Chapter 12
On Monday morning, again I woke up after Halimi had taken Lily to preschool. The night before, he told me the editorial meeting at the radio station had been canceled because of a tax audit. I wouldn’t let this stop me. I’ll find some excuse, I told myself before falling asleep that night.
A few minutes after opening my eyes, I wondered whether I’d be able to cross the spring to Jean d’Ibelin.
The days that had passed since our last meeting had blurred the memory into a kind of reverie.
I recalled the sight of the Crusader fortress in the last crazy dream I had, beside what must have been the Phoenician port, with modern Atlit in the background.
I was sweating a little under the winter blanket, which we had not yet swapped for something lighter because the nights were still chilly.
Twang, twang, the strings reverberated between my ears. I sat up in bed. I fixed my eyes on the closet and wondered what to wear: something not too modest, but definitely not risqué. And something that would be comfortable to wear by the spring. But not too weird if, say, we rode to the fortress.
“Wow, look at you,” Halimi said, glancing up from his computer as I came in to turn the kettle on. I coughed with embarrassment and wiped my glasses’ lenses. “Do you remember this dress?” I asked Halimi, my back to him. “Brrr, it’s cold this morning.”
“Sure I remember,” Halimi said, turning back to the computer screen. He was transcribing an interview with the editor of an important American journal. Sometimes, he was asked to write articles for weekend magazines.
“Listen, I’ll probably be back late from Tel Aviv today,” I went on, pouring boiling water into a coffee mug.
The clatter of the keyboard stopped. I turned to face him. “Coffee?” I said before taking a sip.
“How come you’re going to Tel Aviv?” Halimi asked. He crossed one leg over the other and pulled out a cigarette.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to smoke inside!” I exclaimed. We weren’t particularly strict, but smoking on the balcony was sacrosanct. “I’ll air the place out later, you won’t smell a thing,” Halimi said, lighting his cigarette.
“Come on …” he continued as I grabbed a bread roll and began spreading butter on it. “What are you doing in Tel Aviv?”
“Nothing!” I replied, more resentfully than I’d intended. “I told you already, I have to go over the proofs of that children’s book.” I’d said nothing of the sort, but I figured he only remembered half the things I told him about my schedule or household matters anyway.
“Why do you have to go to Tel Aviv for that?” Halimi persisted, turning back to the computer screen. “Can’t they just email you the text?” He knew that since we left Tel Aviv, I’d grown allergic to the place. I hadn’t once joined him on a trip there, even though he’d invited me several times.
“Nope, I have to do it with the graphic artist. They want to send it to the printer this week,” I said. If the goddamn publishing house functioned properly, this would have been true, I convinced myself.
“Okay, sweetie,” Halimi sighed. “Get some decent coffee while you’re there, yeah?”
“But you bought some when you went to Dan’s, didn’t you? There’s plenty,” I said, my mouth full of bread.
Halimi’s phone rang.
“We don’t want to run out of coffee,” he mumbled and slid his finger over the phone.
I stopped the car behind the rock with the Phoenician inscription. After a particularly nice week of spring weather, the ground was already dry.
At home, I’d changed clothes. “I felt stupid in that dress,” I told Halimi when I came out of the shower, already dressed in leggings and a thin, baggy sweater, contact lenses in place.
He was speaking on the phone and shot me a quizzical look when he saw me.
I put the woolen dress in my backpack. I managed to squeeze back into it while cramped in the tiny car.
This time, there was nobody at the ruins. When I got to the tree, I noticed a small puddle still there, the size of a book. Before submerging the coin in the water, I inhaled deeply, then I dunked the coin around my neck into the water.
Nothing happened, but I was prepared for a delay. A few seconds passed, then a minute, and still nothing happened.
I turned around and came back. I submerged the coin again, in the exact same way as the week before. Nothing happened. My brain came to a dead halt inside my skull and did a little jig around itself.
What’s going on? I wondered. It was like I was meant to solve an unspoken riddle.
I sighed in exasperation. The red woolen dress was tight.
I began pulling at the zipper. There was no one to see me anyway.
The zipper got stuck. “Ouch!” I shouted and looked around.
My finger had caught in the teeth of the zipper, and a small drop of blood was forming.
I sucked my finger, and then I heard it: twang, twang, the hidden chords—in my head, or in another time, or in a parallel universe, who the hell knew.
Something gleamed in the puddle. I took my finger out of my mouth and reached out to grab whatever it was that was sparkling, but my fingers failed to grasp it. My body was pulled into the puddle, and a phosphorescent light exploded in my brain.
“Christ the Crucified!” someone shouted, and I blinked under the green canopy of the carob tree, breathing in air redolent of 1240.
To my horror, above me was an unsheathed penis attached to a knight in chainmail and a black cloak with a red cross rolled up over his naked loins. I sat up and stared at him, wide-eyed.
“What … what … what …” mumbled the knight, stuffing his dick into his long underwear and clumsily straightening his clothes. Repulsed, I noticed a small, steaming pool of urine on the dry ground, inches away from me.
The knight fell to his knees, closed his eyes, and clapped his hands together.
“Ave Maria,” he began muttering. “Gratia plena, Dominus tecum …”
I froze for a moment, then had a bright idea.
I got to my feet and stood before him, a fortuitous ray of sunlight lighting my brown hair, making it appear golden. I lifted my hand in a gesture of blessing.
“You are pardoned,” I said in Hebrew. “Do not fear, my child,” I continued in a refined, motherly voice, getting into character. “I will protect you forevermore, wherever you may be.”
The knight, or whoever he was, looked up in awe, teeth chattering.
“What is your name, my son?” I asked in French, in the same even tone.
“Geoffroy,” the young man stammered. “Geoffroy of Tours.”
I placed my hand on his head and recited the most basic Latin blessing I could think of. “Deus te benedict,” I mumbled, hoping for the best.
“My lady!” he gasped. “Who are you? How must I address you?”
“I am of the spring,” I improvised. “Return to your duties, Geoffroy of Tours. Be courteous and merciful and do not forget thy prayers,” I concluded, lowering my arms.
The knight bowed his head and got to his feet.
He retreated, walking away from the tree in reverse, still facing me.
“Do not bring anyone here and do not approach this site for a full day,” I managed to say, in French, before he left.
He bowed his head again, mouth still agape, eyes wild, and disappeared among the trees.
Well, that could have gone worse, I thought to myself, but I handled it well. I washed my face with the spring water.
It was getting chilly. I leaned against the tree and looked out at the small pool of water that had formed next to it, water from a spring that no longer existed in my own time. Or perhaps it still existed but had turned into a puddle no bigger than a book?
I closed my eyes and inhaled the fragrant air, infused with the scent of burning wood and a faint odor of goat droppings.
I knew I wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming.
The scents were so powerful. I had a sense of triumph and wild strength.
My heart slowed, then quickened, realizing that I could carry out this magic passage at will.
I looked around more attentively. There was no sign of Jean d’Ibelin.
I had no idea what to do here without him.
I glanced at my watch, but the hands were stuck, even though I’d checked that it was working back at home.
I sat down on a nearby dune and looked out, my mind empty of thought, at the beauty spread across the landscape.
Gardens and orchards blossomed in plum and cherry-blossom pink.
Olive trees rippled like silvery waves in the sunlight.
The blue-green sea crashed into white foam on a strip of shimmering sand, and the flags of the huge fortress fluttered gently in the breeze.
A bell pealed, followed by another heavier and slower bell, which echoed across the valley.
My temples began throbbing dully, so I moved back under the shade of the carob tree. I sat by the spring and deliberated whether to go back to my own time, despite the sense of failure. Did I really need Jean d’Ibelin to set out on an adventure? I could just wander around on my own.
I was considering whether I had the courage to venture as far as the town or the fortress when I heard hoofbeats and barking in the distance. Sweat broke out on the palms of my hands. I sat up straight in an effort to look serene and dignified.
A few minutes later, I heard the sound of an easy trot and Jean d’Ibelin’s voice through the branches. A few seconds later, Brunette burst through the canopy, a hand moved a sweeping branch aside, and Jean’s head peeped in.
“You are here, my lady,” he said with gratification.
He was still holding the horse’s bridle.
I sat up even straighter and smiled at him.
He winked, and his head disappeared. Through the branches and thick foliage, I spied two horses.
Jean tied them through an iron ring to the wall, while Brunette charged me, licking and barking happily.