Beyond Your Touch

by Pat Esden

  Wriggling free, I gave her a hard look. “Last time you were here, you probably weren’t looking for anything specific,” I said, though I kind of agreed with her. It seemed like Grandfather or Kate or someone would have noticed ages ago if there was something unusual.

  She took her sunglasses out of her bag and shoved them on. “I’m going outside to do something exciting, like watch traffic.”

  As she stomped to the exit, I noticed a poster depicting a special exhibit at the downtown location. SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY EXPLORERS: WRITTEN HISTORY AND THE ART OF MAPMAKING. In the middle of the poster were photos of pages from an explorer’s journal including smaller sketches of animals and plants—and of Native Americans dancing around a fire.

  Something struck me as odd about the fire. I squinted and leaned closer. In the middle of it, the smoke parted, revealing flames that twisted into an almost human shape. Genies were supposedly made of smokeless fire, like the way God had made mankind out of clay. Maybe that was partly myth. But when I’d first asked Chase about his aura, he’d said it was smokeless fire. I had to show this to him.

  I glanced to see where he’d gone. He was staring as if hypnotized at a display of stone knives and hatchets, completely oblivious that only a dozen yards away from him a petite Native American girl about my age stood fingering her lip ring as she gave him a heavy-duty body scan. She had a kind of hippie-waif look to her: purple wrap pants and a boho-style shirt that was short enough to show off her belly button piercing. Her complexion and black-brown eyes were much darker than mine, with high cheekbones and thick black hair worn in a fishtail braid.

  She licked her lips, then started toward Chase.

  I dashed to him, rested my hand on the small of his back, then let it slide down and over his butt. Snuggling in even closer, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I found something interesting,” I whispered.

  He slipped his hand around my waist. “Great. What?”

  For a second, I hesitated, waiting until her footsteps whisked off toward the front door before I glanced at her again. Her interest in Chase had been palpable, but it seemed strange. She looked like a girl who would be into skinny vegan guys or musicians with dreadlocks or maybe she preferred girls. Either way, not guys like Chase with a military-tough vibe.

  Once she’d gone outside, I led Chase to the poster and pointed at the image of the people dancing around the fire. “It’s only a copy of a drawing. But it made me think about the smokeless-fire thing. It reminds me of that book back in Moonhill’s library, too. Remember the one with the genie and the lamp, the book you showed me when we were trying to figure out how to free my dad from being possessed?”

  “Interesting.” Chase bent closer. “Does the guy in the back have a flute?”

  I took another look. “I’m not sure, maybe.” Between the image being a reproduction and the original being faded, it was impossible to tell.

  The front door to the museum slammed and I swiveled to see what was going on. Selena was marching toward us, her eyes narrowed. “Are you guys ready to go—yet? It’s almost one o’clock.” She glanced at the poster. “That’s cool. But, see—the full exhibit is at the downtown location. That’s like the universe telling us to leave.”

  Chase chuckled. “One o’clock, huh?”

  Selena’s hands went to her hips. “Let’s just get going.”

  A tour bus must have rolled in because the front door opened and a herd of people flooded inside, their voices echoing off the walls.

  “Maybe Selena’s right,” I relented. “We can always come back here later.” But—as we headed against the tide of people and out the door—I moved close to Selena and added, “You do know meeting up with Newt right now is a stupid idea. We have stuff to do—stuff he can’t know about.”

  Her eyes nailed me, and her voice toughened. “I’m really tired of people treating me like an idiot—and I’m done with not being able to spend time with Newt.”

  “Sorry. It’s just—”

  “Just nothing.” She stormed off toward the car.

  I clamped my mouth shut and resisted the urge to run after her. The first night I’d met Newt something about him had set off a warning bell in my head. But, since then, I’d decided any ulterior motives he had were solely focused on getting laid and having his ego stroked, and had nothing to do with our family’s money or secrets. Still, only time would tell if their romance was the real thing or just her first heartache in the making.

  “She’ll be fine,” Chase said.

  I meshed my fingers with his. “I know.”

  When we got to downtown Bar Harbor, I found a great parking space by the village green, not far at all from the museum. The park itself was beautiful with trees and a picture-perfect gazebo.

  Selena nodded at the farther side of the park where two guys were unloading what looked like a supersize wok from the back of a pickup. “Cool. Drummers. We should check it out later.”

  “I thought you were going to spend time with Newt,” Chase said.

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Selena let out a squeal and waved her arms. “There he is!”

  Blond, preppy, and yacht-club tan, Newt was climbing out of his black Mustang just a few cars ahead of us. He flashed a smile at her and she made a mad dash down the sidewalk, between a bunch of tourists loaded down with shopping bags and around a woman pushing a stroller. She flung her arms around his neck and they kissed—a pretty passionate kiss that was still going on when we finally reached them.

  “How about we meet you guys a little later, like back here at three?” I suggested.

  “Sounds perfect.” Newt waggled his eyebrows at Selena. “Want to go for a ride?”

  “Hell, yeah,” she said, bolting for the passenger door.

  Chase touched my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Leaving them behind, Chase and I hurried down the street to the museum. We could have used Selena’s help, but it wasn’t like we could wander through the exhibits chitchatting about genies and magic with Newt listening in.

  The Seventeenth-Century Explore exhibit was fairly extensive; still it didn’t take us long to find the original journal. But the journal was closed, not a single page or drawing visible. Over it hung another reproduction of the drawing with the fire, dancers, and what clearly looked like a man playing a flute.

  “Excuse me.” I snagged the attention of a passing employee. “Are there any clearer images of that drawing or someplace where I can read the entire text of the journal, or download it?”

  “I don’t think so. But it’s a wonderful suggestion. I’ll pass it on to my supervisor,” she said. Then with a smile she scuttled off toward the museum gift shop.

  Chase shrugged. “Any other ideas?”

  I ran my fingers along the edge of the display case, thinking. With the entire rescue mission at stake, giving up this easily wasn’t an option. Sure, there was no visible way to break into the display case from this side. But it was against a wall, so most likely there was an access room on the other side. Probably, I could sneak into that room by picking the lock on its door. That was, if there weren’t any alarms. I glanced up at the security cameras.

  Chase’s hand landed on my arm. “Don’t even think about it,” he whispered close to my ear.

  I batted my eyelashes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Still grinning, I took out my phone and snapped a few photos of the display and the journal before anyone could tell me taking them was forbidden, then I gave Chase a wink.

  After that, he and I began scouring the other displays, one at a time. Beadwork, quillwork, baskets, and birch bark containers were all on display, amazing works of art with patterns that were beautiful and in all probability symbolic. The quillwork was particularly fascinating. On any other occasion, I would have lovingly examined each one of them, but right now all they were doing was making my head ache. Nothing except the drawing in the journal was reminiscent of a genie.

  When we got to a ninetee
nth-century bead-and-quill-decorated medicine bag, something about it prickled the back of my mind. It reminded me of another medicine bag I’d seen at a different museum or maybe heard about on TV. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The memory was too old, the kind that drifts through your mind when you’re sleeping, but vanishes when you wake up.

  “Mom!” shouted a grade-school-age kid in a Boy Scout uniform as he raced across the room to a group of women. “We got to go to the park. There’s a guy teaching people how to build a fire without matches—and a Wabanaki storyteller.”

  Chase raised his eyebrows. “Where there’s fire and a storyteller—”

  “—there might be information?” I said.

  Along with the Boy Scout, his mother, and a group of other people, we flooded toward the museum’s front door.

  We were about to leave, when the employee I’d asked about the explorer’s journal came jogging up to me. “I’m glad I caught you,” she said, a bit breathless. “I was wrong. There isn’t a complete copy of the journal available, but there is a booklet in the gift shop. It’s quite comprehensive.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said to her. I turned to Chase. “Why don’t you go on to the park and save us a place to sit? I’ll be right there.”

  Chase nodded, then trailed after the Boy Scout and everyone else. I made for the museum gift shop and located the booklet almost at once. It was fantastic, lots of images and drawings. If nothing else, it would make a great addition to Moonhill’s library.

  I darted to the checkout. There were only two people ahead of me, but the first person’s credit card wouldn’t go through and the guy running the register didn’t seem to know what to do about it. Eventually, he called the supervisor. She showed up and started messing around with the machine. Meanwhile, the woman in front of me put down the handmade basket she’d planned on buying and left. I was tossing around the idea of doing the same thing, when the employee who’d told me about the booklet appeared and took over the register. I gave her cash, shoved the booklet in my bag, and dashed off.

  By the time I got to the park, a large crowd had formed a horseshoe at the front of the gazebo. I couldn’t see Chase, but I was certain he was there. So I found a place at the rear of the crowd and went up on my tiptoes, trying to spot him through the forest of people.

  At the front of the horseshoe, a guy in Native American garb crouched next to a smoking pile of tinder that was set inside what I’d earlier assumed was a supersize wok. In truth, it was a portable fire pit. As he added strips of bark and twigs into the smudge, the smoke crackled into flames. The crowd applauded and shuffled back, giving the demonstrator more room and avoiding the eye-stinging smoke that swirled lower as the breeze picked up and shifted direction.

  Once the flames and smoke died back a little, a man and woman came down the steps from the gazebo. They were also in Native outfits and the woman was carrying a hand drum. The crowd applauded again. The man raised his hands, his voice drifting across the park as he began to tell a story about the Wabanaki people, animals, and fire. While he talked, the woman drummed a soft, hypnotic rhythm, a pulse that surrounded me like a surreal heartbeat and made it hard to focus on the storyteller’s voice. Somewhat reluctantly, I broke away from the drum’s spell, and I looked around for Chase.

  “Excuse me,” I said, edging my way forward into the crowd.

  As I wormed past a woman with frizzy hair, I caught a glimpse through the smoke of the Boy Scout and his mother on the far side of the horseshoe, sitting on the ground. Chase knelt next to them.

  I leaned left, then right, and eventually caught his eye. He shrugged, nodding at the storyteller with a cross between a smile and grimace as if to say he was sorry we were separated but the performer was exactly what we needed. I smiled back to tell him I agreed. Then the smoke swirled my way, the crowd shifted, and I lost sight of him.

  After a few minutes, the storyteller’s voice grew louder and even more animated, and the drumbeats lowered to an emphatic throb. Unable to resist, I went up on tiptoes to see what was happening. The storyteller’s hands once more lifted skyward, and dropped as he ended the story with sudden silence, even the drumbeats stilled.

  A long second passed, the air growing heavy with expectation. That’s when the eerie melody started. The sound of a flute, rising and falling. Not the flowery trill of the flutes I’d heard at the Boston Symphony or the earthy warble of a wooden recorder. This was more dreamlike, a primitive sound that brought to mind shamans, otherworldly beings, and moonlight.

  The crowd went motionless, even the kids and babies hushed. Shivers swept across my skin, but inside my body thrummed. A Native American flutist. This was perfect. Once the show ended we’d talk to the flute player and the storyteller.

  I bent to one side, looking between two guys who stank of cigarette smoke and beer.

  I could only see the back of the flutist’s head. A petite, lithe woman, her hair pulled tight as if in a braid, dancing slowly around the fire pit, swaying as she played.

  My breath caught in my throat as intuition put a face on her. It couldn’t be. Not her, of all people. I clenched my jaw, praying to Hecate and anyone who would listen that I was wrong.

  She reached the far side of the horseshoe and for a moment I saw her clearly.

  Damn and shit. I was right. It was the hippie-waif girl from the museum with a thin gray flute held against her lips.

  It’s bone, I told myself though it could have been grayed wood, partly wrapped in bright thread. It was a foot or maybe a little less in length. Feathers and small shiny bobbles hung down from it, tied on with tan string or maybe thin leather strips. It was hard to tell at a glance. But what hung from the flute and what it was made from weren’t as vital as the other thing I noticed. The smoke from the fire followed her and when she turned toward the fire pit, the smoke rose straight up, writhing like a cobra in front of a snake charmer.

  My pulse shifted into hyperdrive. I craned my neck, struggling to see Chase, so I could catch his eye and cryptically ask if he’d noticed the smoke’s odd movement. Sure, I had an innate dislike for this flutist girl, but that didn’t take away from the fact that she was exactly what we needed: a practitioner of flute-magic. The key to rescuing my mother.

  Crouching a little, I caught a clearer view. The fire’s smoke bent and twisted in directions that had nothing to do with the way the breeze was blowing. For a split second I saw Chase as well. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a lopsided smile as he stared at the flutist. My stomach tightened and a bitter taste crept up my throat. I knew that smile. I knew what he was gawking at. And it wasn’t the smoke or her flute.

  With a huff, I got back up and took out my phone. He had a better view than I did, but I doubted he’d think of recording this.

  I went up on my tiptoes, holding the phone above my head in hopes of getting a clear shot. But almost instantly, the flute music stopped and the storyteller’s voice rose, thanking everyone for coming and bringing the show to a close.

  As the crowd dispersed on all sides of me, I caught bits of their conversations. “Did you see the trick with the smoke?” a woman said to her friend.

  “Yeah. I wonder how she did it.”

  “I bet it’s one of those science magic tricks you can learn on YouTube. . . .” Their voices faded as they wandered off. I strongly suspected if they tried to search on the Internet for this trick, they’d find nothing. This was real magic, the same kind as the explorer had recorded in his journal. Still, that didn’t mean the flutist could open the veil or would be willing to show us how to do it.

  I spotted Chase standing near the fire pit, people brushing past him.

  “Hey!” I shouted, and waved.

  He waved back and worked his way over to me.

  “You saw it, right?” I bounced from one foot to the other, excitement coursing through me.

  Wrinkles creased his forehead. “Saw what?”

  “The smoke, moving with the flute music.” I rested m
y hand on my hips. “You would have seen it, if your eyes weren’t glued to her tits.”

  He grinned. “They were kind of hard not to notice.”

  I cuffed his bicep. “Jerk.”

  He squeezed my shoulder and pulled me close, planting a quick kiss on my cheek. “Just teasing, I noticed the smoke, too. We need to talk to her.”

  His kiss sent warmth rippling through my body, almost making it easy to forget his ogling. Still . . . I bit the inside of my lip. I wasn’t about to forget how she checked him out. I wasn’t that foolish.

  “There you are!” Selena’s smiling face broke through the crowd as she jogged toward us, Newt close behind. She bounded over, almost colliding into me, and gave me a huge hug. “Thanks for letting me have time with Newt,” she whispered. “It was the best.”

  I smiled. “You’d do the same for me, right?”

  Newt slid his hand down her back. “What do you say we treat them to lunch? You know, for letting us—” He gave her a goofy in-love grin.

  I felt like making a barfing gesture. “Maybe later,” I said. “Right now, Chase and I’ve got to talk to the flutist. I want to find out if she has a Web site because . . . ah”—I tucked my hands in my pockets and dreamed up a fast lie—“for my dad, he loves flute music.”

  Selena’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t talk to her already?”

  “Not yet. They just finished performing.”

  “I know that,” she said, “we caught the very end of the show. But she left already. I saw her taking off down the street.”

  “Shit.” My stomach sank and I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “I figured you guys had talked to her before the show. You were here early, right?”

  “Chase was.” I sliced a look in his direction.

  He held his hands up. “I didn’t notice the flute until she began playing.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  “Seriously, I didn’t even notice her.” He glanced toward the gazebo again. “I’m going to talk to the other performers. They’ll know how to get ahold of her.”