Midnight Call
"Doctor Farrell's Goddesses"
That night, my dreams had definite trysting place for the first time. The usual threesome seduced me behind the house, under the willow, and for once a feeling of dread rather than arousal prevailed.
This, along with the usual morning funk, stayed with me through a listless breakfast. Last night's real-life visit by three women like those in my dreams disturbed me more in glaring sunlight than in drowsy midnight hour. But more disturbing was the nagging urge to learn how I fit into whatever Farrell was up to, to violate his sanctum again for information.
Wearily, I raised my eyes to the kitchen window, out to where the nocturnal adventure had begun. This time, a dog had strayed into the yard and was digging in the primroses fringing the pool. He was some kind of big white hound, with red spots and ears. I hollered at him and ran outside, but by then he was gone. A few plants were squashed or minced around the dog's shallow crater, but about this I could be philosophical: with all else on Farrell's mind, coming home to this much damage after a month posed no calamity.
Meanwhile, the sun was hitting the water just right, letting me see all the way down. Not a frog in sight. Nor had any muck built up on the bottom, which was formed of a single slate disk. On this had been finely chiseled three robed women surmounted by a rose, all surrounded by "Ad Matronas, Farrellus," with additional words buried under little stones.
Kneeling, I submerged one arm to the shoulder, gritting my teeth against the cold until I brought up one of the stones, which had been polished smooth except for a petally irregularity on one side. Cupping it in my palm felt good before I realized it was an exact model of a kidney, with what must have been malignancy protruding. I shivered and flung it into the pool. It settled back among some few dozen just like it.
In anthropology classes I'd read that remoter corners of Christendom still fashioned crude votive offerings of afflicted body parts to local saints, along with prayers on potsherds begging for cures. Here in the suburbs the practice was showing its ancient roots. I was feeling queasy, and the coldness of the water hadn't left me. I stepped away fro the pool and its appeal to the "matriarchs," out of the willow's shade, and into the sun.
At that second there was a crack like thunder, and a crash so loud it dizzied me. Where I'd just been standing, alongside the pool, was a massive willow bough, looking at that point like a major portion of the tree, and many times bigger than what would have sufficed to kill me. I walked trembling like a nonagenarian back to the house.
That night, my dreams had definite trysting place for the first time. The usual threesome seduced me behind the house, under the willow, and for once a feeling of dread rather than arousal prevailed.
This, along with the usual morning funk, stayed with me through a listless breakfast. Last night's real-life visit by three women like those in my dreams disturbed me more in glaring sunlight than in drowsy midnight hour. But more disturbing was the nagging urge to learn how I fit into whatever Farrell was up to, to violate his sanctum again for information.
Wearily, I raised my eyes to the kitchen window, out to where the nocturnal adventure had begun. This time, a dog had strayed into the yard and was digging in the primroses fringing the pool. He was some kind of big white hound, with red spots and ears. I hollered at him and ran outside, but by then he was gone. A few plants were squashed or minced around the dog's shallow crater, but about this I could be philosophical: with all else on Farrell's mind, coming home to this much damage after a month posed no calamity.
Meanwhile, the sun was hitting the water just right, letting me see all the way down. Not a frog in sight. Nor had any muck built up on the bottom, which was formed of a single slate disk. On this had been finely chiseled three robed women surmounted by a rose, all surrounded by "Ad Matronas, Farrellus," with additional words buried under little stones.
Kneeling, I submerged one arm to the shoulder, gritting my teeth against the cold until I brought up one of the stones, which had been polished smooth except for a petally irregularity on one side. Cupping it in my palm felt good before I realized it was an exact model of a kidney, with what must have been malignancy protruding. I shivered and flung it into the pool. It settled back among some few dozen just like it.
In anthropology classes I'd read that remoter corners of Christendom still fashioned crude votive offerings of afflicted body parts to local saints, along with prayers on potsherds begging for cures. Here in the suburbs the practice was showing its ancient roots. I was feeling queasy, and the coldness of the water hadn't left me. I stepped away fro the pool and its appeal to the "matriarchs," out of the willow's shade, and into the sun.
At that second there was a crack like thunder, and a crash so loud it dizzied me. Where I'd just been standing, alongside the pool, was a massive willow bough, looking at that point like a major portion of the tree, and many times bigger than what would have sufficed to kill me. I walked trembling like a nonagenarian back to the house.
Jonathan Thomas
Reprinted by Permission, Hippocampus Press 2008
