"What's happened to you?" asks Ann, approaching.
Mccail's attention quickly turns. Trying to explain what has happened within the last twenty minutes seems an impossibility so McCail avoids it, and simply blurts out, "Me?
"Yes, you silly."
" I don't know? This place is weird."
"What's weird is you, you look panicky?"
"I thought something happened to you, Ann. You were gone too long. Then all this weird stuff began happening."
"I'd say it's weird! So who's been kissing you? I'm gone for just a few minutes and you've got kisses all over you! It's like traveling with a baby."
"Oh that. I retrieved an ankle bracelet for an old woman, and she gave me a kiss."
"Did it fall up or down her leg?"
With raised brow McCail responds, "Up."
"You poor dear." She hugs and kisses him, trying to consul her overgrown forty-six-year-old child.
Sitting side by side they each enjoy the comfort of the other. McCail shows signs of relief as minutes pass. Ann leans her head onto his shoulder. A playful gust of wind dashes about them. Ann pulls her hair back from her lips; her contentment continues while McCail eyes the wind reservedly then wonders, 'What just happened to me?'
Gently, a whirlwind begins dancing about with gyrating movements slowly retracing the old gentlemen's path, step by step. McCail is alert to its actions. With a twist and a turn it waltzes across stones, lifting leaves that cling tightly to its spinning force. Still matching the old gentleman's route, it hovers around the roses just as he had and then disappears around the corner.
McCail's mind is ablaze with curiosity, pushing nervousness aside.
His attention is pulled towards a small flashing neon sign. He questions its very existence a few moments ago. Printed in bold gothic letters it reads, "Taxi Service, no waiting," and the slogan, "Let us show you the Spirits of England."
"Come, Ann, let's gather our things and head over there."
With backpack in place she follows his long stride. Her hiking boots pounce upon the English stone pathway and follow McCail's strained gait behind the shelter of tall foliage.
"Hey, what's up with your shoes?"
McCail looks down. His shoes point out like a duck's feet. "Oh? I must have done that in customs."
Once around the corner and after rearranging his shoes, it is like stepping into another world.
Gone is the zoo of vacationers that clogged the airport's thoroughfare, replaced by a park-like setting of relaxed book readers under the shade of trees. Benches half full of chess players and cribbage kings await the others' moves. Grass lies well groomed with a borderline of rocks and flowers.
A man with children, perhaps a grandfather, sits smiling while he cherishes these moments, clearly written in his eyes. A fountain with a replica statue of David in the center collects coins as two small boys practice bank shots off his stone appendage.
The airport authority has just two weeks ago opened this grassy area of its grounds to promote The Performing Arts. Hired on a rotating basis, group musicians and one-person shows are allowed to quietly perform between the hours of noon and four for a small predetermined fee plus tips. It will prove to be beneficial to the artists and will help the airport's image.
Today, in the middle of this one-acre setting stands a man sporting dreadlocks and playing steel drums, sweetly singing his rendition of "Educated Donkey." A collection of foreigners and local inhabitants sway to the soca beat. Left to right, and then grind, they move just below the belt to the tempo.
The small group of admirers now includes McCail and Ann. Looking like a flamingo with the strut of a crow McCail seems to have picked up the movements as Ann looks on, full of giggles. Her movements are more Hawaiian.
A Korg synthesizer gives support to the man's musical quest of fulfilling his and his audience's listening ears. The beat of the drum accents the bass lines, which in turn lays a foundation for the well placed pan notes from the man's double tenor pans.
"I come out to drum up business for me family. Please, if you can, supply me with wealth," says the young musician to his enrapt crowd. Money begins filtering through the hands of the people as the musician packs to end his day's event. The two travelers contribute generously.
Ann becomes engrossed in conversation, asking about the musician's instrument, while McCail turns once again to find a cab.
"Are you in need of a taxi, sir?" asks a well mannered and sharply dressed cabby who stands squarely in McCail's path waiting for instructions.
McCail is startled not only by the sudden appearance of the taxi driver, but because he instantly recognizes him as the butterfly, the man who floats, the old gentleman.
"Oh, hi, a, I, I, I didn't see you. Weren't you just in the terminal?" stammers McCail with a pointing motion.
"Yes! And as a matter of record I saw you in there, too."
Unsure as to what comes next, McCail stands mute, wondering if he can ask; how did you dance like a butterfly? Or, Why did you smile and wink? Or, What did you do to me? Crossing all three off his list McCail finally asks, "Did you say you have a cab?"
"Yes I do, sir, the finest in London," chirps the cabby so quickly that it runs alongside McCail's last sentence like a dog chasing a car. "I am a man far before your time, a seeker of men, a kind of a guide you could say, but for you today, a driver of cabs. Merlin G. Wildhaber is my name and welcome to England."
The squeak of the cabby's smile can be heard above the surrounding noises as it shoots across his face, almost skidding off.
"Nice to meet you. I'm McCail. The woman in green over there is my wife, Ann. She's my better half."
"Your better half, eh? I've had lots of better halfs. Sixteen to be exact," nonchalantly rolls off Merlin's lips.
"Sixteen! You've been married sixteen times? How is that possible? What happened?"
"They've all passed."
"You mean they all died?" Stunned, McCail's shoulders fall in shock.
"Yes, and what beauties they were, too. Each had her own charm and grace. Working on number seventeen now. Susan is quite possibly the most fiery of the bunch."
McCail gives a quick look over his shoulder, remembering that hairy legged old bat named Susan, but quickly discounts her saying, "naa", then turns back asking, "They all died? You outlived them? How?"
"I know I look young for my age."
McCail thinks, 'Young? The guy's eighty.'
"But a bit is clean living, good humor and luck of the draw. Most of my wives died of old age and the others through a series of accidents. Horses, mobs and a lighting storm, as I recall. All were given as a gift by God."
A puzzled expression lies parked on McCail's face.
"They died of old age? How old are you?"
"Dirt and I were born on the same day many thousands of years ago."
"Thousands? Ah, ah, Mr. Wildhaber, you really had me going."
Not a flinch crosses Merlin's face in reaction to McCail's comment, although his eyes do twinkle.
"Sometimes our better half, McCail, turns out to be our own soul, which for the most part goes unheard. Have you been listening to yours?"
McCail swallows, knowing the old man's words have bite.
Continuing, Merlin begins speaking in an old fashioned way. Like a ringmaster to his audience, the cabby adds more to his responses with statements directed into McCail's eyes, slowly spinning about him like an actor performing Hamlet.
"McCail, my fine sir, if you look closely, this place seems overgrown with confusion."
Abruptly a hundred travelers invade their conversation, crisscrossing between their bodies, and just as quickly leave. McCail looks bewildered.
"Such a pity for some, and others, not. Sometimes just recognizing things that are staring you directly in the face is a difficult task as we all become distracted with nonsense. Most travel far too fast for the beauty of the spirit to catch and surround them by the ever-present breath of life. But in you, my fine sir," says Merlin, peering closer with raised brows, "I can clearly see rare and very distinctive qualities. Might you care to expand your senses and dance as I do with the wind?"
"Dance with the wind? We're just here on vacation, sir, and don't really have time. Nor do I even know what dancing with the wind is."
Shrugging off the old man's comments McCail waits for a response while considering finding another cabby. But curiosity drives him on, wondering about the gentleman's sanity or just what his game is, so he continues to listen.
"Back in the terminal you saw time slow to a crawl and a warm inviting light filled you. Am I right, sir?" The gentleman shifts to the right.
"Well, yes. I guess so, but what was that?" McCail's body stands at attention.
The gentleman continues. "Those, my dear friend, are the first steps to this dance. Yes, and like most things unknown, dance steps like these require a guide or master. I am such a man."
The English gentleman's head bows nobly and raises. "But be warned, dear friend. The dance appeals only to the light of heart, which brings one closer to the light inside one's heart. But not to worry. Trust me, as untold blessings await you, McCail. You will see. Come lad."
A row of ducks flies overhead. The two men pause, watching the birds fly out of sight.
"I give truth away, dear friend, and it's free. Yet I have few takers. Now if it were drugs, I'd have them lined up for miles."
"What are you talking about? We're just here on vacation."
"Yes, and I'm sure you'll find this vacation exceptionably mystical when you listen and dance with the wind."
McCail is irritated.
"Now think about what I said, McCail, and ponder the experiences you've been through today and the ones coming."
Leaning closer, the cabby, within kissing distance, utters more. "Then, as your days go by, the magic will open your eyes and will fill you once again, as you go in search and wait for Him."
"Him? The one who's coming? What are you talking about? Did you drug me? Trust you? Like I said, Mr. Wildhaber, we're just here on vacation. Excuse me, sir, but I'm going to find another cab."
"You will be silent!" commands Merlin.
A puff of purple smoke envelopes both, surrounded by the world that sees them not, as Merlin races through his next lines.
"Confusion will fill your mind, as five minutes of your time will be switched back to our very first lines, and in three days' time you will be mine. Now awake, McCail, and begin your quest."
Again the question passes through Merlin's mind, 'Why me, God, why me?'
"You will be silent!"
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