The Ruby Notebook (37 page)

People stand around the well, quiet and cloaked in mist. They watch me, their faces bewildered, with traces of concern and curiosity. They all wear the raw cotton, hand-dyed tunics I’ve seen on the members of Salluvii. Bangles and bracelets snake up their arms, on both the men and women. Each person wears a triple-spiral symbol, either on a pendant, a ring, earrings, or a bracelet. Now that I’m looking closely, I notice that from the belts around their waists hang leather pouches containing large daggers and swords.

The silver-haired woman unfastens a thick brass pin from her red cloak, takes it off, and wraps it around me. The rough fabric scratches my damp skin, but I’m grateful for the gesture.

“
Merci,
” I say.

She nods, lowering the bucket again, her triple-spiral earrings dangling. She speaks in French. “Shall we pull up your friend?”

I peer into the well nervously. Here in the light, I can see that the rope is waterlogged and frayed and rotted in places. “Is it safe?”

“Yes,” she assures me.

I call down, “Ready, Wendell?”

“Go ahead!” he shouts back.

Two women and two men help pull him, turning the crank slowly. I hold my breath and chew on my lip until Wendell’s up.

He climbs out, looking around with a dazed expression. “Where are we, Z?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

Wendell squeezes out his long hair, then takes my hand. He doesn’t have a shirt on, I realize, and offer to share the cloak. Together, we huddle under the scratchy fabric.

Suddenly, through the small crowd, the bearded man appears. The burly one from the courtyard. From Wendell’s vision. I press myself to Wendell, keeping my arm tight around his waist. He returns the gesture, his hand firmly on my hip.

With a flash of recognition, the bearded man narrows his eyes. Firelight washes over his fleshy face, which is twisted into a scowl. “How did you two get here?”

“Through a tunnel,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “It led to this well.”

“Were you at the sacred pools?” he demands, his hand on his dagger.

I hesitate, then say, “Yes.”

“Which entrance?” He barks out his questions like an interrogator.

I glance at Wendell. I can’t outright lie. That might get us
in more trouble. “The snake fountain in the courtyard on Rue Epinaux.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s what you were doing with that art project, wasn’t it? Trying to find a way into our courtyards.”

Wendell and I nod, giving each other rueful glances.

“How did you know about the pools?” the man growls.

“An old book I read,” I say. “And a map I found at the market.” I’m determined to keep Madame Chevalier and Vincent out of this.

The bearded man glares at me for a moment, then turns to confer with the others in Gaelic. Wendell and I stand together, waiting for our fates to be determined. The bearded man’s voice grows louder as his face reddens. Spittle flies from his mouth.

The silver-haired woman tries to calm him. I wonder if she’s one of those priestesses who cut the throats of their war captives. Finally, the woman turns to us and says solemnly, “You have trespassed in our sacred place. You have intruded where you were not invited.”

She unwinds a long scarf from her waist. Slowly, she removes the holster containing her dagger, and hands it to a man beside her. She gestures to another woman to do the same.

Wendell keeps his arm around my waist, drawing me closer. I’m grateful he’s here with me, but feel terrible that I’ve gotten him into this mess. Who knows what these people are capable of? There are many ways they could kill us. They could slice our throats and save our blood for
prophecy, then dump our bodies into the well, never to be found.

I take a deep breath and scream. A split second into my scream, the bearded man’s hairy hand clamps over my mouth.

My scream must have attracted attention, because now people are streaming toward us from the shadows, men and women, the youngest around our age, the oldest white-haired, all dressed in long cotton tunics and cloaks.

Wendell and I are far outnumbered. Now I know how the guitar-playing troubadour felt. I wish I played guitar angelically so I could trick them into keeping us alive. Maybe I can try anyway.

I dive deep, through all the layers of myself, all the countries, to the source, the spring inside me that makes music, the one that sings the clear, flowing truth. And what it says is this.
I love Wendell. I want to be with him
. And we’ve barely had a chance to start. There’s so much I want to do with him, discover about him. A whole lifetime of things.

The man’s hand is still over my mouth, but not as tight now that I’ve stopped screaming.

“Please don’t shout,” the silver-haired woman says quietly, and gestures for him to let go.

Slowly, he releases his grip.

“Don’t kill us,” I blurt out. “Please.”

The silver-haired woman looks at me, amused, and hands us each a scarf. “We won’t kill you. Please put on the blindfolds.”

Holding the scarf, I take a last look at Wendell. He’s looking
at me, his expression intense. I try to silently tell him how I feel.
I love you I love you I love you
.

Suddenly, a woman breaks through the crowd, and people part for her passage.

Sirona!

She stands in front of us, like a beautiful phantom in the steam rising from the well. She’s wearing a crown studded with glittering stars, what seems like hundreds of them. “Zeeta?” she cries.

I throw myself into her arms, inhaling her sunny scent of lavender and thyme.

“You know her?” Wendell whispers.

I nod, dizzy with relief. “Sirona, this is Wendell. Wendell, this is my mother’s friend—and my friend—Sirona.”

Sirona says something in Gaelic to the others, then turns back to me. “So, Zeeta, what brings you two here?”

I take a deep breath and let everything spill out in an incoherent jumble. “We were looking for the sacred waters and got trapped and followed a tunnel from the chamber, the one with the spiral pools, and we had to find a way out so we waded up a tunnel until we saw the moon in the well, and they pulled us up and now they’re going to blindfold us and—oh, please, help us, Sirona.”

Another flurry of conversation in Gaelic sweeps through the crowd. Sirona keeps her arm around me the entire time. Finally, she turns to me with a sigh. “You are indeed a seeker, aren’t you, Zeeta?”

I hold on tight to her arm. “I’m sorry, Sirona.” And then, as my stomach contracts with fear, I ask, “What are they going to do to us?”

“Well, they were planning on leading you home blindfolded so you wouldn’t be able to find your way back here.”

“That’s it?”

“What did you think?” She looks at me, suppressing a smile. “Now, why were you searching for the waters?”

“I have two friends—older people—who’ve always believed that there was a magical spring under Aix. A spring with healing waters. One that could give eternal life. And these friends—they asked me and Wendell to find it for them.”

Sirona nods thoughtfully, smiling. “So that’s why you were asking me about immortality.” She gestures to the people around her. Her voice turns serious now. “It’s our duty to protect the sacred waters. We—and our ancestors—have kept the waters pure and safe for thousands of years. And now that you two have discovered our sacred pool, you share our secret. And you share our duty to protect the secret.”

I don’t get it. Does this mean the water really has healing powers? I’m about to ask Sirona if we can take some water for our friends, when Wendell says, “We understand.”

Sirona talks with the others again in Gaelic. She’s obviously a person of great authority here.

The group seems to have reached an agreement, nodding in consent. Sirona turns back to us and announces, “We’ve decided that you and Wendell may stay for tonight’s festival as our guests.”

Wendell and I exchange glances.

“But,” Sirona continues, holding up a finger, “you must promise to take nothing of ours when you leave at dawn. And agree that you’ll keep our secret—and the waters—safe.”

Which means that we can’t ask for the water for Madame Chevalier. I nod, swallowing my disappointment. Wendell looks at me, and then answers, “Yes, we promise.”

Sirona kisses our cheeks lightly and says, “Enjoy the party.” And with a sly smile, she adds, “The handfasting will happen soon.”

“Handfasting?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says with a wink. “You and Wendell might be interested in it, you know.” She walks away, drifting toward a grove of bamboo, and calls over her shoulder, “As your mother would say,
make this night a song.
”

The crowd dissipates, moving along stone paths into groves of trees. People must have been told to leave us alone. Wendell and I explore this strange courtyard, wandering in and out of shadows and torchlight, following the paths that branch here and there in a kind of labyrinth through the mist. It’s hard to tell how big the courtyard is. The foliage hiding the walls gives it the feel of a forest that stretches forever. Clusters of bamboo stalks and trees divide the space into smaller clearings. One clearing contains a fountain, a large stone covered in moss, dripping and steaming into a circular pool, enveloped in a lacy fog. I’m guessing it draws from the same waters as the well—the sacred waters.

Wendell and I drift through more clearings and groves, passing by couples and small groups, some standing, some sitting on blankets, others eating, talking, or dozing. A few people are playing instruments—lyre, trumpet, horns, flutes, timpans—in melodies familiar to me from Salluvii’s songs. We wander into another clearing, this one featuring a large stone table holding a heap of flowers and silver satin cords.

“Where do you think we are?” I whisper, brushing my fingers over the petals, smoothing the mysterious cords.

“We must be somewhere in
le centre-ville,
” he says, “or nearby, if they were planning on having us walk back.”

I nod. “And we couldn’t have gone more than a kilometer or two in the tunnel. Probably less with all those twists and turns.” I look around, soaking in the steam and moonlight and flowers and rustling of leaves and harp music. “But doesn’t it feel like we’re in a different world? I mean, if we’re in Aix still, why are these plants you’d find in a jungle?”

Wendell thinks. “Maybe the warm waters and steam just keep this courtyard tropical year-round.”

“Maybe.” But I can’t help feeling as though we’re in another world. A thoroughly magical one. A world where I never broke up with Wendell, where we can start over. Where nothing can be destroyed, nothing can die. Where everything can be healed. Everything gets a second chance.

We’re quiet for a while, listening, strolling, watching shadows of people through the trees. Soon we come across
another clearing. In the center of this one is a stone table covered with food—piles of fruit, nuts, figs, cakes, cookies, pitchers of golden liquid, and a giant pot of stew that smells of lamb and garlic and rosemary.

“Hungry?” Wendell asks.

“Yes!”

We pile our plates, then sit at the edge of this clearing, on a patch of velvety moss beneath a tree. The food is delicious. Even the honey cookies that tasted too healthy on the square are scrumptious now. Wendell and I are sitting close but not touching. I want to hold his hand again, or slide my arm around his waist, his shoulders, but somehow it seemed easier when we were in danger of death. His chest is bare again, now that I’m wearing the cloak. He’s assured me he isn’t cold anymore.

After I finish my last cookie, I ask, “Wendell, can you give me a second chance?” I lean closer to him, still not quite daring to touch him. “Can you still love me after what I put you through?”

He leans toward me. “Actually, I talked to Vincent about that.”

“You did?”

“That morning when he brought the ring to Madame Chevalier. He told me you still loved me.”

“He said that?” I don’t know whether I want to kill Vincent and Madame Chevalier or thank them.

Wendell nods. “But I told him that you’d hurt me too
badly. That the easiest thing would be to leave France after my classes were over and never see you again.”

I suck in a breath. “And what did Vincent say?”

Wendell gives a half-smile. “He told me the story of a famous homing pigeon named Cher Ami. The bird lived here in France during the First World War and worked with the American army. Want to hear the story?”

“Yeah,” I say, curious how Vincent managed to connect a pigeon soldier to my relationship with Wendell.

“So, there was this bloody battle,” Wendell begins, “and two hundred American troops were trapped behind enemy lines in a ditch without food or ammunition. Their allies didn’t know they were there. They were accidentally dropping artillery on them. The trapped soldiers sent a desperate message with Cher Ami. He flew through enemy fire but got shot down. Just when the soldiers thought all hope was lost, the pigeon rose up again, triumphant. He got to the army base covered in blood, with his leg hanging by a tendon. He’d been shot in his breast and blinded in one eye. But he did it. He delivered the message in time to stop the Allies from killing their own troops. That little pigeon saved two hundred lives. The army medics operated on him and carved him a little wooden leg to replace the one he’d lost.”