"Anything else?"
"No, only a stick. That's all you'll use." He turned away brusquely and whistled for the animals. They came running.
I found a stick of driftwood a few feet away and brought it over.
"That's a good one. Now, Walker, what I want you to do is make a sand castle right here. You know, the kind kids build near the water where it's wet?"
I looked down at the bone-dry khaki sand where we stood and thought he was joking. Pushing it with a foot, I watched it slide apart, parched and twinkling from the heat and sun.
"Come on, Venasque. It's too dry. It won't stick together."
"I don't want to hear that! Do what I tell you. There's a way. If I tell you to do it then there's a way. Watch me."
Taken aback by his tone and growing rudeness, I watched silently while he went down on his knees facing me. The animals were at his side and remained there without moving or making noise. His silent guards.
The old man closed his eyes and suddenly stuck his arms straight out in front of him, like a sleepwalker.
His hands started to drip water. It came down in fat fast plops, as if his fingers were open water faucets. It didn't stop. He looked at me without saying anything.
Reaching down, he slid the shining wet hands under the sand and left them there some time. The spot began to darken into brown and spread in all directions. Something below was making everything wet. Dripping fingers.
In a while he pulled them out again and began to mold and shape the wet muck into walls and squared sections, then turrets and what looked like a moat.
When his sand castle began to take definite shape, he stood up with a groan and told the animals to finish it. And like hairy architects or giant worker ants, they dug and pushed and pawed things further into shape. I watched while they did these wondrous things. Looking up once, I saw Venasque standing nearby looking out to sea and finishing my sandwich. He wasn't interested in what they were doing.
When it was done, their castle looked very much like the one at the entrance to Fantasyland at Disneyland. They stepped back and looked it over, then walked down to the water to clean themselves.
"You can make a castle here, Walker."
"I'm not you, Venasque. I can't make water flow out of my fingers. Or get a dog and a pig to put up walls for me."
"No, but you gotta brain to think of something else. My way is different from yours, sure. But you gotta learn there is a way for you too. Even when it's doing something as small and dumb as this. Give me a castle out of dry sand, okay?
"I'm going to take a walk down the beach. We'll be back in an hour or two, so work on it till then. Remember, I only want you to use that stick you found. Don't bring up any water from the ocean because that's the easy way. And I'll know if you've done it."
"How?"
"How will I know? Do it and you'll see. Think up something else, Walker. You can do it. If you caused all that magic to happen around you back in Vienna, you can start taking it from inside and using it for yourself."
He whistled again shrilly, and the animals rushed up from the surf to join him. They took off together down the beach, Connie leaning against his right leg. He looked back once and gave a big wave. "Don't use water!"
I waved back, frowning. When he was far enough away, I jammed the stick into the sand and left it standing there while trying to decide how to go about this chore.
Brilliant ideas, like using spit or even piss (they weren't sea water!), had me momentarily excited. Yet how many times would you have to spit (or pee) before you had enough sand . . . How much wood would a woodchuck chuck . . .
It was a beautiful day, and I kept wishing Maris had been there to share it. If she had, she'd have come up with a solution. Maris was the architect in our relationship, she was the builder. I thought of Howard Roark in The Fountainhead. He'd have known what to do, too. Unfortunately, neither Maris nor Howard was around, so it was only me and my stick and a beach full of dry sand that didn't feel like sticking together unless it was wet.
The first inspiration struck. Perhaps if I dug down deep enough, the sand would be wetter and more formable there. I spent the first fifteen minutes digging like a neurotic cocker spaniel in the hot sand. To no avail, naturally. The more sand I pushed away, the more slid, slunk, slipped back into my futile hole. The more it slid and slunk, the more pissed off I got. The more pissed off I got, the more (and faster) I tried to shovel the stuff out. Good luck doing that! Talk about Sisyphus trying to push his rock up the hill. At least the gods let him move it a little before he lost.
About the time my anger was beginning to redline, a man came up and stood there watching me work. I was too frustrated and hot to be embarrassed by what I was doing. All the same, I felt like telling him to mind his own business and take off.
"Not having much luck with that hole, are you?"
I wanted to hit him on the head. His voice carried the annoying tone of a dope who is sure he's on to something profound.
"That's very true! I'm not!"
"Are you doing it for fun, or what?"
I stopped digging and, lips pursed, watched another mini-avalanche of sand slide slowly and sensuously back into my crater.
"Look, can I help you, pal? I mean, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Not a thing. I'm just standin' here watching."
"I noticed."
"But I don't think you're going to get anywhere, digging like that."
"Thank you. Do you have any suggestions?"
"Nope."
A good way to feel stupid is to be doing something stupid and having someone watch you. He wouldn't go away, either. I turned my back on him and started my spaniel bit again. Then I turned so more of my rear end was facing him, and I started tossing huge spumes of sand at him.
"Hey, watch it! Are you crazy?"
I stopped and did nothing. Maybe he was Venasque in disguise, come back to try my patience. I turned and looked at him. He smiled triumphantly and crossed his arms.
The last of my cool blew out to sea. "Get out of here, will you?"
"I'll do what I want! This is a free country!"
"I haven't heard that line since I was in fifth grade." I got up and walked away. I had to get out of his range or else.
I walked down the beach awhile, then turned and went back. Luckily, my audience had taken off. I got back down on my knees and looked once again at my friend, the sand.
And was still looking an hour later when Venasque returned with the animals, and the man, in tow.
"How far did you get?"
"I didn't." I shrugged.
"I asked him what he was doing there and he threw sand in my face. He's crazy, you ask me."
Venasque patted him on the back. "We two made a bet that he couldn't make a sand castle here."
"Sand castle? You can't build no sand castle where the sand's dry like this! You gotta go down near the water where it's wet."
"No ideas at all, Walker?"
"I wanted to use spit or even piss to get it wet. But you'd have to get too much of both. I didn't drink enough at lunch."
The other man made a face as if something smelled bad.
Venasque thought it was funny. He laughed with his mouth wide open – HA-HA-HA.
"That's good thinking, but you're not allowed to use them either. No water. Not the ocean or yours. HA-HA."
"You used it!" It came out sounding like a bratty, whining child. How was I ever going to learn from him? How can you know magic when you can't even control your own voice or emotions?
"I'm sorry for talking like that, Venasque. I want to do it, but I don't see how yet."
"That's okay. Take more time and think it through. We don't have to be in the mountains for a while." He turned to the other man. "Come on, Leo, let's go get a Coke."