Fool's Journey Read online

  Fool’s Journey

  By

  Mary Chase Comstock

  Prologue

  Almost too late, Rosa Ruiz saw the host of angels gathered at the bottom of the stairs. They were weeping in a bright, feathered mass, inconsolable, their burnished locks tumbling forward on the steps.

  In other times, Rosa might have thought it strange to see so many together. In other times, she might have stopped to listen to their whisperings, or even worked up the courage to try touching one of them.

  The times were different now. For good or ill the world had called out to angels through book, video, and even Twitter. Now they were here. Some days there were so many it was hard to walk around. She shook her head and crossed herself quickly.

  It was bad luck to step on an angel.

  Rosa picked up her basket of dust rags and brushes and squeezed past them on her way up the stairs. They didn't even look up. She climbed to the top of the steps and was reaching into her bag for her large ring of keys when she spotted the feather.

  She had never known an angel to let a feather drop.

  Slowly she stooped to pick it up, then held it to the light. The feather was translucent, like opals edged with gold, fine as a saint's halo in a holy picture. For a moment, the colors danced in flame, then shriveled to brown in her hand until it seemed nothing more than a dry seed husk from a maple tree.

  Rosa shrugged and let the wind carry it away. Maybe, she thought, it would find its way back to its angel.

  As she let herself into the apartment, she glanced over her shoulder. The angels were still at the bottom of the stairs, crying harder than before.

  I.

  Deirdre Kildeer sat on a damp stone bench and studied the rain-washed city. A fine gray drizzle cloaked Seattle's waterfront in its typical softness until a twinkling shaft of light escaped the heavens, illuminating the far hilltops of the city. Windows glittered on the surrounding hills as the sudden sunlight brought with it the possibility of rainbows.

  She had been looking for a sign and here it was. She picked up her journal and scrawled a few words: Miracle weather to celebrate my emergence from the cocoon.

  A heartbeat later, the cloud-break closed again and the words of Robert Frost came to mind: Happiness makes up in height what it lacks in length.

  As the sky grew darker still, others began to hurry toward the cover of Pike Place Market. Clinging to the edge of Puget Sound, the Market was a multi-leveled maze of restaurants, craft booths and produce vendors. Its bounty never failed to draw a crowd, regardless of the weather. Today was no exception, even though the rain, which started as a drizzle, now fell in earnest.

  Damn. She was supposed to meet Panda here at the stone bench. The wind picked up and the rain came down harder still. Pulling up her hood, she too ran for the cover of the market.

  Deirdre ducked into a sheltered space just inside and shook the rain from the pages of her journal. The ink was already blurring on the dimpled pages. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, blotted the paper, and then turned the page back to do the other side.

  The words there stopped her. The poem was back again.

  Settle me in the attic eaves

  Sift me into floorboards

  Swallow my heart beneath the bed

  A shadow child from nowhere.

  Year after year memories had crept out of her pen or followed her fingers across the keys of her computer. Lines and images sprang from the cadences of overheard conversations or formed like hieroglyphs in graffiti. At last, she’d written a final copy in longhand, then torn it into pieces and burned it in a fire.

  Over. Done with.

  No more "shadow child."

  But here it was again, scrawled boldly in her journal— the “hiding poem.” She remembered vaguely awakening in the middle of the night and writing something down, but until now she hadn’t remembered it.

  Damn it! Those days were over, buried. She'd scratched her life out of ruins and built a new one. No more fear. Only caution.

  She tore the page from her journal, tossed it in a waste bin, and then stepped quickly into the hubbub of crowd.

  "Watch out for shit's sake!"

  Automatically heeding the warning even as she recognized the voice, Deirdre sidestepped a cart of slick red snapper careening through the roiling masses. The crowd closed behind it like the greedy Red Sea in the 1950’s Bible epic.

  "Watch out, little shadow child,” she murmured.

  "What did you just say?"

  The voice came from her left. Deirdre turned and acknowledged her friend, Panda, who was watching her with unveiled fascination.

  “Nothing important," Deirdre said, self-consciousness settling over her like a deflated balloon. "You know I always talk to myself. And thanks for saving me from the flying fish."

  "To protect and to serve," Panda said with a laugh. "Someone's got to look out for the dreamers."

  Pauline Papadopoulous informally adopted Deirdre when they were both in graduate school. Late nights of study fueled by caffeine resulted in persistent dark circles under her friend's deep-set eyes. This distinction, combined with a dolorous expression and bulky frame, reminded Deirdre unavoidably of a sad-faced bear. Hence, the nickname.

  "How are you doing, Panda? I haven't seen you in weeks."

  "Busy, busy, busy. It's academic conference season. I just got back from Chicago and I leave for New Orleans tomorrow."

  "I had no idea your dance card was so full! I'm lucky I caught you!"

  "You are indeed. Now, why are we here? What's so mysterious and wonderful?"

  Deirdre smiled. "Just wait until we're in the restaurant, okay?"

  "You're no fun," Panda complained.

  "Yes, I am—I'm going to order an enormous bottle of bubbly."

  Panda whistled. "This must be really big. Let's go!"

  Like a bottle of champagne, there was no one like Panda for cheer. A few minutes exposure to her effervescence and Deirdre was in good humor again, the disturbing poem in her journal dismissed. The restaurant wasn’t far in distance, but the winding aisles of the market and its inevitable treasures always made the walk longer.

  “Look at those!" Panda said, grabbing Deirdre’s arm and steering her toward a display of dried flower wreaths, streaming with ribbons. "This one was made for you!" Panda insisted, holding one aloft, then plunking it on Deirdre's head. "You look like one of those pre-Raphaelite post card models!"

  Great. Deirdre grimaced as the wreath slipped down over one eye. She'd been fighting her stereotypic image as poet-in-residence at the university for almost three years. The faculty allowed a certain amount of indulgence, but it was understood that ethnic earrings and badly matched tweeds were about as far as whimsy went. Even Deirdre agreed that, in this century, a wreath looked silly on anything besides a door. But it was exactly the kind of useless junk she and Panda always dragged back from the Market.

  Deirdre reached to pull it off. “I feel like I'm wearing a porcupine." She paused as the vendor held up a mirror. Spikes of purple statice and dusty rosebuds framed her face. The rain had brought out the curls in her waist-length russet hair.

  "If you want to float along a mythical river in a barge pulled by swans, you have to put up with a little pain," Panda told her.

  "True, but I'd rather drink champagne."

  When several people stopped to watch, Deirdre pulled the wreath from her head and turned away. As always, the idea of being watched sent her heart scurrying.

  "So much for beauty!" Panda grumbled.

  Together, they continued through the people-clogged arteries of the Market. Even though they were under cover, Deirdre pulled her hood up again. The odds that anyone would recognize her after all these years were astronomical.
Her life was on the verge of happiness, however, and instinct warned her to be careful. Once they were in the restaurant, in a corner, she'd feel safe again.

  Navigating the market was a challenge and threading the jammed corridors nearly impossible. Overflowing produce and flower carts gave way to handicrafts and import shops. It wasn't long before Panda gasped and headed for a stand bursting with improbable junk. With a sinking heart, Deirdre watched her friend dive in and latch onto a pair of Chinese temple dogs the size of Rottweilers, rendered horrifically in hot-pink plastic.

  Panda drew in her breath and stated solemnly, "These I must have!" Her eyes glowed with an unholy light. There would be no reasoning with her. Panda's heart went out to useless junk the way some people felt compelled to adopt every stray cat or dog that landed on their porch. She'd even bought a dress once – three sizes too small, at that – because she "felt sorry" for it. Panda's apartment was a humane society for the culture's most pathetic strays.

  Deirdre clung to the perimeter of the store, pretending to study Space Needle snow globes as Panda bargained. Clearly she would have to carry one of these neon beacons. That would draw more attention than the wreath had, but at least she’d have three feet of pink plastic to hide behind.

  Thankfully, the purchase was completed rapidly and Deirdre could breathe again. She had good news to share with Panda, but like a magic spell, it wouldn't be real until she'd said it aloud.

  They turned down a narrow passage leading to the restaurant. Deirdre could barely see around the enormous temple dog, but was thankful the light-weight plastic made it merely unwieldy instead of backbreaking. The crowd, as usual, gave way before Panda's impressive proportions, but massed again behind her.

  Deirdre, clinging to her awkward pink burden, was jostled from side to side trying to navigate a path through a sea of damp jackets and arms laden with treasures when a sudden, painful yank tore at her hair.

  Deirdre's head snapped back with a jerk. A searing pang coursed along her scalp, bringing tears to her eyes and a gasp to her throat.

  Panic pounded against her temples and lodged in the pit of her stomach as the past invaded the present in waves of terror.

  The hand in her hair.

  The madness.

  The blood.

  They had found her.

  II.

  Deirdre sank to her knees.

  Her scalp smarted. Instinctively she reached for the back of her head. She needed to rub the source of pain, but the ridiculous pink dog prevented even that small comfort. Instead, she pushed through the surging crowd away from whoever had assaulted her.

  "What the hell happened?" Panda demanded as they emerged at the entrance to the restaurant. "You’re all teary-eyed."

  Deirdre took a moment to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding. She looked over her shoulder at the crowd from which she had escaped. Everyday shoppers. There was no menace she could see.

  "It was strange," she said at last, her voice breaking. "Someone pulled my hair back there. More than pulled. A really hard yank. It still hurts."

  "Must have been a kid," Panda grumbled. "Or else you caught it on something. These booths have so many display hooks and nails sticking out of them, it's a wonder anyone can walk through here without putting an eye out. My God!" she groaned in annoyance. "My mother's voice just came out of me. If my head starts spinning, call a priest, will you?"

  The tension loosened a little and Deirdre felt her equilibrium creep back. It had to have been accidental. She could almost convince herself nothing had happened except that her scalp still hurt, but even that was fading now.

  She tested her fear for a moment. This wasn't the same as others. It was not a daylight nightmare, only a bad moment in time, nothing more.

  After all, her past was dead and buried.

  Inside the restaurant, the hostess politely ignored the huge pink dogs and led the way to a window table for four. A few lunchtime customers still lingered over their coffee, but, for the most part, she and Panda had the place to themselves. Chez Max was Deirdre’s favorite spot. Every window opened on a view that cried out for a painter's brush. Often after the noontime rush ended, she would take her time over a glass of wine as she watched the swooping gulls and succession of ferryboats and she sorted out the strands of her current poem.

  Deirdre settled into her chair and took a deep breath—good light, white starched tablecloths and a red rose on each table. The pink temple dogs, now sedately seated as if expecting some enormous neon treat, made her smile. She reached for the wine menu and scanned the right column. She would not economize on this.

  "We'll have Veuve Clicquot," she told the waiter. "La Grande Dame."

  "Damn, Deirdre! What on earth is going on?"

  She grinned. "I have two amazing, brilliant pieces of news!"

  Panda regarded her suspiciously. "You're not leaving for a position at some hoity-toity university are you?"

  "I am most definitely not leaving. This is my home now."

  "That's a relief! Now tell me before I spin out of control."

  Deirdre leaned back in her chair. "Can't you wait for the champagne?"

  "No. I cannot. How can you sit there looking so smug?” Panda protested. “High blood-pressure runs in my family. I feel it coming on."

  “Oh, all right,” Deirdre said, finally capitulating. "Last week I got a call from my editor at Orca. She was absolutely bursting.” Deidre took a deep breath, as much from excitement as for dramatic effect. “My book won the Dovinger Prize. How about that?"

  Panda's jaw dropped. "No shit?"

  "That's almost exactly what I said."

  Panda's expression shifted from surprise to puzzlement. "But I didn't think your book was even coming out until—"

  "Next month, right, but the publisher sent out review copies to the prize committee. I didn't even know about it, and they didn't tell me because it was such a long shot."

  "You are set! That makes you like—what? Queen of Poetry? You are going to sail through your third-year review like Horatio Hornblower."

  "Even better. That brings us to the second part." She paused a moment. "Let's wait for the champagne."

  "Deirdre!"

  "Don't worry —here it comes."

  She nodded at the label the waiter showed her, and while he went through the ritual of opening the bottle, Deirdre savored the moment. Sharing her news made it seem more real. She’d been afraid to believe it herself at first. She knew her book was good, but even so, she'd waited days for her editor to call her back saying it was all a mistake. Now she'd seen the letter.

  When their glasses were filled, Panda held hers up. "To Deirdre and the Dovinger! Bottoms up!"

  As Deirdre swallowed, the effervescent bubbles lit her with happiness.

  "So what’s the second piece of good news?"

  Even though Deirdre smiled, she could feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes. This was the best part.

  "I told Michael, my department chair, and he told the dean of liberal arts, and—I can't believe it! Panda, they've decided to put me up for tenure early."

  Panda leaped from her chair, came around the table, and enveloped Deirdre in a bear hug. "This is so fabulous—you've done it all!"

  Deirdre laughed shakily. "Another glass?"

  "Hey, let's order another bottle and two straws! This is the absolute best. I am so proud of you."

  Now Deirdre dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

  "I mean it. You have grown so much from when I first met you. I never would have believed shy little Miss Mousy was going to turn the academic world on its head. I always knew you were gifted, but that's usually the kind they chew up and spit out at universities. You've won, Deirdre, and you've done it in three years."

  It had taken much longer than that, of course. Panda didn't know anything about the full journey she'd been through— from the land of specters, through the valley of death, and into the belly of the whale. She had survived.

  With tenure noth
ing could hurt her. Even if her secret were discovered, she wouldn't have to run. Her past was an empty house. The door was locked, and she was free to walk towards the future that had become suddenly bright. The place she lived would become a home. The days that passed would be her life. And she'd be known for the Dovinger prize —not for yesterday's nightmare. She would never, never have to hide again.

  "When will you know for sure about tenure?"

  "Soon," Deirdre said. "I was scheduled for my three-year review at the end of the month, so they'll base the decision on the file I’ve already gathered. Michael will observe my classes next week. The department will vote and that should be it. Ten days or less."

  "Amazing." Panda refilled their glasses. "So what will number three be?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Everyone knows big things happen in threes. Something else is coming."

  Deirdre maintained her smile with an effort.

  "Two is enough, Panda. Besides, what more could I possibly want?"

  "What we all want, for heaven's sake! True love! Besides, we have a red rose, a white candle, and a bottle of bubbly—that's a love spell in itself. All we need is a gnarly old dragon to make his entrance and a prince to make you his quest."

  Deirdre laughed softly. In a week everything would be perfect. She could afford a frivolous wish, even though no Prince Charming would ever find his way to her thorny tower. "All right. We'll drink to true love."

  They clinked their glasses again and took another swallow.

  III.

  Out in the rain again, the afterglow of champagne and celebration made Deirdre feel as rosy and awkward as the neon dog she carried. She made her way to the parking lot as best she could, then helped bungee cord the dogs to the top of Panda's purple VW bug.

  As Deirdre settled into the passenger seat, she heard Panda gasp. "How weird! Now stay calm, Deirdre."

  Panda's tone reminded Deirdre of scenes in old Westerns when someone spotted a rattler nearby. She found herself frozen in her seat. Stay calm, she told herself, but panic coiled inside her, ready to strike.