The Book of Stanley (20 page)

 

FORTY-SIX

F
our large men dressed in bland cowboy garb leaned against the travel-booking counter in the lobby of the Chalet Du Bois, pretending to look at brochures. Stanley and Alok, the first to finish packing, sat on a chesterfield made of stained birch, with wolf-print cushions.

“Have you sent flowers?” Alok said.

Stanley had shared his feelings of incompleteness without Frieda, not to elicit sympathy or possible strategies to bring her back, but just to say it out loud. As Alok offered other suggestions and bits of “wisdom of the thrice-divorced,” Stanley watched the cowboys and listened to their thoughts. Each man had a natty beard and identical black workboots. They were connected in some way with the anxious and guilty clerk, and they were here to do something about Stanley and Alok. To take them somewhere. The cowboys were waiting for the right moment.

“My wife after Kitty, Gabriela, collected little dolls. It was creepy in her basement, where they all sat on shelves. Anyway, when she was pissed at me I always knew just what to do. Buy her a creepy doll. The secret was to know the dolls she already owned and the–”

Stanley placed his hand on Alok's arm and squeezed. “Don't fight back.”

“What?”

“It's going to be all right.”

“What's going to be all right?”

The clerk exchanged glances with the four cowboys and left the lobby through a door marked “Employees Only.” A moment later, the cowboys were upon Stanley and Alok. Instead of tossing them through a wall, Stanley allowed himself to be led forcibly through the lobby and out the back door.

“If you scream, we'll kill you,” said one of the cowboys, a man with giant front teeth and an overbite. “We have guns. Walk normal.”

Alok reached out for Stanley. “What's happening?”

“Don't worry.”

There was a young couple in the parking lot, lifting luggage from their trunk. The cowboy with the overbite nodded to the couple as they passed. Then he looked around, spat on the pavement, and continued hustling Alok and Stanley to a large, white, canopied truck with a double cab. The young couple disappeared inside the hotel.

One of the cowboys opened the tailgate and canopy, and two others tied Alok's and Stanley's arms behind their backs. Overbite stood guard, watching the parking lot. It was quick. The most anxious one blindfolded and gagged them. His hands trembled and he cleared his throat regularly. He and another man strained to lift and toss Alok into the back of the truck, but in the end they shoved him roughly inside. Stanley jumped in.

The truck rumbled and backed out of its parking spot. Alok lay on his stomach, and it was difficult for him to breathe. He grunted and rocked and whined. As soon as the truck sped up, Stanley pulled his hands out of the rope, removed his blindfold, and took the strip of cotton out of his mouth. “You're okay,” he said, to Alok, and freed him.

Alok rolled onto his side, breathed normally again, and whispered, “Why are you letting them do this?”

“I'd like to understand who they are and what they're doing.”

“What if they hurt us?”

“I won't let them.”

Alok winked. “You can hear them up there?”

“I can.”

Based on the vehicle's speed, Stanley guessed they were on the Trans-Canada Highway. Ten minutes later, the truck turned and slowed. Up front, the men argued about where
to keep Stanley and Alok. One argued they ought to just kill the devils–tie them to a good pile of concrete and drop them in the middle of Two Jack Lake. Overbite countered that fighting evil acts with evil acts was the way of darkness. They would wait for instructions.

The truck sped up a hill, continued over a mile or so of gravel, and finally came to a stop. Doors slammed, and Stanley could hear the crunching of footsteps.

“What should I do, Stan?”

“Just stay quiet for the moment, and hide behind me if they have weapons.”

“You won't let them hurt us, right?”

“Never. You're perfectly safe, I promise.”

Alok smiled and rubbed Stanley's hair. There was a heavy
clonk
and the canopy door opened into the brightness. Stanley was briefly blinded. The nervous one opened the tail-gate, grabbed Alok's arm, and pulled him out onto the ground. “Hey! They got loose!” The man kicked Alok in the chest and screamed for his mates.

Alok tried to roll away as the man kicked him again and again. He cried out, “Stan?”

Stanley jumped out of the van and grasped the man, whose thoughts were all hatred and fear, by the face. He shrieked and kicked Stanley in the leg. Still holding the man by the face, Stanley pivoted and whipped him into the side of the truck. There was a great, hollow crash. The man crumpled to the gravel and lay still.

Stanley bent down to look at Alok, whose eyes were half closed.

“I'm feeling damn poor, Stan.” Alok's breaths were thin wheezes, and he held his chest.

Looking around, Stanley saw they were in an isolated
area south and east of Banff. He recognized the view of Rundle Mountain, capped with snow.

“You're going to be fine,” said Stanley, though he didn't believe it. He quickly surveyed the property, a log house and garage.

“Hospital,” said Alok.

The other three cowboys stormed out of the house, accompanied by a short, chubby woman. All three had guns. It was obvious she was in charge. In a high yet husky voice, the woman said, “Shoot him.”

Stanley danced away from the bullets and rushed the men. Two of them dropped their guns and turned to run. The other, Overbite, shot Stanley just above the bicep of his left arm. It hurt, briefly, but did not immobilize him.

“I reject you,” said Overbite, as Stanley took the gun from his hand and tossed it onto the gravel. “I reject you in the name of Jesus Christ.”

“Do you have permission, to use his name?”

Overbite spat in Stanley's face. In a brief rage, Stanley slapped the man and he tumbled to the ground, semi-conscious. His compatriots, still running, rounded the log cabin and continued toward the base of the mountain behind. The stout woman remained, her chin raised.

“I have been waiting for you,” she said. She carried no weapons, and was unconcerned with the health and welfare of her bodyguards. The woman had a faint moustache, and flecks of yellow in the whites of her eyes. She carried a satisfied look on her face, and a faint snarl. Her buttoned-up blouse matched the blue of the cowboys' shirts. “Your coming was foretold.”

Stanley calmed himself, as he did not want to slap anyone else. “Foretold by whom? Who are you people?”

“It is enough that
we know you
, enemy. And we welcome you here, for the final battle. We are well prepared. We act according to the will of God the Redeemer and–”

“Shut up. Just shut up, you lunatic.”

Stanley turned away from her to see to his friend. Alok continued to lie on the gravel, wheezing shallowly, his eyes closed. The sight of him nearly provoked Stanley to break the woman's neck.

As he helped Alok up and led him to the passenger door of the truck, Stanley read her thoughts. She was a vault of belief.

The keys were not in the truck, and Stanley could not will it to start. “Where are the keys?”

“I'm not going to help you, old serpent.”

Stanley sighed and went to Overbite, who whimpered quietly. Blood dribbled from his nose. He rifled through the man's pockets and found the keys. Before he started it, Stanley yanked the limp cowboy from the side of the truck so he wouldn't run over his arm. A small cloud of dust rose up. The man was not dead, but several of his bones were broken.

The sun went behind a cloud, and the woman looked up, raised her arms, and began to pray. Stanley turned the vehicle around, knocking over a small wooden fence. He piloted the truck down the gravel road, through the hamlet of Harvie Heights, and onto the Trans-Canada Highway. A number of cars were stopped on the shoulder. Tourists photographed a herd of mountain goats.

“We aren't violent men,” said Alok, without opening his eyes.

“I'm sorry I didn't do it sooner.” Stanley reached over and touched Alok's forehead; it was cool and wet. “What hurts?”

“My chest, my shoulder, my arm.” Alok could hardly get the words out. “Something bad is happening to me.”

“You're just winded, that's all.”

“I don't think so, Stan.” Alok coughed, weakly. “There's doom in the air.”

Stanley pulled into the parking lot of the Mineral Springs Hospital and hopped out. He flopped the big man over his right shoulder. Inside the doors of the emergency room, the first person who saw them–a woman with gauze wrapped around her head–dropped her can of Diet Coke. It plunked and leaked on the white floor.

There was an empty wheelchair near the door, so with his free arm Stanley lowered Alok into it. The nurse took one look at Alok and called a porter and an acute-care nurse.

“Don't leave me, Stan. I can't be alone. I need to know you're–”

“I won't leave you, my friend.”

The admitting nurse held up her hand. “Are you immediate family?”

“No.”

“Then I'm sorry, you'll have to wait.”

The porter arrived, trailed by another man, and they wheeled Alok away.

“I need to be with him.”

“You can't be with him, sir,” she said.

“Yes, I can.” Stanley focused on her mind.

For the first time, the nurse made eye contact with Stanley. “It's against hospital policy and it isn't safe.”

Stanley willed her to allow him inside. The woman seemed to understand what he was up to.

“Listen, fella.” The nurse took the little gold cross on her necklace and squeezed it, briefly. “I watch
TV
. I know
who you are. But none of your black magic is gonna work on me.”

“But–”

“We'll take good care of your friend. And if we can't do it, we'll rush him to the city.”

The porter had taken Alok through swinging doors into what looked like a small operating theatre. Stanley called out after Alok, weakly, “You're going to be all right, pal.”

The admitting nurse exhaled through her nose, grabbed her cross again, and walked backwards through the swinging doors.

 

FORTY-SEVEN

T
he bed and breakfast on Grizzly Street had been built in 1912 as a home for a Rocky Mountain explorer named Mary Schäffer. On the walls of the great room, built with shiny fir planks, Kal and Maha read about her exploits and admired the black-and-white photographs of the house in bygone eras.

Actually, only Maha read the stories and quotations. She wore a white T-shirt with a V neck, so Kal stared at the line of her collarbone.

“Oh, her first husband died,” said Maha, “and she kept coming here from Philadelphia. To cure her heartbreak.”

“Heartbreak,” said Kal. Once again close enough to Maha
that he could smell her. She smelled of springtime, like a princess ought to, and an image of his own worthlessness flashed and faded. “Poor lady.”

Tanya sat near the front window, on the telephone with a producer from
60 Minutes
. The producer wanted assurances that his reporter, Morley Safer, would have a lengthy, exclusive interview with Stanley Moss.

She hung up the phone, growled, and looked at her watch. “Where
are
they?”

“They'll be here,” said Maha, without looking away from the interpretive display.

Stanley and Alok had not met the other three in the lobby of the Chalet Du Bois as planned, and Tanya was worried they had fled back to Edmonton. The lure of Frieda. “I swear to God I'll sue him from here to Stuttgart if he does this to me.”

Kal didn't think Stanley and Alok were the types to leave without saying goodbye, but he didn't say as much. He wasn't keen on speaking with Tanya, who quivered with frustration. The owner of the bed and breakfast, a tall woman with bad posture who had asked that they call her Swooping Eagle, was eager to learn about Stanley. She set a tray of tea and biscuits on a table near the fireplace and turned on some music.

“So,” said Swooping Eagle, “how was he chosen?”

“How was who chosen?” said Tanya.

“Why, Stanley Moss, of course.”

Tanya looked up, and it seemed to Kal that she wanted some sort of help. So he said, “Lady explorer–neat.”

“Yes,” said Swooping Eagle. Then she turned back to Tanya. “I'm so curious about Mr. Moss. When will he join you?”

Tanya looked at her watch again. “It says on all your advertisements that your name is Janet. What's with Swooping Eagle?”

“That's my craft name. Does Mr. Moss have another name?”

“The Lord,” said Maha. “But he doesn't like us calling him that. Religious language is polluted. We need to think up something better.”

“Polluted, polluted. Yes.” Swooping Eagle backed against the fireplace and mantel. “This is an obsession of mine, and other members of my coven. We meet for monthly salons, to discuss issues like this. How did language get to this state, do you think? What was the evolution of religious language?”

In case Swooping Eagle wanted him to answer this question, Kal pretended to lose a contact lens. He dropped to his knees and looked under an end table near the picture window. “Dang it!”

“Let's think about Europe, for a sec, as the root of our religious culture. You with me?”

Kal patted the floor as Maha said, “Coven?”

“So you've got the suppression of pagan religions and the rise of Roman Catholicism. This lasts for centuries and centuries, great darkness, all that. Then you get the Protestant Reformation and the confessional lunacy, the inquisitions. And, finally, Voltaire, the Enlightenment, and the French Revolution. Still with me?”

“Totally,” said Kal, though in truth he had no idea what she was talking about. So far he had grasped “
blah blah
Roman Catholicism
blah blah blah
.” But he was definitely eager to learn. “We're picking up what you're laying down, Ms. Eagle.”

Tanya snorted and began to flip through a copy of
SageWoman
magazine.

“God begins to depart from western Europe. I mean, as a social, political, and moral force. Yes? Then, after the Revolution, the Jacobins attack the Church. They suppress Catholicism and try to start
a new religion
.”

“That's what we're doing,” said Kal.

“Right. Well, they fashioned their pagan rebirth around the catastrophe of the Revolution. Where does this lead? Visions of triumph and binding spiritual ideals, talk of blood and race and aggressive human progress?”

“Well, um, there's the uhh…” said Kal.

“The Nazis,” said Maha.

“Exactly.” Swooping Eagle leaned over the back of the chesterfield, for emphasis. “And Communism. All the-isms, really. These were, essentially, religious movements. They followed all the same models, with rituals and holy places and godlike leaders. Even if they pretended to be finished with religion. Leading us where? Where?”

She looked at Kal, smiling, waiting for him to answer. “Here?”

“Yes! To the cult of the individual. Consumerism. Snuff films.” She paused. “Do you think Stanley would agree with that analysis?”

No one answered. Kal shrugged and looked at the scones.

“I suppose it's best if I put my questions directly to him,” said Swooping Eagle.

“It depends on the questions.” Tanya inspected her fingernails. “We don't like to bother him with trivialities.”

Swooping Eagle stared at Tanya for a few moments, turned to Kal, and said, “Please, help yourself to some scones and cookies. The tea is Earl Grey!”

“How kind of you,” said Maha.

Swooping Eagle took a couple of steps back from the tray and hovered expectantly, until she had the room's full attention. The strange tension in the house, flickering among these three women, was like a bad smell. Kal wanted to stand in the backyard for a while, until it passed.

Then their hostess announced, with a smile, “I'm a witch.” She said it the way some other people might say, “I like white wine.”

Tanya barked out a laugh. “Meaning?”

“I mean I'm a witch. A Wiccan. A priestess of the sacred mysteries? I was initiated into the craft in 1994, atop Tunnel Mountain.” She looked up in its direction, in case Kal, Maha, and Tanya were not aware of Tunnel Mountain. “What I find so fascinating about Mr. Moss is that he doesn't say any of the words, or dress in any ceremonial robes. How does he do what he does? This spiritual movement you're starting: what sort of rituals and initiations and celebrations are involved?”

Kal wished Alok were here. Alok would have known just what to say. A frightfully awkward minute passed. And another. Kal beat it toward the back door as Maha said, “We wrote a testament.”

“A testament. How thrilling. Can I see it?”

Tanya sighed and pulled a copy of The Testament from her purse. “Knock yourself out, Swoopy.” The owner took it from Tanya and spun it around in her hands. She opened it to the first page and sat on the couch across from the fireplace. At first, Kal, his hand hovering over the doorknob, was relieved. Then she began reading aloud, which only made things more fraught. Kal was torn. Was it polite to
leave the room while The Testament was being read aloud?

“
This is the book of a man called Stanley Moss, the atheist, who in the latter stages of his life became a Lord to
us all.” Swooping Eagle looked up. “Classic.”

Tanya was furious. Maha didn't like Tanya. Every word between them seemed sarcastic, or filled with a double meaning Kal couldn't grasp. No one had touched the snacks. A woman named Swooping Eagle was reading a book out loud. Yes, Kal had to escape.

“
Now, in the year when Stanley Moss was diagnosed with cancer of the lungs he prepared to descend into black black night, nothingness, and abandon his wife, Frieda, and son Charles, lately of New York City.
” Swooping Eagle looked around. “This is quite compelling,” she said. “Can I continue?”

“Can I call you Janet?” said Tanya.

A large green van passed slowly on Grizzly Street, and Kal stood at the door in agony. He had ordered an accordion on his credit card, with rush delivery. But the truck continued along.

The B & B owner pushed her long, frizzy brown hair back behind her ears. “
Just as the frailty of Stanley Moss became apparent and his palliative care was to begin, in the lateness of his life, Stanley received a visitation. There was a thump, and great pressure, and the colour blue. A voice that shook the earth. This heralded the beginning of the
rebirth
of Stanley Moss.

“
The nausea
did
pass away, and the fear of death. Yet Stanley saw, in the phase of his rebirth, that we have nothing to fear in nothingness. There is great beauty, and honour, in receiving nothingness into our hearts. In receiving the black
black night and all its implications. The incomprehensibility of the universe and the rotting bones in the soil underneath
us all.

“
That morning, as he travelled by motorized vehicle to see his doctor, Stanley was animated by his new strength. He was set upon by ruffians with poor hygiene, and he dispatched of them. On the bus, later, he did cement his connection to
us all
when he began to hear our inner thoughts.
”

Swooping Eagle closed the book and laid it on her knee. “He hears thoughts?”

“Usually,” said Maha.

On Grizzly Street, the delivery truck beeped as it backed up. The driver looked at a sheet of paper, and then looked at the house. Kal seized his opportunity and ran out the door.

The accordion, a Roland
FR
-7
V
, was in its gleaming box. He signed for it, denied a temptation to hug the driver, and stood with it proudly as the delivery truck started away. It was evening now, and the sun was easing below the mountains. Bees were about the flowers. There was a rumble down the street, of an approaching crowd. He guessed it was the multilingual tourists on Banff Avenue, in the midst of shopping and eating and drinking–being enthusiastically human.

It was so peaceful in the yard and such a relief to be out of the soup of discomfort that he decided to unpack the instrument on the lawn. Stanley's voice interrupted him just as he began to rip the tape.