the rack by the door. Then, feeling faintly ridiculous, she approached the white-bearded figure.
Like a child at the mall going to sit in Santa's lap,
she told herself.
Or Dorothy approaching the Wizard.
The man continued to sit motionless, eyes shut, till Elizabeth had reached the edge of the dais.
Restraining the impulse to begin by saying, “O great Oz,” she cleared her throat and said, “I'm sorry to bother you, but—”
“We know of the transition of Cletus, Elizabeth Goodweather, and we grieve with you. He was a gentle spirit.”
So it was a cell phone,
Elizabeth thought.
Or a walkie-talkie. But maybe he really did see Cletus here.
Aloud, she asked, “Are you, uh, Polaris? Someone named Rigel told me to look for you here. I'm trying to find out where Cletus Gentry was two or three weeks ago. He was a small man, about five four, in his forties, short dark hair, and he would have had a shotgun—”
Polaris opened his eyes and turned their brilliant turquoise gaze full on her.
Those have got to be tinted contacts,
she thought, as Polaris said, “We knew Cletus well, Elizabeth Goodweather. Many times has he shared our evening-star meal. We knew him well and we cherished his simple wisdom. But he has not graced our table since the winter's solstice. And now we shall not see him for many circuits of the heavens.”
Polaris closed his eyes again. He began to hum, almost inaudibly at first, but then growing in volume till the sound seemed to fill the entire dome. Elizabeth stood transfixed as the unearthly tones swirled around her.
How does he do that? A hidden microphone or what?
Suddenly the humming ceased. Tiny echoes seemed to chase each other around the curving walls.
Abruptly Polaris rose to his feet and stretched extravagantly. Then he jumped lightly from the low dais to stand in front of Elizabeth, crossing his hands on his chest and bowing slightly. Only then did she realize that he must be much younger than the white hair and beard would suggest. His slim, muscular body, clad in loose trousers and a tunic of thin white silk, was that of an athlete in his early thirties. The pale, smooth skin around his eyes could have belonged to an even younger man.
“My meditation time is accomplished. How may I help you, Elizabeth Goodweather?”
Once again she began to explain, getting as far as “. . . and he headed up Pinnacle Ridge, right along my property line. My farm is on Ridley Branch—” Polaris smiled gently and held up both hands, palms outward.
“I know your farm, daughter, as I know all these coves and hollows, all the folds and hidden places of our dear foster-mother Earth. Many times have I journeyed in my astral body, gliding along the mountaintops, cherishing the sweet valleys and rivers, before voyaging outward to the stars. The creatures of these hills, the trees, the streams, the very rocks, all inform me as I travel, each one singing its own part in creation's many-voiced song.”
The full force of the turquoise eyes swept over her and Elizabeth stood there, mouth agape, for once, utterly and completely, dumbfounded.
CHAPTER 7
T HE R UNAWAY S TAR
( M ONDAY)
Y
OU'RE A BLEEDING NUTCASE,
THOUGHT E LIZABETH , the quote
—Was it Monty Python? Douglas Adams?—
rising unbidden in her mind. Immediately the voice of political correctness within countered,
Now, Elizabeth, don't be so cynical. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies,' or however it goes.
But aloud, she said only, “Then maybe you would have some idea of which way Cletus might have gone.”
Polaris shook his head slowly and his eyes darted to a slim, expensive-looking watch on his right wrist. “Each spirit must walk its own path, Elizabeth Goodweather. Be not troubled for the spirit that was Cletus; it has evolved into a higher sphere.”
Elizabeth doggedly persevered. “Cletus's mother wants me to try to find out what happened to the shotgun he had with him. I
Like a child at the mall going to sit in Santa's lap,
she told herself.
Or Dorothy approaching the Wizard.
The man continued to sit motionless, eyes shut, till Elizabeth had reached the edge of the dais.
Restraining the impulse to begin by saying, “O great Oz,” she cleared her throat and said, “I'm sorry to bother you, but—”
“We know of the transition of Cletus, Elizabeth Goodweather, and we grieve with you. He was a gentle spirit.”
So it was a cell phone,
Elizabeth thought.
Or a walkie-talkie. But maybe he really did see Cletus here.
Aloud, she asked, “Are you, uh, Polaris? Someone named Rigel told me to look for you here. I'm trying to find out where Cletus Gentry was two or three weeks ago. He was a small man, about five four, in his forties, short dark hair, and he would have had a shotgun—”
Polaris opened his eyes and turned their brilliant turquoise gaze full on her.
Those have got to be tinted contacts,
she thought, as Polaris said, “We knew Cletus well, Elizabeth Goodweather. Many times has he shared our evening-star meal. We knew him well and we cherished his simple wisdom. But he has not graced our table since the winter's solstice. And now we shall not see him for many circuits of the heavens.”
Polaris closed his eyes again. He began to hum, almost inaudibly at first, but then growing in volume till the sound seemed to fill the entire dome. Elizabeth stood transfixed as the unearthly tones swirled around her.
How does he do that? A hidden microphone or what?
Suddenly the humming ceased. Tiny echoes seemed to chase each other around the curving walls.
Abruptly Polaris rose to his feet and stretched extravagantly. Then he jumped lightly from the low dais to stand in front of Elizabeth, crossing his hands on his chest and bowing slightly. Only then did she realize that he must be much younger than the white hair and beard would suggest. His slim, muscular body, clad in loose trousers and a tunic of thin white silk, was that of an athlete in his early thirties. The pale, smooth skin around his eyes could have belonged to an even younger man.
“My meditation time is accomplished. How may I help you, Elizabeth Goodweather?”
Once again she began to explain, getting as far as “. . . and he headed up Pinnacle Ridge, right along my property line. My farm is on Ridley Branch—” Polaris smiled gently and held up both hands, palms outward.
“I know your farm, daughter, as I know all these coves and hollows, all the folds and hidden places of our dear foster-mother Earth. Many times have I journeyed in my astral body, gliding along the mountaintops, cherishing the sweet valleys and rivers, before voyaging outward to the stars. The creatures of these hills, the trees, the streams, the very rocks, all inform me as I travel, each one singing its own part in creation's many-voiced song.”
The full force of the turquoise eyes swept over her and Elizabeth stood there, mouth agape, for once, utterly and completely, dumbfounded.
CHAPTER 7
T HE R UNAWAY S TAR
( M ONDAY)
Y
OU'RE A BLEEDING NUTCASE,
THOUGHT E LIZABETH , the quote
—Was it Monty Python? Douglas Adams?—
rising unbidden in her mind. Immediately the voice of political correctness within countered,
Now, Elizabeth, don't be so cynical. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies,' or however it goes.
But aloud, she said only, “Then maybe you would have some idea of which way Cletus might have gone.”
Polaris shook his head slowly and his eyes darted to a slim, expensive-looking watch on his right wrist. “Each spirit must walk its own path, Elizabeth Goodweather. Be not troubled for the spirit that was Cletus; it has evolved into a higher sphere.”
Elizabeth doggedly persevered. “Cletus's mother wants me to try to find out what happened to the shotgun he had with him. I
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