Love and the Living Tree

Chapter 1In early June, Rose Marie Beechem sat on her bed and stared at the list of volunteer gigs. She was expected to choose one. Quickly. If she didn’t, her academic advisor would make up her mind for her. Not to mention she’d be penalized by having this early start to her project denied. She’d have to start in August with everyone else. The only reason she’d been given this opportunity was because she was staying for the summer on the SearchLight Academy campus, one of only three second-years. It shouldn’t have been all that difficult to find something to join, but Rose didn’t know anything about working with humans and what she was learning from this list could be summed up in two words: ultra-religious. It wasn’t that Rose was an atheist; she just didn’t believe in the God these humans all seemed to cling to. Her beliefs, being werewolf in origin, revolved around the moon goddess, the being who controlled the tides and caused werewolves to change from human guise to wolf. They, including Rose, could change at will, but they had to transform at a full moon. Annoyed with wading through fifty-odd organizations helping the poor, the abused, and the addicted, Rose wadded up the page and dropped it on her desk. Then she opened her laptop and began searching for alternatives. There had to be groups who weren’t trying to save peoples’ souls as well as their bodies. She didn’t find anything she wanted at first. There were other groups espousing beliefs in Allah or the Jews’ God, Yahweh, but nothing that wasn’t dripping with human belief systems. Maybe I’ll just have to swallow my pride and get down and dirty with a few Christians. Rose sighed. She was about to give up and smooth out the ordained list when she spotted the magic words “drum circle.” Rose quit tapping a complicated rhythm on her knee and clicked on the link. She at once found herself on a website topped by a picture of a dark-skinned, broad-featured woman in traditional Ghanaian dress. She was gorgeous. From her tightly kinked hair artfully arranged on top of her head to the long and strong-looking fingers of her right hand, which rested on a talking drum, she was beautiful. Rose’s s*x tingled. Stop that. She’s human, she’s probably straight, and she might even just be a picture they put on their site to attract attention. Her s*x continued to make its needs known. Amused, and glad her roommate wasn’t in the room because the scent of arousal was starting to permeate the air, Rose got up, went to her window, and opened it to let in a June breeze. It was warm, but not as bad as her home in Florida was at this time of year. Washington, DC, was placed perfectly for weather, or so Rose believed. Not too hot and definitely not too cold, she sometimes wondered if she should move here after she graduated, though she couldn’t imagine leaving the Fehrna pack. Returning to her laptop, she scanned the “About Us” just under the picture of the attractive woman. Learning that the human pictured above was actually the director of Living Tree drum circle, Rose decided to join whatever volunteer gig this organization had. At first, she found nothing but times and dates of performances and rehearsals. Why had it been listed under volunteer organizations? Then, under “Upcoming Events” she found the reason. This year’s soup kitchen will take place at St. Francis in Southeast DC. Please follow the link below to get directions. The event had been posted only two days ago. Rose followed the link and got not only directions but also a phone number. Arousal still very much in evidence, she picked up her cell phone and made the call. * * * * Ama Bediako taped up her poster of three wolves howling at the moon. She was in her “temporary” office, the one she would occupy for the next calendar year, from June first to May thirty-first. She and her drum circle were partnering with a local church, St. Francis, which Ama had largely chosen because St. Francis was the patron saint of animals, at least in the Christian religion. She liked to think she’d picked this church for more practical reasons too, but this was the one which kept returning. Ama supposed she would have to accept that. With the poster hung to her satisfaction, she returned her attention to the desktop planner. Each Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday block was divided in half. The top held the soup to be featured that night and the bottom held the entertainment that would be present for the three hours while the homeless and hungry were served. She’d been putting these events together for almost five years and had come to believe that entertainment was as crucial as the food. She absently tapped a pencil eraser against her teeth as she read through the month of December. She always planned as far in advance as possible, and yet she was short players for the last month of the year. Most singers and instrumentalists were in high demand by churches who wanted them for Advent and Christmas services. Having seven gaps in her schedule annoyed her even though there was time to fill the empty places. Holes in the calendar, simply put, pissed her off. The phone, shoved to the very corner of her desk to make room for the calendar, rang. Ama sighed. She couldn’t afford to ignore calls. It might be from a prospective donor, musician, or even one of her own people calling to let her know that they’d found more volunteers. She scooped up the receiver, wished briefly that it was a cordless phone, and leaned back in her chair. “This is Ama with Living Tree Food Pantry. How may I help you?” There was a pause; Ama could hear someone breathing. Then, in a rush, a young woman blurted, “You’re really her? The woman on the website?” Ama’s mouth twitched. “I am Ama Bediako,” she answered. “May I help you?” “I’m Rose Marie Beechem. My, uh, college requires us second-years to volunteer for some sort of, uh, volunteer gig during our second year.” She sounded completely flustered, but there was a sweet, faintly Southern, twang to her voice. She pushed on, her words all but tripping over themselves. “I was looking for something that wasn’t dripping in Christianity.” Then, barely audible: “Well, that’s sure to make you some friends, Rose.” Louder, she added, defiantly, “I’m not a Christian. I don’t have any problem with their beliefs but I don’t want to be expected to convert people. Then I saw your drum circle and thought I could volunteer with you.” She took a deep breath. “Are you still looking for volunteers?” Ama waded back through what Rose had said. Ama’s intuition, bolstered by her werewolf-given psychic ability, told her Rose Marie was lying about something. But whether it was her apparent dislike of Christian-run organizations or something else, Ama couldn’t tell. Werewolves weren’t all of them psychic, but lesbian wolves were, to one extent or another. Actually, all l***q wolves had some metaphysical talent. Still, her ability to tell Rose was lying was an all-werewolves trait. She frowned, unsure how to address the lie. “What are your skills, ma’am?” “Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel like my mother.” Rose giggled, a nervous sound. “I play the drums, both African traditional and standard drum set, and the violin.” She was being honest about that part. Ama looked at her nights without entertainment. She would have to audition the young woman, but that wasn’t a problem. “I can also help serve food,” Rose went on. “I work at a professors-only little café here on campus.” Not a lie. “Although I can’t cook to save my life.” Also not a lie. “I see,” Ama murmured to keep the other woman talking. “I need to volunteer for at least six hours a week for my college.” There was the lie again, although Ama couldn’t tell if it was about the number of hours or the place requiring them. Her frown deepened. “What organization requires these hours?” “A small college here in DC,” Rose answered after a pause. An outright, bald-faced falsehood. But, Ama sensed, it was a potentially harmless lie. Some people didn’t want to admit why they had the urge to volunteer. It was rare, but some felt embarrassed about their need to give back, especially if they had previous issues with the poor, or their perception of that economic class. Sometimes, people didn’t think they had the skills necessary, or that they weren’t “saintly” enough. Ama relaxed and smiled, knowing it would carry in her voice. “I’d like to hear you play first, of course, but we can definitely use musically talented volunteers.” “Thank you,” Rose said, her gratitude obvious. “Just name the date and I’ll be there.” She paused before adding, “Around my classes, of course, but I don’t have classes in the evening.” That part about classes wasn’t a lie. Maybe she was from some sort of school, although not a college. Maybe a seminary? No, not with her frustration directed at Christians. Ama puzzled that out even as she said, “Let’s meet tomorrow. Are you free on Saturday? You can come before the diners. They start coming in at five-thirty but I get here at three.” “That sounds great. I’ll see you then!” Ama heard the exclamation point in Rose’s words and smiled a little to herself. Whatever the young woman was so excited about, she obviously had a lot of joy to share with the world. Ama loved people like that.