Chapter 12: A Walk in the Park

Friday, 30 May 1969

“Okay,” Jim said as the cast stood to leave after Friday night notes. “We’ve got it pulled back together. Good rehearsal.” The cast cheered. “Don’t forget the reception Sunday afternoon. Dr. Crowell has gone to a lot of work to get us funding for the tour. It’s only right that we show our best side to the patrons on Sunday. Be there at 12:30 for lunch in the Lilly Room. Anything else?”

“Party tomorrow!” yelled Steve. “Spring tour of Brown County. Meet in Nashville at the town pump at two o’clock.”

“And drive carefully,” added Jim. “We don’t need any accidents at this stage of the game. Stay sober.”

The cast filed out of the auditorium with various hoots of freedom. Rebecca stopped Wayne with a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, coach?” she said. “How’d we do?”

“You heard him,” Wayne answered. “Right on!”

“Yes, but how did you feel?”

“It’s going to be better than it was in the fall,” he smiled. “And it was all pros then.”

“Good! I finally feel like it will be fun.”

“Are you going to the party tomorrow?” he asked.

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I’d ... uh ... pick you up if you want to go,” he stumbled. She thought for just a moment before she responded.

“Well, I am part of the cast. I suppose I should act like it. What time?”

“How about nine. Take a spin through the park and poke through the shops in Nashville before we meet the group,” he bubbled.

“You’re on,” she said. She walked out the door toward home. He looked after her as she disappeared down the street.

“Wow!”

“Judith’s going to kill you.” He turned around to see Lena, the assistant director standing behind him making notes on her clipboard. Down the hall he heard Judith’s voice and looked up to see her talking animatedly with the actor playing Hamlet. They left together. He smiled sheepishly at Lena and backed toward the door at the opposite end of the hall.

“What a way to go,” he said.

Saturday, 31 May 1969, early morning

“No, seriously. It’s supposed to fill itself with water?” Wayne asked Lissa late that night. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Did you call wind with your blade?” she asked.

“Well, a wind blew each time I did a ritual. The last one was more controlled than the first. I guess I must have been responsible. But that’s just moving air currents. This is actually drawing water from someplace it is to someplace it isn’t.”

“What is so different?”

“It’s ... I don’t know.”

“Each tool has its own element that you tune it to. Your Athamé is attuned to air. Your cup to water. Your pentacles to earth. And your wand to fire. In order to work the spell, you have to work with the tool, practice with it the same way you do with the woodworking tools in your shop.”

“May I have another cup of coffee, please?” he asked. She reached for the pot and refilled his cup. “It worked!”

“Smartass. Still ... in a way you got it right. You fully expected the cup to be filled. Not only do the tools represent an element, they represent a power ... a personage that has power. There are different traditions. Some practitioners use angels—Michael, Uriel, Raphael, and Gabriel. I always name them clockwise from East to North. Some practitioners use demons, Native American spirits—Raven, Coyote, Beaver, and Badger—fairies, Celtic gods, Norse gods, Greek gods. It really doesn’t make a difference whom you choose. In fact, I suspect they might all be one. So, when you cast a spell, especially an elemental, you invoke the name of the power for that element and ask him or her to serve you. Respect them because they are powerful, but be firm. You have to be in control.”

“That’s what Dad says. Like a motorcycle, it’s only dangerous when it’s out of control,” Wayne mused. He neglected to add that his dad was talking about women.

“Smart man.”

Wayne pulled up in front of Rebecca’s house promptly at nine o’clock Saturday morning. She was sitting on the front porch with a cup of coffee and a newspaper, but scarcely glanced when he pulled up.

“Rebecca?” he said, stepping up to the porch.

“Hi!” she said in surprise. “Oh! My God! That was you?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked.

“I wasn’t expecting...” she stared at the street, “ ... a motorcycle.” Wayne burst out laughing.

“I thought you knew.”

“I knew you rode one, but I didn’t know that was how you intended ... Oh, my God!”

“Well, would you like to try it out?” he asked. “If you’re really uncomfortable, we could still catch Glenn and hitch a ride with him.”

“It’s ... I...” Rebecca stammered. “Do you know how old I am?” she said finally.

“A gentleman would never ask, but I have to assume you are over eighteen. I hope.”

“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” she said, walking to the motorcycle with him. “I’m a mature, stable, responsible adult and I think I have just lost all my marbles. What do I do with Pele?”

“Who’s Pele?”

“My walking stick.”

“You can put it here,” he said, showing her how to strap the stick into place.

“Her,” corrected Rebecca.

“Okay,” responded Wayne. “Put her here, but don’t try to swing your leg over the back of the bike or you’re likely to get a good sharp poke.” He mounted the cycle and kicked it to life, then assisted Rebecca with her helmet. “Climb aboard,” he called to her. She slid easily into place behind him and he felt her arms lock firmly around his waist. He accelerated away from the curb.

“This is crazy,” she said and he felt her bury her head against his back. Fifteen minutes later they were cruising south on Highway 31.

“How’s it going?” he called over his shoulder.

“I love it!” she yelled into the wind.

By 10:30, they were in Nashville and entered the gates of the state park a few minutes later. He parked the motorcycle and they got off to stretch.

“Well?” he asked. “Like it?”

“Other than being passed by semis,” she answered. “It was wonderful. But parts of my body may not stop tingling for a while. Is it always like that?”

Wayne laid down his helmet and reached both hands behind him to rub his seat. “Every time I’ve ever ridden it has been. But it’s worth it!”

“A girl could get to like that too much,” Rebecca muttered as she unstrapped her staff. They walked along the trail through the woods and fresh greenery a while in silence. Finally, it was Wayne who spoke.

“So, are you glad you joined the cast?” he asked.

“It’s had its little trials and tribulations, but yes. I’m having fun.”

“I wanted you to know,” he said quietly, “that I’m really glad that I’ve been able to work with you. I mean, getting to know you as a person instead of a professor has really ... I mean you’re a neat person.”

“Thank you, Wayne. May I say that getting to know you as a person instead of a somnambulist has been a treat, too.” They laughed and walked on in silence for a long way.

“Say, what’s Serepte doing today?” he finally asked. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s been around, but since school is out now, she’s visiting her godparents. I told you he was ill. There’s been some trouble around campus this spring and I don’t want her here when we go to England.”

“I didn’t hear about trouble, except the damned theatre break-ins. One of the frats getting high?”

“No. No. It was a personal problem.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Wayne said. “It must be really difficult being a single parent.”

“It’s not between Serepte and me, Wayne. I really can’t get into this...” They were cut off by a voice not far away.

“Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!”

“Someone’s rehearsing,” Wayne said. They shared a surprised glance at each other and proceeded forward into a clearing. They stopped just at the edge beneath a large tree to watch. There, Judith stood with her back about three-quarters to them. Beside her stood Chuck, the actor playing Hamlet.

“No!” Judith said. “You’ve got to know precisely where that throne is. You can’t turn around and hunt for it. Mark the spot. Now watch.” They all watched as she raised the knife in both hands in a self-sacrificial pose. She drew her first syllable out over a full range of emotions from self-pity to a roaring inferno of rage. “Oh, Vengeance!” she shouted. She spun toward Rebecca and Wayne. He saw a flash in the air and shoved Rebecca to the ground.

The knife hit and stuck in the tree under which the two had been standing. Wayne scrambled to his feet swearing at Judith. He could hear her equally uncouth reply. He helped Rebecca to her feet and apologized for the roughness. Rebecca, however, seemed totally absorbed in the knife that protruded from the tree. Wayne laid his hand on the hilt and worked the blade free.

“Damn it, Judith!” he shouted. “Who checked this out to you?” These props are all supposed to be crated and ready to ship now.”

“T-take it easy, Wayne,” Chuck said. “We looked for you last night, but you were gone already. I n-need the practice and talked her into bringing it down.”

“It wasn’t made to be stuck into trees,” Wayne lectured the two. “You’ll split the handle off, throwing it around like that.”

“I’m supposed to throw it on stage.”

“Into a beadboard-backed throne, not into a chunk of wood.”

“Wayne,” said Judith next to him. Her voice was low but edged more sharply than the knife itself. “Give me the fucking knife. Take your lady friend and get lost. Or did you forget that this was supposed to be our date today?”

“It looked like you already had an alternate plan,” Wayne said, matching the edge in her voice. “If you’d spoken to me anytime in the last week it still would have been our date.”

“Give me the knife!”

“Hell no! This is going into my bag and straight to the props chest.”

“What are we supposed to rehearse with?” she demanded.

“Here,” said Rebecca. “I’m sure you can use this one. And I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore.” She produced the flat steel blade from her bag that had landed in her circle a few days before. She laid it flat in her hand and held it out to Judith. The younger woman looked startled for a moment.

“You’re going to replace it,” Judith said in disbelief. “After all the warnings, you’re still going to do it.” The two locked eyes. “Don’t do it, Huntress,” Judith whispered, her back to Chuck. “Please, don’t do it. I love him.”

“The task has to be completed, Swordmaster.”

The words hardly reached Wayne’s ears. His attention was captured by the blade being passed between the two women. In his mind, he saw the drawer in which he kept steel blanks for swords and knives. Of the two matched blades he ordered, was one still in the drawer with the other blanks? He wasn’t going to fight them for that one right now. His stomach was churning so hard he felt like throwing up. Huntress. Swordmaster. It should mean something to him, but it was as if it were behind a veil. Another of his elusive dreams.

“Just be careful, would you?” he shot across to the two. “That scene’s too damned dangerous on stage anyway. Get in lots of practice, okay, Chuck?”

“Sure. Look, would you just let us get on with it?”

“Yeah,” said Wayne. He looked into Judith’s eyes. They dropped slightly and he shook his head. Why was it so difficult with them? “Enjoy yourselves,” he said shortly. He led Rebecca out of sight. They stopped at a picnic area where Wayne worked vigorously at a pump and took a long drink. He kept pumping long enough for Rebecca to drink before they sat at a table.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “Things have been up and down between Judith and me lately.”

“Dating can be like that. I’m sorry I’ve come between you.”

“It’s not like that, exactly. I mean ... I hope I didn’t hurt you when I pushed you down.”

“I learned how to fall a long time ago,” Rebecca said. “You have good reflexes and reaction time. You just need to learn economy of action.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ve had some pretty good teachers—almost as good as Judith’s, though I’m not as skilled with a blade as she is. If a simple move of your head will save your life, you don’t need to roll on the ground. If you react as little as possible, you will be upright, positioned to defend yourself. You will be the calm in the midst of the storm.”

“With the winds whistling around me,” Wayne said. It meant something, he was sure. Rebecca looked at him intently. “You always expect to be attacked, don’t you? Why?” he asked.

“It’s a paradox. I was attacked several years ago and found myself defenseless. I swore I’d never be unprepared again. The more prepared you are, it seems, the more likely you are to attract attacks. It’s a hopeless circle.”

“Nixon should take lessons from you,” Wayne cracked. “How many times have you been assaulted?”

“Three, on campus. Four if you count the most recent. But I never saw the attacker that time.” A sudden moment of enlightenment struck Wayne.

“That knife you just gave Judith?” he asked.

“Arrived at an unexpected moment in the middle of the night,” she answered.

“It wasn’t Judith.” The idea was too diabolical to put into words.

“I don’t know.”

“I know where that knife came from,” Wayne said into emptiness. “It’s a perfect match for this one.” He held out the prop knife. “I buy them in pairs. I’m sure I’ll find the mate to this missing when I get back to the shop. That must have been what was taken in the last break-in. Only I know that it’s not Judith. I was ... with her then.”

“Regardless, it wasn’t meant to hurt me ... this time. Maybe it was a message. Maybe it was meant to scare me.” Wayne listened to the words, still thinking of Judith even after vindicating her.

“Away from me?”

“Or toward someone else. Say,” Rebecca broke the train of thought. “May I see the other knife?”

“Sure,” Wayne said, handing her the hilt of the knife. The weapon was smooth, shiny and very plain, like a key blank that was waiting to be cut. The handle was of ebony and reminded Rebecca of what her own Athamé had once looked like.

“Where did you locate this?” she asked.

“I made it,” he answered. “I like crafting things out of wood mostly, but some metal. Especially jewelry and that sort of thing.”

“Really? Where did you get the pattern?”

“My...” Wayne was suddenly confused. He felt like he should be able to talk to Rebecca about this, but something prevented him. When he tried to get to that part of his brain, it was all muzzy. “I found a picture that I liked. I have a favorite uncle who sends me stuff like that.”

“You must be very close,” Rebecca said.

“One of those weird things, you know,” Wayne said. “We write to each other a lot. I have all his letters. But we’ve only ever met twice. Or three times,” he added, thinking of that night in March. “Isn’t that weird?”

“Stranger things have been known,” she said, handing the knife back to him. Their hands touched briefly as he took the knife from her. Neither made any effort to hurry as they slid slowly apart. He tucked the knife away in his travel bag and coughed slightly.

“That sure is a beautiful cane you’ve got, by the way,” he said pointing at her walking stick.

“Cane?” laughed Rebecca. “No woman who rides a motorcycle behind a man for an hour and a half to take a walk in the woods and have a knife thrown at her is old enough to use a cane.”

“I didn’t mean that! I mean ... walking stick, then,” he spluttered. “I mean, I was just thinking that the first time I ever really looked at it, it was raised over my head like a club.”

“She’s very protective,” said Rebecca.

“You said ‘she’ once before.”

“Sure. Every walking stick has an individual personality,” she answered. “It retains a part of the character of the person who shaped it, held it and used it. I suppose there are ‘its’ in the world, but I’ve never met one. In my experience, they’ve all been ‘he’ or ‘she’.” This sounded familiar to Wayne. Something about the tool retaining the spirit of the maker. What was it?