A Dark Star Falling - Chapter Three

 

The morning dawned cold but clear and the wind had died away. TP arose early as was his habit, feeling refreshed after a sound night’s sleep.

In the kitchen he made coffee, heated a pot of water for hot cereal and got out the tea canister. Claire liked green tea, Sencha loose leaf, 4 grams for two cups, brewed exactly three minutes. He hummed as he weighed and measured and stirred, adding a blend of grains to the now bubbling water, sprinkling in a bit of cinnamon, stirring some more.

“What’s that you’re humming?”

 Claire appeared, looking like she’d just popped out of an Easter basket, soft and rosy in a plush pink robe. Her hair was down around her shoulders, though not mussed from sleep, of course, but lying smooth and glossy against her neck. Claire was never mussed. Dirt never clung to her, she repelled it. She could emerge from the marshes they liked to explore after wading through muck and weeds for hours looking as pristine as when she’d gone in, while TP would have several holes in his shirt, muddy knees, burrs in his hair and at least one boot squishing wetly as he walked. Another of life’s great mysteries.

 TP stopped stirring and cocked his head. What had he been humming? “I haven’t a clue,” he said, looking puzzled.

 “It sounded like an old Romani tune my dad used to play on the fiddle.”

 “Romani? As in gypsy?”

 “The Roma people don’t like to be called gypsies, but yes, like gypsies. Dad used to sneak away sometimes to the Romani camp near our village in Ireland on summer evenings to play music with them. Mom hated him going – she thought Romas were rough and low class, and of course my sister and I were forbidden to go, but we loved the colorful stories Dad told about them and the music they taught him. Hum that tune again, TP.”

 As he did so, a tiny snippet of dream from the night before filtered into his mind. He remembered seeing bits of wispy white filaments, some woven together, some broken or torn, all floating in space, and music notes sounding with them. And a feeling of melancholy. He stopped humming and frowned.

 “What is it, TP?” asked Claire.

 “I don’t know,” he said, “I think that tune was in a dream I had.”

 “Hmmm,” said Claire, “interesting.” She looked at him thoughtfully but said no more, and he went back to stirring the porridge.

 By the time they ate, sunlight was streaming in the windows, promising a pleasant day after three days of inclement weather.

 TP noticed a black Lexus parked across the street, opposite his neighbor Gladys’ house. He’d seen the car there several times recently.

 “Gladys must have house guests,” he said to Claire.

 “I believe she’s seeing a French chef.”

 “What? Gladys? How do you know?”

 “I went by the deli where she works on Friday. There’s a new manager, Antoine something. Gladys seemed pretty chummy with him, but I could be wrong. There was just this vibe between them, you know?”

 “Well,” said TP.

 Gladys Quizzenberry’s back yard bordered his on the other side of his wax myrtle hedge. A widow in her mid-fifties, she’d had a huge crush on TP for a long time and showered him with gourmet treats, though recently the casseroles, breads, stews, salads and desserts were not appearing as often. Possibly due to the new French chef. How did he feel about Gladys having a beau? She was a nosy busybody and often a pain in the neck with her shrill voice, blunt comments, innuendos and tired clichés. So he should be happy to have her attention focused elsewhere. But somehow he felt miffed. Good grief, was he so shallow that he wanted to continue basking in her adoration without giving anything in return? Or was it that he didn’t want the delicious food to stop being delivered? He did pay her from time to time for the treats, and gave her produce from his garden, but… a French chef! Who drove a black Lexus. It was a good thing, he decided. He just needed time to adjust.

 Claire grinned at him. “I believe you’re jealous, TP.” She knew very well how Gladys felt about TP. The woman was as subtle as a blowtorch, and had made it clear she thought Claire was not worthy of him.

“I’ll try to bear it manfully,” he said, “and maybe you can offer some comfort.”

 After breakfast they drove to Claire’s house to feed her cat. Claire lived in a small two-story house in Mount Washington, a suburb of north Baltimore only minutes away from TP’s ranch-style home in Cheswolde.

 TP never felt quite comfortable at Claire’s. It was too clean and white. White walls, white sofa, white curtains. Turquoise arm chairs and colorful pillows relieved the whiteness, but he was always afraid of spilling something or tracking in mud. The kitchen chairs were pale pink plush. Who would have plush kitchen chairs? Only Claire. When he ate there, TP hunched over the small table like a vulture, hoping not to drop food. Claire’s bedroom and bath were behind the kitchen, and upstairs was a small music room and two more rooms with dormered windows and a bathroom between them, one a guest bedroom and the other used as an office/den/exercise room where Claire did her tai chi routine every morning.

 Luther, the cat, was lying on top of Claire’s piano in the living room. He glared at TP and twitched his tail. Solid grey with pale yellow eyes and a permanent scowl, Luther had been a stray and was not exactly the cuddly type, though he would occasionally sit in Claire’s lap and allow her to stroke him. He and TP were not on good terms.

 “Hello, Luther,” said TP, and received a hiss in return.

 Luther jumped down from the piano and sauntered into the kitchen where Claire was filling his food dish. He deigned to let her scratch his ears, then settled over his dish after glancing around to make sure TP was not sneaking up on him.

 “So, do you want to take a walk and go to a matinee? Or we could look at slides of transitional forms of gymnosperms during the Carboniferous period under the microscope. Or you could play cello for me naked.”

 “Oh, ick,” said Claire. “Walk first, then maybe matinee.”

 “No cello?”

 “We’ll see,” she said.

They took a brisk two mile walk at the arboretum, then a leisurely stroll through the gardens, enjoying the November sunshine, then ended up back at Claire’s, as there were no matinees they wanted to see.

 “I brought our book along if you want to read,” Claire said.

 “The Count of Saint-Germain? Certainly. The fellow is one of the most mysterious and controversial characters in all of history and possibly one of the most influential. I learn something new every time I read the book. I wish I could get my hands on some of his alchemical formulas.”

 “I love his music,” said Claire. “I read once that he hid secrets in his musical compositions about who he really was and all his magical accomplishments. How did he slip through the cracks of history, do you suppose?”

 TP shrugged. “He obviously wasn’t after fame. Some thought he was a charlatan. Many officials in high places tried to destroy him. People fear what they don’t understand and believe what they want to believe even if the facts say otherwise. What would you think if someone disappeared and then reappeared right before your eyes?”

 Claire arched an eyebrow. “You’re asking the wrong person. If you recall, that happened to me when you tried to take me into Minglemist.”

 Three times they’d tried, TP holding tightly to Claire’s hand as he pulled her through the hedge, but much to Clare’s disappointment, it hadn’t worked. She’d found herself in Gladys’ back yard, while TP had completely disappeared.

 “Oh, well, but you’re different. Thank goodness.”

 “Most people would assume it was a trick.”

 “Of course. Trickery is the most likely explanation and far safer than believing someone had so mastered the elements he or she could disappear into the ethers and appear elsewhere. People are uncomfortable with the unknown. It’s messy, it’s untidy, it’s disturbing and possibly evil. So we all formulate explanations for mysteries that suit our beliefs.”

 They let that thought linger while Claire heated water for tea. “I guess it would be intimidating to be around a man who never aged, who played every instrument imaginable, composed music, painted beautifully, spoke French, German, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian and English and had traveled all over the world.”

 “His name’s also been linked with the Order of the Rose Cross.”

 “Ah, Rosicrucianism. The Secret Stream, isn’t it called? I don’t know much about it.”

 “Hah,” said TP. “You and most everyone else. That’s why it’s called the Secret Stream.” His blue eyes glinted as he addressed one of his favorite topics. “Rosicrucianism is the union of the Cross and the Rose, or science and love. The resurrection of matter. The ultimate goal being to transform the substance of the earth into love. Evil into good, lead into gold, matter into light. They were alchemists, of course.”

 “And apparently healers, musicians, artists and much, much more. Seekers of higher knowledge, like you are, TP.”

 His chest swelled at her compliment.

 “I think you are too, Claire. That’s why you’re sitting here right now.”

 "Oh, that, and many other reasons.”

 “Such as?”

 She smiled. “When I first saw you loping across campus with your suit coat flapping in the breeze I wanted to run after you.”

 “Really? Why?”

 “You had a brief case in one hand and a jar of water filled with wiggling things in the other, trying not to jostle it as you hurried along. I knew wherever you’d come from and wherever you were going was very vital and exciting.”

 “So why didn’t you? Run after me?”

 “I thought I’d better let you make the first move. I didn’t want to scare you back into the marsh.”

 “Hah! As if. It took me months to get up the nerve to speak to you.”

 “After a concert, it was, at the refreshment table. You came up and asked if I liked lilies.”

 “How absurd. What was I thinking?”

 “There was a bouquet of them on the table.”

 “Ah, yes. I was thinking you put them to shame. I’m surprised you didn’t run the other way from a great awkward oaf like myself.”

 “Oh, I couldn’t run.”

 “Why?”

 “Because I’d looked into your bright blue eyes.”

 “And?”

 “And that was that.”

 Claire served up mugs of clove and cinnamon-smelling tea and they began to read, losing themselves in the drama of the French Revolution and the Count’s dire predictions that all came true.

 Late in the afternoon as the shadows grew long and the day was winding down, Claire played cello for TP, first a new piece she was working on for the Christmas concert, then some French and Moravian folk songs, then, after rummaging through her sheet music, she drew out a paper with a flourish.

 “Voila! Here we have a sonata by Saint-Germain. It would sound better with the violin, but you can get an idea.”

 How strange and wondrous, TP thought as he listened to the music written centuries ago. He was actually sharing an intimate moment with the Count of Saint-Germain! Was his spirit hovering over them this very minute as the notes sounded? Goose bumps rose on TP’s arms as he glanced around the room, now bathed in twilight. His eyes fell on Luther sitting under the piano bench, staring intently at the bottom of the floor-length curtains as they lifted faintly, then settled.

 When the notes died away he said, “Thank you, Claire. It was exquisite.”

 “But I’m not quite finished,” she said, and began to play again

TP recognized the melody at once. It was the tune from his dream. He sat up straight in his chair, hands gripping the doily-covered arms as the notes wove their spell. It all came back to him; the dream, the white filaments, the snippets of melody. But as Claire played, the snippets coalesced into a complete song. He remembered parts of it he’d forgotten, or that were lost in his subconscious before he awoke. Claire kept glancing at his face as she played, stumbling a bit here and there when memory eluded her. When she’d finished they sat silent for a time, letting the notes linger in the dying light, and though the minor key lent an air of melancholy, TP felt a lightness enter the room, as if something long held captive had been released. Maybe it was his imagination, but even Luther seemed less dour and more kindly disposed towards him, batting at his shoelace as he skittered past and disappeared under the curtains, his tail lashing back and forth.

 

Finally Claire said, “I don’t even know the name of that piece. My dad’s the only one I ever heard play it. And I could say something trite here, TP, like it came to you for a reason. Or we can dismiss it as a fluke. Or we can just sort of circle around it slowly and gently, searching for connecting threads.”

 

“I like that,” said TP, an idea coming to him. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”

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