June Mail by Jean Warmbold

Author:Jean Warmbold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-06-03T02:01:26+00:00

June 22

I’m up early. The air crisp and delicious. The ground digs into my shoulder blades as I watch the last of the morning stars fade away in the early light. Someone else is up as well. Philip. I can tell by the old-mannish way he drags himself around the camp. Lighting up coals in the hibachi and putting a pot of water on to boil. The smell of fresh brewing coffee brings me out of my cocoon.

As the two of us sip on our coffee, I bring up a subject or two for conversation. But he seems to prefer his silence. Cross-legged and shivering inside his blanket like the night before. “Guess I better be heading on,” I finally say, after folding up the two blankets and leaving them in front of Gary’s tent. “Say good bye to the others for me. I’ll be back if I get any news,” I add, nodding in the direction of one of Genco’s labs.

Philip nods blankly and turns away. What happened to all that naive optimism of the day before? Or did he have such a bad night last night, that nothing seems to matter anymore? Even a few magic words about imminent trials of a magic vaccine.

I’m not the slightest bit hungry; my digestive system is still working on last night’s hot dogs and hunk of dense, double fudge chocolate cake. So I opt for a visit to Carmel’s one Spanish mission. Which looked so intriguing when I chanced by it yesterday afternoon. Apparently I am a few minutes early. But one of the gardeners out front is kind enough to let me in, all the same.

Being their first visitor of the day, I am afforded the full benefit of the mission’s cool, tranquil setting. A timeless, landscaped courtyard surrounded on three sides by a wooden veranda and white adobe walls. The kind of outmoded enclave of spiritual resonance a lot of us would still love to call home. After a tour of the gardens I head inside. Past the dining room and reception area to the small bedroom where Junipero Serra, the mission’s founder, apparently passed long stretches of his time, year after year. Reading. Writing. Meditating. And sleeping. Which is about all you could do in this tiny cell of a room. It’s the real thing, alright. No doubt about it. The narrow, hard-looking bed. The single desk and straight-backed chair. The pen and paper. Two or three books. And nothing more. No frivolous diversions. Not even a picture on the wall to distract the man from his singular goal of inner spiritual resolve.

I suddenly panic, as if I were in the inside looking out, rather than the outside looking in, and I return to the veranda out back. How long do I stand there, gazing at the sculptured water fountain in the center of the yard, before the vision materializes before my eyes? The fountain is supplanted by two figures in long grey robes, books in hand and bowed in conversation, as they stroll leisurely across the flagstone walk.

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