The Magic Circle, Katherine Neville [parable of the sower read online .TXT] 📗

This was Sam’s third mention of King Solomon, whose biblical verses I still hadn’t had time to scan closely for hidden meaning. But this note seemed a hasty last-minute change rather than a major decoding job. And Sam could safely assume that the name—after my little deciphering job of last night—meant something to me that no one else would grasp at first glance: that is, that the “phone number” for Mr. Solomon pointed to the Song of Songs.

With a sigh I opened my bag, hauled out the Bible I’d brought along, and took it into the bathroom, where I plugged up the tub and started the water running for Jason. As I waited for the tub to fill, I looked at the note again and flipped open the book. The Song of Solomon has only eight chapters, so “area code” 214 referred to Chapter 2, Verse 14:

O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places

of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice

,

for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely

.

Sam would never get to hear my sweet voice or see my comely countenance unless he got a mite more specific in his instructions. He did—in Chapter 1, Verses 7–8. There the young woman I recalled, the one with the attractive belly button, asks her lover where he’ll be lunching at noon the next day, and he explains how to find him:

Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest

,

where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I

be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions?

If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way

forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the

shepherds’ tents

.

Now, there was no place up on the mountain that had a name relating to shepherds, goats, or other flocks. But there was a pastureland down the road from here called the Sheep Meadow where, in summer, music and art tents were set up. In winter, it was a popular area for Nordic skiing: a flat open field with easy access from the road. So this must be the new locus of my rendezvous with Sam.

But it seemed more than strange that Sam would opt to change his former complex, trail-covering scenario to a high-visibility spot along the main road. It seemed odd, that is, until I read Chapter 2, Verse 17, saying when we were going to meet.

Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved

,

and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains.…

Daybreak? Like, before dawn? I could certainly see why Sam might consider a meeting at high noon too conspicuous. And ski lifts up to the mountain, to reach the spot of our original assignation, wouldn’t even open until nine. But how could I inconspicuously drive three miles to the Sheep Meadow before sunrise, haul my cross-country skis from the car, and go for a spin all by myself in the predawn darkness? I thought Sam had gone completely out of his mind.

Luckily for me, everyone in my ménage wanted to make it an early night too. Apparently Olivier, once he’d seen how well Bambi could ski, had outdone himself trying to impress her, dragging her onto black-diamond slopes all over the mountain. He returned exhausted, unaccustomed himself to such intensive Sturm und Drang.

Since Bambi had been away skiing all day, the only time she and Laf had for the daily practice that musicians compulsively need was a two-hour break before dinner. The management loaned us the Sun Room and its piano. I muddled through what little Schubert and Mozart accompaniment I could still play, with Olivier staring at Bambi, and Volga Dragonoff turning pages. Though Laf often winced at my rusty technique, he played as beautifully as ever—while Bambi astounded us with the kind of virtuosity one rarely hears off a concert stage. I gave her points for more than just a good grip with her thighs. It made me wonder if my first impression had been correct.

When we all left the room to head off for dinner, the balcony outside was filled with eavesdropping hotel guests who applauded wildly, flooded Laf with a lengthy flurry of I-saw-you-when’s, and asked for his autograph on hastily proffered restaurant menus, hotel envelopes, and even lift tickets.

“Gavroche,” said Laf when at last the hurrahs died away and the guests had drifted off, “I am thinking I shall perhaps be dining with myself in my suite tonight, and leaving you young people to yourselves. I am not as young as I once was, and my body did not wholly agree with this trip from Vienna. Let us meet at the breakfast. I can then tell some more of the story.”

“Okay, Uncle Laf,” I said, wondering just how much more of “the story” I could take. “But not too early—let’s make it for brunch again. There’s something I need to work on in the morning.” Like a five A.M. whisk through a sheep pasture, I thought.

Bambi declined to join Olivier and me, and departed with Laf and Volga for their suites. As I was about to turn in to the dining room, Olivier surprised me by bowing out of dinner too.

“I admit it,” he told me. “My body didn’t ‘wholly agree’ with my trip up the mountain today. I ache everywhere. I thought I might hit the hot pool before it closes, then just order some soup in my room and crash for the night.”

Checking my watch, I saw it was already almost ten, so I decided to do likewise.

By eleven, Jason and I had shared some seafood pasta and garlic bread, listened to the weather report that said sunrise tomorrow would be at six-thirty, and were tucked into bed where I was drowsily reading, sipping the last of my room-service wine and about to turn out the light.

Suddenly Jason’s head popped up