Phoenix Without Ashes (5 page)

His eyes skipped back to the crossbar of the Cross. The bright star on the left end blinked twice to the three blinks of the lesser star on the right. Again. Over and over with no variation. The crux star in the center winked three times, but in opposition to its neighbor on the right.

The patterns repeated as Devon watched.

Is there really infinite order?
he thought.
Can nothing change?
He realized he was falling asleep and decided not to resist the gentle falling away of his consciousness.
Never?

Once again it was the same dream for Devon, but this time it took an odd tangent:

A speck, a dot that slowly magnified in his vision. It ballooned in gigantic size and complexity until it was he who was the speck.

It swelled until Devon could not see the whole of it with his eyes. It reminded him of the grapes he had helped harvest from the arbors of Old Garth. Devon saw a cluster of shining grapes that extended on forever.

Closer.... The grapes were not grapes; they were hard, like the sky, with ridges, domes, stalks like the woods mushrooms, tubes, bulbs, glistening metal spiderwebs.

And closer.... The domed structures surrounded Devon like a forest of giant toadstools. He tried to pull them all into the range of his vision, but they seemed to stretch away along infinite vistas. The dream-Devon strained; some sort of perspective dilated and it was more painful than the stretching of unused muscles.

Then the domes and the towers between them began to burn. Golden flames burst up all around the dream-Devon, but he felt no pain. The globes of sky-stuff began to waver and distort.

Devon saw Rachel standing among the fires; now he felt the heat, but it was not unpleasant. Their eyes met, and she smiled. In a momentary bit of shock, Devon saw that she was naked. He had never seen a naked woman other than the exaggerated wooden figurines Old Elijah at one time carved and hid away for his private and obscure reasons. Devon, Garth, and the other young boys had more than once sneaked up to the smeared panes of the locked woodshed. They would creep close, silent, and watch Old Elijah whittling away inside.

The domes guttered and began to run like poor wax. Still smiling enigmatically, Rachel extended her arms to Devon. Her lips moved, shaping words, but Devon could not tell what they were.

He attempted to move toward her, but Rachel retreated. Stop, he willed. Let me come to you. Her pale arms still extended toward him, yet he could not touch her. The inferno flared up anew and Rachel vanished.

Devon was alone with the alien, unwavering specks set against the blackness. The dream continued inevitably.

When Devon awoke, it was still night. The moon had set beyond the western hills. He stared up at the bar of the Cross, which still blinked its three-two-three pattern, and felt a wrenching sense of inestimable frustration and loss.

THREE

There were dreams also for Rachel that night.

At first Old Rachel wondered if perhaps she had scolded her daughter overly much for her tardiness in bringing the thread from Master Cowley. Rachel had said nothing; only lowered her eyes and accepted her mother’s admonitions in an attitude of proper filial respect. But during the preparation of supper, she had bumbled about the kitchen in a daze: she allowed the mutton to char, let the potato water boil over, did not notice until far too late that her younger sister was sneaking sticky handfuls from the sugar bin.

“Rachel, you must not be a trial to me in my old age,” said her mother.

At the meal, Rachel dropped the serving platter of bread. The dish shattered and crusts bounced everywhere.

“Daughter, what is the matter?” said Aram.

Rachel looked at him blankly. “Nothing, Father.” She bent and retrieved the bread. The floor was excruciatingly clean; not a crumb would go to waste.

Aram continued talking about his ambitious reseeding program for the lower meadow. Old Rachel glanced appraisingly at her daughter. As was her custom, she said almost nothing during the meal; only making brief agreement with her husband when agreement seemed necessary.

For Rachel, evening prayer dragged past with infinite slowness. The two women and the girl kept their places at the table while Aram retrieved the Book from its hallowed resting place above the mantle. He set the heavy, leather-bound volume on the table and opened it to the golden marker. Beyond the marker lay perhaps a third of the pages. As he did every evening, Aram would read passages from the Book. When he at last reached the final page in another year, he would start over from the beginning. Aram had read the Book aloud many times during his life.

“And so it was that Sarah came to lie with...” Aram began. His voice trailed off and he frowned. Lips moving as he silently formed the words, Aram let his finger trail down the column until he came to a less objectionable passage. He began again. “And lo! In the kingdom of...”

Rachel looked demurely down at the table. She hoped there was no more than the normal color in her cheeks. On impulse she glanced up and saw Old Rachel looking across the table at her. Rachel, again averted her eyes and prayed her father to hurry.

After reading nearly a dozen pages, Aram closed the Book and initiated a prayer of supplication to the Creator: “O Maker, in this the season of thy bounty, we beseech thee...”

Rachel had long since memorized every millimeter of wood pattern in the plastic tabletop.
Dear Lord,
the Creator,
she thought.
Don’t let them read my mind and know I allowed Devon to kiss me.
Please!

“... thy servants. Amen.”

Led by Old Rachel’s still-sweet soprano, they sang three slow, dirgelike hymns. Then a final benediction by Aram and evening prayers were over. Not looking at her parents Rachel bid them a polite good night and followed her sister up the ladder to the loft.

Rachel’s dream:

They swam in Old Jacob’s millpond, the two of them, Devon and herself. The water in the holding pond, warm with the summer’s heat, caressed her skin as no cloth could do.

For a moment the dream was rippled by Rachel’s nearly conscious thought that she had never swum with a male. Then the thought submerged like a diving fish and the dream flowed on. With the flats of their hands they splashed each other; the spray made her skin glisten in the sunlight.

Devon motioned toward the grassy shore. Rachel followed him out of the pond. They climbed onto the bank and lay down in the shade of an ancient cypress. There were no words, only Devon’s gray eyes and the lingering, silken touch of his fingers.

She did not know what he was doing. There was pleasure, to be sure, but it was obscure and without center. Rachel looked at his face; all Devon’s features, everything she recognized was there. But below his face, everything was vague; the lines of his limbs blurred, except for his hands and feet; other shapes were soft and indistinct.

She knew he was doing things to her, something to her body. But still she had no visualization or definition. The pleasure continued, intensified. Rachel rolled her head back and forth on the grassy bank.

She awoke.

Rachel looked sharply across the feather-filled bed. It was difficult to tell in the gloom of the loft; she did not think her sister was awake. Rachel listened intently. At last she decided that the soft, regular breathing had confirmed that Ruth was asleep.

Rachel slowly rolled onto her side, carefully lifting the comforter away from her sweaty skin. She lay still for a minute, letting her own breathing become regular. Her gown had ridden up around her waist. Gingerly she touched the forbidden place between her legs.

She felt the wetness and jerked her hand away.

What has happened? she thought.

The dream, like most fantasies, had raveled in the short time since waking. Yet some feeling lingered. She remembered something of the pond and the grass and of gentle fingers. Shame swept around her; shame and something else. She recognized the stranger. It was pleasure.

FOUR

The night ended as the sun rose and the cycle began again: twelve hours of work, eight hours of prayer, eight hours of sleep. Each day the same, the regimen unvarying. Devon sat hidden atop his hill, overseeing the busy, hive activity of Cypress Corners. At the noon, he finished the last of the bread and cheese. Afterward, he still seemed to watch the valley, but his gaze was inward, speculating about his dreams. Toward dusk, he visited the futile rabbit snares. Then he returned to the valley overlook to await darkness.

It was considerably later when Rachel climbed the secret path to the crest. The swollen moon had long since risen; the bell summons to Cypress Corners’ thrice-weekly prayer assembly was hours past. The autumn chill had intensified so Rachel wore her dark cloak. With her she brought a basket of food.

She stumbled and nearly fell over the brush at the top of the trail. Devon stepped out of the shadows and caught her. Rachel stifled a cry. He took the basket and guided her to their usual place beside the pine.

“I worried that you wouldn’t come,” said Devon.

“It was a long meeting,” said Rachel. “Elder Micah’s sermon went on forever. But that’s not important.” She tilted her head up and kissed him happily.

Devon said, “What’s happened? You’re excited.”

“The Elders met, Devon. They’ve decided you can end your exile and come back to Cypress Corners.”

Devon said nothing.

“What’s the matter?” said Rachel. “You can go home now.”

He laughed bitterly. “I have no home.”

She said, “The farm of Old Devon—”

“What farm? I should rebuild it out of the ashes?”

“Everyone will help. Of course you can build it again.”

“And have to end up beholding to the likes of Elder Jubal and Elder Micah? I’d rather stay here in the hills.”

She clung to him. “Don’t say that, Devon. Your home is down there. When Elder Jubal comes up here on the morrow to deliver your summons, accompany him back to Cypress Corners.”

“What about you?” Devon said. “My home is down there only if it’s with you.”

“Don’t say that. I’m bringing you good news and you try to hurt me.”

“No,” he said, stroking her hair. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then will you think about the Elders’ summons?”

After a while he slowly nodded.

“Now let’s talk about something else,” Rachel said.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

He told her about his latest dream, judiciously editing out some of the details. Devon attempted to describe the vistas he had glimpsed and the strange, giant structures that dwarfed even Cypress Corners; but words came disjointedly, failed him, and he wished he could show her. All the same, it disappointed him when Rachel seemed to shuffle aside the true wonders of what his mind had seen.

“I
was there in your dream?” she said.

“It was no other.”

“And I held out my arms to you?”

“As though you wished me to come.”

She said, “And you did not?”

“I couldn’t. I came closer and you moved away.”

“That’s odd,” she murmured. “You did not move away when...” Her voice trailed off.

“When what?”

Glad for the mask of tree-filtered moonlight, Rachel said, “I was visited last night.”

“By what?”

“My parents and the Elders would say an incubus, a night demon.”

“And what would
you
say?”

She shook her head. “It took your form as I lay asleep.” She hesitated. “I cannot call it a demon.”

Devon smiled. “You dreamed of me.”

“Indeed,” Rachel said quietly.

“Was it pleasant?”

Again, hesitation. “Yes.”

“Was it pleasurable?”

“It was sinful.”

Devon considered the distinct planes of her face as he carefully chose his words. “I’ve had much time to think, up here. I’ve come to—to conclusions.” He took a breath and the words came closer together, as though he feared to hold them in. “I’ve come to the conclusion that things which give pleasure are not necessarily sinful.”

Soberly she said. “That is counter to the teachings of the Book.”

He met her gaze. “I know it, but I think it’s something I can now accept.”

“The Elders—”

“And neither,” he said, “are
they
necessarily infallible.”

“Devon, why do we always seem to talk of things which trouble me?”

He gently framed her head with his fingers. “Then I’ll speak of other things tonight.” He touched her chin. “Shall I talk of Aram’s early barley crop?”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

Their kiss was tender and tentative, as it had been the year before when they had first met secretly in the woods beside Aram’s lower meadow.

Devon said, “Tell me about your dream.”

“I cannot. That would be a sin.”

“The dream, or the telling?”

“Both.”

“Tell me...” He drew her closer and they shared the warm shelter of her winter cloak. “Is this a sin?” Again he kissed her.

“Yes. I think so. I don’t know.” Rachel shook her head agitatedly.

“Was it a sin to come here tonight?”

“Yes,” said Rachel. “Yes. I sneaked from the house and woke no one.” She felt his fingers trail across the secret places of her body. “Devon—”

“A knowing sin? But why?”

Rachel felt her body begin to move, as though of its own volition. She felt peculiarly detached. “I can now sin,” she said. “I am already damned.”

“We are neither of us damned,” said Devon. He touched her and at first she did not resist at all.

The moon seemed to race down its track to the west. The darkness of moonfall and the unlighted valley were no less black than the dark sanctuary within the folds of cloak and woolen blanket.

“Perhaps it was because we sinned,” said Rachel.