Death and Resurrection Read online

  DEATH AND

  RESURRECTION

  R.A. MacAvoy

  Copyright © 2011 by R.A. MacAvoy.

  Cover art by Maurizio Manzieri.

  Cover design by Telegraphy Harness.

  Ebook design by Neil Clarke.

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-334-1 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-289-4 (trade paperback)

  PRIME BOOKS

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  For more information, contact Prime Books.

  To Dolly Smith

  . . . and with thanks to Mr. Thomas Keu,

  for all the grace he lent to Ewen Young

  Table of Contents

  Part I

  Summer and Ewen Becomes a Delog

  Part II

  Winter and the Cold North Light When the Nights are Very Long

  Part III

  Spring Arrives and Ewen Goes Over the Border Again

  Part IV

  Autumn Returns with the Tale of Lynn and Puppies

  About the Author

  May all be happy.

  May all be peaceful, and at ease.

  May all be safe.

  May all be free from fear.

  May all know the truth of their own nature.

  —from the Metta Sutta

  PART I

  Summer and Ewen Becomes a Delog

  Chapter One

  Ewen Young liked drawing from life. He was good at it.

  The drawing of his that the gallery visitor was now looking at was one of his own favorites. Ewen tried not to look at it or the man, but that was not possible.

  “I love this,” the visitor said. Ewen was the closest person about, but he had to turn toward the man to hear him clearly. “The thing’s both a hawk and a man, which is cool, and the man looks like he could be someone in particular. Like a real guy.”

  “It’s Willy. He is a real guy.” Ewen pointed to the scrap of paper thumbtacked under the matted drawing. It said: The way Willy looks at you.

  Another potential customer drew up beside them, holding her glass of mediocre champagne. “He looks to me like an Indian shaman in one of those wooden hat things. That is, if the shaman were wearing a sport jacket.”

  Ewen didn’t know if this was a compliment or not, but at least she was expressing interest. That was good. The whole show was going well, except for the fact he had to be there. He stepped back to allow the two well-dressed art patrons to discuss his work. By their clothes—or by the way they wore them—they were wealthy.

  In his red silk turtleneck and black jeans, Ewen’s trim figure was utterly compatible with the gallery scene. That was his intent, but really he would rather have been standing in a pail of ice water. Ewen was seeming to be a part of this cultured scene only by light meditation and breath control. He lived daily in a world of paint, of shifting light and the smell of turpentine, but as for the rest of this “being an artist” he’d rather have been standing with his feet in a tub of ice water.

  Another woman was regarding one of his larger paintings with such intensity she was squinting. Pulled by her concentration, he strolled over. It was another work he liked, and of which he almost felt protective. He wondered what the stranger saw.

  As though answering his very thoughts, she spoke to him. “The eye is led from the rose leaves in the foreground to the red in the back of the garden, and finally to the subject’s face. It’s so cleanly done I can see the line of shadow from the cloud cutting right across his blue eyes.”

  She paused and squinted more fiercely. “It’s only after you decide his expression is not quite as peaceful as it first seems that you notice his hand is gripping a wickedly thorned branch of the rose bush.” The woman turned to Ewen and he saw her squint had more to do with the thickness of her glasses than an angry mood. She was not as nattily dressed as most of the visitors, and her hands were stained with pigment. “I look at this and want to . . . to befriend the man. Is that what you felt when you painted it? Is he one of your sister’s patients?”

  Ewen blinked. “I’m sorry, but have we met? I have a terrible memory for . . . ”

  “I’m Enid Buhl. I paint.”

  Now Ewen blushed and put his hands together behind his back, like a repentant child. “Yes ma’am. You certainly are. You certainly do. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. How do you know about my sister?”

  Buhl shrugged. “Recognize me? How could you recognize me? It’s not like we have our photos on the backs of our canvases, eh? And I know of your sister because my husband is in her field. Small world and all that.”

  “But I’ve seen a couple of your self-portraits, and they were . . . ”

  “Without my glasses. I cheated. Love to do self-portraits—the model works cheap and never complains about the pose.”

  Ewen, who had started to lose his hard-won cool in meeting this very famous and influential artist, found he was beginning to smile for the first time all evening. It was probably a stupid smile. “I—uh—love your work, Ms. Buhl.”

  “Enid. I think yours is kinda cute too. Tell me about this one.”

  “This one” was a sketch of very economical lines: a watercolor of a nandina bush with a nuthatch hanging off a branch upside down. “That’s from my Chinese-American period,” he said promptly.

  Enid Buhl sputtered in laughter. “Okay. Good one.” Her eyes, enlarged by the thick bifocals, looked at him merrily. “I’ve been wondering. How did you get called ‘Ewen’? That’s more Chinese-Caledonian, I’d think.”

  Ewen ran a hand through his hair. “My parents’ idea of a joke. My mother’s name was Yuen, so they combined the families with ‘Young Yuen.’ So, Ewen Young.”

  “And you didn’t hate them for it?”

  He considered. “No. Not since I was fifteen or so. But then every teenager is embarrassed by his parents some time. I got off easy.”

  The great painter snagged a cheese stick off a passing server’s tray. “Well, Ewen, I admire your skill with materials. And your vision. Of course, I don’t see exactly what you see. It never works that way.”

  “You’re right. I don’t even know myself what I see,” he blurted out, abashed.

  Enid Buhl didn’t laugh. She just shook her head and walked on. Ewen started to feel very good about the evening.

  Glory, the gallery manager, was able to tell him there was strong interest in at least three of his paintings, and not the cheapest of them, either. The drawings were also popular, even though drawings generally didn’t get a lot of interest from these shows. Ewen left her to the business, feeling he had done his job by showing up. Now, having actually met Enid Buhl and been told she liked his stuff, he thought it was the perfect time to leave. Grabbing his leather jacket from the rack, he went out the back entrance into the night.

  It was drizzling and dark: a great relief. Ewen drank in the air, a wet fog rising from the warm asphalt; it was almost like the smell of earth. Somewhere close by star jasmine was scenting the wet breeze. He walked down the street in Redmond toward the parking lot where he had parked his Prius. Droplets of rain weighted his hair, causing it to sway with his steps.

  He knew, as surely as he knew the sound of his own feet in the puddles, that he was being followed.

  There were two of them, quiet-shoed, keeping the rhythm of his own wet feet. He sensed them to be sheepdogs, and felt that he himself was the sheep. He looked ahead for the shepherd.

  There, in the next small parking lot, standing between the rows of cars, that shepherd stood. An Asian man—by his slight build and roundish features more likely Chinese than Japanese o
r Korean, dressed in a rather grandiose rayon sweat suit. He was standing with legs locked apart, hands in his pockets. He was a lot taller than Ewen, and his hair was badly styled. “You are Young,” he said, as Ewen halted fifteen feet from him. The man spoke in English.

  Ewen’s ears were tuned to the padding steps behind him, which came steadily on. “Getting older every day,” he said. A gust of wind blew rain into his face. “Tell the men behind me to stop where they are.”

  The man in front began to smile. He was very confident. “Why should I do that, Young Yuen? How can I give orders to these others, or why would I if I could?” The man had switched to Cantonese. Ewen’s own Hong Kong dialect was rusty, but he understood. The two sheepdogs did slow down, perhaps twenty feet behind Ewen, triangulating with the man with the embarrassing lack of taste.

  “Because I don’t know why you have a problem with me. Are we enemies? If so, no one told me.”

  The man slouched forward. “Yes, we are enemies, Young, as surely as you are your father’s brother’s nephew. And his student.”

  Ewen made a disgusted gesture with both arms, and hung his head. “This is ridiculous. It’s the year 2012 and I’m a painter, not Bruce Lee. I’m no threat to anyone!”

  “Of course you’re not a threat, little man. You’re a message.” He gestured to the two behind him. There was nothing for Ewen to do but run—straight at the man in front. The taller man jumped into side horse stance and raised a hard punch, but Ewen’s diagonal move kept his own face just to the left; Ewen locked his hands around the fist he had just avoided. His momentum carried both him and the fist behind the attacker. With Ewen holding the arm behind the man in a neat half nelson, they both skidded across the pavement in a circular dance, until Ewen kicked one of the man’s feet out from under him. He was holding the man up now, an awkward package between himself and the two others.

  It was Ewen’s intention to use him as a shield, but the man was heavy—one-legged and squirming—and the pavement was slippery. Ewen shouted, “Do you want to see me break his neck? Does he matter to you?”

  One of the two shrugged broadly and tilted his head unconcernedly. The other looked from Ewen to his fellow, to the prisoner, who was cursing in two languages and struggling violently. Ewen jerked the trapped arm upward, turning the curses into a scream. The shriek nauseated him; at the same time he felt a tight, sharp thrill in the moment. He saw only the two thugs ahead of him. He felt only the arm being wrenched by his hands.

  One of the two turned his back with exaggerated nonchalance and strolled across the shining asphalt to the street. The other—the one who had shrugged—continued to stare predatorily at Ewen, but kept his place. After an eternal few seconds, he too loped off.

  “Let me go,” said Ewen’s prisoner, as though he held all the cards.

  “Not a good idea, since you’re supposed to be a messenger and I’m supposed to be a message.”

  The man tried to turn and look Ewen in the face. He stifled a scream and tried instead to stand higher, to relieve the pressure on his joints. Ewen kicked his leg out again and this time the scream was for real.

  “Tell me what you want with my uncle.”

  There was a pause before the answer. “Ask him.”

  “What exactly were you planning to do to me here?”

  The tall man snorted. “Mess you up a little. Like I said. A message. Just mess you up.”

  “Mess me up . . . permanently?” Asking the question made Ewen feel as if he were in a bad gangster movie.

  “No. Of course not. Then how could you tell Jimmy Young? It’s him we want.”

  “Why?”

  The man looked down at the pavement and sighed. “Ask him. It’s all between the Head and him.”

  “Head of what?”

  “Ask Jimmy Young. You don’t get anything else from me.”

  The excitement of the incident was fading, and Ewen felt he was getting nowhere. “Maybe the police can do better.”

  “Your word against mine, you stupid Yank.”

  “Maybe the police will like mine better, Mr. Hong Kong. Are you a responsible citizen? A citizen at all? Legal at all? I bet you aren’t.”

  “You people should learn that sometimes betting isn’t worth it. How’re you going to get me to a cop? Use your cell phone? Ask me to stand here while you dial? Just let me go. My leg hurts. You know I can’t chase you.”

  Using one hand Ewen patted the man down; it was a rough and inexact process, but he did find a knife. No gun. He was sick of the whole situation, and he released the man, immediately sending him flying with a double punch to the back. Mr. Hong Kong landed on the pavement with a wet sound on his belly.

  Then Ewen did run.

  Chapter Two

  Ewen’s house was what Realtors like to call a “jewel box.” It was small, with two stories and two bedrooms, and everything within was hand-done, including the old plaster. The artistic perfection was marred by the heavy-weight workout bag in the large entryway, the clutter of canvas tarps, and the smell of paint that dominated what had once been the dining room. He had lived in it alone for the past two years, since Karen and he had drifted apart. That was how he referred to it to himself . . . “drifted apart.”

  As soon as he closed the front door behind him, Ewen took out his phone and called his Uncle Jimmy. James Young was still up. Ewen described the assault at the parking lot and asked for an explanation.

  When Uncle Jimmy was finished cursing in two languages, he mildly criticized Ewen’s technique as haphazard and inconclusive, but admitted Ewen had survived these mistakes. He finally said he believed he knew what enemy school was responsible. He was no more forthcoming than that—typical for Uncle Jimmy. He said he would have a talk with someone, might get a restraining order, but even if he didn’t there would be no more trouble. No reason for Ewen to go to the police. So often the police can’t tell the difference between the bad guy and the good guy, and Ewen would then be under their eye. It wasn’t good to be under their eye.

  Ewen was not happy about Uncle’s idea of “having a talk.” He also knew restraining orders were useless. Uncle Jimmy told him not to worry. Go to bed. Ewen needed his sleep. Uncle Jimmy needed his sleep.

  Before hitting the sack Ewen paced awhile, then went into the other bedroom, where there was no bed but only a small table, a round pillow with a mat under it. On the table was a small plastic Buddha of no particular lineage, and a small painting Ewen had done of his mother when he was twelve. He bowed to both. “I avoided a fight, Mom,” he whispered. “You’d have been proud of me.”

  He crossed his legs and lowered himself onto the pillow, put his hands together at head level and bowed once more. “I take refuge in the Buddha,” he murmured. “I take refuge in the teaching. I take refuge in my family, and I take refuge in the great family.”

  He sat until the events of the night—good and bad—fell into perspective, and then he went to bed.

  Mrs. Lowiscu didn’t understand why she had to get up early for her sittings, why there were so many of them and why a formal portrait couldn’t all be taken care of in a few long sessions of painting. Ewen had explained it had to do with lighting, that he couldn’t do it like a photographer with floods and reflectors, and that her children—who were paying the bill—had chosen the light by which they wanted their mother shown. Of course, by the time a family had become established enough, numerous enough, and wealthy enough to desire and afford a portrait of grandmother, grandmother herself was of an age to freely offer opinions. Mrs. Lowiscu thought Ewen should take a few damned photographs in his blessed light and paint from them. Ewen told her he did not work from dead flat images, but from life. Then, Mrs. Lowiscu said he’d best hurry it up because all this early rising and posing might be the death of her.

  It didn’t bother Ewen. He got along with old people and got up very early anyway. Nothing bothered him unless his subject couldn’t sit still.

  Mrs. Lowiscu sat as still as a sleeping snake.
Ewen hoped that recurring image did not implant itself into his work. Her face itself was very rewarding to paint; the olives and roses of her original coloring had aged to purple and ash. Complicated. Challenging. She had chosen a mauve dress decades out of fashion, but one that had obviously meant something to her at some point in the past. Ewen shaded the color subtly into pink to make her cheeks livelier, but left her old dark eyes alone.

  After Mrs. Lowiscu’s session, he drove to his sister’s workplace. It wasn’t quite ten as he parked in its tiny lot. The front garden was filled with flowers and ferns. Pacific Rim Help House had really been a house years before. Built in a pseudo-Wright style, it was still a lovely building, though all the glass made it hard to heat.

  The young woman at the antique Chinese desk glanced up from her computer screen. “Lynn,” said Ewen. “I’m here for Lynn.”

  The receptionist responded at though she had never seen Ewen, (who came in at least twice a week asking for his sister). “Dr. Young is with a patient,” she said. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No, Caroline. I’m Ewen, Lynn’s twin brother. I’m supposed to be here. Look at your schedule.” He reached over the desk and pushed the little spiral binder toward Caroline. “See? Please tell her I’m here.”

  The receptionist, evidently alarmed by the invasion of her desk and territory, retreated on squeaking chair wheels. She made placatory gestures with both hands and, as a last line of defense, asked Ewen to be seated. Instead, he strode through the tiny, empty waiting room and through a door on which was painted a galloping horse and Dr. Lynn Young. (She was “Lynn Thurmond” to the PTA, but still “Young” to the professional world. As Lynn’s twin brother, Ewen resented the “Thurmond” just a bit. Except as Teddy’s mom, of course.)

  Lynn’s domain was filled with the smell and sound of running water. A section of the paneled wall had been replaced with rough sandstone. Water ran down it, collecting in a small pool with goldfish. Both the horse-door and the fountain wall were of Ewen’s making, and he noticed kids had thrown pennies into the water again.