Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (6 page)

Sun Girl stood up. "You mean our bed, don’t you?"
 

Orient looked at her. She was poised like a deer, ready to take flight at the slightest unfamiliar sound. He smiled and nodded slowly. She smiled back at him. "That’s what I thought," she said. She finished arranging the sheets, then went to the door to Joker’s room.
 

She paused, her hand on the knob. "I’m going to take a shower," she said softly. "Why don’t you get some rest?"
 

Orient sat down on the edge of the mattress and began taking off his clothes. His twill trousers were torn and his light-colored jacket was smudged with grass and dirt stains. His Battaglia loafers were scuffed and dusty.
 

He realized he was exhausted. The sheets felt stiff and clean against his bruised skin. He stared up at the ceiling, his head resting on his palms.
 

He heard the door open behind him: Sun Girl padded across the rug wrapped in a towel. She went to make sure that Julian was covered, kissing his tiny hand gently before crossing the room and clicking out the lights.
 

He heard the sound of her bare feet come close to the bed and a soft rustle as the towel dropped to the floor.
 

She slipped under the sheets and he felt her skin cold and damp against his. His hands moved over her body as a rush of recognition ignited his desire. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman. His mouth found hers and she became a wriggling, restless warmth beneath him. She whimpered as he entered her, her voice a moist whisper against his ear that rose to a small moan as they found their rhythm, until there was nothing else in the universe but her warmth and her cries and his body arching to meet hers like a bow that had suddenly found the itching purpose of its design.

CHAPTER 4

The first thing Orient saw when he opened his eyes was a small naked boy sitting on the pillow next to his head.
 

"Hey," Julian shouted, "he’s awake."
 

Orient tried to push himself upright and fell back as a sharp pain flashed through his arm. He looked at his wrist. It was slightly swollen and a long yellow, green bruise discolored his forearm. A deep ache in his left side forced him to change position.
 

"Does it hurt, Owen?" Julian asked.
 

Orient nodded and carefully sat up. "Good morning," he yawned.
 

"It’s almost noon." Julian got up and ran into the other room.
 

When he came back he was followed by Sun Girl who was holding a glass of orange juice.
 

"Hi." She sat down at the edge of the bed and handed Orient the glass. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead as he drank. "How do you feel?" she whispered, nuzzling his neck.
 

"I’ll live, I suppose," Orient grunted. He rubbed the small of his back.
 

Sun Girl examined his wrist. "Could be worse," she murmured. Then she noticed his hand. The palm was cracked and wrinkled, etched with a network of short deep lines like that of a very old man. "What happened here?" she asked. "Hand grenade?"
 

Orient shook his head. "Too many parties."
 

Sun Girl took the empty glass and stood up. "You travel with a fast crowd."
 

"Mommy, Owen has white hair in his head," Julian announced.
 

"Don’t make fun of senior citizens, Julian," Sun Girl giggled.
 

"Don’t bother to apologize, Julian," Orient said. "Just call them the way you see them." He looked at Sun Girl. "Remember the naked emperor and his invisible clothes. And speaking of clothes," he scratched his head, "where did you come by all that finery?"
 

Sun Girl laughed and twirled, making her long red-and-yellow flowered skirt billow and lift from the floor. She was wearing a pair of black sandals with long thongs that crisscrossed around her legs and tied above her knees. An emerald-sequined vest and a rose silk scarf wrapped turban-like around her head completed the outfit.
 

"Mommy’s a gypsy," Julian yelled. He ran into the next room. "Just the costume for the day," Sun Girl said. "This morning while you were snoring I was busy." She pointed behind Orient. He turned stiffly, the pain in his side still making sudden movements difficult.
 

There was a large, battered wooden trunk next to his suitcase. The top of the chest was open and belts, beads, blouses, dresses, scarves, sweaters, vests and hats hung on every corner and cascaded over the sides. The floor next to the trunk was lined with dozens of pairs of shoes and boots.
 

"All my worldly goods."
 

"Pretty worldly indeed," Orient said.
 

For a long moment they stared at each other.
 

Sun Girl came back to the bed and sat down next to him. She was still holding the empty glass. "If you don’t want us around, just say so, Owen," she said.
 

"That’s not the problem—" Orient hesitated.
 

"Julian," Sun Girl interrupted, "get dressed, we’re splitting." She stood up.
 

"Wait a second." Orient took her hand and pulled her gently back to the bed. "Just listen before you make up your mind."
 

"You want to tell us that whatever you have to do doesn’t include me, right?" Sun Girl’s voice was even. "I understand, Owen. Details aren’t necessary."
 

"Wrong. You missed the point." Orient began rubbing her neck. "It’s just that you should know that I can’t make any emotional commitment to anybody right now. I have to find myself first."
 

Sun Girl was silent but Orient could feel the tightness in her body under his hand. "If you stay," he went on, "it’s got to be with that understanding. Just good friends for awhile."
 

Sun Girl relaxed and leaned against him. "You’ve got lots to learn about Sun Girl," she said. "Do you know why I moved my stuff here this morning?"
 

Orient shook his head.
 

"Because you need me, stupid," she said gravely. "And," she lifted the sheet and regarded his naked body with detachment, "because I’m a sucker for skinny men!"
 

She jumped to her feet and skipped to the center of the room trailing the sheet behind her. "Now why don’t you take a nice bath?" she giggled, folding the sheet with a flourish. "Then you can get busy finding yourself. Julian and I are going out. We have things to do."
 

"Are we splitting, Mommy?" Julian called from the doorway. He was sitting on the floor fumbling with the laces of his sneaker.
 

Sun Girl went over to help him. "We’re going out," she said, tying his shoe. She lifted him to his feet and zipped the fly on his jeans. "But we’re coming back. We’re going to stay with silly Owen for awhile."
 

The bathroom was located off a short hallway that connected the living room to Joker’s bedroom. There was a small efficiency kitchen built into the wall across from the bathroom.
 

Orient found some soap and shampoo and took a long hot shower followed by a short burst of cold spray. He picked a large towel hanging behind the door that was only slightly damp and, after gingerly drying his still sore limbs, wrapped the towel around his waist and went into the living room.
 

He sat down on the edge of the mattress and rummaged through his bag for a fresh shirt. He reminded himself to buy a new shaving kit and other supplies that day. Sordi was no longer available to replenish simple necessities automatically.
 

As he looked through his suitcase, he noticed the brown envelope Joker had tossed next to it the night before. He picked it up and opened the flap. Inside was a small amount of what appeared to be gold-leafed herb.
 

Orient grinned. Joker was a thoughtful host.
 

He searched through the clothing he had worn the previous day until he found the silver case Sordi had given him. He opened it and extracted a single cigarette paper from the Bambu pack tucked inside. Using the gold-leafed herb, he rolled a thin, tight cigarette, then looked through his pockets for a match.
 

"Om Aing, Chring, Cling, Charmuda, Yei, Vijay,’he whispered, invoking the ancient Buddhist mantra for the consecration of Bhang.
 

He lit the cigarette and, as he smoked, studied the oval scroll design etched into the small case. The scroll was his mandala, the special meditation design given to him by his instructor Ku, that last day in Tibet. He tried to empty his mind of everything except its intricate lines. He felt the muscles in his neck relax and tentatively flexed the fingers of his injured hand while he continued to concentrate on the figure. As his consciousness intensified and condensed, the pain in his arm dimmed.
 

Orient put the silver case aside and stood up. He put the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, then he took the towel off and spread it on the floor. He sat cross-legged on the towel and began a series of preliminary physical exercises. First the Yang series, the slow, careful stretching of his muscles. He continued these until the first threshold of bodily resistance had been passed. The soreness in his side lingered after the twinges in his bruised forearm diminished, but eventually that also responded to the methodical yoga therapy. Then he entered the Ying series, the breathing patterns, creating a new rhythm that pushed his consciousness past the demands of bone and muscle until, abruptly, his mind soared clear of his animal presence.
 

The calm covered his consciousness like a blanket of cashmere, warm and light and soft, its subtle weight nudging his awareness toward the light.
 

The light. The unflickering radiation of his being.
 

He breathed deep, his body opening easily and parting the invisible webs of resistance blocking his passage toward the light.
 

And then he was there, floating in the center of the incandescent compression of all reality. The code gene. The unique combination of his existence; past, present, and future.
 

He was a thousand deaths, a thousand births, a thousand lives all vibrating together at the same time. He was all time at once, unfragmented by the fearful politics of learned perception. An unrippled pool of pure light, existing rather than reflecting.
 

He bathed in the pool, sensing the infinite tides of the universe, the swelling motion of its direction. He swam there for eons until the restless currents carried his consciousness back to the gritty shores of thought.
 

He blinked.
 

He was still lying on the towel on the floor. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and took a long, luxurious breath. He extended his arms and arched his neck back. His muscles felt supple and his mind felt refreshed. The crustations barnacling his brain and body had all been hosed away by the purifying liquids of his journey.
 

He dressed and began rolling the rest of the contents of the envelope into cigarettes. He was just putting them into his silver case when Joker came in.
 

"You know, Doe," Joker said, sitting down and folding his arms behind his head, "ever since I first seen you in Central Park yesterday I got the strangest feelin’."
 

"Really?" Orient folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He knew that his proximity to a telepathic potential would cause some disturbance but he didn’t quite know he would deal with the question if it came up directly. He wanted to know more about Joker before attempting to teach him the techniques of controlled thought transference. In the wrong hands, or head, it could be a dangerous toy.
 

"Yeah, really," Joker said, his eyes half closed. "I been around some, Doc, and I got a surefire instinct for people. And," He lifted his head and looked at Orient, "I learned to depend on my instincts. Know what I mean?"
 

Orient nodded.
 

Joker dropped his head back on his hands. "What I’m getting’ at, Doc, is that I can’t figure you out just yet. I see a lot of dudes come down here every day tryin’ to find somethin’ or hustle somethin’ or get away from somethin’." He lifted his head again. "But you’re different, you dig?"
 

"I’m not sure what you’re getting at."
 

Joker came up to a sitting position, swung his legs over and put his feet on the floor. He ran a hand through his long red hair. "Well, what I mean is that you don’t seem to know what’s happening, but then again you do." He waved his hand impatiently. "No, that’s not what I mean either. Damn, but you’re a confusin’ fella, Doc."
 

Orient smiled. "Maybe I can help."
 

Joker leaned back on his elbows and waited.
 

"I wasn’t exactly a practicing MD but a kind of research specialist," Orient began uncomfortably. He hadn’t planned on going into personal details. "The only hitch was that I was out of touch. My fancy lab equipment and preoccupation with my experiments was preventing me from reaching the people I wanted to help. I was like some kind of robot."
 

Joker nodded. "I got you covered so far, Doc."
 

’So I gave it all up and started looking for a way to make contact with the ordinary human race. That’s how I came to get involved in that riot."
 

Joker’s eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Say, Doc," he said with elaborate casualness, "how did you come to pull me out of there special?"
 

Orient hesitated. It wasn’t time to start explaining psychic mechanics. "I went out after my bag," he said, "and I recognized you from the park that afternoon. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do at the time."