crowd. Some VIP must have lost the bottle and complained to the management, she concluded.
The stranger took one step closer. A man as solid as a tree trunk, he loomed over her. She could see that long scars crisscrossed his chest, which was bare beneath his toga. And she could smell him, a strong but not unpleasant odor that might be patchouli, she guessed. But although he was nearly invading her personal space, Hildy, her anger still hot, stood her ground despite his bellicose appearance.
Unexpectedly, right at that moment, the man saluted her, thumping above his heart with his right fist. He bowed his head. ‘‘My name is Antonius Eugenius. I once was a centurion commanding a cohort in the Roman army. In the reign of Caesar Augustus I was stationed in Britannia before I was sent to Judea to subdue the Jews. But you asked what I am now.’’
Sadness flickered across his face. ‘‘I am what was in the bottle.’’ He pointed to the amber glass container which remained eerily illuminated where it lay on the floor. Then he looked directly at Hildy with eyes which were a deeper blue and much older than her own. When he began to speak again, the glow of the bottle seemed to come into them, lighting him up from within. ‘‘What I am is a genie.’’
With those words he levitated off the floor and melted away into a plume of smoke which curled upward toward the ceiling and sparkled with a thousand tiny lights like a spray of golden glitter. Then the smoke whooshed downward and turned back into a human form. Once again the Roman centurion stood in front of Hildy, his flesh solid, his sandaled feet back on the floor.
Hildy’s mouth fell open. Her head felt light and strange. The room began to spin around in a dizzying whirl. She cried out ‘‘Oh!’’ and tried to fight the darkness of oblivion that overtook her, but consciousness slipped away. She slid in a faint to the floor.
Chapter 8
Sometimes a transformation does not happen over time. It occurs in an instant, at the moment when fate delivers its lightning strike. A lottery win, a car crash, a rifle shot, a bomb blast, a heart-stopping medical diagnosis, a phone call in the night bringing bad news—these events happen in a blink of an eye. They divide a life instantly into two parts. And afterward, a person is never again the same.
So it was for Hildy.
When her eyes fluttered open, Antonius Eugenius was bending over her, fanning her face with a paper plate. She attempted to sit up too quickly, and faintness overcame her again.
‘‘You passed out,’’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘‘Keep your head down.’’
Hildy, staying prone as requested, stared up at the ceiling, which she noted had water stains in one corner. But quickly getting impatient with her vulnerable position and the strange situation, she complained, ‘‘I can’t keep lying on the floor. How long do I have to stay like this?’’
‘‘A few minutes.’’ His voice held the timbre of command. ‘‘You should practice some self-restraint. You appear to be an impulsive person; your anger overrides your caution. If you had been in my legion,you’d have been run through with a sword by now.’’
‘‘If I had been in your legion, during the reign of Caesar Augustus or so you claim, I would have been dead two millennia ago. Tell me this isn’t happening,’’ Hildy said and squeezed her eyes shut.
‘‘It’s happening. Denial doesn’t help. Maybe we need to talk.’’
‘‘We are talking. That’s what’s upsetting me. I feel as if I have a unicorn in the garden.’’
‘‘I don’t understand,’’ the man said, looking at her as if she were mentally deranged.
‘‘It’s a short story by James Thurber. I’m an English teacher. I tend to make literary references.’’ Hildy thought for a moment, the linoleum cool against her back. ‘‘Here’s a reference you should understand, if you are who you say you are: ‘Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est.’
The stranger took one step closer. A man as solid as a tree trunk, he loomed over her. She could see that long scars crisscrossed his chest, which was bare beneath his toga. And she could smell him, a strong but not unpleasant odor that might be patchouli, she guessed. But although he was nearly invading her personal space, Hildy, her anger still hot, stood her ground despite his bellicose appearance.
Unexpectedly, right at that moment, the man saluted her, thumping above his heart with his right fist. He bowed his head. ‘‘My name is Antonius Eugenius. I once was a centurion commanding a cohort in the Roman army. In the reign of Caesar Augustus I was stationed in Britannia before I was sent to Judea to subdue the Jews. But you asked what I am now.’’
Sadness flickered across his face. ‘‘I am what was in the bottle.’’ He pointed to the amber glass container which remained eerily illuminated where it lay on the floor. Then he looked directly at Hildy with eyes which were a deeper blue and much older than her own. When he began to speak again, the glow of the bottle seemed to come into them, lighting him up from within. ‘‘What I am is a genie.’’
With those words he levitated off the floor and melted away into a plume of smoke which curled upward toward the ceiling and sparkled with a thousand tiny lights like a spray of golden glitter. Then the smoke whooshed downward and turned back into a human form. Once again the Roman centurion stood in front of Hildy, his flesh solid, his sandaled feet back on the floor.
Hildy’s mouth fell open. Her head felt light and strange. The room began to spin around in a dizzying whirl. She cried out ‘‘Oh!’’ and tried to fight the darkness of oblivion that overtook her, but consciousness slipped away. She slid in a faint to the floor.
Chapter 8
Sometimes a transformation does not happen over time. It occurs in an instant, at the moment when fate delivers its lightning strike. A lottery win, a car crash, a rifle shot, a bomb blast, a heart-stopping medical diagnosis, a phone call in the night bringing bad news—these events happen in a blink of an eye. They divide a life instantly into two parts. And afterward, a person is never again the same.
So it was for Hildy.
When her eyes fluttered open, Antonius Eugenius was bending over her, fanning her face with a paper plate. She attempted to sit up too quickly, and faintness overcame her again.
‘‘You passed out,’’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘‘Keep your head down.’’
Hildy, staying prone as requested, stared up at the ceiling, which she noted had water stains in one corner. But quickly getting impatient with her vulnerable position and the strange situation, she complained, ‘‘I can’t keep lying on the floor. How long do I have to stay like this?’’
‘‘A few minutes.’’ His voice held the timbre of command. ‘‘You should practice some self-restraint. You appear to be an impulsive person; your anger overrides your caution. If you had been in my legion,you’d have been run through with a sword by now.’’
‘‘If I had been in your legion, during the reign of Caesar Augustus or so you claim, I would have been dead two millennia ago. Tell me this isn’t happening,’’ Hildy said and squeezed her eyes shut.
‘‘It’s happening. Denial doesn’t help. Maybe we need to talk.’’
‘‘We are talking. That’s what’s upsetting me. I feel as if I have a unicorn in the garden.’’
‘‘I don’t understand,’’ the man said, looking at her as if she were mentally deranged.
‘‘It’s a short story by James Thurber. I’m an English teacher. I tend to make literary references.’’ Hildy thought for a moment, the linoleum cool against her back. ‘‘Here’s a reference you should understand, if you are who you say you are: ‘Omnia Gallia in tres partes divisa est.’
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