Arts
Upstairs, she roused Mark from his recliner. “Mark,” she said. “Mark Lucifer! I need you in the basement. Something strange is going on down there.” Mark’s eyes popped open. Her tone of voice must have told him something serious was afoot. “Just a minute,” he said. It took more than a minute, of course; Mark was unable to do anything quickly these days. He pushed aside the blanket and worked his way out of the chair and onto his feet. Sandra helped him into a zip-up fleece jacket—he never tried to pull anything on over his head these days—and he stepped into his slippers. Finally ready, he followed her down to the basement. “Okay,” he said, “What’s going on?” “Well: I was just tending to my flame, and thinking along, and I had a visit from my spirit friend. She led me to a strange place in the basement, a place I never knew was here. I hope it’s still there, or you’ll think I’m crazy.” She led him back to the place. The door was still there, thanks be. “There!” she said. “Has that door always been here?” Mark went up to it, and reached out slowly to touch it. “No!” he said. “I’ve known every inch of this basement since I was a boy. I’d swear this door wasn’t here before.” “So,” Sandra began, “here’s what happened. I was thinking about your injuries, wishing I could do something for you, and, like I said, I had an encounter with my fox-friend. She told me that for healing, and creativity, and a fire on our hearth, it was Brigit’s help we needed. And she told me that we were lucky to have a home of Brigit right here. And she led me to this door.” “Brigid?” asked Mark. “Brigid of Ireland?” “Yes.” “Saint Brigid? One of the three patron saints of Ireland?” “Um … no, not exactly,” said Sandra. “I was thinking more of the old Irish goddess Brigit. I don’t really know what my fox-friend meant, but I doubt she was talking about a Christian saint! But we can talk about that later. Go ahead—open the door. I’ve already been inside. It’s … well, you’ll see.” Mark lifted the latch and pulled open the door. That same warm, humid air rolled out to meet them, and the same flickering firelight. Sandra breathed a sigh of relief, glad that Mark could see what she saw. “Um … I went in barefoot, and I think that would be best,” said Sandra. “Here, let me help.” Mark kicked off his slippers, and she bent down to help him; socks were especially annoying for Mark these days, because he couldn’t easily reach them. Once barefoot, Mark bent cautiously down and passed through the door. Inside, he slowly straightened, and stood transfixed. “Gramma said that the house holds many secrets,” he said softly. “Damn! I guess she knew what she was talking about. This … this pool, now. What makes that current? And what keeps it hot? There are no hot springs anywhere near here, as far as I know. And what makes that flickering light?” He moved to touch the walls, lost in thought. “All interesting questions,” said Sandra, “but I don’t think that asking, ‘How does this work?’ is quite the right thing at the moment, you know. This place is a gift to you, or to us, meant for your healing. You should take off your clothes.” “What?!” said Mark. “Take off your clothes. The pool is for your healing, I’m sure of it. I was wishing for your healing, and the house offered this, and my fox spirit led me to it. And Brigit is a goddess of healing, and of fire, and of healing wells. It’s perfectly clear to me, you’re supposed to bathe in the water.” Mark looked at her skeptically, then went to examine the pool again. “Huh,” he said at last. “You know, this makes me think of the pool of Bethesda—do you know that story?” “No,” said Sandra. “What pool is that?” “It’s from the New Testament. Early in the Gospel of John, there’s this story that takes place by a healing pool in Jerusalem called the Pool of Bethesda. Apparently, the waters of this pool were sometimes mysteriously stirred up, as if by unseen hands,