exceptional waters shall bestow clarity of mind and pureness of heart
.
It is said that the location of these magical waters has been lost with the passage of time. There are a few who insist that there exist guardians who come together to imbibe the waters, bathe in them, and perform pagan rites, which perhaps are remnants of the barbaric tribal traditions of the distant past. These guardians are rumored to be millennia old, and it is said that they may be jealous and ruthless, going to great lengths to protect their sacred waters
.…
I close the book, tuck it into my bag, and ponder the back of Sirona’s head. I consider her odd clothes, her Gaelicdialect, her intimate knowledge of Celtic history. Does Vincent think that Sirona and her band know the secret? Does he think they’re the immortal guardians? Is that why he’s interested in Salluvii? Is that why he chose me? Because he saw me with Sirona?
Sirona turns her head and says, “We’re nearly there!”
Layla and I follow her off the bus, stepping into the soft, honeyed country air. We’re the only people around. Once the bus leaves, it’s quiet except for cicadas clicking, their rhythms rising and falling. Peaceful. As we walk on a path up a hill, through the open gates that read ENTREMONT , we don’t see a soul. We follow the path through a sunlit meadow, the grass tips waving in a light breeze. Silently, we pass ruins of old stone farmhouses nearly swallowed by vines and bushes and clumps of olive trees. For the first time in days, I feel calm, free of the confusion that’s been sending my mind reeling.
“How lucky that hardly anyone comes here on weekdays,” Sirona says. A quiet radiance has swept over her face. Her eyes scan the landscape, blissfully soaking it in.
Layla murmurs in agreement.
We cross the field, stopping at the edge of the hill, where there’s a view of the valley, the red-roofed villages around Aix in the distance. Somewhere down there, Jean-Claude is playing accordion. Amandine’s leaping and dancing around. And the
fantôme
is doing whatever he does.
Sirona spreads her arms, as if hugging the view. “Some places feel timeless, don’t they? A summer’s day is a summer’sday. But in the city, things are always changing.” The sunlight illuminates her hair, catches tiny insects and butterflies as they drift and buzz and meander through the afternoon air.
“Here it feels like anything is possible,” Layla agrees. “Like you could fly, doesn’t it?” Of course, she can’t resist quoting Rumi at times like this.
“You knock at the door of reality,
Shake your thought-wings, loosen
Your shoulders,
And open.”
My cue to keep going. Rounding a bend, I see a maze of low, uneven stones spread out before us, what look like the foundations of ancient homes. “Imagine how it used to be,” Sirona says in a wistful voice just behind me. “The houses, people bustling along the streets. Children laughing, dogs running around, chickens pecking. Sheep grazing in the pastures. The sounds of warriors training in the distance, their horn cries.”
We walk along the labyrinth of streets as Sirona points out highlights, telling us about the healer who lived here, the musicians who lived there. She explains how the women used to walk down a long path, all the way to Aix, where they’d collect springwater in their vessels and then tote them back up here and dump the water in a communal cistern. “Let me tell you,” she says. “We women had bigger musclesthan the warriors, from carrying the water uphill for kilometers!” I scribble her remarks in my notebook, glad at my talent for writing and walking at the same time, while hardly ever tripping.
“How do you know so many details?” I ask.
She shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance, and smiles. Her gaze lands on my necklace. She reaches out a graceful hand to touch the beads. “What a lovely necklace, Zeeta. Seeds of a tree?”
I nod. “Wendell got it for me.”
.
It is said that the location of these magical waters has been lost with the passage of time. There are a few who insist that there exist guardians who come together to imbibe the waters, bathe in them, and perform pagan rites, which perhaps are remnants of the barbaric tribal traditions of the distant past. These guardians are rumored to be millennia old, and it is said that they may be jealous and ruthless, going to great lengths to protect their sacred waters
.…
I close the book, tuck it into my bag, and ponder the back of Sirona’s head. I consider her odd clothes, her Gaelicdialect, her intimate knowledge of Celtic history. Does Vincent think that Sirona and her band know the secret? Does he think they’re the immortal guardians? Is that why he’s interested in Salluvii? Is that why he chose me? Because he saw me with Sirona?
Sirona turns her head and says, “We’re nearly there!”
Layla and I follow her off the bus, stepping into the soft, honeyed country air. We’re the only people around. Once the bus leaves, it’s quiet except for cicadas clicking, their rhythms rising and falling. Peaceful. As we walk on a path up a hill, through the open gates that read ENTREMONT , we don’t see a soul. We follow the path through a sunlit meadow, the grass tips waving in a light breeze. Silently, we pass ruins of old stone farmhouses nearly swallowed by vines and bushes and clumps of olive trees. For the first time in days, I feel calm, free of the confusion that’s been sending my mind reeling.
“How lucky that hardly anyone comes here on weekdays,” Sirona says. A quiet radiance has swept over her face. Her eyes scan the landscape, blissfully soaking it in.
Layla murmurs in agreement.
We cross the field, stopping at the edge of the hill, where there’s a view of the valley, the red-roofed villages around Aix in the distance. Somewhere down there, Jean-Claude is playing accordion. Amandine’s leaping and dancing around. And the
fantôme
is doing whatever he does.
Sirona spreads her arms, as if hugging the view. “Some places feel timeless, don’t they? A summer’s day is a summer’sday. But in the city, things are always changing.” The sunlight illuminates her hair, catches tiny insects and butterflies as they drift and buzz and meander through the afternoon air.
“Here it feels like anything is possible,” Layla agrees. “Like you could fly, doesn’t it?” Of course, she can’t resist quoting Rumi at times like this.
“You knock at the door of reality,
Shake your thought-wings, loosen
Your shoulders,
And open.”
My cue to keep going. Rounding a bend, I see a maze of low, uneven stones spread out before us, what look like the foundations of ancient homes. “Imagine how it used to be,” Sirona says in a wistful voice just behind me. “The houses, people bustling along the streets. Children laughing, dogs running around, chickens pecking. Sheep grazing in the pastures. The sounds of warriors training in the distance, their horn cries.”
We walk along the labyrinth of streets as Sirona points out highlights, telling us about the healer who lived here, the musicians who lived there. She explains how the women used to walk down a long path, all the way to Aix, where they’d collect springwater in their vessels and then tote them back up here and dump the water in a communal cistern. “Let me tell you,” she says. “We women had bigger musclesthan the warriors, from carrying the water uphill for kilometers!” I scribble her remarks in my notebook, glad at my talent for writing and walking at the same time, while hardly ever tripping.
“How do you know so many details?” I ask.
She shakes her head, as if coming out of a trance, and smiles. Her gaze lands on my necklace. She reaches out a graceful hand to touch the beads. “What a lovely necklace, Zeeta. Seeds of a tree?”
I nod. “Wendell got it for me.”
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