Branden Frank, thin, pale, wrinkled with age and stark naked, stood laughing at the edge of the high platform, preparing to dive into the pool below. Steam carried the tang of sulfur and salt from a nearby covered area of stone and concrete where magma-heated water flowed into a series of large cisterns.
Closing his eyes and clasping his hands above his head, he resembled an elderly priest celebrating the sacrament, wearing only the vestments in which God first clothed him. A sudden soft flapping of wings broke the silence as a large raven flew overhead, cawing at the pitiful creatures below who had no wings.
From the platform, the naked man pointed and shouted, “Ha! Look! My spirit animal. Trickster Crow. Creator Raven. Messenger of Death!"
Watching from the shallow end with his friend Hank Tate, Alan Wright could not believe his good fortune. Only three years had passed since he moved to the tiny mountain town of Eden Ridge and fulfilled his dream of opening a spiritual center, The House of the Universal Message. It marked the high point of a long journey. Now gazing up at his mentor, he was amazed to be finally meeting the man who had inspired him to start that journey.
Thirty years before, Alan had first learned of Branden Frank and how gleefully he spoke of life being precious and fleeting, how we owe our best attention and care to the world, to our planet, to all life, and to each other. Alan's hunger for answers to the questions of youth was fed reading the man's books, listening to taped lectures, and later, watching his online videos. Basking in his presence for the past two days at Hank’s spa felt to Alan like sitting at the feet of a Brahman.
Leaning forward, the man on the platform surrendered to gravity and, falling a dozen feet, knifed the water like an Olympian, only a small splash marking his entry. He surfaced, laughed, and paddled to join his friends shouting, "Bloody hell, I didn't die!"
Had Branden Frank known Death waited for him only a few miles downhill on a dark stretch of road, he might not have joked about the omen.
"Bran, you crazy old limey," Hank said, his full salt-and-pepper beard framing a mischievous grin.
Alan glanced at Hank and again thanked his lucky stars. A combat veteran, martial arts instructor, and laughing philosopher, Henry Goodman Tate came to these peaceful wooded foothills a dozen years before Alan arrived. He bought and renovated the nineteenth century Merriweather Hot Springs Spa to fulfill his own dream. Hosting guests who came to relax their muscles and minds in the bubbling waters paid the bills, but higher aspirations had beckoned Hank’s spirit. He refitted the ancient gymnasium as an aikido dojo so that he, like Alan, could share with others the closely held beliefs both men shared—that all of existence is one body with myriad beating hearts, that the only enemy any of us face is the one within, and the greatest truth of all, we need not fear.
Branden Frank swam over to the two of them.
"Do you want to die?” joked Hank. “If you do, just climb back up there and dive off the other side.”
"It's not so much wanting to die, old horse," Bran said, "but more a matter of excellent timing." He moved to a spot between his companions, leaned against the concrete edge of the pool, splashed his face and slicked back his hair. "You see, Raven, he of folklore and myth, is special to me. Even my nickname, Bran, is a Gaelic name for “raven.” To see one when I did, falling to my death in that instant would have been grand!”
Hank laughed and splashed both his guests. "Oh, yes, how grand! Well, officer, you see, it's like this… He saw a crow, then threw himself off the platform. It was a matter of excellent timing!"
Watching the two older men banter, Alan smiled remembering the letter that made this blessed day a reality, typewritten on Branden Frank's embossed stationary of fine linen paper:
Mr. Wright:
Thank you so much for the recent teleconference to plan for my upcoming visit. You will receive the necessary legal folderol from my attorney Leonard Capra, but please take this letter as my happy acceptance of your offer. We will begin preparations for a trip to Eden Ridge on the dates in mid-January we discussed, and I look forward to seeing you then.
I will also arrange a visit with my old friend Henry Tate, just up the hill from you, to partake in his healing waters and company. Seeing that his spa and hotel are so close by, I will spend the first night or two with him before enjoying your hospitality. It turns out that I also have some formal business to attend in nearby Bidwell, and the kind offer to stay in your cottage makes everything easier. I am grateful.
Congratulations for all the success you are having with The House of the Universal Message. I look forward to speaking to the congregation in your lovely chapel, and to this being the beginning of a lasting friendship.
Yours sincerely,
Branden John Frank, Esq. MBE
That day, two months before this gray mountain Monday, Alan had sat gazing at the letter like a little leaguer with a signed player card of his hero.
Hank laughed and pointed at Alan, bringing him back into the present. “Bran? See that awestruck fellow right there? He's been tittering about your visit for weeks now like a rock groupie with a backstage pass. You wouldn't want to die now and deny him his fun, would you?"
Bran said, "Well, when you put it that way, it wouldn't be sporting, would it?" He turned to Alan and clapped him on the shoulder. "For you, stout yeoman, I promise to continue shuffling around in this bag of bones for a while longer."
Alan bowed his head. "Gramercy, sweet prince, if only until your appearance at The House on Wednesday night. I've gone to a bit of trouble to guarantee a crowd for you. I'd look foolish trying to explain that for reasons of excellent timing, you decided death was the better course."
Hank again bellowed a laugh that echoed from the stone tubs. "Or at the very least, Bran, die on stage and make a good show of it."
Bran eyed Hank, his grin turning devilish. "Here's a good show, you rotter!" He splashed the laughing man full in the face.
Hank coughed and sputtered but returned fire. In seconds, the three naked men regressed in age an average of fifty years and launched into a raucous splash battle.
A sudden shout of "Oi!" surprised them into a temporary truce. They watched a muscular, sandy-haired man pull himself from one of the hottest tubs and make his way toward the pool.
"I thought ya didn't allow nasty little schoolboys in 'ere, Hank," he said. "Man can't get a bit o' peace so's to let his thoughts wander in happy daydreams? I've a mind to complain to management, I have." He stood naked and dripping at the edge of the pool, hands on hips.
Hank pointed. "Leo, if you don't stop waving that albino python in our faces, I'll throw you out the gate bare-assed and make you walk all the way home to Marin."
Leonard Capra's lips stretched into a sly grin. "Cryin' shame, innit? You poor lads with yer tiny little tagers and me 'ere with her majesty's favorite meat and two veg. Pity me the burden I bear!”
With that he suddenly jumped cannonball style into the pool.
After a minute or so of watery warfare, the men declared a general armistice and settled again in the shallow side of the cooling pool, shoulders now below the surface to keep the winter air at bay.
Hank reminded them they were expected to be quiet in the tub area, to avoid disturbing others.
"There's none else 'ere but us, ya daft wanker," Leo muttered at Hank.
Bran said, "Leonard, please don't insult our host."
"Ha, Leonard, is it? He calls me that when he wants ta spank me for bein' bad."
Bran turned to Hank and Alan. "I honestly don't understand it. In court, addressing a magistrate, the man speaks the Queen's English, as do I. Anywhere else he's a foul-mouthed cockney dustman."
"I'm a Scotsman, not a cockney, ya posh toff. I don't put on airs when I'm with mates is all."
Bran ignored the insult. "In any case, the man is a brilliant barrister who has saved me from my own folly on numerous occasions. He's my Lancelot, my right hand, so I suffer his rough edges gladly to enjoy his loyalty, if not his company."
Alan said, "Don't forget Lancelot's loyalty had a limit when it came to Guinevere. You can trust a first knight only so far."
"True, but I solve that problem by not having a Guinevere for him to seduce. My boots rarely stay under any woman's bed for more than a night."
Leo nodded. "Sometimes less than that, ya rotten old knob. I've helped you out more than one bedroom window."
The rusty hinges on the wooden gate to the spa deck creaked, silencing the men's wicked chatter. A woman stepped through and closed the gate behind her. She wore a plain robe of white cotton and carried a brightly multicolored towel. Her long thick auburn hair was pulled up in a large bun.
Alan saw she was aware of the four pair of male eyes following her to the covered soaking area, a few yards away from the cooling pool. She glanced and smiled, chose a spot near the coolest tub, kicked off her flip-flops, and hung her towel. Shrugging off the robe and hanging it revealed her athletic build with ample curves, the extra flesh here and there signaling maturity and the possibility of grown children.
The smiling men watched as she stepped into the tub and lowered herself gracefully, a low, closed-mouth moan signaling her enjoyment. Stretching herself into the hot, buoyant water, she laid her head back and sighed.
Leo whispered, "Now there's a fit bit o'stuff."
"She's a semi-regular," Hank whispered back. "A hotshot business consultant from San Francisco. She likes to hide out here because it's not far but remote enough to give her a break from Crazy Town. I have good Wi-Fi, so she can still keep in touch."
Leo nodded. "Beauty and brains. Can't be bad."
Branden Frank cleared his throat. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I believe I have cooled sufficiently for another round of soaking. I will join you later for lunch." He paddled a few feet away then turned and winked. "Or perhaps not."
Alan, Hank, and Leo watched Bran pull himself from the pool at the far end and approach the woman in the first tub. He spoke with her, unashamedly naked, his demeanor as formal as any nobleman welcoming guests to the manor.
The woman nodded and waved him in.
As Bran sat and began conversation in hushed tones, Hank chuckled. "There he goes again, the old goat."
"Again?" Alan asked.
"Never passes up a chance," Leo said.
Alan stared at Leo for a moment, then turned to Hank, who nodded. "Yep. I've known the man a long time, but Leo here has more experience with our guru. He's always been like this."
"And none the worse for the years," Leo said. "Oh, slowing down a tad perhaps, but the old fox still has it."
Alan said, "You mentioned helping him out of bedroom windows."
The Scotsman let out a quiet laugh. "Aye. He sometimes requires extrication from difficult situations."
Alan glanced at the tubs, but the steam forming in the cold mountain air blew in and surrounded him. He could see only shadowed silhouettes, could hear only muffled words, Bran's voice low and rhythmic, the woman's responses a counterpoint melody. "He said he had no Guinevere."
"Married once," Leo said, "as a young man, just out of seminary. It ended badly, and childless, and he swore off. Marriage, that is. Not women."
"No," Hank added, "not women. You should have seen him years ago, at Esalen. They practically lined up."
Alan continued watching Bran and the woman. He felt something shift in his heart, like an engine cylinder misfiring. "So you follow him around and clean up his messes? Is that it?"
Leo smiled. "More than that, much more, but you've caught the gist. It's no stretch to say I owe Branden Frank my life. Wife left me for another woman, career swirling the drain, and I was gutted, ready to take a swan off the Erskine Bridge. Late one night I'm piss drunk, and I catch him on the telly, some BBC program. It was like a switch in my head, click! You know how he is."
"Yes, I do."
Leo went on, his eyes gleaming as he spoke. "That voice, when he gets going, ya know? Tellin’ how we all face these same demons, but we can move past 'em, be right with the world? Bloody godsend, he was. I read his books, got off my arse, and looked him up. I told him my story, offered my lance, and the rest is history."
"He's a charmer," Hank said, "man, woman, or beast."
Alan glanced again at Hank, then at the tubs. The steam cleared, and he could see Branden Frank sitting opposite the woman, his face bright and animated, holding court as he did during one of his lectures and mesmerizing his audience.
The woman laughed.
