Scent of Darkness Read Free

beautiful, magnificent works in glass—and every night the floors of their rambling old house and their barn studio were full of sleeping bags and cots as other artists, young and old, came to leam and to serve as apprentices at the feet of their masters. The master artists used all their money to pay for food, blankets, heat, and teachers for their students.
    They were good people.
    Tonight they'd brought five students. Five students whose eyes had lit up at the sight of the loaded table. The three guys and two women who talked incessantly about their art. They'd eaten their own weight in blini. And they'd drunk—too much.
    Now Konstantine threw one thin, pale, lank, unconscious young man over his shoulder and carried him to the rusty Volkswagen van.
    Sharon and Zorana walked behind, their hands full of baskets and blankets, chatting about the day and the town and the weather.
    River walked with Konstantine. "Sometimes the kids've got no talent, but they want it so badly they come and stay with us in the hopes it will rub off. And that's fine—maybe they'll catch a whiff of the fever."
    Konstantine nodded. This boy probably didn't weigh 130 pounds dripping wet, but he was heavy enough to make Konstantine gasp. Must be getting old.
    "This young guy"—River nodded at the man over Konstantine's shoulder—"he's been with us for a week. Hasn't done a thing the whole time, just watched everyone create and learn. Sharon and I, we thought he was one of those, the ones with no talent. But you wouldn't believe what he did tonight. I can't wait to show you."
    "Show me?" Konstantine didn't have the breath to say more.
    "Right before he passed out, he told me it was a gift to Zorana." River shook his head. "It's amazing. Extraordinary."
    A tingle shot through Konstantine's hands where he touched the young man. Odd. Disturbing.
    "Fling him in there." River opened the door to the van. "This kid so has a crush on Firebird.”
    Konstantine placed the limp boy on the carpeted floor.
    River gathered a towel-wrapped something out of the front seat. "Come on."
    They headed back toward the fire and leftovers stacked on platters and the neighbors visiting before the drive home.
    Sharon and Zorana followed, prodded by curiosity.
    "Look!" River placed the thing on the table and pulled the towels away.
    The still-damp lump of clay had been formed into a statue of Firebird. The boy artist had captured her as she stood with one hand on her hip, the other on her belly, watching the children play.
    "My God." Zorana backed away. "My God. It is ... Firebird."
    "It's perfect." Konstantine threw the towel over the statue. "It's lovely!"
    They didn't understand. None of the people here, the American people, understood. Zorana was a Gypsy. She was superstitious. Her people did not give life to lumps of clay, and this statue . . . this statue was amazing. Lifelike.
    Eerie.
    Zorana backed into Firebird's arms.
    "Is that like me, Mama? I don't see it." Firebird hugged Zorana and whispered in her ear. "It's okay, Mama. It's okay."
    Zorana slid an arm around her daughter's waist. She was so tiny beside Firebird, dark-skinned and dark-eyed where Firebird was fair and blond, and she allowed Firebird to comfort her. To River, she said, "When your young man awakes, thank him for his art."
    River nodded. He was an artist. He saw things most men did not. He understood things most men did not. . . but he didn't understand why the Wilder family hated that statue.
    The neighbors from the surrounding farms, from the Chinese restaurant in town, from the only burger drive-in for fifty miles, lined up to say good-bye.
    Konstantine shook hands with everyone, so happy that they came, that each bore witness to his home, his family, his life here in America .
    The Catholic priest Father Ambrose reluctantly quit playing poker and joined the line. He was a traveling priest, wandering the roads of western
Washington
and celebrating Mass in small-town living rooms and backyards.