The Book of Stanley Read online

  “Does he have a wife?”

  “Yes, poor thing. And two girls.”

  Stanley savoured his wife’s voice like chocolate. He couldn’t remember any neighbours or the design of their garden, apart from the plum and apple trees blooming in the spring. All he really wanted to do was beg Frieda to come back to Banff, just for a few days. But if he launched into a new campaign, she would just hang up. Stanley imagined she was on the grass, lying on her back, a splash of morning sun on her face.

  What Stanley did remember was watching his wife from the kitchen window, last summer and summers previous. He had often thought she looked like a sapper, digging for the long root of a dandelion as though removing the fuse from a landmine. She would lie on her side, with her thin elbow in the air. Always a sun hat, and either a pair of old shorts or blue jeans. Frieda had four stained T-shirts for summer gardening, each one a gift from a charity walk.

  “Is it warm there?”

  “Sure is,” Frieda said. “And there?”

  “It takes a little longer to heat up in the mornings. Is the ground dewy?”

  She laughed. “Not too dewy, Stan, no.”

  When the others woke up, they were going on an excursion to a nearby lake. But he didn’t want Frieda to think he was doing anything remarkable without her. Stanley wanted his wife to know what she already knew, that he needed her, just more so. “I’m just going to do some studying today.”

  “You could do that from home.”

  “I could.”

  Silence vibrated and crackled on the phone line.

  “I’ve been watching old movies on DVD. Things you don’t like. Musicals, mostly. Last night I rented Footlight Parade. You would’ve fallen asleep. Back when you slept.”

  “That’s good.”

  “What’s good?”

  This was where the conversation would turn sour. Stanley would begin to feel guilty, and again he would explain why he felt compelled to stay in Banff. Frieda would say without saying that she was lonesome. That she felt abandoned and betrayed. And then it would become an ugly transition toward goodbye, again, until the following day’s similarly grim conversation.

  “How is Alok?”

  “Still in the hospital.”

  “Send him my love. Or admiration. Something.”

  Stanley heard the engine of a car passing slowly through the back lane. He couldn’t help himself. “I wish you were here.”

  “Television vans are parked outside the house. It’s not neighbourly. I can’t go to the store without cameras following me around. Twice now, I’ve seen myself on television, walking past the picture window. Which is filthy, by the way, and I’m not getting on a ladder. You know what? I’ve had to order groceries on the Internet. Charles sent me a link.”

  “All right, I’ll get Tanya to call–”

  “I’m moving to New York. I don’t know for how long. There’s a one-bedroom apartment I can sublet across the street from Charles’s building.”

  “Frieda.”

  “I can’t wait any more, Stanley.”

  There was a knock on his door. “Rise and shine,” said Swooping Eagle. “We’re off to see the wizard!”

  Frieda cleared her throat. “I’ll let you go.”

  “A few more minutes.”

  “I have a lunch date, and I have to pull up another fifteen dandelions before my shower, so–”

  “A lunch date with who?”

  “I love you,” said Frieda, and there was a click, and a dial tone.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Maha told herself, again and again, not to despise Tanya. She tried to forbid thoughts like, Go away, Tanya, and It makes me want to throw up when you flirt with the Lord, Tanya, and I hope a bear chews your stupid selfish face off, Tanya.

  With the other disciples, Maha stood on the shore of what was, according to a witch, the most haunted lake in North America. Swooping Eagle had driven them out in her minivan, both to escape the crowds in front of the house on Grizzly Street and to demonstrate some of the rituals of her own religion–in case The Stan was looking to borrow a thing or two.

  The green water crackled with light. According to Swooping Eagle, and recent archaeological digs, the shores of this long and deep lake had been inhabited for ten thousand years before Europeans arrived to develop it into a resort village. A dam had submerged the village in 1941.

  Swooping Eagle finished thanking the spirits for hosting them, and then she swept the large rock on which they stood with a magic broom. Maha glanced at Kal, who appeared to be on the verge of both laughing and crying. Swooping Eagle swept the rock and chanted quietly.

  On a hill nearby, five sheep caused a mini-avalanche of dirt. Maha noticed a bear on the opposite bank of the lake, but she didn’t want to break the spell of odd quiet that Swooping Eagle had created. Swooping Eagle took a white stone from her pocket, kissed it, and drew a circle on their ritual rock.

  “Now,” said the Wiccan, “what I’ve done here is I’ve cast a circle. As observers, this time, you’ll stay outside it. This is a sacred space, a space between the worlds. It takes care of our energy while we are here.”

  “Oy.” By the reddish half-moons under her eyes, it was clear Tanya hadn’t slept much. The previous evening’s television news, with the makeup horror, had apparently been hard on her sense of self. And unlike other spiritual devotees through the ages, around the world, Tanya did not seem eager to lose her sense of self. She pulled out her cellphone, for the third time in as many minutes, and checked it for missed calls.

  Swooping Eagle cleared her throat loudly. “You mind turning that off, dear? If there’s one thing the spirits don’t like–”

  “The spirits seem to be fine with your pink slacks, Swoopster. Just get on with it.”

  Up until now, the Lord had seemed preoccupied. He’d been watching and listening to Swooping Eagle, but Maha could tell his attention was focused elsewhere–on something down the beach, closer to the water. He tiptoed across the rock, careful not to step inside the circle, and whispered something in Tanya’s ear.

  Tanya sighed. “I’m really sorry I said that, Swoop,” she said, in the monotone of a chastised eight-year-old. “It was mean.”

  Swooping Eagle bowed her head. “Tanya, since you’re standing in the west, you’ll be the western guard. Kal, stand a quarter-turn away from her. You’re the southern guard. Maha, you’re next, in the east. Stanley, I’d like you to stand in the north.”

  She placed a bowl of salt in front of Stanley, some incense before Maha, a lava rock at Kal’s feet, and a cup of water at Tanya’s. In the centre of the circle, Swooping Eagle laid down a white cloth and covered it with a number of items. “These are our working tools,” she said, and gestured to a pentacle, a bell, a crystal, a wand, and a small black cauldron.

  Then Swooping Eagle pulled her pink sweatpants off. After the pants came her sweater. Maha had trouble looking at Swooping Eagle in her bra and panties, and it was even more difficult when she removed those. Tanya slapped herself on the forehead.

  “Can I say something?”

  “Absolutely not,” said the Lord.

  In the centre of the circle, in front of her altar of cloth and working tools, the naked witch muttered and pointed and swung her arms about for some time. Then she faced north and bent over. Maha did not envy Kal’s view from the south.

  Some consecrations came next, and then Swooping Eagle called the mighty spirits to attend to the circle with their powers.

  Swooping Eagle burned some incense, a scent that had always made Maha faint. The Wiccan thanked the goddess, other spirits, and her four quarters. She wiped the circle away, and they all sat down on the large rock to eat a carrot cake.

  Swooping Eagle took a bottle of champagne and a carton of orange juice out of her bag, with five plastic cups. “We usually drink ceremonial wine, but considering the hour I thought we’d go for mimosas. I love mimosas. Don’t you guys?”

  “That was really quite terrific, Swoop.” Tanya
looked down at her hands. “But with all respect, could you put your clothes back on? Please?”

  Maha wondered if life, a way of life, or even a religion, could be sacred without rituals.

  Swooping Eagle, still naked, distributed the mimosas. She pulled out a knife to cut the cake. “That’s just the way my coven does it. There’s a thousand variations. We always have the circle, though, and the tools. We summon the–”

  “It was very educational,” said the Lord. “Thank you.”

  Kal drank his mimosa in one gulp and said, “Is there any more booze and juice?”

  “I was lost before this,” said Swooping Eagle. “Eating poorly, addicted to TV, married to an idiot. Wicca’s given me a way of looking at the world without any malice or negativity or disharmony. The first year I…”

  The Lord, who had been staring beyond the circle, started away. “Thanks again, Swooping Eagle. My friends. If you’ll just excuse me.” He climbed over the rocks toward the other side of the beach, removed his shirt, put it back on, and walked into the water.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Mary Schäffer and young Darlene stood on the beach with a number of other men and women. Most were aboriginal, but some were white, others Asian, still others of indeterminate origin.

  They had waited on the beach during Swooping Eagle’s ritual. Patiently, Stanley thought. He had found it difficult to pay attention to the ritual as, from time to time, one of the beach people would take off into the air, float over the water, and drop into Lake Minnewanka without a splash. As Swooping Eagle had finished up, what seemed to be a sasquatch had stood on the lake’s edge among the humans. Stunned by the Wiccan’s dance of gratitude, Stanley had looked away, and when he’d turned his attention back to the beach the sasquatch was gone.

  The beach people seemed to know when the ritual was over, as a number of them now eased into the water. Mary Schäffer waved at him to follow, so Stanley declined the offer of carrot cake and mimosas. Most everyone had gone in by the time he reached the shore.

  “How cold is it?”

  Mary Schäffer shook her head. “Don’t be cute.”

  “It’s a glacier-fed lake and I–”

  “Listen, I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  “Just a minute.” Stanley removed his shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You won’t get wet,” said Darlene. She stayed on the beach and motioned for Stanley to put his shirt back on. “Not really.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  Darlene shrugged. “Maybe later.” She wore white linen pants and a smart tan jacket, with perfectly clean sneakers. “It’s not my scene.”

  Mary Schäffer, in a pink dress, was the last to step into Lake Minnewanka. Stanley hesitated and Mary Schäffer sighed, yanked on his hand. “I don’t know why everyone’s so concerned about you. You obviously don’t have a clue.”

  The water was not cold. It was as comfortable as the morning air in the valley, and though Stanley held his breath when he finally put his head under, it seemed unnecessary. As they walked along the gooey bottom, deeper into the green murk of the lake, the light becoming weaker, Mary Schäffer turned to him and said, “Go ahead, breathe.”

  It took a few attempts to gather the courage and then Stanley did breathe underwater. For the first time since Frieda had left Banff, Stanley laughed.

  The floor dropped off suddenly and the expanse of the lake opened before them. Their hair and clothing fluttered. The sun rippled through the water just enough to reveal a series of ruins far below. Stanley assumed this was the Minnewanka Landing townsite, submerged by a dam in 1941. Yet by the time he’d called out to Mary Schäffer, to ask if this was indeed the case, light had returned. Stanley blocked his eyes from the suddenness of the change, from almost total darkness to brilliant daylight. Ten feet from the absolute bottom of the lake, as his eyes adjusted, Stanley saw it wasn’t Lake Minnewanka any more. There was no sign of water. He was descending, slowly, into a town. A city.

  They landed on greener-than-green grass, and Mary Schäffer pulled her hand away from Stanley’s. There were trees, of both temperate and tropical origin. Buildings of ancient and modern styles lined a Main Street, where thousands of pedestrians passed in both directions. Some of them noticed Stanley and Mary Schäffer, and pointed. There were homes built on the edges of the lush valley. Stanley saw the sasquatch again, and another.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Mary Schäffer was standing beside him, fixing her hair. “What?”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “You don’t believe what?”

  Stanley pivoted, gestured to the people and the infrastructure on the bottom of Lake Minnewanka. “This isn’t happening. What did you do to me? Where’s Darlene?”

  “As usual, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  What Stanley really wanted was to share this moment with Frieda. Of everything that had happened to him since that morning in the backyard, this was most frightening.

  Mary Schäffer seemed to anticipate Stanley’s next series of questions and led him to what appeared to be the town’s information centre across the street. “It’s built according to the dimensions of King Solomon’s Temple,” said Mary Schäffer. “Half size, of course, and without any timber from the forests of Lebanon. I’m sure you’ve seen nothing like it.”

  They walked up the steps, past the pillars, and through the vestibule. There was one clerk, sitting at a stone desk in the central chamber. The walls of the large room were lined with cedar, with carved trees and angels in gold. Books were everywhere, though Stanley could not focus on their titles. “How can I help you?” said the clerk, a bearded man dressed in the leather garb of a nineteenth-century explorer.

  “What is this place?”

  The clerk laughed. “This is the library, information centre, and temple.”

  “No. I mean, what is this everything?”

  “You didn’t see the sign? You’re in Svarga.”

  “Swarga?”

  “Svarga. Welcome!”

  Mary Schäffer and the clerk discussed between themselves something about a meeting, so Stanley wandered alone through the temple. He came to the end of the central chamber and started up a series of steps. The smaller room beyond, from what he could see, had cedar wainscotting and gold floors, with a great carved angel. He was drawn to this place, which felt lonesome and empty.

  “Stop.”

  Mary Schäffer yanked Stanley by the collar and pulled him back into the central chamber. “That’s the holy of holies, you moron. The dwelling place of God.”

  “There’s a God?”

  Mary Schäffer looked at the bearded clerk with a blank expression. It was clear no one was going to answer his question. So he asked another.

  “Are you all dead?”

  There didn’t seem to be a yes-or-no answer to this one, but they almost spoke. The clerk grunted and rubbed at his grey-black hair as though a good response might be hidden under there.

  “All right, how about this. Why did you bring me here?”

  Mary Schäffer seemed pleased with this question, as did the clerk. “We’re having a meeting, to discuss you in a more formal manner. You’ve been little more than petulant with me, in private.”

  “Ms. Schäffer, I haven’t been petulant. But I don’t think I’ll have any illuminating answers for you. I’m just starting to get a handle on all this myself.”

  She turned to the clerk. “You see? Diabolical.”

  “So who are you people? Are you people?”

  The bearded man smiled. “Of course, Mr. Moss. Everyone but the sasquatches. But you know what they say: sasquatches are people too.”

  Back out on Main Street, Stanley entered a procession. Thousands of people–dressed, like the clerk in Solomon’s Temple, in period clothing–walked and floated in a direction that Stanley guessed to be north.

  Though most of the people of Svarga were subtle about it, they
seemed to regard him as a stranger and an alien. They allowed a pocket to form around him, as though he were contagious. Some whispered about him and stared openly. Others called out. He could not understand all of the languages, but he understood one man very clearly.

  “Chop off his fecking head!”

  Mary Schäffer said, “You have become something of a celebrity here. You’re not one of us and you’re not one of them, either.” Mary Schäffer pointed straight up, to the murky, blue-green sky that was, in some sense, the under-surface of Lake Minnewanka. “When we planned this meeting, we weren’t able to gauge the demand. At first we thought we’d hold it at the information centre, then public interest in you absolutely exploded. We’ve moved this meeting to the only room big enough.”

  Over the crowd, Stanley could now see a red gateway and wall, and beyond it a white-domed building. It took him some time to realize how and why he recognized this place. As they approached, the crowd paused to allow Stanley and Mary Schäffer to pass under the sandstone arch.

  They entered the gardens and pools of the Taj Mahal.

  “Have you been?” said Mary Schäffer.

  Stanley stopped, and covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I don’t get this, and you’re not telling me anything.”

  “Why should I tell you anything? You haven’t told me anything.”

  He pulled his hands away. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Poppycock. Poppycock. Poppycock.” Mary Schäffer adjusted the white collar of her pink dress, and directed Stanley to the vegetation in each of the four corners. “These are the Gardens of Paradise. And up ahead, here in the central square, is the Celestial Pool of Abundance.”

  They reached the Celestial Pool of Abundance. There was a single lotus blossom floating on its surface.

  “It represents the place where man met God.”

  Stanley did not know how to respond. Here he was, on the terrace of the Taj Mahal, with a Rocky Mountain explorer from Philadelphia who died in 1939. The crowd continued to leave space around him, even though they themselves were packed in tightly. Not far from the Celestial Pool of Abundance, Stanley spotted another sasquatch. “So I gather they’re real, the sasquatches?”