Sage's Eyes (10 page)

“Can
this be the little girl I saw here the last time I visited?” Uncle Wade cried the moment I appeared. “Did you two take in another beautiful child?” he facetiously asked my mother.

She grimaced, but she didn't look disapproving.

He rose when I went to him, and he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “I have something special for you,” he said.

“Let her have her breakfast first, Wade,” my mother told him. “You'll get her too excited.”

“I'm the one who's too excited,” he said, “but right, right, first things first.”

My mother rose. “We have your scrambled eggs and cheese,” she told me.

It was Uncle Wade's favorite breakfast, too. I started to help her.

“Just sit,” she said. “And tell your uncle about your new school and your new friends.”

I glanced at my father. He was smiling, but I sensed there was something else going on. They didn't simply want me to pour out my descriptions of the school and the other students. They wanted Uncle Wade to listen keenly, like someone who was here to evaluate every word.

“My classes are smaller, most with fewer than fifteen students. I have very good teachers, and I've made friends with four of the girls in my class, one of whom is having a party tonight,” I rattled off quickly.

Uncle Wade's smile widened. “And boys?”

“There are boys invited,” I said.

“Anyone special yet?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I haven't been there that long,” I offered as an excuse.

His smile froze, but his voice changed just enough for me to recognize something more serious behind his words. “Don't be too harsh in judging them, Sage. Everyone has some flaws. Even your father and I, as hard as that is to believe. But we have plenty of good qualities,” he added.

“Why haven't you married yet, then?” I came back at him, maybe a little too quickly. His smile became more a look of surprise.

“Sage!” my mother snapped.

“It's all right, Felicia. This girl is growing up fast,” he said, turning back to me. “Simply put, I haven't found anyone who would be willing or happy to live the life I lead, but that doesn't mean I won't. I am looking. When I was in France last week—”

My mother cleared her throat emphatically, interrupting him.

“Besides,” he said, “you're still my favorite girl.”

“I'm too young for you,” I said.

“Apparently, your uncle has regressed a bit. Maybe you're not too young for him after all,” my father teased.

Mother served my eggs, and I asked Uncle Wade to describe where he had been. He always had a wonderful way of spinning his tales of travels, the people he had met, and the beautiful things he had seen. Whenever he finished, I was filled with a traveler's hunger and vowed to myself that I would go to these wonderful places someday.

After we finished breakfast, Uncle Wade produced a small box wrapped in lavender paper. I saw from the way he was anticipating my reaction that he was just as excited giving it as I was receiving it. In fact, all three of them were interested in my reaction. I began to open the box. Unlike the present my parents had given me on my birthday, this one remained a mystery. I'd had no visions about it. It was as if there was an invisible magnetic wall around it. When the box was open, I looked at a silver and black ring. Carefully, I plucked it out and turned it in my fingers. It looked ancient and very special.

“I found it in a small antiques shop in Budapest,” Uncle Wade said. “It called out to me, and I heard your name. Sage . . . Sage,” he sang. “I had to buy it.”

I studied the carvings on the ring.

“Yes, the dragon of the east, the messenger of heavenly law, facing the dragon of the west, keeper of earth knowledge. The truth that links them involves mind, body, and spirit, also birth, life, and death, all bound together in the timeless circle as one. The ring symbolizes perfection and luck. Do you like it?”

“Yes, very much,” I said, and tried it on my right ring finger. “It fits perfectly.”

“Of course. It called your name to me. It's very old, a few hundred years.”

The way he said it sounded as if he believed I had lived another life and had worn this very ring before.

“Really?”

“Yes. The antiques store owner had no idea what he had. I got a great bargain,” Uncle Wade told my
parents, but they didn't look impressed with that. Their attention was fixed on me, both of them looking at me so hard I felt self-conscious and took my other fingers off the dragons instantly.

“Is it uncomfortable on your finger?” my mother asked.

What a strange question
, I thought. “No. It feels fine,” I said. “Thank you, Uncle Wade.”

“You're welcome.”

Everyone was still looking at me hard, so I rose and began to clear the table. Uncle Wade continued to describe some of the shows he had done and the theaters he had performed in, especially ones in eastern Europe that he described as old movie theaters with pipe organs that accompanied silent films, canopies of lights, great arches, and red velvet curtains. The seats were old but plush, “and you could smell time,” he said. It did sound as if he had gone back in time and traveled through ages, not just miles.

After I helped clean up our breakfast dishes, Uncle Wade surprised me by asking if I wanted to go for a walk.

“I need some fresh air,” he said. “I've been riding in trains, staying in hotels, flying, and taking taxis so much I forgot what a nice fall day can be like. Let's walk around the lake.”

I looked at my father to see if he would be coming, but he continued to read his newspaper. Uncle Wade and I started out toward the lake next to the house. I looked back, anticipating some sort of warning from my mother, but she was still in the kitchen.

The air was crisp but not too cold. Clouds moving west were racing against the light blue sky. Tree branches danced to the rhythm of breezes, and off in the distance, we could hear a mournful car horn, mournful because it sounded like the last desperate cry of a nearly extinct animal. It came from beyond the woods, but all sounds traveled faster and clearer on days like this, I thought. I even picked up the caw of a crow deep in the woods on the south side of the lake.

When we stepped out and walked down the sidewalk, the world around us suddenly grew silent. Looking up, I thought even the clouds had stopped moving. Way off on the western horizon, I could see a jet trailing a thin streak of pure white exhaust. Uncle Wade clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly, like some ancient philosopher sculpting new thoughts into a grand idea. I smiled to myself because I could feel his struggle to begin our conversation.

“Ask me whatever you want, Uncle Wade, whatever you were afraid to ask in there,” I said.

He paused and then smiled as he nodded. His blue eyes were never brighter, never more filled with glee. “I should have realized you would hear more in the silence.”

“Why?”

“I've always believed that you have the third eye,” he said. “I think you've realized it yourself, but you've been afraid to say it. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Most people who want it spend their lives trying to find it. Many religions recognize it exists. You were
born with it, and you're just learning how to use it, but it's like any new skill or talent. If it's not treated well, developed properly, it could end up doing more harm than good, sort of like a brilliant scientist who uses his brilliance to develop a nasty weapon instead of a cure for cancer.”

“The third eye? I don't know what it is, so I don't see how I could realize I have it. What is it exactly? What does the third eye give me?”

“Better perception, awareness, ability to envision outcomes and results more than most people.”

“Is that what you have, why you are a successful magician?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I'm not being arrogant, just realistic.”

“Will I become a magician, too?”

He laughed. “No, no. That's just the way I use my talents. You have many more, I'm sure.”

“What could be more than that?”

“Maybe just more wisdom,” he said. “Everyone takes a different path to his or her own enlightenment. You'll find your way.”

We turned down the road toward the lake. Two crows suddenly shot out of the darker part of the forest, sailed over the lake close to the water, and then turned sharply and headed deeper into the forest.

“Why did they do that?” Uncle Wade asked me. “Why did they change direction so rapidly?” The tone of his question reminded me of a teacher testing to see whether his student really was paying attention or to see just how smart the student was.

“They saw their own image in the water and were frightened.”

He smiled and nodded. “That's exactly what you have to avoid, fearing yourself,” he said.

“My mother, more than my father, makes me afraid of myself,” I revealed. Right from childhood, I found I could always be more honest about my feelings with Uncle Wade. He never wore the cloak of tension that my parents wore whenever they were around me.

He didn't look shocked. “You're still telling stories about things you imagine or remember, things that make no sense?”

“Not as much, no. I know how much my mother hates that, but she's constantly asking me now if I tell people things like I used to. I don't. She doesn't even want me to give my new friends advice.”

“I thought that was what was troubling you. I sensed it throughout breakfast. She means well. They both do.”

If they meant well, I wanted to ask, why did they keep so much about me and themselves secret?

We followed a path to the edge of the water. The wind paused. The trees were still. The rippling in the surface of the lake diminished. It was the second week of October. More birds had gone south. There were almost no insects. Squirrels and rabbits looked more desperate about finding food. Some of the leaves had taken on more yellow and brown. The tips of winter's fingers were grazing the surface of the world around us like a blind man feeling his way, exploring to find
the best path over which to bring in the colder winds and the flurries of snow.

“What is it they're really afraid of, Uncle Wade? What do they think I'll do?” I asked, and immediately held my breath.

Would I finally know?

Did they deliberately send me out here to walk with him so he could tell me something they couldn't tell me themselves?

“Just what you've done, perhaps, sense your power, your abilities, and become arrogant. Arrogant people do bad things to others.”

“My power? What power?”

He paused, lowered his chin, and raised his eyes. “Don't try to fool a professional,” he said. “You know of what I speak.” He pointed to the center of his forehead. “The third eye.”

“I've done nothing to cause them to think I was being arrogant,” I said. “I'm hardly a snob. It's just the opposite. I practically tiptoe through the house. I rarely ask them any questions anymore.”

“No matter what you might think, they want only the best for you,” he said.

We started around the lake. As we walked, I debated with myself about whether to confess having explored the files in my father's office. Would he immediately tell my parents and reveal that I had lied to my mother?

“Remember when you were here last time and you put that marble on the kitchen table?” I asked.

“Yes, one of my favorite ways to impress a small audience.”

“You just looked at it, moved your hand, and made it roll off the table.”

“Now, you're not going to ask me how I did that, are you?”

“No. Maybe I know. Maybe I've done it.”

“Oh, really,” he said, stopping and smiling. “In that case, how did I do it?”

“Once I saw that my father had left a file drawer open. I knew he always closed and locked that drawer.”

“And?” he said.

“I . . . was worried he might think I went into his private things, so I wished . . . I pictured the file drawer closed. I concentrated hard on it.”

He was just staring at me coldly now, wearing an expression I had not seen, a face full of just as much worry as my father's, the face of someone who was waiting to hear terrible news. I was sorry I had even mentioned the drawer, but it was too late.

“And?” he asked again when I still didn't speak.

“It closed. I kept questioning myself about it, wondering if I had closed it without realizing it when I was finished looking at the contents.”

“So you did go into the drawer, searched the contents?”

“Yes.”

“But you're sure it was open? You didn't do anything to open it?”

“No, but like I said, after I pictured it closed, I thought I heard it close. In fact, I thought my parents
might have returned, seen it open, and closed it, but when I looked, no one was there. But the drawer was closed.”

“And you think that's how I moved the marble, by thinking hard about it?”

I nodded. He continued walking.

“Have you ever heard of telekinesis, the movement of objects with the mind?”

“I did read about it,” I said, “after I had this experience, but I didn't get deeply into it.”

“Some people have the ability to do that more than others, or they learn to do it faster,” he said.

“And you can do that?”

“Don't make me tell you my secrets,” he said. “Maybe you can do it, and that's what happened with the file drawer. As I said, there are many people who can do that. It's not voodoo. You didn't ask your parents about this?”

“No!” I said emphatically. “And I hope you don't mention it. I never told them I looked into that drawer. My mother came to my room and asked if I had been snooping in my father's office. I denied it. Everything about it remains confusing to me, but I know she and my father would be upset.”