Jonathan Nasaw - The Boys from Santa Cruz

“Welcome to Omphalos, the navel of the world,” Oliver boomed, in a voice that echoed around the clearing. “Let’s see if we can form a circle as perfect as the one nature made here.”

While the others arranged their zafus on the springy, cloverlike ground cover, Skip and Pender discussed the security arrangements. Because there was no vantage point from which Skip could keep a stationary watch, they agreed that he should stay as close to Oliver as possible while Pender kept an eye out for Charlie Mesker from the cover of the trees. “And remember,” Pender added-

“Don’t eat the crouton. Yeah, I know.”

Circles within circles. The pellucid sky; the round earth; the magical clearing; the circle of seekers seated cross-legged, tailor fashion, or in half- or full lotuses as their joints permitted. Oliver jingled his little silver bell and instructed them to listen for the farthest sound. As the throbbing echo of the bell died away, Skip became aware of the papery rustling of aspen leaves, the harsh cawing of crows, and the melodic call of some unseen songbird.

Twice more, Oliver rang the bell; twice more they listened for the farthest sound. Then Oliver led them in the bodhisattva vow: “We dedicate this journey we are about to take…”

“We dedicate this journey we are about to take…”

“To the spiritual advancement…”

“To the spiritual advancement…”

“Of all humanity…”

“Of all humanity…”

“And we pledge never to rest…”

“And we pledge never to rest…”

“Until all sentient beings…”

“Until all sentient beings…”

“Have reached Nirvana…”

“Have reached Nirvana.”

“Svaha!” Oliver clapped his hands together sharply.

“Svaha!” Fourteen sets of hands clapped in ragged, imperfect unison, like a firing squad.

After administering the vow, Oliver went around the inside of the circle from trainee to trainee, trailed closely by Steve, bearing a filigreed silver tray, and Candace, whose job it was to set out upon the salver a grape, a crouton, and a fluted paper cup the size of a shot glass, which she refilled at every stop with a draft of clear water from a purple thermos.

One by one, the celebrants ate of the fruit and the grain, then drank the water-except of course for Pender and Skip, who drank the water and popped down the grape, but surreptitiously palmed the crouton, then tossed it away when no one was looking.

After Oliver and his two acolytes had themselves partaken of the sacrament, the guru resumed his place in the circle and led the others in a chant, “Gate Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha,” providing his own simultaneous translation from the Sanskrit.

“ Gate Gate: that means, go on, go on. Paragate: go further. Parasamgate: go even further. Bodhi: to enlightenment. Svaha: amen, so be it.”

Over and over they chanted the ancient formula- “Gate Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha” -while dust motes danced in the dappled light, and the trees rustled, and the birds sang, and the sun cast its honeyed glow over the meadow, until eventually time lost meaning and the chant began chanting them. Gate Gate, whispered the aspen leaves. Go on, go on.

And awaayyy Skip went. After the first few dozen repetitions of the prayer, he began experiencing a euphoric sense of belonging. Looking around the circle, he felt as if he were seeing the others, really seeing each of them, or any human being, for that matter, for the first time. Then after a few dozen more repetitions, Skip began playing tricks with their faces. He discovered that if he stared hard enough he could, for instance, turn beaming Oliver, with his bushy beard and broad, benevolent visage, into Aslan, the golden-eyed lion from the Narnia books, or transform the head of the fey, elderly Beryl into one of those wrinkled old Pennsylvania Dutch apple dolls.

But messing around with faces proved to be a dangerous experiment. Somewhere between the zillionth gate and svaha, Skip lost the ability to change them back. From then on he could only watch in horror as the features began to shift and change on their own, melting and blurring and eventually sloughing away entirely, until all that remained was the grinning armature of the skull beneath the perishable flesh.

And finally, much too late, it dawned on him that he’d been dosed. Seriously. With acid, most likely, and plenty of it. Don’t panic, he cautioned himself as the skull-headed creature that had once been Candace beamed across the circle at him. It’s not like you’ve never tripped before.

But something’s different this time…danger…something wicked…this way…

No! Don’t do it, don’t go there, Skip warned himself, closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands. It’s only the acid. That’s what you’re supposed to tell yourself when you start freaking: it’s only the acid.

But there’s something out there!

No! You took some acid and in a few hours everything will be back to normal.

But-

No! Say it: I took some acid…

I took some acid…

And in a few hours…

And in a few hours…

Everything will be back to normal.

Everything will be back to-Aw, fuck it.

Because it didn’t work. In the infinite darkness behind Skip’s eyelids, concepts like hours and normal were equally meaningless. And there was something evil out there, some…some rough beast slouching-

Suddenly, with his eyes still firmly shut, he visualized Asmador, with the head of a vulture and the body of a man, loping through the forest, getting closer, closer…

Hearing someone moaning pitifully, Skip was nearly overcome with compassion. Somebody help him, he thought. Won’t somebody please help that poor bastard.

It didn’t take long for Pender to grow bored with the chanting. Nor could he shake the mounting sense of dread that came with sitting in an open clearing, surrounded by a dark forest, hearing God knows what all rustling in the underbrush. He felt like a sacrificial goat tethered to a stake, listening for the tiger’s approach.

Opening his eyes to peek around the circle, he saw that everyone else had their eyes firmly closed, even Skip, whose eyelids were twitching like a dreaming dog’s. He remembered an old joke about the moribund shopkeeper whose family had all gathered around his deathbed. So who’s watching the store? was the punch line.

Special Agent E. L. Goddamn Pender, that’s who, he told himself, climbing to his feet. Glancing downward while dusting off the seat of his slacks, he experienced a peculiar sort of Alice-in-Wonderland effect. His Hush Puppies appeared to be much smaller and farther away looking than he was accustomed to, as if his legs had grown absurdly elongated.

It only lasted a second; when he looked again, his lower extremities had resumed their customary proportions. But something still wasn’t right. Time, or his memory, started missing beats, skipping like an old vinyl record. He had no memory, for instance, of leaving the circle or crossing the clearing. But here he was, hiding behind a tree at the edge of the woods.

Then out of the confusion, a burst of clarity. Asmador, Pender reminded himself with an effort, don’t forget Asmador. From where he crouched in the underbrush, he could see clear across the field to the gap in the trees that marked the trailhead. But what were the odds Charlie “Asmador” Mesker would come waltzing down the path in plain sight? Slim to none, as Sheriff Hartung used to say, and I don’t see no nuns around here.