A STRONG TOWER
Part 4: The Moon Also Rises
Ngaio stood in the middle of the red dirt track that passed for a road in this
part
of the world. Though completely English, she had chosen a Maori name for
herself...and she was worried. Probably with reason. Whales had been mentioned.
Though
still so far from the sea, still so
far from anything that even remotely could be described as water, she knew she should worry.
Turning her head, she watched the rest of the cast gathering up their backpacks, making final preparations for their stroll to the Bight. She thought of the whale riding movie. Perhaps it
had
not actually been seen? Sighing, she looked again southward. No, that would be
too much to hope for. She knew there would be some terrible price to be paid
for
inflicting on the epi a name that the readers, not to mention the poor
writer, would never remember how to pronounce. Ngaio. Why had she done it?
Why, why, why? Oh, well...too late now.
"What is it, Ngaio?" Alex asked, coming up beside her and providing the
opportunity
for
NIGH-oh to be typed at last. He almost said N-eye-oh, but the Englishwoman
had
decided on the somewhat though not entirely easier Nigh-oh.
"Whales," she sighed. "Whales."
He looked quickly down the road into the gathering dusk. "Whales? Are there
whales
in the Nullarbor?" His mind told him that, of course, there were not, but he
had been
around epilife for some 6 years now and knew that if there were tigers in the
snows of
West Virginia
(A New Jeopardy) there could very well be whales on this limestone wasteland. Of course the tigers had only been there, the writer hastens to add in her defense, because the circus train
had collided with the Polar Express and, so,
was
completely none of her doing.
"No," she continued, her shoulders slumping a bit, "the whales are in the
Bight."
"These are right whales, right?" he asked.
"Yes," she agreed, "the only whales in the Bight are right."
"Well," he said sensibly, "what can be wrong with right whales?"
"Riding," she whispered. "Riding right can be wrong. Very wrong." She
shuddered.
"That was because the whale had washed up onshore," he pointed out. "In the
movie,
I mean."
"True."
"Well, from what I hear, the Bight HAS no shore."
She perked up considerably at that. "Yeah," annsmac said, passing by, heading
south with Terry, "you'd have to jump off a cliff to end up with the whales
there."
She grinned, turning
her head from Terry to Ngaio. "And you know nothing like
that would ever happen to an epi character."
"Right!" Terry laughed. "As in right whale."
"SOUTHERN right whale, please," corrected Berti, getting in her first line in
the
new epis.
Ngaio felt a bit weak in the knees. Hadn't she been good? Hadn't she taken all
those pictures
in Sydney just to illustrate Sons of the Fathers? Didn't she
deserve
better than Bight rights and...and...cliffs?
Joimus and Maximus joined them, Dess asleep in his father's arms. "Don't worry,
Beej....er... Ngiao...er...Ngoia...er...NyOh."
"Don't worry....really?" Ngaio said eagerly.
"Yes," Joimus added, patting her affectionately on the arm. "Why, perhaps no
one
will even survive the Nullarbor crossing afoot and then the whales will not have
to
be a concern...not at all."
"Look...stars," Maximus said, tipping his head skyward.
"Ah," Joimus smiled, "and see...the moon also rises." Thus, cleverly, she gave
the
newest segment its nom de segue. Together, she, the General, and the sleeping
child
moved off down the dirt track.
Ngaio turned, looking down the empty rails of the Great Southern Railway. There
were no whales if she followed them. Did
she actually HAVE to head toward the sea? Did she?
"Come!" Aubrey said heartily, taking her hand and pulling her after him down the
dirt road. "The sea is only four days march. I can smell it already!" He
inhaled
a great breath and
smiled down at the petite, dark-haired Frenchwoman on his other side.
"Aubrey is with a...a...Frenchwoman?" Tonia muttered.
"Yes, it's become epicanon now," Colin explained.
"There are cannons in epis?" she wondered, actually more to herself, not
really expecting an answer to such a question, knowing of course there were
probably cannons.
Darkness fell, skinned its knee, and decided not to get up. The night was
black,
black like Maximus' hair, black like...Livi's. How were they to know it would
be
a 96-hour night, that being necessary so they would not have to be written
crossing the shadeless Nullarbor in daylight? Sometimes epis were just so
very merciful.....quite like Commodus.
After walking quietly for about 45 of those 96 hours, Joimus developed a
sudden craving for peanut butter and so everyone stopped. One might more
descriptively write "fell over unconscious into the dirt", but, hey, these were
epifolk and all of sturdy stock. And so they merely unshouldered their
backpacks and sat down upon them, unfortunately thereby squishing their
ham sandwiches and blueberry tarts, but there was a definite lack of
good seating in the Nullarbor. They sat scattered about in little clumplings
of people, though some couples went a tad further out into the saltbush
before settling.
Several of the men made small campfires from the brush. They were very
used to this, epis more often than not being spent roofless in some
godforsaken part of the world. It could actually be quite pleasant during
those times when there were no hungry natives lurking about and the
lava had solidified, and, as this was one of those times, Himself got out
his guitar and he and East played and sang together.
"Do you sing, Cort?" Rachel suddenly wondered. She was seated between
his spread legs, her head on his chest, and she tipped her chin way up as she
asked.
He thought about that seriously, running his fingers through the waves of
her dark hair as he did so. "I might," he allowed, "but I'm not sure.
After all, Himself created me and since HE sings, I might well be able to
sing, too." He rested his chin atop her head, remembering. "I
once
heard Maximus and Aubrey talking about something very like that. Aubrey
was pointing out he has all the scars Himself got while making Gladiator.
They were saying that each of us carries in his person all that Himself
was at the time he created us."
"But he's the only one who ages, right?"
"Yes, Rachel. The rest of us always remain the age we were in our film.
Only him....he's the
only one who gets older."
"I wonder how he feels about that?" she mused. Then a thought struck
her. "What about Broch....and Marshall?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Neither of them have a movie. We may
have to wait and see how that works."
Marshall was sitting quietly, listening to the night sounds, when Marcy
approached. "Hello, Marcy," he greeted.
"You knew it was me?"
"Your hair. You use peach shampoo."
"May I join you?"
"Surely," he smiled. "Pull up a backpack."
After she was settled, she sighed contentedly. "The stars...there are
so many stars tonight."
"I was six," he said softly.
"Six?"
"Before any one thought to tell me there were stars." He dragged
his fingertips idly through
the sand. "I wrote my first poem about that."
She pressed her lips together, thinking about that, all the time remembering
how her grandmother would take her out on the porch and they would
watch together as the wishing
star winked into view. They had done that
since she was about two. "Your first poem...?"
"He could not see, had never seen,
And all his grass was black, not green.
His mind yearned out beyond its bars...
But no one told him that there were stars."
He shrugged. "A simple effort, poetically-speaking, but it set me on
my path."
She closed her eyes, shutting out the sparkling pinpricks of light, the
glow of the moon.
"Is it like this?" she asked. "All the time? It's
like this?"
"Oh, not at all," he said. "Here," and he indicated with his hand the
vastness surrounding them, "I have this sense of...openness. It's
greater than any I've ever known before. Usually
I'm aware of the
presence of...things....buildings, cars, that sort of thing. Sound bounces
off them and their very bulk just announces them to me somehow. I know
they're there." He stroked Wadsworth's head. "But here the sound
just goes and keeps on going. I'm finding it quite an experience."
"You mean it feels...empty?"
"The air, in a way, yes, but the land is full if you listen to it." He was
silent a long moment. "There is a snake moving about 15 feet to your
left." When she started, he added quickly.
"It's moving away, not
toward us." He smiled. "And when the guitars are not playing, I hear
a little sighing song as the wind moves among the saltbush. It's
actually quite pretty. And there are several larger animals...roos I
expect...off to the right a bit."
She had been aware of none of that. Leaning back, she looked up at
the moon. It was nearly full, just slightly lopsided, and glowed intensely
high in the sky. Being in Marshall's presence made her think of things
that she had never really focused on before. She cast her mind back
across the thousands of years of human history, thinking how every
person who had ever had sight had seen that same moon that she was
looking at right now. She wondered if Maximus
ever looked at it and
remembered it shining over second century Spain. It made her feel
strangely...connected...to everyone who had come before her, to everyone who could see it
now. And, yet, there was Marshall, who had never
seen it, would never see it. Why did she feel...more...connected to him in
this moment?
"The moon, Marshall. What is the moon?"
He leaned an elbow on on his knee, propping his chin in the cup of his hand.
"I have a B.A.
from Northwestern and a PhD from Oxford,
Marcy,"
he answered. "I know how it was formed, I know its composition, its
measurements. I know what 'round' is because I've held a ball in my
hands. But I have no experience of...light." He lifted his head, turning his
face toward her. "Light is something I can only imagine, and probably
not very well." He touched his fingers to his cheek. "Light is mostly...warm. Like the sun on my face or my hand near the flame of a candle.
But I am told the moon's light is not warm, so, for me, the moon has
always been rather...mysterious."
"Do you miss it? Not seeing the moon?" She wasn't sure why she felt
she could ask him such things.
"No," he shook his head. "This is my world. This is what I know. This
is the way of it, how things are. I can't miss what I can't even imagine."
He cocked his head, continuing. "I have heard that those who have known
sight and then lost it, they miss what they had before. But
if you have
never had it, have never known any experience of it, then, no, you don't
miss it."
He grinned widely at her. "I have my personal concept of how the moon
looks. And how does one...know...that my moon is not even more
marvelous than yours?"
She laughed delightedly. "I like you, Marshall," she said frankly.
"Good," he said, his lips twitching just a bit.
****************************************
PS from Jo
When Marshall is talking about his concept of the moon...I lifted his line about "How do you know....?" straight from a conversation I had years ago with a young woman in her 20's who lived in a nursing home. Her body was completely twisted from a disease that was killing her and she had been born blind. I was sitting with her and we were talking about trees...how she perceived a tree, especially its size. And she, intelligent, delightful person that she was, laughed and said, "And how do you KNOW my concept of a tree is not more marvelous than yours?"
To this day I can see her, hear the sound of her as she laughed and said that. I always knew I'd use it in something I wrote some day. Today was that day.