The Flag on Gorbachev Crater

1. Az-Zahra

“The drum!” shouted someone in the bleacher seats below. “It exploded!”

No, decided Daniel Beckwith, as he examined the scene through binoculars, the drum had not exploded. Actually, a girl had materialized almost exactly in front of the drum, and boy and drum had come crashing down on her. And with that, the halftime parade of the Glenwood Gladiator high-school band had come to a chaotic halt.

“Excuse, please.” “Heads up.” “Let me through.” He clambered down through standing rows of unheeding students and hurried out across the football field. A moment later he pushed his way through the cluster of band members and looked down at the girl.

She lay on her back. Some sort of towel or mat covered most of her, including her face. She wore a long muslin cloak. At that moment she thrust the mat aside and looked up at the circle of faces. Her eyes reached his and stopped.

Why me? he wondered. He had never thought of himself as particularly handsome. In fact, strong arguments to the contrary could be made. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and dark, deep-set eyes. A nose broken years ago in a football scrimmage and never properly set gave him a pugnacious look, totally at odds with his personality.

And how about her? He could see at a glance that she was a beauty. She was fair, with red-tinted blonde hair done in braids around her head. She had pink cheeks and gray-green eyes that were still locked into his. Her dark-hued cloak revealed the contours of a very shapely body.

She was breathing hard. A fair-size purse of cordovan leather, looped to her neck by a gold chain, lay on her chest.

His nose wrinkled. He recognized the smells of field and turf and cleat-torn earth. Nothing strange about those. No, it was something else. It was the odor of electrical equipment. Ozone? he wondered. Odd.

He knelt down. “Are you all right?”

She peered up at him and frowned, as though she did not understand him. She struggled to a sitting position and pulled the mat over her front. She continued to look at him curiously, and then she said something that he couldn’t understand. It was a question. He could tell that much. A question in a foreign language. Which one? He knew a few words in half a dozen. As a wild guess, it sounded as though it might be Arabic. One of the worst, yet he felt relief. Arabic meant she was probably an exchange student, perhaps from Egypt or Syria, some place like that. Somebody would turn up to take care of her, and she would certainly know a few words of basic English.

He repeated, “Are you all right?”

“Inglizi?” she asked slowly, searching his bearded face.

Ah, he thought. We’re making progress. Despite the fair complexion, she’s definitely Arabic. That’s the Arab word for English. And it’s equally clear that she doesn’t understand English. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to recall some of the “Phrases for Travelers” in his two-cartridge course in Arabic. He said, “Ismee Daniel Beckwith.” My name is Daniel Beckwith. “Miin hadirtak?” May I ask who you are?

She answered distinctly. “Az-Zahra.”

“Az-Zahra, tsharraft bi-mariftak.” Az-Zahra, I am pleased to meet you. Could she understand him? He knew his accent was atrocious. Courage, Beckwith! He continued, with halting lapses. “Min wayne hadirtak?” Where are you from?

She brightened. “Ana min Cordoba.”

Ah, he thought. Cordoba? Hmm. There’s Cordoba Spain, Cordoba Argentina, probably Cordobas all over Latin America. Perhaps she knew Spanish. He wasn’t very good at it, but certainly it was better than his Arabic. Try for Spain. He said slowly, “¿Cordoba? ¿Usted es de Cordoba en España?”

She was beaming. “¡Sí! Cordoba en España.” She got to her feet and rolled up her mat. Rows of rhinestones were sewn into the fabric, and they refracted a dazzling spectral display as the sunlight struck them. Standing there in her black leather slippers, she seemed a little below average height, perhaps five-foot-two or -three inches. Yet there was something regal in her bearing.

She said, “¿Habla vuesa merced Español?”

He claimed no expertise in the language; yet, it seemed to him there was something odd about her pronunciation. No matter. It was all recognizable, even that archaic “vuesa merced”—“your grace”—which had devolved into the abbreviation “usted” more than five centuries ago. He replied cautiously, “Un poco.”

She looked up at him very seriously. “Digame, por favor, Sidi Beckwith, ¿que año?”

What year? The question shook him. And what’s this “sidi” business? Cid? Medieval Spanish for “lord”!

He watched her carefully as he replied. “El año es dos mil treinta y seis.” Two thousand thirty-six.

She considered that a moment, then looked up at him. “¿Año de los cristianos?”

Christian era? “Sí.”

“Un tiempo muy largo,” she mused. A very long time. “¿Pero Cordoba vive todavía?” But Cordoba still lives?

He wasn’t exactly sure how to reply. He said simply, “Si.”

“Ah. Es bueno.” She looked around through the circle of students and band members. Off to the west she could see the ridge of the Shenandoah Mountains. “Manzar jamiil,” she murmured.

Back to Arabic? Did she say, what a beautiful view? Let’s keep this in Spanish. At least I had a couple of years of that in school. In this very high school, no less. Twenty years ago? Seems like yesterday. He said, “¿Usted es estudiante de cambio?” Are you an exchange student?

She gave him a puzzled look. “¿Estudiante de cambio? No comprendo.”

Not an exchange student? Very curious. Then who was she? He looked over to the west. It was about three-thirty, on a crisp November afternoon. The sun was already sinking down toward the hill crests. The field would soon be in shadow, and the temperature was going to drop abruptly. She was not dressed for this. He had to get her out of here.

“¿Dónde habita usted? Llevaré a casa.” Where do you live? I will take you home.

She shook her head firmly. “Habito en Cordoba. No puedo volver.”

So she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—return to Spain. But that wasn’t the point. She had to have a local residence. She hadn’t simply dropped out of the sky. Or had she? He was missing something vital.

Meanwhile, back to reality.

Leave her here? Walk away from this before it became any messier? Ah, Beckwith, you sucker, he thought. You’ve done it again. Beckwith the volunteer. Who was it who took the car-struck dog to the vet? Beckwith. Who tried to protect the little old lady from the mugger? Beckwith. Beckwith, the man who gets kittens down out of trees.

He kept thinking, she belongs with somebody. But who? She doesn’t seem to know. Maybe the accident has temporarily disoriented her. Where do you take lost children? To the sheriff’s office? Well… He visualized the scene. “She claims she’s from medieval Spain, Sheriff.” The sheriff would probably hold them both until the state psychiatrist could drive up from Richmond.

He studied her as 3he stood there. The inspection was mutual. She was looking at him curiously, too; her mouth was twisted in a half-smile. She seemed radiantly healthy, young. Especially, young. She was holding her rolled-up mat against her chest, but it provided no real warmth. She was shivering.

“Hace frío,” he said. “Hay que salir.” It is cold. We have to leave.

“Sí.” Then she hesitated. “¿Dónde vamonos?” Where are we going?

“A casa. A mi casa.” Home. My home.

She considered that. “¿Sidi Daniel Beckwith, es vuestra merced un buen hombre?”

Was he a good man? He said, “Dios solamente es bueno.” God alone is good.

She smiled. “Creo que El Sidi estes sufficiamente bueno. Iré con vuestra merced.”

So, thought Beckwith, I am sufficiently good, and she will go with me.

He took her arm, shouldered a path through the mixture of curious faces and band instruments, and headed toward the parking lot.

He stopped. A dark-haired man in a gray cape stood in front of them, blocking their way.