“But his books are of himself.”
“Yes. They are himself. But grandchildren, Bethany, someone to carry on that intangible thread of blood and spirit—and understanding.”
“Yes,” Bethany said. “Yes, I see.” And, seeing, she had rather a feeling of inadequacy.
But it was not until Zebulon arrived and she stood before him, and felt his look, that she knew what inadequacy was. And knew what elation was. She felt, in those first moments, as if she were standing on the brink of a chasm; ready to dive into deep cold water, and very much afraid. Afraid, then exhilerated. Zebulon’s eyes, as blue as Justin’s, smiled at her, and in that moment Bethany wanted to be everything to him, to do wonderful things for him. And she knew, in her secret self, that she could.
She stood before him with the jostle and push of people getting off the plane behind him and all around them, people meeting people, crushed all around by people. He pulled her out of the path and then stood tall above her, his clipped white hair catching the light, looking down at her. He was wearing a white turtleneck sweater and a denim jacket and looking, Bethany thought with pleasure, not at all like a famous historian was supposed to look. Looking, rather, the way she liked to remember him, strong and casual and ready to walk on the beach, ready for anything. Then his arms were around her and people jostled to no avail, it didn’t matter, and he smelled of tobacco and leather and the outdoors.
“Come on,” Justin said at last, leading them out, hugging Zebulon. “How does it feel to be an instant grandfather? And two granddaughters, can you believe two?” They stopped for dinner halfway up the coast at Michelloni’s, which hung over the cliffs above a foaming cove, and ate great plates of spaghetti and smiled at each other, and laughed. And Bethany told him all of the story of the Zagdesha and of finding Ninea, of discovering so slowly that this girl was no phantom, no spirit self. She told how, the day the letter had arrived, she had gone to the grass tower thinking, hoping, she could reach out to Ninea and perhaps tell her what the letter contained.
She had run across the dunes, her hair tangling in the wind and her mind spinning with Ninea’s name, with their two names, Bethany McAllister Ruiz, Ninea McAllister Ruiz, Bethany McAllister Ruiz. She had climbed, running—
On the peak she had stopped, cold with shock: a huge wooden cross had been driven into the center of her nest, a crude cross made of rough and crooked boards, and on it, nailed as Christ must have been nailed, was some poor dead animal, mutilated and bloody; it might have been a cat, she did not stay long enough to make it out; she smelled blood and death and turned away, groping in the tall grass, and was sick.
When at last she came back to where the cross stood, anger shook her. That horrible, twisted man! She looked once more, shuddering, then closed her eyes and took hold of the cross at the base, wrenched it free, then stood irresolute, not having the nerve to carry it down. Her eyes were turned away from it, then she saw Justin’s face swimming before her twisted with disbelief, heard Justin scream, and, terrified, she flung the cross away and was running headlong down the grass tower, the blood streaked across her hand.
And Justin, running across the dunes, caught her up and held her.
Finally, when Bethany was calmer, she drew back and saw how shaken Justin was. “What did you think? What did you see?” Bethany asked, for Justin’s mind was in turmoil.
“Blood. My God, I saw your face and something horrible! As if it were you.” Justin held her away and looked at her. Then she saw the blood on her hand. “What was it? What happened?”
“It was a dead animal. On a cross. Nailed on a cross and stuck on the grass tower as if—as if—”
“As a warning,” Justin said, turning angry. “Like that other thing, that sign. How could that old man? And why? That horrible drunken creature.”
“I can’t tell Reid, I mustn’t.”
Justin just looked at her, as if she wasn’t sure.
She wanted to tell Reid; she wanted him to comfort her. But when she saw him, saw the worry etched into his face, she knew she would say nothing. “He’s been drunk for almost two weeks,” Reid said. “The minute he got out of jail for tearing up the counter at Bear’s, he started in again. Sometimes I—” But he didn’t finish. She took his hand and tried to think of something comforting to say, but she couldn’t. When Reid was unhappy, she wanted to protect him, she couldn’t explain why exactly. Something—his very strength and maleness made him seem strangely vulnerable, perhaps as if he should not be hurt by things. And when he was, she remembered that he was tender and human like herself—it made her ache for him.
Grandfather poured the last of the wine into their glasses and ordered cannoli for dessert, and strong Italian coffee, and sat back regarding Bethany and Justin. “That old man, old Krupp, I’ll have a talk with him. We were friends once. You’re not to worry, Bethany; we won’t have him pulling any more stunts like that one. Some poor animal, tortured like that. Or maybe he found it dead. But he’s a sick man. You may have been right not to tell Reid, it’s hard to say.”
“If I don’t believe in God, why would I be so shocked? I thought it was horrible, to do that, like Christ—”
“Even if Christ were only a man as some think, it was still a horrible thing to do. I think, knowing you, Bethany, that you must have a deep consideration for those who do believe. How can any of us know for sure? We must find our belief about the meaning of life as honestly as we can, each of us. Mine is not like yours, perhaps, and I imagine Ninea’s is different still. The search for truth, the attempt to make sense of what we observe, should be a growing thing when you are young—or all your life, really. For one who has the perceptions you and Ninea have, I imagine that search would be even more urgent. You have evidence of things, spiritual things, that the rest of us do not.” He turned to the window and sat looking out at the night. “It’s almost incredible what you two have done.” He turned back and gave her a long, steady look. “Incredible, and frightening, the ability you and Ninea have. Can you use it for good? You have a lifetime ahead of you.”
A finger of cold fear touched Bethany. She didn’t know Ninea. She didn’t know anything, really. She didn’t know what they could do; she didn’t know, really, what they had done.
“I suppose in the beginning,” Grandfather mused, “the very force of Selma’s strong desire might have strengthened your powers, focused them in.”
“But the feeling of evil—”
“I don’t doubt for a minute that you tapped some dark negative force as well, the opposite to goodness. Oh, not a darkness of witches and spirits.” He smiled, and shook his head. “Bett persists in believing that your special perception is one with that kind of thing, with what she calls occult. In my view, ESP is simply a latent power that man doesn’t yet know much about. I think the ‘evidences’ of black magic and spiritualism are something else entirely, perhaps occurrences that develop from a combination of ESP and too-active imaginations. I like to think that in a thousand generations, your kind of talent will be quite common among people, but more than that, that it is part of something fundamental to what we call our spirits. I think of man’s body as a sort of dwelling place for a spirit that has come from somewhere, and will go on afterward to someplace else. And that in that world of other selves that comes after this one, more huge and more complicated than we can imagine, this kind of perception is a natural part of us, that we touch the essence of life more fully.
“But the evil is there, too,” he said slowly. “A minor kind of something creeping around among worlds like a black insidious swamp fog beneath the glory of a larger, sunswept universe.”