Three Zephyrs II

The little silver wind chime hung in the window of the bedroom inside the house. Inside because it was so delicate that the winds had punished it severely on several occasions until it was feared that it would be broken. Inside it was safe, but on the same note, inside it was silent. It hung there radiating light but no sound, bereft of its intended purpose like an unplayed violin or an unridden kid’s pony. But there was no mistaking the note it played that night. Jing! Only one note struck out of six silver chime tubes that hung on black threads from a wooden disk. The wooden clapper struck the note and Darjeeling woke up. Fighting sleep, he tried to open his eyes but failed and returned to dreaming. Jing! A second note. The same pitch, the same silver tube struck again by the clapper and again he awoke leaving his sleeping body lie upon the bed not moving. He was awake now, his eyes were open, but it was one of those times when you wake up and are cognizant that you are awake but your body has not yet figured out that it is. He didn’t or couldn’t move. Instead, he lay there looking and thinking just as the third note struck. Jing! With that he sat up immediately and looked in the direction of the sound. The wind was howling outside, blowing the trees violently in circles. He heard the old metal lawn chairs blow over and across the patio. The wind blew across the end of the plastic pipe laying on the ground making an eerie sound like a didgeridoo, sending chills through him. He looked about the room and then noticed the bright light in the living room. Getting up out of bed he rushed out there, realizing that the light he was seeing was coming from outside. Looking further and putting his eyeglasses on, he saw the flame in the fireplace. It was blazing two or three feet high and sparks were blowing everywhere. “Fire,” he thought and headed for the patio door. He stopped short at the door with his hand on the doorhandle and stared at the fire outside.
A white shape hovered over the octagonal deck, inside the octagon inscribed at its center. It was a person. A small figure of a man covered with a white robe, with white hair half covered by a white stocking hat. He was looking at the fire and gesticulating with his hands. Darjeeling slowly opened the patio door and stepped out onto the upper deck. The old one turned and looked at him with a serious look and then turned back to the fire and pointed to it with his right hand. The flame of the fire rose out of the fire pit at his bidding. The wind was now howling and again Darjeeling heard his whispered name: “Stephen, what are you doing?” The old man made the flame go wherever he pointed. If he pointed up, it went up. If he pointed down, it went down. He could make it larger or smaller by pulling or pushing it with his hand. He swung his arm in an arc over his head and the flame became a fireball that formed a complete circle about six feet in diameter. Inside, the circle was pure blue like the warm daytime sky he had seen that afternoon. He turned and looked at Darjeeling as he held the circle intact with his right hand and pointed at the center of it with his left, beckoning to it with his finger. From the center of the fire-circle Darjeeling could see a human leg emerging, stepping out onto the wooden deck. It was a female leg with an oriental shoe on her foot. The other leg followed and then the rest of her came from within the circle of fire and she was standing on the deck with the old white-haired man who was still staring at Darjeeling. He stopped the flaming circle with his right hand and continued to point at the women with his left. Now he pointed toward Darjeeling who felt himself being lifted off of the upper deck and transported toward the two. He floated down to the deck and stood facing them. Looking into the eyes of the old one he could see the circle of flames turning and he was transfixed on them. “Stephen,” he turned his head toward the slim Chinese woman and marveled at her beauty. She was ethereal to say the least, with a green cast to her skin and eyes of the purest blue, like the blue of the fire circle. She was dressed in traditional ancient Chinese style; bluish green silk brocade emblazoned with red dragons that moved about on the surface of the sheer fabric. Darjeeling couldn’t speak or move until she put her finger to his lips. It was like he had just woken up. He started to speak. “I am Kuan Yin,” she said as she took his hand. All he could do was follow her toward the flaming circle. It was apparent that she was taking him with her back inside it. He turned and looked at the old man whose circle-of-fire eyes blazed up as the wind whipped his white beard off to the side. He laughed at Darjeeling and pointed at him. Kuan Yin was stepping into the circle holding his hand, but he was powerless to do anything even if he wanted to. Instead he watched as she stepped in and then turned around to face him, pulling him also into the blue sky. It was as if they were soaring up and away from the old man on the deck. He could still see him for a little bit but soon they were out of sight, flying faster and faster toward the full moon. He looked at her and she smiled.
Darjeeling found himself lying next to the limestone fireplace. His cat, Zeeb, was licking his face and the wind had stopped blowing. In his hand he clutched the wind chime which sounded all six notes as he stood up and brushed the ashes and dirt off of his chest and arms. The fire had burned itself out so he made his way across the deck wondering what in the world had happened. When he got to the center he thought about playing T’ai Chi Chuan and then laughed it off. “What am I doing?” He kept repeating as he walked back into the house. “What am I doing?” Echoed off the house and then he thought he heard his whispered name.