Dark Rivers of the Heart

services in heartening numbers.
        Roy lived in Washington, D.C but his work took him all over the country.
        He had visited all the sacred places where the land, like a giant battery, accumulated vast stores of spiritual energy: Santa Fe, Taos, Woodstock, Key West, Spirit Lake, Meteor Crater, and others.
        He'd had moving experiences in those hallowed confluences of cosmic energy-yet he had long suspected that Los Angeles was an undiscovered nexus as powerful as any. Now, the sheer plenitude of consciousness-raising guides in the ads strengthened his suspicion.
        From the myriad choices, Roy selected The Place Of The Way in Burbank.
        He was intrigued that they had capitalized every word in the name of their establishment, instead of using lowercase for the preposition and second article. They offered numerous methods for "seeking the self and finding the eye of the universal storm," not from a shabby storefront but "from the peaceful sphere of our home." He also liked the proprietors' names-and that they were thoughtful enough to identify themselves in their ad: Guinevere and Chester.
        He checked his watch. Past nine o'clock.
        Still parked illegally in front of the post office, he called the number in the ad. A man answered: "This is Chester at The Place Of The Way.
        How may I assist you?"
        Roy apologized for calling at that hour, since The Place Of The way was located in their home, but he explained that he was slipping into a spiritual void and needed to find firm ground as quickly as possible. He was grateful to be assured that Chester and Guinevere hilfilled their mission at all hours. After he received directions, he estimated that he could be at their door by ten o'clock.
        He arrived at nine-fifty.
        The attractive two-story Spanish house had a tile roof and deep-set leaded windows. In the artful landscape lighting, lush palms and Australian tree ferns threw mysterious shadows against pale-yellow stucco walls.
        When Roy rang the bell, he noticed an alarm-company sticker on the window next to the door. A moment later, Chester spoke to him from an intercom box. "Who's there, please?"
        Roy was only mildly surprised that an enlightened couple like this, in touch with their psychic talents, found it necessary to take security precautions. Such was the sorry state of the world in which they lived.
        Even mystics were marked for mayhem.
        Smiling and friendly, Chester welcomed Roy into The Place Of The Way.
        He was potbellied, about fifty, mostly bald but with a Friar Tuck fringe of hair, deeply tanned in midwinter, bearish and strong looking in spite of his gut. He wore Rocksports, khaki slacks, and a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled to expose thick, hairy forearms.
        Chester led Roy through rooms with yellow pine floors buffed to a high polish, Navajo rugs, and rough-hewn furniture that looked more suitable to a lodge in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains than to a home in Burbank.
        Beyond the family room, which boasted a giant-screen TV, they entered a vestibule and then a round room that was about twelve feet in diameter, with white walls and no windows other than the round skylight in the domed ceiling.
        A round pine table stood in the center of the round room. Chester indicated a chair at the table. Roy sat. Chester offered a beverage-"anything from diet Coke to herbal tea"-but Roy declined because his only thirst was of the soul.
        In the center of the table was a basket of plaited palm leaves, which Chester indicated. "I'm only an assistant in these matters.
        Guinevere is the spiritual adept. Her hands must never touch money.
        Though she's transcended earthly concerns, she must eat, of course."
        "Of course," Roy said.
        From his wallet, Roy extracted three hundred dollars and put the cash in the basket. Chester seemed to be pleasantly surprised by the offering, but Roy had always believed that a person could expect only the quality of enlightenment for which he was willing to pay. (,nester left the room with the basket.
        From the ceiling, pin spots had washed the walls with arcs of white light. Now they dimmed until the chamber filled with shadows and a moody amber radiance that approximated candlelight.
        "Hi, I'm Guinevere! No, please, don't get up."
        Breezing into the room with girlish insouciance, head