A Freshly Killed Body

Chapter one

   It has always taken me a long time to warm up to strangers but here I was sitting shoeless on the floor with a dozen of them.  I usually turn my back and run when anyone mentions self-improvement workshops.  That's all hype.  I'm thirty-three years old and I don't look to improve much anymore.  I don't see a lot of improvement going on in too many other people around me either.  In fact, things seem to be going in the opposite direction.
   I was two hundred fifty miles away from home.  Sitting in an octagon shaped room of windows on a hundred acre retreat center near Hudson, New York.  Listening to a hawk faced woman named Peg Woodward expound on a system of personality types called the Enneagram.  I had to admit that the setting approximated heaven.  A strong scent of honeysuckle blew through the windows.
   I knew my attitude was wrong because I caught myself smirking inwardly when the other group members started spilling out their stories.  I have always felt  tugged apart by two conflicting forces.  Sometimes I want to be included, to be part of the show.  But more often I want to be the outsider looking in, analytical and critical.  The latter tendency took the upper hand when the woman named Cindy spoke.
  She was a short, heavy set woman with cropped silver hair.  Her dress was so flowery that she looked like something that needed planting.  "Hi, my name's Cindy and I came here because I want to learn more about the nine enneagram personality types. I'm always looking to grow.  Last year I had to make a painful decision...to leave my husband after twenty-one years of marriage.  Because unlike me, he wasn't growing.   I even think he was shrinking a little bit."
  Then tears. All that talk of growing just reinforced my garden metaphor.  She should have mixed a few plant tabs in her husband's food.
  Peg Woodward was beaming.  "That's wonderful, Cindy, that you were able to share so much. Mmmm."
  She sounded like she was being fed ice cream, I thought.
  I watched Peg's beam fall on a thin young woman sitting next to me.   Flaming red toenails accentuated the whiteness of her bare feet.  I took her to be a victim.  I guess that was my eleven years as a child abuse investigator coming out.  I'd guessed her age as twenty. If I had heard her squeaky voice first, I would have revised my estimate several years downward.
  "My name's Dawn...."
  Peg, her head craned forward, gave a series of encouraging nods.  She looked like a big bird, ready to snap up the slightest crumb.  But Dawn had stage fright. Or maybe she had no story.  Contrary to popular opinion, not everybody  does.
  Dawn squirmed.  Her silence piqued more interest than Cindy's confessions. "I'm sorry."  Her faltering voice trailed off.  "I can't think of anything to say."
  "Mmmm. Well, maybe later.  Next to you?"
  Of course I had been rehearsing what I was going to "share." My self-preoccupation was such that I had tuned out all but the most skeletal facts about the others.  Somewhere it had registered on my consciousness that there were a disproportionate number of nurses, social workers and assorted mental health counselors in the circle.  A couple of people even had the audacity to identify  themselves as spiritual healers.  I wished them luck.
   It would sound unliberated to explain that I had gone to Pilgrim Farm in order to tag along on a vacation with my boyfriend.  Besides. I have no boyfriend.  My mother, forever hopeful, used to call Greg Heatherington my boyfriend.  But Greg had grabbed his parachute when all my trouble on the job began.  Ian is a good friend who happens to be a man.  He is in no way a boyfriend.  Since he's well into his thirties,  most people would flinch at calling him a boy.  I have known Ian Henry since childhood.  He's one of those cousins who isn't really a cousin, but a cousin's cousin.  My mother never wanted a lot of hassle from relatives, but the family is small enough so that even the more peripheral members can't entirely be ignored. On the surface, Ian and I did not hold much in common.  He eats, drinks and sleeps computers. At the least, he is usually at his computer when he performs these three functions. Anything out of a cathode ray tube bores me, television as well as computers. Musically, Ian is an opera buff.  I like golden oldies. Yet, Ian and I  have a common bond.  Our family considers us the eccentric ones, chiefly because we are both single and satisfied to remain so.
  "Take a workshop," Ian had taunted.  "Take a chance."
  "A chance on what?  You selling raffle tickets?"
  "A chance on self expansion, Tommy. I've signed up for the Ceremonial and Ritual group."
  My name is Jill Thomas but when Ian gets fed up he always calls me Tommy.
  "I don't stand on ceremony, Ian.  I didn't even go to my college graduation."
  "I think they're offering Enneagram.  A system of personality types. That should dovetail neatly into your social work."
  "Except that I just quit my job as a social worker, remember? And I doubt that I'll ever be hired as one again."
  He had changed the pitch of his persuasion.  "It's a beautiful setting. Used to be an old monastery.  Now it's some kind of retreat center.  It's run by the Pilgrims."
  "Retreat from reality, it sounds like.  What do you mean, Pilgrims?"
   "They were very active in this country and England the early part of the century.  I think they got over to Germany  too.  As an older group, they've been able to build up some wealthy benefactors through the years.  They own quite a few pieces of property."
  "What are they, some kind of a crackpot religion?"  I asked.
  "They're not exactly a religion.  They do promulgate ideas of peace and brotherly love.  Don't pull that face, Jill, they're a very benign group."
  "Benign?  You make them sound like a tumor diagnosis."
  "Everyone knows the Pilgrims are respectable."
  "Everyone knows?  That's a logical fallacy.  The argument from authority."
  He had gotten miffed and retorted that he was not arguing at all, he had just  thought that I might profit from a week in a beautiful setting.  Wasn't the end of July sure to be scorching and humid in Baltimore?
  In the end, I gave in.   I can't count how many times since then that I've had occasion to remember his words about enjoying a week in a beautiful setting.  Ian did not lie about the beautiful setting.
  What I didn't know was that after that week, my life would never again be the same.
  Peg Woodward was eager, expectant.  I think it was her beatific smile that made me go ballistic.  As soon as I opened my mouth, I felt the dissociation.  It was like I was listening to myself listen to myself.  God knows I wasn't lipping anything I had rehearsed.
  "I'm Jill Thomas. I don't have anything to dump out about myself. The nine Enneagram personality types seem to be just another example of system building.  I would guess that there as many personalities as there are people living in the world.  It seems silly  to classify them."
  The room grew as silent as sudden death.  I could tell I had caused a lot of stomach churning.  The group waited for Peg Woodward to assert her control.  The leader stared at me like I'd pinched her.
  When Peg finally spoke, her voice caused the room temperature to drop by twenty degrees.  "I had really hoped," she said, "that everyone in this group would have had at least a rudimentary knowledge of the Enneagram.  The fact that you stated that there are nine types tells me that your knowledge is meager.  Each of those nine can manifest at nine different levels, from the most healthy to the totally dysfunctional.  In addition, each of the nine core types has a wing,  and there are all degrees of wing.  Is there anyone else in the room who is totally without knowledge of the Enneagram?"
  I glanced around without moving my head. If I'd had a wing, I would have flown out of there.   I noticed that no hands were raised.  Unsmiling for once, Peg said  "Let's move on to the next person."
  The "next person" sounded like a decent type.  He called himself Joe something or other, it was a long Italian name.  He said that he worked as a nurse in an E. R.  and that he was probably a  "type four," getting too bogged down by his own inner states.  He wanted to get out of himself more and improve his empathy with others.
   I thought that I could take a hint and adopt the same goal.
   Now people were bustling around for  notebooks, balancing themselves on their bare or stockened feet that had  fallen asleep after a couple hours of sitting.  Our pile of sandals, thongs and cross trainers had been deposited at the door.  I wondered what would happen if I tried to switch my down at the heels running shoes for a better pair.   But stealing isn't one of my vices.
  "Your assignment," Peg was saying,  "is to go outside and take a nature walk.  Let yourselves drift along in a contemplative state. Pay particular attention to your senses.   Blend in with the environment.  Go touch a tree and feel that tree as a part of yourself.  Bend down and touch the earth.  When you find a spot that feels right to you, sit down and start journaling.  Write whatever comes into your mind.  Use the right side of your brain."   The last thing I intended to do was to raise my hand and announce that I was left-handed.  I know that many left-handed people, along with their right-handed friends, still have language and logic in the left halves of their brain. I hadn't a notion which of my hemispheres was dominant.  Days like this, I was lucky to know I had a brain at all.
  "You are to try to consider certain questions. Can you think of five words you would use to describe your personality?  What do you do to generate psychic energy?  How do you try to control your environment?  Mmmm.  You'll probably want to jot that down.  You can start out now.  You'll want to come back here in about an hour."
  I had my doubts about the last.
  The young woman named Dawn, who hadn't been able to think of anything to tell,  gave my arm a light touch.  "I liked your comments.  I think you were just saying that we shouldn't label people."
  "And oh yes,"  Peg Woodward called out,  "remember that there are a couple of other workshops meeting on the grounds.  One of them is a silent meditation group.  If you pass anyone from that group,  you might just nod.  Don't try to get them to talk."
  That group sounded worth the workshop fee!
  We drifted toward the door.  Most reclaimed their shoes but a few people opted for the feel of bare skin touching mother earth.  I started down the wooded path that I thought led toward the monastery.  I had an idea to take a quick gander and see if I could spy Ian.
   "Excuse me.  I need to speak with you a minute."  The voice was terse.  I was taller than average, about five-eight, but facing Peg Woodward I saw that she stood nearly a head taller than myself. 
   "I'm unclear about your reason for signing up for the workshop." No one could ever accuse me of failing to recognize hostility.
  I maintained the tone. "I didn't know that I needed a reason.  I thought I only needed my credit card."
   "It's very important for the workshop to be a caring, loving and safe environment.  People need to be able to trust that. If someone withholds, there's an energy block and things can't flow around it."
  I wasn't sure I would be able to abide a week of this woman.  I was, however, aware of my predicament.  I was a long way from a bus.  Ian had driven. I'd paid my fee. I  needed a vacation.
  "I got it."  My voice was civil.  "I'll give it another shot.  Excuse me.  I'd better get on with my assignment."
   I would have rather explored the terrain than my personality type.  The stone monastery, the original building, stood in a clearing, surrounded by tall shade trees.  Along the side leading through the woods toward the octagon room, someone had planted an old fashioned flower garden, with rose bushes, huge orange marigolds, blue and purple ageratums, and rainbows of zinnias.  A stream trickled under  a narrow wooden footbridge.  I stepped onto the bridge like a cat but the wood still creaked. Peering into the water, I could count the water lilies.
  Just beyond the bridge, I spied what looked like a gazebo with walls.  The little wooden hut seemed crudely built and roughly circular.  Its diameter was about the length of a tall man.  The door had one small  window at eye level, like the entrance to a sauna.
   I was only a few feet from this door when it suddenly flung open. A raven haired, cinnamon complexioned man emerged. He wore a pale flowing shirt, matching slacks, sandals. I felt like I had encountered the young Krishnamurti.  The man glided toward the footbridge.  I could have sworn that his feet didn't touch the ground.   I thought I'd better not speak.  He might be one of the silent meditators.
  The man gave me what almost amounted to a formal bow.  "Our meditation room," he said in a modulated voice.  "It is available at any time, unless of course it is already in use."
   "Of course," I said.  "Meditation-for-One.  You wouldn't want people to come piling in."  I have a bad habit of saying almost anything when I'm not sure what I want to say.  "Are you in one of the workshops?"
   "No workshop.   I am working here this summer.  I help in the kitchen and the garden.  But I must still take time for my devotional practices.   Please take a look."
  He held the door open. I saw that the exterior belied what lay within.  The interior was pyramid shaped.  The room smelled of cedar wood and jasmine incense. A pair of gold silken cushions rested against a wall.  A small oriental patterned rug covered the floor.  The miniature cubical shaped altar held a silver chalice and a polished brass  disc. I noted a lighted candle and what I thought was a crystal. I didn't actually step inside because that would probably have entailed taking off my shoes again. 
  "What kind of altar is that? New Age generic?"
  "There are many forms of God and many ways to worship," he said enigmatically.  "My name is Rao.  Do you find Pilgrim Farm a place of great beauty? You must see the view from on top the overhang.  Have you been up there yet?"
  I shook my head. Rao had an unusual speech cadence, nearly equal weight given to every syllable. 
   "This little stream flows into much larger one a hundred yards or so from the octagon room.  That is where your workshop is meeting,  I think?"
  I wondered how he knew. 
   "You can stand on top of the bluff which overlooks the river valley.  There is a spectacular view of the countryside.  That is a view you do not want to miss."
  "I'd better head over that way now.  I'm supposed to be communing with trees and figuring out whether or not I'm a feeling type, a thinking type or instinctive type."
  "Quite so."  I watched Rao glide through the flower garden like he was on a monorail.
   I poked around in the clearing near the monastery, all the while reminding myself that I hadn't the faintest idea where Ian's workshop was meeting.  I guess I felt freaked enough by my clash with Peg Woodward to need to tell the only other person I knew on the farm. After ten minutes or so, I gave it up and retraced my steps through the woods.  I glanced around for a tree to hug but couldn't find one that I fancied.
  Coming up from the opposite direction, I heard someone singing an aria from "Rigoletto."  I spied the familiar roly poly shape of Ian. In his pressed jeans and designer tee shirt, he looked more like the computer programmer dressed down for Friday Casual Day than he did a participant of a ritual magic workshop.
   "I thought you'd be in your Merlin the Magician robe by now,"  I called.
  "Hey!  What are you doing out?  Did you draw probation before verdict?"
  This light hearted banter is our usual method of greeting although the "probation" crack wasn't as funny now as it would have been a few months ago.
   "I actually need someone who can perform a couple of magic tricks!  Look at this assignment that I've been given!   Ah my, I'm in teacher's doghouse already!"  Laughing, I conveyed the substance of my outburst to Peg Woodward. "How's your workshop?"
  "It has promise.  The teacher seems to be a very enlightened old gentleman.  He calls himself Anubis."
   "Anubis!  Get real!"   I thought of the woman named Cindy who'd left her husband. The mysterious Indian in the meditation room. Me looking around to cozy up to a tree.  And now this Anubis-- and Ian's deadly serious brow.  The unreality of the whole thing started me laughing uncontrollably.
  "Anubis, Egyptian jackal faced god." Ian ignored my giggle fit. "Anubis was said to be the guardian against the forces of the lower astral.  He supposedly guards the spirit while the body is out.  He's a go-between this world and the next."
  "A sort of liaison worker?  He must be kept busy.  This teacher Anubis, does he have another name?"
  "Abel Meyer,"  Ian said. "But you have to be in his inner circle to call him that."
  That was when his body suddenly stiffened.  His face froze, his mouth half opened.
  "What is it?"  I asked.  But  he held up his hand to  signal silence.
   "I thought I heard someone cry out!"
   My mood made the quick shift from silly to vigilant.  I could hear the sound of rapids from the river valley that Rao had talked about.
  And then from somewhere above, the cries.  "No! No! Please! No!" 
  We listened for an eternal second.
  "It sounds like someone's being attacked,"  I whispered.
  Then a loud, receding scream.  By that time, we were both running in the direction of the voice. The wooded area receded behind us as we reached a small bridge. One hundred feet under the bridge, turbulent waters splashed against eroded rocks.   Looking across from the opposite side of the overhang, we could see the form of a woman lying on her face in the water. and rocks.