

Seduction of the Spirit

By

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2017

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

Prologue

I just entered the Gulf Stream. It's a huge swath of deep indigo that runs from the south Atlantic up the east coast and finally meets the Labrador Current off North Carolina. The dial on my watch glows in a yellow moon that is full and vibrant. It's midnight. The phosphorous gleams like magic dust in the bow wake. KAMALA, nee EXCALIBUR, my graceful and sturdy O'Day 31, clips through the dark seas under a full main and reefed genoa, the southeast wind blows 10-12 knots off of the starboard quarter. I am making a steady nine knots. I left Key West, the perfect hideout for burned out sailors, reformed pirates, and misfits of all descriptions, before sunset. I'm on my way to meet Sunny in Marsh Harbour in the Abacos, the northern star of the Bahamian island nation. I am alone. The gentle swells caressing the hull and the breeze whispering in the canvas infuse me with a balm like that from the ancient land of Gilead. It should heal.

Yet I am haunted. There is a howling in me that cannot be silenced. An abyss that is fathomless. I am confused and tormented. The death . . . almost four years ago. The murder of the Perfect Man, one who contained all of the things that make a man a god. And those that ultimately consign his fitful soul to the bowels of hell for an eternity.

This is a book that writes itself. I call it that, but it is really an interior dialogue . . . an investigation into myself . . . a feeble attempt to create some order out of black chaos. The will is not even mine. I don't know what else to do but tell the tale . . . let the sorcery weave its wicked enchantment. It will torment me until I set the words on the page. Even then, I don't expect any peace, or resolution.

There is a story. You probably won't believe it, but that choice is yours. Many of the facts cannot be verified. It certainly borders on the bizarre. I've taken more liberties than I should have . . . tried to recall, or create what might border on truth. The hell with it. Call it poetic license or lies . . . whatever suits you. I've changed all of the names except mine, to protect those who need protection. Most of us long to bury our demons so we can lead normal lives . . . love and be loved, forgive or be forgiven, work in some palatable way, be respected . . . even admired. That's the paradigm we all hope for, but it is elusive, a path fraught with unexpected detours and obstacles. The best we can hope for is some proximity to a "meaning", and even that is difficult to define.

The truth of existence is more complicated . . . more confusing. Most of us exist in the gray twilight, essentially alone. Martin did. His life was a series of contradictions. It is probably foolish to try to reconcile them in some way. But I must. His daily journal only made it worse. This is a meager attempt to sort through the morass. Read on, if you will. Forgive me for the "liberties" I take. Then decide for yourself.
Chapter One

I'm not sure why she agreed to talk to me. It was over everywhere . . . except in my mind. I assured her that her identity would never be revealed or that the tale she told would never be traced to her. I wasn't sure where to start, but something that stuck led me to her. She knew things I had to know. She'd been a student in an English Lit class I was teaching at the university. She'd come to my office during consultation hours several times. We talked about books, poems, and other things that got more personal. She was always curious and always sensuous. It flowed through deep mahogany eyes and her boyish body. Her quiet voice and the scent that filled my office when she entered served as insistent reminders. I was her professor and no longer a hormonal 19 year old boy. She was definitely off-limits.

I'll call her Eleisha. It suits her. Like the name, she had a rhythm and a mysterious musical quality embedded in a package that exuded innocent femininity. She had taken my "Women in Shakespeare" class. A good student, enthusiastic and active, the kind that makes teaching a joy rather than a burden. Her skin was the color of burnished olives, with more than few a freckles embedded in the glow. Small breasts in firm rounds, but hips with generous curves, and a sumptuous butt that no one of the male gender could miss. Her auburn hair hung over her shoulders, teasing its way just below her nipples. The simple sexuality burst out of her like a rose bud struggling to bloom.

I think the key came late one afternoon when she asked me about Martin. He was still alive then. I'm not sure what it was, perhaps the way she leaned forward . . . a glint in her eyes, like a lioness feigning the casual, but intent on tracking her prey . . . patient, yet eager. It settled into my subconscious and took root. I wrestled with it for months, questioning the truth of my own observations. But each time I saw her, it locked itself in my perception. After his death . . . call it murder if you like . . . I did a mental dance that tortured and vexed me. I finally decided that my only escape was in asking.

We met in a coffee shop off campus where we were unlikely to have a chance encounter with another student or a member of the faculty. I told her I was working on a book about the case. I knew that was just enough bait to get her to see me. She might know nothing, but if she did have some factual information or some insight, I wanted it. Would she tell me? Those were only two of the questions I wasn't sure she'd answer.

I arrived a bit early and took a table in the corner with chairs that faced away from the entrance. She came in and scanned the shop warily. I waved. She glided over and sat down. Latte for her and strong, black coffee for me. I was prepared for some casual conversation to get her to open up, but it wasn't necessary. She was ready. The words came quickly, but not without thought.

"I know how you are, Dr. Fleming. You don't miss anything . . . certainly not the truth. I admit I had this monstrous crush on Dr. Sorcee. You're always so cool, but you knew. Call it school-girl stuff or whatever you want, the man just made me crazy. I used to watch him in class. His voice was full and deep. He sounded like a Greek god come down from Olympus to share knowledge, and even wisdom with the young worshippers. I always had my notebook open and my pencil in hand. I was taking notes, but the margins of my mind were tracking his every move."

She hesitated and looked down at her hands. Her face flushed and she shook her head. Then she stared into my eyes with a look that asked whether she'd already said too much.

"It's okay, Eleisha. You're safe," I said quietly.

I placed my hand carefully on the table. My palm was open in a light entreaty. I struggled to be sincere, but non-threatening.

Perhaps youthful trust and a desire to speak her truth would carry her. Again she looked down at her hands, then interlaced her finger to stifle a slight tremor. She pretended to check her nails. Then a sigh escaped from within her breast, and a deep breath signaled resignation as much as anything else. She probed my eyes once more, then nodded reluctantly.

"If you say so, Doc," she whispered.

"I never had too many boyfriends, and mostly they just wanted to get in my pants. I know I'm not what the guys call "hot", but some boys liked me. They'd do stuff to get my attention. I'm with Bobby now . . . friends more than anything else . . . and he's kind of sweet in his own way. He gives me some things I need. Anyway, it's just not that special. Somehow he always seems far away, caught up in that frat stuff or sports. Dr. Sorcee was something else. Part of it was because he was always ready to listen. Those deep blue eyes, the way that blond strand fell over his forehead, the kindness that he showed . . . not just to me, but to all of his students . . . his gentle hands. It just rocked me. It sorta got inside me and swelled. I fantasized about him. I mean I knew he was married and all that. Strictly off-base. But I couldn't make it go away. I just tried not to be too obvious."

I took a sip of the inky coffee. The dark caffeine gave me a momentary jolt. I rubbed my chin and waited. She looked at me again and narrowed her eyes. They drilled me with laser intensity.

"Can I really trust you, Doc . . . can I? The truth is I'm scared. What's with this 'book' stuff? You're not using me, are you? You wouldn't do that, would you? Some creeps would. This is different. Right?"

"It is different, Eleisha. To be honest, I've got my own demons . . . my own guilt. I won't curse you with that. But I'm trying to find a zone where there is some comfort. He was my friend. I wanted it to last a long time. I trusted him and admired him. It's a very personal loss. I guess I'm seeking some sort of relief . . . call it closure . . . some way to make sense out of something that defies reason. It taxes me at a primal level . . . imprisons me, and I can't seem to escape."

I had no idea whether that mea culpa would reassure her. Perhaps it was just my own self-deception, but it was all I had. I shook my head and leaned back in my chair. I raised my hands, palms up.

"Go if you need to. I'll understand. I can make out."

She bit her lip and took another deep breath.

"Okay," she said, "I'm going to give it to you straight. I'm not even sure why, but please Doc, don't hurt me . . ."

I peered deep into her brown eyes and shook my head slowly.

"I won't, Eleisha."

"Okay . . . Darcy, my roommate, was out of town, gone home for the weekend to see her parents. I was in my room at the dorm alone. Wasn't worried, what with the campus cops and my homies on either side. I had been in Sorcee's "Arthur, the Legend" class that morning and the wheels were grinding overtime. Lancelot, Guinevere, their affair. It was charging through my mind. I sat down for a cigarette. We're not supposed to smoke in the dorms, but all the girls do it. Then I decided I didn't really want it. Just tired, I guess. I slipped my jeans off my legs and kicked them into the pile of dirty laundry. Tomorrow, I thought. I looked over at the photo of Bobby on my bureau. He's good looking to the max, but something's just not there. I mean, there's stuff he just doesn't know about women. I wanted to think about him and feel all warm and sexy, but it just wasn't happening. I sat on the bed in my panties. I unhooked my bra and slipped into a tee-top I usually sleep in."

She stopped again. I waited. She pursed her lips and seemed to bite her tongue.

"I gotta tell you, Doc. I'm no slut. I know what the other girls do. That's okay . . . that's them. I don't screw anything in pants like some of 'em. So it was a dream, that's all. I've told myself that a hundred times. Nothing real. I never even saw him outside the classroom. You want to know? Okay, I've decided I trust you. You're gonna hear it like I felt it, so don't go Jerry Falwell on me. Sorry, no holds barred."

I gave her the best look of assurance in my repertoire and nodded. I wanted to say it was okay, but I just waited. After a long silence, she began.

"I drifted off to sleep on my side, my hands between my thighs like I always do. I don't know how long I lay there. But the mist came, like the fog over a pond on a wet morning, except it was warm. It kinda hovered, like it was watching, almost admiring, or trying to figure something out. It grew thicker, but slowly it began to take on a shape . . . like a man or something. The arms, then the legs, the torso began to fill out. I couldn't see the face, but I knew. I'm telling you . . . I knew.

He was before me. Naked. I could see the thing between his legs pulsing. It was almost like a longing . . . The thing hesitated, like it was waiting for me to respond. I did. I turned on my back. The hands reached for me. The fingers ran up and down my legs. They brushed lightly, then began to knead the flesh of my thighs. It was hot between my legs. I could feel the silk begin to flow like steaming lava. There was a scent in the room . . . something earthy and urgent. I spread my knees. Now I could see it, hard and throbbing, waiting to make contact. Still there was no face. But like I said . . . I knew."

She stopped for a moment, looked down at the hands in her lap. Then she took a sip of the latte. She bit her lower lip and ran her tongue between her teeth. She seemed to shudder, as if to wait for the shame to overtake her.

I think she expected me to be shocked. Perhaps I was . . . but I tried to bury it in my best professional manner. Still, the intensity of her words and the look on her face riveted me. She'd given herself up, and there was no going back. I wanted to hear more, but then maybe I didn't . . . maybe I shouldn't know. Too late. It was mine, no matter the hurt, if it should even exist . . . or the consequences that might ensue. She ran her fingers through the lush auburn locks and went on.

"It eased into me, but it wasn't flesh. It was more like a spirit. I could feel it like hot iron, but at the same time it caressed me from the inside, hot, but somehow soft. I raised my body and it pumped into my entire being like a warm solid thing. Then the rhythm increased. It was slow at first, but it grew desperate and constant, kneading me up until I exploded, jerking and heaving. I was full of burning fluid. There was a long moment of sheer ecstasy. Then the thing withdrew and was gone. No man, no mist. Just the void it had left. When I woke the next morning, I had no memory of the dream. It was weird. My panties were on the floor and there was something wet and sticky between my legs. I felt fabulous, like I'd been away and just returned from a walk in a quiet field of fresh grass and wildflowers. I didn't understand. I didn't know then. I think I know now."

She grew quiet. I said nothing.

"God . . . I need to shut up. Too much . . . but I've been honest with you, Doc. Don't do anything bad to me. And don't call me again."

She was gone before I could open my mouth. The waitress came by and refilled my cup. I stared at the black liquid and replayed the scene in my mind. The dark eyes, the supple body, the sheer intensity. Still, I was sure it was only a young girl's wet dream. Nothing more. I admit I was titillated by the whole thing. It rang in my loins and my being. It was difficult, but it finally faded. Initially I chided myself to dismiss it. Impressionable student. The hot rush of youth. The crush. Raging hormones . . . certainly nothing else.

I was wrong . . . very wrong.

Chapter Two

The turning point was when I found Martin's journal. His wife, Helen, had asked me to help clean out his office. Maybe something within her whispered there were things she didn't want to know. The document was in the bottom of a desk drawer in his office. It was bound in worn brown leather like the diaries of old. I held it gingerly, almost feeling the warmth that always resided in his hands, yet uncertain what lay within . . . the explorations, even revelations, of a great man or the secrets of one who, like the rest of us, was only human. This was a private reserve, not easily violated. I already knew he had always recorded events and his thoughts on a daily basis. He said it helped him maintain a perspective, even offered insight into those things that seemed important, and often were. What right had I to disturb the soul of a dead man? I stared at it for a moment, wondering whether I should enter his realm, read his words, even those of one who had been my closest friend. I riffled the pages. The paper was faded, replete with coffee stains, the smudges of dirty fingerprints, even a spot of blood here and there. Most of it was dull . . . petty concerns and observations, the ruminations of a college professor approaching middle age. But parts of it revealed a man I didn't know . . . one I didn't even know existed. All of us harbor dark spaces within us . . . places where intruders are forbidden. There are unspoken threats, simple malevolence . . . sometimes even violence. This is a darkness we should fear. There is ample reason.

Martin – The Journal

"They were all listening to me. I am only the interpreter, but I had them. That sounds like hubris, and perhaps it is. Nevertheless, it's the magic, the timeless tale of lust, desire, power . . . the core of our beings . . . that consumes them. I watched their faces, hoping they could see the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Some understand in a primal way, but still, they must be told. There is strength and goodness in these young beings. It is not a weakness that must be hidden away. But the evil must also be recognized . . . be set apart, and sheathed, if not silenced. It's a part of their humanity. To submit to it . . . to make one a sacrifice to the gods of self-interest and 'success' is the ultimate act of heresy.

It's all in the Legend. King Arthur would die in battle the next day. It had been revealed to him in a vision. He had united the kingdom, sent the knights to seek the Holy Grail, the cup that graced the lips of Christ, tried to control the violence by holding jousting tournaments, testing battle skills that he hoped would never need to be utilized. He'd done it all just as the sorcerer Merlin had intended. But none of it mattered unless man was inherently decent. If his fundamental nature was evil, violence and destruction would determine his destiny. Man would limp and crawl in the filth, wallow in those denizens with the demons. All of the glory of Camelot was an illusion. Arthur had failed. But God help us, Arthur must not fail. If he does, there is only chaos and darkness. It's always there lurking . . . lusting for our bodies, and our souls. It's in all of us. God knows it's in me.

A macho fantasy, maybe. Being a boxer, a sort of gladiator, a Spartacus defending some twisted sense of right. It was only later that I realized those were the delusions of a boy who had seen too many John Wayne movies . . . the ones where the bad guys always have black mustaches and the good guys always win.

It was an amateur bout. Three rounds. Me versus Foster. One difference. He was my friend. We'd done the late night bullshit sessions in the dorm, debating politics, religion, and the meaning of existence. We'd shot eight-ball at the rec center and downed more than a few beers at the Swiss Chalet. He was clever, and just plain funny. I trusted him in my way, and valued his company. He was well liked around campus. He knew when to have fun and when to hit the books.

It was an intramural match, all in the name of physical fitness and sportsmanship. It masqueraded as the benign. But I can still see the red liquid exploding from his nose, painting his swollen lip. Nevertheless I kept pounding. It was power, wanton destruction . . . and it was mine. I bathed in his blood, took glory in it. The smack of the gloves on the wet flesh still echoes in my ears as his face becomes a crimson reflection running and exploding in a fun house mirror.

The coach should have stopped the bout. But what about me? Was this carnage somehow required? Why couldn't I see what I was doing . . . control the rage, the desire to hurt another so badly that he couldn't stand . . . couldn't rise to the height that a man should be, a colossus of dignity and defiance. I watched him get up and stumble to his knees. I stood ready to deliver another killing blow, a sickly sense of triumph rising in me like a foul disease."

The journal crawled in my hands. This was not the man I knew. Certainly he was a warrior, but a warrior for kindness and peace. Suddenly the page was something filthy, infected with a type of plague. I halted for a moment and clutched the notebook. My mind twisted. After all, the acts of a boy shape and describe what a man becomes. We learn. Still I wanted to take Martin's hand and pull him to a place where he was safe from himself. Reluctantly, I turned the page.

My chaos . . . my darkness . . . I wanted to believe that it didn't exist.

It was 1968. Viet Nam was raging. The My Lai Massacre had made me nauseous. Over three hundred civilians, men, women, and children, mostly unarmed, had died at the hands of American troops. For most, their only sin had been the color of their skin. Women were gang-raped. Bodies were mutilated. Our government had assured us we were the "Good Guys". Now it was hard to believe. How could we be such fools? Why couldn't people understand? No one wins a war.

But in truth, mine was an exercise in denial. Like all things, the darkness might fade. But I learned as we all must. It doesn't go away. We try to hide it, find some remote spot in ourselves where it can be caged. But the beast is patient. It lurks in the shadows until the time is right. Then it springs forward with menacing claws and teeth. The violence becomes its own excuse for existence. It taunts us until it is released, then it soothes after the blood runs in the gutters of our beings . . . draining us of that which is human . . . perhaps fulfilling a hellish destiny . . . reaffirming that we are all simply animals who pound our chests and scream that we are civilized . . . somehow better than the beasts . . . but . . . ?"

I read these . . . my own words. They vex me. They torment me. Have I become some sort of dystopian fool . . . a court jester who can only harbor the dreams of a delusional idiot, or proclaim a vision of descent and doom for all of mankind. I wish I knew. I look to the eager young faces sitting before me. I wish them something hopeful . . . something brighter . . . something that will enforce and inspire their march to blessed things within them . . . a reverence for a greater good. But the tale must be told in its entirety. The cancer is always within us.

It was Morgan Le Fey. She was the consuming darkness as Arthur struggled for the light. She was the half-sister, the whore, the witch, the agent of evil. She used the Spell of Making to induce Arthur to commit incest. The fruit of their unholy union was Mordred, Arthur's bastard son. She poisoned him with her hatred and together they plotted against the Roundtable, hoping to destroy the chivalry and the faith that drove it. They lurked in the twilight, whispering their poisonous messages, eating away at the corners, eager to use The Spell . . . feeding the fear and the weakness that lies at the center of man's heart.

Arthur fought. Honor, loyalty, kindness . . . those were his weapons. He fought as we all fight, but the black bitch resides within us, constantly spinning her dark web of lies and lust.

I watch my acolytes as they weigh the words, wading through their own responses and interpretations. I realize I cannot control or predict, but it must not be fruitless. Perhaps I'm a simple fool. But I must believe that the young ones can understand. That Arthur can speak to them. Is it merely an act of pride to think that I can assume the mantle of his translator? That I can interpret the Legend so that Arthur convinces any of them to reject the dark side of their nature for only a moment? If so, I can call myself teacher, even mentor. There is nothing else.

Thank God for Helen. She makes me better. We spent the weekend on the boat. Damned, even after ten years of marriage, that woman is still fun. I could run my hands through that lush blond hair for an eternity. I forget how lucky I am. I need to tell her more often.

I'm glad she is working on her master's thesis. She's like a girl with her first love. I wish she'd chosen an easier topic, but it's her show. Classy, intelligent. She's up to it. She probably won't let me help her, but I will offer."

These are the words of the man that was my friend.
Chapter Three

I knew Helen well. Tall, maybe 5'10", eyes of quiet denim and hair like soft corn silk. She never walked with us simple mortals. She seemed to float gracefully on a bed of dignity and kindness. Martin's hand was always at her back, not directing, but reassuring her that she was loved. I'd watched her touch his face lightly, wearing that sweet quiet smile that caressed him a hundred times. Her voice was gentle, but it held a sense of vibrancy and sensuality that commanded attention. They were a study in all that is good between man and woman, but all things risk distortion as life's natural circumstances march in their inexorable fashion.

Helen was indisputably Martin's wife, but she and I were undoubtedly friends. There was often an unspoken truth between us. I knew she liked me, but it was more than that. She valued me. She trusted me. We were all confederates, almost a nation of three . . . she, Martin, and I . . . a sort of country unto ourselves. I respected it and coveted it with what I guess could only be called devotion, or perhaps more accurately, love. We shared our passions, our disappointments, and those many things which create an irrevocable bond.

We all knew of Martin's obsession with the Arthurian Legend. There was something in the eternal battle between good and evil that had fascinated scholars for centuries, but for him it was more than a preoccupation. It drove him . . . even consumed him, but we all thought it engaging and rather harmless. God will that it had been so.

Every few weeks Martin and I would venture down to Lake Norman and spend an evening on his boat, immerse ourselves in the sunset, drink cold beer, and ruminate on the state of education, the ills of society, and any other miscellaneous detritus that might solve the world's problems.

Her name was EXCALIBUR, after the immortal sword from the stone that made Arthur invincible in battle. She was the O'Day 31 that became mine. After the will I renamed her KAMALA after the courtesan from Herman Hesse's novel, SIDDARTHA. Kamala had taught the young avatar the art of manners and the art of love. The sloop was graceful, quick, and sure-handed in the worst kind of weather. On cool nights we'd light the teak interior with the warmth of the kerosene lamp and just settle in. Those nights had become more frequent as Helen sank deeper into her thesis.

Martin always kept the boat in pristine condition. Her topsides waxed, and the teak reflecting the golden mirror of many coats of varnish. She was his pride, and his sanctuary. On the bulkhead was an etching of the Sirens of legend luring Odysseus' crew onto the rocks with their songs of love and ultimate destruction. He'd gotten it in a small shop in Newport when he and Helen had chartered to sail the Elizabeth Islands and the beauty of the Vineyard Sound. Below it was a copper relief of a sailor with a knife between his teeth. His niece had done it at day camp many years ago. It was gift he treasured.

To starboard was a needlepoint of John Masefield's "Sea Fever", a gift from cruising friends from Norfolk. When the stress of teaching or the pressure of simple everyday existence became overwhelming, he'd huddle below with a book and a hearty belt of Jameson fine Irish whiskey. He'd salve his wounds and prepare to fight another day, much like his hero and mentor, the doomed King Arthur. It was simple. There were some torments, but the boat was his refuge, and it burned away the wounds of the day's skirmishes. It soothed . . . even healed . . . if that blessing can be bestowed.

It was a privilege and an honor to be aboard on some of those nights. We exchanged old "war stories" and talked of things that mattered . . . at least to us. It was joy . . . and therapy. But change is the only constant. Sometimes it creeps upon you like a cat at dusk. At others, it explodes like the summer sun on the horizon. This was both. His words turned to frustration . . . even bitterness.

"God knows I love that woman. But the thesis is all she talks about. The research, the statistics, the formulation of the results. It's like we hardly know each other. We don't make love. We don't even touch. And of course, she is Helen . . . with that drive and determination that doesn't end. I want her to finish, get her master's and know that sense of success and accomplishment that she deserves. But for now, she's a stranger in our own house."

I began to hear different permutations of those same words time and again. On the few occasions I saw Helen, I knew what he meant. I had seen her brush the hair off of his forehead, plant a light kiss on his cheek, embrace him with that loving smile a thousand times. Warm, welcoming, forgiving . . . with him . . . and with me. Now it was something else . . . all business, ultimately tinged with boredom. No intimacy, no laughter. No real Helen.

I guess that's what led to Paula.

Chapter Four

I saw them the first time in the university cafeteria. We're a small school that tosses the word "family" around casually. It's not unusual to see faculty and students having lunch together. I walked up with my tray in hand and asked to join them. Martin smiled and nodded, but Paula dropped her head for just a moment. In that instant she made me feel like an intruder. But I guess I just ignored it and sat down.

"T.K., this is Paula Estes. She's a budding medieval scholar." he said and grinned. "You just interrupted a scintillating discussion of "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight."

We all laughed politely.

She wasn't a classic beauty, but her thick red glistened like burnished copper and her deep emerald eyes flashed whenever she focused on him. Sheer intensity pervaded the scene like a terminal disease.

"It's an enchantment," she said, "but only because of Gawain's honor and devotion to his word. It's the whole meaning of the Roundtable. Everything Arthur stood for and lived, the good, the glory, the nobility of man, perhaps even his ultimate failure."

"Put that in your research paper," Martin said, "it's poetic."

She beamed. A slight blush appeared on her ivory cheeks. Then she looked at Martin like a child finally sure of the love and approval of a favorite uncle . . . and maybe more. I took one more bite of my sandwich, pretending to be in a hurry.

"Well," I said, finishing my tea, "back to the salt mines. Ungraded essays and all that."

She offered her hand. I took it. Warm velvet with a hint of caress. I watched them as I went to leave my tray. She had leaned into the table, then placed her hand so that it was within easy reach of Martin. The fingers were extended, the palm open as if to request the slightest of touches. The image fixed in my mind. It was tender, even inviting. I'm not quite sure I recognized the significance of it at the time, but that came later.

The weather had gone cold by late November. The grass had lost its vibrant hues and everything living had taken on shades of gray. The bare limbs of the trees beckoned like aged crones luring us into the twilight. The wind was steady from the northeast, stripping the final remnants of the gray leaves from the skeletal branches. It all predicted a long and harsh winter. The setting was in some ways a dark preview, but still I couldn't fathom what was to come.

Martin and I continued to go to EXCALIBUR most weekends. Helen was still immersed in her thesis and their relationship was withering like those trees. It was the Saturday before Thanksgiving. We had been out for a frigid sail and were anchored in a quiet cove on the north end of the lake. The propane heater had warmed up the boat nicely and we were already into our cups. A shot of Jameson on top of the several beers. We convinced ourselves it was self-defense, but the truth was "boys behaving badly", and having a damned good time of it.

Then Martin grew unusually silent. His brow ran in furrows and the blood drained out of his face. I waited. At first I thought it was the booze. But there was more. I knew he would speak sooner or later . . . and I would listen. I felt a wave of uneasiness . . . perhaps even dread . . . but I wasn't really sure why. Nevertheless, something told me to steel myself. I hoped for the familiar complaints about unmotivated students, the intransigence of the administration or perhaps another woeful tale of Helen's neglect.

"T.K., I guess I've got to get this off my chest and you're the only one I can trust. I don't want to burden you, but I guess I have to. It's about Paula . . ."

When he said the name, a jagged splinter drove into my spine. I didn't want to know, but I did. I had buried it in the depths of my consciousness, but like a serpent coiled to strike, it was only a matter of time before the fangs sank into my flesh, and the poison seeped into my life's blood.

"I've been seeing her . . . I mean after school. At night. We've . . . "

"Wait a minute, Martin. Are you sure you want to tell me this? You know how I feel about Helen. She's a wonderful woman . . . perhaps a bit distracted right now, but she'll get over it when the thesis is finished. I know it's a bad time for the two of you, but perhaps some patience."

"I'm afraid I'm all out of patience, T.K. I know you love Helen. I used to think I did, too. But now I'm not sure. She's a ghost. She haunts me, haunts our home. I hear her. She comes and goes. I see her, but she's not really there. Like you, I thought for a long time it was just the thesis, but it's more . . . or maybe it's less. Too much time. Too long since we've touched, too long since we've looked into each other's eyes. Too long since we've really communicated in the way that a man and his wife should. I miss her, but she's gone and I don't expect it to change. I guess I've moved on . . . found something else."

A sense of horror came over me. I wanted to insist. Don't go on. Don't tell me. Don't include me in this hideous harm that is slithering up on all of us. But I hesitated, tried to force the lump back into my throat. He was right about one thing, I was the only one he could trust. He was my friend. It was my duty to listen, to let him bleed the ugly truth over my hands and into my heart. Maybe talking about it would bring him to some sort of catharsis . . . even peace. I longed to perform some sort of exorcism, but sometimes the demons will have their way. I didn't know which it would be.

"I know you've seen us together. I've watched you watch. I didn't mean for it to happen. Believe it or not, I tried desperately to beat it into submission. If she had suddenly vanished, transferred to another school, had a family emergency that took her home, just decided that I was too old or too married, I might have made it. But it didn't happen . . . and she was there to listen, to understand, to comfort me with those eyes and those supple fingers."

"Martin, we've all had students that attracted us. The youth, the energy, simple sex appeal. We're not immune. We are, after all, men. Young girls have crushes. But the fever cools. It grows stale. It all passes. Then we realize how foolish we've been. We scold ourselves and say it won't happen again. Sometimes it does. It's a natural thing and an ongoing hazard of the profession. A little time . . . and a little restraint. If we can wait, then it goes."

He looked at me and took another sip of the Irish. He studied my face for a moment searching for God knows what. I don't know if he found it, but he shook his head and went on.

"I guess it's too late for that . . . I mean for it to disappear. I actually believe Helen will understand . . . maybe even welcome it. She seems so miserable. She deserves something better . . . at least better than me. Of course, the scandal will be hellish. I'm sure I'll have to give up my position at the U. But I can find something else. Start all over . . . and at least I'll have Paula."

I said nothing. I didn't want to believe it, but it was slowly sinking in. Say he was a fool, a liar, a violator of all the things that he pretended to hold sacred, but I couldn't deny that he seemed a man in love. I didn't know whether that was the truth, but it made no difference. He believed it and that was what mattered.

"So you are going to leave Helen?" The words crawled out of my mouth.

"Yes. Soon . . . before Christmas. That way I can wrap up my classes at the end of the semester and quietly disappear."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. Farther south. Maybe the west coast. Someplace where the ocean kisses the shore and the flowers bloom the year round."

"My God, Martin. I'm your friend. Forgive me, but I have to speak. You sound like a lovesick teenager in heat. Take some time. Let it be a gift to yourself . . . to Helen . . . even to Paula. She's young. Give her time to explore . . . to grow. Let her become a woman. Think about what you're throwing away."

"I have."

He looked at me again, then turned away. The conversation was over.

Chapter Five

I carried that cross home. It was leaden and cruel. It crushed me. I was powerless. I tried to scourge my mind for a response . . . anything that might turn him around, see the folly of his intentions, or at least postpone what might be inevitable. But there was nothing . . . nothing I could do but wait. I knew him too well. Once he made up his mind, he was the proverbial unconquerable force pitted against the immovable object. To wish for something that would shake him at the very root was a fool's errand. I could only hope that no harm would come to him, to Helen, or to the girl, but I doubted that some twisted epiphany existed, something that would position him as a white knight who save both body and soul.

I saw them together a few times, leaning into each other without a touch. Talking quietly, careful not to expose themselves to any obvious scrutiny. I imagined them clinging to each other in the night, breathing quietly, the contact of warm skin and the scent of lovers . . . lost in guilty rapture.

In the meantime, Martin avoided me. When I did see him in the hall or the cafeteria, he offered a reluctant hello and turned his gaze immediately. He didn't want to face me, but I wondered if it was himself he feared. There were no trips to the lake, not even any casual conversation.

I probably sound like a self-absorbed child, but it hurt me. I desperately wanted to tell him what he wanted to hear . . . that he was a hero, a martyr to love. That it was okay to throw away two lives . . . both his and Helen's . . . for something pure and beautiful . . . for a glimpse of heaven. But I couldn't do it. It was more a glimpse of hell. No matter how I tried to rationalize my feelings, I was cursed. There was no doubt. Yes, it was judgmental, but I couldn't convince myself that I had earned that right. I tried telling myself it was none of my business . . . to leave it alone. But I couldn't. I cared too much for these people. I simply couldn't force those feelings into any cage or recess within my consciousness.

I was violating a creed I had held sacred since my youth. "Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone", and God knows, I had my share of transgressions. Perhaps even worse, it bordered on betrayal of a man I held closer than a brother.

It was early afternoon the first week in December. I was in my office catching up on some essays for class. I heard a light knock on the door. Consultation hours weren't until three. Nevertheless, I said, "Come in".

She looked different and instantly I realized I had been wrong. Maybe it was a trick of the light or the simple fact that her ripe femininity was so close, but she really was quite lovely. She wore tight jeans and a silky turquoise top that shimmered and draped gracefully over pert breasts. Her lips were full and red, the color of blushing roses. Her eyes flashed through long lashes accented by a hint of mascara. They punctuated her ivory face like two precious green stones. A few freckles lay quietly on her cheeks offering a hint of the girl that was within the woman. Two discrete silver hoops hung from her ears. Each bore a design that suggested an Indian motif. A matching band circled the third finger on her left hand. Under her arm was a thick, lush ski jacket that filled out the ensemble. Despite the cold, she wore open toed sandals in a paisley pattern.

"Dr. Fleming, I know you are busy. I hope I'm not bothering you. I finally decided that I ought to see you."

Please, I begged. Leave me out of this hellish loop. A quick vison of Helen flashed through my consciousness. I won't be a confederate, and I mustn't condemn. Leave me, I wanted to say. Let me keep my peaceful illusions. Let me believe in a world that is fair and loving . . . one that embraces what is right and good.

It was no use. She was here. There was no escape, and nothing would relieve me from a presence that weighed on me like a monstrous stone.

"It's good to see you," I lied. "Sit down Paula."

She placed her jacket over the arm of the chair and leaned toward my desk. Up close she was stunning. A kind of electricity bolted from her eyes and the scent of a bittersweet perfume wafted from her pores.

"You're trying to figure out why I'm here," she said a throaty voice that didn't quite seem to fit. "I'm not sure, myself. I know how close you and Martin are . . . I mean like old friends. You know he's been distant and you know why. He tells me everything. I guess I can understand how you feel. And I guess you and his wife are kinda like buddies."

I nodded and waited while I studied those green eyes. There was nothing selfish or malevolent in them. If anything, a kindness and innocence shone with muted glory.

"Yes, she's quite a nice lady." I listened carefully to myself. I wanted to keep any accusations out of my voice.

"Tell me about her. Martin doesn't say much, but I can tell he was very much in love with her at one time."

I was struck. The phrase, "at one time" pierced me like a razor. I didn't want to betray any trusts, and I wasn't sure how to answer. I pictured Helen, the gleam behind her eyes, and heard her soft voice welcoming me as it had so many times before. But I fought it. I needed to keep the scales in balance. Let someone else handle that dirty business of prejudice. I was sure there would be many eager volunteers when the news got around.

Paula went on, her voice small and unsure.

"There's so much I don't know. I do feel guilty. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't know her, but I guess I feel sorry that she's losing a man like him. Maybe I'm hoping you will tell me she's an awful witch, or that she's having an affair. Something that will make it all seem okay. But in my heart I know better. You probably think I'm some sort of misguided child or a lusty nymph looking to score a professor. I didn't plan to love him. I didn't try to tempt him with some secret potion. I didn't wear mini-skirts and cross my legs in the front row of the classroom. It just happened. It was time and space. But now it is a living, breathing thing. It defies destruction."

I sat quietly and let the words sink into my brain. They had a simple elegance and a sincerity that was hard to deny. I didn't want to shake my head, but it happened. I spoke in measured terms.

"It's been a bad time for them. You are something or someone he must have needed. Right . . . wrong? Those are words I wish I understood. Our elders teach us many things they want us to carry into adulthood. They want us to be righteous and upstanding, so they don't tell us about the gray . . . the endless shades that defy simple assignment to one side of the equation or another. It's not for me to decide, but I would say this. There is a lot at stake. His career, their marriage, your future . . . a future which no one can predict. For all of that, make sure you've thought it through and the consequences of your decision are clear."

"I have. I won't hurt him," she whispered. "I almost feel like it's out of my control, something that I can't deny or direct. All I know is that I love him, and he loves me. I hope that's enough. I guess that sets its own course . . . Anyway, now I can see why you are his friend. I don't expect any kind of blessing, but thanks for listening. You're trying to understand, and not to judge. That, in itself, is a comfort. I guess I'm done."

She rose from the chair and drilled her eyes into mine. She offered her hand. I took it and again it enveloped me in warm velvet. I tried to smile, but it wouldn't come. Her perfume hung in the air long after she had left.

Chapter Six

I was surprised when I picked up the phone a couple of weeks later. It was Martin. A road trip. Down to EXCALIBUR on Friday afternoon after classes. Some cold beer and Jameson. Maybe a Saturday sail if the weather wasn't too icy.

A part of me wanted to go. I had missed the boat, the seclusion, the sheer comradery, but a part of me was frightened. I didn't want to know any more than I did. I didn't want to listen. I had no advice, nothing to salve the wounds I knew would come and fester like open sores. I had already begun to grieve over what I could only see as a disaster for people I loved. Still I said yes. We agreed on a time. I packed a few things into my sea bag, much like a man planning to attend the funeral of an old and dear friend.

The sunset was a stunning canvas of gold and crimson with bits of indigo and purple spread throughout. We sat in the cockpit of EXCALIBUR with a gentle breeze washing over us. It was almost a baptismal, a quiet wave. I hoped it would take our sins and bury them in the depths of the dark, blue water . . . speak to us . . . make us clean and show us a path to the light. I guess I wanted a savior, but none came forth. Suddenly I was forced to realize . . . I am still the fool.

The conversation was light, superficial . . . but difficult at times. There was much that we were avoiding. It hung in the air like a foul wraith. Then he turned to the legend. I shouldn't have been surprised.

The tale of King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable has fascinated scholars for years, but for Martin it bordered on fanaticism. It was a touch point, a central focus for all things that happened to him, and ensconced in the concept of his cosmic existence. He was desperate to find a rationale, or perhaps just a lame excuse for the heresy he was about to commit. But it was to be expected. All of his senses, his experience, and the entire story of creation emanated from that eternal battle between good and evil. This was the ultimate filter through which he contemplated and functioned.

"Don't you see, T.K.? It's the paradigm. The seed that destroys from within. Arthur had quelled the mayhem, the disruption that sprung from the inherent violence of his knights, the darkness of man, the need for war and for bloody death. He had sent his knights in search of the Holy Grail, the cup that Jesus Christ drank from at the Last Supper. All chaos had been met and conquered, but always there was Morgana, the mistress of destruction and the purveyor of the final poison that permeated the heart of man. His champion, the man he treasured and believed ultimately loyal, the immaculate Sir Lancelot, was in love with Guinevere, Arthur's wife. The violators fought it with all their beings, much as I have fought this transgression . . . this sin . . . with Paula. But we are fallen, like God's children in the Garden of Eden. We've tasted the fruit of temptation. Now we are naked and vulnerable. Satan knows, and like a Shylock, he extracts his pound of flesh."

The poetry in his words enthralled me. I wanted to deny its sentence for humanity, but the truth of it stood upright, insisted to be heard and finally embraced.

"And what of Helen?" I asked quietly.

He grew silent, took a sip of the hot whiskey, and tried to summon words . . . any words that would explain, if not justify, the things he knew he would soon do.

"I'll always love what she was . . . the things she gave me . . . the strength, the devotion, the laughter. Our hearts can never be separated. But we go on. She will have life. After a while, it will be a good one. A better one than I could give her. A man, a career, fulfillment. Sadness . . . yes. Confusion . . . yes. So it goes. We will both bleed, but the wounds will close, if not heal, and we will both be stronger for it."

I wanted to believe, but my mind and my heart wouldn't allow it. I ached. Still, there was nothing I could say. It was done. He also spoke of Paula.

"This hasn't been easy for her. Her family members are good practicing Catholics from fine old world stock. They revere the Pope and the sacred tenants of the church. Divorce is taboo, not to mention simple infidelity. She fears she will be an outcast among her own people . . . plus, something at the root of her tells her this is fundamentally wrong. A moral outrage. She doesn't say it out loud, but it whispers within her, and her eyes sometimes grow very dark. Perhaps it will fade with time and acceptance. But it is like fighting the phases of the moon . . . the tide. The emotions exist and their force is inexorable."

Then he was quiet. So it was over. The die was cast. The venom would soon flood and destroy what had been a sacred union. I was sick . . . my body, my mind, and my heart, but his words echoed endlessly in a sad refrain.

"So it goes."

Chapter Seven

I probably shouldn't have been surprised when Helen called.

"T.K., Martin is at that conference in Raleigh. I don't want to go behind his back, but I need someone to talk to. Your name kept popping up in my mind. I know how you love Martin, but we've always had our own thing . . . a line of communication that's sort of unspoken. Can you come over for a glass of wine and some conversation? I'm sorry it has to be you, but it does. I know you'll honor my confidence and I hope . . . God, I hope . . . you can maybe even give me some advice."

I told her I'd be there in twenty minutes. I tried to anticipate what she would say . . . and how I would reply without violating Martin. I knew she trusted me. Otherwise, she wouldn't have called. She was right. I would honor her trust. I grasped at a fond wish that somehow I could make it all right, or at least make it better. I didn't really believe it, but that's the fool's game that we all play when we are frightened that all is finally lost.

I knocked on the door, and she answered immediately. Even in her confusion and obvious sadness, she looked like an angel, perhaps a lost one. Still she was beautiful and radiant in her tattered jeans and faded t-shirt featuring a screaming Mick Jagger and semi-comatose Keith Richard hammering the opening riff to "Jumpin' Jack Flash".

She threw her arms around my neck and sobbed like a lost child.

"I think he's seeing someone else. I don't even know him anymore."

I held her for a long moment. Then she took my hand and led me to the kitchen. A glass of blood-red cabernet sat on the table next to a half-empty bottle. She sat across from me and dabbed at her eyes with crumpled tissue. She coughed a couple of times and cleared her throat. Then she forced some words.

"T.K., you know what this is about. Martin talks to you. You probably know more than I do of this whole thing. I'm not asking you to betray any confidences. That's not why I called. Actually, I'm not even sure why I did except that I'm desperate. I'm hurting. I feel like I'm watching the death throes of a thing that was so precious . . . so true . . . so beautiful. We weren't even two . . . we were one . . . my strength . . . his . . . combined to create something invincible . . . something so sacred that it defied destruction. Now it's diseased. I see it fade daily . . . first unraveling at the corners, and now at the heart, eaten away by some sort of invisible and insatiable beast. Please . . . tell me I'm wrong . . . that I'm delusional . . . that he still loves me, and that together we will battle this loathsome creature until it retreats into its darkness, never to return to torment us with doubt, even the taint of hatred of ourselves . . . or each other."

I listened. It was all I could do. I was torn. Helen's cries overwhelmed me. I wanted to be neutral, to avoid being caught in the middle of this morass, but it had happened. My only ally was silence. I begged for time, some sign that it was working. Perhaps she just needed to vent, to find someone who would share the pain . . . someone to let her scream into the blackness of her despair. I stayed for an hour or so. She ranted and shook, dredged the depths of her sorrow and confusion. She finally looked up at me, crystal tears running over her pink cheeks. She was breathing heavily, the muscles in her body quivering. Her lips began to form a word.

"Thanks," she said, nothing more. Then she rose from the wooden chair. I stepped toward the door, stopping to hold her one last time. She sunk into my shoulder like a discarded doll, then kissed me lightly on the cheek. I heard the door latch behind me.

The next two weeks were not good ones. I thought about the two of them constantly. I rarely saw Martin, and when I did, it was from a distance, both literally and figuratively. I knew Paula was going home soon for the holidays. Martin had told me he was leaving Helen, "before Christmas." I agonized and waited.

Thanksgiving was just a week away. Paula left for home. She didn't return. I actually didn't notice, but when I saw Martin at the table alone during lunch I knew something wasn't right. I was reluctant. He had avoided me, consciously, no doubt. I hesitated, then picked up my tray and threaded my way to his table.

"May I sit down?"

He lifted his head. The areas under his eyes were drawn and dark. His entire face seemed gray, drained of the life force that contained the energy and magnetism which enlivened his spirit. He motioned with a tired hand. I sat.

"I've called . . . texted her . . . nothing. She doesn't answer. I don't understand. Something has happened . . . I don't know what. I told you I was leaving Helen before Christmas, but I guess I just haven't had the guts to do it. So am I a coward? And Paula . . . it's like she's disappeared . . . like she existed only in a dream . . . or perhaps a nightmare. T.K., what the hell do I do?"

I had no answer. We prodded the edges of our meals silently. It was more like an obligation than some sort of sustenance. It was tasteless and perfunctory. I tried to manufacture some sort of response, but none was forthcoming, much less adequate. I finally rose from my chair.

"Call, if you need to."

A week later, he did. It was around six and I was unwinding with a double of Evan Williams over the rocks. I had a couple of slices of left-over pizza in the hot oven. I barely recognized the voice, but when I did, it was a like a marlinspike boring into my spine.

"I finally heard from Paula. Helen's at the library. I'm coming by your place . . . be there in ten minutes."

He hung up.

I cut down the heat on the oven and took a belt of the bourbon. I wasn't prepared for this, but I guess in my gut I knew it would come sooner or later. The knock on the door bludgeoned me with a dull thud. He stood there, a wrinkled t-shirt and a blue nylon jacket covering the school's mascot. His jeans were stained. I poured him a couple of ounces of the heavy brown liquid. He liked it neat. He flopped down onto a chair at the kitchen table and reached for something in his pocket. It was an envelope, bent and tattered like a child's discarded comic book. He laid it on the table in front of me.

I didn't want to pick it up . . . didn't want to know what was in it. I wanted him to finish his drink, stuff it back into his jacket and go home, but still I was his friend . . . maybe the only one he had now.

It was addressed to Dr. Martin Sorcee, in care of his box at the university. I pulled the paper out of the envelope. It was pink and permeated with a trace of stale perfume. The handwriting had been scrawled as if the writer had been in a huge hurry to get on paper. It was wrinkled and faded in a few places. That's where the tears had fallen. I pressed them with my fingertips as I read. They almost seemed to burn.

Dear Martin,

This isn't easy for me. I knew something was wrong. I just didn't think it was us. I'm pregnant. No period. Three months. I guess I broke down. I told Mom. She went totally ballistic. I stuttered and wept, but before I knew it, I had given her the whole story. Me and you. I didn't think she'd ever stop crying. "I raised you better than that." She kept saying it over and over. I mean I let you know about my family . . . the strict Catholic stuff that began before I could talk. I want to think she's worried about me, but I think it's more about her friends, and the community. Mom and Dad have always been pillars of the church. Committee chairs, elders, all of that crap. Service . . . devotion . . . they beat it into us as kids.

So they're sending me away . . . the official story is I'm visiting my aunt Sarah in Arizona. It could be worse. She's always been kind of cool. I guess she's going to help me take care of it. Then in the fall, I'll be transferring to college out there . . . probably Arizona State. I'm begging you to understand why I can't come back.

Please believe me. It wasn't that I didn't love you. It's that I loved you too much.

Don't try to contact me again. I'm gone. That's it.

Paula

"She's pregnant. Goddamn it. We thought we were being so careful."

"So what now?" I stammered.

"I'm screaming inside. It's like a bad movie come to life. I've destroyed my marriage for a child's illusions . . . a vision that was so perfect I was willing to forgo those things that make a life. What the hell is wrong with me, T.K.? You tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen. Now I'm entering the foulest denizens of hell, and I made it happen . . . I made it happen . . . with my naïve refusal to confront reality."

The nausea churned. I wanted to bind up his wounds and tell him it would all be okay, but that would be the vilest of lies. This would not pass. His blood would spill for an eternity. But where did that lead him? Could he go back in body and spirit to Helen? Could he salve the wounds? I knew he couldn't ignore it, but could he make it work in some pedestrian way? Helen didn't know, and she didn't need to. It would only cause more pain . . . perhaps more than she or Martin could possibly handle. They needed to endure . . . not just for their survival . . . but to recreate the union which had been so beautiful . . . that sustained them both. I watched him falling apart.

\------------------

Time crawled on. Christmas was closing in on us all. I hadn't talked to Martin in several days. So I was surprised, maybe even shocked, when Helen called invited me for a yuletide dinner. It was the stuff of holiday clichés, turkey and dressing, fresh green beans, red wine, and a magnificent dessert . . . homemade cheesecake and ripe cherries crowned with a swirl of whipped cream. It all seemed so perfect.

But it wasn't the feast that soothed me. Helen was radiant. A red furry cap adorned her head and a pair of plastic elf ears were circled with blond curls. She looked adorable. She pulled me close and whispered, "Thank you for everything." I wasn't sure what "everything" was, but I embraced her and kissed her lightly on a warm blushing cheek.

They laughed . . . just like two silly teenagers. They touched . . . almost fondled each other. It was all somewhat halting . . . at times even reluctant . . . but it was real. A secret smile plunged into my being and exploded. I watched them, and breathed without labor for the first time in months. It was obvious that they liked each other again. I couldn't help wondering if love was being reborn . . . or at least approaching with desire and determination. Maybe it was the brandy after dinner, but the room exuded something warm . . . even a healthy glow that embraced us all, and made our hearts beat together.

Chapter Eight

I thought it was all okay. Perhaps I deluded myself, but it was a comfortable delusion . . . one I wished for fervently . . . to see two people I loved love each other again. A few months and I was beginning to think it would last. Then something strange, but seemingly inconsequential, materialized . . . perhaps a wraith that had been lurking just out of my field of vision.

I first saw it on a Friday evening. Helen was at an education conference in Charlotte, and Martin had invited me for a drink between old and trusted friends. I sank into the cracked leather sofa and jingled the ice cubes in my Evan Williams. The sound was sweet and musical, but the gaze . . . no . . . the glare was not. She pierced me with eyes almost black from above the mantle. Her robe was blood red, tight at the throat, and the painted lips matched. Her slender arm beckoned, long thin fingers outstretched in a foul welcome. "Be one with me," she seemed to whisper. Her smile was an attempt to soothe . . . to inspire trust, but the serpentine twist at the corners of her mouth spoke of a dire warning. It was almost as if she wanted to sink fangs like needles into my flesh and constrict until breath was absent. Only then would she devour.

Martin caught my fixation. He attended it quietly for a moment before he spoke.

"Quite alluring, isn't she? Helen hates her, calls her the Black Bitch. Perhaps she is. You know her. You just don't realize it yet. Take a guess, T.K."

I stared, trying to absorb every small detail . . . the arch of her black eyebrows . . . the curve of her thin pale neck . . . the hypnotic way she lured the viewer into her own dark world.

"It's your Morgana, isn't it Martin? Arthur's nemesis and the embodiment of all that is evil and malevolent."

"Of course, you are quite correct, although your assessment is a bit extreme . . . even melodramatic. After all, T.K., it's only a painting."

He focused on her again with a look that was almost worshipful.

I hoped he was right . . . only a painting.

He went on to tell me how he and Helen had found it at a yard sale. Apparently it had been hidden in pile of junk up in the attic of an ancient house on the south side that had sat and rotted, and was scheduled for demolition.

"It caught my eye before I knew it. She was magnificent in her way. I studied the eyes, waiting for her to step off of the canvas and spirit me into her netherworld. Helen surprised me . . . somehow she seemed intimidated, almost frightened. It's not like her. She looked at me and shook her head vigorously. I think she knew. She pulled my ear to her mouth and spoke just loud enough for me to hear, "Martin, I won't have that Black Bitch in my house." I wanted to say, "Yes, Dear," and leave at that, but while we walked, I kept finding myself circling back to that same spot . . . that same smile, those white hands calling . . . demanding. Helen, my wonderful wife, sucked in a deep breath before she finally relented. She could see I was totally absorbed. I got the damned thing for forty dollars."

Suddenly it flashed in my mind. Judas had betrayed Jesus for forty pieces of silver. It took some effort, but I was able to dismiss it quickly. It was much later when I arrived at the conclusion that it had been more prescient than anything else.

The balance of the evening was pleasant, but uneventful. The next morning we left early for the lake. EXCALIBUR was resplendent, dancing in the morning sun. We sailed. We drank, and spent the night at anchor beneath a canopy of shimmering stars, confident that all was right in our secure little world. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

I learned that from his own words.

\-----------------------------

Martin – The Journal

"Last night I sat in the recliner before the image. Morgan in all of her dark splendor pervading, and presiding over a place she had claimed as her realm. Helen was still on campus and would be very late. I had already had two whiskeys, probably too strong, but the warmth in my belly and the crackling of the fire composed me, transforming what had been a hellish day into an evening of comfort . . . a sense of security in this place that was now home. I drifted into a sort of fog. I had a feeling of substance and transparency in a state which seemed to be fraught with contradiction. Suddenly I heard what seemed to be my own voice. "Oosh ra speelo maaking." I didn't recognize the words, but they continued to spill from my lips, taking on a weird heft, as if they were rife with meaning that was struggling to become clear.

Then the fog became more of a mist, much like the haze that hovers above a pond in the morning as the sun appears on the horizon. But within the haze was a shape. It was indistinct at first, but it began to morph into the form of a woman. She was nude. Her pink, supple body seemed to rest on the surface of the water, undulating with the quiet ripples. I didn't recognize her, yet she was familiar . . . the body, the silken raven hair, the firm nipples erect. Still the face was a blur, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. It's all I remember. When I woke, my robe lay over my thighs, my penis flaccid, but still pulsing, and a puddle of thick, white liquid oozing and running on my belly."

As I read my mind flashed back to Eleisha. Had he conjured another carnal visitation? God forbid. I had convinced myself that it was over, but was it?

\-------------------------------------

I was in the campus book store contemplating the purchase of a volume on Nicomachean ethics that was authored by Aristotle, one of my heroes since high school. My old one was so faded and dog-eared that it cried for replacement. Parts of it focused on a universal goal of all mankind, the desire to be happy, and how it could and could not be achieved. Aristotle posited that there were no "good men", only "men trying to do good." It was a view worth pondering, but the operative word was "good".

Through the shelves, I spotted her. It was an ultimate canvas of irony. Her hair flashed in and out of the small space. I quietly stepped around the corner. The corners of her mouth turned up and she tugged her hair off her forehead.

"Dr. Fleming. How's it going? Seems like months since our coffee date."

"Eleisha, you look wonderful," I stammered . . . and she did. Brown eyes pumping floods of living energy and a smile that made the stacks glow with intensity.

We chatted about nothing for a few moments. School was good and her relationship with Bobby had begun to ripen and become more enticing and fulfilling, much like low hanging fruit ready to explode with its subtle textures and sweet tastes. She stared into me and seemed to read my mind.

"No Doc," she whispered, "no more dreams. I've seen him on campus, but . . . I don't know . . . it's not the same . . . probably just a crush that I've outgrown."

I felt something. It took me a moment to realize it was relief. She put her hand on my shoulder, gave me a quick hug and a playful wave of her fingers before she disappeared.

Chapter Nine

Fleming

I suppose it's time to talk about Trey. I want to be cautious, non-judgmental, but the information really speaks for itself, and, as I said at the beginning of this tome, you, the reader, will make the ultimate appraisal. I can only report, though I must admit, although my instincts and feelings cannot be completely disregarded. Mea culpa . . . I am only a man with a man's flaws in my attempt to consider and reason.

The first time I saw her the muscles in my jaw involuntarily hardened, and my head began to ache almost instantly. It was a familiar setting. Lunch in the university cafeteria with all the mindless chatter and constant parade of youth in a hurry to get to some unknown destination, a place on which few of them could focus, or even identify coherently.

Martin was at our usual table near the window, but he was not alone. I could only see her from the back. Cascades of raven hair flirted with the light, alternately giving way to blue or purple highlights, much like flashes streaking from a sorcerer's wand. When I approached, she turned and smiled. There was something immediately familiar about her, but it was indistinct, merely an impression. I saw hundreds of students each day . . . moving between classes, sitting on the benches in the quad, playing Frisbee on the lawn. I was sure she was one of those. She stood and turned toward me with a kind of feigned deference.

"You must be the illustrious Dr. Fleming. He's told me so much about you."

She nodded toward Martin, then offered her hand. It was warm and elegant.

"I am Trey Fordam."

She was quite beautiful in a dark, exotic way. Her eyes were as black as her hair, complimented with dark eyeliner that just arched from the corners of her lids. There was a touch of brown eyeshadow, delicately, but effectively, highlighting a faintly Eastern look. Her skin was flawless, like a barren, but beautiful desert. There was a hint of blush on her cheeks. Her lips were full and sensuous. She wore no lipstick, but their color was a vibrant pink tinged with an undeniable lifeblood. She almost seemed a porcelain doll, but I had an intimation that there was something strong and fierce . . . a force that lurked beneath the surface silently . . . in readiness . . . even anxious to spring forward and invest itself in what might be a target that was vulnerable, perhaps even helpless in some remote form.

I immediately scolded myself. First impressions, I thought . . . often foolish and quite inaccurate. Relax, fool . . . let her presence and her actions speak to you.

She wore a loose hanging blouse with one graceful shoulder exposed. Around her hips was a pair of faded jeans, stressed and ripped at all of the appropriate places. No jewelry except for one disc that hung from a silver chain around her neck. It was emblazoned with something I couldn't make out . . . but somehow it seemed familiar. The orb was tucked between two sumptuous breasts, not large, but full and budding. The entire picture was one of subtle perfection, but there was something that issued a sense of foreboding. I tried to shove it away, but my mind leapt back to Paula. My God . . . not again.

Actually, I was a bit surprised. The lunch, and the encounter were innocuous, even pleasant. The girl was intelligent, well spoken, and had a confident, almost aristocratic, manner that exceeded her years. She sat upright in her chair and picked delicately at a pile of chips. Her elbows were perched on the edge of the table . . . none of the shrouded physical approach, no trace of the subtle sexual tension that was omnipresent in Martin's public contacts with Paula. At first, it set my mind at ease. That was where I wanted it to be . . . no threat, or subliminal warning. This was merely the meeting of professor and student with no ulterior design . . . a simple exchange of ideas and impressions within an academic context. Nothing nefarious, no carnal intent . . . a meeting of minds replete with an intellectual exchange stimulating a cerebral connection. I left the table satisfied, a notable trace of relief within me. This was the Martin I knew, respected, and loved. She was lovely, but benign . . . a traveler seeking understanding, even comfort, from a wise mentor.

Trey

He knows things. I can't see them, but I can feel it. There is an 'other' being within him . . . a specter, perhaps even a wraith, but no malevolence resides within it. He hides it well. When I approach him, he is reticent . . . always helpful, always ready to respond to a query or comment on one of my ideas, but when I push . . . when I get a little too close . . . when I try to send a subliminal message . . . he backs away as though he doesn't understand or doesn't care. It could be simple professionalism . . . the dictate that a professor follows . . . not seeking involvement with a student on any other than an intellectual plane. But he knows. He keeps his desires well below the surface, but I also know things. I want him. There is time. He will come . . . reluctantly? Yes . . . but he will come. I need no plan . . . except to wait.

Martin - The Journal

I guess I've figured it out. I wish I were sure, but the only thing I am sure of is that there must never be another Paula. The cost was too great for her . . . for Helen . . . and for me. Try as I do, I will never get past that horror . . . the betrayal of my own moral fiber . . . my identity . . . the very core of my soul. Fortunately, the only one who knows is T.K. and I sometimes wonder if even he has forgiven me. It is an indictment that I cannot shed. I do know that at the very least, he understands in a hesitant, contorted way.

The portrait of Morgan in all of its glory and its hideous beckoning was somehow fortuitous. I now understand that I can invade them without harm, or even serious consequence. Eleisha was the first. I never touched her, never defiled her in any physical way, and left no trace of my entrance. I like to think I even ensconced her in a dream that excited and fulfilled her. Again . . . no harm . . . nothing violent or evil in her body or her spirit. There is still guilt, but I suppose I am reconciled to it. Rationalization, simple acceptance of a fatal flaw . . . call it what you will. I tell myself there is no harm, and the temptation is a thing I cannot deny. Perhaps that is a personal hell of my own choosing.

I promised myself Eleisha would be the last, but now there is Trey. She calls to me . . . vexes me with a presence that is part torture and part ecstasy. I have done all I could do to resist her. I have and I will . . . at least on a physical plane. But the simple phrase haunts me . . . no harm . . . no harm. I can use the Black Bitch and the spell. If I can't have her body, at least I can penetrate her spirit . . . infuse her with mine and escape quietly, leaving her with nothing more than a pleasantly erotic dream. She won't remember, but it will remain in her sub-conscious, stimulating and soothing something deep within her that somehow will make her whole. It is a caress . . . nothing more. At least that's what I tell myself.

She came to the office this afternoon. She said she needed some guidance on an essay that breached the foul, incestuous relationship between Arthur and Morgan, but it was more. I reached to point to a passage from Sir Thomas Mallory, and she brushed my hand. It was light and seemingly innocuous, but there was fire in her fingertips. A quick singe that threatened to become an inferno. I tilted back in my chair, withdrawing in what seemed almost self-defense. The hinges creaked. She smiled lightly and feigned embarrassed indifference, but her eyes pierced me with laser-like intensity. We both knew, but this was not the time . . . not the place. I hoped those things would not come.

But they did.

Chapter Ten

Martin – The Journal

I could fight it no more. It had to be this night. Helen was with her sister and I had the house, and the Black Bitch all to myself.

I sat in the recliner. My robe was arrayed over my thighs. I studied the dark face. She stared at me, the elegant fingers reaching, sucking me into her. Her eyes were black pools. There was passion, but more a need. They screamed a warning linked with a violent entreaty to sink into the abyss . . . to let my being vanish in their black intensity. The words came unbidden, "Oosh ra speelo maaking." I hadn't heard them before. They seemed to emanate from some void, but they were pregnant with a force . . . something distant, fearsome, but deeply malignant. I found myself repeating them over and over . . . then it began.

First the haze, the fog . . . the dismissal of all bodily essence . . . the transubstantiation into the spirit realm.

Almost instantly I saw her, her black locks splayed over the white pillow like so many ski tracks in the snow. She breathed slowly in and out with a rhythm that spoke of angels. The sheet covered little. She wore nothing. Her breasts heaved, the nipples brown and supple. She had one hand between her thighs as if to knead a moist part of her that required a soft, but steady, caress.

I danced above her and watched, the spiritual essence of my manhood flooding with an ethereal blood. I waited. This was a scene to be savored, a sense of erotic joy. Caution crept into the corners of my consciousness. But even in my state, I assured myself she would have no memory. There would be no harm. An encounter, that's all, in a surrealistic, almost heavenly, state of non-existence.

I was now directly above her, still waiting, admiring the gentle curves, the resplendent form of this girl/woman, a Da Vinci or a Botticelli, the rare embodiment of perfect femininity, the virgin and the whore. Her small feet were tanned in a brown gold running up her thighs and painting her tight belly in a half-circle just below each of her breasts. She turned on her back, a glint of glistening pink tempting . . . no torturing me with a scent that infused my nostrils and seemed to run around my tongue. I struggled to be patient, but it would not last. I felt the fog lowering itself, a thing bereft of my will. Soon my essence pressed down on her body. Her breathing increased in short bursts, willing an entry into a silky void that would envelop me in its warmth and swallow me in its passion. I slid slowly in and out at first, but the cloud of my body increased to a near frenzy.

Suddenly I exploded. Her body jerked, and a long sigh of what almost seemed relief escaped her lips. Then it happened, something I hadn't experienced before. Something I couldn't quite fathom. He arms seemed locked around my waist, but how could that be? One can't embrace the fog. I tried to withdraw, but now her legs were wrapped around me like bands of steel. I was locked in a sensual prison that pulsed and seemed to grow around me. I had no will. I was within her. The time was up, but something clung to me . . . held me in that place and forbade me to leave. It was Trey. Her resolve was strong . . . perhaps even stronger than mine. Somehow she knew. She had consumed all that was in me . . . the might, the determination, my very volition. Quickly I began to respond again, to grow within her. I felt her arms and legs grow tighter, her hips rise, pressing me into her.

I grasped for any power that was left. I heaved. I fought. I remembered Merlin, Morganna, and Arthur. He only escaped in death. Was that my fate? I shuddered, then braced myself.

Suddenly the force broke. I felt my form rise quickly. In an instant, the mist covered me and began to fade. I saw her writhe on the sheets and heard a wail like a banshee from the pit of hell. Her black eyes burst open. A hideous accusation and a curse burst from the bottomless pools. It pierced me even as I became nothing.

When I broke consciousness, I felt rivulets of sweat running all over my body. I was chilled, and I shook with uncontrollable spasms. I continued to shiver as I gathered my robe around me, dried myself, and tried to clear my head. What had happened? Had my foolish lust, my hollow assurances, and ultimately my hubris, caught up with me and dragged me into Morganna's hellish pit?

Yes . . . God forgive me . . . Yes.

But I had gained release, at least for now. The question was how to ultimately free myself . . . if that was even what I wanted . . . this was the thing that would hound and haunt me until I became even more wretched that I already was.

Trey

She put her hand between her legs and dipped her finger into the succulent, hot liquid. She brushed it against her full lips. The taste was hot and earthy. It was what she wanted.

"I was right," she thought. "I knew he would come, but not like this. My body aches . . . the muscles in my arms and legs throb . . . begging for relief . . . but longing for more. It was never like this before, not with any of those boys. I can no longer call them men. At first I thought myself quite foolish to make this wicked bargain with a horrid witch who supposedly died hundreds of years before. But only a fool dismisses her power. She lives. Her spirit has become mine. He will return. I will use the spell, lure him with my unearthly wiles, and consume his being like a snake crushes, stealing the breath, then swallows the hapless mouse."

Chapter Eleven

He glanced at his watch. It was two minutes past ten o'clock on Monday morning. She was late for class. When she came in, he barely glanced up from his notes, making a conscious --- he hoped not conspicuous --- effort not to notice. She sat near the back and opened her binder, feigning her pose as just another student eager to sit at the feet of the Master. But was he The Master? And if he were, what had he mastered . . . an experiment in black magic . . . the violation of another girl, young, inexperienced, and enamored with a beast who only masqueraded as an educator, a purveyor of wisdom and hope? He hung his head. Only he knew it was in abject shame.

She watched him. She wanted a sign . . . some physical or mental recognition that he could not escape . . . a signal that he was readying himself for the return . . . a plunge into ecstasy, perhaps even a carnal evil from which neither of them would emerge.

But it would not happen. Each time she tried to reach him, he seemed to dance out of her way. But no . . . not a dance . . . more like a construction, a wall . . . heavy and gray like a plate of iron, thick and impenetrable. She could find no way through it or around it. He had carefully ensconced himself in a fortress to which no one had entry. At first she felt helpless, frustrated. The ghost of defeat fluttered in and out of her consciousness. Then she remembered her dark mistress, the incarnation of Morganna, the sorceress and ultimate practitioner of the black arts.

She sighed and went back to her notes. She would use them for the paper she was writing, and perhaps for even more.

Martin - The Journal

I felt it. The pull was strong. That night was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was nothing like Eleisha, Paula, or any of the others. I had deluded myself into believing there would be no memory, no harm, but there was. It was a thing I could not control, an infection that had infused me with a sense of the omnipotence, a man with the force of a god . . . or the illusions of a foul jester. No . . . there must not be another Paula . . . no Eleisha. I am but a man with a man's weaknesses and limitations. Despite it all, I am determined to remain at one with my human imperfection.

Over the weekend I had removed the portrait of Morganna from the room. I took it to the fire pit in the backyard, doused it in gasoline and lit the match beneath it. I watched as the flames licked her image, crawled up the folds of her dress, then to her face. The fiery defilement almost seemed to fondle her lips, but finally engulfed her image. The canvas grew dark and the ash crept upward. Only the hand was left, still beckoning to me with her slender fingers, a final invitation to join her in this flickering hell. Suddenly a horrid scream pierced me like a shard of steel, but it resided not in my ears. It penetrated my brain, flooding my entire being with an icy chill, but at the same time a longing. I hesitated. Part of me wanted to snatch her from the immolation and restore her to my tortured breast. But it was done.

When Helen wondered out loud what had happened, I brushed it off, "She was just too dark for the room." I think my wife was pleased. She hated the bitch from the first time she saw it. It was an annoyance she didn't have to deal with any more. That seemed to be enough, but something skulking within me knew it wasn't.

Fleming

Had I known, perhaps I could have intervened . . . at least made a final stab at retrieving my friend from this morass and even saving his life. Perhaps he would have grasped my hand and I could have snatched him from the darkness. His actions made a measure of sense, the destruction of the portrait of the Black Bitch, the vow to seek that vile magic no more. But I was stuck by those words, "I am but a man . . ." and of course we all are, but sometimes being a man means not giving in to those things that make us less than what we should be. Arthur was right. The evil lies within. Not only do all possess it, but the craving is too much . . . and too often we embrace it . . . make it ours, and lend ourselves to those things which should be unspeakable. The Devil comes in many forms, sometimes quite alluring, but when we bargain with Satan, we are doomed to suffer eternally with the rest of his minions.

Trey

Never . . . never have I felt anything like it. I've slept with boys. Sometimes I even enjoyed it, but that's what they were . . . boys . . . foolish, ignorant of the things that a woman needs in the recesses of her innermost being. They may have penetrated my body . . . left a part of themselves within me, but this was different. This was a man . . . a man with a prescience . . . an intimate sense of all things that enthrall and fill those most holy places that many women don't even know exist. I wish I knew, but I'm still not sure exactly what happened. He . . . no, his spirit . . . was not only within me. We were one in our souls. He penetrated something I couldn't fathom in any dreams. There were feelings . . . no sensations . . . I can't even identify or quantify them. I only know they came in waves that swept up into my own being with power and passion unlike anything I've ever known. It took me a while to put it all together . . . to understand where they came from and form some consciousness of his body and his essence. Ecstasy is a foolish word, an illusion that we embrace to describe what is nothing more than the mundane amplified by our petty desires and a massive shot of adrenaline. But I can find no other. It was more . . . no, not a dream or a child's illusion. He consumed me . . . swallowed me in a miasma that smoldered and glowed with the shadowy man and his sex.

Now I must bring him back. I must lure him and hold that thing within. There can be nothing else. I must return to that summit and never fall again. He doesn't know my power . . . that I also possess the spell. It is mine and I shall use it. He will come . . . perhaps he will resist, unwilling to venture into that darkness. But the darkness will overcome and we will be reunited in its passionate embrace.

Chapter Twelve

Martin - The Journal

I haven't slept. It's fear. I've tried not to wake Helen, but I have and she's asked. I can't tell her.

All I know is if I slip into that state, I lose control. The nightmares devour me. I have vowed never to use that power . . . the spell. The Black Bitch is gone but she haunts me. A part of me wants to return . . . to invade and possess that young and innocent flesh. Eleisha, the others, Trey . . . I was convinced there was no harm, but I was wrong.

I keep seeing Trey's body writhing on a bed the color of snow. I feel the soft flawless skin . . . run my fingers through the black silky hair, touch the brown nipples while they quiver . . . and feel her swallow me up inside her. I must come. Then I wake, pushing, struggling, forcing her body aside so I can return to the mist and escape. Last night she smiled as I withdrew. She was silent, but her lips parted and mouthed a foul curse. I could only make out four words, "You will come again." I tried to dismiss them, but they were carved into me with a blade so keen that the throbbing of the wound was constant and unrelenting.

But there was time. I had to endure. It would fade. This I told myself, and I waited through the hours . . . hours that became days, days that became weeks. I fought, but I felt myself being drained . . . bereft of resistance.

Last night was the worst. I finally crawled out of bed, careful not wake Helen. I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light. My face was the color of concrete and dark crevasses were almost black beneath my eyes. I longed for a drink of strong whiskey, but I was weak. I slipped into my jeans and draped a t-shirt over my head. Then I went to the recliner. If I could relax, perhaps I could sleep. I studied the empty space above the fireplace. That had been the home of the hideous Black Bitch. Maybe I was dreaming, but there seemed to be a dark aura where she had spun her black magic. For a moment, her cloudy image was replaced by Trey. She smiled and again her lips formed the words, "You will come again." I jolted out of the chair and made for the door.

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Martin walked . . . quickly at first . . . then began to run, his tired legs aching and failing. The air pumped into his chest, singing his breast in shallow bursts. He kept twisting his head to look back, wondering if something was following . . . no . . . chasing him. He saw nothing, heard nothing, but somehow he knew it was gaining. His chest heaved. He turned right on a side street and stumbled in the back yard of a vacant house. The FOR SALE sign was lit by one flickering street lamp. The grass was high and damp with a cold, lifeless dew. There was a metal shed. He rattled the door. The rusty lock shrieked as it burst open.

The darkness was complete. He extended his sweaty hand and felt the handle of what must have been an old lawnmower. He tamped his foot and located an open space on the concrete floor. He lay down in a veneer of fine dust and old yard clippings. A musty smell of mold and manure crawled up into is nostrils. He quivered for a moment, laid his head on a scratchy empty bag and it came. Exhaustion . . . and sleep. His consciousness merged with the darkness, then a multitude of sensations. He dreamed that he caught the scent of perfume. Then his essence began to dissolve. It slithered out of him and hovered above his prostrate body, fearful, observing, waiting, for a breath, a voice, a sign.

He was weak. That's how she wanted him. His feeble state only fed her strength. She felt her will grow, expand, finally exploding with power and passion. Suddenly she knew. He could no longer resist. She took a moment to gloat, her mist close, but she willed herself to be patient. She must savor every shred of this victory, ease into him so that he could feel it . . . be aware of her absorbing him into a part of her, know that his being was swallowed in the throes of her desire and this . . . her ultimate conquest.

Now he was naked. In the sheen of the sweat, he saw a drop of something white and silky, but it began to crawl, to cover. At first it was only his chest, but the liquid crept, slowly at first, but then began to flood his torso and loins, his legs, feet, then back up to his neck and head. He could feel it hot and thick, like a giant amoeba pulsing and sinking into flesh and being. He wanted to shake like a wet dog. Watch it spatter and run off of his sides, but the strength was gone. He could only lay still and feel it invade the recesses of his entire body . . . and ultimately his soul. It twisted and writhed within him like a giant serpent, biting and sucking in quiet bursts, slowly draining all that was him, all that had made him a man . . . a creature of flesh and spirit that might have become a god.

Then it was gone, and so was he.

That's how they found him.

\---------------------------------

Fleming

The phone rang early. I glanced at the clock. It was near six A.M. Helen was frantic.

"T.K., Martin's gone. The car is still in the garage. There was no sign that he'd eaten anything, even had coffee. The back door was ajar, but nothing else. I checked outside, but I couldn't see any sign of him. Has he talked to you?"

"No, Helen. I haven't seen him in three or four days. He seemed okay on Monday . . . a little down maybe, but okay. Did you try his cell?"

"It's here. He left it on the bed stand. It's not like him. He always tells me when he's leaving early for the office. His briefcase is downstairs. I'm sorry to call, but I'm worried. No note . . . no nothing."

"It's all right. You know you can call me anytime. It's probably not anything. Maybe he went out for an early morning walk. Let's wait a bit . . . see if he returns. If not we'll call the police. It's too early now. I'll check by his office, then come to the house immediately."

I did go to the office, but there was no sign that he'd been there. Helen threw open the door when I knocked. She stared at me for a moment, then looked into the street. She folded her arms around me, and began to sob quietly. We went into the kitchen. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and made coffee. She was right. This wasn't like Martin. I tried to stay calm. Two of us falling apart wouldn't make the situation any better.

"Something's happened to him," she whispered. "He hasn't been sleeping or eating. He looks like a ghost . . . so quiet, almost like there's a giant stone pressing down on his chest. I can't get it out of my mind. I've failed him in some godforsaken way."

Her face contorted into what was almost a grimace. She forced her hands into a death grasp and put them on the table with a thump. The veins in her arms stood out like twisted chords.

"No Helen. It's not you who has failed. He'll come through that door soon with some reasonable explanation."

She shuddered and bit her lip. Her sad eyes drilled into mine. She didn't believe me, and I didn't believe myself.

"T.K. are you sure he hasn't said anything to you? He trusts you. You're his friend."

I drummed my fingers on the table, then shook my head.

I had lied to Helen on the phone. The last time I had seen Martin was only yesterday. His skin was a pale yellow . . . thin like faded newspaper. That keen sparkle that always shone behind the blue eyes was gone. He almost stammered when I talked to him. He seemed to choke, then shake his head. When I asked if he wanted to talk, he just stared into space and whispered, "Not now." I thrust my hand forward to touch his shoulder, but he withdrew in a jerk.

"I've committed the ultimate blasphemy, T.K. there is no going back . . . no forgiveness."

The "ultimate blasphemy?" My mind spun as he turned to go. What in God's name could not be forgiven? What steaming vat of sin was drowning this once stately man? I didn't know, but my mind conjured a vision of something dark, alluring, but beautiful in a twisted way.

At eleven we called the police.

Chapter Thirteen

The interview with Detectives Noyes and Dineen went quickly. They were polite, concerned, and seemed very competent. Unfortunately, Helen and I didn't really know much of anything, except that Martin had vanished. We talked while a patrolman went through the house. He came from the back bedroom and shook his head.

Then on with the questions . . . had he seemed preoccupied with something? Depressed? Problems at work? Did he have a habit of leaving the house with no warning? Any enemies? Weapons in the house? Anything odd or out of place? Suitcases, clothes, personal items?

The queries were standard, almost as if they'd come from a manual on police procedure in missing persons cases. We sat and shook our heads. I'm sure they figured it was the usual story of the vanishing husband . . . one who'd passed out in a motel room with a so-called lady he wasn't supposed to be with, or a fight between the married couple that she was too embarrassed to report. Still, they went about their jobs, making notes, nodding, and issuing the appropriate responses. They would put out an APB. If he didn't show up, or contact anyone by late this afternoon, they would canvas the neighborhood and report later in the day. It began around three. The detectives and two uniforms. They parked their cars in front of the house and headed down either side of the street.

I don't know what led them to the vacant house . . . more routine, no doubt. He was there or I guess I should say his corpse was. There were no sirens. It was too late for that. I saw the M.E. van pull up slowly to the curb. Then Noyes to me to "go home." He was polite, but emphatic. He promised to call me later in the day. I went back to Helen's. Her doctor had arrived and she was heavily sedated. I sat on the couch. It was still early afternoon, but I knew where the bourbon was and the temptation overcame me. After a couple of hard belts, I fell asleep on the sofa.

My cell rang about eight that night. They wanted me at the morgue. Detective Noyes told me they needed a positive I.D. and they were afraid Helen couldn't handle it. I didn't know what he meant by "handle it." Handle what? I wish I hadn't found out.

The house of death was nestled in the basement of the police station, a gray cinderblock building that held no forgiveness. Noyes met me at the door. We went into the sterile hallway. It was a quiet night, no hint of a cooling breeze. No sign of any life except ne patrolman manning a Formica counter flanked by two scarred wooden benches. We entered a musty elevator and Noyes fingered the button marked with a capital B. The doors closed and it jolted downward, then screeched to a halt. The metal parted in reluctant jerks. We were in the bowels of the fortress, being fouled with the stink of formaldehyde. There was a bracing freeze reinforced by the dull sheen of stainless steel. Noyes nodded to a thin man at a colorless metal desk. He pointed to a sheet of white paper and handed the detective a pen. Noyes scratched his name and mine, then slid it over the counter to our gatekeeper. The man ignored the signature, nodded at my companion, and rose slowly . . . wordlessly bidding us follow. We went through a glass door covered in what looked like frost.

My teeth clamped on my lip when he placed gloved fingers on the handle of the silvery drawer. First came the feet, then the rest of the body, sliding in agony but with a hint of grace from its den, shrouded in a thin sheet of translucent plastic. I knew immediately it was Martin, the size, the shape, but not that of the living god I had known. The thing was distorted by the spectral glare and the light folds of the icy material.

The gloved fingers grasped the top of the sheet and rolled it back. I felt my mouth drop open. Then my teeth ground together and locked. The muscles in my face were taut and tingling from the assault of the cold. My body longed to shiver, but I tightened my fists and fought it off. I'm not even sure what I saw. It was the stuff of nightmares . . . the remains of a creature that could never have existed on earth . . . the substance . . . no . . . the essence of hell. This was his body . . . but not the one I'd seen him in. There were crevasses where there had been flesh and muscle, a gray tinged with sickly green, almost like a desicating moss. It was a color that could only be called cancerous. It was as though all of the fluids . . . the blood . . . the spit . . . every drop of anything liquid had been methodically drained from him. He was shrunken. He was shriveled. He was old. It was as if his corpse had lay in the ground rotting for a century and then been excavated for some weird anthropology experiment. The thick bile billowed in my throat, but I put my hand to my mouth and coughed it down.

Noyes was studying me, quietly anxious to view my response, evaluate my reaction. Maybe I was a suspect, but aren't we all? I could barely make out his words.

"Seen enough?"

I had. I turned to the door and rushed for any semblance of relief . . . pleading for even the slightest breath of fresh air . . . any kind of escape from the horror that had been only fingertips away. When we returned to the ground floor, Noyes ushered me into his office. I was still cold and the steel chair offered no comfort. No photographs hung on the faded walls. Just two chairs, another anonymous metal desk, and a filing cabinet with a brush of rust over the top drawer. Noyes' face now took on the appearance of granite, then withered. He closed the door behind him.

"So what do you think?"

It was a question I couldn't answer, but he waited just like the good cop I figured he must be. My hands began to quiver uncontrollably and a tear crept down my cheek. I slapped at it and tried to find words . . . any words that would release me from the icy metal that seemed to strap me down. I finally shook my head. His face showed no change, but he seemed satisfied. He stood behind the steel and watched me silently for a moment. Then he pointed to the door and fingered a brass button. It clicked. I fumbled with the tarnished knob and I headed back to my car.

I went to Helen's. I sat while she cried. I could do nothing else.

Chapter Fourteen

The darkness was thick. I lay in the bed, still shivering from the cold of the morgue and the utter helplessness that continued to wash over me.

Exhaustion must have overtaken me. I finally slept . . . and I dreamed.

It was her. Trey, the mysterious black eyed beauty, but her form wavered like the ripples on a black lake. She was smiling, but it was an odious thing . . . a mask of malevolence . . . and vicious triumph. I thought I could hear her laughing, taunting, celebrating some evil victory. She looked at me and I froze. Lasers leapt from her eyes, piercing and penetrating like steel blades honed to carve and maim. Something thick and crimson seemed to gush from the wounds. I tried to staunch the flood with my hands, but gouts of the hot liquid pulsed through my fingers. I stared at my red palms and forced my lips to move. "It's a dream . . . only a dream."

Now her shape began to grow indistinct . . . to shift. In its place the image of Martin crept onto the edges finally superimposing itself over the witch. His body was firm, covered with nothing. But his face was contorted in agony, twisted like a reflection from a cracked mirror. His hand reached for me, but he could not touch. He seemed trapped . . . suspended in her essence. I felt my body jerk in grudging fits. Then I woke up screaming.

A few days later we buried him. Graveside service. Closed casket. There were colleagues, students, perhaps a few of the curious. Helen asked me if I would speak, but I told her I couldn't do it. The proceedings were quick. I grasped a handful of soil from the freshly turned mound, ground it in my palm, and cast it into the dark hole.

I never saw Helen again. She supposedly left to be with relatives, but she never returned. And I never saw Trey. I tried to trace her. But the school records brought me to a dead end. She had vanished . . . seemingly from the face of the earth. It was as though she had ceased to exist.

But I believed then . . . and I believe now . . . that she does exist . . . . that she sits astride the throne of some nether world, her tortured consort prostrate at her feet.

Epilogue

The investigation continued for a few weeks, but nothing surfaced. The autopsy only offered a note that he had died of severe dehydration. The fluids in his body had been drained. No entrance or exit wounds, no signs of trauma. The fluids were gone. "Nonexistent," was what Noyes told me. It was all they had.

I was somewhat surprised to receive the call from Marin's attorney, "Dr. Fleming, you need to be here. You are named as a beneficiary in the document. There are things you must sign." He didn't tell me what they were, but I went. Helen didn't appear at the reading of the will. I didn't know until I got there. Where was she? I hadn't talked to her in a few days, but she didn't mention anything about leaving. The attorney either didn't know or simply wouldn't say.

Martin had left me EXCALIBUR. The boat was paid for and the title was mine. I didn't understand. Surely, I had spent many days and nights on the boat, and even helped with some of the projects, but it should have been a part of his estate that went to Helen. I didn't know how to react, but his attorney assured me that these were his wishes. He had changed the will only a few days before his demise, and there was no question as to his competence or his intent. "A few days before . . . ?" How the hell did that happen? What did Martin know? Why hadn't he at least talked to me? I searched my memory for some sign that I might have missed, but I drew a blank. I cursed myself. If I had been a bit more curious or attentive, would Martin still be alive? I didn't know, and I didn't believe I would find out.

I tried to contact Helen, looked for return addresses, relatives, even tried public records . . . but she had simply disappeared.

In June I resigned my post at the university. They tried to pretend otherwise, but I think they were glad. The death of a distinguished scholar and beloved professor had inundated the newspapers and the local TV news for months. There were theories, suggestions of conspiracy, collusion . . . god knows, probably even alien abduction. It was great reading for the suspicious masses, but it vexed and frustrated me. I tried again and again to recall anything. I went to the boat, tore it apart looking for clues, studied the sunset, and drank far too much. Still nothing.

Within the recesses of my tormented being, I begged for escape . . . escape was what I bled for. I had the O'DAY shipped to Wilmington on the NC coast, renamed her KAMALA after the courtesan who taught Siddartha the art of manners and the art of love, and left for points south as soon as I was equipped and provisioned.

Customarily I'm not one to run away, but I did. It didn't feel good, but at least it was better that my own private hell. I was fighting the demons. They screeched and dug like maggots at the puss of an open wound.

But it was foolish to expect to win. At least Key West would be a distraction. I've tried to put it all together, but there are many nights I don't sleep. Anyway this was the beginning . . . and in some ways . . . it is the end. Escape is the fantasy . . . perhaps even the delusion . . . of a mad man . . . and that mad man is me.
