The Fifth Harmonic Read Free

please. Don't worry. It's dry. You won't catch a cold.”
    A cold is the least of my worries, he thought.
    Feeling slightly ridiculous, he stepped onto the cool granular bed and stretched out. As the back of his head came to rest on the sand, he realized he'd reap an extra benefit from the turtleneck shirt: no sand down his collar.
    “How does it feel?” she said, stepping closer and looking down at him.
    “Sandy.”
    A flicker of a smile, and he realized he was pleased he could make her smile. He wanted to dislike her, distrust her—bunco orbonkers, either way she could cause harm to the wrong person—but found himself responding to, and envying, her aura of serenity.
    Aura . . . listen to me. Been here ten minutes and already I'm starting to sound new-agey myself.
    “Press your heels and your palms into the sand. That's your Mother you're feeling.”
    “My mother died five years ago.”
    “No, I mean the Mother of us all. The earth.”
    Oh, boy, he thought. Here it comes.
    “It is one of the tragedies of modern living that we never touch her. Industrial society has cut off its inhabitants from the living world. You live and work in structures made of dead material, travel enclosed in rubber and steel, and even when you stroll through the pockets of living things you call ‘parks,’ it is with your feet encased in rubber sneakers treading macadam paths. Think: when was the last time your body was in contact with the earth—when was the last time even the soles of your shoes touched her soil? Why do you see people lined up in their cars like steel lemmings heading for the beaches? It is the only time all year they actually touch their Mother. They come away feeling renewed after merely brushing her hem.”
    “Ooookay,” Will said, wriggling his hands and feet into the sand. This woman might be beautiful but he feared her antenna was picking up the wrong channels. “There. I'm dug in.”
    “Good. How does it feel?”
    “Really good,” he said. He was tempted to add, Just like sand in a hole in the floor of somebody's basement , but didn't want to trigger another lecture.
    “See? That is your Mother.”
    He thought, I know who my mother is—was—and it's not a handful of sand.
    Holding one of her metal things by its cylindrical end, she stepped onto the sand and squatted next to him.
    “What's that?”
    “This?” She held it up, twisting it back and forth, letting ruddy light reflect from the flared end. She plucked the tip and it gave off a faint musical note. “This is one of the four tines.”
    “What's it for?”
    “I am going to survey your chakras .”
    “My what?”
    “Your chakras—the energy centers of your body. Chakra is the Sanskrit word for wheel. Each of us has seven energy centers in our body.”
    Only seven? he wanted to say. We have zillions. They're called cells . But he kept mum.
    “I will check the first now.”
    She held the tine over his groin, about two inches above the fly of his tan Dockers, and began moving it in clockwise circles.
    “What's this telling you?” he said, a little uncomfortable with the area of her attention.
    “Other than the fact that there is no woman in your life right now,” she said, utterly deadpan, “all is well here.”
    Damn. She was right. Pretty risky for her to say that with nothing to go on. True, he wasn't wearing his wedding ring—he'd stopped after the divorce—but she could have found herself way out on a limb with that little declaration. In fact . . .
    “What if I told you that I have been deeply involved with a woman for the past two years?”
    “I would not believe you.”
    “You can be that sure?”
    “Not completely, but I can tell you that if such a woman exists, you are not having sexual relations with her. Your first chakra is very congested.”
    Embarrassed, Will opened his mouth to make some sort of excuse but she cut him off.
    “Please. Let me complete my survey and we can talk afterwards. I do not wish to be