by Georgia Byng
“Wow!” Molly gasped. “That must have taken ages!”
“It did. Sometimes the talent seemed to skip a generation and other times it didn’t come up so strong. A bit like this nose of ours.” He pointed to Molly’s and then to his own potato-shaped nose. “Not everyone in our family has this nose—nor does everyone have the hypnotic power. Anyway, on my journeys I came across a woman of the most superb power. She was the finest hypnotist I have ever met. Her powers were extraordinary. They didn’t stop at hypnotism—oh no—she was a brilliant time stopper and time traveler, a genius mind reader, a gifted morpher. She could do other things, too. She taught me a tremendous amount. And it was from her that I got the coin.”
“Where did she get it?” Do asked.
“She made it. Honestly, she was beyond marvelous. She was—”
“Well,” Molly interrupted, “she’s the person we should visit.” Dr. Logan spluttered into his soup. Molly looked at him earnestly. “Can you manage it?”
Her grandfather coughed and dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief. “I suppose it would be a good idea to visit her. If . . . if I can locate her.”
“Can you try?” said Molly. “We could go now. If you’ve finished your soup.”
Dr. Logan’s eyebrows arched. “Now? Hmmm.” He reached for the green crystal around his neck.
“It’s the green one we’ll be needing to travel back in time,” Molly explained to Do.
Dr. Logan nodded, then smiled. He stood up. “Are you ready?”
Molly stood up, too, and took his hand.
Her grandfather gazed into the green crystal. All of a sudden the crack on it blinked open and an eye stared out. Dr. Logan spoke slowly and determinedly. “One, two, three . . .”
There was a BOOM as the place where Molly and her grandfather had been was suddenly filled with air.
Dr. Logan and Molly were on their way.
Do nodded and shut his eyes.
Thirty
Rocky, Gerry, and Toka sat around a wooden table. Petula was curled up on the matted floor beside them asleep. In the next room, student sumo wrestlers were practicing. The noise of slapping, tussling, and thudding perforated the walls.
The boys had a pile of Japanese newspapers. Toka was reading a section where a photograph of Molly’s face smiled out at them.
“It says,” Toka explained, “the same stuff as the other ones. She was last seen running through the streets of Tokyo, wet and in green kimono, with face painted like geisha. It says police are looking into sightings of this Molly. There are reports that she took the bullet train to Kyoto.”
“Does this one say the same thing about Proila as the others do?” Rocky asked, pointing at a photograph of Mr. Proila on a stage playing a guitar.
“Yes, it’s about the fabulous concert he gave, playing guitar, piano, and harmonica.” Toka shook his head. “Even though he’s deaf! Wow! That coin is so powerful!”
“So we’re sure then,” Rocky concluded. “Proila now has the coin.” He stroked Petula. “And Molly, without it, is what?”
“Well, she knows ’is secret, don’t she?” said Gerry. “He’ll do anythin’ to shut ’er up. No wonder she’s runnin’. Poor, poor Molly. I feel so sorry for ’er.”
Toka turned the newspaper to study its front page. “Bad news about the whales. Still can’t believe that.”
“Are you sure you read it right?” Gerry asked.
Toka nodded and reread the headline. “From today, whale hunting is OK. It new sport and it OK to buy whale meat.”
“Proila definitely had something to do with that,” Gerry observed. “All he needed to do was play music to the prime minister.”
“What other nasty documents did he get signed?” Rocky wondered. “Yesterday dogfighting and cockfights were made legal. Today whale hunting. What’s tomorrow?” We’ve got to find Molly.”
“Before Proila does.”
“Poor Molly,” said Gerry. “Where is she?”
Molly’s great-great-great-grandfather cast an invisible lasso around her, to whizz her backward through time. Warm time winds swirled about them as Dr. Logan’s special crystal took them both back through the centuries. The sky above flickered from light to dark as the transporting bubble that they were in reversed through thousands of days and nights. The countryside around them flashed from golden to green to dark brown as the seasons changed and the plants ripened and grew and then died.
Molly looked at her grandfather’s kindly face as he concentrated. She watched as he judged the right moment to stop.
“This should do it,” he said, his eyebrows lifting. He smiled at Molly and brought them to a “time hover,” which meant that they were hovering in the time but not yet visible. They looked about them.
“Coast seems clear,” Dr. Logan said. “Ready?”
With a blip their bubble popped. They were standing in the countryside in tall grass. It was summer and the meadows were in full bloom. Above was a cornflower blue sky. Instead of the buildings of Kyoto and Do’s monastery, tree-filled countryside ran to distant hills.
“We have arrived,” Dr. Logan declared. “This is the time of the marvelous woman I told you about. It’s the eleventh century. She doesn’t live in Japan though.”
“Oh? Where does she live?”
“Toward Europe, over where Sardinia is going to be.”
Molly frowned, worried. “Shouldn’t we go to the far future to get a super-fast plane to Sardinia?” she suggested. It occurred to her that maybe Dr. Logan, old and tired as he was, had miscalculated. He might not have enough energy to go to the future now and then to Sardinia and then to return Molly back to her own time again. “I mean, in the eleventh century in Japan,” she said, “probably the only way to get about is by horse or donkey or ox cart.”
“Yes, or by boat . . .” Dr. Logan seemed distracted. With his right hand he was digging about in his jacket pocket. “Don’t worry, Molly, we shan’t use any of those methods.” He found what he was looking for—a white oval stone that he held up for Molly to see. The disc was about as long as his index finger. It was slim as a slice of cucumber, slightly thicker toward its center. It reminded Molly of the dried cuttlefish she’d seen in birdcages for parrots or parakeets to peck at, except it was smooth. Dr. Logan attached the stone to a chain around his neck. “It’s a ‘floom’—well, that’s what I call it.”
“What does it do?”
“It will get us to Fritha. She’s the coin-maker ancestor I told you about. Now, Molly, please be quiet a moment, as I really have to concentrate to do this. It’s frightfully difficult.” He eyed Molly. “You are familiar with meditation, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, thought you would be. Meditation is the way. First we will get ourselves into what I call the Space Water. We will find the right super-highwave to ride. Once we’re on that, it should only be a few moments before we are on the island that will one day be Sardinia.”
For the second time Molly doubted the old man. She had no idea what he was talking about. “What is a super-highwave?” she asked, skepticism audible in her voice. “And how do we ride one? It sounds like we’re about to go surfing.”
“Yes, surfing, that strange sport invented by the Polynesian people way back in the distant past. That is similar to what we are going to be doing now.”
Molly’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“So,” her grandfather went on, “we have no time to waste, especially as I’m on a roll, as I think you say. You must shut your eyes. Focus on a word that will take you into a nice quiet place inside yourself.”
“Into a trance?” Molly asked.
“Yes, sort of. I suppose you’ve done that all your life.” Dr. Logan closed his eyes.
Molly nodded. She shut hers.
“Good,” her grandfather began. “So, we’ll go deeper if we can, deep into the quietest places of our minds. Relax.”
Molly did as she was told. She thought of the aum word Do had t
aught her and said it over and over again in her mind. As the sound filled her, she felt herself being propelled deeper into herself. At first she heard the chirping of birds as they flitted about and the sounds of the wind in the grass, but she soon stopped hearing anything. Her grandfather’s voice came loud and clear to her as though he were speaking from right inside her mind.
“Imagine the floom I showed you, Molly. Imagine it as large as a surfboard. Imagine it laid out before you now. Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now step on it.”
Molly tried but couldn’t see herself actually on the stone board. Her grandfather put his hand under her elbow. “You need a little help. By making contact, you get help from me. Now you are on the board.” In her mind, Molly saw that she was. “You do not need to look at me,” her grandfather added. “I am on it, too. Are you ready?”
Molly kept her mind focused on the task ahead. She concentrated on the white milkiness of the imagined surfboard under her feet. And then the darkness around the board began rushing, and the board began to tilt and move, as though the darkness all about were some sort of wave tunnel and they were riding through it.
Molly was nervous about falling off yet she knew this was unlikely, as under her elbow she could feel the firm grip of her grandfather’s hand. The swirling wave tunnel swished about them faster and faster. The stone surfboard cut through it sharp and silent.
“Whoa!” her grandfather shouted.
Molly kept her focus on the board but at the same time turned to “look” at her grandfather, without opening her eyes. There he was behind her, in his tweed suit, staring out in front of him with an expression of glee on his face.
“Nearly there!” he exclaimed.
“How do you know?”
“I gave the board instructions, and now I can sense we are near,” he replied. “Ah!” He took his hand away from Molly’s elbow. “Now, keep your eyes shut and listen; feel the air.”
Molly did as she’d been told. Gone were the sounds of birds and rustling grass. Instead there was the chirping of crickets. Molly could feel hot sun beating down on her head and shoulders.
“Open your eyes!”
Thirty-one
Molly was amazed. The landscape had metamorphosed. Now there was craggy granite all about, rocks that had been molded by the elements so that they resembled animals and faces. Molly and Dr. Logan were standing on a hillside with dramatic views down toward an expanse of silvery-blue sea. The ocean disappeared into the horizon.
“Is this Sardinia? The place you made the coin?” Molly said in awe.
“Yes. Come with me.”
Molly stood up and wiped her eyes. “But I can’t believe it. We’ve sort of teleported here. It’s incredible.”
“Teleporting is one way of putting it,” the old man agreed. “I like to call it ‘space surfing’ or ‘flooming,’ but you can make up your own name for it if you like.” He pointed to the hilltop. “I hope she’s in.”
Molly followed Dr. Logan up a dry, stony track. The path wove its way between hardy hedges and bushes and mountain flowers. Insects buzzed and grasshoppers leaped through the grass.
Then, for no reason at all, Molly felt her hair stand up on end and her stomach dip.
“Try to ignore it,” Dr. Logan said. “It’s not pleasant, I know; trust me, in a minute it gets worse. Just think of straight lines and you’ll be fine.”
“What is it?” Molly said, clutching her stomach. It felt as though it was doing somersaults.
“It’s the scutem. Scutem is a Latin word. It means ‘shield.’ She instills rocks with a sort of repelling power; then they become scutem. They put people off the place. I think those might have something to do with it.” He pointed to a rock that looked like an oddly shaped horse and another that could have been a fossilized gorilla. Molly frowned and concentrated on lines. Sure enough it helped. As soon as they’d passed the weird rocks the horrible feeling stopped.
Dr. Logan and Molly walked on through a stand of cypress trees. They came out onto a small, cliff-like ledge. It looked out over a valley that brimmed with green-leafed trees. To the left was a large cave. Above it, the crags had eroded to look like an eagle’s head.
“There! That is where she lives.”
“Our . . . our . . . great-great-super-great-grandmother?” Molly asked.
“Yes—Fritha.”
The path toward the cave was gravelly and well trodden, with clumps of sweet-smelling herbs growing beside it.
“She’s an herbalist, too,” Dr. Logan said.
They reached the cave entrance, where a bell hung. Dr. Logan pulled its string so that it swung and rang out.
“Hello! . . .” his voice echoed. No one answered. “Oh dear,” Dr. Logan said. “I do hope she hasn’t gone on a trip!”
“We could always zip forward a month or so if she has,” Molly pointed out.
Then she turned and looked along the cliff path. An elderly woman in a green cloak and a long burlap skirt was walking toward them. She carried a wicker basket overflowing with plant cuttings. Pausing, she put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun and peered at Molly and her grandfather.
Her face was like a turtle’s, thick skinned and brown, and her eyes were green and sparkled in the Sardinian sun. Close up she smelled of bonfires. When she spoke she had an Irish accent.
“Dr. Logan? Is that you?” she said.
“Yes.”
“You’ve taken a long time to return. You were a young man yesterday.”
“I know. All the time traveling has aged me.” Dr. Logan turned to Molly. “You see, I was here yesterday. But then I went back to my time, and many years have passed. Molly, meet Fritha; Fritha meet Molly Moon. Molly is a descendant of ours and, I have to tell you, of all the people I have traced who carry the hypnotism gene she is the most talented . . . since you, of course.”
Molly shook her head. “Maybe I was,” she corrected Dr. Logan. “But you forget—I’ve lost all my hypnotic skills since . . .”
“Ah yes, yes,” Dr. Logan remembered.
The old woman smiled, her tanned face creasing. She put down her basket and placed her hands on Molly’s shoulders. “Pleased to meet you, girlie,” she said. She nodded at Dr. Logan. “Looks like you, too! Extraordinary!” Then she narrowed her eyes and spoke to Molly’s grandfather. “So, what happened with the coin? Did it sort out lots of problems for ya? Judgin’ from your ambitious talk yesterday, I expect you have a wonderful, harmonious society now that all badness has been hypnotized away.”
Dr. Logan looked down at the ground. “It didn’t go quite to plan, I’m afraid,” he admitted.
Fritha frowned. “Ah, then we’d better go inside for a nice cup o’ nettle tea.”
They followed Fritha into the first part of her cave. Here, some smoldering embers nestled in a dip in the cave wall. Fritha took a stick, one that was wider at one end like a baseball bat. She dipped this in the glowing embers and it lit. She then led them to a passage beyond, bearing her flaming torch to show them the way.
“Pine sap,” she said. “It burns very well and doesn’t go out. A man who comes to me for my headache cure pays me in torches that he has coated with the sap. They don’t last forever, nothin’ like your futuristic lightbulbs, Molly, but he brings me lots.” She rummaged in her pocket and handed Molly a strip of woody stuff. “He brings me pine root to chew, too. Full of vitamins. Try it.” Molly put it in her mouth. It was sweet in an earthy way. “Don’t swallow it though,” Fritha said. Then she added. “That outfit you have on, Molly. It looks Japanese.”
“Yes.” Molly had forgotten that she was still in a kimono. “It’s very comfy actually.”
The passage went on, around a corner and then deeper into the hillside. In one place there was a side cave. Molly caught a glimpse of chairs and a table there. Fritha took them toward a patch of light at the end of the tunnel. It grew bigger and bigger as they approached it. Finally the space open
ed up. They found themselves in a church-sized cavity, where stalactites hung from above and light poured in from a crack near the top of the rocky ceiling. At the far end, more light came into the cave from an opening to the outside surrounded by tall rocks where vines hung down. Water, a natural spring, Molly supposed, came from a crack in this rock, collecting in a small pool beneath it, where it also drained away.
The place smelled mossy, but also of herbs. This was because in the center of the cave there were heavy wooden tables covered in plants—live and dried—and stones covered in moss. Mixed in with these things were white skulls of animals and glass vessels full of colored liquids. To the side of the cave was a fireplace set in a dried clay surround. A long narrow chimney carried smoke out through the roof.
Fritha set down her basket and put a cast-iron pot of water on to boil. “Hungry?” she asked. “I’ve made some soda bread.”
“No. No, thank you,” Dr. Logan replied and Molly echoed him.
Molly observed her grandfather’s face. She could see that he was embarrassed by what he knew he had to ask Fritha. And, though actually he looked the same age as Fritha, he was acting a bit like a naughty boy who’d come to an adult to own up.
Fritha could obviously sense all this, too, for she began to chuckle.
“Oh, Doctor! Maybe it’s better Molly explains what ya’ve come for. I have a feelin’ it’s about the coin.”
“Are you reading my mind?” Dr. Logan asked nervously.
“Oh no! Let me make your tea, then Molly can tell me.”
Molly noticed Fritha’s distinct Irish accent again. “Are you . . . are you Irish?” she asked.
“Yes, wee girl, sure I am.”
Molly thought. “Did you come here by . . . boat? I mean, Sardinia’s a long way from Ireland.”
