Time Dancers (24 page)

“Sunny Jim is right,” I said. “You are good enough. Now, go play the game. You will never regret it.”

Biscuit did not hesitate. Mitch drove him down in record time, and since Biscuit was still a teenager, Ciela insisted she go along as chaperone. For luck, I gave him a double eagle gold piece on the day he left and he promised never to spend it. The three of them roared away on a Tuesday and Mitch was back less than two weeks later. In a week, Biscuit was offered the position of shortstop for the Havana Habaneros, which he accepted. He was now a professional baseball player. A week after that, he was asked to move to Cuba and play with the team on a permanent basis. It was another offer he could not refuse. On my birthday, May 4, we stood in Carolina’s kitchen and toasted the missing Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder, along with Ciela, who had decided to go with him to Cuba, though she was reluctant to leave St. Louis and especially Carolina. She telephoned us from Miami the night before they departed. “It is the right thing to do,” Ciela said through constant tears and sobs. She had prayed on the matter and asked for guidance. God had spoken to her in a tiny voice. He had whispered, “
Vamos,
Ciela.
Vamos.
”

On May 11, I finally received word from Geaxi. It was a telegram delivered along with Jack shouting the news that Charles Lindbergh had just landed at Lambert Field in the
Spirit of St. Louis,
setting a new nonstop speed record of fifteen hundred miles in fourteen hours, twenty-five minutes. Jack was breathless and laughing and saying, “He’s on his way, Z! He’s going to Paris!”

“What are you talking about, Jack?” It was Carolina.

“Lindbergh. Charles Lindbergh is on his way to New York, then, when he’s ready—nonstop to Paris.” Jack paused and remembered something in his hand. “This is for you, Z,” he said. “It was addressed to my office for some reason.”

“What does it look like?” Carolina asked. She was standing at the far end of the table, peeling potatoes. She tossed one to Jack. “The airplane. What does the
Spirit of St. Louis
look like?”

“It is beautiful…silver and sleek and fast. He’s going to make it, Mama. I know he will.”

I excused myself and went directly to my bedroom. I opened the telegram and read it carefully. Once again, it was written in a hybrid form of Basque and Meq. Translated, it read: “NOVA NOW SEEING VISIONS AND HEARING VOICES OUT OF CONTROL. MAY LOSE HER. TAKING HER DIRECTLY TO RUBY. COME NOW. ALSO HAVE OTHER NEWS—GEAXI.”

I left that night on a train for New York, then within a day, on a ship for England, which Owen Bramly booked ahead of me. Mitch asked to accompany me and I welcomed his company. After four days of rough seas, we arrived safely in Southampton on the afternoon of the nineteenth. Willie Croft was there to greet us with open arms and a new limousine, a black and silver Rolls-Royce with huge wheels and reinforced frame. It looked like something made for a duke, which it was. Willie had purchased it from the Duke of Hamilton.

We cleared customs without incident or delay and piled into the Rolls-Royce for the long ride to Cornwall. While Mitch and Willie caught up with each other’s lives, I slept behind them on the rear seat. By the time Willie slowed and made the wide turn down to Caitlin’s Ruby, I was awake, alert, and anxious to see Nova.

As soon as we came to a stop, I leaped out of the limousine and walked over to the low stone wall alongside one of the paths leading west. I climbed on the wall and faced the setting sun, turning orange and gold behind a thin bank of clouds on the horizon. I breathed in deeply. I felt a familiar breeze brush across my face. It was filled with the smell of wild leeks, Italian cypress, thistle, pine, and the faint, fresh taste of the open sea. It was the scent of Caitlin herself.

“Man, that smells good,” I heard Mitch say. I turned and he was referring to the aromas drifting out from the kitchen windows and over the drive.

“Arrosa’s bounty,” Willie told him. “Come inside, Mitch. Arrosa will serve you something straightaway. It’s all Basque, you know, and quite good.” Willie looked my way. “You as well, Z—come inside.”

“In a minute,” I said.

“Oh, damn, I nearly forgot,” Willie said, slapping his head. He started walking toward me.

“What?” I asked.

“This,” he said, pulling a folded envelope out of his shirt pocket.

I reached down and he handed it to me. It was a telegram from Jack in New York. He must have left St. Louis shortly after us.

“I forgot completely, Z. It came last evening from Falmouth. I apologize.”

I opened it on the spot. It had been sent on the nineteenth. Today was May 20. It read: “LONE EAGLE TAKES OFF TOMORROW MORNING FROM ROOSEVELT FIELD. WISH HIM GOOD LUCK. JACK.”

That meant Charles Lindbergh was in the sky right now, somewhere between New York and where I stood. He might even fly over Cornwall. That is, if he makes it. If he doesn’t crash, veer off course, meet foul weather, run out of gas, or fall asleep.

“Anything wrong?” Willie asked.

“No. I mean, I hope not.”

“What are you saying, Z?”

“Where is Geaxi?”

“Why, almost right behind you. Turn around.”

I turned and saw Geaxi, still a few hundred feet away, running directly toward me out of the setting sun. She wore her black beret, boots, and leather leggings and vest, tied with leather and bone. She wore no jewelry and I knew the Stone of Will was in her pocket. She closed the gap in seconds and without a sound.

Not even out of breath, she said, “An adequate response time, young Zezen. I am impressed.”

“Good to see you, too, Geaxi.” I paused. “Where is Nova?”

Geaxi removed her beret and glanced at Willie, who turned and headed for the kitchen. “I will tell Arrosa to keep everything warm,” he said.

Geaxi looked at me. Her gaze was steady. Her eyes were black and piercing. She gave nothing away. She nodded in the opposite direction, down the path that led to old Tillman Fadle’s stone cottage. “Come with me,” she said quietly, turning me with a touch and leading the way.

Inside the cottage, there was little light and no sound. The air felt cool and damp. Tillman Fadle had never completely modernized the dwelling. It was charming and quaint, but full of drafts. Geaxi lit a candle and walked to a small room off the kitchen with its own fireplace. A daybed, pushed against the far wall, took up half the space in the room. There was only one window and a single standing lamp. The curtains on the window were drawn and the lamp turned off. A fire burned and crackled in the fireplace. Nova sat in front of it in a rocking chair, staring into the fire with a frozen gaze. Her face was pale. She wore no eye shadow, no lipstick, and no jewelry. She was dressed in a long white nightgown and wearing Geaxi’s ballet shoes for slippers. A beautiful blue and green woolen shawl, covered with dancing reindeer, was draped around her shoulders. Geaxi had kept her clean and brushed her hair, making certain she ate regularly and slept when she could, but Nova was a living ghost. Her mind and soul were not in the room.

“This is the only place where she is at peace,” Geaxi said. “She will stay here without wandering off, which became dangerous in Norway.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Her visions increased in content and frequency, even during sleep. She would wake terrified from nightmares of exploding balloons rising two and three miles in the sky. She saw handprints everywhere in vivid colors, while being awake or asleep. She became increasingly consumed with the image of a silver-winged bird, a ‘lone eagle,’ falling from the sky into the sea. She—”

“Lone eagle?” I interrupted.

“Yes,” Geaxi said, “until everything ceased at once.” She brushed back Nova’s hair with her hand. “We were still in Norway, far to the north near Trondheim. We were having breakfast. I was waiting for a man I had been trying to find for three years. Suddenly Nova lifted her coffee cup and turned to me. ‘Geaxi,’ she said, then gasped and closed her mouth, as if her breath had been stolen. She has not said a word since that moment. I had to remove the coffee cup from her hand. She had locked in place, then disappeared somewhere inside herself, and there she remains. Trumoi-Meq said he has neither seen nor heard of this state. I have not yet spoken with Sailor.”

I looked once at Nova, then gave Geaxi the telegram from Jack.

She read it quickly. “Who is the ‘lone eagle’?”

“Lindbergh—he’s flying solo to Paris.”

“Lindbergh? Charles Lindbergh?”

“Yes.”

“He is flying now?”

“Yes.”

Geaxi glanced at Nova and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She stirred the coals in the fire, then added a log. Finally, she motioned for us to leave. Geaxi ran her hand through Nova’s hair once more and I stroked her cheek. Nova made no response. We turned and left the cottage without a word and walked up the gravel path in silence. It was getting dark and a few stars were visible. Halfway to the house, Geaxi stopped and looked to the west.

“Lindbergh will need our help,” she said. “He will break down. He will sleep. He will fight it, but his mind will let go. He will not be able to stop it. We must be there with him. We must keep him awake.”

“How?” I asked.

“‘The Voice.’ It is an ancient practice, long forgotten and rarely used. The Meq understood and used it during the Time of Ice to communicate over great distances. It must be found within, then sent through time and space. It travels more from the heart than the mind; however, its power is significant and Trumoi-Meq is convinced the practice saved many lives.” Geaxi looked at me and smiled. “You and I, young Zezen, shall be the ones to do this now.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Never.”

“How will we know what to do?”

“How did you read the old script in the caves?”

I had no answer.

“The supreme argument does not require speech, Zianno. Now, let us eat. Arrosa is an excellent cook and we shall need our strength for the vigil. Koldo can look after Nova. She trusts his presence. He will make a good Aita someday.”

We stopped at the house long enough for Arrosa to pack a basket full of lamb sandwiches, cheeses, fruits, cider, and a large bag of Catalonian olives. Arrosa wished us luck, but never asked our destination. Geaxi led the way through darkness and drifting ground fog, up the hill and along one of the six paths leading to the ruins of Lullyon Coit. She always referred to the place as “the slabs.” The ancient granite stones had stood for millennia as an enigmatic marker or shrine, a mysterious shelter pointed in a precise direction for an unknown purpose. Now, they lay broken and scattered on the ground like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Using only his mind, Sailor had toppled them all in seconds. He never completely explained his purpose to anyone. I think it was an act of anger and frustration. I think, at that moment, he truly believed there was no purpose, and worse, there might never be. Despair is the most dangerous state of mind for the Meq.

Geaxi and I sat amid the broken stones until dawn, facing west, listening to the darkness. At times, I extended my hyper-hearing farther and deeper than I ever had, sometimes miles out to sea. Still, I heard nothing. Should we even listen for him? Should we listen for his plane, his voice, his mind, or his heartbeat? How will we know when to send “the Voice”? Where would we find it? What was it? All through the night we discussed these things and a thousand others. We ate the food, drank the cider, and talked about everything. The olives were delicious and sparked a memory from Geaxi. It was a long, wonderful, funny story about her mama and papa and the famous olive oil her papa made, renowned and prized throughout the Mediterranean and beyond. We also talked about St. Louis and Carolina and her family. She asked several insightful questions about the game of baseball and current American culture and music. I tried to explain what a “flapper” was, but I am certain Geaxi never quite understood it. She suggested we keep talking, share everything, combine our actions and minds, synchronize and prepare. “Always when facing the unknown,” Geaxi said, “one should be relaxed and focused.” We talked, listened, and waited.

As dawn approached, our conversation gradually decreased and our senses sharpened. The wind blew in gusts from the north and west. It was still pitch-dark to the west. I turned just in time to catch the first rays of light breaking in the east. Something crossed my mind, something Geaxi had not mentioned all night long. I turned back around. “In the telegram,” I said. “What was the ‘other news’?”

Geaxi never answered. She was facing west, leaning forward. “Listen!” she said. “Do you hear that, Zianno?”

I concentrated as hard as possible, leaning forward and listening, stretching my “ability” far into the North Atlantic. I heard the wind, but nothing else.

“He is slipping away…what…yes…yes…” Geaxi mumbled. Her eyes glazed and her pupils dilated. She opened her mouth and began to produce a sound that could not be heard, only felt and understood instinctively. I felt a vibration begin in my stomach and spread to my heart and lungs, then finally to my throat and mouth. In tandem and parallel, as in a chorus, we began making the same soundless sound. It was effortless. It was like swimming in another dimension, a dreamlike highway of spirit and mind.

I looked back as the sun rose and spread light across the broken stones. Every single cat of Caitlin’s Ruby had gathered around us. Green eyes danced like stars, staring back in silence. I turned again and Nova was standing just beyond the farthest broken block of stone. She was in her white nightgown and her feet were bare. The shawl had been abandoned. Her eyes were dark and distant. She was staring to the west. Geaxi never turned around. She closed her eyes and increased the volume and intensity of “the Voice.” I closed mine. We traveled together as a wave, crashing through space, ahead of the sun, ahead of time…west, west…west into darkness.

And there it was! A strange silver bird with no eyes, and wheels instead of talons, more albatross than eagle, flying low and straight on the horizon, close to the water. Suddenly and without warning, our wave, our chorus, increased and swelled. Another powerful voice had joined us, sweeping us forward, our “Voice” changing, filling and spilling down, directly through the silver bird and the living mind within.
“A—haz—tu!”
we sang. For a brief moment, the strange bird dipped slightly, then recovered and regained its true and steady course toward the east and the light of dawn.