The Ruby Notebook

by Laura Resau

  “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.”

  I’m confused. “So love’s a bloody war?”

  He laughs. “Well, according to Vincent, love is a devoted homing pigeon. It solves misunderstandings. It saves you. It survives. It’s something you don’t give up on. If it’s missing a leg, you make it a wooden one.”

  “Or you heal it with magical waters.” I meet his gaze. “Does this mean I get another chance?”

  I’m waiting for his answer when three people emerge from the trees and walk down the path toward us. It’s Sirona, her son, Bormanus, and his girlfriend, Damona. “Ready for the handfasting?” Sirona asks.

  “Oui,” Wendell says, and I go along with it.

  “Oui,” I echo.

  As we follow the three of them along a path, Wendell whispers, “What’s handfasting?”

  “No idea,” I say, grinning.

  We stop at the flower-covered stone table, where a crowd is gathered. Sirona places a garland of flowers around Damona’s neck, then puts one around my neck, scattering more flowers at our feet. She moves along to other young women, encircling their necks with garlands from the heap on the table.

  Sirona says something in Gaelic, and four young couples step forward. They look just a few years older than me and Wendell. Sirona walks up to the first couple and rests her hands on their shoulders so that they face each other. She takes the young woman’s right wrist and with a silver cord, ties it to the young man’s right wrist. Then she does the same with their left wrists. In the end, the couple’s arms are crisscrossed, forming a figure eight, an infinity symbol. Looking elated, the young man and woman nod to Sirona in a gesture of thanks, and retreat to the trees at the edge of the clearing.

  As Sirona does this with the remaining three couples, Damona comes over to me and Wendell, and whispers, “The silver cord binding shows that they’re a couple. They’ll stay together for a year and a day to try it out. And then the next year, they come back and declare whether they want to stay together or separate.” She pauses and looks at us. “Would you two like to join them?”

  I flush, glancing at Wendell. “It’s up to you.”

  “Yes,” he says, smiling. He moves his lips close to my ear and whispers, “I saw this in a vision, the silver cord binding us. I didn’t understand it, but I knew I wanted it.”

  “Me too,” I say, picturing a battered little pigeon rising bravely up and up and up.

  Damona gives us a small shove forward into the middle of the clearing. Sirona has a pleased expression on her face as she positions Wendell and me in front of each other. I bite my lip, watching him press his lips together, both of us trying not to laugh. I hold out my right hand, and he holds out his right hand, crossing his wrist over mine so that we’re barely touching. Sirona binds our right wrists gently with the cord, then moves to our left wrists. The cord is cool and silky and light on my skin. It feels right. Not like a heavy chain but like something whispery thin, yet strong. Something like spider’s silk.

  Wendell and I lock eyes, and then, following the lead of the other couples, we retreat into the trees. The silver cord makes walking tricky. He ends up walking backward, pulling me with his wrists, as I try to steer him between trees. We’re laughing and tripping over each other, and eventually fall down in a soft, mossy spot. We lie beside each other, our wrists still bound together, pressed between our chests. Our faces are moving closer, and soon our laughter turns to kisses, and we dissolve into each other’s skin, each other’s lips.

  A while later, I let my eyes float closed and tuck my face into the crook of Wendell’s neck. We must be near the fountain, I realize, as its gurgling sounds lull me toward sleep. I’m nearly asleep when I hear something.

  The coo of a bird. A splash. The flutter of wings.

  I open my eyes and squint through the mist. A pigeon has landed at the edge of the fountain and started drinking the water. I stand up and walk toward the fountain. The pigeon looks at me in a kind of greeting. As I’m closer, I notice the vial around her left leg, and the distinct lack of a fourth toe.

  “Maude!” I whisper. This fountain must be one of Maude’s secret little detours. “Maude, viens ici, Maude.”

  She waddles to me and settles in my lap. I tap my finger on her vial, an idea forming.

  Wendell raises his head and looks around, confused. When he sees me, and the bird nestled in the fabric of my dress, his face breaks into a smile. “Maude?” he says, standing up and walking over.

  “Look, Wendell!” I whisper, pointing to the plastic vial. “Think it would hold water? Should we sneak some water out with Maude?”

  Wendell tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “But Sirona trusts us,” he says slowly. “Wouldn’t this be a betrayal?”

  “We won’t break the promise, Wendell. We will leave empty-handed. And think about Vincent and Madame Chevalier. It’s just a little vial. And it might not even do anything. But it would make them so happy, give them so much hope.”

  Wendell strokes Maude’s feathers for a moment, then says, “Okay. But let’s just uncap the vial and dip Maude’s leg into the pool.”

  I take a furtive glance around. Only a few people are in the clearing, lying at its edges beneath trees, asleep on the moss. Even awake, it would be hard for them to see us with most of the torches burned out. And the steam over the water is so thick, it forms a protective veil around the fountain.

  Maude doesn’t protest as I twist off the cap and gently dip her leg in the water. After the vial fills, I cork my finger over the top and settle Maude back into my lap. I screw the cap back on, and then, with a grateful kiss on her head, set Maude back on the fountain’s ledge.

  “Think it’s too heavy?” Wendell asks.

  “She can do it,” I say, confident in Maude. “Remember Cher Ami? And Maude won’t have anyone shooting at her. Anyway, it can’t be more than a kilometer or so to Vincent’s.” I watch Maude, hoping she’ll fly away. But she stays there, drinking.

  I’m about to pick her up and toss her in the air, the way Vincent does, when some branches rustle.

  At the edge of the clearing, Sirona appears through the leaves.

  Wendell grabs my hand, pulls me away from the fountain. I try to paste a casual, innocent look on my face, to act as though we’re simply strolling. What if Sirona sees the vial of water on Maude’s leg? What if she figures out we did it? What will her people do to us then?

  “Dawn’s coming,” Sirona says, glancing at the lightening sky. “Did you two have a nice time?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, praying Maude will fly away. She has to leave before it grows much lighter, before anyone notices the vial of water. Go, Maude, go!

  A few other people appear on the path through the trees—Bormanus; Damona; Sirona’s husband, Grannos; the bearded man; and a few others. They gather around us.

  Maude, meanwhile, is taking her time flapping around in the water, raising a ruckus. Of all times to take a noisy bath, she chooses now.

  Sirona glances at her. I squeeze Wendell’s hand. But then Sirona looks back at me, showing no sign of having spotted the vial. I keep my hand tight around Wendell’s, silently pleading with Maude to fly away.

  “Now, Zeeta and Wendell,” Sirona says, holding out two silk scarves. “Close your eyes.”

  Damona wra
ps one scarf around Wendell’s eyes while Sirona wraps the other around mine. I feel her tie it securely in back, then adjust it to completely cover the area from my forehead to my nose. No light comes through. I’m blind. With the scarf on, I’m extra aware of every sound: the voices in Gaelic, the water gurgling, a few birds singing, Maude splashing. I notice the feel of things—the light breeze on my skin, the rustling of leaves, Wendell’s hand, warm in mine.

  Suddenly, from the direction of the fountain, I hear a flutter of wings, close at first, then fading. I hold my breath, waiting and listening for some sign we’ve been caught. But the voices continue talking in Gaelic as before, no alarming change in their tones. I breathe out in relief.

  A man’s voice says, “Wendell, I’m just going to check your pockets.” It sounds like Bormanus.

  Damona asks, “You don’t have any pockets on that dress, do you, Zeeta?”

  “No.”

  “Are you two ready, then?” Sirona asks.

  Wendell’s voice is strangely solemn in the darkness. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Remember,” warns a gruff male voice. It must be the bearded man. “You may never return. And you will keep our secret safe.”

  Here comes Sirona’s voice again, brighter in contrast, with a smile in her words. “And remember to choose your meeting place to complete the handfasting. In a year and a day, you’ll decide whether to seal the bond.”

  Wendell squeezes my hand. I squeeze back, and move my other hand to my neck, where I’ve tied the silver cord.

  Damona puts her hand on my shoulder, ushering me out. “This way, Zeeta,” she says. “Watch your step.”

  I walk tentatively along a stone path. Soon I hear the creak of a door. “Step up here,” Damona says. She leads us through an indoor area, where the air is more still and smells slightly musty. Under my bare feet, the tiles feel cold and smooth. I hear other people’s footsteps, soft in their leather sandals. There must be a small group with us, judging by the number of footsteps.

  We turn a corner, step over what must be another threshold, and go down two stairs. There’s the sound of a key in a lock and another door creaking open, and once again we’re outside in the cool, light breeze of dawn.