closer to it.

He lived here now. This much was clear. There was no reason for him to leave. Only on his first night had he felt any conflict about being here. To his surprise he ended up sleeping remarkably well. The silence wasn’t too much for him. He had feared this kind of silence, had long shunned and avoided it. And now he welcomed it? It wasn’t frightening or threatening. He dreamed intensely, woke at five. So this place and not these three men were his truth? Life for Michael, outside of this community seemed no longer necessary. No longer possible. He was in love with Adam, who had become his devoted friend. Michael was in love with a young man, with a boy. Adam was his truth. And what about Matthew? Almost nothing had changed between them. They simply no longer slept together. But everything else, it was like they had never been apart.

He had begun keeping a journal, finally, on Matthew’s advice. For if any single facet had changed in their relationship, it was this new respect, almost a reverence, that Michael had acquired towards him. Sometimes he would drive into Victoria for the day, just to sit in cafes and write. He couldn’t stop. He was remembering, summoning forth every forgotten and poorly remembered detail and scene of his life. He had become introspective. Michael had never been introspective before in his life. He had always scrapped, had always been a fighter. Now there was nothing to fight, nothing for him to confront. Except himself? But Matthew had warned him of this. And this time he didn’t balk about lit. So this had become the life of Michael Watson: sequestered in an eccentric rural seaside community of Quakers, Catholics and others. Up every morning at five for silent community prayer, chores and working in the kitchen alongside of Matthew. When he wasn’t running off to Victoria on his café-writing binges. There were long solitary hikes, or with Adam or with Matthew, when he felt like it—sometimes with Clarissa or with Chris. The others he didn’t see much of, outside of meals and gatherings. Each had their thing to do. Each devoted a portion of the day to silence and solitude. In nearly three weeks he had not seen anyone out of humour or angry. Michael had become immersed in a warm fragrant bath of humour, good will and loving-kindness. Why had he been fighting this?

He had begun to explore silent prayer, discovering that there was something to this after all. Before coming here he had discussed this with his mother, who woke early in the mornings and sat in silent contemplation. A process she didn’t pretend to understand, but believed in most fervently. “Michael, I couldn’t begin to describe to you what it’s like”, she had told him, “But it’s something very powerful. And it’s here, inside of us, just waiting for us.” He couldn’t argue. He sat quietly, his second day in the community at the kitchen table. No one was around. Then it happened. And whatever it was, as soon as he opened his eyes twenty minutes or so later, it was like his eyes had never been open before. But he still couldn’t say whether he believed in God.

God as a Supreme Being, as a cosmic C. E. O. enthroned in heaven was a concept unfamiliar and foreign to Michael. He no longer thought himself an atheist. Simply that if there was a God—and there just might be—he hadn’t been yet given an appropriate imagery to ascribe to him. If there could be such a thing. He’d asked Matthew, who replied that he saw God in nature. Then Adam, who saw him in others. Glen, this afternoon, answered that God could be best recognized in Jesus. He supposed they might all be equally right. He didn’t know. Glen, while listening to Matthew’s dissertation on the book, “Cloud of Unknowing”, began to yawn. He didn’t want him to be tired, to have to get up and get to bed. He wanted him here, to stay, to not leave. Not tonight. Not ever. He wanted to devise some plan, strategy to keep Glen and Lazarus from leaving tomorrow. Here was where they both belonged. They were both happy here. Michael had never seen either of them so happy before. Could they see it, could they know, that this plan was also for them?

Michael himself felt tired, was fighting fatigue. He stifled a yawn. He was forcing himself to remain awake. He didn’t want this to end. He wanted them all to be here together always. Forever. If only Adam was here, who, expressing a certain discomposure towards Lazarus, had retired early. He was very young. Just twenty-two. Michael loved him, but couldn’t imagine having sex with him. Perhaps, like Lazarus, he was too beautiful for sex? But so was Glen. Yet it wasn’t his physical beauty, which by Michael’s definition was rather modest, but the light that gathered in that youthful face of his, the way it was concentrated in those lovely grey eyes of his. Michael had never seen the like, and even now he positively melted if he wasn’t careful around Glen. With him, as with Matthew, Michael had been the supplicant, the one in need. But not with Lazarus, who clearly was in need of Michael. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t have sex with him? And Adam? But Michael didn’t feel any particular need towards Adam. He simply loved him.

“So when are you coming back?” Lazarus asked Michael.

“Back?”

“You know. Home. Vancouver. Your mother’s.”

“I’m not.” He glanced nervously at Mathew who smiled reassuringly.

“What do you mean you’re not?’

“This is where I live.”

“Get real.”

“I’m being very real.” He looked at Matthew, appealing, beseeching.”

He said, “Don’t you have a few clothes and what-not you’d like to return for, Michael?”

“Well, perhaps.”

“Go back with them. Spend a day or two with Sheila, then return. Would that work for you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“No one is holding you here. You know that.”

“I know.” He looked at Glen. “What do you think?”

“Can I return with you?” He cut himself another slice of chocolate zucchini loaf.