THE GREATEST TREASURE OF ALL
Kerry Lindemann-Schaefer
Bolts of something like static electricity flared inside a small chamber. They seemed to surround and emanate from a strangely-shaped chalice on a simple altar. The chalice glowed an eerie green as the lightnings flashed and hissed. A sharp sense of dread and menace filled my soul.
I tore my eyes from the source of that awful power and saw Kwai Chang Caine sprawled lifelessly on the stone floor. My breath caught in my throat. I would have screamed, but could not.
It was a nightmare, and in some odd way, I knew that, even as I watched in horror. But I couldn't force myself to wake up.
The awesome scene faded out, to be replaced by something else: a crowded bar, where some people had numbers on their foreheads and everyone walked around like freaked-out lost souls. It could have been something out of a punk rocker's fantasy.
Over the din, I heard Caine's voice, sounding uncharacteristically angry and resentful.
"All those years, -- where were you when I -- did need you? Travelling around the world, -- looking for treasure. Things! Just things!"
I searched the crowd, desperately wanting to find him, but it was difficult. Everything was distorted, as if it were being alternately stretched vertically and then horizontally. The entire scene jumped and flickered erratically, coming into clear focus only now and again. I missed bits and pieces of the action and dialog during the flickers.
When I located Caine, he was sitting at a table, talking to someone. Someone who looked so much like him that I would have done a double-take, had I truly been there, instead of being just a disembodied observer. Someone who could have been Caine, aged another thirty years or so. He wore brown-rimmed glasses and had a bit less hair than the Caine I knew. His left hand rested on a cane.
I was still wondering who the hell he was when I caught a fragment of what he was saying.
"I was forced to wander the earth -- to seek -- the greatest treasure of all: inner peace."
"And did you hit the jackpot, Daddy?" Caine asked, with cruel sarcasm.
"I did," the older man replied mildly.
Daddy? Caine had called him Daddy? Then this had to be Matthew Caine, the long-lost father that I knew lived somewhere in France. But I had never met Matthew Caine, so how could I be seeing him in my dreams?
"I knew you never really looked for me. You abandoned me!" Caine accused his father with a viciousness I had never heard him use in real life.
"No."
"You abandoned me," he persisted. "You never loved me."
Oh, look who's talking about abandoning people, I thought. Kwai Chang Caine, master of the great escape, who left his whole life behind to go to Europe, who left his son --
And you, Jeremy. Don't forget the way he left you -- and not for the first time either.
Wait a minute, where did that last thought come from? But I had no time to worry about that now. The nightmare went on.
"That is not the truth. You know that." But Matthew sounded a little uncertain now. He took off his glasses, putting one end briefly in his mouth, not a gesture one is likely to use if he feels secure about what he's saying. "I have always loved you."
"Liar! Liar! Liar!" Caine yelled, drawing back a clenched fist to punch the other man.
The sheer shock of seeing him do that was finally enough to wake me up. I lay still, frozen with the fear that carried over from the dream. It seemed I couldn't move, but I knew if I did, the spell would be broken and the world would make sense once more. I don't know how long I lay there motionless, futilely willing myself to get up, but it was long enough to wonder if I had finally gone off the deep end and fallen into insanity.
It wouldn't have surprised me much. I'd fought off bouts of depression during most of my adult life, some bad enough that they had ended in suicide attempts, so one more episode of craziness wouldn't be entirely unexpected. (And, of course, there are people in our society who would automatically label me less than sane simply because I'm gay. But I don't pay much attention to them anymore.)
I forced myself to sit up in an effort to get back to reality, if I could. At first I thought I hadn't made it. Instead of being in my own bed, I was on the platform in Caine's apartment. Well, strictly speaking, it was Peter's place now, but it would always be Caine's in my mind, despite the jarring presence of Peter's large-screen TV and his computer, not to mention the oil paintings he had hung on some of the walls.
What was I doing here? Oh yeah, that's right. Peter was down with the flu, staying at the Blaisdell's house so Annie could look after him. I had promised to stop by here on the way home from my shift at the hospital to check things out, water the plants, that kind of thing. I'd been working a lot of overtime and was pretty tired, so I had stretched out on the mat by the window for a quick rest before I headed home. Must have fallen asleep.
Still, that dream continued to haunt me. I checked my wristwatch. 5 A.M. Good grief, had I spent the whole night here? Lucky I didn't have to work today, or I'd be running late already. We start early in MRI.
I thought about going home, then decided in favor of rustling up a cup of tea instead and getting cleaned up in the bathroom. I wanted to go talk to the Ancient. Maybe he could make sense of that nightmare, if that's what it had been.
Several months after Caine had left Sloan City, Lo Si had taken his place as my T'ai Chi Ch'uan teacher and informal spiritual adviser. He'd also been treating my tendency to depression with some of his infamous herbal concoctions. I'd grown fairly close to the old priest in the past half year or so. And the closer I got, the more my respect for him grew. That doesn't happen with everyone, you know.
The Ancient listened intently to my description of the dream, nodding sagely when I finished my recitation.
"You are not crazy, Jeremy," he said, answering the question I had not even asked. "But you must go to France."
"Huh?" If I wasn't crazy, then perhaps he was. "France? Me? What on earth for?"
"To warn Matthew Caine. Something threatens the Sacred Chalice of I Ching."
"I thought the I Ching was a book," I objected. "In fact, I just finished reading it and I can't recall any mention of a chalice, sacred or otherwise."
"You are correct. The book does not mention such a thing. But it is said that Jesus Christ spent some time in the Far East. While in China, he visited a Shaolin Temple, where a Chalice of great power was given to him. This is the one that is meant."
Sounded pretty fishy to me. Jesus never traveled to what is now called the Far East. He was a poor carpenter who spent his whole life in what is now Israel, as far as I knew. And, as I believe I just said, the I Ching is a book, used by some people for divination. Nevertheless, this Chalice must be pretty awesome, judging by what I had seen in my nightmare, not to mention the Ancient's reaction to it.
"For many years, it has been hidden from the world," Lo Si went on, "but Matthew Caine discovered its location. He now lives in the village of St. Adele, near where the Chalice is kept. You must go there and warn him."
Oh sure. Right.
"Couldn't I just send a telegram or something?"
"That will not do," the Ancient insisted, clearly prepared to be adamant on the subject. "The dream summons you. You are involved in what will happen."
It was just beginning to dawn on me that the old priest was dead serious about all this.
"You mean my nightmare was true? Caine lying dead on the floor? It really happened?"
I got this awful sensation in my stomach, as if the bottom had just dropped out of my life.
"I do not think it has happened -- yet," Lo Si replied cautiously. "Kwai Chang Caine told me about the Chalice, but I do not feel that he is dead. However, the argument between father and son may have taken place already. The bar you described is much like the Bardo world where Peter and I went to look for him, at a time when he had been poisoned and was near death. However, Kwai Chang Caine did not tell me about meeting his father in that place."
"Given the nasty things he said in my dream, it's not surprising that he didn't particularly want to talk about it," I suggested.
Lo Si inclined his head in a slight nod. "Perhaps not."
"You really want me to get involved in all this? I mean, I've seen those old Indiana Jones movies. I've got no very great desire to mess around with sacred relics."
"You will go to France."
Damn. The Ancient can be twice as stubborn and three times as persuasive as Caine himself, when he wants to be. Before I hardly knew what was happening, I found myself on a plane to Europe. Fortunately, I had time off coming to me at work, so that wasn't a problem. Money was tight, but Lo Si arranged payment for my fare. How could I refuse?
It was late in the afternoon when I left my rented car parked out by the road and walked over to the church of St. Adele through an old graveyard.
Being in Europe may sound romantic to you, but it made me a bit nervous. You see, I'm German on both sides of my family, although all my ancestors came over well before World War I. Nevertheless, at the time when I was coming of age, the true extent of Nazi brutality was just becoming common knowledge, and the Holocaust (of course, we didn't call it that back then; that term appeared later) was being revealed to a horrified world by means of books and gruesome documentaries. When I thought about my family heritage, all I saw was barbed wire and piles of emaciated bodies being bulldozed into open pits; railroad cars carrying human cargo and crematory chimneys belching black smoke; that sort of thing. Not the kind of images that were calculated to make a person feel at home in Europe. Or at least, not this person. I'm too sensitive to the ghosts of the past, and walking through a graveyard wasn't helping matters any.
As I got closer to the church, I could hear an organ playing. Not one of those huge old pipe organs that you'd expect in a fancy cathedral, but something more modest, like an electric organ. It wasn't religious music per se, but it sounded medieval and majestic. A classical composition, perhaps?
With a certain amount of trepidation, I opened one of the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside. It turned out to be a fairly ordinary Catholic church, with the usual arrangement of pews, main altar, statues at several smaller side altars, and so forth. I located the organ along the left-hand wall, a ways back from the sanctuary.
The organ player went on with his recital, unmindful of my presence. Doubtless he was used to having an audience, as people came in to pray now and then.
Doing my best tourist imitation, I strolled casually down a side aisle, gazing at the statues as I passed and glancing around the body of the church. Late afternoon sunlight came through the stained glass windows, throwing bright swatches of color across the rather dim interior.
I worked my way around until I could see the face of the organ player almost in profile. Even at a distance, I recognized him from my nightmare vision, and from his uncanny resemblance to his son. This was the man I'd come here to talk to.
I continued walking until I found a secluded spot in a pew near one of the pillars. I could watch Matthew Caine from there without being too obvious, since I was half hidden behind the column. Relaxing, I let myself be drawn into the sweeping strains of the music. Time enough to introduce myself after he had finished playing. I had no idea what kind of a welcome I'd get anyway. My reason for being here sounded pretty damn strange, even to me. What if Matthew just laughed and told me to go home?
I glanced idly around, reflecting on how long it had been since I'd been inside a church of any kind, for any reason. (Other than for funerals, of which there had been far too many since the AIDS epidemic began.) Traditional Christianity had always been too homophobic for me, although I knew there were a number of gay and gay-supportive denominations in existence. I had taken several courses in Comparative Religion way back in my college years, so at least I had a fairly educated idea of what it was that I didn't believe in.
My eye touched on the crucifix at the front of the church, with its image of the suffering Christ. I had never been able to get too excited about the person of Jesus. Still, if his followers felt for him the same sort of profound respect I felt for Caine, I figured I could understand their devotion. I certainly knew what it was like to want to imitate someone I felt embodied the highest standards of goodness, truth, and light. Was that really much different from how a dedicated Christian felt? Maybe. Maybe not. And, of course, there were Christians who would doubtless scream "Sacrilege!" at such a notion, especially coming from someone like me.
I shrugged. That was their problem, not mine.
The music wound up to a final majestic crescendo, then stopped. I shifted my weight, intending to get up and make my presence known. Before I had a chance to do more, Matthew began a new piece. Quieter, gentler -- but infinitely sad and mournful. It could only have been meant as a dirge of some kind, since it clearly spoke of endings and regrets. I'm no musician. I couldn't tell you why certain kinds of melodies inspire certain feelings. All I know is that these particular strains made me think of the losses and the failures of my life; the things not done, and the precious opportunities now gone forever; the love mismanaged and the glories which might have been, but weren't. And over it all brooded that crucifix, an image of death more ancient but no more pleasant than the gallows or the electric chair.
With no warning of any kind, another set of notes insinuated itself into Matthew's dirge. It took only a moment for me to realize this wasn't some synthesized bit produced by the electric organ, but an entirely separate instrument. To be exact, a flute. I didn't turn to see the player. I didn't have to. I knew, beyond any doubt, who it had to be.
Matthew continued to play. The new tune encircled his, weaving itself deeper and deeper into the mournful theme. And yet there were occasional disharmonies, notes here and there that jarred against the ear, introducing an almost subliminal conflict into the overall melody.
The eerie duet ended on a drawn-out, throbbing note on the organ accompanied by a sad twitter from the flute.
Matthew sat in silence at the keyboard for an interminable time, his head bowed slightly forward. Caine was the one who spoke first.
"Father?" said that voice I knew so well.
Matthew turned from the keyboard, a tentative smile on his face. "Yes, my son?" he replied.
They looked at each other, Caine still holding his silver flute. Just the sight of him wrenched my heart painfully. He was dressed in much the same manner as he had been when he'd left Sloan City last winter, except that his head was no longer shaved. His hair had grown in, but it was still quite a bit shorter than it had been even back when I'd first met him some five or six years ago, just before he'd been reunited with Peter.
From where I sat, I could see the two men only from an oblique angle. Still, from their postures and general bearing, I thought I noticed an awkwardness between father and son, almost as if they wanted to hug each other, but could not.
My eavesdropping like this served no useful purpose and might well prove embarrassing if I didn't end it soon. Rising to my feet, I made a point of stumbling noisily over a kneeler as I crossed the row of pews in their direction.
Two heads turned instantly, and two pairs of very similar hazel eyes (even though Matthew's were behind glasses) tracked my progress.
"Jeremy?" Caine said. But it was not a question. In fact, he didn't even seem terribly surprised at my presence.
The older man glanced sharply from Caine to me. Up close, he looked to be in his eighties, but I got the feeling he could be a lot older. It may have been a trick of the light, but I could see what might have been a faint scar on his left cheek.
"You know each other?" Again, there was really no question mark, despite Matthew's intonation. I noted with some amusement that he had much the same speech patterns as his son.
"Yes, we -- know each other," Caine replied. Then, to me, "What are you doing here?"
"You're not gonna believe me."
"The -- Chalice?" Matthew suggested, looking intently over the tops of his glasses at me.
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
He shrugged. "I have -- seen your face, but did not know your name."
He looked quickly at his son, who gave a brief nod.
Maybe I wasn't the only one who had been having weird dreams?
With a quick look around the church, Matthew concluded, "This is not the place for us to discuss such things. Let us go to the rectory, where there will be more privacy."
Matthew led us to a small cottage next to the church, stopping by my car to pick up my suitcase as we went.
Caine and I took seats around the kitchen table and Matthew placed a battered teapot on the stove and turned on the gas beneath it. Caine glanced around briefly, then asked, "Where is -- Father Vashon?"
Matthew sat down in another of the straight-backed wooden chairs on which I was fidgeting uncomfortably.
"His sister was assaulted and robbed several days ago. She lives near Cannes, and he has gone to be with her until she recovers. I have been living here at the rectory and keeping an eye on -- the church. You are both welcome to stay here also. There is -- plenty of room."
While there was little uncertainty in Matthew's voice, he was looking at Caine and I knew the question was directed primarily to him, not me. I kept silent, letting Caine decide. There was clearly something going on between the two men, and I knew better than to intrude on such dangerous territory at this point.
The hesitation was too long by only a fraction of a second, but it was there. Then Caine nodded gravely.
Matthew smiled at the hoped-for answer and rose to his feet once again. "If you will pardon me for a moment, I will prepare the tea."
While the old man busied himself scooping tea into a ceramic pot, pouring the boiling water into it, setting out cups and so forth, I noticed Caine fiddling with the round jade pendant he wears. Now, Caine never fidgets, so I figured he had to be uptight about something. Since the silence was getting on my nerves, I started talking, telling Caine how my part-time job at County General had just become full-time, which meant I was financially stable at last.
I put an optimistic slant on things, not mentioning my constant unhappiness that he wasn't around anymore. He had to know I wanted him back, so why say it?
Matthew was setting the tea tray on the table in front of us when I finally got around to asking the question I had wanted to ask all along.
"So did you find Laura?"
"Not -- yet," Caine replied with a sad smile. "As my son would say, I -- tracked down several leads." He shrugged. "None of them led me anywhere. I shall -- return to Paris and continue the search."
Matthew offered me a cup of tea. As I took it, he asked his son, "What are you doing here?"
"I -- sensed a threat to the Chalice."
The old man nodded, then turned to me. "And you, Mr. Langsten?"
"Please, just Jeremy is fine." I took a careful sip of the tea. It was hot, but had a pleasant somewhat "woody" flavor. "It was the Ancient's idea for me to come here."
In response to their quizzical looks, I described my dream, but only the part dealing with the Chalice. I didn't see that the Bardo bit had anything to do with the present situation and I wasn't real sure how they'd feel about my having been a party to that argument, if it had truly happened. I was still unsure if what I'd seen had actually taken place in something more than Caine's fevered imagination.
The two men listened carefully to my account, nodding every so often. No sooner had I finished speaking than that uncomfortable silence enveloped us once again.
"Jeremy," Matthew said at last, "it would seem you are to be -- involved -- in whatever is to happen with the Chalice. It is -- good that you have come."
That made me feel simultaneously better and worse. It was nice to know my presence was appreciated, but I still didn't want anything to do with this mysterious Chalice.
The older Caine rose to his feet, taking up his cane. "I will -- get some linens for the spare room, if you will excuse me for a moment." He turned an apologetic smile on his son. "I am afraid -- you will have to sleep on the couch."
"I -- do not mind," Caine replied.
As his father left the room, I almost got up to help him, but then Caine glanced at me and took another sip of his tea. There was something on his mind.
"How -- is Peter getting along?"
"Well -- uh -- okay, I suppose."
He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice because he raised one eyebrow in a silent invitation to go on.
"The people of the community are sort of getting used to his presence, but he really doesn't have enough experience to take your place, and I think he's coming to realize that. Oh sure, he's a terrific martial artist, but there's more to it than that. He's only just become a Shaolin priest. He's hardly a Master, although he may well make the grade, someday. And he isn't quite --" I didn't know exactly how to phrase this, but I did the best I could "-- Chinese enough. I don't mean he doesn't look Chinese, because you don't either. It's more like he doesn't think Chinese, or act Chinese. Not really. He's too much an American." I grinned. "And too much a cop, even now."
Caine nodded, evidently not overly surprised or displeased by my assessment of the situation. "Peter -- has much to learn -- before he discovers his true path."
With a sharp twinge of annoyance, I recalled that Caine had told me I should learn to find my own path also, -- and then he'd left town.
Before we could say anymore, Matthew came back into the kitchen and sat down. Caine took up the teapot and filled all our cups.
Matthew waved a hand at his son as if to indicate his attire. "I see you still have the things I gave you -- before I left many years ago." With a glance at the corner where Caine had stowed his travel gear, he added, "Even the duffel bag."
"Yes," Caine replied, briefly touching the strap of the pouch slung over his shoulder. "But I gave the -- journals to Peter. It was -- time -- for him to have them." At his father's nod of agreement, Caine held out his right hand and went on. "I -- tried to give him the ring also -- but he felt I should keep it."
"Perhaps -- he was right. Your son may know better than you -- how much of our heritage it is possible for him to assume at this time."
I caught a slight frown pass over Caine's face, but it was quickly gone. He only shrugged in acquiescence to this gentle criticism.
Matthew leaned closer, looking over the tops of his glasses and squinting a little as he studied the younger man. "The earring is not something you got from me."
I recalled that Caine had taken to wearing an earring during the months just before he'd left but this seemed a rather unusual one. Sort of a filigree dragon.
"It was -- a gift." His tone didn't invite further discussion. If the bit of jewelry had any further significance, we obviously weren't going to be told about it then. Or perhaps ever.
A telephone rang somewhere in another room. I jumped at the sudden noise, but neither of the others did. Rising stiffly to his feet, Matthew shuffled into the adjoining parlor. I couldn't make out the conversation, but he was back in a matter of minutes to fill us in.
"That was -- Father Vashon. His sister is doing well, but is still in the hospital, so he will not return in time for Mass tomorrow. He wishes us to -- go to the church in the morning and tell his parishioners."
The older man sank down into the chair as if he was glad to be off his feet. He moved as if he had arthritis, which wouldn't be unusual in someone his age, especially considering the injuries he had sustained years ago in Tibet.
"My son -- there is food in the refrigerator. Perhaps you could prepare a light supper for us?"
"Of course, father," Caine replied promptly.
We didn't say much over the meal. Truth to tell, I was pretty tired from my transatlantic flight and the food made me sleepy.
No sooner had Caine taken the dishes to the sink and begun washing them than Matthew noticed my drooping eyelids and suggested, "Perhaps -- you are weary and would like to prepare for bed?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't mind that," I acknowledged. "It's been a long day."
"Come. I will show you to your room."
"You don't need to --"
He waved away my objection.
"It is -- my duty as a host."
I followed him down the short hallway and into a small guestroom. I have to say that bed sure looked inviting.
Setting my suitcase on a chair, I searched out my pajamas. Then I realized Matthew still stood in the doorway, a slight frown on his face. I looked over at him, raising an eyebrow by way of invitation.
"There is -- something between you and my son?"
I tried to pass it off lightly as I dug through my clothing.
"Nah. I only worship the ground he walks on. That's all."
For the sake of the question mark in the other man's eyes, I elaborated. "He saved my life, not to mention my sanity, a number of times."
"Ah! And you have sometimes been -- of assistance to him also, have you not?"
"Yeah, you might say that. But nothing like what he's done for me."
"And you wish him to return to Sloan City?"
"You bet I do! I'm not the only one, either. Peter's doing his best, but he's too young and inexperienced to handle the burden that's been thrust upon him. And Mary Margaret's heart-broken, although she tries hard not to let it show."
"Mary -- Margaret?"
Oops! Guess he didn't know about her.
"She's a detective, and a really great person. She loves your son, and I think he was starting to care for her when all this stuff about Laura came up. The uncertainty is hard for her to handle."
"Yes. I can see how such a situation would be -- difficult." I had time to set my toiletry case on the small dresser before Matthew went on.
"Do you think -- Mary Margaret -- would be a good match for my son?"
The conversation was getting painful for me now. After all, I've lusted after Caine practically since I first met him, although I've tried real hard not to let that small fact intrude on our friendship. Oh yeah, he knows it. But, unlike most straight men, he can handle that knowledge without it bothering him, just as I know I've got no chance with him, and I can handle that. Hell, I'm not even jealous of Mary Margaret, but I won't say it doesn't hurt sometimes, seeing them together, holding hands and laughing, or just looking into each other's eyes.
But Matthew had asked me a question, and I still owed him an answer.
"Yes, I think Mary Margaret would make an excellent wife for him. Perhaps better than a woman he has assumed dead and hasn't even seen in -- what? -- more than thirty years? Even if Laura is still alive somewhere -- and it sounds pretty iffy to me -- people change. She might not want him back. After all, she had no reason to think he was dead, and yet she never contacted him. Why not?"
Matthew looked away, almost as if he felt guilty about something. "I -- do not know. Yet there may have been a reason. I -- was unable to contact my son for a long time, and then, when I came to seek him --" he held out his hands in a helpless gesture "-- the Temple had been destroyed and I was told Kwai Chang and Peter were both dead."
"Sorry. Guess I hit on a sore spot there, didn't I? But at least you've all found each other again."
"That -- is true. And yet, in a way, we -- have not entirely -- found -- each other. There is something --"
Matthew stopped abruptly, as if he had already said more than he had intended. He smiled. "But that is -- as I think they say now -- not your problem. I am being selfish, expecting you to talk about my son when you are doubtless exhausted. Please excuse an old man, and an over-fond parent. I will leave you alone now. Sleep well."
He slipped quietly out the door.
For my money, I would have been glad to stay up all night talking about Caine. But Matthew was right. Jet lag had caught up to me hours ago. My head barely hit the pillow before I fell asleep.
Morning came, accompanied by a breakfast of delicious croissants and tea. Then the three of us headed over to the church, to turn away any parishioners who might appear for daily Mass.
I spent the time watching the early sunshine streaming through the stained glass windows and trying to convince my brain it was awake. (A morning person I'm not!)
I thought Caine and his father seemed a little antsy, but put it down to their continuing unease in each other's presence. Turns out that wasn't the problem this time.
We had pretty well finished sending people home and were on our way out when the main doors burst open and what looked like a squad of heavily-armed commandos flooded into the church, all their weapons pointed at us. My shocked and still half-asleep brain woke up real fast, but I couldn't do anything except stare at this incongruous scene. Caine and Matthew didn't do anymore than I did, although they didn't appear quite as surprised.
A smallish, female-looking figure detached itself from the others and came over to us, while her cohorts spread out in all directions. Armed with nothing more than one of those swagger sticks you may have seen military men carrying in the movies, she peeled the black hood off her head and shook out her curly blond hair. Yep, definitely a woman.
"Guten Morgen, meine Herren," she greeted us in German, smiling. "Or would you prefer English?"
"English," Caine replied, unruffled.
"Very well. I would advise you not to try any of your famous Shaolin tricks, priest." She waved a hand at the forest of gun barrels aimed in our direction. "As you can see, I've done my homework. I know what you can do and what you can't do. I've got enough firepower to blow you all away if you try anything like heating up someone's gun, so you just take it nice and easy."
Caine nodded shortly in acknowledgement.
"Now, if someone will be kind enough to open the passageway to the catacombs, we'll get on with this."
"How -- do you know of the catacombs?" Matthew asked.
"Oh, did I forget to introduce myself? My name is Anna Weinrich. Ubersturmfuhrer Hans Weinrich was my uncle." She inclined her head toward Matthew. "I believe you made his acquaintance many years ago, during the War? I was only a child then, of course. His son, my dear cousin Frederick, disappeared under mysterious circumstances several years ago. As his only surviving relative, I inherited his estate. I found a letter Hans had written about the Chalice and was eventually able to track down what happened to him." She grinned wolfishly. "Now, if you would, the passage? Or must I persuade you by allowing one of my associates to get in some target practice?"
"We -- will cooperate," Matthew agreed.
I hadn't expected him to give in that easily, but I certainly had no objections. After all, as the most expendable member of the group, I figured I'd be the most likely target if any practice were to be deemed necessary.
I saw Caine glance at his father, his head inclined fractionally to one side and a question in his eyes. When Matthew nodded, just as fractionally Caine went to a table located off to one side of the sanctuary that had a crucifix flanked by two candles. Lighting one of the candles, he fiddled with the crucifix. A panel slid soundlessly open behind the main altar.
"Very good," Anna said. She gestured towards the rather small opening and a couple of her men ducked through. When one of them came back to report it was all clear, she glanced at us with a mock bow and pointed with her stick. "After you, gentlemen."
I followed Caine and Matthew along the narrow passage. For a ways, it had dirt walls and was lit by torches. Then we came to some larger rooms with stone walls. Caine and Matthew stopped before a square archway with arcane symbols on either side beyond which I could see another room with bright blue walls and paintings of what looked like medieval saints. In yet another room beyond that one, I could see an altar, and -- at long last! -- the famous Chalice of I Ching. The Chalice glowed with an eerie light. It was mostly made of gold with the actual cup-shaped section being a translucent green, which might well have been jade. I would have found it quite lovely, had I seen it under different circumstances, like in a nice safe museum somewhere. As it was, the only thought that sprang to my mind was Han Solo's famous remark, "I've got a bad feeling about this."
For a moment, we all just stood there, transfixed by the eerie scene. Then Matthew broke the silence.
"If you dare touch the Chalice, your soul must be free of hatred, guile, and evil," he said mildly, "or you risk being lost forever in the darkness."
"Yes," Anna replied, still staring fixedly at the altar. Then her attention snapped back to us and she grinned again. "That's why I'm not the one who will be going in there."
She turned to face the older Caine.
"Your son once held the Chalice, and was not destroyed. Of course, I never really expected him to show up here the way he did. I actually had it in mind to use you as my conduit. Oh, I know you may well have denied it, but I was willing to take a chance on the purity of your heart, Matthew Caine. However, now that Kwai Chang Caine is here, he'll do even better."
"Better for what?" I put in, tired of being totally ignored.
"It's really quite simple. You see, both my uncle and my unfortunate cousin were far too ambitious. They thought they could grasp all the power of the Chalice directly. They should have known better. Power is dangerous, and not easy to control, especially power that seems to think it has scruples.
"Now me, I'm nowhere near that ambitious. I don't have to rule the world. I'll settle for just a small piece of the pie: a modest amount of wealth and influence will be sufficient."
"But how does this involve me?" Caine asked.
This time she swaggered in his direction, tapping the stick softly against the outside of her thigh. "You've already passed through the three trials, so you can go in there and get the Chalice, then use the power as I command. Oh, nothing dreadful, you understand. I had in mind to start a new religious cult, with me as high priestess. Perform some miracles. Heal the sick. That kind of thing. Why should the Chalice have any objection to that, after all? You'll do it all for me, of course, from behind the scenes somewhere. But the 'miracles' would be real, and they'd all be carefully calculated to increase my prestige -- and my wealth.
"And all the while, you'd only be using that incredible power to do good. It's not as if I'd be forcing you to harm anyone, or use it for evil."
"Perversion of sincere belief -- is evil," Caine replied. "And the worst kind of evil -- is that which disguises itself as good."
She laughed and tapped her stick against her thigh yet again. "Perhaps. But is it so very awful, in comparison to what could happen? Would you rather work a well-chosen miracle for me now and then -- or would you prefer to see a few innocent folks from St. Adele lose their lives because you proved uncooperative? Your dear old father perhaps?"
She studied Matthew for a moment, then concluded, "No, I think not. A Shaolin priest does not fear to die. But how about your friend over there?" She jerked her chin in my direction. "He might not be quite so willing to face his destiny."
I wasn't. In fact, I was downright terrified. But I tried hard not to show it, returning glance for glance when her eyes met mine in silent threat. I didn't quite trust myself to say anything though.
"Or our good Father Vashon," Anna went on to suggest, "who even now has one of my people watching him as he sits by the bedside of his unfortunate sister? Do you really think what happened to her was an accident? Ah no, it was merely a ruse to lure him out of my way when I came for the Chalice.
"Or perhaps your dear son, Peter? He's not beyond my reach, you know.
Seeing Caine's eyes narrow, she laughed.
"So what do you say, priest? Have I provided you with sufficient motivation to play my little game?"
Caine looked at her with the closest thing to a glare that I have ever seen on his face.
"Even if I were willing, I am not -- sure -- the Chalice will be so cooperative."
"Ah, but you'll be the one who has to deal with it, not me. If it doesn't like the use you make of it, it will destroy you, as it did my cousin. That's your problem, not mine."
I thought Caine was going to object, but Matthew spoke up before he could say anything.
"A very -- clever scheme," he said.
"You really think so?"
"Yes. You have thought much on this, -- and worked it out with the thoroughness and efficiency typical of your people."
Yeah, I thought. The very same efficiency that allowed us Germans to so thoroughly slaughter millions of people, not all that many years ago. Matthew, why are you sucking up to her like this? Are you really just as scared of dying as I am?
But I didn't truly believe that was Matthew's reason, although Anna seemed to be buying it, judging by the self-satisfied smirk on her face as she confronted Caine again.
"So which is it to be? Go for it now, or watch a few people die first? It's all the same to me."
Caine gave a deep sigh. His eyes locked with Matthew's and the older man nodded almost imperceptibly.
"Father --" Caine began to object.
Matthew cut him off. "We have little choice, my son. You must do as she says or many innocent people will suffer.
"I -- cannot do this."
"You can. And you must," the elder Caine replied firmly.
Still looking somewhat unconvinced, Caine nevertheless squared his shoulders, walked through the archway and went on into the altar room, with Anna following cautiously behind him. Nothing visible happened, yet the hair along the back of my neck prickled as a sudden tension suffused the very air in the corridor around us.
Striding reluctantly over to the altar, Caine gazed down for a time at the sacred object before him.
"Pick it up," Anna prompted. "And make it quick. I don't like it in here."
With his right hand, Caine grasped the narrow stem of the Chalice, raising it from its resting place. Things got real dramatic then. The Chalice blazed with light at his touch and a glowing yin-yang, complete with tiger and dragon, appeared above it. (Well, why not? It had been made by Shaolin monks, hadn't it?)
I could see Caine only from the back, but he stiffened as if in sudden pain. Lightning snaked around the Chalice and around him. This was starting to look too much like my nightmare. Without thinking, I took a step toward him, but Matthew grabbed my arm, holding me back with surprising strength for a man his age.
Despite the lightning, Caine seemed basically undamaged. Grasping hold of the Chalice with both hands, he turned to face Anna. Their eyes met. Sparks flew -- literally. The lightning around Caine flashed brighter. His body went rigid, an agonized expression frozen on his face. Anna started to back away. With a sizzling crack like thunder, the gathered energy jumped the gap between them. Caine crumpled to the floor, losing his grip on the Chalice, which landed with an unheard clang next to his prostrate form, as Anna shrieked in terror and pain. The energy circled around and through her convulsing body, with scattered fragments darting madly around the room. The ground shook. The ceiling above us groaned and rained down dust.
Anna's troops turned tail and ran back down the corridor, yelling about earthquakes and collapse. I stared transfixed at the scene from my nightmare, as Anna's body disappeared, literally eaten by tongues of flame. The energy continued to play around the room, while the grumble of disturbed earth grew louder. We had to get out of here.
Suddenly, Matthew was no longer by my side but hobbling into the midst of the blinding chaos, his cane forgotten. Without the slightest hesitation, he took hold of the Chalice, which now formed the focal point for the sizzling bolts of lightning. I fully expected to see it destroy him also. Although the energy gathered around him in all its fiery brilliance, he was able to lift the Chalice from the floor. With great effort, he placed it once again on the altar.
As suddenly as they had begun, the fireworks stopped. Caine still lay slumped against the side wall, showing no signs of returning consciousness, but at least he hadn't been totally consumed by the furious energies that had destroyed Anna. Matthew leaned heavily on the altar, obviously exhausted. After a moment, he turned and staggered over to his son. Taking hold of him under his arms, he tried vainly to drag the younger man's dead weight across the floor.
The chamber threatened to collapse around them. If I'd had any sense, I'd have run off with Anna's men, but I couldn't leave Caine and his father. Bits of rock and mortar fell from above as the ground continued to shake.
Matthew wasn't going to get out in time, I could see that. But I dared not venture in to help him with the ceiling about to cave in. It would be suicide. We could all be crushed under falling rock.
"But Caine needs help," an inner voice urged.
"How much help can I be if we're all dead?" the voice of reason replied.
I dithered for what seemed like hours, but was probably mere seconds. Then Matthew looked up at me. I saw the anguish on his face and automatically started towards him, but he shook his head. His mouth formed the word, "No," although I couldn't hear his voice over the ominous rumble and groan of the angry stone walls.
"Fuck it," I said out loud, as much to the Chalice as to myself. "I can't just stand here. If they die, I die with them."
I stepped through the doorway.
Just the leftovers of the energy from the Chalice made my skin crawl. It took an actual physical effort on my part simply to cross the room, but I made it. With Matthew pulling one arm and me the other, we dragged Caine as quickly as we could across the floor. I had no time to worry about anything but trying to make it through the archway.
No sooner had we cleared the doorway with our still-unconscious burden then a massive stone door with an eye in the middle of it simply materialized in its place, missing Caine's heels by bare inches.
The earthquake-effect subsided, but we pulled Caine further from the archway just on sheer momentum. Matthew collapsed next to his son, white as the proverbial sheet and breathing hard. I'd have been worried about him, except that my attention was on Caine, and the fact that he didn't appear to be breathing at all. True to my CPR training, I knelt alongside him and felt for a pulse in the carotid artery next to his trachea, simultaneously tipping his head back to be sure his airway was open and leaning down to watch his chest and abdomen for any sign of movement.
Nothing. No pulse, no breath.
With little real hope -- it seemed quite a long while since he'd collapsed, after all -- I started doing CPR for the first time in my life. I kept my incipient panic at bay only by pretending I was back in the classroom, practicing on the dummy instead of on the person I most loved and valued in the entire world.
Contrary to what you may have seen on TV, CPR is a last resort measure that doesn't succeed most of the time. I don't know if you've ever tried it or not, but one-rescuer CPR will wear you out damn fast. I can't tell you how long I lasted because I wasn't exactly looking at my wristwatch, but at about the time I felt as if I'd soon be on the floor next to my patient, Matthew pulled himself unsteadily up onto his knees, still looking about half dead, and ran his hands along Caine's body, almost but not quite touching him.
"Jeremy," he said at last, "stop now."
I didn't stop. I couldn't, not even as exhausted as I was. Matthew had to grab my wrists and move my hands off Caine's chest.
"There is nothing more that you can do," he said gently, as he again ran his hands lightly over his son's torso. I leaned back, fighting to catch my breath even as I tried to come to terms with the fact that Kwai Chang Caine was beyond my help, or anyone else's.
Matthew continued what he was doing, stopping now and then to rub the dead man's shoulders. I had no idea why. Caine was clearly not alive. This time he had abandoned me for good. It hadn't been his choice, but he was gone. That strangely-cadenced voice was silenced forever, and I'd never feel his arms around me again, or have the benefit of his wisdom and guidance. The footsteps in which I had followed for so many years had come to a stop right here in St. Adele. Now there was no one to measure myself by, no one to strive to imitate, no one to point the way when I was lost.
My guide and touchstone was gone, and all the light drained out of my life, leaving only despair. What would I do now? Where could I go?
And yet I knew the answer, because I'd heard Caine give it often enough before: "You -- go on."
Until the darkness turns to light again, and sorrow gives way to joy. You go on, because the wheel turns, and the circle of light comes around once more. And no one else can find your true path for you, but only you, yourself.
For a time that seemed like hours but was probably only seconds, as I mourned for my mentor and my dearest friend with a breaking heart, I yet realized that I could make it without him. That I could go on, for although Caine lay dead before me, the dreams, the hopes, the ideals that he had embodied were out there still.
Yes, I could and would go on. But there will be forever an empty place in my soul, my Master. A place that only you can fill. My memories will be enough to keep me on the path -- but it will be a lonely walk without you by my side. Still, I've been lonely before. I can deal with that.
I was distracted from my bleak musings by a flurry of activity. Matthew opened the flap on Caine's shoulderbag and rummaged quickly through the contents. Finding a small glass vial, he poured some liquid into his son's mouth.
I thought it a rather strange death ritual, but what do I know about such things? Then he started rubbing Caine's chest. There were tears running down the old man's face, but his expression didn't reflect the despair he should be feeling. Maybe the sad truth hadn't hit him just yet. In any case, he was clearly exhausted. If he didn't rest soon, he might easily hurt himself.
I was about ready to grab Matthew's shoulders and get him to stop whatever esoteric ritual he was performing when, against all odds and the science I had learned, Caine's chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and a touch of color returned to his pale lips.
As I stared in astonishment, the dead man blinked blearily a few times, then his eyes focussed on his father and he smiled, before closing his eyes again.
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the rectory, with Caine resting more or less comfortably in Father Vashon's narrow bed. The palms of his hands were burned raw where he had touched the Chalice and he was semi-conscious at best. I couldn't find a thermometer, but his forehead felt hot to the touch and he tossed restlessly, as if he had a fever. He seemed to be breathing without undue pain or effort, so I figured I hadn't broken any of his ribs with my frantic efforts at CPR.
Matthew was now spreading the contents of his son's shoulderbag on the dresser, evidently in the hope of finding more useful herbs. The old man still looked far from well. His hands shook as he examined several small bags and he leaned heavily on his cane as he hobbled over to the bed.
I asked the question that had been burning in my mind ever since we left the catacombs.
"He was dead. How'd you do that?"
"I -- cannot explain. You would not understand."
That cast no light on the subject at all.
"Well, shouldn't we at least get him to a hospital or something?"
"No. I can do -- more for him here," the old man replied. "Would you please go to the kitchen and boil some water?"
Matthew's request didn't quite penetrate my dazed consciousness. "What if there's been some brain damage?" I persisted. "He wasn't breathing and he had no pulse when I examined him."
Matthew opened Caine's mouth and put something under his tongue. "There are -- Shaolin disciplines that mimic death. He has learned to survive on very little oxygen," the old man explained. "You began doing CPR very soon, although it may have seemed a long time, under the circumstances."
That made sense, at any rate. Maybe Caine's resurrection wasn't just another Shaolin miracle.
"Jeremy," Matthew prompted gently. "The water?"
"Oh. Oh, yeah. On my way."
When I returned with a steaming kettle, I found Matthew sitting in a rocking chair not far from the bed, his head back and his eyes closed. If he'd looked pretty old when I'd first met him, he looked one heck of a lot older now.
"Are you all right?" I asked, hating to disturb him.
"Yes. I am -- just tired," came the ragged reply.
He looked more than tired to me, but I didn't push it. I knew the odds against convincing him to rest while his son needed his care.
When he tried to stand up, he didn't quite make it. His leg gave way, despite the added support of the cane.
"Stay there," I suggested. "Tell me what to do."
He nodded. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes and forehead as if he had a real killer of a headache. Then he instructed me as to which herbs to mix together and steep in the hot water.
"Can I get you something? Maybe some aspirin?" I offered when I had finished preparing the concoction.
"You can -- bring me some of that tea -- when it is ready." He had his glasses off again and his eyes closed.
I took a quick look at Caine. Yes, he was still breathing regularly and seemed to be resting fairly quietly. Going over behind Matthew, I put both hands on his shoulders and began massaging his neck, the way I sometimes do with my patients at the hospital. Nothing fancy, but I know how good it feels.
"Matthew, can I ask you something?"
He nodded.
"The way the Chalice destroyed Anna. Did you know that was going to happen when you encouraged Caine to pick it up?"
"I -- thought it might, -- but I was not -- certain. I did not believe the Chalice would lend itself easily to evil purposes, -- but I hoped my son would not -- become the chief focus of its power."
"You risked his life? And you weren't sure?"
"Yes," he admitted, probably hearing the criticism I couldn't quite keep out of my voice. "Not being sure -- is what risk is all about, is it not?"
Yeah. But I couldn't have staked Caine's life on the good will of a Chalice, however sacred.
"You touched it also," I went on. "How come it didn't affect you?"
"It -- did. But not to the extent that it affected my son. That sort of power can destroy by finding the hidden weaknesses in a man's soul. Even a small thing can be enough. Besides," he went on, "I did not attempt to control the energy that was raised. I merely replaced the Chalice on the altar. I -- do not think I could have survived -- what my son did." Matthew smiled and then shrugged. "In many ways, he has gone beyond me. I am not -- a Shambhala Master. It is -- good for a son to surpass his father, is it not?"
"Yeah, I guess," I replied vaguely, thinking uneasily of my own late father, the redneck macho truck driver who had never been able to accept the sissy boy he had for a son. Had I surpassed him? I figured I had, but I knew full well that Joseph Langsten would probably not agree.
After I had carefully managed to trickle a good bit of the tea down Caine's throat without choking him, I gave the rest to Matthew. He fell asleep in the rocking chair. I tried to stay awake and keep an eye on our patient, but I eventually dozed off sitting on the floor and leaning back against the bed.
Come morning, Caine wasn't much better. But then again, he was no worse either. Physically, he seemed stronger, his face had more color, and he wasn't as fevered. Yet he was more restless and sometimes appeared to be hallucinating or delirious. He tossed and turned, often moaning or even crying out in anguish, especially if Matthew actually touched him. Whatever he was dreaming, it wasn't good.
"What's wrong?" I asked Matthew. Unlike his son, a night's sleep had done him a world of good. He seemed almost back to his old self again.
He sighed. "Whatever weakness or flaw the Chalice found in him has been --" he hesitated, gesturing vaguely with one hand as he groped for words to explain the concept "-- torn open. His spirit must heal, as well as his body, and it -- cannot."
"Can't we do something?"
"We will try -- when the time comes. For now, we will care for his body. I need -- more hot water, Jeremy."
"Coming right up."
It was mid-afternoon when Caine finally woke up. Matthew had dozed off again in the rocking chair, but I was sitting by the bed, idly paging through a book on French artwork that I had found on a shelf. (Of course, I couldn't read the French text, but I could look at the pictures. Sitting by an unconscious patient is boring.)
I glanced up from a lazy pastoral landscape and found Caine with his eyes open, looking in his father's direction.
"Hey, you're awake," I said softly, hoping to let Matthew rest a little longer. "How do you feel?"
"Like something -- the cat -- buried?" he suggested.
"You mean 'dragged in', don't you?"
He nodded. I was just relieved to hear him making sense, even if he had gotten the idiom scrambled. He could have come to in much worse condition, or never come to at all. I'd seen too many "vegetables" at the hospital not to know what brain damage can do to a person.
"You're lucky to be alive at all," I went on. "If your chest feels as if it's been mashed, that's because I did CPR. What your father did, I couldn't tell you. You'll have to ask him about that, if you want to know."
A strange look came over his face when I mentioned Matthew. It was almost a grimace of pain, as if merely thinking of his father hurt him in some way. His eyes shifted back to the old man, still asleep in the rocker across the room. Again I caught that strange feeling of unease. Maybe it was time to talk about this?
"What is it between you and Matthew?" I began cautiously.
"It is -- nothing," he said, but he was looking at the book in my hand, not directly into my eyes.
"Nothing? Are you sure? You two just don't seem comfortable with each other, if you ask me."
"I did not -- ask you." The tone of his voice took some of the sting out of what might almost have been a rude reply. I thought of that Bardo bit from my nightmare.
"No, you didn't ask me. But I'm asking you. Are you angry at him?"
No response. I babbled on. "Look, he seems a real decent guy, from all I've seen. He loves you a lot, you know. For instance, he just risked his life to save you."
Caine grimaced again and turned his head away. Even so, I persisted. "I'd be overjoyed to have someone like that as a father."
"You -- do not know him."
"Would you like to trade? I'll take your father any day."
"Whatever his faults, you father did not -- abandon you."
I was surprised at the venom in his voice. But not as surprised as he was at my bitter reply.
"Shit, I wish my old man had left! I'd have been far better off without him. His only saving grace was that he was a truck driver, and so wasn't around much. Whenever he was around, he always made fun of me and put me down. When he wasn't beating on me, that is. I learned one very valuable lesson from my father: How not to be a man."
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself before going on. "Of course, he and I might have gotten along better if I had been more of a regular boy. Having a sissy for a son really grated on his nerves."
"Even so, -- he should not have hurt you."
"Yeah, well, that's old history. He's dead now, and I wasn't with him when he died. He didn't want me."
"If he had, -- would you have gone to him?"
That shook me a little, but I tried to pass it off with a shrug. (That always worked for Caine, didn't it?)
"I don't know. Maybe. But it's too late to worry about that now. And if you don't settle whatever's between you and your father, it will be too late for you one of these days. He's not getting any younger, you know."
For some reason, that brought a slight smile to Caine's lips, so I blundered blindly along.
"What did he do that hurt you so much?" I had a pretty good idea, but I was playing therapist now and figured it was better to get Caine to say it out loud.
"When I was 14, he -- went away. To lead an expedition -- searching for treasure in Tibet. He -- refused to take me along, although I -- begged to be able to go. He never came back. It was assumed -- that the expedition met with an accident."
I almost said something there, but he went on before I had a chance, his voice strained as if it were an effort just to force the words out.
"He -- left me with friends, in a small Shaolin Temple in Massachusetts. I waited -- hoping -- for many years, -- and then I -- gave up. When I came of age, -- I left the Temple -- and tried to forget."
Caine half sat up in the narrow bed, then fell back.
"He left me -- to search for treasure," came the anguished reply. "I would never leave Peter like that."
I raised an eyebrow.
"No? I'm told you went away once for six months, not long after you two were reunited. And what about that Rocky Dalton business? That was a long three months for Peter."
"It was -- necessary, under the circumstances," he reminded me.
"Okay, suppose it was necessary, under the circumstances," I allowed. "But you've left him again now. When's the last time you even sent him a postcard?"
"I -- do not need to send postcards. Peter -- knows."
"Yeah? Are you so sure of that? Have you seen the look in his eyes when people ask him about you? I have. He hurts. He really needs to hear from you on something other than the astral plane."
Caine raised his hands in a rather pathetic gesture of helplessness.
"I -- have nothing to tell him. I have not yet found his mother, nor do I know where my path lies from here."
"It's not Laura he misses right now. It's you."
Caine winced again. I was hitting an exposed nerve and I knew it. But I couldn't stop.
"Remember I told you about that dream or vision or whatever it was that made Lo Si send me here?"
He nodded.
"Well, there was more to it than I told you. Listen."
I described the Bardo and the argument I had witnessed. As I went on, Caine shook his head repeatedly, as if he wished he could deny it, but in all honesty could not.
"So it really happened like that?" I asked at last. "I wasn't just imagining things?"
"It -- happened."
"Does your father know? Was he really there, or was he just an image dredged up from your subconscious?"
"I -- am not sure. But I think -- he was really there. I think -- he had come after me."
I nodded. "Figures. Sounds like something he would do."
"Yes," Caine admitted, once again glancing towards Matthew.
"You know, seems to me you're pretty pissed off at him," I suggested. "You've been mad about this for a lot of years."
"No. I am Shaolin. I cannot be -- mad -- over such a thing," he replied, with far too much vehemence for it to be true. "I have -- forgiven him."
"Oh, really? Or do you just feel that you should have forgiven him? There's a difference."
He closed his eyes. Maybe I'd pushed him too far. After all, he was still pretty weak. Worried, I reached over to touch his arm.
And suddenly I was in an ornate hallway with a high ceiling and rich wood paneling on both sides. A motley crew of strange people were following Caine, who was dressed in a white robe. But stranger than any of these folks was the man walking beside him clad in a floor-length black cloak, his long hair pulled to one side and falling bizarrely over one shoulder. They carried on some sort of intense conversation. Then they stopped walking and I could hear the words.
"Evil begets evil," Caine said to the other man. "It will turn on you too. You have lived alone. You will die alone."
"Because he left me," came the quick answer, full of resentment.
"He left me too. Sometimes one must respond to a higher calling, especially if one's name is Caine."
The picture faded. I released his arm.
"Who was the weird dude with the pony tail?" I asked.
"My -- brother. His name is Damon."
"Oh. Oh, yeah. That brother." Now that he reminded me, I recalled him mentioning two brothers to me once before. But I'd never met either of them.
"Well, you may have said that to Damon, but have you truly been able to feel it in your heart? Or have you merely buried the resentment you feel for your father, in the service of a 'higher cause'?"
I saw a quick flash of anger in those hazel eyes.
"Jeremy, -- you are asking for -- hard truths here. In return, -- you must face a hard truth -- of your own."
That was only fair. I met his gaze squarely and nodded a fraction, confident that I could handle whatever he threw at me. After all, I was the one playing therapist now, wasn't I?
"What --," he asked softly, "do you feel for me -- because I left you?"
It was my turn to wince. "Touché," I whispered, feeling the tears come to my eyes.
"Sorrow," I replied.
"Is that -- all?"
I turned away. Until that moment, I hadn't fully realized just how much anger had built up in my heart since Caine had left Sloan City all those months ago. I should have seen it long before. After all, as any shrink will tell you, suppressed anger is very often a big factor in depression. It has a way of turning back upon itself, if it isn't recognized and expressed in some manner.
Caine left. How dare he go, when I wanted him here? How could he do this to me?
How easily can that train of thought circle around and become: What's wrong with me that he could leave so easily? I must not be worthy of his caring. In that case, I must not be worth much. I'm not worth shit.
And you're a grown man, Jeremy. What if it happened to a 14 year-old kid? And then lay buried all those years? What then? At least Peter had believed his father dead. Matthew had left of his own free will.
After all this, could there possibly not be anger in Caine's heart? Anger far greater than any I had a right to feel?
(I thought back to what Matthew had said about the Chalice, and what might cause the destruction of a person who touched it. Hatred. Guile. Evil.)
Anger enough to almost qualify as hatred? Anger enough to provide that weakness in a man's soul that would make him just vulnerable enough to the tremendous energy unleashed that he was now in pretty serious danger?
What can possibly be done to defuse that anger and deprive it of that awful power? All I could think of to do was to recognize it and speak it out loud -- preferably to the object of that anger.
I forced myself to look back at Caine and answer the question he had asked me.
"No, that isn't all. Rage. Sometimes -- I -- hate you. I cared for you. I needed your guidance and support. More than anything on earth, I -- love you," I admitted. "And yet, I hate you also -- because you can never be mine, -- and -- you went away."
I heard Caine sigh. When I finally looked over at him, there were tears on his face also. I smiled bravely.
"Makes no sense, does it? How can it be possible to love someone and hate them, both at the same time?"
"I -- do not know. But it is -- how I feel about my father," he said, the words seeming almost to hurt his lips even as he forced them out. "I love him -- and I hate him very much, for hurting me. I should not -- and yet I do."
The rocking chair creaked. We both looked around. Matthew sat there leaning forward on his cane, his eyes shining.
"My son, -- for many weeks when I lay near death in Tibet, -- my greatest fear, and greatest regret -- was that I thought I would never see you again -- in this life. I knew -- you resented my leaving, -- but I had hoped one day you might have understood."
He sighed, the way Caine does. Then he looked up and met Caine's eyes squarely.
"Yet, despite my love, there were times -- when I felt -- hatred for you. When I returned to China and learned that Su Ling had been murdered, -- I myself found it hard to love you -- because you had survived, while she had not."
"I was only a child. Her death was not my fault," Caine pointed out, almost sounding put-upon.
"I -- know. But I felt it even so."
"That -- was not fair."
"Feelings -- are not always fair, just as hatred and love are not -- strangers. The two walk hand in hand. Some say anger is based on fear. But may it not also be based on hurt? And that which we love the most -- is that which can hurt us the worst."
Caine shook his head, as if he'd like to deny what his father was saying.
"When Laura died and left you with a baby to raise," I interjected carefully, "did you never feel about Peter the sort of thing your father just described?"
This time he did sit up.
"No! I did not -- I never --"
"Never? Are you real sure of that?"
Caine glanced briefly at his father and then looked away. A shiver ran through his body and I almost thought he was going to collapse down onto the bed again. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a slow breath and said brokenly, "You -- are right. I -- did."
It got awfully quiet in the little room. At last I could stand it no longer, and suggested, "At this point, I believe Father Vashon might have brought up the famous saying about letting the one who is without sin amongst us cast the first stone?"
Caine looked at me. Then a smile spread slowly across his face and he gave a soft laugh. He held out his open arms toward Matthew. "Father?"
The old man covered the distance between them faster than I would have thought possible. He sat down on the side of the bed and took his son into a tight embrace.
I leaned back in my chair and allowed the tension to flow out of my body, much relieved at having managed -- for once in my life! -- to say the right thing at the right time.
Now all that remained for me to do was to practise what I preached. Hadn't I just seen Caine struggling with the same sort of anger that was eating away at me? Given that, surely I could find it in my heart to make peace with the one who had left me, and forgive him also. I figured I could do that.
I looked at the two Caines, still holding each other and crying. As the tears came to my eyes, I knew I could do that.
Once he had reconciled with his father, Caine recovered his strength quickly. By the time Father Vashon returned the following morning, our erstwhile patient was already up and around. I had all of one day to sightsee, walking through the countryside and around the quaint old village of St. Adele with Caine, and visiting Matthew's nearby cottage. Then it was time to head for the local airport and the small plane that would take me on to the international airport in Paris.
Caine and Matthew came along to see me off. As the other passengers made their way out onto the runway, I turned to Caine and asked the question I had avoided for as long as I could.
"When are you coming back to Sloan City?" I managed to say, trying to keep my voice light.
"I -- do not know."
Now, why did that answer fail to surprise me?
"Oh, come on," I persisted. "You must have some idea of what you plan to do now."
"I -- have not yet found my wife."
"But you'll be back when you do?"
If you do, I added silently to myself. Personally, I figured the woman was long dead.
"Jeremy, -- I -- cannot promise."
I still wasn't ready to give up.
"But there's a good chance. Right?"
"Yes."
I almost left it at that, but then I thought better of it. "Even if you never come back," I said, facing him squarely, "I'll be all right. You know that, don't you?"
He nodded solemnly. I grinned and added, "But I'd rather you did come back."
"I -- know that also," he replied.
Satisfied, I started toward the waiting airplane. When I was almost at the boarding ramp, I turned back and called out, "Hey! When you come, bring your dad along for a visit. Okay?"
"Okay," Caine agreed slowly, placing one arm around Matthew's shoulder.
I left them standing there together and hurried up the steps to the plane before he could change his mind.
