The Magic Cottage

SYNERGISTS

KINSELLA ARRIVED later that evening, alone apart from two bottles of home-made wine.

I was sitting on the doorstep, tossing bread crusts to Rumbo, who was storing them nearby on one side of the path, nimbly catching each piece and dashing back with it, kicking up a storm to warn off the late-shift birds. Midge was inside, clearing up the dinner things.

"You'll need a suitcase to carry that lot home," I advised Rumbo and he chattered back at me to get on with the game. I'd always thought that squirrels only ate nuts and acorns and berries, so it came as a surprise that the rascal would chomp anything offered to him.

This time Kinsella arrived in a different vehicle, a red Escort, and I looked on curiously when the car drew up outside the gate. When I realized who it was something inside me sagged: the vicar's cautionary words had obviously reinforced my own reservations about this blond bomber and his companions.

He waved to me from the other side of the gate and, for some reason, he stayed there as if waiting for an invitation to enter. It occurred to me that neither he nor his friends had ever set foot on Gramarye property, our conversations always conducted over the fence. Sheer politeness, I told myself, plain old-fashioned good manners on their part. Heaving myself up, I sauntered down the path toward him, Rumbo showing his irritation that the game had been interrupted by clenching his tiny fists and squawking fiercely. I dropped the last crusts onto his pile as I passed, and this soothed him somewhat, although I could still hear him grumbling behind me as he tidied up his hoard.

"Hi there, Mike," Kinsella called as I approached, the wine cradled in one arm as he raised the other. He was grinning broadly, all suntan and white teeth. "I've brought a little somethin' to show our appreciation for what you did today."

"Oh, you mean the trouble in the village?" I said humbly and feigning surprise. "They were only kids out for a bit of hooliganism."

"Not quite kids, as I heard it. Gillie told me you gave 'em hell. She and Sandy send their love and thanks once again, and I bring you wine."

"That isn't necessary, you know."

"Sure it is. Look, why don't we open a bottle of this stuff right now? I promise you, it tastes real good."

He stood there holding the wine bottles by the necks over the gate and it would have been churlish of me not to have invited him in. I swung open the gate and waved him through. "Sounds like a great idea," I said.

I expected him to sweep right past, full of bonhomie and sunshine health; but he didn't—he stood on the threshold like a nervous bride. I stared and it was only when he became aware of me once again that the old swagger returned.

"Uh, sorry," he said quickly. "I suddenly wondered if I were imposing. You might be very busy just now,"

"Not this time of day. To tell you the truth, I could use a drink."

He stepped inside and I thought—I only thought—I saw him shiver.

"Boy, you've worked hard on the patch," he remarked as I led the way.

"Midge has done most of it. She's amazed me the way she's coped with all these different flowers. I think moving down here has revived all her horticultural instincts."

Rumbo, who no doubt had been pondering on how to get his groceries back to the nest, jerked his head around at our approach and his small sharp teeth bared in alarm. I was amused to discover he was so shy of strangers when he shot off like a rocket, streaking up the embankment at the side of the cottage to disappear into foliage.

"Cute pet," said Kinsella, chuckling aloud.

"Not so much a pet, more of a regular house-caller. He's usually more friendly."

We reached the front door and I went straight in while Kinsella lingered on the doorstep, evidently to admire the garden further. "Fantastic colors," I heard him say. "Incredible."

"Midge?" I called out. "We've got a guest."

She emerged from the next room, wiping her hands on a dishcloth and with an expectant smile on her face. I pointed and she peered around the door.

"Hub, what a nice surprise!"

" 'Lo, Midge. I've brought this hero of yours a token of gratitude."

"Hero? Oh, you mean his knight-to-the-rescue act this morning."

(Not being the strong silent type, I'd thought the incident worth mentioning. However, I hadn't said anything about the Reverend Sixsmythe's words on the Synergists; I'd leave that to him tomorrow when he could also explain himself to me a bit more.)

"He certainly saved our sisters from some serious hassle. They came back kinda shaky but full of praise for Mike."

"Hey, don't stand outside," I said, feeling my face going red, "come on in."

He accepted the invitation and it seemed to me he was as hesitant as before. Maybe tentative is a better word, because he stepped inside like a diver walking underwater, his movement slow and deliberate. As dusk was settling it was more gloomy inside the kitchen than usual and he had trouble adjusting his eyes to the change in light, blinking them rapidly as he peered around.

"We thought we'd open a bottle now," I told Midge and the idea apparently pleased her.

"I'll fetch some glasses," she said, going to the sideboard. First she pulled open a drawer and tossed me the corkscrew, then she crouched at a cupboard door and brought out two glasses.

"Aren't you going to join us, Midge?" asked Kinsella, rubbing at one of his bare arms as if lie felt cold.

"Never touch the stuff. Tell you what, I'll join you with a Coke."

All three of us sat around the kitchen table and I poured wine for the American and myself, while Midge drank straight from the Coke bottle.

"We're very grateful, Mike," said Kinsella, raising his glass.

"Aah, you know the type—all piss and wind. They saw a coupla girls on their own and thought they'd have some fun. They wouldn't have bothered if you'd have been with Gillie and Sandy."

"I don't know about that. Seems we're not too popular around this place."

"Is that right?" I said, as if it came as a surprise.

He nodded grimly. "They imagine we're a bunch of religious freaks or somethin'. You know what it's like in these tiny backwater communities, suspicious of all outsiders, especially when they're involved in somethin' the locals don't understand."

"The Synergist Temple? I've got to admit, I don't understand that either. What is it, some kind of new religion?"

He grinned, and Midge raised her eyebrows.

"Synergist?" she asked.

"Someone in the village has already told you about us," said Kinsella.

"Yeah, the owner of the hardware store."

"Then you already know they don't like us."

I felt as if I'd been found out in a lie, but Kinsella was smiling across the table at me.

"Synergist?" Midge repeated, noisily tapping the Coke bottle on the wood surface for attention.

Kinsella turned to her. "That's the name for our Order."

"Strange name. I don't think I've ever heard of it before. What does it mean exactly?"

Kinsella sat forward in his chair. "Firstly, we're not a crackpot religion, not like many that are around today, so please don't associate us with any of those. We're not a charity, nor are we a religious sect in the strictest sense." He was still smiling, but now looking reassuringly from face to face. "So, let me explain about Synergism. Fundamentally, it's the belief that the human will and the Divine Spirit are the two agents that can cooperate in regeneration."

That statement took time to sink in with Midge and me. We stared back blankly and his smile broadened to a grin. Despite his relaxed manner, though, I detected a serious intent in his eyes.

"Just as various chemicals act upon each other," he went on, "so we believe that the thought processes of the human mind—which are, y'know, only a complicated series of chemical reactions—can combine with the Divine Spirit, our collective souls, if you like, to produce a unique power."

I kicked Midge's foot under the table, but she ignored me.

"What kind of power are you talking about?" she asked Kinsella.

"Oh, it's diverse. The power to cure, to influence, the power to create . . . it can be manifested in so many ways."

"You mentioned regeneration . . ."

"Regeneration is a word we use to cover all aspects of our doctrine. It means the regeneration of our own spirits, and that of . . ." He broke off there, now his smile apologetic. "You're probably thinking this all sounds crazy, right?"

I had to agree, although I kept quiet.

"But look, all religious devotees pray to their particular deity, whether Christian, Moslem, Jewish—the list is endless. Most times they pray for Divine Intervention, for certain things to happen, or maybe not to happen. They could be praying for themselves, their loved ones, or even the world in general. The point is, they're trying to direct the natural course of events, their own particular god the intermediary or catalyst, or specifically the creator of those events. Our doctrine isn't so different from theirs."

He sat back in his chair, waiting for us to absorb the revelation.

"But there is a difference," I prompted. /

"Only inasmuch as we, with the help of our founder and guide, are learning to combine and direct our energies in a more physical sense and, of course, acting in conjunction with the Divine Spirit."

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm still not quite with you. This, uh, 'Divine Spirit,' is what?"

"You, me, our thoughts." He waved his arms expansively. "The very air around us. And the earth itself, the very power it generates." His voice had become hushed and I found even I was holding my breath. His enthusiasm had somehow charged the atmosphere.

Nobody seemed to want to break the silence between us for a while and I noticed it was becoming quite dark in the kitchen. The evening had taken on a chill, too.

Midge picked up the Coke bottle to drink from it, her eyes never leaving Kinsella. "Are there . . . are there many of you at the gray house?" she asked before touching the bottle to her lips.

"Between forty and fifty, I guess. We call the place our sanctuary, by the way; it's our retreat as well as our temple. And we're growing in numbers all the time." He leaned his elbows on the table, his head jutting forward. "You know, you two should come over and see us, I really think you'd find it an interesting experience."

I spoke up before Midge could say anything. "We're still pretty busy around the place . . ."

He laughed and reached forward to pat my arm. "Don't get nervous, Mike, we won't try to convert you. No, that's not the way we operate at all."

I remembered Hoggs's words in the village that morning indicating otherwise.

"You'd meet some very interesting people," Kinsella continued heartily, "and from many different parts of the world. You'd maybe get the chance to meet Mycroft, too."

Some of my wine spilled as I picked up the glass. "Mycroft?"

"Uh-huh. Eldrich P. Mycroft, our founder, and a very unique man." Kinsella had hardly touched his wine, but now he took a large swallow. "This is good stuff, huh? We make a little money from selling this juice. Never ask for donations, y'see, we always sell our home-made goods."

"Does that bring in enough to keep the organization running?" asked Midge.

"The Temple, Midge, we call it the Temple. The answer to your question is no, not really. We do have private funds, though. It's turned a little cold, don't you think?" This time he rubbed briskly at both upper arms. Oddly, there was perspiration on his brow. "Yeah, it's turned cold." He drank wine again, his eyes roving around the room.

"Perhaps I should close the door," suggested Midge, already beginning to rise.

"No, it's okay," he quickly said, looking over at the open doorway. "Uh, it's nice to take in all those wonderful scents from the garden. The flowers out there are a real joy, Midge. Yeah, Mike, you were great helping out the girls like that today. Everything okay in the cottage? No big problems yet? Apart from the bats. You still worried over those bats, Mike?"

Midge and I exchanged glances. Was this guy getting drunk on one glass of wine?

"They haven't bothered us yet," I replied. I tasted my drink again and it didn't seem that powerful to me.

"You can always count on us to help in any way, you know that." His fingers twisted his glass around on the tabletop. "Gets dark early in this neck of the woods," he said, then laughed, the sound sharp against the stillness of the evening.

"Feels like a storm's brewing," I remarked.

"A storm? Yeah, that's it, there's a storm coming." Kinsella was still wearing that inane smile, but somehow he looked uncomfortable—almost trapped. He was beginning to make me jumpy.

I think Midge was trying to calm him when she inquired, "Are all the people at the Temple around your age, Hub?"

"Oh no. No, we're all age groups. As a matter of fact, even one or two of our Fosterlings are in their sixties. That's what we call the followers, y'know—Fosterlings."

Jesus, I thought. "Is that what you are?"

"No, Mike, I'm a first officer."

"Sounds big stuff."

"Well, it's a high number in the Temple, carries a lotta weight. Hope it's not going to be a bad storm out there. Can you feel the thunder in the air?"

I could. It was almost tangible. I felt that if I snapped my fingers, they'd spark.

Kinsella gulped down the last of his wine and I raised the bottle toward him. He waved it away. "I really oughta be going, it's getting late."

"One for the road?" I said.

"Thanks anyway, but I should make a start before the storm breaks, huh?"

He stood, his chair scraping noisily against the floor tiles. Midge and I rose with him, but he was by the door before we were properly on our feet.

"You remember what I told you." The left side of his smile had developed a twitch. "Call in on us any time, we'll give you a big welcome."

He was edging out of the door even as we approached.

"You stay put," he said hastily. "Don't come out to the gate, you might get wet when the rain comes."

Although it was quite dark by now, I could see his skin was damp with perspiration; yet he shuddered as though a cold draft had tickled his spine.

Then he was gone, hurrying down the path as if he had an urgent appointment elsewhere. Midge and I looked at each other in astonishment.

"Do you think he's all right?" said Midge, genuinely concerned.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it was something we said."

She shivered, victim of the same draft no doubt. "Weird, Mike. Weird. You'd better go after him, make sure he's okay to drive."

I saluted and went outside in time to see our swift-departing guest climbing into the Escort, leaving the garden gate open behind.

"Hey, Hub!" I called, but he couldn't have heard me; the car must have left deep ruts in the grass shoulder, so quickly did it speed away. I strolled to the gate, and by the time I got there the Escort had disappeared from view. "Have a nice day," I said to the empty road.

Closing the gate, I turned back toward Gramarye and now I noticed that any storm clouds had moved on. But then I stopped. There were dark clouds on the horizon, obscuring the last rays of the fading sun, their tops tinged red, but the sky above was relatively free of any heavy clouds. A breeze rumpled the flowerbeds and colors softened by twilight bobbed in smooth rhythm. A small black shape flittered from the roof of the cottage, a bat on its evening's forage, and I stood in the garden, metaphorically scratching my head, wondering why we had all thought a storm was looming.

And then that cold draft touched me.

I shivered and my shoulders hunched. Something beyond the garden drew my eyes toward it. Nothing that moved. Nothing that made any sound. Just the figure again, now standing before the edge of the forest, the face no more than a dim blur.

But I knew it was watching me. And I knew it was waiting.

The figure moved forward, just one step. And I fled inside the cottage.