Reincarnation (19 page)

somehow, the story lay within.

"There once was a girl who lived in ancient Greece. She hated her boring life there. She

longed for adventure and freedom. One day she met a wild boy in the woods. He was

hunting with a bow and arrow on her fathers property. The moment she looked at him, she

felt that she had known him all her life, that he was somehow a part of her and always

would be."

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"That's nice," she said. It was exactly how she'd felt when she spoke to him there by the pump the other night. That night seemed like a lifetime ago. It was before he'd fallen into a

laudanum-induced delirium, before her appendix had erupted in agony. "Go on," she

prompted in a weak voice, her eyes still fixed on the green prism.

"The girl wanted the boy to come win her hand in marriage," he continued. "She was

sure he'd come because the connection between them had been so strong. She was sure he

loved her as much as she loved him."

"He did," she murmured, not sure how she knew it.

"Then why didn't he come for her?"

"He was hurt. A rival for her affection had beat him up and left him for dead."

"He wanted to come then?" John asked.

"Yes," she said. It was as if she was speaking from somewhere deep and mysterious within her mind, saying things she knew were true. "And he came for her in the end, didn't he? He

gave her earrings to promise his love."

"In the end," John said, "she went to him."

"She wasn't going to him. She threw the earrings he'd given her away. She didn't love him,"

Lou corrected him.

"The girl
did
love him," John insisted. "Someone else threw the earrings. She was trying to get them so he wouldn't misunderstand."

"But the wild boy had seen the earrings fall and he was after them, too. He wanted to insist

that she take them

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back," Lou said. She could see it all. The glistening stone in the moonlight, like the prism on the wall -- two hands reaching out for it. "Then what happened?" she asked.

"I don't know how it ends," John said.

"You must know. It's your story," Lou reminded him. "You say she didn't throw the earrings away?"

"No. Someone else did. She loved him very much," John told her. "She couldn't stand to be without him any longer."

"She
did
love him," Lou repeated, turning the sound of the words over in her mind.
She did
love him.
"I never knew that," she whispered.

"Want that laudanum now?"

"No, this green light is enough." Her eyes were drifting shut but she forced them open, not wanting to take her gaze away. "She loved him, you say?"

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I am suddenly all better. Not only has the pain left my body but my mind is strangely glad

as I step out of my lifeless shell.

I am done with this life of slavery, no longer a fugitive.

Leaving the tent, I walk around. Members of my regiment are coming to see me. They don't

yet know that I was female. I hope I can stay long enough to see the looks on their faces.

They are good men. I love them as brothers. In fact, I recognize one somehow. The name

Ato comes to mind. And the name Aken, too.

It is this Ato now who stands outside my tent and talks to the doctor. He looks shocked at

first. I listen in as he tells the others I have died. "Lou was a brave soldier," he says to them, never revealing my secret.

The others bow their heads and murmur their agreement. Good-bye, Kansas First Regiment.

I was proud to serve with you. Perhaps we will meet again.

I return to John sitting beside my cot, weeping. We have shared a strong bond, too soon

broken. The story

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he has just told me is important. It has a meaning to me that I do not understand, but it has

left me with great peace of mind.

I think it has to do with something I have forgotten. My mind struggles to remember what it

could be.

I can't remember. I wish he would tell the story again. I feel I could listen to it a hundred

times.

But he is fading away. In a moment's time everything has become blurred.

My regiment begins to softly sing "Swing Lo, Sweet Chariot" by my body.

Oh, I don't want to go.

I'm afraid to forget all I have just come to know.

I was taught to fear God and to want heaven. I can't want it now, I'm not ready. Too much of

me longs for this green, green earth; all the beauty, even the sadness and heartbreak.

The tents of the field hospital are now faded, like a sun-bleached design on old drapery. I

raise my arms. "I don't want to go!" I wail, though no sound comes from my mouth. "Let me stay!"

The scene transforms and I am on a cloud. I am standing in front of a tall, white, gleaming

gate. I knock but no one answers. I wait so long that I become tired and sit down in front of

the gate, resting my back against it.

I sleep and crash through many dreams. Images flash

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in front of me: pyramids, statues, sailing ships, men in chains, people I have loved, those I

have wronged, things I have won, things I have lost.

I answer questions.

Was this good? Yes.

Would you change that? No.

What did you need then?

Did you get it?

What do you need now?

What must you learn?

How can you get it?

Choose.

I awaken, still in front of the gate. I cannot remember my name or where I have come from

or anything that has ever happened to me.

"When will I see the face of God?" I ask out loud.

I hear the answer almost as if a voice speaks in my head.

Not yet.

A column of white light appears before me. It soars upward and is accompanied by a deep,

vibrating hum.

I have seen this before but cannot recall where or when I encountered it. I am familiar with

this shining illumination, just the same.

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The low throb of its hum suffuses me until I also reverberate with an answering vibration

that emanates from my core.

"You are an angel," I say, looking up into its translucent face, seeing its enormous feathered wings, and somehow knowing this is true. "What is your name?"

"I am the archangel Michael," it replies in a voice so resounding I must cover my ears. "I am The Hinge of the Universe."

It spreads its blinding white wings. I heed this invitation and walk into its light.

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(On the Wheel of Rebirth) Boston, Massachusetts, 1915:

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Brody announced the arrival of their new bundle of joy, an eight-pound,

bouncing baby boy, born yesterday. Baby and mother are doing
just fine. The proud papa

told us. "He'll be Robert Brody the Fourth, but we intend to call him Bert."

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Paris, 1937

Delilah Jones stroked the panther's sleek black coat. "You're on in ten, Miss Jones," the stage manager called to the Panther Club's headliner.

"Thanks," she replied, rising from her dressing room chair. She adjusted the straps of her tight red satin halter-dress so it would reveal more of her cocoa-colored skin. As she threw

on her white, pleated cape, tying it at the neck, she set her golden cobra headdress carefully

atop her black curls. She hooked a leash onto her pet panther's emerald-studded collar.

"Come on, Baby," she said to it. "Let's you and me strut our

stuff."

The panther strained at the leash as she walked through the narrow backstage hallways.

Together, they waited in the wings. From the brightly lit stage, the club's owner, a man with

movie-star polish in a well-tailored tux, announced her: "All the way from the jazz clubs of

New Orleans, here now with us in Paris -- The Panther Club's very own Miss Delilah Jones!"

The lights went out while Del silently walked Baby to center stage. Then the spotlight hit her

face dramatically.

Del began her act with a high, sultry jazz whine as the light expanded to reveal her, along

with Baby at her side.

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The audience gasped slightly when Baby stretched her jaw, soundlessly showing off her

sharp teeth as Del had taught her. Four years ago, when she was thirteen, Del had worked

as an assistant in a big cat act in the circus. Baby had been the runt of the panther litter and

would have been put to sleep if Del hadn't claimed her as her own. Now she was as docile

as a kitten, but the audience didn't know that.

Once the audience had recovered from the sight of Baby, Del spread her arms, fanning her

cape so that it revealed how shapely and stunning she looked in her dress. Her song began

with a sultry glide across the stage. "If you find yourself on the River Nile and you're sorely in need of a reason to smile ...," she crooned as she dropped the cape to the ground. The

headpiece came off next while the band kicked into high gear. "Just call me Isis, I'm the

nicest on the Nile," Del belted out, arms wide. "I'm a goddess with a great sense of style.

We'll find a little room in a great big mummy tomb. Desert sands may blow our way but

entombed you'll want to stay ... with Isis, the nicest on the Ni-i-i-le."

The song continued full of puns and racy jokes all centered on a comic version of ancient

Egyptian life. The audience laughed at all the right places, and as she became increasingly

assured that she had them, Del's voice soared as never before, growling down low in some

parts and rising to a hornlike peel in others. She sang the next verses

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in French, which guaranteed that everyone in the audience would get the jokes.

When the song was done, the audience pounded the tables, clapping, whistling, and

shouting her name. While she bowed and waved to them, she made sure to stroke Baby

to keep her calm.

Delilah Jones has arrived!
she thought, flashing the audience a brilliant smile.

Bert Brody rapped on the dressing room door. The name Delilah Jones was scrawled across

it in black marker. He needed some background and perhaps quotes for the review he was

writing for
Traveling Abroad
magazine.

"Come in," a rich, alto-pitched voice responded.

Bert opened the door to find Delilah Jones wrapped in an emerald green satin kimono. By

her side was the man with the great tux. Bert knew he was the club's owner, Leonard

Raymond. "Tell her she was sensational," Raymond said.

"You were sensational," Bert obeyed dryly.

"Don't pass out from enthusiasm," she replied.

He laughed. "No, sorry. I mean it. You were great. Honestly. With the right songs, you could

really be a star."

"What do you mean 'with the right songs'?" she shot back, her pencil-thin eyebrow arched.

"And I
am
a star! I love that song. The woman who used to sing it when I traveled with vaudeville was three times my size and she had

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an alligator on a leash. It's even better the way I do it and with a panther. A panther is better

than an alligator, don't you think? They loved it tonight, didn't they, Lenny?"

"You wowed 'em, Del," he assured her.

"See? What do you know about songs, anyway?" she challenged Bert.

"Well," he began hesitantly. "I write them and -- "

"Oh, I can just imagine the kinds of songs you write! What are their titles, 'All Hail Harvard'

or 'Yippee for Yale'?"

"Actually, I just graduated from Princeton."

She laughed in a way that made him glance at the bottle of champagne on her dressing

room table. It was half empty and he saw that two glasses had been drained. "So I guess

your song is 'Pip, Pip for Princeton!'" she said.

"Maybe this isn't a good time. I'd like to interview you, though. I'm a writer for
Traveling
Abroad
magazine."

"Are you calling me a broad?" she cried. He wasn't sure if she was really offended or joking.

"No, I would never -- "

"You're certainly not traveling anywhere with me, broad or not, get that idea out of your

head," she went on, teasing.

"You've got it all wrong, I -- "

"You're blushing!" she cackled, pointing at his face, and then screamed with laughter,

rocking back on her chair.

The heat at Bert's cheeks told him she was right, and knowing it made him grow even

redder. This was a disaster.

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"Some other time," he mumbled, backing out of the dressing room. He heard them

guffawing from behind the door as he retreated down the hall.

Utterly mortified, head down, he hurried through the cramped backstage area. He was

nearly out the door when he heard light, running footsteps.

"Wait!" Turning, he saw Delilah Jones, barefoot and still in her kimono, running to him.

"I'm sorry." Breathless, she laid her hand on his arm.

He pushed the door open. "It's okay. Forget it."

"It's the champagne. It makes me think I'm a lot funnier than I really am. Meet me at the

Parthenon on the Left Bank tomorrow at noon. I'll buy you a croissant and a cafe au lait to

make it up to you. We'll do the interview then. Okay?"

He was tempted to say no; she had made a fool of him, and he didn't like it. But he wanted

this story to be good. If it was, they'd throw more assignments his way. If he got regular

magazine writing jobs, he could stay in Paris and try to write more songs -- maybe get them

put into a musical revue like the one he'd just seen. He'd show his father that he wasn't

dependent on the family for money. He could make his own way.

"Please. I could use the publicity," she coaxed.

"Well, I do think you could be great with better songs," he said. "Did that woman really have an alligator?"