William H. Hallahan - (15 page)

He had to interrupt his urgent search for Father Joseph long
enough to get a pair of new shoes. And he knew exactly where to find
them. On the other side of the Chesapeake from Norfolk, at the lowest
end of the Eastern Shore peninsula, was the orphanage. And there
lived Brother David, who in Brother Zebulon's opinion was the finest
shoemaker in the world.

Over the years he had worn out many pairs of Brother David's
shoes. And right now on a shelf in the shoemaker's shop there waited
for him a new pair, made of top-grade leather, with a Goodyear welt
pulled over a combination last that was made from a mold of Brother
Zebulon's foot. The inner sole contained an arch-supporting steel
shank, the upper was lined with calfskin and stitched to a thick
flexible sole treated with silicone, and the rear was mounted on a
pure rubber heel. The shoe had six eyelets that laced up to the top
of Brother Zebulon's ankle. In David's shoes, over the years, Brother
Zebulon had suffered never a turned ankle nor a pulled calf muscle,
never a bunion, a corn or a foot-bone complaint.

Brother Zebulon walked south on Route 13, approaching those shoes
the way a gourmet approached a French banquet He was still a young
man, in his midthirties, and the long walks kept his huge body fit
and strong. He approached his work with gusto, prayed with great
conviction and begged for his supper without shame. His sermons
against Satan were legendary.

Brother Zebulon estimated he was no more than ten miles from the
orphanage. He loved children. And often when he visited the orphanage
for new shoes, he would spend a few days watching the children and
talking to them. But this time he couldn't stay. The whole monastery
had been sent out to search for a safe haven for the man with the
purple aura--which was becoming more visible every day. And Zebulon
had found such a place.

Now he had to locate his abbot to tell him.

So he would pause long enough to sleep, then he would put on his
new shoes and strike out again in his search for Father Joseph. The
last he had heard, the abbot was crossing Asia to the west coast of
America. Zebulon would start for California at dawn the next morning.

St Jude's Refuge for Children. Saint Jude, the finder of things.
The finder of homes for children. The finder of shoes for him. The
finder of a refuge for the man with the purple aura.

Dusk was not far. In the long lovely afternoon of autumn, he saw a
long sinuous V of Canada geese pumping across the sky toward the
glowing sunset beyond the Cedar Island wildlife refuge on the bay.

As he walked Brother Zebulon saw the lights of several homes
through the road hedges. It was getting colder.

After a while more and more vehicles put their headlights on, and
home lamps began to glow across the land. It was going to be a rich
and lurid sunset. Thick gray clouds portended a change in the
weather. Brother Zebulon sensed there would be an autumn rainfall
within the next twelve hours.

He began to watch impatiently for the landmarks of St. Jude's. The
entryway to the orphanage was through a brick wall, between two brick
columns surmounted by two large concrete balls. The two wrought-iron
gates had not been shut in years. Soon enough, he told himself,
coming around a curve of road he would see the two concrete balls.
The orphanage itself was almost a mile off Route 13, up an old dirt
path that was usually in need of scraping. The large tractor-trailers
generated a bow wave of wind, and when they passed him at high speed
the bow wave would strike him from the rear like a good hard push.

At last Route 13 described a long gentle curve, and there in the
early dusk were the two cement balls. Soon now, soon. Brother Zebulon
picked up his pace. He told his old shoes to hold up just a little
longer and he said a small prayer to that effect. He walked with a
picture in his mind of his new shoes on one of the wooden shelves
behind Brother David's head; from a lace hung a paper tag with his
name on them: Zebulon. Those boots helped make endurable the vow he'd
made never to ride on any vehicle on pain of loss of heaven.

Gratefully Zebulon turned away from the roaring truck traffic and
stepped through the gates. He walked beside an old stand of scrub
pines that effectively dampened the sound from Route 13 and also
blocked the worst of the wind. The odor of the pines filled his
nostrils. Ahead of him lay the old buildings of the orphanage. Some
boys were practicing lacrosse on the far playing field in the last of
the twilight. Brother Zebulon now permitted himself to admit he was
quite hungry. He had eaten nothing since yesterday. Was it the sin of
gluttony that made him yearn for a bowl of steaming vegetable soup
with fresh bread?

The sound of children laughing came to him through the pines. A
moment later a child, little more than four years old, trotted from
the pines, giggling. Brother Zebulon was surprised. It was a girl in
a plaid skirt and white sweater. There had been no girls here on his
last visit. And why was she dressed in only a thin sweater on such a
chilly night?

Even in the twilight he could see that she had large striking blue
eyes, a guileless beauty. She ran up to him and put her arms around
his right leg. "Brother Zebulon," she called gaily.

Now more children came from the copse of trees, chortling and
calling to each other. They skipped eagerly onto the path and
clustered around him. Several boys reached him first. They wore
sweatshirts that proclaimed ST. JUDE'S in gold letters on a blue
field. They took his hands and began to pull him along the path.

"It's Brother Zebulon," they cried. "Everyone has
to give Brother Zebulon a hug." The number of children swelled
as more and more came from the dark woods. They all seemed under
five--all strikingly beautiful, Oriental boys and girls with
love-filled smiles and black children with flawless chocolate skin
and glistening dark-brown eyes. Overjoyed jiggles filled the air.
They reached their arms in the air, wiggling their fingers at him to
be picked up and hugged.

"No roughhouse," Brother Zebulon said with a laugh. "One
at a time."

"Me," said a lovely Chinese girl. "Me first."

Brother Zebulon stooped to hug her. Her thin arms clutched his
neck. More children seemed to be arriving. The number was
astonishing. A boy climbed his back, two more swung from his elbows.
More tried to climb his body. They seemed dreadfully heavy, and soon
Brother Zebulon was staggering with this great welter of joy and
love. The little Chinese girl gave him repeated kisses. Her arms were
squeezing his neck cruelly.

Zebulon was awed by the number of children that now poured from
the wood. Was it hundreds? He had no chance to estimate for he was
now quickly borne to the ground. He felt the first twinges of alarm.

The children quickly closed around him. They sat on his chest.
They pulled his arms out flat and sat on them. They made a crushing
mass on his legs.

"Enough," he cried. "Please, children."

The laughter increased and the swarming bodies mounted. There was
a great weight on his chest.

"Please, children," he called. "You're too heavy.
Please let me up."

"First you must tell us a secret."

"What secret?"

"Where is the man?"

Brother Zebulon tried to raise his head. The questions were coming
from a young Caucasian boy with a very wise and knowing face. "What
man?"

"You know. The man with the purple aura."

Zebulon studied the child's face. "How do you know about
him?"

"Oh, we just know."

"Enough," Zebulon commanded. "Let me up." He
began to rise. And even with the great weight of the children, he
managed to get to his knees. But more children came skipping and
giggling from the woods and clambering on him. Slowly he lost ground
and fell backward. The swarming bodies of the children blocked out
the sky.

"Where is he, Brother Zebulon? Tell us."

Slowly the pressure on his chest built, a great weight, far
heavier than ordinary children.

"Tell us, Zebulon dear."

The pressure on his ribs was forcing the air out of his lungs. "I
may not tell you, children," he cried. His arms were benumbed
and felt as though they were going to burst from the terrible
pressure. The mound of children on his body grew higher. His legs too
now throbbed with agony. It was difficult for the blood to flow
through his veins and arteries. "I am forbidden to tell you,"
he shouted.

"Tell us, Brother Zebulon. Tell us."

"Fiends!" Zebulon shouted. "Get thee gone!"

The children set up a new wave of giggles and clambered still
higher. "Tell us, Zebulon. Tell us."

Now the pressure increased; inside his head the pain was terrible.
A crown of pain circled his skull from the blood pressure. His
hearing became muffled. He heard the giggling children as though
underwater. He couldn't breathe.

"Tell us where he is, Zebulon. Tell us. Tell us."

Zebulon knew he was going to die. "Get thee gone," he
said with his last breath. As he framed the act of contrition in his
mind, he lost consciousness.

The children paused. He could no longer hear them. They scampered
down from the pile and en masse hurried into the woods and the
waiting darkness without giggling. They left Zebulon dead but they
were no wiser.

Satan still didn't know where the man with the purple aura was.
For the first time he knew terrible urgency. Now the hawk had to find
Father Joseph the abbot as quickly as possible. And she had no idea
where he was.
 
 

The hawk rose high in the sky, then higher. Her mission now was
frantic. To find the man with the purple aura meant finding Father
Joseph. And he was a world wanderer. She hadn't seen him in months.
It could take more months to find him, searching the earth from the
sky.

Worst of all, she had no idea how much time she had. For while she
was searching for Joseph, Timothy could be finding the man with the
purple aura. So at any moment the ultimate punishment could descend
on hell.

The hawk soared aimlessly over southern France for a short time,
then followed her instinct. She set her course for America.
 
 

The autumn had called forth great waves of migrating birds once
more, to flee winter and darkness. But this time the hawk barely
noticed. She swept over the earth, her eyes searching everywhere, and
she missed little. She saw a number of the Irish monks, heads bent,
pursuing their snail's pace far below her. She saw the wild animals
preparing themselves for winter or fleeing it. She saw men in their
cities and on the roads. She flew above storms and through flawless
sparkling autumn days. But she didn't see Joseph.

She used the winds to carry her rapidly over large areas and she
flew with little rest. Up in the sky before dawn and soaring and
flying until sunset drove her back down to a roost, she went on day
after day. The prevailing winds carried her south from New England to
the mid-Atlantic, then to the southern Atlantic states.

Remembering Joseph's habitual routes, she drifted across Georgia
westward. Joseph had traveled this way a number of times. But her
searches failed to find him. And she never saw Timothy and his dog.

She became gaunt. Her feathers were worn. But her great wings
carried her tirelessly in spite of her short rests. On more than one
day she failed to stop soon enough to take a bird for food and had to
content herself with a careful preening of her feathers before she
slept.

Each day failed to turn up Joseph. It was as though he was hiding
from her. Maybe he and the man with the purple aura were both hiding
together from her.

In time she passed over Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle. The
great western desert awaited her.
 
 

The desert terrain was beige and undulating. In all directions to
the far horizon, the ocotillo bush raised its wiry arms. In burrows
and in shadows, the desert life lay in immemorial panting patience,
waiting for the evening and the cooling of the desert's surface.

The hawk needed only to keep her wings outspread to be carried by
the hot rising air thousands of feet above the desert floor. Her eyes
could sweep over dozens of square miles at a time. But nothing moved.
And as the days passed she drifted rapidly westward into California,
watching intently now for this was a favorite route of Father Joseph.
 
 

It's called the Baker Grade. It's a strip of roadway on the Mojave
Desert of southern California, a part of Route IS that slithers
across the desert from Los Angeles to Las Vegas.

The Baker Grade is an imperceptible rise of land that stretches
over many miles. Most cars and trucks are unaware of the slow ascent
the road is making under their wheels as they race across the desert,
air conditioning units on high, tape decks filling the cool interiors
with pleasant music. But the vehicles feel it, and many of them find
the combined strain of heat, grade and air conditioning too much.
They overheat. Without warning, a gush of steam bursts from under
their hoods.

Baker Grade has made one man rich. Near the top of the rise at a
place called Halloran Springs is a gasoline station. It is just at
the point where most water hoses and radiators finally burst. The
driver in a panic sees the service station looming before his
grateful eyes and quickly rolls in behind dozens of other cars.

The first thing the attendant does is hose down the superheated
engine. When things are cool enough, he replaces split hoses and
clamps, then refills the radiator with gallons of engine coolant. The
driver races off, dollars poorer, far wiser, with a story to tell
back home about the fiendish Baker Grade.
 
 

The hawk cruised over Route IS, watching the cars in the blazing
daylight. She could see her own triangular shadow rippling across the
desert surface. Midway across the Baker Grade she saw movement. She
dipped her right wing and dropped in a diving spiral for a closer
look..