Ritual Reality
9 Special Delivery
Thursday, 3 April 1969
Rebecca Hart Allen, PhD, Professor of Sociology. The name was on the door in bold black letters. Wayne could no longer delay the dreaded meeting. He had not been Dr. Allen’s favorite student last term and he found that genuinely regrettable. His grade point average showed as much. At least he didn’t have to base his chances for graduate school on that single pass/fail class. He was generally a good student and enjoyed school, which was unusual for people in theatre. But it hadn’t shown in Dr. Allen’s class.
Neither was his poor performance her fault. He slept through her classes. He deserved less than he got. She kept her end of the bargain, even though she said it was fraudulent research. He passed. Never again would he schedule a seven-thirty a.m. class. Sometimes theatre and school just didn’t mix.
He wouldn’t be in front of her door if it weren’t for the added work-study he’d been granted to help him earn money for the summer trip to England. Next fall they would pay him for his work as theatre technical director. This spring, however, he was nothing more than campus delivery boy. He considered leaving the package at Dr. Allen’s door, but Miss Peterson in the mail room had distinctly said, “Deliver in person. If she’s not there, wait.” It must be important. Maps, if he was any judge of what would come from New York in a five-foot tube that weighed this much.
He raised his hand to knock.
The door swung open just as Wayne’s fist started down and he narrowly missed punching Dr. Allen in the face. She ducked aside, scattering papers on the floor and flattened herself against the wall behind the door. Wayne dropped his package and then fell to his knees to gather the papers she had spilled, spluttering out his apologies as he scrambled around on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Allen,” he said. “I was just knocking. I’ll pick all this stuff up for you. I’m really sorry.” He raised his head to see the club in her hand being lowered to the floor. “Jesus,” he breathed. “I mean, I’m sorry, Dr. Allen. Really.”
She was medium in build and height, but she dominated a room. She was an attractive—Wayne guessed—thirty-five or so. He’d heard she was the youngest department chair ever at the university. Even when he had been awake in her classes he was afraid to ask questions. She was skittish around people and quick-tempered when faced with indolence. Wayne had heard stories more horrific than his own. They said she had been attacked on campus a couple of times. With the recent antiwar demonstrations, he understood a little of why she kept her door locked, even when she was in. He knew a massive demonstration was planned for the weekend. She saw students only in her classroom or by appointment.
As she lowered the stick to the floor, Wayne could only pity anyone who tried to attack her. She always carried that stick or had it leaning against the wall behind the podium in her classroom. No. You’d have to be a fool to tangle with this woman.
“Well, Mr. Hamel?” asked the professor. “To what do I owe the surprise of this visit? Pipe bomb from the student liberation front?” She still didn’t set the stick aside, making Wayne more nervous than he had been.
“Delivery, Dr. Allen,” he said. He felt very young and foolish in her presence. “Miss Peterson said to deliver this in person.” He laid the papers on the desk and picked up the cardboard tube to hand to her. “I figured it must be pretty important.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Allen.
“Is there anything I can do for you while I’m here?” Wayne asked cautiously. “I mean, like, something to be delivered to someone else? That’s my job, you know.”
“Yes, I am aware of your function,” said Dr. Allen. “If you can stay a few minutes, I need some exhibits taken to Good Hall. I was afraid it would take me two trips.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
“And do get up off the floor, Mr. Hamel. It’s not necessary to kneel to me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he scrambled to his feet, cracking his head painfully on the desk in the process. Dr. Allen had the envelope torn from the tube and graciously didn’t notice. Wayne glanced around the room at the array of relics on the shelves. One set of shelves was filled with figurines of women—some stone, some china or ivory, some wood. In the midst of these stood two goblets. One was pewter and the other silver in a brass stem. Both were heavily decorated. It was a bizarre collection. He turned to ask Dr. Allen about the collection of old “dolls.”
Rebecca Allen sat with a wooden staff in her hands, the cardboard tube discarded. The note lay on the desk in front of her. Her shoulders were shaking in sobs. Wayne stood on the opposite side of the desk, stunned at the sight. He was concerned about Dr. Allen, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the walking stick. It was so familiar—so charged with power. He tore his eyes away and looked at the weeping professor.
“Mrs.… Dr. Allen,” he said. “Are you all right? Is there something I can do?”
“No,” she answered. “Nothing.” She searched around on the desk until she found an empty tissue box then swore beneath her breath as she pitched it into her waste basket. For once in his life, Wayne’s timing was impeccable as he offered a clean handkerchief to her. She took it with quiet thanks and wiped her eyes.
When she looked up, the boy was gone. She sat still in her chair, gently stroking the length of the worn old walking stick. She read, again, the note in front of her.
Dear Rebecca, I’m penning this note at Phillip’s request. He’s nearly blind and so weak that writing is impossible. I can’t tell you how worried I am about him. I’m not even certain he is being coherent in the message he has asked me to write. You will have to be the judge of that. He insists it is imperative that you receive his walking stick.
A couple of weeks ago, we sat in his study as a storm raged outside. The lights went out. Phillip was muttering beneath his breath and I leaned closer to hear what he was saying. From his perspective, I could see his staff leaning near the fireplace. I don’t know how to say this, but I swear that it began to glow. We were suddenly hit by a massive bolt of lightning that deafened me. The wood in the fireplace leapt into flames. This is true, as certainly as I am writing it. Now Phillip won’t rest until I’ve sent you his walking stick.
In all the years that I have known him, he has never parted with it for more than a weekend, and then not without duress. I think he believes the fire was a sign of some sort—perhaps that he is dying.
William is waiting to take this to the post. Please come and visit soon. Bring Serepte.
Love, Margaret
“Please Doc, don’t die,” Rebecca whispered. That would make this whole mess unbearable. She knew what he must be going through. Her own staff was inseparable from her. And this which the famed explorer had carried with him for over three decades would mean so much more. It held so much of the man’s personality—perhaps had created so much of him—that she could almost speak to it and expect Doc to answer. Perhaps seeing the fire leap once more from Iäpetus was a sign. She knew he had seen the rod call fire once before, when it was placed in his hands the first time. This was, after all, the Second Face of Carles. She and The Swordmaster had called it to life just two weeks ago at the equinox.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rebecca looked up to see the student messenger once again. He held a glass of water in his hand and offered it to her. Rebecca smiled.
“Mr. Hamel. How very gallant of you,” she said. “A glass of water and a clean pressed handkerchief for a lady in distress. Chivalry is not dead. Thank you.”
He shifted a little from foot to foot.
“My dad said that the mark of a gentleman was to always carry an extra handkerchief. You never know when it might be needed.”
Rebecca looked at him. About twenty, she estimated—perhaps twenty-one. Ragged blue jeans and a shirt that looked like a paint rag. His hair was shoulder length and his beard had never been trimmed. There was a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth and finally she burst out laughing. Wayne smiled, too, a little unsure if he had made a joke or was one; and not really caring. She was a pretty woman when she smiled. What he had seen in the past few minutes had shown that she was not totally invulnerable.
“Thank you, Mr. Hamel. You have brightened a gloomy day,” she laughed. “I wish I had seen that side of you while you were in my class.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Allen. It wasn’t that I don’t like cultural anthropology. It’s just… well, I got what I deserved,” he admitted.
“Oh, you got better than you deserved,” she said. “I did enjoy your performance in Hamlet, however.”
“You saw the show?”
“Oh yes,” she answered. “If I am going to get up at the ungodly hour of five o’clock and spend my morning lecturing to a zombie, there had better be a trade-off.”
“Did you sleep through the performance?” Wayne asked, almost hopefully.
“No. You were far too loud.”
She turned her focus from the boy again and back to the walking stick lying across her lap. Stroking it once gently, she laid it on her credenza. “Hang in there, Doc. We need you,” she whispered. She turned back to see Wayne staring at the staff again. She needed to get this moving.
Rebecca picked up her own red walking stick and the armload of papers that Wayne had gathered for her. She pointed at the box next to her desk. “This is the heavy box, if you would be so kind.” He lifted the box and went out the door. She paused to lock it and led him down the hall and out of the building.
“We’re going to England with it, you know,” he said conversationally. She looked at him curiously.
“Antecedent, Mr. Hamel?”
“What?”
“It what?”
“Oh. It, Hamlet, the production. We’ve been invited to tour England,” he explained.
“A bit like carrying coals to Newcastle, isn’t it?”
“Why argue? We get to go to England this summer and that’s what counts.”
“Yes, I suppose it makes sense in that light. It appears that I may get to go to England this summer, myself.”
“You go there a lot, don’t you?” She looked at him sternly. Why would he think that? “Are you taking one of the slots in the show?”
“No. I didn’t know there were any ‘slots’ available.” It was an interesting thought, though. She filed the information away to be considered later. “I simply need to return an item to its makers,” she said sadly.
“That staff you just got. Dr. Allen, is that… I mean, it just looks like… That’s it, isn’t it?”
Rebecca was alert and cautious. He’d written about the staff in his term paper in December. Had he made the connection? Did he have any reason to suspect this was it? Could there have been a picture?
“I’d rather not discuss the staff,” she said abruptly. “It belongs to my daughter’s godfather. He’s very ill.”
“I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do…” He left the sentence unfinished. “I mean, if you’d like me to help cart all this junk back to your office after your lecture tonight, I’d be happy to.” He plopped the box down on the podium in the lecture hall.
“This junk, if you have not just broken it, happens to be artifacts of the Inca Indians,” she said. “But I am a bit nervous about being out alone lately. Will you stay for the lecture?”
“I, uh…”
“Don’t need a nap tonight? I see,” she smiled.
“That’s not it,” he rushed. “I’m supposed to work in the scene shop tonight. I’d love to hear the lecture, really.” She laughed again.
“That’s considerably more enthusiasm than you showed for it last term,” she was saying through her laughter. He laughed with her. “But I really shouldn’t tease you like that. You’ve been a great help and a perfect gentleman this afternoon. I want you to know I appreciate it.”
“You want me back then?” he asked.
“Class is out at a quarter after nine. It will take me ten or fifteen minutes to pack it all up and then I could certainly use your help if it is not too inconvenient.”
“I’ll be here at 9:30,” he said quickly. “See you later, Dr. Allen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hamel.” The boy was gone in a flash. Lord, what a charmer. But why the curiosity about the staff? Rebecca began unloading the box and setting the artifacts out on display, forgetting him with the thought. Tears once again fell from her eyes as she worked.
Rebecca was nearly finished packing the displays when he came running through the door of the lecture hall with his wet, stringy hair stuck to his face and neck. He’d stopped to shower and change into clean clothes before he came to help the professor.
“Well, Mr. Hamel, tough night in the scene shop?”
“Sorry I’m late, Dr. Allen. It was a real mess. We didn’t finish up till after nine.”
“Really?”
“We did dutchman tonight.”
“What is ‘doing dutchman’?” she asked.
“Well,” Wayne explained, “when you put up flats—you know, the walls on stage?—there are cracks where they come together. So you take long strips of muslin cloth and dip them in wheat paste, wring them out, and smear them across the joints to cover the cracks. You get in wheat paste up to your elbows, and with our crew, it’s all over the place. But it will be dry by tomorrow morning and we’ll start painting. We were lucky to have a long weekend to get this set up.”
“And you got all cleaned up just to come help me? How thoughtful.”
“I couldn’t have touched anything in the condition I was in,” he said honestly. He shifted a little. “Besides, since tomorrow is Good Friday, it’s like we have an early weekend. We can’t work on set until it’s dry, so a bunch of guys are going down to the Waffle House after rehearsal is over.”
“Ah. Guys?” Rebecca asked with a smile.
“And gals,” he said. He knew he was blushing and couldn’t help it. Dr. Allen was an attractive woman when you weren’t sitting in her class. For some reason, talking with her about his date was embarrassing.
“Well, I shan’t detain you,” she said. “In fact, it is a shorter distance to my house from here than to my office. This is the last use for these items this year. If you wouldn’t mind helping me, I’ll just store them there for the summer.”
“No problem. Rehearsal won’t be out till ten.”
The two left the administration building which had recently been renamed Good Hall after some famous alumnus or something. Wayne didn’t know who, but that sort of information was only good for freshman hazing anyway. Dr. Allen’s house was, as she indicated, only a couple of blocks away from this side of campus. She brought him into the house and called out as soon as the door was open.
“Serepte! Are you here, love?”
“Yes, Mom.” A skinny girl came out of the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. She wore blue jeans and a t-shirt and was barefoot. She was as tall as her mother but thin as a rail. Her long red hair hung straight down her back in the best Haight-Ashbury fashion, like that folk singer, Joni Mitchell. Wayne guessed that she must be all of thirteen or fourteen and a copy of what her mother must have looked like at that age.
“Oops, sorry. I didn’t know we had company,” she said upon seeing Wayne.
“It’s okay. This is Mr. Hamel. He’s carrying a box for me. Mr. Hamel, this is my daughter, Serepte. Honey, would you show Mr. Hamel where to put that box upstairs?” Serepte popped out of the living room and then back in with empty hands.
“Sure. C’mon.” Wayne followed her upstairs and into a room at the top.
“Just put it over there with the other boxes,” she said, pointing to one corner. The room was furnished like a study and was very clean. The boxes were the only thing that looked vaguely out of place.
“Is this your mom’s study?” he asked as he stacked the box on top.
“No. It’s my father’s. We never use it except to store boxes in,” she said.
“What’s your dad do?” he asked as they left the room.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“Travel?”
“Nope. Gone.” Wayne didn’t pursue it any further. He’d never heard mention of a Mr. Allen. Serepte didn’t really sound hurt or angry, but blunt and definite.
“Serepte,” Rebecca said as they returned downstairs, “there was a casserole in the refrigerator for supper. You didn’t have to eat peanut butter.”
“I ate the casserole after school,” the girl responded. “But I was hungry now, too.”
“Where do you put it? Well, Mr. Hamel, may I offer you a peanut butter sandwich and a cup of coffee for your pains?” Rebecca asked.
“Thank you. I’ll pass on the sandwich, but I’d love a cup of coffee, if it’s no trouble.”
“One cup of coffee,” she answered. “Whenever I empty the pot, I get it ready for the next time so all I have to do is plug it in. It’ll be just a minute. Anything in it?”
“A little milk or cream if I may,” he said.
“Tell us about your trip to England,” Rebecca said. “When and where are you going?”
“We go in June and we’ll be in northern England. All I know is that they call it The Lake District and we have two weeks of performances and then a week in London just to sightsee.” Wayne couldn’t help himself. The closer they got to it, the more excited he got.
“I know the Lakes pretty well. In fact, I was planning to be there in late June, myself.”
“Can I go this time?” asked Serepte. “I want to be there for Litha this year.”
“Litha?” Wayne asked, his interest suddenly piqued. “What’s Litha?”
“It’s a… local holiday,” Rebecca answered, staring at her daughter with a creased brow. Serepte slumped in her chair. “Honey, let’s talk about this later, when our guest is gone.”
“Okay. I’m sorry,” she pouted.
“There’s really a Litha, huh?” said Wayne. “Funny. I should know that. Judith didn’t mention it.”
“Who’s Judith?” asked Rebecca.
“My, uh… Well, there’s nothing official. We’re friends. And we date. And stuff. She’s our fencing master and came over from England last year.”
“Student?”
“Yeah. Sophomore, but it’s like she was out of school for a while in England and the credits didn’t transfer right or something. She’s a couple years older than me.”
The Swordmaster. Things began to fall into place in Rebecca’s mind. She felt her heart beating faster. Oester ritual had been so powerful and… intimate.
“So, I suppose Professor Richards is looking for chaperones for this little jaunt.”
“Chaperones?” Wayne frowned. “Come on! We’re all adults. Everyone who goes on this trip works. Half a dozen roles are available, though. Some of the original cast can’t make the trip.”
“Sounds like fun. Any walk-ons?”
“Everyone doubles as courtiers at some point,” Wayne answered. “Why don’t you come over and talk to Jim. I mean, Professor Richards. We could use someone else along who knows the territory.”
“Maybe I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”
“Holiday. Why don’t you come on over tonight?” Wayne’s enthusiasm was running over. “He’ll be at the Waffle House.”
“You’re really a promoter, aren’t you,” she laughed. “What do you think, Serepte?”
“I’m for anything that will get me to England,” the girl answered.
“Well, start by heading to bed then. If I go see the professor tonight, will you be okay alone?”
“Aw, can’t I come, too?” Serepte pled.
“That is not an answer to the question I asked,” Rebecca said sternly. “Your school is not closed tomorrow and I don’t want you sleeping through class.” Wayne hid his face in his hands.
“Good advice, Serepte,” he said through his fingers. “If you sleep in class your teachers will never let you forget it.”
“Are you the one who slept through Mom’s class?” she asked wide-eyed. “Lucky you’re alive to remember it!”
“Serepte,” chided Rebecca.
“Okay,” she said smiling at her mother. “I’ll be fine. Good night.”
“Good night, honey. I’ll lock all the doors when I go out.”
“Good night, Mr. Hamel.”
“You can call me Wayne,” he answered. “Hope I see you in England.”
“Me too!” She turned and ran up the stairs. Wayne turned to Rebecca.
“The one who slept in class?” he asked. “I’m the only one who ever slept in your class?”
“Not exactly,” Rebecca smiled. “Just the only one who passed.”
“Holy gees!”
“Shall I drive?” Rebecca asked as she stood from the table and locked the back door.
“Thank you. I think I missed my ride over, but I can get a lift back,” he squeaked.
At the Waffle House, seven people had already squeezed into a booth and were chattering noisily when the two arrived.
“Does everyone here know Dr. Allen?” Wayne announced as they came up to the table. There was sudden silence.
“Dr. Allen, what a pleasant surprise,” Jim Richards said a little shakily as he simultaneously stood, snubbed out a cigarette, and extended his hand.
“Thank you, Professor Richards,” Rebecca answered. Technically, he was a Mister and not a Professor, but elevating him by title wouldn’t hurt once. “I’ve been hearing some intriguing things about your department and decided to come check them out in person.”
“Oh dear,” said Jim. “Wayne, what have you done?”
“It’s great,” Wayne said in his own natural exuberance. “Dr. Allen wants to join the cast for our England tour. She’s been there a lot and could help us find our way around.”
“Easy, Mr. Hamel,” said Rebecca calming him down. “Mr. Richards, I just came over to find out if there might be a way to help you out. The Lake District is a favorite spot of mine and I would love to visit it again this summer.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Jim. “Pull up a chair. Have you met everyone here? This is Lena Bowen, my assistant director. Glenn Little, here. Our own resident English expert, Judith Harmon…” For Rebecca, the other three introductions slid past without acknowledgment. Judith Harmon leaned forward from behind Glenn’s bulky frame. She was short with closely cut blonde hair. She was compact and looked tightly wound. Her moment of doubt was erased by the woman’s own pugnacious smile. Rebecca was facing a child of Cobhan Carles.
“Miss Harmon, was it?” she asked. “You’re from England?”
“Yes, Dr. Allen,” the woman responded. “I believe we’ve met.”
“Well,” said Jim. “Tell me about your interest in traveling with us. Have you ever been on stage?” The instant of private communication was broken and the group was plunged into conversation over the coming trip to England. By the time they broke up at midnight, Rebecca Allen had been assigned a role in the troupe and was helping plan the details. As they prepared to leave, Rebecca saw Judith step toward the restrooms and excused herself to follow.
Judith was waiting when Rebecca came through the door.
“Merry meet, sister,” Rebecca said calmly.
“Why?” Judith demanded, ignoring the common greeting. “Why are you getting involved with the theatre? And with Wayne?”
“Because it would be almost impossible to miss your group when I go back for Litha,” answered Rebecca. “It’s far better than trying to explain why I’m there.”
“Litha. Are you so close already?” the girl asked.
“Iäpetus came to me today.”
“I’ll bet that surprised the old man,” Judith said. “Sorry. I know he’s some special person to you. I’ve only met him once.”
“Iäpetus would have come anyway. Doc is dying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We know where Enceladus is. As for Creüs… Litha was my limit, thanks to you, Swordmaster. If I can’t raise the power to recreate him, I’ll have to leave the circle.”
“Recreate? Didn’t any of the messages soak in?” Judith asked hotly.
“You? All the time it was you!” Rebecca nearly shouted in return. It was beginning to make sense now. “Are you trying to scare me off the challenge? Are you so afraid I might find the power to complete the task?”
“You don’t understand,” Judith began.
“Oh, I believe I do,” Rebecca cut her off. “I have a hat that must belong to you. I can’t believe that you’d be so callous as to lead on another person and get him to write fraudulent research to meet your ends.”
“There are more important things at risk,” Judith started again. “I didn’t challenge you to have you throw away your life and others with you.”
“You will have to do better than that to scare me away from the challenge now.”
“If I wanted to stop you,” Judith whispered. “I would do it. I have the power. And I’m not afraid to use it.”
Judith stepped close to her and Rebecca’s hand went automatically to her knife. But Judith pulled Rebecca’s face to hers and kissed her. She brooked no protestation, but pressed her tongue into Rebecca’s mouth and brought her left hand to Rebecca’s breast. The circle. The celebrant. The one who lent her so much power.
“Merry part, sister,” Judith whispered as she slipped out the door.
“Oh shit!” Rebecca murmured as she leaned back against the sink. She hadn’t handled that very well. In fact, she hadn’t done the handling at all. Her breast still tingled and she could feel the energy coursing through her body, down to her core.
Very well. If Judith was preparing Wayne for a position in the coven, she must have a reason. Rebecca would not hinder her. If the opportunity arose, she’d help. But she hoped Creüs would simply come to her. Deep inside she was frightened.
Comments
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