The Boys from Santa Cruz

jumpsuit, splotchy blacks and grays with elasticized waist and cuffs, blacks his face and white sneakers, jams all the gear that will fit, including the night-vision goggles, into the backpack, and fills the built-in, hard-walled quiver with an assortment of arrows.

“Wish me luck, Pocket Pal,” he calls to the starlings perched on the telephone wire. From behind him comes the sound of mocking laughter. He turns to see Sammael sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Cherokee, jingling a set of car keys. Asmador reaches for them; the redhead pulls one of his vanishing acts. But to Asmador’s considerable relief, when he peers through the window of the Cherokee, he sees the keys dangling from the ignition; the door, fortunately, is unlocked.

“Thank you,” he calls sheepishly, locking the car and pocketing the keys; not surprisingly, the only response is a burst of disembodied laughter.

3

The little procession, with Dr. Oliver marching in front and Skip bringing up the rear in the golf cart, followed a dirt trail bordered with spring-green poison oak that led uphill through a transition forest of red aspens, mountain alders, graceful poplars, fragrant-leaved bay laurels, and mossy live oaks so gnarled and ancient they looked almost sentient.

After marching for half an hour, Oliver turned off the main trail at an arrow-shaped wooden signpost pointing the way to something called the Omphalos. The side trail was too narrow for the cart, so Skip abandoned it at the turnoff and limped after the others on foot, down a rocky path that hugged the base of a shaley cliff for a hundred yards or so. Then it took a sharp downhill right turn and opened out onto a perfectly round, enchanted-looking clearing surrounded by a grove of quaking aspens that whispered and shimmered in the faint breeze.

“Welcome to Omphalos, the navel of the world,” Oliver boomed, in a voice that echoed around the clearing. “Let’s see if we can form a circle as perfect as the one nature made here.”

While the others arranged their zafus on the springy, cloverlike ground cover, Skip and Pender discussed the security arrangements. Because there was no vantage point from which Skip could keep a stationary watch, they agreed that he should stay as close to Oliver as possible while Pender kept an eye out for Charlie Mesker from the cover of the trees. “And remember,” Pender added-

“Don’t eat the crouton. Yeah, I know.”

Circles within circles. The pellucid sky; the round earth; the magical clearing; the circle of seekers seated cross-legged, tailor fashion, or in half- or full lotuses as their joints permitted. Oliver jingled his little silver bell and instructed them to listen for the farthest sound. As the throbbing echo of the bell died away, Skip became aware of the papery rustling of aspen leaves, the harsh cawing of crows, and the melodic call of some unseen songbird.

Twice more, Oliver rang the bell; twice more they listened for the farthest sound. Then Oliver led them in the bodhisattva vow: “We dedicate this journey we are about to take…”

“We dedicate this journey we are about to take…”

“To the spiritual advancement…”

“To the spiritual advancement…”

“Of all humanity…”

“Of all humanity…”

“And we pledge never to rest…”

“And we pledge never to rest…”

“Until all sentient beings…”

“Until all sentient beings…”

“Have reached Nirvana…”

“Have reached Nirvana.”

“Svaha!” Oliver clapped his hands together sharply.

“Svaha!” Fourteen sets of hands clapped in ragged, imperfect unison, like a firing squad.

After administering the vow, Oliver went around the inside of the circle from trainee to trainee, trailed closely by Steve, bearing a filigreed silver tray, and Candace, whose job it was to set out upon the salver a grape, a crouton, and a fluted paper cup the size of a shot glass, which she refilled at every stop with a draft of clear water from a purple thermos.

One by one, the celebrants ate of the fruit and the grain, then drank the water-except of course for Pender and Skip, who drank the water and popped down the grape, but surreptitiously palmed the crouton, then tossed it away when no one was looking.

After Oliver and his two acolytes had themselves partaken of the sacrament, the guru resumed his place in the circle and led the others in a chant, “Gate Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha,” providing his own simultaneous translation from the Sanskrit.

“Gate Gate: that means, go on, go on. Paragate: go further. Parasamgate: go even further. Bodhi: to enlightenment. Svaha: amen, so be it.”

Over and over they chanted the ancient formula-“Gate Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha”-while dust motes danced in the dappled light, and the trees rustled, and the birds sang, and the sun cast its honeyed glow over the meadow, until eventually time lost meaning and the chant began chanting them.Gate Gate, whispered the aspen leaves. Go on, go on.

And awaayyy Skip went. After the first few dozen repetitions of the prayer, he began experiencing a euphoric sense of belonging. Looking around the circle, he felt as if he were seeing the others, really seeing each of them, or any human being, for that matter, for the first time. Then after a few dozen more repetitions, Skip began playing tricks with their faces. He discovered that if he stared hard enough he could, for instance, turn beaming Oliver, with his bushy beard and broad, benevolent visage, into Aslan, the golden-eyed lion from the Narnia books, or transform the head of the fey, elderly Beryl into one of those wrinkled old Pennsylvania Dutch apple dolls.

But messing around with faces proved to be a dangerous experiment. Somewhere between the zillionth gate and svaha, Skip lost the ability to change them back. From then on he could only watch in horror as the features began to shift and change on their own, melting and blurring and eventually sloughing away entirely, until all that remained was the grinning armature of the skull beneath the perishable flesh.

And finally, much too late, it dawned on him that he’d been dosed. Seriously. With acid, most likely, and plenty of it. Don’t panic, he cautioned himself as the skull-headed creature that had once been Candace beamed across the circle at him. It’s not like you’ve never tripped before.

But something’s different this time…danger…something wicked…this way…

No! Don’t do it, don’t go there, Skip warned himself, closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands. It’s only the acid. That’s what you’re supposed to tell yourself when you start freaking: it’s only the acid.

But there’s something out there!

No! You took some acid and in a few hours everything will be back to normal.

But-

No! Say it: I took some acid…

I took some acid…

And in a few hours…

And in a few hours…

Everything will be back to normal.

Everything will be back to-Aw, fuck it.

Because it didn’t work. In the infinite darkness behind Skip’s eyelids, concepts like hours and normal were equally meaningless. And there was something evil out there, some…some rough beast slouching-