Over the Rainbow

 

 And Noah sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from the earth. —Genesis 8:7

 

 

     In the stifling heat, Master Squire paced cautiously between the door and the window of his fourth floor flat. Careful to not step on several squeaky planks, he managed to create a pattern of steps that he repeated over and over. Back and forth he moved like some errant dancer performing to a melody coming from a broken record, one that makes the needle skip back to replay the last round in an endless mantra. As he turned to the door he thought about them, the brothers and sisters getting ready for dinner downstairs who might ask him why. As he turned to the window he thought about freedom and asked why not.

     “Why bother,” he thought. “Just get it over with. Just spread your arms like wings and enjoy being a bird for once, a hawk streaking toward the earth to strike its prey, if only for a few seconds. To pray one final, desperate prayer. Prey, pray,” he mused. “No, not this time. To the door again, then, one more time. Take it from the top, Squire. Why can’t you just go down there and say I’m out of here. Adios, amigos and amigas. I’m done, finished, completed, fried, burnt, out of oil, drained, kaput, at the end of my rope, out of track. I’ve taken it to the limit. Put me on a highway. Forward my check or send me the bill. Whatever. I’ll write when I get settled. Ha! Like hell I will. Don’t even bother showing me a sign. Take it to the limit one more time? Screw you!” he thought as he flipped his finger at the door.

      Squire began to sweat even more as he turned again to approach the open window. Anxiety added to the wetness already soaking his purple tunic and his jeans. Late August near Arlington, Virginia, in a non-air conditioned room in the attic of an old, stuffy mansion is no place or time to be working out. It was ninety five in the shade, and the humidity was one thousand percent. Sweat dripped from Squire’s nose down to the floor. He watched it splat on the worn pine plank below the window. The air hung outside as he labored to breath it in shallow gulps. Sweat ran down his stubble of a haircut into his right ear. It tickled. He put his finger into his ear canal to rub the drop away. A slight breeze caught the white cotton curtain and nudged it toward him as he approached.

      “Look at me,” he quietly said to his reflection in the raised sash. “I used to be an athlete, somebody to reckon with on the basketball courts. I feel weak. My clothes are hanging on me, what’s left of me. I could slam a ball through a hoop with six inches to spare. No sweat, Sweat! You prick. Get out of my eye,” he said silently as he wiped the stinging liquid from his brow with the sleeve of the purple tunic. “Fifteen years ago I could dunk a goddamn basketball. I haven’t touched a basketball in fifteen goddamn years. It’s all because of that pompous prick, that royal ass, Sir Par-see-fail.” Squire laughed at his play on the name of Parcifal, the man he practically worshipped as the Teacher. “Par-see-fail. Ha, ha. You see nothing but your clueless ego. How many times have you told us that the cleansing was coming. First it was in 1982 shortly after I joined; then, 1987 with the Harmonic Convergers; now, its a seven-year period when anything could happen. I am not staying till 1999. No way. Not again.”

     Squire remembered, only too well, how only last year he trembled before Parcifal when the Teacher caught him talking to a sister that left. The former Lady Morgan met Squire one day when he was out at a Kinko’s producing another one of the Teacher’s newsletters. Now Morgan was plain Janet Johnson again. Sisters who passed Parcifal’s initiation into the inner circle were known by Lady. What came after Lady depended on what Parcifal named you when he accepted you into his teachings as a sister. Lady Morgan had joined with Parcifal around the same time that Squire met the group in Washington. They were both students at Georgetown University back then.

     Lady Morgan did not walk away quietly though, not like all of the other sisters who grew disenchanted. No, six months after she defected in 1992, she slapped the Teacher with a civil suit charging him with sexual abuse. Eventually, it was settled out of court, but Parcifal claimed publicly that Janet Johnson was merely an insane extortionist. Privately, to the inner group, the Teacher exposed Janet as a sorceress whose sole mission in this life was to destroy the Work. The Teacher told Squire that Morgan was really the reincarnated spirit of Morgan le Fay, the wicked necromancer and half-sister of the legendary King Arthur. The Teacher implied that he, Parcifal, was once a knight in Arthur’s round table.

      “Lady Mor....Janet, I should have believed you then. Why did I let him get to me. All those years I let him get to me. Were the early years as good as I thought they were? Or was I just a stupid fool wanting to believe that his power, his destiny were true, that my life was special. Janet--Janet, I wish you were here now. I want to hear everything, everything you know. That ass, that sick bastard. How could he? Brother Herald, you did it for nothing. God be kind to your soul, you poor bastard. How could he? Thank God your parents still care about you, brother. At least they got the police involved. But he’ll slip out of it again. Money buys him time and cuts deals. Who’s going to believe you anyway. Your note sounds like some lunatic wrote it, but I know what you meant. Damn! Why didn’t I see it. I knew how depressed you were. Geez, aw geez-oh-man!”

      Squire spun on his heels again to walk toward the door. His palms clenched the sides of his head as his fingers crossed on the back of his skull. His elbows splayed above his shoulders like a man under arrest. Squire thought of his drowned friend. Brother Herald was a new recruit. He was twenty years old and had lived in the house for only a year before he sunk himself in the Potomac with fifty pounds of rock in his backpack. He did leave a note. It was short. All it said was: I have failed you, my Lord. I am not ready in this life to pass the initiation. I could not detach myself from the Ritual and trust. The Dark Ones still rule my world. Maybe next time, Teacher. Herald. Earlier in the evening Squire discovered the note in the room where he now paced. The note rested on the nightstand between his cot and Herald’s floor mat. They shared the space for nearly a month before this happened.

     A jogger saw Herald’s foot floating near the surface of the water as she passed the spot early in the morning. Apparently he sneaked out of the Ark, the group center and residence, before sunrise. The officers who came to the house at noon reported that Herald was found face up under three or four feet of water. The pack was strapped tightly to his waist and shoulders. It looked like a suicide, but they had not ruled out foul play. They wanted to search the Ark house later that morning, but Parcifal insisted they get a warrant first. Herald’s parents wanted an investigation of the group their son had joined. They believed that Parcifal had something to do with the death of their son.

     The detectives left hours before Squire found the note. During those hours the Teacher gathered all seventeen remaining members together and reminded them that the Dark Forces were getting stronger. This was a sign, he said, that the doubters no longer could depend on his protection.

     “Herald was one of the most beautiful spirits to come to our path,” Parcifal chimed.  “He had great promise, a wonderful destiny lay before him. Few in embodiment have come with so much love. I could see the intense pink light in his aura but that same light drew the dark energy in full force. Herald came to teach us this lesson, that the energy has shifted. The cleansing has begun, and none of you is immune unless your determination to hold the light is not damaged by fear and doubt. Your auras reflect your attainment, my dear ones. I can see now who protects the pink and gold with the circle of blue among you. Do not be deceived. Do not let up on the Work. Meditate every day as you were taught in the beginning. Do not allow our precious brother to have died in vain. He is truly the herald, the herald of the coming age. We have much to prepare in the coming short years.”

     Parcifal spread his arms for a few seconds as he closed his eyes. He then brought his hands together in a sweeping circular motion and chanted, “Aum, Namaste, Amen.” The group responded, “Aum, Namaste, Amen.” He lifted his head and fixed his gaze above everyone’s heads as they stood in silence around the long, pine table. “Where is Brother Squire?”

      On the door inside of every bedroom--there were five on the third floor and one in the attic-- hung a poster of Parcifal sitting in meditation on a smooth, granite boulder. Below Parcifal’s image were the letters ANA. Below the initials in purple script was Association for a New Age, Inc. In the lower left corner was the ANA logo, an ark with a rainbow above it. Squire stopped to stare at his teacher’s image as he approached the door again. There he is, thought Squire. He crossed his wet, lanky arms in front of his chest as he stood square before the image. Parcifal had aged ten years since he produced this poster of himself when he was forty five. His flowing hair fell around his shoulders then but in ten years it had thinned considerably. He now wore it tied back whenever he appeared in public. None of the brothers wore their hair long and the sisters never cut their hair. Squire could not remember why. It just seemed like the right thing, something the Teacher told them about humility and enlightenment and protection. Oh, yes. Now he remembered. It was about androgyny.

     Truly enlightened teachers have reached an inner state of androgyny, Parcifal once said. This revelation came from Parcifal a few years after Squire had joined the teaching center. An enlightened male grows his hair long to indicate his feminine aspect, said Parcifal. He taught that it was spiritually dangerous for any male to grow long hair once they are in the Work, unless they are enlightened. Ignorance protects those men with long hair not in the Work. Likewise, women in the Work should grow their hair long. Only enlightened women crop their hair to indicate their achievement. But it seemed that no one in the group had ever achieved enlightenment, that is, except Parcifal. Although the Teacher never ordered anyone to cut his hair or grow it, back then all five males including Squire, and all seven women including the then Sister Morgan, followed the suggestion by the following evening. The concept was passed along by word of mouth or group gossip to new recruits. The Teacher never said another word about it, but the new believers always followed the rule.

     When Squire met with Janet in 1995 at the copy center, he was shocked to see her hair so boyishly short--it did not even cover her ears, he noted. His first impulse was to think that she was enlightened. But that couldn’t be; she sued the Teacher and called him a charlatan. Despite it all, Squire was happy to see her. They had been close friends for ten years, and lately, he had been having a hard time with Parcifal and the group.

They met later at a coffee shop nearby. Janet offered to pay for cappuccinos. She knew that Squire had been broke since his small trust fund ran out during the early years. He lived, basically, like a monk who depended upon the community to support him. His main work was to transcribe and edit Parcifal’s lectures and bind them into book form. Group members looked up to Squire as a model. Squire spent many nights at the copy center working on group projects like the books and a newsletter, The Rainbow Covenant. The Teacher refused to buy any equipment. Squire, like Janet, had been a journalism major at Georgetown. Their talent did not go unnoticed by the guru. Janet used to help edit The Rainbow Covenant.

     “So, when did you get back from Australia?” Janet asked. “I thought you were there to run the new teaching center.”

      “Parcifal wanted me back here when, well, you know, after you sued him. I was due back anyway, you know, my six-month period was up again. The sister--Sister Charity, who took over my duties when I left for Perth, quit when your lawyers deposed her. I don’t know what ever became of her. Do you know?” Squire asked almost sheepishly.

       “There’s some things I can’t talk about because of the settlement. Oh, and by the way, the settlement covered my legal expenses and the price of a used Toyota Tercel. I don’t know what he told you. Anyway, I can tell you that Mary’s back with her family in Seattle. She’s found a job, and she’s getting over her experience as an Ana.” Outsiders called Parcifal’s group the “Anas” not only because of the initials but also because group members ended all meetings and invocations with Aum, Namaste, Amen.

      “What do you mean getting over it? Over what? Who’s Mary?”

      “Come on, Squire. You have to know that he’s been having sex with many of the sisters. And since I walked out...damn, didn’t you read the news reports? The Post ran a feature on this mess. They interviewed me, they interviewed Sister Charity, who is Mary

--don’t you remember her?--and a few others that left.”

      “Yeah, I looked at the article. Parcifal made a point of passing it around after he lectured us about it. I don’t remember your name being in it.”

      “The paper agreed to disguise my name. I was the “Sara” in the article; Mary was the “Danielle.” What--did he tell you the Post made it up?” Janet asked incredulously. “I realize that people are cynical about journalists, but the paper and reporter could get sued if they made up a story like that. You know what we were taught in school. No one sued them over it, you know. Listen,” she said as she leaned closer to him, “come stay with me for a couple of days. Let me explain what I’ve learned since leaving you guys--give you some time to think it over. I’m working almost full time now as a journalist, but I can make some time. There’s life after ANA out there, Squire. I’ll help you. Do you have to have it shoved into your face before you leave, like I did? Or is it that you’re still able to find the deeper meaning in his crap?”

      Squire sat there looking confused. He fought off the image that Parcifal had painted of Janet, that she was a dark force, a witch born to destroy the Work. He rationalized that the evil force was to blame, not Janet, if the Work suffered an attack. Janet was convincing, but was she merely another actor in this drama of his Quest for enlightenment? Should he take her literally? All that talk by Parcifal about past lives and Morgan le Fay could not be taken literally, even though most of the others did. Squire believed that he had transcended the literalist stage of the Work.

     In fact, he could see Parcifal himself as a metaphor for enlightenment, as someone chosen by fate to play the role. Parcifal wasn’t important as a human being--the human part sinned and made mistakes; but the way the Teacher played the role was enlightened. Squire rationalized that it was not Parcifal, but his role as Teacher, that brought enlightenment to others, even if the Teacher himself was unenlightened. Squire recognized, however foolishly, that Parcifal played the role very well. That was all any student in the Work anytime throughout history actually needed, he thought. Parcifal allowed Squire to keep this quasi-enlightened attitude about him as long as he did not preach about it to the others. This was a “deeper” teaching for which “the others were not yet ready,” he solemnly whispered to Squire. Parcifal ingeniously convinced Squire that his “new awareness” of the Teacher showed how close he was to making the final breakthrough. This awareness afforded Squire the moral space he needed to justify almost any action Parcifal might take. And Parcifal took advantage of it.

     Five years into the Work, Squire had earned the right to endure the Master Initiation Ritual. He fasted for three days alone in silence in a small room in the newly named Ark. The group had just purchased the building with a donation from one of Parcifal’s wealthy students. Parcifal named their building after Noah’s Ark--it being the vehicle for a chosen few to bring humanity into the New Age. During his fast Squire concentrated--he tried to concentrate--on nothing. Imitating Zen Buddhists, he just sat. He used the rest room when he had to. He drank water from the faucet. He tried to stay awake but dozed a few times. After the second night he fell asleep for a few hours leaning against a wall. He dreamt of food, flight and a demon attack. His demon dream frightened him. On the fourth morning of the Ritual, Parcifal summoned Squire to the group meditation room. The stark room took up most of the second floor; Parcifal’s large bedroom and office took up the rest. Parcifal sat on a prominent, stuffed, white leather chair. Squire was instructed to kneel.  

     He knelt on the oak floor, which was as plain as the room around him save for the white, throne-like chair. A simple, purple and white banner adorned with the ANA monogram hung above the white chair on a white wall. Neatly stacked in back corners were fifty folding chairs and thirty meditation mats. The colorful, woven mats were from Oaxaca. Parcifal chose them during an ANA pilgrimage to Mexico. Ten-feet high ceilings added to the simple, open feel of the space. Parcifal held lectures and discussions in this room. The Anas often invited non-members and new recruits to lectures at the Ark. A few married couples who supported the Work almost always attended these talks.

     Initiates all knew not to speak of what they experienced during the Initiation Ritual. In keeping with the great mystery traditions from the ancient Pythagoreans to modern Freemasonry, initiations at the Ark were secret. To illustrate the point, Parcifal urged his students to attend Mozart’s opera, Magic Flute, whenever possible. He often lectured on themes from Magic Flute--lately adding allusions that the “Queen of Night, the darkness that oppresses all mankind, is embodied in Lady Morgan.” Mozart’s music often graced the lecture room prior to events and sometimes during meditation sessions. But no music added to the tense silence in the room as Squire knelt obediently during his initiation.

     “Stand up, Brother Squire,” Parcifal whispered. “Remove your clothes.” Squire hesitated for a moment only as he bent over to remove his sandals. Squire tried to not indulge his anxiety. He knew this was some part of a final test. Parcifal had alluded to initiation as a time to overcome fear and the fear to continue with the Work despite great sacrifice. Squire folded his clothes beside his feet and stood straight up. “The shorts, Squire. Remove the shorts, you prude.” Squire’s eyes opened wide, but he quickly obeyed. “That’s better, my young brother. Now pick them up and throw them into the trash can in the back.”

     As Squire turned to obey this last command, Parcifal quickly slipped out of his white tunic. He was as naked as his initiate when the anxious Squire looked at his Teacher in repressed shock. “Come forward, Brother Squire,” he said. Squire walked and stood before Parcifal. As Squire waited long seconds for the next command he stared at Parcifal’s chest. He tried to distract himself by counting the sprinkle of gray hairs among dark brown ones in his view. Parcifal leaned over and quietly asked him, “What are you thinking?”

     “I’m thinking about concentrating on the gray hairs on your chest, Teacher.”

     “I have gray hairs on my chest?” responded the astonished Parcifal as he looked down.

     “Yes--you do--I found eleven so far.”

     Parcifal turned aside to reach for a small package that he then handed to Squire. The Teacher could barely keep from smiling as he handed Squire his new, purple tunic; it was the sign and symbol that he had passed the test. “Put it on, Master Squire,” he said as he burst out laughing, “and, by all means, go get your shorts and your other clothes. Gray hairs indeed!” As Parcifal replaced his own tunic, he laughed heartily. His hilarity was contagious as Squire began to laugh as well after removing his clothes from the trash. The two happy men hugged as Parcifal said, ”Remember this, Master Squire. You must defeat your inner demons and fears yourself. I can only bring them to the surface. That is my role. Now, let us get some breakfast.”

      The entire initiation experience cut deeply into Squire’s psyche. He continued to appreciate Parcifal’s sense of humor and wisdom in many encounters with his teacher. The extraordinary event confirmed his trust that the Teacher would never unduly violate him in any way or test him beyond his limit. Squire had no idea what Parcifal might do with other initiates and he never questioned them about it. That is, until he met Janet in 1995.   

      “You went too far this time. The Ritual with the sisters gave you sexual power over some of them. Janet was right. You did fuck some of the sisters in that room, you prick! Just like you tried to rape her. She found out about the others, and now I finally believe her.” Squire paced faster, still careful not to touch the squeaky planks. His tunic darkened under his neck and armpits from the sweat. “You went too far with Herald. He wasn’t gay. He was fragile, maybe sexually confused; but you pushed him into it, didn’t you? Is it because you’re androgynous? Androgynous, my ass. You’re about as androgynous as a two-headed viper.” With that Squire spat on the poster as he faced the door again.

     He turned in disgust toward the window again and thoughtfully ranted, gesturing with a clenched fist. “Like Brother Lance. Janet told me you made him have oral sex. He was ready to testify for her, she said. I did not know what to think at the time--now I know why he was so quiet after initiation and why he left six months later. It took him six months, poor bastard. How many others were there while I was in Australia all those years spreading your message, like some loyal dupe? While I was here? Were you always this sick? Now I know--I know but I can’t prove it, can I? You got away with that just like you’re going to get away with this. What’s Herald’s note going to prove anyway? Who’s going to testify against you? No one saw anything, nobody but you and your victims. With no evidence but their memories, who’s going to believe them?”

     Squire’s thoughts came rapidly if not logically. He had repressed the doubts that Janet brought up for a year. He repressed them after Parcifal appeared at the coffee shop by coincidence. He wanted to stop Squire from printing a passage in the newsletter until he could insert a correction. A minor matter, but Parcifal was compulsive about details like that. Sometimes Squire would have to scrap an entire week’s work if Parcifal wanted too many changes. The copy store clerk indicated which direction Squire walked with a woman. Parcifal found them readily, but not soon enough because Janet had over two hours with Squire. Still, Parcifal’s presence was enough to end their discussion. Janet merely walked away without a word. Squire remained in his confusion.

     “Well, Master,” Parcifal spoke sarcastically, “how is the Queen of Night these days?” What did you guys have to say to one another?”

     “Not much. She’s still not sorry she sued you. She seems to be doing okay though. She does some free-lance work for several magazines.”

     “That’s it? Come on, Squire. Did she describe all the lurid things I did to her? Was it entertaining?”

     “She mentioned something about what the papers said, you know, she said all of that was true.”

     “Well, what do you think? Do you believe the papers?”

     Squire just shrugged. “It’s not important. She’s got her role. Perhaps it’s her destiny like you said.” Parcifal knew that Squire was upset. He also knew that the role thing was something he did agree with and now it cut both ways. Stalemate.

      “Let’s get back to work. I have something to show you.” Parcifal had a way of acting like he was above any controversy. Squire used to think it was a sign of his mastery. Suddenly he was not so sure. They spoke no more about Janet, but both men knew that their mutual trust had been altered. Parcifal was shrewd enough to bide his time and wait for an opportune moment to regain Squire’s full loyalty. If nothing else, he was a skilled leader of his loyal subjects.

     To watch them work together on a project in the copy center, one would not suspect anything bizarre. At six-feet-three, Squire stood two inches taller than his teacher. They both were slim and neatly dressed. Parcifal wore his hair tied back. Both men dressed in common clothes: Squire in blue jeans and a beige polo shirt, Parcifal in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. Both men wore white sneakers with white socks. ANA members wore their tunics, blue for brothers, rose-pink for sisters, and purple for ladies and masters at two functions only: the evening meal inside the Ark and during meditations. They rarely appeared outside in uniform. Parcifal did not want any added attention to their already maligned status in the community as a weird cult. In fact, the Anas made a point to act “normal” around the neighbors. They offered to help neighbors with chores and house repairs, and they kept their grounds immaculate.

     While Squire paced upstairs, one of the sisters announced that a group of people had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Ark. This distracted anyone from answering Parcifal as to where Squire was. Reporters and television cameras appeared from vans on the street. Several officers and two plainclothes detectives walked up the herringbone patterned, brick pavement to the front door. They walked between neatly trimmed lilac bushes that bloomed beautifully every spring. They passed hedges of rose bushes in full bloom on either side of the freshly painted, gray and white stairway that led to a large porch. One detective grabbed a heavy, black iron knocker shaped like a dragon. The door opened before he could use it. The crowd of neighbors and reporters heeded the private property sign and waited on the sidewalk. Everyone knew that this was about Herald, including Parcifal who answered the door.

     “What can we do for you, sir,” Parcifal asked in a friendly voice.

     “Are you Peter O’Grady?”

     “Yes, I am.” The officer presented the search warrant to Parcifal who read it carefully and let them in.

     “Do you mind if we eat dinner while you look around, officer? You are all welcome to join us if you wish.”

     “Thanks all the same, Mr. O’Grady. We won’t be long. We just need to ask a few more questions and look through Baker’s personal items. You go ahead and eat, but can someone direct us to Frank Baker’s  room?”

      “Sister Joan, please escort these gentlemen to Brother Herald’s space.” Sister Joan obeyed quietly. She led two men up the three flights of stairs. The floor fans hummed in the silence.

     In his research, a detective discovered that the house belonged to a Peter O’Grady who leased it to ANA, Inc. Parcifal had not given them his legal name when they first came to investigate. That was a mistake, and Parcifal knew it. He would indulge them graciously this time. Meanwhile, Squire had exhausted himself after nearly an hour of pacing and wrestling with his turbulent mind. For a few seconds he leaned out of the low, open window on his elbows as he knelt on the floor. He gasped for air. He faced the hazy, evening sun and he wept. A knock on the door startled him.

     “Yes, who is it?” answered Squire as he wiped his face with his sleeves.

     “Sister Joan, Master. The police are here and they want to look around.” Until Squire spoke, Joan had no idea who was in the room.

      Squire walked to the door and opened it. “Come in. I can leave if you want.”

      “No, stay. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. This is Sergeant Jeff Davis and I’m Detective Joe Kapinski. You can call me Kap.” The detective smiled as he extended his hand to shake Squire’s. “You must be Master Squire? We understand that you are Herald’s roommate.” Kap had thirty years experience in police work. He was known for his gentle, disarming demeanor when questioning a suspect. He had worked with cult-related cases many times. Most such groups were non-violent. In any case, he knew to treat members of weird groups without condescension. They were “just folks from a different culture” in his mind. Davis, a black man, was jaded from a decade of busting drug dealers and gang members. He found the Anas to be quite pleasant. No guns, no dogs, no angry talk. Cool.

      “Yes, I am Squire.”

      “Do you mind giving us your legal name, sir, and do you have some identification? Just for the record--it’s routine.”

      “Will my passport do? It’s in the closet.”

      “Yep, that’ll do.” Kap noted that Squire was soaked in sweat. His short crop of black hair glistened in the sunlight. Kap saw the wet trail of smudged drops between the window and the door. “You been working out up here in this heat, Squire?” He noticed that the window fan was off and on the floor.

       “You could say that,” he answered as he handed Kap his passport.

       “Looks like you’ve been down under a few times. Am I pronouncing this right, Squire?” Kap tried to say, “Arpád Madarás. Are you Romanian?”

       “Close enough,” answered Squire as he tried to disguise a smile. “No, my parents were from Transylvania. My father was Hungarian, my mother, Serbian.”

       “But you were born here then, in New York it says. Got any brothers and sisters, Squire--I think I’ll call you Squire, if you don’t mind?”

       “I have an older sister. She’s an engineer. Lives with her husband in Puerto Rico. My brother died...,” Squire hesitated a few seconds as he turned toward the window again. “My brother died in an accident when we were in high school.”

       “Sorry to hear that, Squire. You must have been close to Herald, then, to share a room with him.”

       “We became friends, but I didn’t know him very well, about his past or anything. He didn’t talk about his past. He wanted to learn to do layouts. He worked with me on the Rainbow, our newsletter, for a week or so before this happened.”

       “Yo, Kap.” Sergeant Davis said. He found the Herald’s note on the nightstand. He picked it up with a gloved hand. “Looks like a suicide note. Squire, is this Baker’s handwriting?” Davis showed the note to Squire and Kap.

       “Yes, I believe that he wrote it. I recognize his writing.”

       “We found a diary on him. We can double check it. I remember some stuff in the diary about a Ritual too, but I couldn’t make it out very well. Between the water damage and the language--maybe you can help us later, Squire, to translate, I mean.”

       “Yes, sir,” Squire spoke flatly. He did not relish this opportunity to peer further into Herald’s personal life. It was probably group gibberish anyway--the same sort of metaphysical platitudes and personal angst he used to write about when he entered the Work. Suddenly he felt very numb.

      “Are you all right,” asked Sister Joan. “You look pale. Maybe we should go downstairs.”

       “Good idea, sister. We’ll meet you down there in a few minutes. Whew, it’s hot up here. Turn that fan on, Davis.” Squire followed Joan through the door as the fan began to whirl behind him. He felt his life going back in time. Who was he when he started this spiritual journey? He thought he found, or would find, some answers to the big questions. It was the grand “Quest for the Holy Grail”--it was “Everyman’s destiny,” Parcifal had so eloquently explained back then. Squire first heard the Teacher speak as a guest at his class in Comparative Religions. He was impressed enough to join ANA within the month.

     Now the Work seemed like just another escape, a different drug, one for the spirit. His brother, who was eighteen when he died, was high on methamphetamines when he crashed his car into a wall. Squire was sixteen when it happened. He may have not recovered from the loss at age twenty when he moved into the Ark, but he did manage to gloss it over with spiritual pursuits. Squire was alive now, fifteen years later, but he felt dead. Herald was dead because he thought he wasn’t brave enough to be as enlightened as Parcifal. “Where do I go now?” thought Squire.

       “I can’t join another monastery like Catholic monks do if they discover a corrupt abbot. I can’t complain to anyone to get rid of him. He runs his own show, and he has no one to answer to. Poor Joan. Look at her. Her hair hasn’t been cut in twelve years. She’s been here almost as long as I have. I wonder if she screwed him too. Does she think she’s special, the only one, like Janet was supposed to be? We all think we’re special in our own way here, we of the Work. We have the purest path, the most enlightened teacher. God, we’re nothing but a freak island in a small neighborhood pond! I’ve got to get out of here, stop trying to fly above the ignorant masses. I’m no different. I’m jumping ship, my dear Arkonauts. I’ll find land without you.”

     

      The fan breeze in the dining area felt cool against his skin as it blew through his cotton tunic. All eyes were on Squire, but he looked at no one. He paused in the middle of the room a few feet from Parcifal. Without looking at him Squire pulled his wet tunic off and dropped it at Parcifal’s feet. Then he walked out the front door of the Ark. Naked from the waste up in his blue jeans and sandals, he stood erect on the porch and faced the gawking crowd at the end of the walk. Two, large video cameras aimed in his direction. He noticed Janet next to one of the cameramen. She watched him walk toward her down the brick walkway. He ignored all the reporters’ questions as he stood before her. The cameras were on him like the eyes of God.

      “Hi, Janet. I’m thirsty and I need a job.”

      A knowing smile spread across Janet’s face. She took Squire’s hand and walked away from the crowd with him. “Well, I am in the middle of a story about a  girls’ basketball team for a magazine. You’re into basketball, aren’t you--would you like to help?”

      “Yes, I would.”

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