Four and Twenty Blackbirds

As we drove through the narrow streets, still brick in places, I was strongly reminded of a Mardis Gras trip I took to the Vieux Carré in New Orleans, except that the trimmings were all Spanish instead of French and there were no drunken partyers stumbling along the sidewalks wearing plastic beads. Old stone storefronts with overhanging balconies graced the curbs, and the sense of antiquity was undeniable even in the dark.

This had been a colony for fifty years when the settlers at Jamestown arrived a few states north, and that realization threw my sense of historical perspective askew. Despite what the New England snobs think,this small city is the oldest European civilization in America—or the oldest consistently occupied one, as I would later learn. Anglo-centrists be damned.

When we stopped at a streetlight, a man in full Spanish military silver was perched atop a big brown horse beside us. He shifted his weight in the saddle and the joints in his armor clanked and ground together. A sword hung by his side, down close to my window, almost tapping against the glass by my cheek. The horse snorted and swung its huge head my way, then whinnied and flipped its mane. Its rider wrapped the reins another loop around his wrist and nudged the animal with his heels until it loped into a trot.

Long after they'd disappeared down one of the side streets I could still hear the heavy, metallic jostling of the armor and the resounding clunks of the horse's shoes on the pavement. Harry did not act as though he had seen them, or at least he wasn't paying any attention.

Rather than jump to ghostly conclusions, I tried to be nonchalant. It might have been my hyperactive imagination, after all. Or—another thought crossed my mind. "Hey, Harry, do people run around in costume here, like in New Orleans or in those, um, historic places?" I asked. "Like they do at Jamestown," I added, since that was the only one I could think of off the top of my addled head.

My companion nodded. "Oh yes. All the time. Much of the old city is a state park. There are many living history exhibits—they do historical reenactments and the like. You can even take guided 'ghost' tours now. It's ridiculous."

"Oh," I sighed, relieved. Then it wasn't just me. I hoped.

Along a rooftop a woman in long, full skirts was pacing back and forth, holding a lantern. Even as far away as we were I saw the light casting warped shadows across her face, illuminating her in orange streaks and bursts. One of her hands was clenching the lantern's ring and the other was holding a shawl snug across her shoulders. Although she was moving back and forth, wearing a path on the roof like a tiger in a cage, her eyes never left the east.

"Harry?" I said, pointing a finger up at the lonely woman as if to ask about her.

He glanced out the window. "What? Oh, the roof. Yes, a lot of the older houses have long balconies like that. It's called a widow's walk. Sailor's wives would wait up there at night, watching for the ships to come in from the ocean. There's more than one tragic tale of husbands and lovers who never returned."

"I can imagine." But I preferred not to.

I wanted to ask if he'd seen the woman in the shawl or the armored conquistador, but I stopped myself short. He said it was normal to see people dressed up. He said this was a state park and it happened all the time, so that's what I was going to believe was going on. But after midnight? On deserted streets? There was no one to watch and appreciate the historicity of it all. Were these people paid, or were they fanatical reenactors? In Tennessee they call some of the Civil War buffs stitch counters because they insist so particularly upon attention to detail. Surely this was more of the same. Yes, surely.

I held my tongue. If Harry had seen them too, then all was well. If he had not, then I was seeing ghosts again, which was rarely an indication that good things were to follow.

Judging by the yellow of the opposing traffic lights, our red one was about to change. I peered back up at the balcony for one last look, but it was vacant. Either she'd gone inside or . . . or she'd simply gone. I quit straining against the seat belt and rested my head on the back of the seat. The light switched to green and Harry took his foot off the brake and pressed it against the gas. We were the only vehicle in sight, and it was strange for me to hear the reverberations of my own car's engine humming against the stone and stucco storefronts. Down at the end of the next street I saw something like a tower with a bell rearing up into the low skyline, and I thought with relief how close we were to the church. Yes, almost there.

Then my heart lurched up past my tongue.

"Harry! Oh my God, stop!"

He slammed both shoes down onto the brake and we left a short, smelly trail of black rubber on the pavement. But we did it—we stopped just before we hit her.

Yes, there she was.

The woman from the roof, standing in the middle of the road. I didn't see the lantern; she must have put it down. Both hands were now holding her shawl against her chest. "What? What?" Harry sputtered, knuckles white around the ridges of the steering wheel. "What was that for?"

Oh no. My previous relief evaporated. "You don't see her, then?"

"See who?" He was panting, legs still stretched taut against the floorboards, holding the brake and clutch down as far as they would go. "What are you talking about?"

I turned to him, waving my hand towards the road. "Right there—in the street! Oh, dear God—please tell me you can see her. Please don't tell me—"

She smacked her hands against my window and I cut myself off with a shriek.

"Donde es—?" I caught that much, but the two years of high school Spanish I slept through hadn't taught me enough to understand the rest.

The woman pounded her hands against the glass and shouted her question again.

"Drive, Harry! Get us out of here!" I begged, but I was nearly in his lap and he couldn't reach the gearshift. I covered my eyes and shook my head. "Lady, I can't help you. I'm so sorry—I can't help you."

"Who are you talking to? There's no one there, Eden," he insisted, but his voice was not steady. Whether or not he believed me, he shoved me back into my seat and obediently pulled the car forward, leaving the specter behind. I peeked into my side mirror and saw nothing, but when I turned around to look out the back she was still there, eyes wild and forlorn, standing at the intersection and watching us leave.

"What . . . Eden, what was that, just now? Are you all right?"

"Then you didn't see her."

"See who?"

"It doesn't matter. You didn't see her."

Quickly, though gradually, more figures congealed into solid shapes and walked the streets beside us. Women and men, children, even dogs and the occasional rat. Horses and carts and soldiers and seamen. One by one they appeared. A few gave us second, confused glances; but most ignored us or seemed oblivious to our presence. They did not move when my car approached them, they merely parted for us to pass and formed again as though we'd never disturbed them.

I put my face down into my hands. "They're everywhere, Harry."

"Who? Who's everywhere? What are you talking about?"

Shaking my head, rubbing my eyes, I could not answer. "Please just get us to your church." A church, any church, sounded safe. Any refuge at all would suffice.

"We're here now. This is it. I'll park around back."

I didn't raise my eyes until the car had stopped, and then I saw no one but my traveling companion.

The night was too dark for me to see much of the building—as near as I could tell it was the same pale beige-gray stone as many of the city's older structures, but with huge, pointed-arch doors affixed to black hinges. Harry climbed the four or five stairs to the doors and dropped a heavy iron knocker against the wood. His summons thudded deep inside, and with its thick echo came footsteps.

After a series of clacks and booms, one of the giant doors retreated and a small bald man adjusted his thick brown glasses, all the better to squint at us with. "Yes, can I . . . Harold? Is that you?"

"Why so surprised, Marcus? You knew I was on my way."

"No, I'm not surprised. I'm delighted, you old fool—it's only that we weren't expecting you so soon. You made this poor child ride all night then." He beamed us both a giant smile and swung the door back with a flourish. "And you must be Eden." Marcus took my hand and squeezed it, then shook it—also with a flourish. "It's so very nice to meet you, dear."

"Likewise." I tried to return his warmth but I was tired and flustered, and I still felt woozy from that concoction of Tatie's I'd been dumb enough to drink. It was all I could do to stand erect and feign lucidity, even though I'd felt so restless while I was inside the vehicle.

"Oh my," he fretted, "you don't look at all well. Can I make you some tea?"

Tea? Tea was good for what ails you, or so some dim recollection suggested. "Tea. Um, okay. Thank you. Yes, that would be nice."

"Or perhaps something to eat? Would you like something to eat?"

I shook my head. "No, no thank you."

He pressed on, unsatisfied that tea would be greeting enough. "Are you sure? Even something light? I could make you some toast, or open a can of soup? You look so pale. You really should have something. Come on—I'll make you something. Anything you want, and I won't take 'nothing' for an answer."

Harry rolled his eyes but allowed himself a grin. "Marcus, she's exhausted. She said she'd take some tea, and I think she's humoring you at that—now let her be."

"Well then, fine, if that's how it is. Would you prefer to lie down? We've made you up a room, and I hope you'll be comfortable. I've found some things that might be of interest to you both, but we can catch up in the morning if that would be better. There's little enough we can do tonight as it is." ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">