Hadrian's Wall (23 page)

The hanging gardens of
Babylon
... If there was a better
description, I didn’t know what it could have been.

I could see that the town
was divided between “upper Hadrian’s Wall”—apparently the older
part—an assemblage of small terraces clustered on top of the
steepest area; and “lower Hadrian’s Wall” which was almost flat and
expanding around the hills toward the lakeshore.

I had only brief glimpse, while struggling
to put the belt, but learned that cars were not allowed in the
upper section—only bicycles and pedestrians. So, instead of going
up, Charity expertly turned in the opposite direction and made a
sharp curve down toward Bluewater Lake.

There was so much
beautiful scenery unfolding before us that I didn’t know where to
look first—the stone walls running between big green areas, narrow
and picturesque streets, colorful buildings...and a prominent
bridge that looked similar to an aqueduct that I’d seen in a book
about ancient history.
Here, it was
being
used as a pedestrian walkway,
crossing over the whole town from low to high. It was a modern
tribute to the ingenuity of the ancient Romans.

The car glided along the
road that skirted the big pillars of the bridge, crossing under the
vaulted arches decorated with colored, wedge-shaped stones. There
were eighteen or twenty in all. I looked up and thanked silently
Charity for having lowered the convertible’s soft top; otherwise,
my visual experience would have been limited.

I gazed at the immense walls that surrounded
the upper town. There were watchtowers at regular intervals. From
where we were, I could not see properly, but I guessed they were
security checkpoints.

Again, a feeling of déjà
vu
.

If those towers were
checkpoints, the town should be very well guarded. Could there be
something so valuable, some mysterious treasure perhaps, that would
require so much caution? I didn’t ask Charity about it because I
thought it would seem like snooping on my part,
but I was dying to ask what was behind those
walls
. I needed to get more
information.
How do I get her to
accidently mention
something?

What she said surprised me.
“Soon you will see with your own eyes. At the end of our tour, I’ll
take you up there.” She giggled. “Relax, girl. Remember that today
I’ll be your guide.”

Her reluctance to play
“nanny” was soon forgotten as the excitement she felt for her town
became apparently. Charity really loved this place and she had
every reason to do so. I’d never seen such a harmonious combination
of nature and man’s hand.

“Oh, I really need a
guide,” I said. “I’ve never seen a place quite like this—it’s
fantastic!”
Not even in books about fairy
tales
. This place seemed like a perfect
medieval town in the United States.

She was flattered by my comment, like a
mother who is proud of her son.

Mmmm...
Then let’s start with the roots. You may have
noticed that the name of the town is
somewhat...peculiar.

“Frankly, no.”
What did I miss?

She grimaced, realizing my dazed
expression.

“You’re an offline girl,
huh?
I think I’ll take you to the museum
first. Maybe a visit will help your quick thinking.”

The car rounded another
curve...and another. I began to feel like my stomach was moving
with the car. I silently prayed not to get
sick. Charity
drove well, but the
road followed the terrain, meaning it had a lot of sharp turns. I
asked her how an ambulance could reach the hospital quickly enough
to save lives.

“Emergencies are met by
the other side where the terrain is relatively flat and the streets
are straight,”
she
explained
.
“Caledonia General Hospital has a helipad and two rescue
helicopters of its own. It’s a referral hospital for the entire
county. It accepts patients who come from the hospital in the city
of Saint Paul, precisely because we offer some specialized care
here. Caledonia also receives referrals from the Polyclinic, a
large multi-specialty clinic in Divine Town.”

She parked alongside a building which stood
apart from the other buildings around it because it was made
entirely of stones, much like a small medieval castle. Charity
jumped out of the car and calmly walked down the street paved with
irregular stones. She walked as if she were on model parading on a
flat runway. I followed her, with my mouth agape, amazed at how she
was able to walk in those high heels. It seemed virtually
impossible that she was able to move in such a carefree and elegant
manner. Never once did she look down! It was as if she knew where
was each stone was seated.

I was so busy watching her
that I stumbled and nearly fell flat on the street. Thanks to my
quick reflexes, I managed to hold onto the lamp post... a
providential streetlight, I must say!
Perhaps the function of those outdated light
fixtures—revivals of an earlier time—was just to save unsuspecting
pedestrians. To my relief, nobody observed my near
mishap.

I glanced back at Charity
in disbelief. It was as if the girl was floating away
toward the museum
. For a
moment, I wished that she’d twist her ankle just to prove that
she’s a human being like me—or at least a human with some
weaknesses. I shook my head, reproaching myself in silence.
Girl, you are dying of envy!

The top of the museum door
was arch-shaped and quite tall. A receptionist greeted Charity with
joy and something more...deference? respect? caution? fear? I
couldn’t really discern the meaning of her expression as we
approached.

“Hi, Rita. Will you tell
Marjory that we’re here?”

The girl nodded and pressed
the intercom. While she was talking with someone on the other end,
I noticed she was wearing a beautiful gold chain on her wrist. It
was very thin, with a pendant etched with a symbol. That’s when I
froze. It was exactly the same symbol that had appeared in my dream
about the forest and the strange girl who had jumped over
me.

No, it couldn’t be the
same.
The pendant or charm was smaller and
from where I was standing, I couldn’t see it very well. At least
that’s what I wanted desperately to believe. I certainly couldn’t
approach her and say, ‘
Excuse me, I
dreamed that a hairy, toothy girl jumped on me and was wearing a
symbol just like yours. How do you explain that? And by the
way...where’s the nearest insane asylum?’
I blinked, trying to regain my control.

“Take a look around,” Charity suggested.

I was startled to hear her
voice, but as soon as her words penetrated my foggy brain,
I silently thanked her
for the suggestion. I took a few steps away in order to
disguise my emotional state. Good thing Charity didn’t notice how I
was feeling as she continued her animated conversation with the
girl she called Rita.

What began as merely an alternative to pull
myself together rapidly became sincere interest. Before my eyes
appeared fantastic objects, organized in original arrangements:
jewels nestled in exotic cushions, inside transparent glass boxes;
artifacts from different generations, placed in the windows that
reproduced the scenery and the daily lives of immigrants and what
caught my attention—old photos that had been enlarged, occupying
most of the walls. And that was just the beginning.

Zap...Zap...
My shoes made a sound on
the polished wood floor as I made my way down the central aisle.
With each step, a new set was revealed. Most curiously, while I was
walking, the people in the photos seemed to move with me, as if
they were following me. I stopped, confused. I
walked back and forth, a few steps at a time, watching the
movement of the figures
.
Again
the figures in the
pictures moved in the same direction—a three-dimensional effect
that I had read about on the Internet, but never dreamed that I
would personally witness it one day.

Soon I realized that these
were not photos, but great “smart screen” projections. The old
photos appear as backgrounds, scanned with an enviable resolution
so sharp that they seemed to be originals. The viewer could click
on the computer commands present in the screen and change the angle
of the picture and be almost plunged into the picture like a video
game. Photos could also be enlarged and reduced, or we could
achieve other scenarios connected to the environment into the
photo...and if we put on the headphones, we can listen to
historical explanations in three different languages.

Wow! Cutting edge technology!

As I saw it, the screens
were the main attractions of the museum—even as part of its decor
since the framework that made
them seem
like pictures were real works of art technology.

Farther on, a title caught my attention. I
took a few uncertain steps and stopped in front of a smaller screen
placed right in the middle of the hallway. Gold letters on a red
background showed the following words:

C A H I L L

THE BEGINNING

I was curious, so I started
reading the explanatory text, but I lost my bearings when I
realized that the family coat-of-arms contained the figure of a
panther fitted in front of a combination of weapons. I did not give
much importance to the other details, like the sword and the three
daggers symmetrically arranged. My attention was totally focused on
the cat, who had two slits of jade color instead of eyes. Between
his paws there was the same symbol as on Rita’s pendant—the same as
in my dream.

I was shocked—not just
because of the symbol...more because of the panther. Certainly, it
wasn’t a lion, it wasn’t a tiger, it wasn’t a
puma...
much less a harmless Siamese
kitten!
I immediately remembered the
animal on the loose in South Portland and the huge creature that
exterminated Simon Cridder. Today, I had no doubt that the thing
that I saw moving through the trees was a black cat with glowing
eyes...jade colored eyes.

Had I hallucinated this
creature too? By all appearances, it was not a hallucination. At
least, not all bizarre aspects of my life were
hallucinations
. That should have
brought me some relief, but instead the opposite happened. I felt
bewildered. Proof that there was connection between the things I
remembered and the present facts—was a twist that only came to mess
up everything I had already accepted and rationalized in my head.
Now I was simply going back to square one.
Girl, you can throw away all the talk of psychiatric
diagnosis.

I regretted not having brought my notepad to
reproduce that picture. It seemed to be one of those coats-of-arms
that proclaimed the honor of families or houses which belonged to
the Knights. Later, I would look for the symbol on the Internet, as
well as its meaning.

Below the coat-of-arms, the
text explained that Cahill was a version of Ó’Cathail—which, in
turn, came from a pronunciation of old Irish: “catu-ualos.” Its
remote origin suggests that the clan had roots both in Ireland and
old Caledonia. Translated literally, the name means “mighty in
battle” and it was a kind of honorary title or something with a
long list of brave warriors and Celtic leaders to flaunt it. Many
of them were kings...everything to do with the image I had of
Adrian.

Okay, it wasn’t enough that
he was a rich and illustrious medical resident, he must be a
blue-blooded warrior too. Instead of feeling awed, I was depressed.
Adrian was completely out of my reach.

I went back to the text. I
couldn’t miss the opportunity to learn more about that family. As I
delved further into the reading, the more astonished and stunned I
became.

“(...)
The tribes have settled in the lands, families forming clans,
and marking their territories. Some of the bravest clans settled in
the Highlands
(...)
The origin of groups organized under the banner Cahill goes
back to a period prior to the arrival of the Romans. At the time of
the Roman invasions, the Celtic warriors united themselves to
combat the dreaded Legions
(...)”

The arrival of a middle-aged woman
distracted me momentarily. She descended the winding stairs and
went to Charity, who made an imperious gesture for me to come
closer. I confess that I felt like a servant being summoned by the
queen. Even if her subconscious intent was to remind me of the
differences between me, an ex-Jane Doe, and the powerful Cahills,
it was completely unnecessary. I could never forget, even now that
I knew a little more of the family saga.

I was sure that for some
obscure reason, Charity disapproved of me because she disapproved
of Adrian’s attention for me. I already knew that I was not of the
same socio-economic class, but she didn’t have to point out
something so obvious to me.
Hmmm
... I think that knowing the
origins of Cahill caused me to feel overly sensitive and
I was being a little overly dramatic
here
.