Faeth

As he turned off the shower, he heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen. That didn't bother him; he'd set the water to boil before starting the rest of his morning ritual.

What alarmed him was the whistle trailing off as he wrapped himself in a towel and padded across the cool, bathroom tile. He paused from momentary disorientation as the implications went though his temple like an ice pick, nearly going down on one knee before he steadied himself with a hand on the counter. He stood for a moment, feeling lightheaded and confused, his heart frozen then pounding erratically. Someone else was in the house. Thinking it better to confront the situation than hide from it, he balled a fist and proceeded cautiously through the bedroom, surveying the living room, then the dining room as he inched toward the corner and into the kitchen. Perhaps his wife had returned having forgotten something, though he doubted it.

He heard the intruder before he saw her, humming a tune he knew he should recognize but he didn't, pouring water from the kettle into the French press he had set up earlier when his head was buzzing with ideas like a beehive in spring. Now his mind was empty, nearly dead, only his hindbrain active and focused on fear, struggling with the choice between combat and flight.

She was facing the stove, her right side toward him, just settling the dark green cozy his wife had crocheted over the carafe as he did nearly every morning while the coffee brewed. She was young, maybe in her twenties, dressed in a nicely tailored, pearl gray skirt and matching jacket, a white silk blouse peeking out at her wrist. She wasn't tall for a woman, but wasn't short either, maybe half a head shorter than he was. Her build was slight and athletic, reminding him of the paintings of Valkyries he had found so captivating on his first visit to the National Gallery several years ago. Where had that memory come from? He needed to focus.

She wore no jewelry that he could see, no rings, no earrings. Her sleeves hid whether she wore a bracelet or a watch, but he didn't think that she did. A sparkle from a small, gold cross dangling in the hollow of her neck on a fine gold chain caught his eye and, for a moment, he felt safe, though he knew that he shouldn't. Then he spotted the angular bulge beneath her jacket.

He had just opened his mouth to speak when she turned toward him. He was struck silent by her beauty: unblemished porcelain skin, a perfect nose and cheekbones, lips stained the pinkish-red of slightly under-ripe strawberries, a ponytail of blond hair bordering on the pale gold he only remembered seeing in children younger than five. When she met his gaze, he saw her eyes were a pale blue that flashed pictures through his mind of icebergs being calved from Alaskan glaciers. Or that hotel constructed entirely from blocks carved out a frozen lake somewhere in Sweden each winter.

He stood transfixed in the doorway, his fists still balled by his sides as if they would be of any use or even intimidating against the dusky purple bath towel wrapped about his waist. Water from his hair dripped into his eyes and ran down his face like tears. Quickly, he scanned the counter for something that might serve as a weapon, a knife, a rolling pin, a pot, anything. But everything was as it should be, neat and put away.

She smiled warmly, genuinely, as she leaned back against the counter. "Good morning, my friend. The coffee should be ready in a few moments. It smells wonderful by the way. French roast?"

He shook is head to clear it. Had he heard her right? Something in her voice compelled an answer. "Italian."

"I thought I smelled a hint of chocolate, but I could not be certain. It has been so long since I was sent to someone with good coffee. Most have something from a plastic jug or overwhelmed by the flavor of artificial vanilla. I always tell people, splurge on the best you can afford. If you are going to drink it every day, you may as well enjoy it. Simple pleasures, they are what this life is about. They never listen, though, until it is too late." Her voice had a gentle lilt and a slight accent that he couldn't quite place. Nothing European, of that he was certain.

His mind began to clear and form questions. "Sent? By who? Homeland Security? I can explain the letter."

She smiled again and slowly shook her head. "No need to explain to me. It is too late for that, anyway, unless it will make you feel better. I always listen, but it never changes the outcome."

His eyes darted to her jacket. She cocked her head, following his gaze with a glance. "The men always notice that. Women rarely see it, but men almost never overlook it. Even confronted by a complete stranger in their home, they cannot help but sneak a peek at a woman's chest. Why is that?"

"You're here to kill me," he said.

She continued as though she hadn't heard. "It must be instinct with you men. But seeing as you are curious." She undid the two buttons of her jacket, letting it fall open. He could plainly see the grip of a large handgun nestled in the shoulder holster beneath her right arm. Left-handed, he noted.

"Authentic Israeli .50 caliber Desert Eagle," she said, "one of the largest handguns in the world. Advertised as a man-stopper. One round will knock you backwards nearly a meter and you will not get up again. Though it kicks like an indignant mule. Do you know how many times I have heard men say, 'seems like a mighty big gun for a little lady like you?' Like they think that will endear them to me." She shook her head.

"But I will tell a small secret," she continued, smiling coyly. "The pistol is only for show. It keeps certain individuals from trying anything heroic. Once I show it to them, they cannot take their eyes off of it and notice little else. But here is the real danger." She hooked her left thumb around the bottom of her jacket and pulled it back, revealing the dark handle of a curved knife in a simple but finely crafted leather sheath that looked both old and well-oiled with care.

She slipped the knife out with the whisper of steel against leather. When he saw the blade, his fear left him, replaced by something closer to resignation tinged with more than a hint of awe.

The hilt was black bone or antler that had been polished to an obsidian finish, fastened to the tang by brass pins set perfectly flush. There was no guard. The blade flowed like a French curve, arcing into a wicked point that hooked out from the tip as though someone had pinched the end of it sideways. Outlines of ripples colored its surface where different metals had been beaten one into the other. The boundaries between layers were scalloped like an irregular shoreline as seen from high above the ground. Yet the surface was mirror smooth. Both edges glinted with the fine, silver traceries of a well-honed razor.

"It's beautiful," he said, unable to take his eyes off it.

"It is Damascus steel, the finest in the world," she explained with pride, twisting the knife so its blade better reflected the early morning light. "It is a Persian threshing knife, one of the oldest such tools in existence from the post-Bronze era. With proper care, it will hold an edge for many years. If you were to run your finger along it, you would feel the blood drip before you felt the cut. It is that sharp."

She eased the knife back into its sheath and buttoned her jacket, concealing both weapons. "The coffee is ready. Do you mind if I use this cup?" Casually, she picked up the hand-thrown pottery mug usually used by his wife for tea.

"Uh, sure." he answered, as if it mattered. "Who are you, anyway?"

"My apologies." She set down the mug and extended a hand. "My name is Faeth d'Angelo."

For some reason he accepted her outstretched hand. He expected it to be warm and soft. Instead it was cool, and, unlike so many women's, her grip was firm. He could sense the underlying strength in her arm as they clasped hands, not muscle toned in a gym but gained from everyday use in the fields.

Focus, he told himself as she released his hand. "d'Angelo? Forgive me, but you don't sound Italian."

She smiled again, "My father came from what is now Israel. My brother was born in the West Bank."

"You’re a terrorist then," he said before he could stop himself.

An angry scowl would have marred her face were it capable of being disfigured. Instead the expression just made her beautiful in a different way, like clouds filled with thunder before an approaching storm. Then it broke into disappointment.

"Americans are all the same these days," she sighed. "You hear a Middle Eastern accent and automatically think 'terrorist.' The Middle East is a place of culture. Its people gave humanity agriculture, the roots of law, mathematics. Cities and states. Civilization as you know it. Even your American staples of beer and coffee originated there. Three of the world's great religions were founded within a few hundred miles, yet all you can think of is the eleventh of September. It is a shame, really."

"I'm sorry," he said. He wasn't just saying it, for some reason he really did regret upsetting her, though he didn't know why.

"It is what it is," she said offhandedly as she began pouring the coffee. "It is a part of your culture now. I should not let it upset me. Still, it is sad. Sugar for you, yes?"

"Uhm, yes. Do you need cream?" Why did he ask that? What was it about this woman that made him want to please her?

"No, black is fine." She took a sip. "Mmm, dark and strong, the way coffee is supposed to be. I compliment your taste. You should have some before it goes cold." She nodded to the steaming mug beside her.

"Can I at least get dressed first?" he asked.

She leaned against the counter again, crossing an arm under her chest. "I am afraid not."

"So humiliation is part of the arrangement?"

A laugh bubbled up from her like a spring-fed stream tumbling over rocks. "You came to greet me wearing nothing more than a towel while trying to appear like an American action hero. I was content to wait until you were ready. But now that we have begun, we cannot go back. One of the rules, I am afraid." She shrugged.

"Rules? What rules?" he demanded, his fists bunching by his sides again.

"Why don't we sit like civilized people and talk about this while we enjoy our coffee." Faeth looked at him expectantly. He didn't move. "Please do not tell me you are going to be one of those macho cinema types you Americans love so much. It will end badly for you, my friend, and I do not want that."

He scowled at her and swept an arm toward the living room.

"I was thinking your breakfast area might be more comfortable. It has such a lovely view of the front garden. A simple pleasure you should take the time to enjoy."

"Fine." He motioned her in that direction instead.

"A gentleman," she said. "Always a welcome change in this country. But I must insist you show me the way."

He felt awkward leading, but it was only a few feet around the counter and into the nook marked by the transition from tile to carpet. He pulled out the chair tucked under the table for her before pulling one up from the wall for himself. He tried to sit without his towel falling open, mostly successfully. He wasn't sure how his wife ever managed to sit gracefully in a skirt. Thankfully, Faeth didn't seem to notice as she settled into the other chair, crossing her legs with practiced ease. They both faced the window across the small, round table. The carpet felt lush beneath his bare toes.

Faeth sipped her coffee and gazed out into the garden. He tasted his. Today was a day when everything was just right, the right amount of water for the right amount of grounds, the right amount of time steeping in the press. The right amount of sugar that enhanced the flavor but didn't overpower it. Just the right temperature even, barely steaming. A perfect cup of coffee.

He savored it and lost himself staring out the window. He felt as though he were a child again, ready to fall asleep rather than face an unpleasant situation. Sleep, the denial of the very young. Outside, a squirrel jumped into the crook of a distant oak holding something in its paws, a mushroom that it started turning and noshing around the edge of the cap as though it were corn on the cob. Strange the things he noticed when there was something he really wanted to avoid.

"You have questions." Faeth's voice brought him back inside. She was watching him now.

"Why?" he asked. "What did I do that you want to kill me?"

"I do not want to kill you," she responded, sounding mildly surprised.

"Well, someone wants me dead," he retorted angrily.

She shrugged. "Everyone dies. It is nothing personal."

He licked his lips. "Perhaps there is a way around it. I mean, you don't have to kill me. I could disappear, take on a new name, a new identity. I wouldn't tell anyone."

She smiled tolerantly. "I am afraid that is not an option."

"Well, why now? And don't tell me it's my time. Is this just some random act for you?"

"Something like that." She turned her chair to face him, cocking her head slightly. "But have you not been feeling tired recently, as though you were weighted down?"

As he thought about it, a wave of fatigue swept over him. His job, his wife, his lack of success, being stuck in the same rut, facing the same unresolved problems with family and friends year after year. He was over forty and still didn't know what to do with his life. On top of that, it had been a particularly difficult year, his wife's condition, his mother's deteriorating health, his own ailments. And the past, the inescapable past that still haunted him, one he could never change no matter how hard his mind struggled each night to come up with alternate outcomes to situations over which he'd had no control. Many nights during the past year, he had just wanted to lie down and sleep, never to wake again, just as he had wanted so often as a child. He rested his elbow on the table, leaning his forehead onto the palm of his hand. Now that he felt the full weight of living, he could no longer lift it. He closed his eyes.

"It will be all right, my friend," Faeth said, lightly touching his shoulder before he completely faded into inner darkness.

Wearily, he raised his head. "Will it?"

"I promise you it will," she answered, taking his hands into her own. Now her hands were more like he had expected, warm and soft, gentle, almost enveloping.

He looked into her eyes, which had changed to the color of the horizon in a clear, winter sky. "Am I going to die now?" he asked in a voice as small as a child’s.

She smiled indulgently. "We still have a little time if there is anything you wish to tell me."

Before he thought about it, memories came pouring out of him as torrents of words. Some he hadn't thought about in years while others he wasn't sure he had remembered since the day they had been formed. At first, most were the tragic moments, memories filled with frustration and anger, shame and fear. And tears, plenty of tears, even if at the time they had gone unshed. Slowly, brighter moments surfaced, the few joyful times he remembered and many he had not. From there came moments of individual beauty, most of which he had seen but hadn't noticed, which brought a deep sense of regret at not having experienced them fully when he’d had the chance. He remembered all the time he'd purposefully wasted by watching mindless television, playing meaningless games or surfing the net, as well as the energy he had consumed by struggling with things he could not change. He remembered the dreams he'd left unlived, the stories he'd left untold. And he cried, first in pain, then in joy, and finally, in release.

By the time his eyes had drained, his head rested on Faeth's shoulder while she stroked his hair with her right hand. A final memory surfaced, one from college during his second round of being born again, a conversion that also hadn't taken. A young woman from the campus ministry holding his hands as he released the bevy of his perceived sins to her care. At first she reassured him that he would be forgiven. Later, when she ceased to understand the words but still picked up on the emotion, she had held him and told him that he would be okay, that everything would be okay. An act of kindness from a stranger.

His memories exhausted, he felt himself leaning more heavily on Faeth, breathing in the clean scent of her hair. Before sleep claimed him, as he knew it would, he heard the sigh of the Persian threshing knife being slipped from its sheath as she shushed him like a mother would her infant. He felt a single tug, then the warmth flowed out of him. His head slumped from Faeth's shoulder briefly onto her chest then slid to her lap where he rested it awhile, comforted by her presence. Before she left him she eased him to the cold, hard tile of bathroom floor. She reflected a moment on his expression before returning the knife to its place at her hip, smiling and turning to go.

...

When his wife came home that evening, she knew something was wrong as soon as she entered the kitchen. She could smell the water long since boiled away now mixed with the scent of baking enamel from a kettle never intended to sit for hours atop a red hot burner. She turned off the stove and frantically called for her husband from room to room. Absently, she noticed the two mugs on the table in the breakfast nook, the dregs of coffee still staining their bottoms. Had she forgotten to put them away after dinner last night?

After searching the house, she finally found him curled on the bathroom floor as though eased there by some unseen hand, a towel wrapped around his waist. As soon as she saw him, she knew he was dead. Her hand covered her mouth as though guarding it against invasion by some unseen spirit. Her eyes washed themselves clean with tears as she gasped for breath. Even so, she was grateful for the peaceful expression upon his face, as she was again days later when the medical examiner informed her that he had died nearly instantaneously and without pain from the aneurysm that had burst within his brain.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III