The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

'It seems kind of militaristic for an organization like yours.'

'Not at all; not when you understand what the rings symbolize.'

'Wagner's operas.'

'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The great knife is Garth, struggling to defeat them.'

'Who understands that?'

'People who understand it.'

'Who designed it?'

'A Guardian Angel who used to be a graffiti artist. He'd been listening to Garth's stories about the Valhalla Project, and he came up with it. Everyone thought it was just super, so we adopted it as a logo. Why?'

'Just curious.'

'Incidentally, I know now that all of Garth's stories about Siegmund Loge and the Valhalla Project are true, Mongo. Garth was never psychotic. He was simply telling the truth to the doctors, nurses, and patients in the clinic-but the patients were the only ones who sensed that it was the truth. Interesting.'

'Yeah, interesting. What do you call yourselves?'

'We don't call ourselves anything. Others are starting to call us Garth's People.'

'Lousy name,' I said as I felt a sudden chill.

'Why?' Carling asked, and smiled thinly. 'Because it reminds you of the name given to the people in Siegmund Loge's communes-Father's Children?'

'Something like that.' The notion that Garth, even inadvertently, might be taking up where Siegmund Loge had left off in the overall scheme of things was just too sour an irony to dwell on. The Triage Parabola. Human extinction. Loge had said that, given our present state of being, nothing could be done; history would keep repeating itself over and over and over, until. . 'Forget it. What difference does it make what you're called?'

'No difference. Names aren't important. The only important thing is Garth's mission on earth.'

'His 'mission on earth,' Tommy?'

'Yes.'

I spread my arms in a gesture meant to encompass the room, the bathhouse, the streets outside-and perhaps beyond. 'What's your thinking about how Garth fits into all this?' The sudden chill I had felt hadn't gone away; indeed, I was growing colder by the moment.

'I don't understand your question,' Carling said, leaning forward on the desk. His pony tail had fallen over his right shoulder. 'Without Garth, this wouldn't exist. Garth is 'this.' '

'Tommy,' I said as I breathed a small sigh, 'from the very first time I saw you working with Garth, I knew you were a hell of a good nurse, a solid professional. I also pegged you as a man with his head and heart in the right place, and both feet solidly on the ground.'

'But now you've changed your opinion of me?' the other man asked in a mild tone.

'Tommy, I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate-am grateful to you for getting Garth away from that clinic when you did. If you hadn't done what you did, Garth could have lost his mind, and maybe his life. But now I have to ask you a question.'

'Please do,' Tommy Carling said in the same mild tone.

'Anyone can see that you're helping all sorts of people, doing all sorts of good works …'

'But?'

'Is what you're up to here good for Garth? Once, that would have been the first question you asked yourself.'

Carling looked vaguely surprised. 'Good for Garth? This is what he wants and desperately needs, Mongo. You don't seem to be able to understand-or accept-that. He's a man who feels the suffering of others to the very core of his soul. You know that he cries when he sees someone-man, woman or child-hungry, cold, or in pain? To help other people is not only a spiritual need for Garth; it is, without exaggeration, a physical one.'

'Tommy, my brother's an escaped mental patient, with his thinking seriously out of joint. I know this is selfish, and not at all in the spirit of the way things are done around here, but I have to think of my brother's welfare first. It occurs to me that all the business I see around here just feeds into his fantasies.'

'Fantasies, Mongo?' the male nurse said, raising his eyebrows slightly. 'Just what fantasies of Garth's are you referring to? Siegmund Loge, the Triage Parabola, and the Valhalla Project? Or maybe you mean his fantasy that he killed Orville Madison-and tried to kill somebody named Veil Kendry-because of the hurt inflicted on you?'

I quickly looked away, angry for having trapped myself. 'Maybe 'fantasies' was a poor choice of words. What you're doing is feeding into his problem-which is a badly distorted self-image and perception of reality. He belongs back in a mental hospital, not walking the streets playing Mother Theresa.'

Tommy Carling slowly shook his head, then absently brushed his ponytail back over his shoulder. 'You're a hard man, Mongo. I honestly believe there's no sense of wonder-of awe or mystery-in you. I think I feel sorry for you.'

'Thanks, Tommy. Believe me, I can use all the sympathy I can get. I'd like you to feel a little pity for my brother.'

'Garth doesn't need my pity; he's the man who's given me a renewed sense of wonder, awe, and mystery.'

'Garth is very seriously mentally disturbed.'

Again, Carling shook his head. 'You truly believe that, Mongo? Still?'

'Still? Not so long ago you would never have questioned it. You didn't help Garth escape from the clinic because you thought he was well; you took him out because you couldn't bear to see a sick man made even sicker at the hands of a fool.' I paused, swallowed, put my own hands on the desk. 'I guess what I'm doing is asking for your support in trying to convince Garth that he should go back to the D.I.A. clinic. He'll be all right there now.'

'Garth doesn't belong in a mental hospital, Mongo,' Carling said evenly. 'Nor does Marl-not any longer, thanks to Garth. Garth is carrying out God's design for him.'

'What does that mean, Tommy?' I asked, feeling my stomach muscles tighten.

Tommy Carling's easy, loud laugh startled me. 'You've really been having a problem getting around to asking me what's really on your mind, haven't you? Well, the answer is yes, I do believe Garth is the Son of God, the Messiah. I believe just as Marl believes-and yes, I know about the conversation you had with Marl. If my thinking-knowing-that Garth is God's son, His personal messenger and our Savior, makes me crazy in your eyes, then so be it. I'm filled with more joy than you can possibly imagine, and what you think just doesn't matter to me.'

'Tommy, your brains have run out your ears.'

Carling merely smiled. 'You hear something which disturbs you, and the only way you can react is with an insult. As I said, I feel sorry for you. I don't mean any offense, Mongo, but I can't help but wonder now if that scar on your forehead wasn't put there when it was for a reason.'

'That's cute, Tommy; it's a new twist, and I love it. When did this great revelation about Garth come to you?'

'Now that I think back, I think I was beginning to realize it back at the clinic, even before I took Garth out,' he replied, totally oblivious to-or choosing to ignore-my heartily felt sarcasm. 'I began to realize it when I saw the incredible impact Garth had on sick people. Now … I'm just grateful that God chose me as His tool to save His son from destruction.'

'Marl Braxton didn't plant this notion in your head?'

'No. I believe you were the only person Marl broached that subject to-and only because you're Garth's brother. I was the one who went to him with. . my conviction. That was when he told me about his. We had quite a laugh over it.'

'I'll bet you did. Tommy, you don't really believe that Garth made a blind man see again, do you?'

'Absolutely,' Carling said without hesitation. 'There's no question that it happened. In fact, you had witnesses-including a New York City policeman, and a photographer. And there have been other miracles. The transformation of Marl Braxton is one-perhaps that was Garth's first miracle. Considering who-what-Garth is, it