fountain of youth

I love Toronto. I have a Garden of Eden high in the sky on the terrace of my penthouse.

I sit each night with a glass of Shiraz and watch the sunset, or enjoy the storms—and if all else fails, I stare for hours at the jumbled mosaic of the Toronto skyline.

That’s where I am tonight, enjoying the view, when suddenly my cell rings.

“Paul—I’m back from the land of Nod and wish to see you.”

It’s Astrid Simpson—already my foolish heart’s racing.

“I’m on the terrace with a bottle of Yellow Tail—why not drop over?”

“Save me a glass. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

I flip the cell shut and lie back and stare at the one faint star I can see above in the purple haze. I hope it’s part of the constellation Libra.

I admit, I’m enthralled with Astrid.

In my mind I associate her with Astraea, the deity who presided over the Golden Age—until men became violent and greedy causing her to flee to the stars and become the constellation Virgo.

Okay, I prefer to think of her cluster as Libra—but I have my reasons for that. I’m in love with Astrid—I think. My only chance is if she’s not as chaste as Diana—or as distant and aloof.

A half hour later, the doorbell rings. and I visit with Astrid in the stars, relaxing in my rooftop oasis.

“So Paul, what have you been up to since Tabriz?”

Her skin is still bronzed as it was on the desert when we were looking for the ancient Garden of Eden.

“Oh, the usual, unusual,” I tease. “Jerrod at the Smithsonian has kept me busy.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Jerrod Mason is always up for adventure—How about you, Professor Rutledge—are you game, or do you prefer to stay in your Arcadian retreat?”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask cagily.

“What would you say to an expedition to locate The Fountain of Youth?”

I groan inwardly. Tales of an eternal spring have circulated long before Herodotus—actually back to 3500 B.C. and they’re just legends—fanciful fabrications with little archeological merit.

“You can’t be serious, Astrid—surely you know the failed history of all these ventures.”

“Oh, I’m familiar with it all—from Prester John to Ponce de Leon—but this is different, Paul.”

The prospect of spending weeks with Astrid is definitely appealing, but the prospect of embarking on an archeological wild goose chase is not.

Astrid senses my reluctance and begins pleading.

“Look Paul, you trusted me before about Eden and it turned out I was right—Now, I’ve returned from the area and despite the devastation of the earthquake, we’ll soon be able to go back and try again.”

She was right. We found Eden—and then bad luck, or divine intervention produced an earthquake that swallowed it up.

I throw up my hands. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where is this supposed spring—in Florida?”

“It’s not the spring I’ve located, but the elixir itself.”

“And where might that be?”

“At Eckernförde in Schleswig-Holstein—near the Baltic Sea.”

“Northern Germany?” I scoff. “That location has never been mentioned as a possible site.”

“Nevertheless, it is,” she smiles winningly. “Just trust me one more time.”

She looks for my approval, her eyes bright and expectant. As Jerrod often tells me, I suspend all judgment when staring into the eyes of a beautiful woman.

“How long will this misadventure last?”

She whoops with joy and hugs me.

“Not long—about a week,” she hesitates and then adds in a lowered voice, “—unless , of course, you choose to stay longer.”

I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I’m pretty sure what she means, and like Portia’s suitors I’m foolish enough to assume dessert.

Perhaps I’m being foolish, but to my way of thinking, the dreams Astrid lights in me are really the only dreams worth having.

To be continued

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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