Jesse Ball: The Way Through Doors

She found a good spot and sat down. It was slightly different from the spot she had chosen from far away. She wondered if Selah would notice. Probably he would. The sand was very fine and smooth and even. She moved her finger across the surface and made a little drawing like this:

Then she swept the sand away and drew the drawing again. It was exactly the same. Staggeringly so.

Mora smiled to herself and looked back over her shoulder. Selah was farther down the boardwalk now, standing at a booth, talking to someone. Who was he talking to? She couldn’t see the person’s face; it was too far away. Selah was holding a parasol and swinging it in a slow circle. She felt certain of him.

— He was right about me, she said to herself.

Her hand moved then rapidly over the sand, drawing her sigil again and again and again. All around her the sand and the boardwalk and the beach drew close up around her, then Coney Island crept, and beyond it on one side New York, on the other the vast Atlantic. The vicinity of Mora Klein became crowded, as though it were a recital being held in a small room when the piano takes up all of the space, but everyone nonetheless refuses to be kept away. Yes, everyone hurried away from what they were doing elsewhere to come here where a girl was sitting and drawing with the tips of her fingers. Everyone came to stand near, and each one held his breath to see what would happen next.

Pau, Jul. 2005

Thanks To

The well situated L’Aragon of Pau, France, where this book was written.

Dimitri Dover, composer of the Devil’s fiddle piece.

Gerry Riemer.

Jenny Jackson.

Billy Kingsland.

Martin Carthy (for the folk song, “Geordie”).