The Cult of Loving Kindness (38 page)

He is moving faster now. The duffel bag on his saddlebow knocks against the horse’s shoulder. The bundle of wood which he collected in the forest knocks against the horse’s rump. They have left the metal tower, left the tarmac an hour behind, and they are riding along a granite cliff. They are coming into shelter from the wind beside a stream which runs down to Rangriver. The water is talking on the stones. It is warmer. A line of gorse runs along the bottom of the cliff, and some dead juniper trees. The rider draws rein here. He dismounts.

He unloads the horse and sets it free to hunt. It goes down to the stream to drink, then it moves off. The rider stands with his bundles at his feet. He is listening to the wind, his head cocked as if straining to hear something over the sound of the water, but there is nothing. He sets to work.

With a thick-bladed knife he cuts down some dead trees, and digs up some of the dead gorse. He drags it to the stream. He breaks up the sticks that he brought from the forest and on the dry grey strand he lays a bonfire—first the brush, then the juniper, then the boughs of sandlewood. He builds it into a six-foot cube. It takes him several hours to get it right. Toward the end—it is the deep part of the night now, and Paradise is down behind the cliff—he works slowly, resting often.

When he is done, he goes down to the stream to smoke a cigarette. He squats down by the water and takes out the battered pack. He lights the cigarette with a plastic lighter. The butane is almost gone.

When the cigarette is half-finished, he stands up. He walks back to where he left the saddle. Holding the cigarette between his teeth, squinting at the smoke, he lifts the duffel bag. It is lighter now than when he started this journey. Still, he has to use both hands to hoist it to the top of the pyre.

Then he squats down again. He smokes the cigarette down to the filter. When it is almost done, he holds it out into the gorse. A few receding specks of red—he cups his hand and blows at them until they make a flame.

There’s a big rock a dozen feet away. He sits down on it to watch. He is humming a bit under his breath—fragments of tunes, fragments of words. It’s not much of a ceremony; the flame spreads slowly. Occasionally it flares up when it hits a knot of pitch.

The smoke rises up into the sky. Light comes early to these latitudes.

Rael stamps his plastic boots against the stones. He stretches his hands out toward the fire, which has begun to roar now in its heart. The canvas duffel bag is smoking, and after a while it splits open. It burns back to reveal part of Cassia’s arm, part of her hand, part of the sleeve of her gold dress. The herbs make a sweet smell.

Rael rubs his face with his hot hands. He gets up, and with a long stick of juniper he reaches in to pluck back the burning canvas from her face. Such is the embalmer’s skill, for a moment it is recognizable.

The fire burns up bright and then it starts to fall apart. Rael watches it as it subsides, as the day gathers. He is still standing when the horse returns, nor does he look up when two more riders cross the stream. He pays no attention when they jump down barefoot on the stones, even though they sing soft words of interrogation. He goes back to his rock and he sits down.

In time, the men come to squat beside him. After half an hour one holds out a leather bottle. He is hungry, thirsty, and they give him things to eat and drink he’s never had before.