A Knight in Central Park(38)
“You do possess a stubborn streak.”
“Stubborn as an ox.”
“Then you leave me with no choice.” The old man pushed the covers aside and slipped his hand into a fist-sized hole in the ratty mattress. “Here,” he said, holding the last glistening stone in his open palm. “I trust you will now keep your end of the bargain?”
Two brisk strides brought Joe to the old man’s bedside. He took the stone and held it to the light, relieved to see faint lines weaved through silver ones. “I’ll do what I can, that’s all I ever promised.”
“Be forewarned, my son. ’Tis more than a simple stone that brings you here.” He laid his head back upon a large straw-stuffed pillow. “Though I trust you will learn that for yourself before long.”
Joe watched the old man, even felt a tad sorry for him. Seventy-five, maybe eighty years old, and he still believed in dreams and destiny and miracles. Rightly so, considering the old man was still among the living, not to mention, the time-traveling stones. Joe went to the door and turned back. He held up the rock. “Where did you find such a treasure?”
“Perhaps upon your return you will visit with me long enough for me to tell you of my journeys.”
Joe nodded. The faint smell of moldy cedar drifted between them. The old man must have many interesting stories to tell, Joe thought. He wouldn’t mind sitting down with the man under different circumstances.
“Alexandra tells me you seek lost treasure.”
Joe nodded. “That’s right. As long as I’m here I might as well take a look around, keep my eyes open.” The prospect of learning the identity of the Black Knight along with the possibility of finding an ancient artifact or two filled him with a sudden eagerness to set off for the hills. He could almost see the pride on his father’s face when the Academy verified the authenticity of his findings. Maybe there was some truth to what the old man said about destiny after all.
“My instincts tell me you will not leave this world until you have found what you are seeking.”
“Well, thanks,” Joe said. As he pushed open the linen cloth, a welcome breeze swept over him. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
The old man lifted a frail hand. “Be careful that you leave no rock unturned. A tragedy it would be if you were to leave behind that which you cherished most.”
Joe peered into the old man’s eyes for a few seconds longer than he intended before deciding the old man had way too much time on his hands. “I’ll be careful. But don’t blame me,” he said, laying splayed fingers to his own chest, “if I don’t come back with Alexandra’s sister. I’m not Zorro and I’m certainly nobody’s hero.”
The old man smiled as if he understood.
As Joe walked off, he found himself shaking his head at the idea of everyone thinking he was some sort of champion sent here to save the day. Hero, husband, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t the man for the job.
Chapter Eleven
There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
—Albert Einstein
Alexandra tightened the saddle strap between glances toward Grandfather’s hut whilst her sister, Susan, filled her head with endless plaints. What was Grandfather saying to Sir Joe? Alexandra could only pray Sir Joe would remain agreeable to her plight after speaking with the old man for so long. She never knew what Grandfather might say or do, and it never bothered her much until now. If the old man had spoke of marriage, she would die of humiliation, for Sir Joe had made it clear he had no desire to take a wife.
Neither did she have any wish to marry, but that was different since she had no choice in the matter. Surely, her friends and neighbors would be quick to blame her for his refusal to marry. Whilst growing up, she tended to squabble with the males in the village, always challenging one boy or another, proving she could hawk better, ride better, swim better, and hunt better. By the time the boys became men, they all decided it served them well to stay clear of Alexandra Dunn.
And just as well. Anything they could do, she could do better. But how was she to have known that someday she would meet Sir Joe and thus begin to wallow in dreams of being held in his arms?
Many of the elders in the village considered her to be unladylike. Absurd. Certainly there must be other women who preferred riding a horse to weaving. Being skilled with a bow and arrow and favoring hawking over cooking did not make one unladylike. Being cooped up inside all day embroidering would simply bore her to tears.