Feeling like Halloween ghost himself, Jim drifted through the huge party sprawling through the old hacienda, not really seeing or being seen by any of the revelers. Most of Major Crimes, along with a goodly portion of Rainer's Anthropology department was here, dressed as mummies or vampires or clowns or whatever. Scrambling and scurrying among the many adults were the small reasons the party was being given in the first place - children from the Big Brothers and Big Sisters program and Child Services Community Center.
They had all been en-route, driving caravan style, to a haunted house/hay ride/costume party at an old cider mill off the coast road when a deadly fog had unexpectedly rolled off the ocean. It had obliterated vision and made progress impossible, forcing them to turn around and begin inching their way back toward Cascade. Less than half way home they had come upon a six-car pile-up that completely blocked the road. Before the wailing moans of disappointment from the children - not all of them still officially that young - could build, a matronly woman separated herself from the crowd of good Samaritans helping the crashed motorists.
Looking very much like anyone's dream of a sweet grandmother, Mrs. Cevantes' eyes flashed with fire when Simon initially turned down her offer of accommodations for the group. After a brief, intense exchange that had ended with the police Captain not only profusely apologizing for casting aspirations on her character, but thanking her for making him see reason, she had led them up a twisting, narrow dirt road to her home.
The hacienda style house had seen better days, but had an air of benign neglect, like an aged society matron who could no longer be bothered with the false facades of youth. It was a sturdy square structure with two stories and many rooms, all encompassing a large courtyard. Filled with the elegant reminders of grander time, and wonderful dark corners and nooks, the house was an instant hit with the youngsters. They promptly got involved in a complicated game involving hiding, running, and belly splitting yells, while the adults set up the party.
Joel and Mrs. Cevantes commandeered most of the able bodied to carry the group's supplies into the enormous kitchen. Well augmented by her own stores, the two of them proceeded to produce a cornucopia of treats, snacks and finger foods that were set out a long buffet table in the old-fashioned ballroom. Small tables, chairs, damask table clothes, silver cutlery, crystal and crystal candle holders were resurrected from storage and set into place, creating the atmosphere of an elegant restaurant.
Those not helping the food, cleaned up bedrooms for sleeping, lit fires and candles to augment the scarce electric lights, or kept the youngsters entertained. Fueled by frequent visits to the kitchen where cider with a decided kick steamed fragrantly on a back burner, they had the house readied for the transplanted party in short order.
Mrs. Cevantes generously told everyone to treat her home like theirs for the duration, earning her a round of applause and hugs from those so inclined. Her only caveat was that they should stay out of the courtyard. In recent years what had once been a lush garden had fallen onto hard times and was now a hazard of crumbling paving stones and overgrown thorns.
That one restriction only served to make the rest of her home more inviting, and before long everyone was settling in, being merry and having a great time.
Everyone but Jim. Maybe it was because he had refused to dress in costume. Or maybe because he had come only because his truck bed had been needed to haul groceries (and, to be truthful, because Sandburg had simply assumed he was going, never giving him a chance to say no until way too late). Or maybe it was because the house, warm and inviting as it was, reminded him with its understated wealth and luxury of his childhood home. Parties there had been something to endure, not enjoy.
So he floated from room to room, feeling distant and unconnected to the festivities, watching without being noticed.
In the old-fashioned library, lit only by a huge fire, hushed with ceiling high shelves of books on the four walls, Simon Banks sat in a big easy chair, a cluster of small ones close, telling a ghost story his gramma had told him. His rough, deep voice speaking of spirits and strange happenings was by itself enough to send shivers down young backs.
In a ladies drawing room, complete with embroidery stand and piano, Megan and two of the TA's that worked with Sandburg were helping with last minute costume adjustments. Repairs were made, make up was applied, and accessories were added or changed. For those without costumes, there was a huge old-fashioned steamer trunk filled with clothing that would have looked at home on the Titanic for them to scrounge through.
Several couples had found quiet crannies to retreat to, and were celebrating the occasion in the spirit of another holiday entirely. They added loving giggles, sweet teasing, and a glow of secret smiles to the already warm atmosphere. Those catching sight of them had their own fond and indulgent smiles to mix in, as well.
In the formal parlor, the furniture had been pushed aside and games were being organized. Amidst the traditional blind-man's bluff and apple bobbing were some creative variations, including a pin-the-badge-on-the-cop who was not standing still for it. Rafe and Brown were trying to decide how to hang the spider pinata without damaging anything while Daryl Banks looked on, eating a candied apple and offering silly advice that did not help the laughing officers with their task.
Throughout it all, Blair, dressed as Peter Pan (The Robin Williams version, man!) twinkled and flashed, seemingly helping everybody at once. His laughter rang the clearest and most frequently; his encouragement and teasing was the most easily heard. Megan had sprinkled him with glittering confetti, calling it fairy dust, and no less than three wide-eyed youngsters had asked if he was *really* Peter Pan.
Seeing him become the embodiment of the night was a knife twisting in Jim's gut. Sandburg, whose profession was to be the outsider, the observer, the consummate detached on-looker, was treated as if he were the reason for the party or an integral part of it at least. Jim, who had engineered Major Crimes' participation in both the Center and the Big Brothers, who had made the original suggestion for the celebration, may as well have stayed home like he'd planned.
Of course, that's why he had intended to. Not because Blair's joyous enthusiasm underlined his own sense of isolation, but because he always felt that way. It was as if he were visible only when doing the job, when he was needed, or if he was meeting someone's expectations. Standing on the fringe of everyone else's good time again, clueless as to how to become part of it, was not how he had wanted to spend the holiday.
Now he was trapped in a beautiful snare of polished, fragrant wood, dark creaking leather, rich red damask, sparkling crystal, and flickering scented light, desperately wondering if sentinel sight and ranger reflexes could get him through the fog and safely home. Choking on claustrophobia, he meandered through the halls and rooms, feeling the huge house shrink in on him.
Seeing Mrs. Cevantes slip from behind heavy curtains and feeling a wisp of fresh, moist air, Jim slid beneath the cloth himself, catching the French door just before the latch locked close. Idly he wondered if their hostess was feeling the weight of her surprise visitors; her face had held a mixture of resignation and sorrow. Grateful for the reprieve from the celebration and the crushing closeness of the house, he dismissed her from mind and surveyed his surroundings.
Cool, damp air caressed his cheek like a lover, coaxing him out of the night shadow of the house and into the fog. Behind him he could see ribbons of the land-bound cloud gliding wetly over the hacienda, cozying around the building, as if to shield and protect the party going on inside. It muffled the lights and sounds of the merriment, selfishly keeping most of it for itself, but letting fragments escape to haunt the garden.
In the courtyard itself, the fog slithered around the plants and ivy-covered furnishings, as if inviting them to play hide and seek with it to join the party vicariously. They accepted, becoming indistinct shapes at times, occasionally fantastic images, and only rarely revealing themselves to be a mundane chair or tree. Jim took the fog up on its invitation, as well, unconsciously becoming as quiet and stealthy as it. Though Mrs. Cevantes may have thought the garden shameful, Jim found it appealing; a cooler, darker version of the jungle he had honed his skills in so many years ago.
Opening his senses, as if reminded by that memory, Jim effortlessly catalogued all he experienced, taking a rare moment to actually enjoy it. Carrying the reminder of the sea in its scent and a far-flung cry of a gull, the fog enfolded Jim in a misty garment that was refreshing after the cloying heat of the house. Sight could be sharpened to pick out individual droplets, and to Jim they had a more charming and alluring sparkle than the crystal and silver inside. He had always found the natural aroma of plants moving through the cycle of creation pleasant, and here it was accented by the faint presence of late-season roses.
The only discordant note in the sensory symphony was the jangle of fitfully running water, and Jim's curiosity sent him off to find the source.
In the dead center of courtyard, hidden by a half fallen tree, madly growing roses bushes, and several human-sized, vine-covered boulders, was a fountain that apparently worked only in fits and starts. Inching cautiously through the thorns and rocks, Jim stopped in front of it, admiring it despite its uncertain operation.
A beautiful young man who reminded him sharply of Sandburg stood at the base of a very natural looking waterfall, leaning back against the man-made cataract to let the stream cascade over him - when it flowed. One hand reached out, but only about half way, as if wanting to invite someone to join him, but afraid to actually do so. Exceptional skill had been used in the sculpture's creation, showing through nature's graffiti of moss and vines, especially in the face of the young man.
His expression was impassive, ironically stony, with only his eyes suggesting how very deeply he felt his isolation from whomever he reached for. The carved orbs somehow conveyed soul-deep loneliness, though shielded with resignation. A gift from the fog - tears - only added to the overall impression of melancholy.
Thoroughly captivated by the piece, as much by the resemblance to Blair as his own sympathetic response to it, Jim worked his way around slowly to view it from every possible angle. As he did, shifting shadows changed the emotions seen on its features: hope, fear, longing, pain. The last held him, calling unwillingly from his mind memories he had fled to the garden to escape.
****Childish voices chanting, "Liar, liar, liar..." because he said he could see/hear/smell something they couldn't.
Older boy, but voice still with the treble of youth in it, "You're nothing but a big sneak, Jimmy Ellison. What'd you do; listen at the keyhole? Peep in the window?"
Wierdo. Creep. Snitch. Freak. Monster. Monster. Monster, monster, monster.... ***
His own father's voice shouted the last, over and over, resounding in his head, shaking his brains and gut from the sheer volume. With iron will Jim took the sound and dialed it down, then pushed it beyond himself, holding his entire body ramrod straight and unbending as he exerted control.
How long it took, he didn't know, but eventually the taunting, punishing voices were subdued. Feeling stiff and cold from standing inwardly focused so long, he sighed, but didn't move. There was a certain amount of ... comfort... in being motionless. It was as if by keeping his body at rest, his thoughts would remain that way as well and allow him a breather. The fountain was running again, much more smoothly now, and it was a soothing sound to help him escape into the peace of immobility.
As cold and unyielding as that peace was, he knew it was all he could expect from life, so he embraced it, not caring about the freezing ache in his feet. Around him the vines shuffled, rustled, creating small, whispering tongues that praised him for his quiet, for his stillness. Their action showed him the bones that supported them, and he saw with remote interest that what he had mistaken as random boulders, were actually more sculptures of people. They were in various stages of weathering, as if some were newer than others, or perhaps made of sandstone instead of granite, but all held expressions of loneliness and sadness.
The sibilant language they spoke welcomed him as one of their own. They promised him that soon, very soon, there would never again be painful thoughts to confront, old knowledge to battle. There would only be marvelous, wonderful suspension of mind and body.
A distant complaint from his lower legs tugged at Jim's attention, and he looked down at himself to see stone seeping up them, his feet already solid rock. Dispassionately, almost disinterestedly, he watched the process climb up his body.
Deep in his mind, the sentinel/survivor part of him began to rumble warningly.
As if in answer, the promises and cajoling mingled in the fog changed to reassurances. No choices were being taken away, it wasn't death working its way through him. It was simply stillness, easily broken if he wished. Testing that, Jim took a single step, really more of shuffle forward, and the shadows on the face of the artwork shifted to show appeasement.
See, see, see? All you have to do is move, but why move? Why disturb yourself? Cease activity in the body and all the chaos in the mind stops, too. You know this, you know, you've done it before. You've felt the stillness: silent, peaceful, restful stillnesssssss. Pacified, his sentinel mind let him drift away into the feeling of the numbness creeping its way over his knees.
It had progressed into his thighs, nearly reaching his groin, when an alien sound broke into his zone, urging him to alertness. No, not alien, he corrected. Unexpected here, that was all. Merely unexpected. Why would Sandburg be here in the dark and wet instead of at the party?
Respiration, heartbeat, blood flowing, footsteps, restless flickering of hands over hair or in the air - Blairsound - threaded through the deep gloom surrounding the fountain. Jim thought about calling to him, to question his presence or ask his opinion on the sculpture, but why break his own solid tranquility?
Sandburg was probably only involved in a game or looking for something specific from the garden: herbs or a rose for a new lady, maybe. He'd finish whatever he was doing and go back inside where he belonged. That was best. Oh, it was very, very much for the best that Blair not find this spot, a hidden part of Jim declared stubbornly.
Not questioning that source, Jim forgot about letting his partner know where he was and tried to go back to watching himself blend into stone.
But Blair didn't return to the hacienda, didn't retreat from the weather he hated so much, but ambled slowly toward Jim, his footsteps slow and tired. As he walked past the outermost statues, a promise of moonlight brightened the courtyard, trembling on the broken surface of the waterfall in a dance of beckoning light.
"Ahhhh, man!" Blair breathed reverently, apparently as captivated by the beauty of the fountain as Jim had been. Head tilted to one side, he admired the central figure, lips lightly pursed. He, too, moved to view it from varying positions, even going so far as to squat on his heels for a second for a different prospective.
Slowly, his hand rose, too, not in imitation of the rendered man, but as if to caress it through the air. "Jim," he murmured.
Startled, Jim almost spoke himself, wondering if the clever grad student had realized he was there. Blair's face had lost its appreciative look, though, and was instead filled with a longing powerful enough to show the carving for what it was - mere reflection of human emotion.
Jim flicked his eyes away, feeling as if he were intruding on a private moment. His damnable detective's instinct wouldn't allow the retreat for long. It had to know *why* Blair would empathize so strongly with the piece, and he slowly drifted a look back over to his friend to search for clues.
Blair had his eyes closed, and he was taking careful breaths, measuring them by an internal count, as if to meditate. This was an unusual time and place for it, but Jim took the freedom of the smaller man's inner retreat to study him.
The dampness and barely-there moonlight had leached all the color and sparkle out of his Guide, leaving behind a gray-tone portrait that was devoid of energy or interest. Even the feather in his ridiculous hat drooped heavily, weighed either by accumulated mist or the serious thoughts keeping Blair captive.
It was odd to see his partner so motionless, made nearly two-dimensional by the background he was poised against. Odd, in fact to really *see* him. For the first time Jim realized that he had only actually seen Blair as himself in the loft, surrounded by his candles or curled on the couch, reading. Usually he was whatever the people or circumstances around him dictated he be, reflecting back to them whatever was expected or needed.
Using his vibrant personality and constant motion, he was a mirror the world could see itself in, so he could be accepted. Only in their home had he dared to let those shiny surfaces drop, and show his real face. And mirrors were every bit as isolating and impenetrable as the immutable walls Jim had used for the same reason.
Something about their surroundings, though had put those reflecting barriers down. That thought shook Jim to the core, and he brought his sight all the way up, scanning the other man concernedly. Yes, his feet were already transforming, matching the material of the fountain.
Suspicious, anxious, he brought up his hearing as well.
Apparently satisfied that Jim had made his decision, or simply distracted by another presence, the hissing voices of the garden had begun to persuade Blair as they had him. To the weary traveler, they promised rest, refuge, belonging. He would fit in here, never again be required to conceal himself behind blinding motion. Here was only deep, calm, meditative stillness. Peace in inactivity; serenity in stasis.
Having accepted the lure of quiet himself, Jim felt guilty at his immediate, powerful surge of denial that Blair would. It was his Guide's choice, wasn't it? Like it was his? Why was it that what made perfect sense for himself struck him as *wrong* for his friend? Struggling with his dilemma, he lost track of where he was in his own metamorphosis, discovering only when he'd decided to question Blair himself. Though his jaw and lips moved, no air came; there was only inflexible stone from his throat down.
Heart leaping, he made himself lurch forward, to make contact the only way he could now. As he'd been told, movement stopped the mutation, even reversed it. But he had been in the grip of the statue for so long, there was almost none left to him. Driven by that innate sense of wrongness, he stumped toward his partner, tediously covering the ground he had practically loped over earlier, all the while trying to summon air for a single word.
By the time he reached Blair, his Guide was almost completely stone. All that was left of human softness was his eyes and the cap of slicked down curls. Giving up on speech, Jim reached laboriously up to touch....
And hesitated in mid-motion. Not because of the irate bustling of leaves around them or the violently splashing water from the fountain hitting them. But because of the intimacy of the gesture; because he would be putting his crass, clumsy carved fingers where they didn't belong.
He had patted, tapped, play-punched, half-hugged, even belly bumped Blair. In this intimate, shrouded place, how would his partner take such a personal touch? Would he understand it was to get him to look at Jim? To call him back from his decision, at least long enough to *think* about what he really wanted, here?
Or would he be embarrassed by the invasion? Angry he had to deal with Jim meddling in his life again? Shocked at the presumption on Jim's part to question him at all?
The delay was hardly more than a heartbeat; one heartbeat too long.
****
In the bright sunshine of the November 1st noon, Helen Cevantes reluctantly let herself into the courtyard and tiredly headed for its center. Her fatigue was more of the heart than of the body, though she felt a pleasant weariness from all of yesterday's activities. It had been so *good* to see her home filled with youngsters and laughter again.
When she had talked that nice young Captain into bringing his people up, she hadn't given much thought to the garden. After all, on a cold and dreary night, who would leave a happy party for a dank courtyard? But she had forgotten that even the best gathering can have its wallflowers, and that a clown often hides tears behind his mask of merriment.
It had taken quite a while this morning to persuade everyone to leave, that the missing members of their group had only gone on ahead of them earlier. Thankfully she had noticed their absence first, and had hidden their truck in her garage. In a bit, she would move it down the coast, and hike back on the shore trail, so she wouldn't be connected in any way to it when it was finally found.
Oh, she had no doubt Banks or others from his department would be back many, many times to question her, to search the hacienda. The loyalty of police officers was well known. Still, there was nothing in the house for them to find, and out here....
Well, out here, it was doubtful they'd recognize what they sought. Or believe it if they did. Heaven knows she hardly believed it, and she'd been living with it for thirty years.
Seating herself on the edge of the fountain, refusing to look at the statues around it, she trailed a finger in the scummy water. "How many, Lilly? How many more do you need before you'll be satisfied with your private entourage of self-pitying, lost souls? How many more images of yourself are you going to need before you realize that *anyone* can feel lonely, abandoned, at least once in a while?
"I read the spell book; I know the conditions of the charm. All you have to do," and she raised her voice so all of them could hear her, "is have to courage to step out of your isolation. To admit you don't *have* to be alone."
Beseechingly she looked up the angry young woman, frowning at her from the man-made waterfall. "Little sister, please? Let go and come back to me. I'm the only one left, and I *am* lonely. Please?"
The statue made no answer, except for a new freshet of water, which chuckled derisively over the stone.
Not able to endure any more of the lure of the spell, Helen stood shakily, spared one glance at the newest addition to the courtyard, and trudged into the house.
One look was all she needed. It would take months before she'd be able to deal with the sight of one man reaching to another, afraid to touch the eyes closed to what he had to offer.
finis