Time Dancers

4. Olagarro (octopus)

The dying mariner approaches land after a long and troubled journey at sea. He drifts into the shallow pools of a rocky cove with nothing left but his secret, the secret he has stolen and smuggled to this unknown, distant place. Yet, he cannot take it ashore. He must leave it and hide it carefully until the time comes when it will be needed. But where can he hide it? Who can protect it? Who can he trust? Underwater, darting through the shallows, something passes silently from rock to rock. Shy, intelligent, reclusive, with three hearts and eight arms, the octopus moves, blending into the surroundings, changing color, poisoning and paralyzing any enemy if necessary, then disappearing behind a black cloud into hidden holes, crevices, caves, dens, and grottoes, not to be seen, not to be found. Yes, the mariner decides, the octopus is the one.

Somewhere between the Balearic Islands and the harbor of Barcelona, Sailor disappeared on board the Iona. None of us were surprised. Ray and I were aware and Arrosa suspected that Sailor rarely entered a country or continent legally. He is as good or better than any Meq at using false papers and identities; however, he prefers not to make use of them. The risk is unnecessary and he continues the practice. He would never admit it, but I think he does it simply for the thrill.

The Iona slowly found her berth among the crowded waters of the old port. It was late morning and the sun was high and bright in a clear blue sky. Ray was excited. He said, “I heard this city is as wild as New Orleans.” Arrosa said she had never heard that before, but she did say, “Barcelona is unique among all cities.” She was very familiar with Barcelona and all of Catalonia. Her fluency in Catalan even helped speed us through customs and the stack of paperwork concerning the caskets of Unai and Usoa. We were each in a good mood, perhaps too much so. When Pello met us at the exit gate and I looked into his eyes, I saw a certain kind of pain that brought me back instantly to the true and somber reason for our visit—we were here to bury loved ones. I could see clearly that Pello had loved no one more than his father, Kepa Txopitea. The loss in his eyes was infinite.

“I…I am sorry, Pello,” I said.

He now wore a blue beret instead of red. He was leaning on his cane and shifted his weight slightly, then removed his beret. His hair had turned completely gray in the six months since I had seen him last. “Thank you, señor,” he said softly. “My father was an old man and lived a long, good life.” I could still see the soldier in the back of Pello’s eyes, but the shepherd was in his voice. Pello and Kepa had shared a deep and special bond. Kepa was in his nineties when he died and Pello was his youngest son. Ever since Pello was born, Kepa had given him the friendship of a brother, the love of a father, and the wisdom of a grandfather, all in one. That is a lot to lose.

Ray said, “Long time no see, Pello.”

“Sí, señor,” Pello said, and he noticed Ray was wearing Kepa’s beret. He looked at me, then back to Ray, then back at me.

“I thought Ray should have it,” I said simply, hoping I had not offended him.

Slowly, a smile spread across Pello’s angular face. “Sí, sí,” he said, leaning down to give Ray a warm embrace. He welcomed Arrosa and kissed her on both cheeks several times. She told him she was glad to be home and asked about Koldo, a name I had not heard her mention before. “He is with the motor cars in Zaragoza,” Pello answered. “He waits for us there.”

“Who is Koldo?” I asked.

“My son, Zianno. He and Arrosa grew up together in our family’s baserri.” Pello looked closer at Arrosa, then reached out and cupped her chin in his hand. Gently, he turned her face right and left. “You have become a beautiful woman, Arrosa. Koldo will be pleased to see you.” He smiled again and looked at me. “Come, señor, all is taken care of here. Our train leaves in three hours. Is there anywhere you wish to go? Perhaps the bank, no?”

“Yes, Pello. I almost forgot.” I gave him the name and address that Owen had given me. “Do you know this place?”

“Sí. It is not far, and near to where we have an appointment.”

“Where is that?”

“A district that is becoming notorious, I am afraid, in the lower Raval, between Sant Pau and the sea.”

“What sort of appointment?”

“Someone is waiting for us.” Pello explained no further and led the way out of the waterfront, walking with a cane and a limp, but never slowing down.

We found the bank within half an hour and were lucky to arrive when we did. They were about to close for the midday meal and a siesta. Pello made sure there were no problems with the transaction and Arrosa spoke Catalan with the employees. We were out in minutes. We walked down La Rambla until we entered the district Pello had mentioned earlier, the tiny network of alleys and avenues later known as Barrio Chino, or Chinatown. It was a haven for drifters, criminals, pimps, prostitutes, gamblers, and drug dealers.

Ray said, “Told you so, Z…just like New Orleans.”

But as we entered an alley off the Nou de la Rambla, I thought the district felt more dangerous and sordid than New Orleans ever had. The only obvious similarity was the fact that we were ignored as children. Orphans, refugees, and runaways were no strangers here. I saw girls with faces no older than mine leaning over the balconies and standing in the doorways of several brothels. The bars and a few cabarets were open to anyone, anytime. Pello walked with one arm around Arrosa’s shoulder and Arrosa welcomed it.

Finally, we paused in front of a bar and restaurant with a blue awning over the doorway. In cracked and faded gold letters across the awning were the Catalan words Las Sis Caracoles, or The Six Snails. It seemed the only pleasant odors in the whole district were emanating from inside. Pello led the way and we left the bright sunlight for the darkness of a bar lit with candles and a single lightbulb over the cash register. The bar itself ran along one side of the room and a dozen or so tables lined the other. We walked past two merchant seamen sitting at the bar and stopped in front of the last table, which was lit by a candle placed in the center. There was no tablecloth. The candle dripped and spilled over the edge of its holder and hardened in pools over the years of graffiti carved into the wood. Five stools encircled the table and we sat down on four of them. On the fifth, leaning forward, ignoring our arrival completely, and lustily consuming a steaming dish of calamari and black rice, sat Sailor.

“You are late,” he said, pausing for a large gulp of cider. “Pello, it is good to see you are well. You know what your father meant to me.”

“Sí, señor,” Pello said.

Without a mention of how or when he left the Iona, Sailor motioned to a man behind the bar and thirty seconds later plates of olives, marinated anchovies, white asparagus, and a salad I did not recognize were brought to the table.

Arrosa seemed baffled as well. “Que es?” she asked the girl setting out the dishes.

“Pulpo gallego,” she answered.

I looked at Sailor. “Octopus Galician style,” he said, then added with a wink of his “ghost eye,” “eat it, Zianno, it is delicious.”

So for the next hour and a half, we ate and drank. What little we did say concerned only where we were going from Barcelona. Sailor asked Pello about the weather, the snowmelt in the upper valleys, problems with the Spanish Civil Guard, what effect the Great War had on the Basque homelands, and whether a few old fishermen that he and Kepa had known were still alive. They were not.

As we got up to leave and started for the door, Sailor grabbed my sleeve and pulled me aside. “Do you feel it, Zianno?”

“Feel what?”

“Look around, observe. Go slowly. Look with your senses; look through this place, backward and forward in time.”

I did what he said and turned twice in a slow circle. After scanning every table against the wall and every stool at the bar, I noticed a room at the rear I had not seen before, dark and hidden from view behind a beaded curtain. I felt it immediately—the prickly sensation in every nerve end, the net descending.

Sailor saw my recognition. “He was here, Zianno, and not long ago. The Fleur-du-Mal was here!”

“Yes,” I said, simple and dull as a heartbeat. “He was.”

Ray walked to where Sailor and I were standing. He glanced at Sailor, then spoke to me. “Have we got a problem?”

“Sure do.”

Ray looked around slowly, then stared directly toward the room behind the beads. He rubbed the back of his neck as if something had tickled him. “And the problem has been here, right?”

I didn’t answer. He knew who it was. The three of us turned and walked out the door, hurrying to catch up with Pello and Arrosa. We had a duty and a promise to keep high in the western Pyrenees. Outside in the open air and sunshine, something else occurred to me. I looked at Sailor. “Was that an accident or did he know we would be there and feel his presence?”

Sailor kept walking. He was staring straight ahead, looking past or through a thousand faces in the street. His jaw tightened and his “ghost eye” narrowed against the light. “I do not know, Zianno.” He was angry. Usoa had told me long ago: “You do not find Sailor, he finds you.” The current circumstance had abused his pride as much as anything. “But we shall find out,” he said, “I assure you.” Because of the unpredictable nature of the Fleur-du-Mal, I wondered just how long it might be before we knew the answer. It came sooner than I expected.

Pello and Arrosa were waiting for us on the broad promenade of Las Ramblas. Pello announced we had one more appointment, not a mile away, but instead of walking toward the city, we headed back in the direction of the waterfront. Most people were off the streets taking their afternoon siesta and Pello quickly found the narrow, almost invisible alley where our meeting was to take place. At the end of the alley was a tiny bar called Agua and inside there was only one customer, a boy sitting at a little round table near the open door. The boy was about twelve years old with dark eyes and dark hair curling over and around his ears. He wore leather boots laced to the knees, baggy black trousers, a simple cotton shirt with no collar, and a blue kerchief tied loosely around his neck. He was drinking a glass of beer and as he wiped his mouth after a large slurp, he smiled. He was missing a front tooth. A French naval officer’s cap lay on the table in front of him. He picked it up and tossed it to Sailor.

Sailor looked the cap over closely. “Am I to assume you are now serving the country of France?”

The boy laughed and motioned for us to sit. “I only serve the Meq, you old pirate. I thought you might like it.”

“Yes, well, it was a generous thought, Mowsel.”

Mowsel, or Trumoi-Meq, was the oldest living Meq. He was born before the time of Those-Who-Fled, several generations before Sailor and Opari. His independence was legendary and with his deep knowledge of our past, he seemed to me like a caretaker of all things Meq, a protector of “what was” along with great concern for “what will be.” It was likely that his unexpected appearance in Barcelona had an immediate reason and purpose. He and Sailor had known each other for almost three thousand years. In that time, they had developed a kind of shorthand between them. A single nod, shrug, or remark from one could tell the other all he needed to know. Sailor understood everything in seconds and knew with certainty that the Fleur-du-Mal’s presence at The Six Snails was no accident or coincidence.

“We found the room at the rear, behind the beads,” Sailor said. “How long has it been?”

“Less than a week,” Mowsel answered, then turned and looked at Ray, glancing briefly at Kepa’s beret. “You must be Ray Ytuarte,” he said. “I was told you were missing. My name is Trumoi-Meq. Call me Mowsel, Ray.” He took Ray’s hand in his, placed a cube of salt in his palm, and closed Ray’s fingers around it. “Egibizirik bilatu.” It was the most informal formal greeting I had ever witnessed.

Without hesitating, Ray said, “You bet.”

At the same time, Pello was backing out the door with Arrosa. He was well aware that Mowsel had something to say in private. He told us they would be waiting at the entrance to the alley, then pivoted on his cane and walked away.

Trumoi-Meq turned to me and nodded. “Zianno Zezen,” he said, grinning.

“Mowsel,” I said, nodding back. “How are you?”

“I am well, except I think you are already missing St. Louis, no?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It is common, it is common. Now, you must listen to me.” Mowsel turned to face Sailor. “The Fleur-du-Mal was here to meet with Giles Xuereb, against Giles’s wishes, according to my source. He wanted the same information Giles gave to you—the possible location of the Octopus.”

“How?” Sailor almost shouted. “How was he aware that Giles had met with me?”

“You know our Xanti Otso, Sailor. He seems to have networks within networks.”

“What is the Octopus?” I asked.

“A box,” Sailor answered. “A very old box made of onyx and serpentine with the image of an octopus inlaid in lapis lazuli on the top. Its origin is unknown, but it was last seen on Crete in the city of Knossos, before the island of Thera exploded. After that, it disappeared. However, it is not the box, it is what the box supposedly contains that interests me…and the Fleurdu-Mal.”

“The Sixth Stone,” Ray said.

“That is correct, Ray. And, Ray, I think you should let Mowsel see those photographs you made in Salzburg. Now.”

Ray handed over the small packet with the two photographs. Mowsel studied them for only a second and the color seemed to drain from his face. He looked up at Ray and stared at Sailor in disbelief. “Hail, Hadrian! Am I to understand that these are portraits of Susheela the Ninth?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Truly.” Sailor glanced at Ray and me. “I should have told you both on the Iona. Susheela the Ninth is a name I have heard before. For centuries, she was rumored to be the only Meq older than Trumoi-Meq. This is the first time there has been any proof of her existence. Also, there is a theory she is connected in some way to the Octopus, though all of this is speculation, or was, until Ray showed me the papyrus and the note.”

“Now I am confused,” Mowsel interrupted.

“I will explain all to you later, but tell me, Mowsel, do you know where he went from Barcelona?”

“He forced Giles to leave with him, using threats to his sister, I believe. They left for Giles’s Mediterranean farm.”

“Which one?”

“The one on Gozo. His ‘little home above the cave,’ as he calls it.” Mowsel then looked out the open doorway toward the entrance to the alley, where Pello and Arrosa waited. “You will have to leave tonight, Sailor. I found a ship for you, all of you, but you must set sail tonight. The captain is a former officer in the French navy. His missions these days are of a more independent nature. He knows of us and can be trusted. The Fleur-du-Mal is sailing on a much slower vessel, a passenger ship. This man will catch him if it is possible.”

Sailor followed Mowsel’s gaze with his own eyes. “Does Pello know we will be leaving?”

“Yes. He is at peace with it. You will not offend him. Pello, Arrosa, and I will attend to Unai, Usoa, and Kepa. Still, it is your choice. Each of you must decide what you must do.”

For Sailor there was no choice. His decision had already been made, and without asking, I knew Ray felt the same. In my heart, so did I. We were going after the Fleur-du-Mal and that was that. The guilt of breaking a promise and not saying a proper farewell to our friends would have to be the price. All paths of action have a toll. Revenge has several.

Pello and Arrosa walked with us to the docks. Awkwardly, we all embraced in a great rush. I would miss Arrosa and told her so, then thanked her for everything she had done. She smiled and said, “I think it is I, señor, who should be thanking all of you. Especially you,” she added, dropping her smile and looking straight at Sailor. Sailor nodded in silence. Pello told me I would have to come to the Pyrenees when our business was concluded and I promised I would, for Kepa’s memory and my own peace of mind. Mowsel said he expected to rejoin them on the train “somewhere between here and Zaragoza.” Then Pello and Arrosa were gone, into the streets of Barcelona and eventually into the mountains of northern Spain.

“Come,” Mowsel said, “we have much to do.”

The last rays of sunlight were fading fast by the time we had transferred and loaded everything we needed onto the Emme, our new ship and home at sea. At first glance, she appeared to be a simple, somewhat altered, small schooner, maybe sixty-five or seventy feet in length and no more than twenty across. In reality she was something else entirely. She had been cleverly refitted on and belowdecks with hidden state-of-the-art navigation equipment, armaments, diving accoutrements, and bolted down between two central bulkheads, a specially built lightweight Rolls-Royce engine that powered two concealed propellers in the rear. She had a shallow draft and could sail close to the wind. Painted dark blue and black, and almost invisible in deep water or at night, the Emme was beautiful, fast, and dangerous. I was impressed, as was Sailor, who commented that his favorite vessel to sail had always been the schooner.

It was obvious the ship had experience in clandestine missions. However, it was difficult to imagine from the appearance, attitude, and manners of the ship’s three-man crew and captain. The crew was young, late twenties or early thirties, and the captain looked to be only a few years older, yet they all were extremely polite and at ease around us. They each spoke softly, in English laced with varying degrees of a French accent. Two of the crew had neatly trimmed full beards, the third was clean-shaven, and the captain wore a goatee, which was sprinkled here and there with gray. Mowsel introduced him simply as “Captain B” and the others went by nicknames. Together, they made an efficient unit, practiced and precise, but relaxed.

We were given private cabins and Captain B led us on a short tour of his ship, pointing out everything we would need to know. Then he mentioned that if we got to the Balearics by midnight we might catch a good ride on a little breeze coming out of Africa. I looked at Ray to see if that could mean a storm was brewing, but he shook his head and mouthed the word “nothin’.” Captain B said we should leave soon and Trumoi-Meq asked if we could have a few minutes alone before we set sail. We gathered in Sailor’s cabin and Mowsel spoke to him first.

“This Giza, Captain B, is aware of who we are and can be trusted completely.”

“I assumed as much,” Sailor said.

Mowsel paused, staring into Sailor’s “ghost eye.” “I think we should attempt to contact Zeru-Meq.”

“No, no, please. A waste of time, I tell you, an absolute waste of time. That tree will not bear fruit, old friend. Ask Zianno. He remembers how troublesome that can be.”

I looked at Sailor, then Mowsel. “How can Zeru-Meq help?”

“Have Sailor tell you about the death of Aitor, your grandfather, Zianno.”

I stared at Sailor and my mouth dropped open. ”What do you know? Why have you never mentioned this before?”

“You never asked,” he said flatly.

Instantly, blood came rushing to my face. I was glaring at Sailor. “That is no excuse!”

“Damn, Z,” Ray interrupted. “Settle down, will you? I believe you kept a couple of things from me, if I’m not mistaken.” He grinned and tapped me on the forehead.

“You’re right,” I said. I felt foolish and caught. “I’m sorry, Sailor.”

“Forget it, Zianno. Apology is unnecessary. I will tell you what I know in the next few days, then you decide for yourself how Zeru-Meq can help.”

I nodded and turned back to Trumoi-Meq. “Please get word to Owen Bramley, as soon as you are able. Tell him everything. They are expecting us back in St. Louis. They’ll want to know.”

“I will.”

“Mowsel?” Ray asked in a tone unusual for him. He almost sounded meek. “Try to find somethin’ out about Nova, would you?”

“I will.” He smiled and I stared into the gap of his missing tooth. “Hail Hadrian,” he said, then laughed and turned to go ashore. “Good luck,” he added, “it will likely be in short supply. By the way, in case you might need to know, the captain’s real name is Boutrain. And, Zianno, once you return and have the time to teach me, I want to learn to read the ‘old script.’”

I raised my hand and held it palm out, fingers slightly spread, facing Trumoi-Meq. “I will,” I said. He shut the door behind him and in a matter of seconds was off the Emme and disappearing into the early evening crowds that would only increase and swell through the night, from the waterfront all the way up Las Ramblas until early the next morning. By then the Emme would be well on her way through the Balearics and Mowsel would be somewhere on board a train for Zaragoza. And I would have dreamed of a young man wearing a faded red beret. He looked exactly like my papa, but he was not. His name was Aitor and he was reaching into a pool of water. He was reaching for the Octopus. It was the dead of night and he was not alone. Someone was behind him, whispering his name, laughing. Something long and shiny was in his hand.

The first four days on board the Emme went smoothly. We sailed far to the south, then caught the “breeze” Captain B was expecting out of Africa. We rode it east through the Strait of Sicily and nearly all the way to Gozo. Captain B proved to be a consummate sailor and it became clear his crew respected his ability as well as his authority. I learned early when I first went to sea with Captain Woodget that a sailor honors few things more than good seamanship. Even Umla-Meq, an expert and veteran at sea for centuries, watched and praised Captain B for maintaining maximum speed while exercising minimum maneuvering. “Using this complex rigging, keeping the speed he is keeping,” Sailor said, “one has to know what one is doing.”

I kept waiting for the moment Sailor would get around to telling me about the Fleur-du-Mal and the death of my grandfather. However, I also knew he was once again trying to teach me patience, and I was trying to learn. I just wasn’t a very good student.

Ray enjoyed this type of ship and this way of sailing. He and Captain B made fast friends and Ray spent most of his time alongside him at the wheel. The air was clean, the food was good, and the whole experience seemed to sharpen his mind and bring out the “Weatherman.” He began sensing something in every gust of wind, change of light, or shape of cloud. He sounded a little crazy at first, but I assured Captain B that Ray was authentic and dependable. If Ray said we were heading into trouble, I told Captain B he should heed Ray’s advice. And that is precisely what happened.

On the fifth day out, Ray said he felt something brewing quickly, “A big blow from the south, gale force for sure.” Sailor and I looked at Captain B, who did not hesitate. He stuck out his chin slightly, stroked his goatee once, and gave the orders to turn sharply north, maintaining a north-northeast heading indefinitely. In two hours we received word that a sirocco, filled with dust from northern Africa, was blowing with cyclone force winds and about to cover Malta and Gozo. Because of Ray, the Emme and all aboard were spared a possible catastrophe. Captain B handed out cigars for everyone and then toasted Ray for his rare gift. Unfortunately, there was one serious consequence from our escape.

Three and a half days later we anchored in Mgarr Harbor and made our way ashore. We followed a winding trail through the hills beyond until we found Giles Xuereb’s “little home above the cave.” Giles was there and he was alive, barely. The Fleurdu-Mal was gone. We had missed him by no more than an hour or two. None of us knew it at the time, of course, and even if we had known, none of us would have regretted Captain B’s decision. It was the right one, the only one. However, those three and a half days cost us the next three and a half years and very nearly the life of a trusted friend of the Meq.

Giles Xuereb had long been considered to be many things by many people. He was the last heir to an old Maltese fortune, a dealer in illegal antiquities and semiprecious stones, a master forger, a former professor of religious philosophy at Cambridge, tall, dark, and handsome. As a result of the Fleur-du-Mal’s handiwork, he would never again be considered handsome, but at least he was still alive. Giles was lying unconscious and chained to the massive oak table in the center of his kitchen. His entire face and body were covered in hundreds of bleeding cuts and slashes, carved in a distinct and complex pattern, ranging in length from half-inch “thorns” to whole “roses” in full bloom, each drawn in a single stroke with the blade of a stiletto.

Sailor found some water and let a few drops spill onto Giles’s lips, which helped him regain consciousness. He tried to smile once he recognized Sailor’s face. Then the pain hit. He winced, trembled, and passed out again. We dressed his wounds as best we could, but he would need a doctor as soon as possible, followed by an extended rehabilitation in the hospital. Sailor guessed the Fleur-du-Mal had been torturing Giles for information, or had already obtained it and thought Giles had lied to him, which would have been worse. “Much worse,” I added. Sailor said Giles probably would have tried to trick the Fleurdu-Mal rather than betray the contract they had together. It was the way his family had conducted business affairs since the Middle Ages. Giles happened to be the last in a long bloodline of honest pirates, which was the very reason the Meq had begun a relationship with Giles’s family in the first place. Sailor knew that and the Fleur-du-Mal knew that.

“There is something more, Zianno,” Sailor said slowly. He stared into my eyes, making sure he had my attention. “The Fleur-du-Mal may have done this to send a message.”

“A message to whom?” I asked. “The Meq?”

“No. More specific than that.” He paused again. “This is the exact method the Fleur-du-Mal employed to…to torture and kill your grandfather, Aitor. This could be a message for you, Zianno. His aberrant mind compels him to play games when he kills. He may be saying he knows you are with me. This may only be his opening move.”

“Goddamnit!” Ray shouted, stomping the stone floor and slapping his beret against his leg. “He has to go, Z! We need to take that murderin’ son of a bitch out!”

“I know,” I said, but Sailor’s words had stunned me. Why would the Fleur-du-Mal do that? What would so possess him to do something so cruel? What did my grandfather know?

Sailor was genuinely concerned about Giles and his condition. Every day all of us would ferry over to Malta and the hospital in Valletta to visit him. He drifted in and out of consciousness for five days, then on the morning of the sixth day he was able to speak and he and Sailor spoke to each other in whispers. They used Maltese, Giles’s native tongue and a language I had never heard. Even in slow, hoarse whispers, it sounded distinguished and elegant. Once we were out of the hospital, Sailor was openly relieved that Giles was going to live, but concerned about what Giles had told him.

“We shall see if he acted fearlessly or foolishly,” Sailor said.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He did indeed lie to the Fleur-du-Mal.”

“We already assumed that.”

“Yes, however, the Fleur-du-Mal believed him. That will surely be a death sentence for Giles when he realizes the truth.”

“Not if we find him first,” Ray said.

“Yes,” Sailor said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.

“What did Giles lie about?” I asked.

“What else? He lied about the Octopus. He told him the box was inlaid with ruby instead of lapis lazuli and the trail to find it begins in Damascus, not Cairo. That means we have an advantage in our search, but Giles will still be here, helpless and defenseless against the Fleur-du-Mal’s anger when he eventually discovers the truth, and he will.”

“How can we protect Giles?”

“We cannot. We must find the Octopus before the Fleur-du-Mal finds the truth. Then we shall bait the trap. It is that simple.”

“That don’t sound like it will be too easy,” Ray said.

“No,” Sailor almost whispered, “it will not.”

Captain B and his crew had the Emme restocked, rigged, and ready to sail by noon of the following day. We would have raised anchor immediately, but Sailor and I were late returning from Valletta, where Sailor wanted to send a cable to Pello. The cable was actually a coded message to Mowsel. Translated, it read, “Find Zeru-Meq now—Giles/Aitor a fact.” While we were there, I wrote and posted a quick letter to Opari in St. Louis. I told her we were on our way to Egypt and I would dream of her every night—I would dream of her face, her voice, her lips…her gift.

On the way back to the Emme, I asked Sailor why he and Mowsel thought Zeru-Meq might be able to help.

“He might be able to unravel the demented puzzle driving the Fleur-du-Mal and his aberrations,” Sailor said. “After the death of Aitor, Mowsel suspected it. Now, with the mutilation of Giles, I agree with him. Aitor discovered something about the Fleur-du-Mal that evoked a vicious response. Mowsel thinks Zeru-Meq may know what it was. I have my own thoughts on the matter, but they are only speculations.”

We walked a few paces in silence. I was confused. “Tell me about my grandfather,” I said.

“That will take some time and make us late for our departure.”

“Then make us late, Sailor. I want to know now.”

“Of course. I understand.” Sailor stopped walking and motioned for us to sit together on a low stone wall just to our left. From there we could see the harbor and the vast blue Mediterranean beyond. “The murder happened there,” he said, pointing north across the sea, “1,739 years ago on the western coast of Italy, near a fishing village along the Gulf of Salerno. The village is where your father was born and the murder occurred on the same night as his birth, a cruel irony that was neither accident nor coincidence.

“Your grandfather and your grandmother, Itzia, before and after they crossed in the Zeharkatu, were a uniquely gifted pair. I used to visit them at least once a year, if only to hear Aitor talk for hours about how it felt, biologically and psychologically, to age. He was obsessed with the science of it. Both he and Itzia possessed keen and curious minds and both had eclectic interests that led them all across the Mediterranean, Near East, and the shores of the Black Sea. Along with being an avid fisherman, Aitor was a student of tidal pools and marine life in coastal waters. He studied every species, but after the Zeharkatu, focused his studies on the cephalopod mollusks, particularly the octopus. Itzia was an expert in the medical sciences and studied for a time under the tutelage of an odd and brilliant Giza, the Greek physician Galen. Oddly, it was Galen who gave Aitor the first bit of information that inadvertently led to his death.

“Also, you must remember, Zianno, at this time the Fleur-du-Mal was not of much concern to the Meq. We followed him from a distance, disapproving, of course, but uninvolved. Aitor had even met him on three separate occasions over the previous two hundred years. They had exchanged a few unpleasant remarks and Aitor was not impressed, being repulsed by Xanti Otso’s mind and presence. During that time, the Fleur-du-Mal was extremely active and proud of it. Assassinations were rampant and he was in demand. However, to our knowledge, he had not yet killed or tortured one of us.

“Itzia said Galen knew she was Meq and became a trusted friend. He also knew of Aitor’s fascination with marine biology, especially the octopus. Apparently, on one long night in front of the fire, Galen told Aitor about a nefarious man, an opium dealer, he had encountered on the island of Crete. The man told Galen about a strange green-eyed boy who never seemed to age. The boy kept his hair tied in the back with a green ribbon and he wore red ruby earrings. Galen did not know the Fleurdu-Mal. What he thought Aitor might be interested in was the fact that the boy was an addict, and in his opium stupor would always ask, “Where is the octopus? Where is the octopus?” Galen thought the story was hilarious. Aitor was intrigued. A year later, Aitor was traveling to Crete concerning another matter. By the evening of his second day there, he was in the streets of Iraklion and the surrounding countryside asking guarded questions and searching for the opium dealer. After a week of disappointment, he finally located the man. The poor fellow had sunk into the depths of addiction himself. He was emaciated, lost and hopeless, but he happened to be lucid on the afternoon Aitor visited him. Whatever secret Aitor learned about the Fleur-du-Mal was learned there. It could not have simply been the fact that the man exposed the Fleur-du-Mal as an addict. His drug use was legendary and only one of his minor depravities. Much later, I discovered the opium dealer had been brutally murdered and decapitated shortly after Aitor’s conversation with him. That is when I first realized the extent of the Fleur-du-Mal’s network of information and how fast he can act upon it. In Aitor’s case, however, he did not. His confrontation with Aitor was much more diabolical. He waited a full two years, until Itzia became pregnant with your father, then on the night of his birth, appeared out of the darkness unasked and unannounced on Aitor’s doorstep. Itzia told me later she was in bed with her newborn and Aitor was sitting next to her. Aitor rose to answer the knock at the door, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out of the room. She never saw him again. She said she heard a raspy voice, a boy’s voice, congratulate Aitor, then ask him something about an octopus, after which Aitor raised his voice, saying “Outside with this!” and they left. The next morning, Aitor was found near a tide pool in the same condition in which we found Giles, except Aitor’s throat had been slit and he had been scalped. A green ribbon was woven into the hair and the whole scalp had been placed over Aitor’s face. No notes, no reasons, nothing. The Fleur-du-Mal disappeared.”

I was stunned and sickened and speechless for several moments. Finally, I asked, “Was Zeru-Meq informed of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He wept,” Sailor said in a flat monotone. “He wept and then wandered into the Caucasus without a word.”

“Zeru-Meq told me in China he thought the Fleur-du-Mal was only a ‘sad, dangerous pilgrim.’”

“Yes, and Zeru-Meq likes to think of himself as seeking a higher truth, when in fact he lives a lie. He could help to end this madness and he knows it. He is aware of something about the Fleur-du-Mal that we are not, likely the truth concerning the deaths of his parents. While she was living, Zeru-Meq had always been protective of his sister, Hilargi, the Fleur-du-Mal’s mother. The father I never knew. Perhaps, Zeru-Meq bears a secret guilt. It is possible. After Aitor, it is not important. Guilt was not acceptable as an excuse for his silence. He can stop this insanity and he has not, he does not.” Sailor paused, then sighed. “Still, I suppose we must try again.”

I let Sailor’s words and images sink in permanently. Below us, the blue Mediterranean spread out in all directions. “Let’s go to Cairo,” I said.

Sailor unconsciously twirled the blue star sapphire on his forefinger, then stood up. “Yes,” he said, “Cairo it is.”

There were fair winds every day and clear skies every night on our sail south and east. I watched the stars for hours at a time, pacing the ship. I could not get the image of Aitor out of my mind and had trouble sleeping. As we approached Egypt, the summer heat became intense and oppressive, and on the night before we made landfall, I awoke after a long, strange dream. I had dreamed I was observing a card game from a distance. We were in a loud, smoke-filled saloon in the Far East, somewhere near the sea. The time was in the past, though it felt like the present. There were several men sitting around a large, round table littered with whiskey bottles, glasses, lit cigars in ashtrays, poker chips, and money. One man was shoving all his chips and gold coins across the table to another man, whom I knew quite well. He looked up and turned his head in my direction. “Welcome, Zianno,” he said. He winked once and added, “Yahweh has been good to me.” The other man raised his head and looked at Solomon, then at me. He seemed older than he does now, but I was certain the man was Captain B.

I awoke suddenly. I was dripping with sweat. I reached for a towel and silently made my way on deck to dry off and get some air. Only two men were on watch—Captain B, who was at the wheel, and his first mate, a man who went by the nickname Pic. Pic was getting ready to go below and whispered a last remark to Captain B. I don’t think he saw me, but even if he had, he would not have suspected I could hear him. He spoke French. Translated, he said, “If you want my opinion, I would listen to her, Antoine. She is your wife!” Then he saluted casually and disappeared belowdecks.

The night sky sparkled with stars. I walked up to Captain B, wiping the sweat from my head and arms.

“Can you not sleep, monsieur?” he asked.

I glanced at the sky. “Not tonight, Captain.” I leaned over the railing to catch the sea spray on my face. The cold felt good, but the salty spray stung my eyes. I wiped them clear and found myself staring down at the painted name on the side of our schooner—Emme. I thought back to the only Emme I had ever known. I wondered where she was and how she was. I turned and looked toward Africa, which was just over the horizon. She had saved my life and spent almost a decade of her own trying to help me find Star. I owed her a great deal, as well as her grandfather, PoPo.

Captain B saw me staring at the name. “Is something wrong, monsieur?”

“No, no, Captain. I was just thinking of someone I once knew, a girl named Emme. She was special in many, many ways.”

“Oui, she is.”

I turned and looked at him, wondering what he meant. He was smiling. “She has a keen mind,” he said, “but her heart wanders.”

My mouth dropped and I was stunned. “That can only be one person, Captain. A man named PoPo told me the same thing about her.”

“And me, monsieur. I knew him well. It was I who wrote the letter informing her that he was dying.”

“Knew?”

“Oui. He passed on not long after she returned.”

I remembered the day she read that letter. We were deep in the Sahara in a desolate crossroads called In Salah. It was where we said good-bye. “You mean your ship is named after Emme Ya Ambala?”

“Oui, she is the same girl. Only her name is longer now, monsieur, by one name. Mine.”

“Emme is your wife?”

“Oui.” He paused, then went on. “I see we both have this secret from the other, though this thing does not surprise me. Emme is the one who taught me of your existence. She told me you have great abilities, monsieur. Because of Emme, when Mowsel approached me three years ago, I surprised him by recognizing him as, well, what he was…what you are. Now, I do this work when he needs me and Emme protests my absence.”

“Where is she?”

“Paris. We live in Paris, also Marseille and Corsica. My work makes it necessary to live many places. Emme wants me in Paris to live all the time, but this is still difficult for me. Do you understand this problem, monsieur?”

“Oui,” I said. “I think it might be universal, Captain.”

“I was waiting for the certain moment to tell you of my petit secret, monsieur. I hope I have not become untrustworthy. I never intended a deception.”

“No, Captain, I do not feel deceived. I feel enlightened. I am more than happy to discover that Emme is alive and well. And please, call me Z. Now tell me, how long have you known her, and where and how did you meet?”

“This answer is complicated…Z.”

“Believe me, Captain, I am familiar with complications.”

Glancing up at the sails every so often, Captain B began to tell me a brief history of his life. Born out of wedlock on the island of Martinique to a French sea captain and his mistress, a woman named Isabelle, he was raised in various ports until being removed from his mother’s care by his father because she had become addicted to absinthe. After that, he never saw her again. He was schooled in naval academies in France, then posted in Dakar and Saint-Louis, Senegal, where he met a young black student named Emme Ya Ambala.

They had a relationship for over a year, even discussing marriage, then for a reason Captain B did not explain, had a falling out and she left him on Christmas Day. That was the very same day she delivered the premature baby and rescued me. Many years later, in the middle of the Sahara, Emme said she had reconsidered her decision about leaving a man she only referred to as A.B. Suddenly, I remembered Pic’s whisper to Captain B. “Antoine,” he had called him. Captain B’s name was Antoine Boutrain. Then the full meaning of my dream came to me. The coincidence was astounding. Captain B was the son of Captain Antoine Boutrain, the man in my dream, the man who had lost a small fortune to Solomon and given him the contacts Solomon needed to start his own fortune. His mother was the same woman Captain Woodget had loved and watched over for years.

I let Captain B finish talking and said nothing for several moments. The Emme sliced through the dark water smooth as a blade and a faint glow began to appear over the horizon to the east. In a few more hours we would part ways with Captain B and his crew, but it would not be the last time we would see each other or share a secret.

“I knew your mother,” I said.

“No! Is this possible?”

“Yes. I didn’t know her well, but she was a good person, Captain. There was a night when she gave me hot tea, warm blankets, and shelter during the middle of a hurricane. That was in Louisiana. An old friend of mine loved her well there. He took care of her and gave her a fine funeral when she died.”

Captain B glanced up to check the wind in the sails, then scanned the horizon slowly. Minutes later, he said, “Merci, monsieur. Thank you, Z. I have always wondered this.”

Sailor, Ray, and I left Captain B and the Emme behind in the harbor of the old port of Alexandria, the city founded and built by the Greeks and the capital city of Cleopatra. Once a jewel of the Mediterranean, it was no longer. Alexandria needed both restoration and modernization. People and traffic kept it busy and crowded, but to me it seemed slightly abandoned and neglected.

We were using visas Sailor had obtained while in Malta, making the three of us cousins and all Egyptian nationals whose parents lived on Maltese soil. Sailor spoke Arabic fluently and we passed into the country within minutes, legally, in a manner of speaking. We picked up some local clothing and light caftans, then walked to the train station and took the first available connection to Cairo. After a short time on board amid the heat and dust and sweat, we looked and felt as Egyptian as any other children in Egypt. By sunset, we were in the lobby of a small hotel Sailor knew well. The air was stifling. We were sipping tea and waiting for a man named Rais Hussein, who supposedly had information concerning the Octopus. He was late. We ordered mulukhis and kofta and sipped more tea. He never appeared. It had been a long day, but it was only the first of a thousand to come just like it, each seeming to end in some form of frustration or empty promise.

In Cairo, despite the heat, Sailor and Ray felt more in their element than any place we had been. Sailor because he had traveled through the city on many occasions over the centuries, staying once for a full year as a visitor in the court of Shagaretel-Dorr (Tree of Pearls), the Mameluke former slave and wife of Al-Saleh, the last Ayyubid Sultan. And Ray because he liked the way it was now—a den of thieves and a city where anything was for sale. All you had to know was who to ask.

We spent three sweltering weeks in Cairo. The “City of a Thousand Minarets” truly did appear to have a thousand of them. We combed the narrow streets and alleys, bazaars and markets, searching for any trace of Rais Hussein. There were tens of thousands of shops, from rugs, brass, and tambourines to teashops and smoke rooms. Finally, we were given a tip, more of a rumor, that Rais and his brother Gad Hussein had moved to Luxor in order to work under Rais Ahmed Gurger. He was the foreman for the British archaeologist, Howard Carter, who was resuming his dig in the Valley of the Kings. Carter was looking for intact tombs dating back to the Amarna period and the Eighteenth Dynasty. This, I learned, was the exact reason Giles Xuereb told Sailor to contact Rais Hussein. The Octopus could be in one of these tombs.

The assumption had been made by Giles based on an ancient legend only recently found on an inscription and translated, but not yet published, by Sir Alan Gardiner, a close friend of both Giles and Howard Carter. According to the legend, Nefertiti, the beautiful wife of Akhenaton, had once been presented with a special gift from a foreigner. Nefertiti received no other gift she treasured more. The gift was known as the Octopus. The legend says the foreigner came from Crete, but the origin of the Octopus was thought to be “near the source of the Great River, beyond the Great Convulsions.” When Akhenaton died, Nefertiti lost favor with the priests in Karnak, who wanted the rebellious Pharaoh erased in every aspect. The legend mentions two possible fates for Nefertiti. In one, she escapes with the Octopus and disappears into unknown lands to the south, beyond the cataracts of the Nile, never to be seen again. In the other, she secretly returns at the death of her son, the boy king, Tutankhamen, in order to place the Octopus in his tomb. Giles preferred the second version, saying Sir Alan Gardiner had concurred, then informed him that Carter was going back to the Valley of the Kings in search of tombs. Giles reminded Sailor that the tomb of King Tutankhamen had never been found. He convinced Sailor to find Rais. The inscription was legitimate and Howard Carter was a good archaeologist. Even if Carter was not looking for the Octopus, he could lead us to it. Rais and his brother Gad would be working directly on the site. Sailor wanted any news of all discoveries on the site to come from an inside man. Rais Hussein was his man.

We took the train to Luxor, the city of temples on the east bank of the Nile, just south of Karnak. Palm trees lined the river and the temperature was ten degrees hotter. On the trip, Ray and I had marveled at the landscape and the sight of toppled ruins that were often visible from the train. Sailor casually pointed out the ones he had seen while they were still standing and in use.

In Luxor, we ate a quick meal in the train station, then made our way to the markets and shops south of Luxor Temple on Sharia al-Markez. Using various dialects, Sailor located Rais within two hours and concluded a deal between the two of them within one. Rais agreed to send Giles a letter once a month with news of how the dig was going. In return for each letter, he would receive a bank draft of twenty pounds sterling, regardless of whether any tombs were found. Sailor would contact Giles from wherever we happened to be. However, the season for any archaeological digs was still months away. None of us had even thought of that. Sailor then suggested something that neither Ray nor I could question. He thought we should immediately investigate the other possible ending to the legend. What if Nefertiti did disappear to the south, never to return, with the Octopus in her possession? Should we not do all we could do to see if it is true? The Fleur-du-Mal certainly would, and without delay. Ray and I agreed. We decided to go south, as far up the Nile as necessary, and find what we could find. Sailor still had a few contacts in various towns and villages and we could start with them. The decision must have had the same effect as breaking a small mirror, because after that our good luck vanished.

As usual, we traveled simply and often procured rides in small native boats called faluccas. We dressed the same as all boys along the Nile and tried to blend in with local populations as best we could. Near the small town of Dendur, Ray even replaced his beret with a white skullcap. We were delayed there for five weeks while waiting for a man we later found out had been dead for some time. Delay and detour became commonplace. Fifty-five miles south of Dendur, three months passed in a desolate village named Korosko, a place where caravans used to gather and prepare for the two-hundred-mile journey to Khartoum. South of Korosko, in Derr, we were held up again for six months, chasing leads and making trips by donkey to sites in the area. At every opportunity Sailor contacted Giles, only to hear the continuing news that nothing had been discovered in the Valley of the Kings. I wrote letters to Opari and sent them off with no return address. In Qasr Ibrim, the last stop before Abu Simbel, we thought we had found the information we needed and again headed south, into the Sudan and east to places not accurately mapped or recorded. Over a year had gone by before we found a village and a village elder who supposedly possessed an object that had passed down among his people for countless generations since the era of the Nubian kings. It took us three months to win his confidence because he did not trust children who wished to see such things. Finally, Ray gained the elder’s favor and he eventually let us look at the object. It was a beautiful piece of work, an alabaster vase with an Egyptian queen depicted in bas-relief. The image could have represented Nefertiti, but there was no way to know for sure. One thing was certain—it was not the Octopus. Three months later our search ended abruptly because something happened that none of us could have expected or predicted. It was profound and frightening and seemed utterly impossible. Ray Ytuarte got sick.

There was no warning and we were not doing anything we had not done many times in many places. Following another lead, we were deep in the Sudan crossing a shallow river on foot. The water was only a few feet deep and the riverbed was mostly mud. The sun was setting and the whole western sky burned red and orange. On the far bank of the river, Ray stopped to clean the caked mud from his shoes and was bitten on the back of his neck by a mosquito. By the time we reached the village of Wad Rasala, where we were staying the night, Ray was shaking with chills and experiencing severe pain from head to foot. I wasn’t sure what to do and neither was Sailor. I had never seen Ray even out of breath, let alone sick and in pain. He then developed a skin rash and a high fever and he began drifting in and out of consciousness. With no other alternative we sought out the local medicine man, who was a woman, a kind of shaman and midwife. She took one look at Ray and shouted something in a language I’d never heard.

Sailor spoke to her in a dialect she understood. He asked question after question and repeated one of them over and over. Each time the woman would nod and shout the word again.

I grabbed Sailor by the arm. “What are you asking her?”

“I am asking her if she is certain.”

“Certain of what?”

“Certain that Ray has contracted what she calls ‘Breakbone Fever,’ an often fatal disease.”

“That is impossible,” I said, shaking my head.

Sailor knelt next to where Ray was lying and waited a full minute before he spoke. He stared down at Ray, who was sweating from every pore. Then gently, almost with the touch of a father, he wiped Ray’s face and neck with a wet cloth. He looked up at me. His “ghost eye” swirled with clouds the same way it had that night in Cornwall when he told us about the death of Unai and Usoa’s baby. In a bitter whisper, he said, “Apparently nothing is impossible, Zianno.”

Ray survived the night, but his condition did not improve. For three days and nights he remained delirious, often breaking into cold sweats and mumbling in strange languages I had never heard, either from Ray or anyone else. The medicine woman, Dejik, said most children, if they lived, sometimes took weeks to recover. Adults could take months of recuperation and would likely suffer repeated bouts of extreme exhaustion. Sailor and I both thought of what that could mean for Ray. If it was that bad for the Giza, what would it be like for the Meq?

On the fourth night, Ray regained full consciousness, though he was so weak he could barely speak. Even the deep green of his eyes seemed pale in the candlelight. “Where are we, Z?” he asked. “In Veracruz?”

“No, Ray, we’re still in Africa.”

“What happened to me? I never been so damn tired and sore in my life.”

“You got bit by a mosquito.”

Ray looked at me without understanding, as if I had told him a joke he didn’t quite catch. “What do you mean by that?”

“You got sick. You are sick. The mosquito gave you a virus, a bad one.”

“I been bit before, Z.”

“I know.”

Sailor was standing behind me and he stepped closer, so Ray could see him. “We shall get you through this, Ray. Sleep, rest, and try to eat when you are able. Zianno, Dejik, and I shall get you well.”

Ray stared back at Sailor, then turned his head and tried to focus on Dejik, who leaned forward and offered him a small amount of broth in a bowl. He turned back to me. “This don’t make sense, Z.”

“I know, Ray. I can’t explain it. Let’s just get you well, then we’ll figure out why.”

Ray was rapidly losing consciousness again. As his eyes were closing he asked, “What about the Fleur-du-Mal?” He fell asleep before Sailor or I said a word in reply.

After Dejik made sure Ray was comfortable, I asked Sailor to follow me outside. Ray’s question could not be ignored. In the open air, under the stars, I looked over at Sailor. I was suddenly angry at the fact Ray had only contracted the virus because we were on a wild goose chase after an object that may or may not exist, for the reason that it might help us trap a madman and assassin called the Fleur-du-Mal. It made no sense. It all seemed futile and pointless. “Why does the Fleur-du-Mal want the Octopus and the Sixth Stone, if there is one? Especially when he has never wanted any of the other five. Why, Sailor, why is it important?”

“Because we are aging, Zianno. Not individually, but together as a whole, the Meq are aging. I am certain of this, as is the Fleur-du-Mal. Zeru-Meq has told me so. He believes the Sixth Stone will have different…characteristics, shall we say, than the ones you and I carry. He believes it may have a power over the others and will enable him to do whatever he pleases, including telekinesis. He could be right. We must find it first.”

“We? Or do you mean you?”

“Zianno, please. You are upset and confused about what has happened to Ray. Calm down and you will realize there was no way to have foreseen this. Ray’s life and health are sacred to me. We must stay here as long as it takes for him to recover. We shall worry about the Fleur-du-Mal and the Octopus once Ray regains his strength, and only then, not one day sooner.” Sailor twirled the blue sapphire on his finger. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, “and once again, Sailor, I apologize. I was wrong.”

“Unnecessary,” he answered, “and remember, Zianno, Ray is under two hundred years old. Perhaps that shall help speed his recovery.”

I looked at Sailor and smiled. Only Umla-Meq and a very few other beings on the planet would consider “under two hundred years” as being young.

Dejik took meticulous care of Ray, keeping him clean, cool, and fed the best she could. She massaged his limbs daily, sang songs, and recited incantations during rough periods when he slipped back into unconsciousness. In return, Sailor and I made frequent trips to larger villages and trading centers, bringing back simple medicines such as sulphate of zinc, quinine, and carbolic acid to aid in the care of her own people. In six months, Ray was able to stand, but he was too weak to travel. A few minutes of walking would bring on total exhaustion and pain. Ray told me once, “I feel like there’s nothin’ but sand and grit in my joints, Z, and it’s all rubbin’ together every time I move.”

Two more months passed with little improvement. I knew he was starting to feel better, however, when he asked Dejik for second and third helpings of a simple dish consisting mainly of broad beans cooked in oil.

“What do you call this?” Ray asked, licking his spoon and rubbing his belly.

“Fool,” Dejik answered.

Ray stared back at her. “Well, you don’t have to call me names, do you?”

“No, no, no. That ‘fool,’ that ‘fool,’” she said, pointing at his bowl of beans.

“Perfect,” Ray said, “I mistook myself for a bowl of beans.”

Dejik never once questioned us about who we were or what we were doing in the Sudan. Sailor had a simple explanation. “She is a shaman, Zianno. Our existence is not out of place in her world. Her reality accepts us the same way she accepts the magic in plants, spells, and dreams. To Dejik, no natural wonder is strange. This ability, this state of being, also allows her to be an excellent healer and medicine woman.”

I had to agree. In two more months Ray was strong as ever and it was not because of Sailor or me. He began running for exercise and pleasure, and he told me he could now feel the weather changing in his bones as well as his mind.

“Is that good?” I asked.

“You bet, Z. Now I got a reserve system, if you know what I mean.”

After thanking her in every way we could and promising to return, we said good-bye to Dejik on a beautiful October morning, leaving with a cousin of hers who accompanied us on the long journey to Khartoum. From there we traveled a short distance to Omdurman, then by donkey, boat, and train to Aswan. In another week, we were finally approaching the outskirts of Luxor. It was a Friday. The date was November 17, 1922.

Once we were on the streets of Luxor, there was only one story being circulated. Twelve days earlier, Howard Carter had discovered a missing tomb in the Valley of the Kings, possibly with its seals still in tact. Carter was going to open the tomb as soon as he returned from Cairo with his benefactor, Lord Carnarvon. He was due back within a week.

I was speechless at the news. Ray laughed and said, “Damn!” Sailor said, “Damn, indeed.”

I am batting. I have just swung and hit the ball deep into right center. I watch it fly as I run to first base. The ball seems propelled by magic and all eyes in the grandstands are following the ball. At the apex of its flight, the ball defies gravity and stops in midair. Everyone is frozen in place. The ball begins changing color and becomes a black dot growing larger, widening, then I recognize it as the moon sliding into place in front of the sun. It is a total solar eclipse, the Bitxileiho, the Strange Window. I hear steps behind me. I turn and the umpire is walking toward me, ignoring the eclipse. He takes off his mask. I know him. He has green eyes, he is familiar, but…something is different…something is wrong.

“You’re out, Z!”

I opened my eyes. Ray was standing over me, blocking the sun.

“What?”

“You went out like a light. You’re dreaming. Wake up, we’re almost there.”

I looked around. We were on water, crammed in a small boat with two dozen others, mostly men, but also several boys about our size. Everyone, including us, wore loosely wrapped turbans, simple linen robes, and sandals. Then I remembered.

We were crossing the Nile on our way to meet with Rais Hussein and his brother Gad in the Valley of the Kings. It was eight days after we arrived in Luxor. The news of Howard Carter’s discovery had spread everywhere in the country. The Valley of the Kings was already crowded and access to the site had become limited. It would not be long before the pompous and the powerful appeared and took over completely. It had taken us six days to track down Rais Hussein. At first, Sailor tried to reach Giles Xuereb on Malta, but was unsuccessful. Then we found out through a contact in Cairo that Giles had gone missing. He had disappeared without a trace, leaving all his belongings in the house and a half-eaten meal on the table. The same thought came to each of us. More than enough time had elapsed in order for the Fleur-du-Mal to realize Giles had deceived him. Revenge would be swift and harsh. We feared for Giles, but we did not speak of it and kept searching for Rais. Eventually, we located him in Gurna, not far from Howard Carter’s residence. Immediately, Sailor made Rais an offer he could not refuse. If Rais would get us on the dig site and near to the tomb, Sailor offered to pay Rais and his brother two hundred pounds sterling. Rais and Gad Hussein were two of Howard Carter’s most trusted workmen. They had access and they could get us close. Rais agreed to the deal. We were to meet him at a specified location in two days. Now, on a mild and balmy Sunday morning, we were almost there.

A nervous, skinny man wearing a fez waited for us as we disembarked. After only giving his name, he led us to another man waiting with donkeys. We followed him on a long trek along narrow trails through rubble and rock until we found Rais and Gad resting in the shadow of a boulder at a crossroads in the trails. They both seemed relaxed and happy to see us. Sailor made the money exchange with Rais and he bowed slightly in return. He said he would take us to Rais Ahmed Gurgar, the foreman for Howard Carter at the site. Since we were small, we could be used to carry the last bits of debris and rubbish from the narrow steps leading directly down to the tomb. Gurgar would arrange it. Sailor thanked Rais, saying that would, indeed, be close enough.

With Rais and his brother in the lead, we snaked our way into the Valley of the Kings. We passed by dozens of workman and boys, some standing in small groups, but most were one behind the other in long lines with baskets of rock and debris on their heads. A few men were animated and shouting. All of them let Rais and Gad through without a question, usually greeting them with a smile or a phrase in Arabic. Sailor, Ray, and I stayed close on their heels and kept silent. Signs of earlier digs and excavations littered the valley on all sides. The tomb Howard Carter had discovered was small compared to some of the other sites. It lay directly underneath the rubble that had accumulated during the construction of the later and much larger tomb of Rameses VI. This was one of the reasons it had not been found by tomb robbers or anyone else for over three thousand years.

Rais informed us that a day earlier they had cleared the stairs, broken the seals, and opened the doorway, only to come upon another blocked descending passage filled with local stone, fragments of jars, vases, and other broken objects all of a type dating to the Eighteenth Dynasty. Today, they had already cleared nine meters of the passage.

As we approached the activity surrounding the entrance, Gurgar, the foreman, and a man Rais called Callender came forward to confront Rais and Gad.

“Are these the boys?” he asked.

“Yes,” Rais replied. “These are the boys. Are they the proper size?”

The man gave us a quick glance. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Keep them near, Rais. We are about to open the second doorway. We are only waiting for Lord Carnarvon and his daughter, Lady Evelyn. Once they arrive, send me the boys.”

Callender turned abruptly and walked over to confer with another man, an Englishman dressed in a suit. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and wore a wide-brimmed hat that kept his face in shadow. Rais was proud to tell us the man was his boss, the archaeologist Howard Carter.

Though every face of every man close to the entrance looked tense and anxious, there was little being said. The anticipation was palpable. Rais led us to a low stone wall where a few carpenters sat watching the proceedings. They had been summoned the night before by Carter and asked to build a temporary wooden grille over the first doorway to protect the tomb. Sailor, Ray, and I crouched down in the shade of the wall and waited. We said nothing.

Several minutes passed, then I heard a group of voices speaking English in the distance. They were coming toward us. Howard Carter broke away from the men around him and walked to greet them. He was smiling broadly. It was Lord Carnarvon and his party, which included several Englishmen, three men from the Egyptian Antiquities Department, and two women, one of whom was Lady Evelyn. The women wore wide hats and long full skirts. To make sure they were cool and comfortable, a boy about our age followed behind, carrying two unopened umbrellas in the event either or both of the women required shade. Lady Evelyn smiled back at Howard Carter as he approached.

And then my skin began to crawl. I lost my breath and felt a chill run down my entire body. My eyes opened wide and froze. Next to me, I thought I heard Ray growl under his breath. Sailor leaped to his feet and started forward. I grabbed his wrist and stopped him. We could not believe what was in front of us, what was walking by and smiling along with everyone else. The green eyes, the brilliant white of his teeth. The small bitter laugh behind the smile. Evil pure as light. The boy walking by, the boy holding the umbrellas, was the Fleur-du-Mal.

“Hello, mon petit,” he whispered, knowing only I would hear. “I have missed you.”

I could feel my jaw tighten, but I made no response. Their small party passed quickly and joined Howard Carter. He led them all toward the entrance of the tomb. The Fleur-du-Mal turned once and winked at Sailor, who stood still as stone and then spit on the ground. Callender walked up to Rais, saying he would only need one of “his boys.” He turned and pointed to me. “You there,” he said. “Come along, come with me! Come now, boy!” I glanced at Sailor and Ray. There was no hesitation. I nodded and followed him step for step.

The workmen crowding near the entrance made way for Callender. In moments we were facing the descending stairs of the tomb. Howard Carter stood waiting at the top step. Behind him Lord Carnarvon was speaking in hushed tones to another man, followed by Lady Evelyn and another woman. And since candles are always required to check for foul gases when opening ancient subterranean tombs, the Fleur-du-Mal stood waiting behind the women, holding candles.

“Hand the boy the candles, Callender,” Carter said. “Tell him to stay near the other boy. Then come along. We are about to enter.”

“Done,” Callender answered.

There was no time to think. I watched Howard Carter and the others begin to descend the stairs. Callender had Gurgar hand me the candles and in seconds the Fleur-du-Mal and I were shoulder to shoulder, unable to speak to each other, descending the stairs and entering the tomb. We walked past the remnants of the first doorway and down the long passage that led to the second doorway. Broken things, potsherds, and scraps of rubbish still littered the floor. Carter cleared the last of it away. Callender helped him. No one spoke. Then he and Carter began to make a hole in the top left corner of the doorway. Carter asked for the candles. All eyes in the tomb turned to us.

I glanced at the Fleur-du-Mal for the first time. He winked, then led us around the others until we flanked the ancient doorway on both sides. Carter lit the candles. He and Callender widened the breach they had started. We held the candles high in front of it. No one breathed. A moment later the candles began to flicker from the hot gases escaping.

“Hold them closer,” Carter said, peering inside. No one moved. Seconds ticked and the candles danced in the light. He said nothing. I stared in the eyes of the Fleur-du-Mal. I saw something I never expected. Unconsciously, something much more common than psychopathic obsession appeared in his eyes. Something as common to the Giza as it is to the Meq, and as old. Hope. And that is the real secret of the Octopus. The power of the Octopus is and always has been that it represents the seed of Hope. In his eyes, in his face, I saw what my grandfather had seen, and I knew instantly why the Fleur-du-Mal had killed him.

Lord Carnarvon spoke first. “Well, can you see anything?”

Carter turned his head slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Things…wonderful things.”

To tell a story with words is admirable and usually adequate, but to tell a story with things, real things, is to make it come alive. The discovery of the tomb of King Tutankhamen opened a real and tactile conduit to a unique world and time that had passed three thousand two hundred years earlier. Intact, Howard Carter brought that world directly into the light of the twentieth century. The best story ever. Within forty-eight hours, the twentieth century had descended on the story and the Valley of the Kings. The site was made completely inaccessible to almost everyone. Howard Carter, Callender, Gurgar, and emissaries of the Egyptian government saw to that.

The Fleur-du-Mal had disappeared without a trace immediately after we emerged from the tomb. The general chaos and excitement had created a crowd scene, which he slipped through easily. I was reminded of a real octopus using his own black cloud for confusion and escape.

We were forced to wait another four months before we found a method for viewing the artifacts being removed, one by one, from inside the tomb. Each piece, each object being taken out, was priceless. Couches, caskets, alabaster vases, gold stools and chairs, chests of inlaid ivory ornamented with scenes of hunting and battle, golden bows, staves, and eventually exquisite jewelry and personal effects of the boy king. On and on, the list seemed endless. If the Octopus happened to be in the tomb, it would be brought out. One evening, Ray stated the obvious. He said, “I wonder what they’re doing with all the loot.” Sailor and I wondered the same thing.

We learned from Rais that Carter had been keeping everything in one place for cleaning and treatment before being packed and transported to Cairo. All objects were stored in the tomb of Seti II. Rais told Sailor there was a man he knew who might be able to smuggle us into the site as donkey boys, for a fee, of course. Another man in security might agree to let us have an hour or so inside the tomb of Seti II, for an added fee, of course. Rais claimed this was personally distasteful and also unavoidable. Sailor paid him well and I gave him an extra American double eagle twenty-dollar gold piece, which Rais held and coveted more than anything being removed from the tomb.

I never mentioned to Sailor or Ray what I had discovered in the eyes of the Fleur-du-Mal. I don’t know why. For the entire four months, he had not been seen anywhere. He was out of sight, but not out of mind. I knew better, and on March 14, the news arrived that Lord Carnarvon had contracted blood poisoning from a mysterious mosquito bite. He was transferred immediately from Luxor to Cairo. Lord Carnarvon would die there a few weeks later and the rumor of a curse circulated instantly. I knew the truth. The Fleur-du-Mal had extracted all he needed from Lord Carnarvon and had still come up empty. Blood poisoning may have been the cause of death, but it did not come from a mosquito bite. The real insect and curse was the Fleurdu-Mal. He was angry, active, and probably very near.

The tomb of Seti II is quarried into the base of a cliff face at the head of the wadi, or dry wash, running southwest from the main Valley of the Kings. There is only one entrance and the tomb is cut in a straight line going over two hundred feet into the cliff face with no lateral rooms. Even Sailor would not have been able to get in without being seen. The bribe to the security force, one man in particular, was an absolute necessity.

The call came from Rais on the morning of April 6, the day after Lord Carnarvon died. All work at the site had been suspended in his honor. Rais said his man would give us one hour inside the tomb. We crossed to the west bank at noon and led our donkeys along the road to the Valley of the Kings. We were in place for our rendezvous just as the sun sank over the almost vertical cliff face surrounding the tomb of Seti II. The man met us at the perimeter of the temporary security. The air was cool inside the shadow of the cliff. He hurried us toward the tomb, then handed Sailor a portable gas lamp and a key to the makeshift gate across the entrance. In Arabic, he said he would be gone until his belly was full. If we were still there when he returned, he would arrest us. There was another man waiting inside. He would be our escort, our guide, and our guard. He knew by memory where every single object was stored, so behave. Without another word, he left, rolling a cigarette and whistling as he walked away. We were completely alone, ten yards from the gate. Sailor lit the lamp.

Before we took one step, I heard a sound above us. I looked up into the glare of the last rays of light coming over the cliff. Then I felt it everywhere, the net descending. The presence of the Fleur-du-Mal was coming directly toward us, down the stone wall of the cliff face at a rapid pace. There was a cloud of rocks and dust, but in his wake, as if he were skiing. In seconds we saw the reflection of his ruby earrings. We saw his white smile. He was climbing down the steep rock at an impossible speed and angle, as quick or quicker than Geaxi, and he was laughing. In a few more seconds he stood between Sailor and the lock on the gate. His legs were spread wide. He wore leather boots laced to the knees and a long black linen tunic embroidered with tiny diamonds. He was missing his green ribbon and his black hair hung long, uncut, and loose.

We said nothing. He looked at me and grinned, then glanced at Sailor, then Ray. “You are Ray Ytuarte, no?”

“Who’s askin’?” Ray said without hesitation or a trace of irony, a poker player’s voice.

The Fleur-du-Mal dropped his smile and stared at Ray, taking a short step toward him. Their eyes were the exact same color. “I beg your pardon?” he asked. He kept gazing at Ray as if he had never seen a Meq before. Then suddenly, he broke into a loud, bitter laugh, a roar that echoed off everything around us. “Perfect! And I must request your permission to use it myself, should the occasion arise. ‘Who’s askin’?’ Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, do you not agree, Sailor?” He dropped his smile again, producing a stiletto from under his tunic. He made a move and before anyone blinked, the point of the blade was pressing into Sailor’s stomach, just above the navel. “Do you not agree?” he said again, whispering through his teeth.

“You are repeating yourself,” Sailor said calmly.

The Fleur-du-Mal ignored the response, but released pressure on the stiletto. “Now, unlock the gate, Umla-Meq. Let us see what Monsieur Carter has stumbled on, shall we?”

“I want to know something first,” I said.

“Is it not obvious, mon petit? I care little or not at all about what you want. Do you understand? It is meaningless what you want. You are as stupid as your father.”

“Let’s leave him out of it. Why kill Lord Carnarvon? Why torture and kill Giles, which I’m sure you did? Why murder Unai and Usoa? Because of what might be stored inside this tomb? Is that it? Is that all?”

The Fleur-du-Mal sighed deeply, dramatically. “Oh, Zezen, I am afraid you are destined for a short, miserable, frustrating life of inglorious ignorance.” He paused and glanced at the point of his stiletto. “Business, mon petit, business,” he said. “I would have thought that old fool, Solomon, had taught you about the sacredness of contracts…and the consequences if they are breached. I am a professional, Zezen, do you know what that means? I have a certain…reputation to uphold. My word is my truth. Your ideas of truth, reason, and morality are false and archaic, as they always have been, and they have nothing to do with business. And by the way, I had nothing to do with those annoying little monkeys, Unai and Usoa.”

“Unai and Usoa?” Sailor broke in. “You did not murder Unai and Usoa?”

“Now it is you who are repeating yourself, Sailor, but to answer your rude query, no, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I?”

“But, then…” I couldn’t finish my question.

“Think, mon petit, think. Who wanted Baju dead?”

I remembered Baju whispering to me as he was dying, “This is not about theft.”

“Who was in Africa? Who hates everyone? I am certain she detests Opari and I believe the poor girl even hates me. She is riddled with envy. She also impersonates me from time to time. Once, not so long ago, I told you to ask Opari about these things. I said you had the wrong villain. There is one who was a protégée of mine and a student of Opari. She has been called many things, including the Pearl, however, her name is—”

“Zuriaa!” Ray burst out. “My sister, Zuriaa?”

The Fleur-du-Mal looked at Ray again, but this time he looked him up and down, as he would merchandise, or a victim. “She has a brother?” he asked, raising one eyebrow. “Interesting.”

He glanced up at the sky, which was darkening. A quarter moon hung just above the horizon. The world seemed stopped, balanced between night and day. But there was no time to assess the truth of the Fleur-du-Mal’s words. “Now, Sailor,” he said, “without delay, unlock the gate.” He kept the knife blade close to Sailor’s ribs and nudged him forward. As the gate swung open, he motioned for Ray and me to take the lead. By the light of the portable lamp, we walked into the once empty, but now crowded tomb of Seti II.

The short entryway was stacked floor to ceiling with empty wooden crates and pallets, ready for the next load. Three long corridors followed and each was nearly filled with artifacts and furniture. A medley of colors surrounded us as we walked. Every object still shone bright and clear in the lamplight—brown, yellow, blue, amber, russet, black, and gold, lots of gold. We walked slowly through the maze until we passed into a well room that connected to a four-pillared hall, which was also nearly filled with boxes and hundreds of neatly stacked crates. Each crate held smaller, more fragile artifacts, such as vases and jewelry. Off to the side, tucked into the only niche in the wall, a tiny, balding man sat behind a desk lit by a lamp similar to ours. He stood and took off his wire-rimmed glasses. He was no taller than we were. “I have been waiting,” he said in English. “What do you wish to see? To see everything is out of the question. You must be specific. All objects are undergoing notation. Everything is unsorted, except to me.” He wiped his glasses with a handkerchief, then put them back on. He looked at me. “What do you wish to see?”

“A black box of onyx and serpentine, inlaid on top with lapis lazuli in the shape of an octopus.”

The man paused and looked closely at each of our faces, switching rapidly from one to the other, checking for differences and similarities. Then he took off his glasses again and rubbed his bald head. Without explanation, he said, “This way.”

We followed him to the other side of the hall where a burial chamber had been carved from what was intended to be another corridor, had Seti II not died when he did. The king’s sarcophagus was located here. Next to it was a stack of crates. The man removed the top crate and set it carefully on the stone floor. “I will tell you lads the same thing I told the other one. I told her there is no touching until every object has been cleaned and catalogued. You may gaze, but you may not touch.”

“Who was here?” Sailor interrupted.

“A girl,” the man said. “Two nights ago. A girl that greatly resembled all of you, only…” He paused again and glanced at each of us.

“Only what?” the Fleur-du-Mal asked.

“Only the girl was black…black as an Ethiopian tribesman.”

“Susheela the Ninth,” I whispered.

“She is a myth,” the Fleur-du-Mal said sarcastically. “If she existed, I would have seen her by now.”

“She ain’t no myth,” Ray said. “I guarantee it.”

“Open the crate, sir, if you please,” Sailor said softly, ignoring the rest of us.

The man nodded, adjusted his glasses, and pried open the top of the crate. A tangled nest of straw and paper lay inside. There was a small indentation in the center, no bigger than my palm. Whatever had rested there was there no longer.

The man cursed in Arabic and removed his glasses, staring at the empty crate. “Impossible!” he shouted. He fumbled with the straw, searching in vain for the missing object. “She must have stolen it. It was here, I tell you, it was here and I never saw her touch it. I was watching her every second. Impossible.”

Sailor looked at me, then said to the man, “Apparently nothing is impossible, sir.”

“Tell me what was taken,” the Fleur-du-Mal said.

“A black box,” the man said, “inlaid with lapis lazuli. The most beautiful work I have ever seen. The girl called it ‘the Octopus.’ Carter will have my head for this.” He looked over his shoulder as if Howard Carter might be watching and listening. “Quickly,” he said, closing the crate. “You must leave at once, all of you. I want you out of here now. I…I must sort this out.”

He escorted us out of the tomb, taking the key from Sailor and locking the gate behind us. Mumbling to himself, he told us never to speak of this encounter to anyone. If we did, he would deny it ever occurred. We hurried down the slope that led to the paths and roads beyond. The man veered off on an obscure trail within minutes, walking away in the darkness. The Fleurdu-Mal was still side by side with Sailor. He kept the point of his stiletto no more than an inch from Sailor’s ribs. Once the man was out of sight, he began walking away himself, backward, never taking his eyes from ours. Twenty yards in the distance, I could only see his smile, then he turned and ran.

“I want you to know one more thing,” I yelled. “I know what Aitor knew. I know why you want the Sixth Stone. I know why you killed my grandfather.”

At least a quarter mile away, I heard the sound of a dog barking, then yelping in pain. I heard a bitter, solitary, hollow laugh. “You know nothing, Zezen,” he said, and he was gone.

5. Ahots (Voice)

“I’m so far separated from the earthly life I know that I accept whatever circumstance may come. In fact, these emissaries from a spirit world are quite in keeping with the night and day. They’re neither intruders nor strangers. It’s more like a gathering of family and friends after years of separation, as though I’ve known all of them before in some past reincarnation.”

—Charles Lindbergh, over the Atlantic, near dawn, after twenty-four hours in the air

I awoke just after dawn from a long, startling, compelling dream. It was the kind of dream in which you are certain you are not dreaming. It feels too real to be illusion or fantasy. You are in another time, another place.

I was with the hunters, six men from the same clan. The clan mother had told them not to fail and her approval was vital. They took abnormal risks they would usually avoid. Now they were in trouble. The hunters had gone too far, too close to the ice. They were beyond the call of the others and still had not seen the herd of beasts they were seeking. The hunting season was short and nearing its end. Yet there was no return. Not this time. They huddled together for a meeting. The wind howled, sometimes gusting and blinding us with tiny ice crystals. They decided to make “the Voice.” All six sat where they were and gathered in a tight circle, holding hands and gazing toward the invisible center between them. Then, somehow without speaking, they made a sound together I could only hear from inside my head, or my heart. The sound was one voice chanting the word “ea” over and over. The word meant “come and help” in their strange language. They did this for three days without stopping and without sleeping. It was my duty to keep them warm and out of the wind. I melted ice for water and let it drip onto their lips at regular intervals. I never spoke and their one voice never ceased. On the third day, suddenly, there was another voice answering in reply. However, it was weak and undecipherable. Just as it became louder and began to clear, I opened my eyes.

But where was I? My bed was bolted to the wall and the room seemed tiny. Then the room and everything in it tilted slightly and I remembered. It was my birthday, May 4, 1923. We were on a passenger ship, headed for the port of Southampton, where we were to meet Trumoi-Meq. I dressed in silence and left my berth to watch the dawn from on deck. The air was cool and salty. I leaned against the railing and looked out on a dull gray sea and sky. At the edge of the horizon, in half-light, the nearly featureless landscape of Southampton came slowly into view. Inside, I felt dull and gray as the sea around me and turning twelve again seemed nothing to celebrate. We had missed our chance in Egypt. There was no telling when we would get another. The Fleur-du-Mal had disappeared again without a trace, as had the Octopus and the ghostlike Susheela the Ninth. We had neither suspected nor detected her presence anywhere in Egypt at any time, yet in the end she had proven to be ahead of us all, including the Fleur-du-Mal. We spent a week in Cairo chasing down any lead, bribing every contact Sailor knew, and came up with nothing. Then I received a common tourist postcard in the mail with a blurry image of the Parthenon on the front. It was sent from Athens and addressed to me in care of our hotel. The short note on the back was written in a beautiful calligraphic script. “Mon petit,” it began, “so sorry we were not able to visit longer. I wanted to inquire about that little bastard son of Jisil—Caine, I believe he is named. I could not bear for him to think I had forgotten. Give him my regards, s’il vous plaît. You are such a dear. Wish you were here. Love, Xanti.”

The next day Sailor received a telegram from Mowsel. It read: “COME TO ENGLAND WITHOUT DELAY STOP WILL MEET YOU AT THE GRAPES STOP.” We assumed he had information regarding either the Fleur-du-Mal or Susheela the Ninth and booked passage almost immediately, using our Egyptian passports. The voyage was uneventful and we said little to each other for three days. Finally, over dinner on the third night, Sailor said, “Gentlemen, it has become obvious to me that it is time for us to part. Your thoughts are drifting elsewhere, and they should, it is common. But do not let your thoughts dwell for a moment in despair. Much was learned in Egypt, especially when Ray became ill.”

“Thanks for remindin’ me, Sailor,” Ray said. “That virus nearly killed me.”

“And that is my point. It nearly killed you, but it did not. You lived and recovered completely, Ray. That proves some Meq have resistance, even after becoming ill. Who and why is more difficult to determine. It may have something to do with being Egipurdiko. Unai and Usoa’s baby was Egizahar. Perhaps it is because you are older. I do not know, I am speculating. Mowsel will have an opinion, to be sure.” He paused. “I understand your yearnings, both of you. Do not apologize or defend. I know Ray wants to find the truth about Zuriaa, as do all of us.”

“I have got a question or two for Opari,” Ray said, giving me a wink.

I only wanted to go home and Sailor knew it.

“Zianno,” he said, “I think you should visit Opari as well.” His “ghost eye” closed slightly. He twirled the star sapphire around his forefinger, then added, “From England, I shall be going east. I intend to find Zeru-Meq, no matter his objections. I also have a question or two and this time I want the answers.”

Now the docks of Southampton were in full view in front of me. I leaned over the railing and looked back out to open sea. It was my birthday and I knew I would be going home soon. Home with more questions than answers, but at least I would be going home. The thought was soothing and I let it extend and evolve into the belief that bad luck and bad news were behind us. I was wrong.

Once we were through the formalities of entering England, Sailor led the way to The Grapes, a pub for workingmen and sailors just beyond the dock gates. The door stood wide open and a man wearing a floor-length apron was sweeping the floor. It was still early morning and the pub was empty except for one, Trumoi-Meq, who sat on top of the bar with his legs crossed. He wore his dark blue kerchief and a blue beret, which he removed as we entered the pub. Half in shadow, half in light, he was not smiling and there was the image of death in his eyes. “Come with me,” he said, hopping down from the bar and heading for the door. The man sweeping the floor ignored us completely.

In silence, we walked at a leisurely pace through the streets of Southampton until we reached Watts Park and the stone Cenotaph honoring servicemen killed in the Great War. An overcast and windless sky gave the park a feeling of quiet grace and peace. A familiar figure stood with his back to us, reading the long list of names chiseled into the stone. He turned and smiled, but it was a weak smile and his eyes were sad. It was Willie Croft.

“Hello, boys,” he said, even though he was Giza and the youngest among us.

Each of us said hello, then I asked, “Did you know many of those folks, Willie?”

“No, Z, didn’t know a one. Brave lads, though, every one of them.”

“Has something happened, Willie?” Sailor asked bluntly.

Willie started to answer, then turned and glanced at Mowsel. “Mowsel, why don’t you tell them while I bring round the limousine.”

Willie walked away in his unusual, almost stumbling gait. Mowsel waited until he was out of sight before looking at Sailor. “It took me three weeks to locate you this time, old one. No doubt due to an unexpected misfortune, I assume, but that story must come later.” He paused a moment. “I am sorry to say Daphne Croft is dead, as well as Tillman Fadle. Willie did not want to bury either of them without us present. It was a desire Daphne had put in her will and also expressed to me years ago. I gave her my solemn word it would be so.”

Sailor let out a long sigh and said, “Yes, yes, I agree entirely. We all owe them both a great deal.”

“More than that,” Mowsel replied.

Sailor looked Mowsel squarely in the eye. I could tell they were each recalling events and situations they had experienced at Caitlin’s Ruby, not only during Daphne’s lifetime, but in all the lives of the Bramleys and Fadles going back four centuries to Caitlin herself.

“Again,” Sailor said, “I agree. We must be there.”

“I never did get to know the lady,” Ray said quietly.

“What happened?” I asked.

Mowsel looked up at the low gray cloud cover above us, then toward the west and a small sliver of blue sky on the horizon. “Apparently, about a month ago, sometime in the early morning, Daphne sat down to write a letter, a letter she never finished. While in the act of writing, she suffered a stroke. She remained alive, but unable to move or speak. All day she lay there. You are asking yourself, where was Tillman Fadle, no? The great irony is he had been in the garage since dawn, breaking down the engine of the limousine for repair. Finally, sometime around dusk, Tillman discovered her lying on the kitchen floor. He dragged her to the garage in order to drive her into Falmouth, but of course the limousine was unavailable. In desperation he used Carolina’s black coupe. This vehicle he had never driven and it was missing a headlight. On a curve only two miles from Caitlin’s Ruby, he lost control. I doubt he ever saw the rock wall approaching. They were both killed instantly. Daphne was found still inside the coupe and Tillman had been thrown over the wall. I was in London at the time. Once I was informed of the accident, I wired Owen immediately. He broke the news to Willie in St. Louis and Willie arrived in Cornwall ten days later. Since then we have been waiting for you.” He stopped talking and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Are you ill?” Sailor asked.

“No, of course not,” Mowsel said. “Are you mad, you old hound? I am tired…simply tired.” He looked to his left, scanning the street. “Hail Hadrian, there is Willie now. Cornwall awaits us.” He put his arm around Ray’s shoulder and started walking toward the street and the big limousine pulling up to the curb. “Now, Ray, you must tell me what happened in Egypt.”

“Do I have to?” Ray asked with a straight face.

Mowsel smiled, exposing the gap of his missing tooth. Then he slapped Ray on the back and laughed. “Make it up if you so desire, Ray. Fact or fiction, it often makes little difference, no?”

Though we were all weary from travel and disappointment, the long drive to Cornwall and Caitlin’s Ruby was beautiful and relaxing. The car was loud, but solid, with good suspension and Willie drove at an even pace. It often felt more like we were in a large boat rather than a limousine. Willie made certain I rode up front with him. I found out why two hours into our journey.

An old suede jacket lay on the seat between us. Keeping one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel, Willie reached into the jacket and withdrew a letter, which he handed to me. There was no envelope and the writing only covered half the page. It was unfinished and unsigned.

“She was writing to you, Z,” Willie said, giving me a quick glance.

“Do you mean Daphne?”

“Yes. She was writing to you when the stroke took her down.” He paused and nodded once toward the letter. “Those were her last words, Z. I…I think you should read them.”

I looked at the letter and read the date scrawled in the upper left corner, then the salutation underneath. I could hear Daphne’s voice in my head.

My dearest Z,

Where has the time gone? I ask you this because of a lovely dream I had this morning in which my William and I were in China and still working at the mission. Nothing much happened in the dream. William and I were simply out in the garden, planting seeds with at least a dozen children. My goodness, it was a wonderful time, a wonderful dream, and after waking my thoughts passed to you and your beautiful, charming companion, Opari. What you two have is as rare as the mountain air in my dream. And I so enjoyed the days we spent together here at the Ruby. In the few years since, I have been thinking of my William more and more. Never let your thoughts drift far from Opari, Z. Everything else will fade with time, even for you marvelous children. Be grateful and never let the light dim, never let your hearts doubt, never—

There the letter broke off abruptly. In silence, I looked up and stared out the window, watching miles of rich green country pass by. I don’t know how long I did this, but eventually I turned in my seat, folded the letter, and placed it back in the jacket. Willie glanced over at me. “Thanks, Willie,” I said. “Thanks.”

As we neared the winding gravel drive leading down to Caitlin’s Ruby, a light rain began to fall and continued to fall for the following seven days. On the morning of the third day, Daphne was buried alongside her beloved William in a small cemetery behind the Anglican Church where she and William had worshipped for much of their lives. Mowsel, Sailor, Ray, and I hung in the background during the ceremony while Willie accepted condolences from old friends and members of the congregation. He held an umbrella in one hand, but his red hair still matted and clung to his forehead. He was gracious and kind to each person, most of whom he knew well. All were from families with deep roots in the community and surrounding county. He surprised everyone, including me, by announcing he would be staying put at Caitlin’s Ruby. He was moving back from America. Because Willie had been so obsessively in love the last time I was around him, it made me wonder, where was Star in this plan?

On the drive back to Caitlin’s Ruby, I sat up front with Willie. All I had to do was look at him and he realized what I wanted to know.

“I suppose you were wondering about Star and Caine, right?”

“Yes, I was. Has something…changed?”

“No, not exactly. I still love her a great deal, Z. I always will. It just seems to me I should be back here, at least until I find someone I trust to live in and look after the Ruby full-time.”

“I agree, Willie, and you’re right to do it. But that’s not all, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.” He hesitated and glanced over at me, keeping both hands on the wheel. Rain continued to fall and every road was treacherous. “I think she needs to find something, Z, and at the present time, I do not know what that is.”

“Is she depressed? Is she angry, what?”

“Now don’t get me wrong, Z, because I’m not speaking of Opari here, but I think they’ve all gone bonkers—Star, Nova, Geaxi, even Carolina on occasion, maybe the whole damn country. On top of that, it is now impossible to order a pint of ale at the corner bar because of bloody Prohibition!”

I almost laughed out loud, but Willie was being earnest and I checked myself. “Bonkers? How do you mean?”

“I mean bonkers, loony, completely unpredictable and living as if there is no tomorrow. Geaxi is off in Illinois somewhere living as a ‘wing walker’ in a traveling air show. Nova hears ‘voices’ constantly and often wanders from coast to coast to find their source. She is also what is known as a ‘movie star.’ Yes, it’s true. She is a child actress in motion pictures. Our privacy has become a ridiculous problem. Geaxi used to travel with her, but now Star is her companion. Star is obsessed with acting and her beauty is attracting the sharks. There was no place for me, Z. I’m afraid my only obsession was Star and that became quite awkward for both of us. For now, at least, it is better if I stay away. And as for my mother, I would never let Caitlin’s Ruby go under, never—for Daphne, for all of us.”

I watched Willie and I could see the sadness in his eyes finding a good, wise place to go. There it would settle in him, becoming a part of him just as he was a part of Caitlin’s Ruby. I said, “I understand, Willie, but what did you mean when you said, ‘even Carolina on occasion’?”

“Between blues players and ballplayers coming and going, taking care of Caine, Biscuit, Jack, Owen, and arguing with Ciela, she is fine, and as bonkers as the others, if you want the truth. It’s a bloody zoo, Z, so be prepared.”

“When was it any other way?”

Willie ran one hand through his damp red hair, brushing it back off his forehead. He glanced across at me on the turn into Caitlin’s Ruby. “Quite,” he said, steering the big wheel and smiling faintly.

Later that evening Willie prepared a meal in honor of Daphne. He announced the kitchen to be off-limits to everyone while he cooked. The meal included all of her favorites, even an apricot tart. Willie made a valiant and admirable effort, but the result was slightly dangerous to the digestive system.

In three days the weather cleared and for the first time in our visit the cats of Caitlin’s Ruby appeared. Moving, resting, moving again, they were on every window ledge and rock wall, dozens of silent curious witnesses in every shade and color, never making a sound, not a one. None looked the same and none came forward. They were true sentinels in a wild place.

That night, under a full moon, Mowsel, Sailor, Ray, and I took a walk along one of the many paths leading away from the main house. I told them about Nova’s recent behavior and public celebrity, and both Mowsel and Sailor showed genuine concern. They seemed shocked and confounded. I agreed. It was not only that she was Meq, but through Baju’s bloodline, Nova also carried the Stone of Silence.

Sailor was unable to speak for several seconds, then he took a step forward. His “ghost eye” became a hurricane of clouds, but Mowsel grabbed Sailor’s shoulder and held him back. “Silence of water—” he whispered.

“We are,” I finished. It was one of the lines Trumoi-Meq had written on the wall of the first Meq cave I discovered in Africa.

Finally, Sailor said, “Indeed.”

“It don’t surprise me, Z, not a bit,” Ray said. Then he turned to Mowsel and Sailor and winked. “I don’t think we seen the end of it, either.”

I also informed them of Nova’s “voices” and Sailor became even more agitated and concerned. “You must tell her this is of grave importance. She may be the bridge in finding the Egongela, the Living Room. Do you understand? I need not remind you we have less than one hundred years until the Remembering. And where is Geaxi? Why is she not there to watch over Nova?”

I told him what Geaxi was doing. He looked over at Mowsel, who shrugged. For a brief moment Sailor smiled, then dismissed the whole subject with a mysterious comment. “Geaxi is being seduced,” he said.

We left Caitlin’s Ruby early on the morning of June 24, the day before Ray and I were scheduled to depart for America. Willie drove us back to Southampton in the big limousine. From there, he and Sailor and Mowsel planned to continue on to London in order to meet a man of about twenty years of age named Douglas Douglas-Hamilton, the future fourteenth Duke of Hamilton. Willie was supposed to teach him how to fly airplanes. Sailor informed me that Mowsel had arranged the meeting and the lessons. He had been a quiet and close friend of the family for centuries, and tried to maintain a personal relationship with each generation. I knew Mowsel was looking forward to the meeting because he told me so as we were saying our farewells. We were standing dockside, not far from the memorial to the Titanic. The ship was still loading cargo and passengers were beginning to board. Mowsel and Willie were about to leave to find petrol for the limousine and the rest of their trip to London. After we embraced, Mowsel reminded Sailor they had an appointment with Douglas-Hamilton and asked him not to dally. “I think I may be able to learn a great deal from this young man,” he said.

As he was turning to go, I had to ask, “Mowsel, what could you possibly learn from a twenty-year-old that you do not already know?”

He glanced at Sailor, then grinned. “I cannot answer that before it happens, Zianno, but this I will tell you—I intend to listen well. I am surprised that with your ‘ability’ to hear beyond any of us, you still have not learned to listen well. Do this, Zianno, and you will learn many things you never imagined.” He held up one hand with his palm facing out and his fingers slightly spread. “Five fingers,” he said.

“One hand,” I answered, holding up my hand and mirroring his.

I watched him as he walked away with Willie and even though it was a warm, clear summer day, Trumoi-Meq withdrew a long plaid woolen scarf, or muffler, and wrapped it once around his neck, letting the rest trail behind. Just before he was lost in the crowd, he turned and yelled back, “Hail Hadrian!”

I turned to Sailor. “Why does Mowsel like to praise Hadrian? What does it mean? Is it a joke?”

Sailor burst out in a rare and rowdy laugh, causing several early arriving passengers to look our way. He ignored them. “If it is a joke,” he said, “I am certain it is on Hadrian. Believe me, it is no joke to Mowsel. Someday, I shall tell you the tale. It is the origin of his name ‘Mowsel’ and the reason he is missing a tooth.” Sailor looked once toward our ship and the passengers queuing up to board. “Have a safe voyage, gentlemen. I will notify you when—”

I interrupted. “Tell me the tale now, Sailor. We’ve got time.”

He glanced in the direction of where Willie and Mowsel had gone. “Why not?” he said. “However, it must be a brief recounting.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Damn right,” Ray added. “I’ve always wondered about that crazy name.”

Sailor smiled faintly and gazed not out to the open sea, but northward over the low horizon and beyond. “In the country of what is now Scotland, the land of Douglas-Hamilton’s distant ancestors, Trumoi-Meq is a living legend, just as he is to a few precious families in Cornwall. And it all began with the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, and the construction of his infamous wall. In Cilurnum, a cavalry fort on the River Tyne, in AD 123, Trumoi-Meq was recognized as Meq and captured by a Greek slaver who arrived with the First Cohort of Vangiones from the Upper Rhineland. Trumoi-Meq had been traveling and living throughout the northern island chains studying the standing stones and ancient sea routes for hundreds of years before the Romans invaded. Being Meq, he moved easily among the many Celtic tribes, often as a messenger because of his quick understanding of their diverse dialects and customs. On one of these missions he heard reports of a slaver who had been stealing children while accompanying the cavalry on their frequent raids into the ‘barbarian’ north. Through Cilurnum, the slaver was shipping the children to all parts of the Empire, but if he found one particularly exotic, that child would be sent directly to the Emperor where they would usually be sacrificed in an equally exotic manner. How this slaver knew of the Meq has never been determined. What is known is that he recognized Trumoi-Meq as one of us and to prove it to the soldiers, he had one of Trumoi-Meq’s front teeth forcefully extracted, boasting to the Romans that the wound would heal in minutes and another tooth would take its place by morning. Trumoi-Meq was in agony and bleeding profusely, as anyone would be, but the wound did, indeed, heal within minutes. Using that small triumph, the slaver had Trumoi-Meq chained and thrown into solitary confinement until the following day. The Roman soldiers crowded around, saying such things were impossible, and the slaver took all wagers offered. He was no charlatan—the boy would grow another tooth! He had also secretly planned to personally present Trumoi-Meq to Hadrian, thereby becoming instantly wealthy from the Emperor’s abundant delight and gratitude.

“That night in the damp and dark of the tiny cell where they kept him, Trumoi-Meq did something quite extraordinary, especially for the Meq. In order to survive, he consciously willed his body, his metabolism, blood, and ancient genetic code, everything in his being, to stop his tooth from regenerating. The Meq have a word for this impossible ability, an old word rarely used—askenameslilura, the ‘last mirage.’ Only by doing this could Trumoi-Meq prove he was not Meq. The slaver would be discredited and forced to set him free. It might be his only chance for escape. No one had ever done this before, but Trumoi-Meq did, and the following morning he was inspected and released. Before running away, he turned to the slaver. Grinning like a buffoon, he displayed the great gap that is still permanently in the front of his mouth. ‘Hail Hadrian,’ Trumoi-Meq said, then disappeared through the soldiers and into the crowd. However, he did not leave Cilurnum right away. He was now determined to take every stolen child in the slaver’s custody back to their various mothers, fathers, and tribes. Then something occurred to him instinctively. In the same manner, Zianno, as you knew how to read the old script without ever having seen it, Trumoi-Meq knew he could use his missing tooth to save the children, and he knew how. He ran swiftly to the west gate of Cilurnum and the building housing the bread ovens servicing the entire fort. The long building lay in the shadow of the west gate. Below the great brick and stone ovens, the Romans had also dug a narrow tunnel that led away from the fort a good hundred and fifty yards before surfacing in a grove of trees near a small spring. Only a few men at a time used the tunnel, normally for clandestine night raids and reconnaissance patrols. Trumoi-Meq had already befriended and easily bribed the baker in charge of the ovens, whose name was Ith. He had been born a Celt and was sympathetic to the plight of the children. When told of the plan, Ith reminded Trumoi-Meq that it must be done just before dawn, during the brief time he would be preparing the loaves. Once he lit the wood fires and the ovens were warmed, it would be too hot to enter or exit the tunnel. Trumoi-Meq told the baker not to worry, the children would all be moving in silence and without delay. The escape was set for that evening. With a crescent moon high above the fort, long after the soldiers had fallen asleep, Trumoi-Meq slipped into the area where the children were being held. Two dozen children filled the room. They were sleeping on a bare stone floor covered with straw. The smell and stench of stale urine was overwhelming. Their faces were terrified and half starving. Slowly, the children gathered around Trumoi-Meq, but none stood up. They all sat huddled together at his feet. The room was dark and he waited until each one could see his eyes and mouth. He began to speak in an even manner and tone, using a common Celtic tongue. He said, ‘Look into the mouse hole, dear ones, and listen. Do not be afraid. Look and listen.’ Trumoi-Meq then opened his mouth and grinned. He knelt down until his face was level with the children’s faces and let each one gaze into his grin and his gap, his missing tooth, his magic mouse hole. What they saw and what they heard transported them into a suspended, hypnotic state that was not quite a trance, but more a state of infinite trust. Inside Trumoi-Meq’s gap, they each found safety and sanctuary. Trumoi-Meq then used the ‘voice’ he had discovered and understood instinctively, the ‘voice’ that could save the children. ‘Be silent, be swift, and do not be afraid. We are going home. Follow me.’ And they did. Once he had picked the locks of their linking chains, Trumoi-Meq led the children through the darkness across the entire fort, from the barracks, past the stables, to the bread ovens and the west gate. The silent voice acted as a beacon in the dark and they arrived unseen and unheard just as Ith was ready to light his fires. ‘Not yet,’ Trumoi-Meq told him. ‘Now open the tunnel, my friend.’ In silence, one by one, the children stepped down into the narrow tunnel and none showed any fear or hesitation. ‘Into the mouse hole,’ Trumoi-Meq said gently as they entered. ‘Do not be afraid.’ After the last child had disappeared below, Trumoi-Meq followed. By dawn, all were beyond the reach of the slaver and within a week, each had returned to his or her home, though many of them discovered they were now orphans. Trumoi-Meq eventually found a home for them as well. Whenever asked how they had escaped with only another child to lead them, the stolen children always gave the same answer. ‘Through the mouse hole,’ they said. In the course of time, the name changed and shortened into one mystical, mythical place and person—Mowsel.”

Sailor looked back through the crowd and saw something or someone he recognized in the distance. It was Trumoi-Meq. He was standing on the running board of the limousine, waving his long plaid scarf in a circular motion. “It is time,” Sailor said, turning back to Ray and me. I stared into his swirling “ghost eye” and thought again about Trumoi-Meq and Sailor and how long they both had been traveling, seeking, and surviving. Sailor would never admit it, yet both of them, without exception or hesitation, still adhered to one basic principle and simple code of behavior—the “Golden Rule.” “Ray,” Sailor said, “I can see you have an intuitive connection with Nova. You may be the only one she can trust, the only one who may be able to unravel what is troubling her. Do you understand?”

“You bet.”

“Keep her in this world, Ray. We need her.”

“I’ll do what I can, Sailor.”

Sailor began backing away and his last comment surprised me. “Zianno, does young Caine wear the blue stone, the lapis lazuli I gave him outside Alexandria?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Make sure that he does,” Sailor said, then darted into the rush, threading his way through the stream of oncoming passengers and luggage, never slowing down, never touching anyone and barely being seen.

The America to which Ray and I returned was not the America we left, and we were given a short preview of it on our four-day passage from Southampton to New York. A large group of mostly young Americans, none older than thirty, were traveling together in what seemed to be a rambling party, constantly flirting, arguing, or laughing with each other in a shifting, never-ending exchange. They gathered in different areas of the ship or walked the decks at all hours of the day and night. None of them seemed particularly rich, yet they drank champagne to excess, often making loud obscene toasts to Prohibition, which never failed to arouse a cheer from each of them. They discussed and debated everything from politics to polyrhythmic African chants. They dressed in various styles and manners ranging from plain and sloppy to tie and tails. Their American slang was unfamiliar, and except for one name, T. S. Eliot, so were their references to current painting, poetry, and music. Many had been directly involved in the Great War and all had left it far behind. Something had changed. These were new Americans in a new age.

Ray noticed the same thing and talked to several of them whenever he got the chance. Since we were still carrying our Egyptian passports, he used that as an excuse to strike up conversations, saying he and I were brothers wishing to practice our English. Being children, we were rarely turned away. After we docked and passed through customs, Ray summed it up in a taxi on our way to Pennsylvania Station. Smoke and gas and noise surrounded us. New York seemed to have a million cars and trucks and ten times that many people, all in motion. He said, “Looks like we’re a little behind the times, Z.”

Inside the station we ate a delicious meal, bought our tickets, and boarded the first train through to St. Louis. Traveling on our train and sitting across the aisle from us was a young man in his early twenties who had a warm smile and gentle nod for anyone and everyone. In no time, Ray was in conversation with him about all the current news in America, especially baseball. The young man knew a great deal about baseball, more than most fans, and was impressed with Ray’s questions. He finally introduced himself, which explained it. His name was Jim Bottomley, better known as Sunny Jim. He was a Major League ballplayer with the St. Louis Cardinals. He had the pleasant disposition and quiet demeanor of an accountant or store clerk, but as we witnessed later, he could play. He was traveling on his own because he had been hit in the head by a pitch in the last game of a series against the New York Giants a few days earlier. He lost consciousness and was diagnosed with a concussion. The doctor wanted him kept under observation in the hospital for at least forty-eight hours. The Cardinals were scheduled to leave New York for Pittsburgh that night. Sunny Jim stayed behind in the hospital. Now he had fully recovered and was on his way to rejoin his teammates in St. Louis. This was his first complete season in the big leagues and at the end of it he would be named Rookie of the Year in the National League. At Ebbets Field the next year, he would hit twelve RBIs in one game, a record that still stands. He would also become a close and loyal friend to Ray and me and Carolina’s family.

On July 3 our train made a long stop in Akron, Ohio. It was late in the afternoon and inside the train the heat was stifling. While we waited, porters offered free lemonade outside on the platform. Sunny Jim and Ray decided to look for any bootleg cold beer that might be available for a price. Sunny Jim said all you had to do was ask the right fellow and you could find some hooch practically anywhere in America. And he didn’t think it was unusual in the least that a boy like Ray might want a beer instead of lemonade. He said he grew up on the stuff. I chose the lemonade and then went to send a telegram to Owen Bramley informing him of our arrival in St. Louis the following day.

While on my way back to the train I spotted a large poster advertising a demonstration of aeronautical skills coming to Akron later that summer. Many top pilots and barnstormers were flying, including “Tex Rankin of Walla Walla,” Marcellus Foose, and Bessie Coleman, or “Queen Bess,” the only black licensed pilot in the world. The show also featured wing walkers and parachute jumpers and their names were listed at the bottom of the bill. The last name I hadn’t seen in forty-one years. I almost laughed out loud. It said, “Also appearing by popular demand, The Great Geaxi, Spider Boy of the Pyrenees.” Not far from the air show poster was another poster advertising a “double feature” motion picture extravaganza now showing downtown at the Rialto Theater. One film was titled The Ten Commandments, starring Richard Dix. The other was The Daughter of Cleopatra, starring Pearl White and Nova Gastelu, “America’s little princess.” Maybe Willie was right, I thought. Maybe they really have gone bonkers.

The next day we were delayed repeatedly on our way through Indiana and Illinois. Finally, well after dark, we approached the Mississippi. We could see the lights of St. Louis across the river and, all along the waterfront, fireworks. At least six different celebrations were taking place at once. Sunny Jim leaned over to watch from our side of the train.

Ray said, “Looks like they’re giving me a surprise birthday party, Z.”

I looked at Ray without speaking, waiting for the punch line, but none came. “Those fireworks are birthday celebrations for America, Ray. This is the Fourth of July, remember?”

“How could I forget? Me and this old country were born on the same day, only eleven years apart.”

Ray was smiling, however he was not joking. He was simply telling the truth. “I never knew that,” I said. “I knew the year but not the day. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well, it’s clear as a tear, ain’t it, Z? Like Sailor said, you never asked.”

I started to laugh and changed my mind. “Happy Birthday, Ray.”

Sunny Jim slapped Ray on the shoulder and said, “You got a great imagination, kid.”

With fireworks still exploding in the distance, we said our farewells to Sunny Jim on the steps of Union Station. He invited us to a ball game, adding that he might be able to wrangle us a job as batboys for a game or two, if we were interested. Ray told him we’d be there and promised to wear his red beret through the rest of the season in honor of the Cardinals.

Our original intention was to walk the entire distance from downtown to Carolina’s, just for old times’ sake. Ray said it was too damn hot for that. I agreed and we caught a taxi instead. Ray grinned out the open window almost all the way. The Jazz Age was everywhere. He stared at the cars, people, clothes, and the frantic pace of life, the action. He turned to me and said, “I think I’m gonna enjoy this catchin’ up, Z.”

Gradually, the traffic thinned and we pulled into the lush and quiet privacy of Carolina’s neighborhood. I had the driver let us out on the street in front of her house, which was dimly lit. He glanced once at the big stone mansion and told us what we owed him, looking us both up and down. “You two live here, do you?”

“You bet,” Ray said. He twirled his beret on his finger, then gave the man a double eagle, which was ten times our fare. “Thank you for the ride, sir,” Ray said politely. “And please keep the change.” The driver started to laugh, then sped away. Ray turned and looked up the long driveway toward the house. “Let’s go see some folks, what do you say, Z?”

Overhead through a canopy of oaks and elms, only a few stars were visible. There was no sound, except for occasional bursts of fireworks in the distance. A single light came from the first floor and another flickering light shone behind a window on the second. We walked under the stone arch and found the entrance leading to the kitchen. The door was open. We slipped through in silence and saw a figure with his back to us, sitting at the far end of the long kitchen table. He was a black man wearing a formal white shirt. The collar was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up. He was eating a large piece of peach pie and humming a tune I had never heard, a beautiful slow ballad, which he seemed to be improvising.

After several moments, I interrupted. “Mitch?”

He turned as if he had been expecting us. “Hey, Z, man! I’ve been waitin’ for you. Everybody already left to catch the fireworks display in Forest Park.” He paused and wiped his mouth. “What kept you?”

“Trains,” I said.

“Well, you look good. You, too, Ray. Good to have you back, both of you.”

“You gonna eat that whole pie by yourself, Mitch?” Ray asked.

Mitch laughed. “No, man, I wouldn’t do that. Get over here and have a piece. It’s the best peach pie you ever had.”

“So, you’re all alone?” I asked.

“Well, no, not exactly,” he said and hesitated.

“What do…”

I was about to ask what he meant, but it wasn’t necessary. I heard small footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor. Then I heard the voice that only I am able to hear—the silent touch, the Whisper, the Isilikutu. “Beloved,” the voice said, “welcome home.”

“Z, you all right, man?” Mitch asked.

I blinked and turned around in time to see her walk into the kitchen. I stared into her dark eyes coming out of the darkness, coming toward me. “Opari,” I whispered, knowing only she would hear. I took a step to meet her. I could smell her skin. I could see her lips. “Come to me,” I said.

Ray and Mitch must have been eating and talking behind us, but I never heard them. For several minutes Opari and I embraced and held each other without speaking. I kissed her eyelids and nose and lips. She wore a long cotton tunic, Berber in design, and I could feel the warmth of her body underneath. The Stone hung from her neck and I swung it aside to bring her closer. I tasted tiny beads of sweat on her forehead and neck. “I missed you more than I ever thought I would or could,” I told her.

“And I you.”

“I have so much to tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

“Now?”

She wanted to know everything I’d done, everywhere I’d been. I only wanted to sit and look at her, so I spoke in a low voice and watched her listen. I talked and rambled on. I was unaware of what I was really saying until Opari’s eyes opened wide and she put her finger to my lips to stop.

“What did you say, my love? Did you say it may have been Zuriaa who murdered Unai and Usoa?”

I hesitated. “Yes…according to the Fleur-du-Mal. I don’t know why, Opari, but I believe him. I think he is telling the truth.”

Opari stood motionless, staring away, remembering something. “Yes,” she said finally. “This is so and I should have seen it—the missing blue diamond in Usoa’s ear—the Fleur-du-Mal might have stolen the ear but never the gem. Also, the Fleur-du-Mal would never lie about an assassination. He thinks it to be unprofessional, no?”

“So he says,” I answered.

“I was afraid of this.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of this knowledge, Zianno.”

I watched her carefully. Every feature on her face seemed to change slightly and her dark eyes filled with a calm and compassion I had first seen in the eyes of Geaxi, a look of innocence drowned in experience that is only found in the eyes of an old one. “Ray wants to ask you some questions,” I said. “About Zuriaa.”

“And I need to speak with Ray, but first, my love, there is something I must tell you.”

Just then Carolina burst through the side door and into the kitchen, followed by Ciela, Jack, Owen Bramley, a teenager I assumed was Biscuit, and a boy with dark, wavy hair about five years old—Caine. They were loud and laughing and in high spirits from watching the fireworks in Forest Park. Carolina saw Ray and me immediately and told everyone to hush. They stopped laughing long enough for her to say, “You two are late.” Before I could respond, Jack, who was now almost six feet tall and beginning to look exactly like Nicholas, said, “Yeah, Z, you’re late by about three and a half years.” Everyone began laughing again, and for the rest of the night and throughout the summer of 1923, we did nothing but laugh, celebrate, and “catch up.” Ray and I caught up with the times and we all caught up with each other. Only one day from early July to early October was filled with anything but joy and good news for everyone. It was the day after our arrival and the day Ray learned a hard truth about his sister from Opari. It was not what he wanted to hear and the decision had been mine whether he heard it at all.

The first moment we were alone, Opari told me what she knew concerning Zuriaa. Afterward, she asked if this knowledge was knowledge Ray would want to learn. She had held it back from me because she assumed the problem had been resolved. That was before she heard the Fleur-du-Mal denied murdering Unai and Usoa. Now she realized the problem had never been resolved, but had evolved and resurfaced. “Tell Ray everything you told me,” I said without hesitation.

The day after our homecoming there was a doubleheader at Sportsman’s Park. Carolina still had box seats, so a few of us, including Ray, decided to go see the Cardinals play the Phillies. The box was located in a perfect spot, about ten rows up, just above the Cardinal dugout. It was a hot, humid day with overcast skies and little breeze. The Cardinals’ uniforms now had numbers on the back, something they’d never had before. Sunny Jim Bottomley wore number 5 and as soon as I got his attention, I waved to him. He motioned me down to the dugout and asked if I might want to be batboy for the day since their regular boy was sick. I said, “Are you kiddin’? Yeah, sure! Do I get to wear a uniform?”

“Well, sure, kid. We’ll fix you up,” Sunny Jim said.

A kid was exactly what I felt like. It had been a long time since I was glad to look twelve years old.

During the third inning of the first game, with the Cardinals at bat, I saw Ray and Opari talking face-to-face. Neither paid attention to the game. Opari talked and Ray listened. By the third strike of the third out, he had heard everything. His expression was blank and distant, as if he had suddenly returned from a place he had never been before. Without looking at anyone, Ray stood and turned to leave. In a few seconds he was only a blur in the crowd.

It had been a century since Ray lost touch with Zuriaa in New Orleans. She was his younger sister, barely into the Wait at the time. What Ray heard was this: Zuriaa, his sister, is a murderer. She has murdered many times in many places. She has murdered men, women, and children. She has murdered for money, revenge, and worst of all—pleasure. She was trained and taught the craft of killing by the Fleur-du-Mal until she betrayed him. She has tried to trap and kill Opari through intrigue and stealth on several occasions and failed. She is sick, lost, totally insane, and consumed with hate. The killing of Unai and Usoa means she is once again in the middle of her madness. She is psychotic and dangerous, particularly for those who wear the Stone.

Ray left St. Louis the next day. He said he wanted to visit the Ozarks, see the Buffalo River, and check out the gambling in Hot Springs a little farther south. I knew his real reason was to be alone. At first, I was surprised how hard Opari’s words hit him. Then I realized it was typical of Ray to keep those kinds of feelings deep within himself. Still, there seemed to be more to it. While he was gone, Opari told me everything she knew about Zuriaa and her obsessions. At one point, she asked if I knew of anything traumatic that had happened to Zuriaa as a child, a real child. I told her I knew next to nothing about Zuriaa and Ray’s early life. I did remember that Ray had said their mother was murdered, but he never shared all the details.

A week later, Ray returned from the Ozarks. He was in better spirits and wanted to talk about Zuriaa openly. The three of us took a long stroll through Carolina’s “Honeycircle” and Ray wasted no time in telling us how he felt. He wanted to know if Opari thought Zuriaa could change. The healer in Opari assured Ray there was always a chance Zuriaa could be helped, but it was a small chance. Then Opari asked Ray if he would mind telling her about the murder of their mother. If he would rather not, Opari said she understood and it would not be mentioned again. Ray didn’t mind and went through what the police had told him about it. He said it occurred the same year in which Zuriaa turned twelve. Opari asked where Zuriaa was when the murder took place. Ray said Zuriaa was there, in the hotel room. She was found hiding behind a curtain, but she had witnessed the whole thing. On her face there were drops of blood, blood that had spewed out from her mother as the man held her head back and slit her throat.

Opari made a trilling sound with her tongue and teeth, then said, “Iturri!”

“What does that mean?” Ray asked.

“‘Origin,’ ‘first,’ ‘beginning.’ This could be the origin of the break in her mind, a place of infinite pain the Fleur-du-Mal could easily exploit.” She paused and looked at me. “Remember, the Fleur-du-Mal also witnessed his mother being murdered.” Opari unconsciously pressed her hand against her chest where the Stone hung inside her tunic. “It is clear now. The murder of Unai and Usoa was a message from Zuriaa delivered to us, especially to me. She is in America. She knows where we live…and whom we love. And she may be under the illusion that she is now the Fleur-du-Mal.”

“Yeah,” Ray said, “that may be true, but what if we find her first?”

“That will be difficult,” Opari answered. “The Fleur-du-Mal taught her well, Ray. In China, she was known by several names. The ‘Pearl’ was most common, but another was the ‘Shadow and the Sword.’ She has never lived anywhere permanently. She is everywhere and nowhere.”

“Like you for a few millennia?” I asked.

Opari raised one eyebrow, then smiled. Her black eyes flashed between Ray and me. “Yes, like me,” she said.

For three days beginning on October 4, 1923, a spectacular air show was staged in St. Louis. It was a combination of trade show, swap meet, county fair, military parade, and the largest aeronautical demonstration that had ever been held anywhere in the world. There were 725,000 people watching all events on the last day. The events included an air race, the Pulitzer Trophy Race, a parachute spot landing contest, stunts of flying at Lambert Field and elsewhere, even under the Eads and Municipal bridges, and wing walking. The Great Geaxi, “Spider Boy of the Pyrenees,” was one of the featured wing walkers. We had not heard from her all summer because she had been on tour with a dozen different air shows across the United States and Canada. The show in St. Louis was being heavily promoted. On one poster there was a group portrait of six wing walkers, one of whom was Geaxi. The other five had her hoisted on their shoulders. Her left hand held her beret skyward. She wore her leather leggings and boots. The others were smiling but she was not. Her hair was cut shorter than most men or boys and she now wore a false pencil-thin mustache on her upper lip. A long white scarf was wrapped around her neck and goggles were pushed up on her forehead. Her chin jutted out in false pride and her right hand was tucked inside the front of her shirt. She stared straight at the camera. She resembled a very young and thin Spanish Napoleon. Even Carolina had to laugh when she saw the poster.

The show itself was a huge success. We attended every day’s events, with Ciela bringing along baskets of fruit, fried chicken, and ham sandwiches. Sunny Jim Bottomley came along with us. Caine rode on his shoulders, wearing Mama’s baseball glove, which he now carried everywhere. Sunny Jim was fascinated with the glove and said he had never seen one like it. I told him there never had been one like it.

Geaxi did not arrive in St. Louis until October 6, the last day of the show, and she stayed away from Carolina’s home before the events began. Perhaps she had to make preparations for her performance, but I think it was because she wanted us to see her perform before we spoke. I had no idea why she was wing walking at all; nevertheless, I couldn’t wait to watch her do it. Neither could everyone else, except Opari. She was more anxious to talk with Geaxi about Zuriaa.

In the early afternoon, a sudden rainsquall over Lambert Field delayed the air show for at least an hour. Once the sky cleared, there was an announcement that the wing walkers would be next, followed by the parachute spot landing contest. Owen Bramley had found an ideal place for us to watch the proceedings. It was away from the main crowd, near one of the hangars being used to service the airplanes in the show. We sat in folding chairs with our hands over our eyes for shade and watched the sky, waiting for the Great Geaxi, Spider Boy of the Pyrenees, to appear in her stunt plane. All the wing walkers used biplanes. The crisscrossing wires between the wings made it possible for the most daring walkers to “travel” on the wing from fuselage to wing tip and back. None of the first five wing walkers attempted that stunt. The sixth biplane to fly over was painted a brilliant scarlet red. Between the wings, with goggles down and white scarf flowing behind, stood Geaxi. Her legs were spread wide. She was grabbing a wire with one hand and saluting the crowd with the other. The biplane made two passes and in that short amount of time, Geaxi almost danced from fuselage to wing tip and back, then out again, where she could not resist lifting one leg high and holding a ballet pose for several seconds.

The crowd went wild. Jack and Biscuit thought it was the best stunt they had ever seen. Ciela had her hands over her eyes, scared to death and unable to watch. Owen Bramley cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief and kept repeating, “Remarkable, simply remarkable.” Ray whistled as loud as he could and waved his beret. Carolina whooped and shouted, and Caine, who sat high atop Sunny Jim’s shoulders, pointed toward the sky and laughed and laughed. I turned to Opari and said, “Let’s go find Geaxi as soon as she lands. I’ve got to tell her that was amazing, then you can talk to her.”

“Yes, I agree,” Opari said. “She is something, no?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning and shaking my head. “She is something.”

Owen arranged for Opari and me to enter the hangar where the biplane would be parked and serviced. The area was off-limits to anyone but pilots and performers connected with the show. Owen walked with us through the maze of airplanes, pilots, and mechanics clustered outside the hangar. We attracted a few passing glances, but most were too busy to notice. Owen posted himself by a side door while Opari and I slipped inside. Immediately, we were disoriented. The hangar had been partitioned into three separate areas, divided by immense curtains of sailcloth, which were billowing and moving back and forth in the cavernous space. There seemed to be only three planes inside, but it was difficult to tell. We walked around the first curtain and I caught a glimpse of brilliant red just beyond the second curtain. “That’s her biplane,” I said.

We walked toward it. I could hear the big engine roaring. The other two planes were silent with no one in them or working on them. The second curtain swelled and waved from the force of the propeller’s blades. Opari and I slowly rounded the curtain and in a split second we were both reaching for our Stones. Ten feet from the red biplane, Geaxi’s pilot lay on the hangar floor facedown. He was either dead or knocked out. Beyond him, only five feet from the powerful propeller, two men had Geaxi wrapped inside a carpet, making it impossible for her to reach for her Stone or move anything but her head. They were holding her up and level, walking her toward the propeller, head first. The men wore dark suits and looked to be Maori tribesmen. They were both over six feet tall and heavily tattooed on their faces.

Geaxi either felt us or saw us the moment we saw her. She turned her head in the carpet and smiled. “Good timing, young Zezen!” she screamed.

The two men stopped and turned to look, but before either of us could use the Stone or say the words, two other men appeared from around the curtain behind us. One of the men, tall and skinny with the face of a boy, yelled out, “Look here now! What’s going on? What do you think you’re doing with that boy? Put him down or I’ll find the police!”

The two Maori glanced at each other, then without a word between them, put Geaxi down and walked away. They were not in a hurry and they were not frightened. They were professional killers and their plans had simply changed.

Opari ran to help Geaxi out of the rolled-up carpet. The two men and I followed and the shorter one climbed up the fuselage and jumped into the cockpit, shutting down the engine at once. As Geaxi got to her feet, the taller man asked, “Are you all right, kid?”

“Yes, I think so,” Geaxi said, glancing at me.

“Do you want me to get the police?”

“No, no, that is unnecessary,” Geaxi said firmly. She found her beret on the floor and quickly brushed it clean and placed it on her head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Is Cooper alive?”

The other man checked on the pilot, who was regaining consciousness and groaning. “He’s going to have a hell of a headache for a while, but he should be fine,” the man said.

Geaxi looked up at the tall man. “I owe you one, Slim.”

“That’s all right, kid. Who were those fellows, anyway?”

“I have no clue,” Geaxi replied, then stared at Opari and me. “Perhaps my cousins know,” she said. “I will ask them.”

The tall man scratched his head and said, “Well, if you want me to get some help, I will, otherwise Bud and I will take Cooper to get some first aid.”

“Thank you again, Slim.”

“Anytime, kid. By the way, Bud and I came back here to tell you the ballet pose was something else.” He turned to me as he was leaving. “Your cousin is something else, isn’t he?”

“That’s for sure,” I said. “He is something else.”

After the two men escorted the groggy pilot away, I asked Geaxi who they were. She said the shorter man was Bud Gurney, a friend who had entered the parachute spot landing contest. The tall, skinny, boyish-looking one was his pilot. Geaxi said everyone called him “Slim,” but his real name was Charles Lindbergh.

“Are you unhurt, Geaxi?” Opari asked.

“Yes, of course,” Geaxi said and paused, looking into Opari’s eyes. “You saw the faces of the Maori?”

“Yes.”

“I know of only one tribe who tattoo their faces with such a pattern—the ‘po ngaru,’ the ‘night wave.’” She ripped the false mustache from her upper lip. “This is true, no?”

Opari nodded in agreement.

“And there is only one who employs this tribe—the Fleurdu-Mal.”

“No, there is another, Geaxi, though I am now certain she believes she is the Fleur-du-Mal.”

Geaxi looked puzzled. “I do not understand. Who is trying to kill me, and why?”

I interrupted. “The same one who murdered Unai and Usoa. It was not the Fleur-du-Mal. It was Ray Ytuarte’s sister, Zuriaa.”

Geaxi seemed unfamiliar with the name Zuriaa.

“She is also known as the ‘Pearl,’” Opari said.

“Ahhh,” Geaxi sighed, recognizing the name. “The Fleurdu-Mal’s rejected apprentice, no?”

“Yes, and mine in some ways, I am ashamed to say. Her mind has broken. We are all in danger.”

“But I never saw or felt anyone else in the hangar,” Geaxi said. “The two Maori were by themselves.”

“Yes, and this is…larritu… worrisome,” Opari said, glancing at me. “I am not sensing her presence; however, I am certain she is near.”

“Two birds with one Stone,” I said suddenly, not even realizing I said it out loud.

“You are not making sense, Zianno,” Geaxi said.

“Opari?” I asked. “Could Zuriaa have always known of the Fleur-du-Mal’s obsession with the ‘Prophesy’ and with Star?”

“Yes, it is possible. She was his shadow for many years.”

“If Zuriaa’s mind has…fractured, and part of her, or all of her, truly believes she is the Fleur-du-Mal, then that part would be in St. Louis for one reason—to kill Caine and determine his fate! That’s why she is not in the hangar!”

I spun on my heels and sprinted for the corner of the giant sailcloth curtain, pulled it back, and ran through the hangar, under the wings of the second biplane, then around the second curtain and back to the side door where Owen was waiting outside talking to a promoter. Opari and Geaxi were right behind, not even breathing hard. I waved for Owen to follow. We raced through mechanics and tools and ladders, taking a shortcut back to where Carolina and Sunny Jim and the others sat with Caine. The sun was low in the sky and I had to shield my eyes to find them. Finally, fifty yards away, I could see them through the maze of people and planes. We ducked under the wing of the last plane. They were sitting in a circle and they had a blanket spread between the folding chairs. Ciela was reaching in her basket, handing out pieces of chicken to everyone. They seemed to be moving in slow motion. Caine sat in Carolina’s lap and Sunny Jim sat next to them. He was showing Caine how to pound the pocket of Mama’s glove. He held Caine’s hands in his, guiding him. Then, in an instant, Ray leaped up in front of Caine. He screamed a name I had never heard before. He screamed, “Ikerne! Ikerne!” I looked to where Ray was looking and saw a paradox. Standing ten feet away with legs spread, facing Carolina and Caine, was the Fleur-du-Mal, except I knew it was not the Fleur-du-Mal. It was Zuriaa. She looked and dressed exactly like him, down to ruby earrings and ponytail with green ribbon. She had a stainless-steel throwing knife in one hand and her arm was cocked and ready to release. But she was frozen, mesmerized, staring at Caine and not blinking. Ray’s voice held her and the name he uttered had kept her from throwing.

“Zuriaa!” Opari yelled out. “Put the knife down! Now!”

Opari’s voice woke her. She blinked violently and gasped for air, then turned and stared at Opari. They locked eyes and I saw the vicious and fierce hatred in Zuriaa come alive. Her green eyes flamed with psychotic rage. Ray took a tentative step forward. She backed up instinctively, without looking at him, still focusing on Opari. Her throwing arm never moved or dropped. She took one more step back, then pivoted suddenly to find her target. She let the knife fly and it zipped past Ray’s head, directly toward Caine’s chest. In the same instant, Sunny Jim raised Caine’s hand and caught the knife in the webbing of Mama’s glove, six inches from Caine’s heart. A great catch from a good first baseman.

Just then the entire crowd around Lambert Field exploded with applause and a tremendous roaring cheer. Someone had made a perfect parachute spot landing in the center ring. Zuriaa yelled a phrase or a curse in Chinese, then turned and vanished, a blur of green and black and red.

“I’m goin’ after her,” Ray shouted.

“It is too late, Ray,” Opari told him and held his arm. “You will never find her. She has already planned her escape.”

“I think it is high time we leave this place,” Carolina said. She was still sitting in her chair, holding Caine to her chest with both arms around him.

“I think you’re right,” I said, looking directly into her eyes. I saw genuine fear and firm resolve. “I’m sorry, Carolina. You know I wish I could change things. This should never have happened.”

“Yes, Z, but as Opari just said—it is too late. Besides, all of this is not anyone’s fault. Now, let’s go home, and quickly.”

“Right, right,” Owen added, helping Carolina to her feet. Sunny Jim removed Zuriaa’s knife from Mama’s glove and handed both over to me. He said, “I won’t say a word about this, kid.” Jack and Biscuit helped Ciela with the baskets and blanket and all of us hurried through the crowd with Owen Bramley leading the way. Ray kept scanning the crowd for his sister. I had never seen so much concern in his eyes.

“What was the name you shouted to Zuriaa, Ray?” I asked.

“Ikerne,” Ray said quietly.

“Who is she?”

“Our mother.”

Geaxi’s wing walking “ballet” merited a small headline and story on page three of the Post-Dispatch. The headline read, “Spider Boy Spins Magic Over Lambert.” The writer had no way of knowing it was also the Great Geaxi’s final barnstorming performance. That same night, Opari, Ray, and I learned it was not a decision she made out of caution or fear of Zuriaa or her own death. Her decision to stop wing walking came from a completely different place. She said it was time for her to return to her true job—finding the Egongela, the Living Room, our “destination” as Sailor likes to call it. And she feared for Nova. Nova and Star were currently traveling in Scandinavia on a promotional tour. Geaxi wanted to warn Nova of the danger from Zuriaa in person. Nova needed to hear this information from her, she said, otherwise Nova might not take it seriously, or even care. Nova’s “visions” had become her obsession. When Ray heard this, he insisted on going with Geaxi. After that, he said, he would begin searching for his sister, Zuriaa. She had to be saved from herself, if possible…or stopped. Opari then insisted she accompany Ray. He would absolutely need her assistance to find Zuriaa, she said, and it was something she should have done long ago.

Opari looked at me. “You must remain here, my love, in St. Louis with Carolina and Caine. I am certain when Star hears of this incident, she will be returning. You must be a good shepherd for these good people, Z. Unfortunately, the Meq have once again brought terror and insanity into their lives. Now we must remove it.”

We were standing in the “Honeycircle.” There were only a few more minutes of daylight. I stared up at the big oaks and maples surrounding Carolina’s property. All were still in full leaf. A few were beginning to change color, showing hints of red, yellow, and gold.

“Zianno,” Opari said, “you are agreeing, no?”

“Yes, I am agreeing.”

Haste became essential. Not only had the Fleur-du-Mal proved himself obsessed and unpredictable, but now his living ghost, Zuriaa, had entered the equation. Nova and Star were vulnerable. They must be told as soon as possible.

Events happened quickly. Opari and I had little time to say good-bye. Three days after the air show, Ray, Geaxi, and Opari boarded a train in Union Station bound for New York. Geaxi wore her black beret and Ray wore Kepa’s old red beret. Their Meq presence seemed to glow, at least to me. Ray and I rarely said good-bye and this was no exception. I reminded him to tell Geaxi and Opari about Susheela the Ninth and the Octopus.

Geaxi heard me and asked, “By the way, young Zezen, how was Africa?”

“Complicated,” I said.

“As always, as always. There is something you must see, Zianno. I will leave it with you for study. Nova saw a clear image in one of her ‘visions’ and I asked her to write it down.” Geaxi handed me a sheet of paper with two intersecting lines of written script in the shape of an X. The script was the old Meq script that only I could read. I translated it instantly. The lines intersected through the word “in.” They read, “The Son is in the Daughter, The Daughter is in the Son.”

“Where were these lines in her ‘vision’?”

“Floating. Floating in water.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I will leave that to you, and Sailor when I see him,” Geaxi said, then adjusted her beret and headed for the train.

Opari and I embraced on the station platform. It was not a common embrace of twelve-year-old children, and much too passionate for a brother and sister, but we were oblivious to the comments and stares we might have caused. I wonder if there is a word for a singular force and living bond beyond lovers and friends? If so, we were there, we are always…there.

Early the next morning I had a dream. I was riding bicycles with Sunny Jim Bottomley and Carolina and the Fleur-du-Mal. The Fleur-du-Mal was smiling. His teeth sparkled. Carolina was twelve again and wearing a yellow dress. Her hair was blond and stringy. Sunny Jim wore his Cardinals uniform and cap. He said, “Come on! This way!” He led us into Forest Park, but it was an area I had never seen. The street signs were written in Meq. “Where are we?” I shouted ahead. The three of them were pedaling up the hill in front of me. They didn’t answer and none of them turned around. They crested the hill and I put my head down, pedaling furiously, trying to catch them. My bicycle began to wobble and shake. The spokes bent and twisted and popped loose, flying in all directions. “Wait! Wait!” I yelled. “Come on, Zianno, hurry!” Sunny Jim shouted from over the hill. “Come on! We’re going to Ithaca!”

I opened my eyes.

“Come on, Zano, come on! Wake up, Zano!” It was Caine. He was at eye level and shaking the bed. His dark hair was tousled and tangled from sleep. I remembered his mother waking me in just the same way to go to the World’s Fair. She had called me “ZeeZee” that fateful morning.

“Pancakes,” Caine said. “Granny made pancakes.” He tugged on me and smiled, showing the gap between his two front teeth, which were still baby teeth.

His smile and voice brought on a wave of emptiness and sadness I could not explain or hold back. It was strange. I knew the sudden departure of everyone was not the reason. The reason was a state of mind common to many Meq, more like an infinite ennui that appears out of nowhere. Opari had warned me of it. For the Meq, she likened the experience to a “time disease.” It comes on suddenly and has no focus or form, but if left unchecked, can feed like a virus on the weeks, months, and years to come.

Luckily, my spirits lifted only a few hours later. The date was October 10, 1923. The World Series was beginning in New York between the Yankees and Giants at Yankee Stadium and it was the first time a World Series game was broadcast coast to coast on radio. We gathered in front of Carolina’s big Edison radio and it seemed like magic to hear a play-by-play broadcast all the way from New York. That was the first thing to make me feel better and I knew it would. The second I never expected and it has never been explained to me since. Maybe it had something to do with Zuriaa’s return, but whatever it was, it was a miracle to all of us, especially to the skinny, dark-skinned orphan, now seventeen, from the streets of New York, renamed Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder.

Carolina and Ciela (in Spanish) had always included and spoken to Biscuit as if he were an active part of any conversation. However, Biscuit had not spoken a word and remained mute ever since he witnessed Unai and Usoa’s murder on the Orphan Train. He and Jack were best friends and went everywhere together, but Jack did all the talking. Carolina taught him a similar kind of “no speak” communication she and Georgia had developed naturally. Sunny Jim didn’t speak to Biscuit at all when he visited. He didn’t have to. Baseball did it for him. For a boy his age, Biscuit was one of the best fielding shortstops I had ever seen. Sunny Jim spent hours with him and taught him every fundamental of the game. Their conversations together were a pleasure to watch, full of silent power, grace, and balance.

The announcer’s voice boomed out of the radio. Owen Bramley had turned up the volume in the seventh inning. We sat scattered on the floor and in chairs and cheered for the Giants. All of us, particularly Biscuit, hated the Yankees. It was the top of the ninth inning and the score was tied 4–4. There were two outs. The announcer’s voice rose, then almost screamed the next play, which ended up being the winning run. A young player for the Giants named Casey Stengel hit an inside-the-park home run to left center field. While he was rounding the bases, he lost his left shoe and the announcer mentioned it. Without warning, Biscuit stood up off the floor, cheering wildly and laughing hysterically. Everyone else stopped cheering instantly and stared at Biscuit. He was not yet aware he had laughed out loud. He kept cheering and laughing until he suddenly realized he was the only one making a sound. His laughter ceased and he turned slowly, looking into each of our faces. Some were smiling, some were crying. An old invisible wall in his mind had crumbled away and disappeared. “Madre de Dios,” he said.

“Madre de Dios,” Ciela echoed, then crossed herself three times.

As Opari had predicted, Star cabled from Oslo as soon as she learned about Zuriaa and the events at Lambert Field. She said she was returning home at once. Alone, she set sail for New York, stopping briefly in London to meet with Willie. She arrived in St. Louis on Thanksgiving Day and I went to Union Station alongside Carolina and Caine to welcome her and take her home.

The moment Star stepped from the train, I was stunned by how physically attractive she had become, and she had lost her naïveté completely. She always possessed an inner confidence. Now there was a maturity and grace in her movements and expressions that had not been present before. She still looked like Carolina’s twin, with freckles across her nose and cheeks and tiny gold flecks in her blue-gray eyes, but she had surpassed her mother in sheer beauty. She wore a long fur coat and her hair was cut short and “bobbed” in the style of the day. Except for a small amount of lipstick, she wore no makeup, and yet, Star could easily have launched a thousand ships. And there was no doubt about her love for her son. She picked up Caine, who ran to her the instant he saw her, and held him as close and tight as she could, spinning in a circle, kissing him, repeating over and over, “Mama loves you, Mama loves you.”

During the drive to Carolina’s, Star noticed Sailor’s ancient lapis lazuli hanging from a necklace Caine now wore around his neck. “Why is he wearing the blue stone?” Star asked her mother, who deferred to me.

“Sailor said he should have it with him at all times,” I said. “He didn’t tell me why, but after the air show, I think I know why—as a talisman for protection.”

Star nodded and held Caine closer, only letting go when he finally said, “You’re squeezin’ me, Mama.”

On Christmas Eve, Mitchell Ithaca Coates returned to St. Louis, bringing along at least a dozen presents for Caine and a half dozen for everyone else. He had been living in the city for which he was named, Ithaca, New York, through the summer and fall of 1923. He went there to be with his long estranged father, who was dying of lung cancer. He stayed by his father’s side until the end, which came sometime during the night of December 10. After settling affairs in Ithaca, Mitch headed straight for St. Louis and Carolina’s home. He was slightly thinner than the last time I had seen him, but otherwise seemed the same. His easy smile and buoyant spirit were still intact and he was wearing his familiar black tuxedo and black tie. He looked handsome and prosperous, which he was. Carolina said he had made a fortune in the first two years following Prohibition, then got out of the business completely when he learned his father was sick, well before he had made any serious enemies, or been arrested, or lost his money. Now he was the semiretired co-owner of two businesses: the St. Louis Stars, a charter member of the Negro National League, and a nightclub on West Pine called Chauffer’s Club, one of the hottest spots in town for black musicians. Mitch didn’t expect me to be at Carolina’s, but he handed me two presents anyway and said, “Merry Christmas, Z. I missed you, man.”

“Me, too, Mitch,” I said. “Me, too.”

A deep snow fell on New Year’s Day and we celebrated by having a small feast. Ciela made a huge pot of Cuban-style black-eyed peas with onions and peppers and chunks of smoked ham throughout, served with cornbread and great quantities of sweetened iced tea. It had been a long time since I had seen snow and I stood by the window watching the snow fall all day on the big oaks and maples, covering them and silencing the whole neighborhood. Nothing moved except the snowflakes. I watched them falling, drifting, piling up like white time. All I saw were seconds, minutes, hours, years…years and years. At one point, I heard a voice nearly as silent as the snow and turned around. No one was there. Less than a whisper, the voice sounded like Opari, but it was not. It was another. She spoke to me as if we had already been engaged in conversation. She said, “Is it innocence we are compelled to save and keep from harm’s way at all costs? No! It is experience. We must protect it, preserve it, and shepherd it from hill to hill, heart to heart, like fire in a frozen world. Experience alone is our power, the source of our magic, our deep knowledge. We can only learn in increments, degrees, drops, and small pebbles of truth, often random in meaning, backward and forward in time. Eventually, one by one, these pebbles will be collected and a path shall be revealed. Then we must ask the obvious: to where? The answer awaits us at the Remembering. All hands shall be extended, unasked and unannounced, and the Window will open.”

Through the window and to no one and nothing, I asked, “But where? Where is the Remembering?”

The snow was silent. I felt a presence approaching from behind. “Z? Are you all right?” It was Owen Bramley. He had his glasses off and was walking toward me, cleaning them with a handkerchief.

I blinked twice. “What? Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “I was…thinking out loud.”

“You were speaking to someone, asking questions.”

“Was I? Well, it’s nothing.” I turned and stared again at the white world outside. “There’s no one there.”

Owen made no comment. A few moments passed while we both looked through the glass. “I appreciate your vigilance, Z. We all do. I want you to know there was nothing you could have done differently at the air show. You were there for our protection, for Caine and Carolina, and I want you to know I am trying to do the same for your people. We need your protection from a madman and a madwoman, but soon you and your people will need protection from us.”

“Us?” I asked. “Who is ‘us’?”

“The United States of America, the world, mankind…they’re not ready yet, Z. They’re not ready for you. Solomon was right. They will eat you alive for possession of your secrets.”

I let several seconds pass. Outside, a large clump of snow suddenly broke free from the roof and fell, exploding into the snow below. The collision never made a sound.

“We know,” I said, looking back at Owen. “We have always known.”

Music is the most mystical of all elements of consciousness. According to Sailor, the Meq once used singing as their only form of communication. Painters often feel as if they are playing an instrument rather than painting, and when a painting works, it never feels like work, it feels like playing music. Families know this and use it. If a son is in danger, or a daughter missing, it can become a voice, a bridge, and a silent smile between them. Few things can do this. Music is one.

The winter slipped by quickly. With fireplaces blazing at both ends of Carolina’s living room, music became our passion. On the radio, on the phonograph, in concerts and in clubs such as Mitch’s Chauffer’s Club, the “Jazz Age” was healthy and active in St. Louis, and we talked of little else. Many brilliant musicians passed through and touched our lives. At Carolina’s request, Mitch always invited his favorite players to her house for a good home-cooked meal and a few relaxed hours away from the road life. Each of their talents and personalities were unique, but their hearty enjoyment and appreciation for Ciela’s cooking was universal.

One man I remember well was a young black guitar player from Memphis named Furry Lewis. He told wonderful stories, mostly about characters he knew from the streets, and he had a droll, sly sense of humor. Late one night in the kitchen, I became his mark and unwitting straight man. We were eating pulled pork sandwiches with coleslaw and black beans with rice. “You got to come down to Memphis and see me, kid,” he said, then wiped his mouth carefully, slowly, stretching the pause, never meeting my eyes. Finally, I said, “Well, sure, Mr. Lewis, I’d love to. Where do you live?” He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, kid, you can’t miss it. It’s the first little red house painted green.”

In the spring of 1924, we welcomed back baseball and our long, slow walks in Forest Park, then farther to the south along Hawthorne and Longfellow Streets, and all through the cultured, diverse beauty of Shaw’s Garden. Except for an enigmatic postcard from Geaxi, we heard little from Europe or anywhere else. The adage “no news is good news” became our maxim and comfort. Geaxi’s note on the postcard was written in Basque and transitional Meq. Translated, it read:

I knew the Pearl referred to Zuriaa, and the news about Nova was worrisome, but not unexpected. However, the “something bigger” was a mystery. Sailor sent no word, nor did Ray or Opari, which was not unusual, but still caused a few unsettling dreams.

Solomon Jack Flowers turned eighteen in April and made the startling announcement he was not attending college in the fall. Instead, he was going directly to work as a staff writer for The Sporting News. He had already published a few articles under his current pseudonym, Solomon Jack. He said the name made him sound wise. Carolina stifled a laugh, rolled her eyes, and simply wished him well.

The Cardinals had another so-so season, but Sunny Jim had a good year along with arguably the best right-handed hitter of all time, Rogers Hornsby, the Cardinals shortstop. He hit .424 that year, an amazing batting average. He was a difficult man, however; blunt, brutally honest, and gray eyes cold as stone. “The Rajah,” he was called. Sunny Jim had another name for him—“Jolly Rogers”—because Hornsby had smiled twice all season, on and off the field.

Late in the year we got to watch what became Nova Gastelu’s final screen performance. The film was Erich von Stroheim’s Greed. In the original, unedited version, Nova plays a waif and street urchin in a dozen scenes and is completely convincing. She truly is an actress. Unfortunately, no one will ever know. Owen Bramley, through various contacts and transfers of favors and money, had arranged for all of us to see a private screening of the original version in St. Louis. We entered the theater at ten in the morning and exited just in time for dinner, eight hours and fifty reels later. The film the public saw was only twenty percent that length. The rest was cut and disappeared from Hollywood forever, and so did Nova. After hearing about Zuriaa, she became convinced by Geaxi to end her life as a Giza “movie star.”

In January of 1925, on the night of the twenty-third, I experienced a Walking Dream unlike any I had ever dreamed before. In total darkness, I rose from my bed and discovered dozens of tiny handprints glowing on the door of my bedroom. I walked toward them and the door swung open by itself. No one was there, but I saw more handprints on the walls of the hall outside. I followed them to the stairs and down to the first floor and through the living room. Eventually, they led to the small room where Georgia’s old upright piano still stood. The handprints covered the piano, glowing white, yellow, orange, and red. A large book lay open where the sheet music usually sat. The handprints were bright enough to illuminate the text. It was The Odyssey by Homer. Odysseus was on his return home to take vengeance on the suitors of Penelope. It was at the failing of the old moon and the coming of the new. My eyes focused on one line. It read, “The sun vanished out of heaven and an evil gloom had covered all things about the hour of the midday meal, during the celebration of new moon.” I closed the book and instantly the handprints disappeared. At that moment, I became aware of where I was and rubbed my eyes, which were watering. When I reopened them, the book had also disappeared.

The next day, Mitch dropped by in the afternoon for a sandwich. It was cold and snow still covered the ground. In the kitchen, he took off his coat and muffler and blew into his hands, saying, “Guess what happened in Ithaca today, Z.”

“Ithaca?” I asked.

“Yeah…Ithaca, New York, where my father lived.”

“What happened?”

“A total eclipse of the sun.” He paused and blew into his hands again, then shook his head. “Man,” he said, “I sure would like to see one of those.”

I looked past him, through the kitchen window in the direction of Carolina’s “Honeycircle,” which was blanketed in snow. I walked over to the window and blew on it. I pressed my hand against it, then took it away, leaving a perfect handprint on the frosted glass. “Yes,” I said, “they are dreams in the sky.”

On March 18 of that year, Carolina, Mitch, and Jack were nearly killed, not by Zuriaa or the Fleur-du-Mal, but by something just as unpredictable and deadly—a tornado. The storm is still called the Great Tri-State Tornado because it was the most powerful, destructive tornado in American history.

Mitch had instigated the trip, a scouting trip to Carbondale, Illinois, where he planned on meeting a young black ballplayer named Caleb Bellows, whom Mitch thought might make an excellent center fielder for the St. Louis Stars. Carolina and Jack simply went along for the drive. By two o’clock in the afternoon, they had passed through Perryville on Highway 61 and were heading south. Suddenly, on the horizon to the southwest, a huge black cloud appeared. It was moving at a rate of sixty miles per hour. Mitch decided to stop and pull over on the side of the road. They each got out of the car and stared as it roared by in the distance. The funnel cloud seemed already obscured by flying debris and the giant tornado had only begun its swath of devastation. It crossed the Mississippi and charged through Illinois and Indiana, lasting a record three and a half hours on the ground, with the funnel averaging a quarter mile in width and occasionally growing as wide as a mile. An estimated 690 people were killed. If Mitch had not stopped when he did, the number would surely have been 693.

On May 30, Rogers Hornsby replaced Branch Rickey and became a player-manager. Rickey remained as vice president and continued to develop his ingenious farm system. St. Louis lost the next two games, a doubleheader in Pittsburgh, even though Hornsby hit two home runs in the second game. The summer passed and the Cardinals again could only look forward to next year.

The pace of life at Carolina’s was fast, but full and peaceful. I neither heard nor felt danger. There were no surprises, no real worries, but also no word from Opari, Ray, Geaxi, Nova, or Sailor. I carried the Stone with me at all times, as always, and never used it. More like a rare coin or a lucky charm, the Stone of Dreams was only something slightly heavy in my pocket. I did receive one long letter from Willie Croft in November. It was sent from a town in Wales that was eighteen letters long and unpronounceable. He said he missed St. Louis dearly, but he went on and on about Caitlin’s Ruby, saying he finally had found someone he could trust to live there permanently. Through Mowsel and with the full approval of Pello Txopitea, his son Koldo would become caretaker and overseer. Arrosa, now Koldo’s wife, would accompany him. I let Star read the letter and she smiled as she read it, laughing to herself. I could tell she wanted to see Willie again. As she handed it back to me, she said, “I can hear his voice.”

The early months of 1926 flew by and another premier musician became a close friend of our family. He was from Davenport, Iowa, and his name was Leon Bismarck Beiderbecke, better known to everyone as Bix. He played the cornet and he played with fire and precision, as well as being a brilliant composer. He played with black players at the Chauffer’s Club and with white players at the Tremps Bar on Delmar and the Arcadia Ballroom on Olive. His musical influences, abilities, and interests were as diverse and complex as his playing. Many times he attended concerts of the St. Louis Symphony with Carolina, Owen, and their mutual friend, the jazz pianist Bud Hassler. Bix left St. Louis that summer and only lived a few more years, unfortunately. He died young during an alcoholic seizure at the age of twenty-eight. I still think he is one of the best horn players ever.

Jack was working more and more, traveling to sporting events and publishing funny vignettes taken mostly from baseball; hilarious characters based loosely on real players Sunny Jim had known. Jack also discovered a young writer and a new book that changed his destiny, if there is such a thing. The writer’s name was Hemingway. He had been born in Chicago, but now lived in Paris. The book was The Sun Also Rises. Jack knew instinctively the writing was new and good; however, it was Spain, the Pyrenees, and Basque country that captured Jack’s heart and imagination.

Caine and I made numerous trips to Forest Park and the Zoo, especially the bear pits, where we rarely spoke and watched for hours. I always acted as his older brother. He was only eight years old, but he was approaching my height at an alarming rate. He called me Zianno now instead of Zano, and I missed hearing it.

In October, one of the most competitive and magical seasons in the history of Cardinals baseball concluded with a National League Pennant and a chance to play the Yankees in the World Series. Carolina had box seats and season tickets, and because of it we were offered the first opportunity to buy tickets to all home games, which we did without hesitation. The Yankees were considered the most feared team in baseball, with a lineup called “Murderers’ Row,” consisting of Babe Ruth, Bob Meusel, Lou Gehrig, and Tony Lazzeri. They had hitting, pitching, and depth, but it made no difference. The Cardinals were led by a perfect mix of talented young players like Sunny Jim Bottomley, as well as experienced veterans, such as Rogers Hornsby and the grizzled Grover Cleveland Alexander. He was broken down and alcoholic and near the end of his career, but at one time he had been considered one of the greatest pitchers in baseball. Mitch asked Sunny Jim about him in June, the day the Cardinals purchased Alexander from the Cubs. He said, “Now I’m not saying I’m a bettin’ man, Sunny Jim, but let’s pretend I was. What I’m askin’ is…uh…well, how bad is he?” Sunny Jim scratched his head, then laughed. “Mitch, I’ll just say one thing about it. You can smell him long before you ever see him.”

On the afternoon of October 10 with the series tied 3–3, we gathered around the big radio in Carolina’s living room and turned up the volume. In the bottom of the seventh inning, the Cardinals were trying to hold a 3–2 lead. There were two men out and the bases were loaded with Tony Lazzeri batting. Hornsby stopped the action and called for Grover Cleveland Alexander in the bullpen. Drunk and still half-asleep, Alexander walked to the pitching mound. He got Lazzeri to strike out, but not before Lazzeri hit a long fly ball, barely foul in the left field stands. The Cardinals were out of the inning with their lead intact. In the ninth Babe Ruth was thrown out at second base to end the game and the Cardinals won the World Series of 1926. Much later, Grover Cleveland Alexander described it this way: “Less than a foot made the difference between a hero and a bum.”

On a cold, gray day in December, the Cardinals’ owner, Sam Breadon, surprised everyone by trading the manager and second baseman, Rogers Hornsby. “The Rajah” had asked for a three-year contract since the Cardinals won the World Series and they traded him instead. Sunny Jim said, “It’s going to be hard filling his shoes, no matter who takes his place.” There was no irony in his voice. I could tell he meant what he said, regardless of how he felt about Hornsby the man. Then he added, “That’s baseball.”

I had hoped to hear news from Opari and Ray by the New Year, but none came. Geaxi, Nova, all remained silent. Most of my time during the winter of 1927 was spent in the kitchen, talking with Ciela about Cuban cooking and discussing the subtleties of the shortstop position with Biscuit. On March 2, I was working on a crossword puzzle when Jack burst into the kitchen and threw a newspaper down on the table, then walked over to the stove to see what Ciela was cooking. I picked up the newspaper and began to browse through the pages. On the third page, I recognized a name in a column about a young airmail pilot, currently living in St. Louis. The name was Charles Lindbergh and I remembered the tall, skinny barnstormer whose timely actions had saved Geaxi’s life. He had just begun construction in San Diego on a single-engine, custom-built airplane he planned on flying nonstop from New York to Paris, alone. At stake was the Orteig Prize of $25,000, originally offered in 1919 to the first one who could accomplish the transatlantic feat. In the years since, several good pilots and their aircraft had exploded or disappeared in failed attempts. Lindbergh would be the first to try it solo. He said his plane would be ready in sixty days and would be called the Spirit of St. Louis. Investors in the project were all local St. Louis businessmen, including E. Lansing Ray of the Globe-Democrat. The publisher of the rival Post-Dispatch had declined to invest, saying, “I want no part of a one-man, quixotic enterprise.” The column ended with the writer praising Lindbergh’s courage and wishing him luck, referring to him as “the lone eagle.” The writer’s name was Jack Flowers. In the sports section, I found another short piece about Babe Ruth signing a new three-year contract with the Yankees that paid him an estimated $70,000 per season, a tremendous amount of money for a ballplayer. The piece was informative, incisive, and well written. The writer’s name at the bottom: Jack Flowers. I looked up and he was standing by the stove. He was a carbon copy of his father, Nicholas (Nick) Flowers, without the mustache.

“What happened to ‘Solomon Jack’?” I asked.

He glanced back, knowing I’d found and read the articles. “He still works for the Sporting News,” Jack said, then smiled. “But not for long.”

On March 3, Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder’s life was also about to change. Just before noon, Sunny Jim telephoned long distance from Florida with an offer that Biscuit could not refuse. A team the Cardinals played in exhibition games, a traveling all-star team playing out of Cuba, was missing a shortstop. The regular shortstop had disappeared near Sarasota with a burlesque dancer from Miami. If Biscuit could make it down to Florida in three days, Sunny Jim said he would get the job at shortstop, or at least a shot at it. Sunny Jim told him he was good enough to do it.

“Sunny Jim is right,” I said. “You are good enough. Now, go play the game. You will never regret it.”

Biscuit did not hesitate. Mitch drove him down in record time, and since Biscuit was still a teenager, Ciela insisted she go along as chaperone. For luck, I gave him a double eagle gold piece on the day he left and he promised never to spend it. The three of them roared away on a Tuesday and Mitch was back less than two weeks later. In a week, Biscuit was offered the position of shortstop for the Havana Habaneros, which he accepted. He was now a professional baseball player. A week after that, he was asked to move to Cuba and play with the team on a permanent basis. It was another offer he could not refuse. On my birthday, May 4, we stood in Carolina’s kitchen and toasted the missing Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder, along with Ciela, who had decided to go with him to Cuba, though she was reluctant to leave St. Louis and especially Carolina. She telephoned us from Miami the night before they departed. “It is the right thing to do,” Ciela said through constant tears and sobs. She had prayed on the matter and asked for guidance. God had spoken to her in a tiny voice. He had whispered, “Vamos, Ciela. Vamos.”

On May 11, I finally received word from Geaxi. It was a telegram delivered along with Jack shouting the news that Charles Lindbergh had just landed at Lambert Field in the Spirit of St. Louis, setting a new nonstop speed record of fifteen hundred miles in fourteen hours, twenty-five minutes. Jack was breathless and laughing and saying, “He’s on his way, Z! He’s going to Paris!”

“What are you talking about, Jack?” It was Carolina.

“Lindbergh. Charles Lindbergh is on his way to New York, then, when he’s ready—nonstop to Paris.” Jack paused and remembered something in his hand. “This is for you, Z,” he said. “It was addressed to my office for some reason.”

“What does it look like?” Carolina asked. She was standing at the far end of the table, peeling potatoes. She tossed one to Jack. “The airplane. What does the Spirit of St. Louis look like?”

“It is beautiful…silver and sleek and fast. He’s going to make it, Mama. I know he will.”

I excused myself and went directly to my bedroom. I opened the telegram and read it carefully. Once again, it was written in a hybrid form of Basque and Meq. Translated, it read:

I left that night on a train for New York, then within a day, on a ship for England, which Owen Bramly booked ahead of me. Mitch asked to accompany me and I welcomed his company. After four days of rough seas, we arrived safely in Southampton on the afternoon of the nineteenth. Willie Croft was there to greet us with open arms and a new limousine, a black and silver Rolls-Royce with huge wheels and reinforced frame. It looked like something made for a duke, which it was. Willie had purchased it from the Duke of Hamilton.

We cleared customs without incident or delay and piled into the Rolls-Royce for the long ride to Cornwall. While Mitch and Willie caught up with each other’s lives, I slept behind them on the rear seat. By the time Willie slowed and made the wide turn down to Caitlin’s Ruby, I was awake, alert, and anxious to see Nova.

As soon as we came to a stop, I leaped out of the limousine and walked over to the low stone wall alongside one of the paths leading west. I climbed on the wall and faced the setting sun, turning orange and gold behind a thin bank of clouds on the horizon. I breathed in deeply. I felt a familiar breeze brush across my face. It was filled with the smell of wild leeks, Italian cypress, thistle, pine, and the faint, fresh taste of the open sea. It was the scent of Caitlin herself.

“Man, that smells good,” I heard Mitch say. I turned and he was referring to the aromas drifting out from the kitchen windows and over the drive.

“Arrosa’s bounty,” Willie told him. “Come inside, Mitch. Arrosa will serve you something straightaway. It’s all Basque, you know, and quite good.” Willie looked my way. “You as well, Z—come inside.”

“In a minute,” I said.

“Oh, damn, I nearly forgot,” Willie said, slapping his head. He started walking toward me.

“What?” I asked.

“This,” he said, pulling a folded envelope out of his shirt pocket.

I reached down and he handed it to me. It was a telegram from Jack in New York. He must have left St. Louis shortly after us.

“I forgot completely, Z. It came last evening from Falmouth. I apologize.”

I opened it on the spot. It had been sent on the nineteenth. Today was May 20. It read: “LONE EAGLE TAKES OFF TOMORROW MORNING FROM ROOSEVELT FIELD. WISH HIM GOOD LUCK. JACK.”

That meant Charles Lindbergh was in the sky right now, somewhere between New York and where I stood. He might even fly over Cornwall. That is, if he makes it. If he doesn’t crash, veer off course, meet foul weather, run out of gas, or fall asleep.

“Anything wrong?” Willie asked.

“No. I mean, I hope not.”

“What are you saying, Z?”

“Where is Geaxi?”

“Why, almost right behind you. Turn around.”

I turned and saw Geaxi, still a few hundred feet away, running directly toward me out of the setting sun. She wore her black beret, boots, and leather leggings and vest, tied with leather and bone. She wore no jewelry and I knew the Stone of Will was in her pocket. She closed the gap in seconds and without a sound.

Not even out of breath, she said, “An adequate response time, young Zezen. I am impressed.”

“Good to see you, too, Geaxi.” I paused. “Where is Nova?”

Geaxi removed her beret and glanced at Willie, who turned and headed for the kitchen. “I will tell Arrosa to keep everything warm,” he said.

Geaxi looked at me. Her gaze was steady. Her eyes were black and piercing. She gave nothing away. She nodded in the opposite direction, down the path that led to old Tillman Fadle’s stone cottage. “Come with me,” she said quietly, turning me with a touch and leading the way.

Inside the cottage, there was little light and no sound. The air felt cool and damp. Tillman Fadle had never completely modernized the dwelling. It was charming and quaint, but full of drafts. Geaxi lit a candle and walked to a small room off the kitchen with its own fireplace. A daybed, pushed against the far wall, took up half the space in the room. There was only one window and a single standing lamp. The curtains on the window were drawn and the lamp turned off. A fire burned and crackled in the fireplace. Nova sat in front of it in a rocking chair, staring into the fire with a frozen gaze. Her face was pale. She wore no eye shadow, no lipstick, and no jewelry. She was dressed in a long white nightgown and wearing Geaxi’s ballet shoes for slippers. A beautiful blue and green woolen shawl, covered with dancing reindeer, was draped around her shoulders. Geaxi had kept her clean and brushed her hair, making certain she ate regularly and slept when she could, but Nova was a living ghost. Her mind and soul were not in the room.

“This is the only place where she is at peace,” Geaxi said. “She will stay here without wandering off, which became dangerous in Norway.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Her visions increased in content and frequency, even during sleep. She would wake terrified from nightmares of exploding balloons rising two and three miles in the sky. She saw handprints everywhere in vivid colors, while being awake or asleep. She became increasingly consumed with the image of a silver-winged bird, a ‘lone eagle,’ falling from the sky into the sea. She—”

“Lone eagle?” I interrupted.

“Yes,” Geaxi said, “until everything ceased at once.” She brushed back Nova’s hair with her hand. “We were still in Norway, far to the north near Trondheim. We were having breakfast. I was waiting for a man I had been trying to find for three years. Suddenly Nova lifted her coffee cup and turned to me. ‘Geaxi,’ she said, then gasped and closed her mouth, as if her breath had been stolen. She has not said a word since that moment. I had to remove the coffee cup from her hand. She had locked in place, then disappeared somewhere inside herself, and there she remains. Trumoi-Meq said he has neither seen nor heard of this state. I have not yet spoken with Sailor.”

I looked once at Nova, then gave Geaxi the telegram from Jack.

She read it quickly. “Who is the ‘lone eagle’?”

“Lindbergh—he’s flying solo to Paris.”

“Lindbergh? Charles Lindbergh?”

“Yes.”

“He is flying now?”

“Yes.”

Geaxi glanced at Nova and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She stirred the coals in the fire, then added a log. Finally, she motioned for us to leave. Geaxi ran her hand through Nova’s hair once more and I stroked her cheek. Nova made no response. We turned and left the cottage without a word and walked up the gravel path in silence. It was getting dark and a few stars were visible. Halfway to the house, Geaxi stopped and looked to the west.

“Lindbergh will need our help,” she said. “He will break down. He will sleep. He will fight it, but his mind will let go. He will not be able to stop it. We must be there with him. We must keep him awake.”

“How?” I asked.

“‘The Voice.’ It is an ancient practice, long forgotten and rarely used. The Meq understood and used it during the Time of Ice to communicate over great distances. It must be found within, then sent through time and space. It travels more from the heart than the mind; however, its power is significant and Trumoi-Meq is convinced the practice saved many lives.” Geaxi looked at me and smiled. “You and I, young Zezen, shall be the ones to do this now.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Never.”

“How will we know what to do?”

“How did you read the old script in the caves?”

I had no answer.

“The supreme argument does not require speech, Zianno. Now, let us eat. Arrosa is an excellent cook and we shall need our strength for the vigil. Koldo can look after Nova. She trusts his presence. He will make a good Aita someday.”

We stopped at the house long enough for Arrosa to pack a basket full of lamb sandwiches, cheeses, fruits, cider, and a large bag of Catalonian olives. Arrosa wished us luck, but never asked our destination. Geaxi led the way through darkness and drifting ground fog, up the hill and along one of the six paths leading to the ruins of Lullyon Coit. She always referred to the place as “the slabs.” The ancient granite stones had stood for millennia as an enigmatic marker or shrine, a mysterious shelter pointed in a precise direction for an unknown purpose. Now, they lay broken and scattered on the ground like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Using only his mind, Sailor had toppled them all in seconds. He never completely explained his purpose to anyone. I think it was an act of anger and frustration. I think, at that moment, he truly believed there was no purpose, and worse, there might never be. Despair is the most dangerous state of mind for the Meq.

Geaxi and I sat amid the broken stones until dawn, facing west, listening to the darkness. At times, I extended my hyper-hearing farther and deeper than I ever had, sometimes miles out to sea. Still, I heard nothing. Should we even listen for him? Should we listen for his plane, his voice, his mind, or his heartbeat? How will we know when to send “the Voice”? Where would we find it? What was it? All through the night we discussed these things and a thousand others. We ate the food, drank the cider, and talked about everything. The olives were delicious and sparked a memory from Geaxi. It was a long, wonderful, funny story about her mama and papa and the famous olive oil her papa made, renowned and prized throughout the Mediterranean and beyond. We also talked about St. Louis and Carolina and her family. She asked several insightful questions about the game of baseball and current American culture and music. I tried to explain what a “flapper” was, but I am certain Geaxi never quite understood it. She suggested we keep talking, share everything, combine our actions and minds, synchronize and prepare. “Always when facing the unknown,” Geaxi said, “one should be relaxed and focused.” We talked, listened, and waited.

As dawn approached, our conversation gradually decreased and our senses sharpened. The wind blew in gusts from the north and west. It was still pitch-dark to the west. I turned just in time to catch the first rays of light breaking in the east. Something crossed my mind, something Geaxi had not mentioned all night long. I turned back around. “In the telegram,” I said. “What was the ‘other news’?”

Geaxi never answered. She was facing west, leaning forward. “Listen!” she said. “Do you hear that, Zianno?”

I concentrated as hard as possible, leaning forward and listening, stretching my “ability” far into the North Atlantic. I heard the wind, but nothing else.

“He is slipping away…what…yes…yes…” Geaxi mumbled. Her eyes glazed and her pupils dilated. She opened her mouth and began to produce a sound that could not be heard, only felt and understood instinctively. I felt a vibration begin in my stomach and spread to my heart and lungs, then finally to my throat and mouth. In tandem and parallel, as in a chorus, we began making the same soundless sound. It was effortless. It was like swimming in another dimension, a dreamlike highway of spirit and mind.

I looked back as the sun rose and spread light across the broken stones. Every single cat of Caitlin’s Ruby had gathered around us. Green eyes danced like stars, staring back in silence. I turned again and Nova was standing just beyond the farthest broken block of stone. She was in her white nightgown and her feet were bare. The shawl had been abandoned. Her eyes were dark and distant. She was staring to the west. Geaxi never turned around. She closed her eyes and increased the volume and intensity of “the Voice.” I closed mine. We traveled together as a wave, crashing through space, ahead of the sun, ahead of time…west, west…west into darkness.

And there it was! A strange silver bird with no eyes, and wheels instead of talons, more albatross than eagle, flying low and straight on the horizon, close to the water. Suddenly and without warning, our wave, our chorus, increased and swelled. Another powerful voice had joined us, sweeping us forward, our “Voice” changing, filling and spilling down, directly through the silver bird and the living mind within. “A—haz—tu!” we sang. For a brief moment, the strange bird dipped slightly, then recovered and regained its true and steady course toward the east and the light of dawn.

I opened my eyes. I looked for Nova, but she had shifted position. She now stood to the west of “the slabs,” staring back at Geaxi. Neither spoke for several moments. Geaxi searched her eyes. I started to reach for her and Geaxi grabbed my arm, holding me back.

“Are you awake, Nova?” Geaxi asked. She took a tentative step toward Nova, extending a hand. “Do you know where you are?”

Nova stopped staring at Geaxi and glanced at me, then down at her nightgown and bare feet. She seemed puzzled, confused, like a small child who has just awakened from a long dream. “How did I get here?” Nova asked. “And what are you doing here, Zianno?” She rubbed her eyes and turned in a slow circle, trying to understand.

I laughed and smiled. “You walked,” I said. I was simply glad to have her back.

“And you spoke!” Geaxi said.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Nova replied.

Geaxi and I exchanged quick glances.

“Who woke me?” Nova asked. “The voice was not you, Geaxi, and it was not Zianno, but it was Meq. I heard it clearly. The three of you were singing, ‘A—haz—tu.’ ”

“That was another?” I asked. “The other voice was not you? I assumed the other voice had been yours.”

Nova looked to Geaxi. “Who was it?”

“I do not know,” Geaxi said. She paused and looked west again, frowning. “Yet, his voice was completely familiar to me in a way no Meq ever has been.”

“He?” I asked.

Geaxi dropped her frown and turned to me. “What?”

“He—you said he was familiar to you.”

“I did? I said that?”

“Yes.”

Geaxi shook her head back and forth. Gradually, a small smile appeared. “I do not know who or what it was,” she said, “but I have never felt such a thing. Never.”

Back at the house, Arrosa was up early and preparing breakfast. She was shocked to see Nova, but not completely surprised. The Meq and their mysteries were not unfamiliar to her.

Later, all of us, including Arrosa, Koldo, Willie, and Mitch, gathered in the courtyard of Caitlin’s Ruby to watch the skies. It was Saturday, May 21, 1927. In the thirty-first hour of flight, the Spirit of St. Louis was sighted and signaled while flying over Cornwall. We never saw the Spirit of St. Louis, but the drone of the big engine could be heard for miles.

Geaxi said, “We shall go to Paris. I must congratulate him.”

Mitch said, “I second that! The man has earned it.”

Nova continued to look slightly confused. “Who? Who is he?”

“The ‘lone eagle,’” I said. “Charles Lindbergh.”

At 10:24 P.M. that evening, he landed safely in Paris at Le Bourget airfield. The entire flight had taken thirty-three and one-half hours.

His life would never be the same.

6. Elur (Snow)

Snow is separate from all other phenomena in Nature for one specific reason: when it snows, each tiny six-sided snow crystal, every single snow “flake,” is unique and unlike any that has ever fallen before or ever will after. Still, is it not strange that at the end of this miraculous creation and fall, each instantly becomes part of a whole, forever unrecognizable as they were? Punishment or reward? Remember, Nature makes no mistakes.

We left Caitlin’s Ruby early in the morning, just as the last remnants of fog were burning off and all of Caitlin’s cats were scattering back into obscurity. All except one, a big white male Persian with an enormous tail, who sat staring at us from a stone wall close to the limousine.

“I call him Snow White,” Nova said. “He is the only one among them who will not let me near.”

Nova took a tentative step toward the wall and Snow White jumped and ran the length of the wall before stopping. He looked back once, then disappeared over the side with the others.

Arrosa sent us away with plenty of food and a letter of introduction to a woman now living in Paris on the Rue d’Ulm in the Rive Gauche, the Left Bank. Geaxi had not been to Paris in several years and had no existing contacts in the city. Also, for various reasons, she did not want to stay in a hotel. I had never been to Paris and neither had Nova. Mitch said he was planning on staying with an old friend from St. Louis—“a surprise visit,” he called it. Arrosa assured us her friend could be trusted in every way and would be glad to give us shelter and any assistance we needed. They had first met as dancers in New York and had remained close ever since. Her name was Mercy Whitney and she had been living in Paris throughout the 1920s. Arrosa said she was independent in mind, spirit, and bank account, and loved to laugh.

Geaxi thanked Arrosa and said, “Those are good attributes for anyone.”

I loaded what little luggage we were carrying and in minutes we were headed east. Willie did the driving and Mitch sat up front with him. Geaxi, Nova, and I sat in the back.

“First stop—London,” Geaxi said. “I must check the mail at Lloyd’s, then we are off to Paris.”

“The mail?” I asked. “At Lloyd’s? What’s the joke?”

“I should have said safety deposit box; however, it is still the mail to me. We have used Lloyd’s Bank in London for over a century as an occasional message drop, particularly by Trumoi-Meq.”

“That sounds much too modern to be Meq,” I said. I scratched my head and winked at Nova. “I would have thought it more likely we had a drop at Stonehenge.”

Nova laughed, but Geaxi did not. “We do, young Zezen,” she said evenly, then leaned forward and began talking over the seat with Willie about current experimental aircraft design in Europe.

I laid my head back and let my mind drift. Spring was in full bloom and the English countryside became a rolling kaleidoscope of color and texture. We opened the back windows of the limousine and let the wind rush through. It felt the same way good fresh spring water tastes. I smiled all the way to London.

Once we were in the city, Willie drove with skill and patience through the narrow maze of streets. The noise and traffic seemed to have tripled since the last time I’d been there. Luckily, a block from Lloyd’s, we found a place to pull over and park. Geaxi, Mitch, and Willie left for the bank while Nova and I stayed behind.

As soon as we were alone, Nova turned to me. She was wearing her heavy Egyptian mascara and her lips were a deep red. She showed not a trace of the frail and pale ghost she had been only days before. Still, something was troubling her.

“Z,” she said, “you are the Stone of Dreams. I know of no one better than you to tell.” She paused and stared blankly out the window.

“Tell what, Nova?”

“I have been having a series of dreams, but one in particular. Over and over, more and more horrible each time.” She paused again.

“What do you see? What’s in the dream?”

“A balloon—a huge, awful, burning balloon. Over and over, rising, burning. I can’t make it stop.” She turned back to me. “What does it mean, Z?”

I knew she wanted an answer. She was desperate for one, and I wanted to give her an answer, but there was no answer, no truthful one.

“I don’t know what it means, Nova. It is your dream and your balloon.” I looked into her eyes closely. “Can you live with this nightmare, Nova? Will you be all right?”

She sighed and smiled slightly, then laughed once. She put her hand over the center of her chest, where the Stone of Silence hung from a necklace underneath her blouse. “Yes, of course, Z. As Geaxi likes to say, after all, we are Meq.”

In less than twenty minutes, the others returned. Willie and Mitch jumped in the front seat. Geaxi climbed in back with Nova and me. “To Paris,” she said, throwing three London newspapers across the seat. Charles Lindbergh’s flight was the headline story in all three. Without delay, Willie put the limousine in gear and we were on our way. He would drop us at the docks, where we would be off to Calais, then on by train for Paris. Geaxi withdrew a letter from her vest, waving it back and forth. “News from Mowsel,” she said.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“New Delhi. He is with Sailor. They have found Zeru-Meq. Negotiations are under way to enlist his assistance in finding Susheela the Ninth and stopping the Fleur-du-Mal however possible. No decision yet, and also no sign or rumor of the Fleur-du-Mal himself. I think I know why.”

“You?”

“Yes. I do not believe he is anywhere near New Delhi. Quite by accident, I learned of something in Norway. It is the ‘other news’ I mentioned in my telegram to you.”

“What is it?”

“The Fleur-du-Mal has a home.”

“A home!”

“Yes—in Norway. I believe he is there now and has been there since you saw him in Egypt. The man I was waiting to meet in Trondheim is the man who sold it to him. Nova was stricken before he arrived and I never got the exact location of the home. However, I know where the man was going from Trondheim. If we are in luck, he is still there.”

“Where?”

Geaxi smiled wide. “Paris,” she said.

Mercy Whitney’s home on the Rue d’Ulm was a sprawling, light-filled, ten-room apartment directly above a small restaurant and café called “La Belle Étoile.” The building was old, but clean and well kept, with dark green shutters and wrought-iron balconies. Day and night, delicious aromas and scents drifted up from the kitchen below and filled the air with traces of garlic, fresh-baked bread, or roasted lamb. During our entire stay in Paris, I was constantly hungry. In our first conversation, Mercy Whitney acknowledged the problem.

Geaxi, Nova, and I stood in the hallway outside her apartment door. Mitch had gone his own way at the train station, saying he would stop by the Rue d’Ulm address in a day or two. He never mentioned where he was going or whom he was surprising, but he checked his luggage twice to make certain he had packed his tuxedo.

I knocked on the door. In seconds, I heard footsteps and the door swung open. An attractive black woman in her late twenties, taller than average and dressed in denim overalls, stared back at us. She had reddish brown hair, which was cut short and parted on one side with a dramatic wave plastered across her forehead. She was barefoot and her overalls, hands, face, and feet were splattered with yellow paint. She looked each of us over thoroughly, then spoke to me.

“Am I dreaming?” she asked. “Are you three children for real?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’ve never been asked that before.”

“And you speak American English. Are you triplets?”

“No, but we’re very close. Maybe this will explain it. It’s a letter from Arrosa.”

Her eyes lit up. “Arrosa?”

“Sí,” I said and handed her Arrosa’s letter.

As she read the letter, Mercy Whitney laughed with abandon at every sentence. I couldn’t help but smell the wonderful aromas wafting up the stairs. When she finished, she said, “Come on in. I haven’t seen that girl since she moved to Cornwall. I need to hear all about her.” She saw the hypnotized expression on my face. “Afterward, I’ll clean up and we’ll go downstairs and eat. You will not be able to stay here without thinking about it, so we better fix that craving right away. What’re your names?”

I gave her mine and Nova and Geaxi introduced themselves. As she led the way inside, I told her we were from St. Louis.

“Well, you two sound like you’re from St. Louis,” she said, nodding toward Nova and me. She looked at Geaxi. “But I cannot place your accent at all. What would you call it?”

“English with a hint of Phoenician,” Geaxi said flatly.

A moment passed. Then Mercy Whitney laughed again—a big, generous, lusty laugh. “Of course, of course,” she said. “What else could it be?” She turned and waved for us to follow her down the hall, then stopped and winked at Geaxi. “I like the beret and leggings.”

“Thank you, Mercy. By the way, is Charles Lindbergh still in Paris?”

“Oh, yes, he’s still in Paris, all right. That man is the toast of the town—no, I should say the toast of the world!”

“So it would be difficult to see him, no?”

“Impossible, unless you were asked.” She paused and raised one eyebrow. “Do you know Lindbergh?”

“He saved my life once.”

“Of course he did.” Mercy started to laugh, then stopped. Something else occurred to her. “Wait,” she said. “There may be a way and my boss will love it. Three nights from now, she is invited to a gala performance at the Theatre des Champs-Élysées, a benefit for the Airman’s Relief Fund. Lindbergh is going to be there. She loves children and you’re from St. Louis, her hometown. She would love to take you along, I just know it.”

“Who is your boss?” I asked.

“Josephine Baker.” Mercy looked at me and waited for a reaction. “You never heard of her?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I have,” Nova said with a smile. “She’s amazing.”

Mercy laughed big and loud, then turned in a pirouette spin even Geaxi could admire and waved for us to follow, saying over her shoulder, “Yes, yes, and yes.” She laughed again. “Josephine is amazing. That she surely is.”

We were led down a long hallway that both divided and connected the entire apartment. The living room, dining room, and kitchen adjoined each other and all rooms opened onto the hallway. There were five spacious bedrooms and two bathrooms. A dozen huge windows lined the north and west sides. Mercy said we were lucky, we could each have our own room. She often had boarders filling up the place for weeks. She said dancing with Josephine Baker paid well, but not that well, and from time to time she needed extra income to afford the apartment. And she had to live in this apartment because of one room at the end of the hallway—the artist’s studio. Dancing paid the majority of her bills, but she was in Paris to live in this apartment and paint in this specific studio.

“Why?” Geaxi asked bluntly.

“Because Rune Balle once lived and painted in this studio. He is my inspiration.”

“Rune Balle!” Geaxi almost shouted.

“Yes.”

“Who is Rune Balle?” I asked.

“Few have ever seen his work,” Geaxi said. “Let alone the man himself. He is more than merely obscure. He and his work are virtually unknown to all but a handful of people. He is also the man I was waiting to meet in Trondheim.” Geaxi paused. “How do you know of Rune Balle, Mercy?”

“My father owns a painting of his, done in 1903 shortly after Balle studied with Edvard Munch. It is called Snowblind. My father first showed it to me when I was twelve. I’ve wanted to be a painter ever since.”

“I see,” Geaxi said. “And how did your father obtain the painting?”

“I’m not sure. I never asked. But did I just hear you correctly? Did you say you were waiting to meet Rune Balle?”

“Yes.”

“Rune Balle has not been seen or heard from since 1906. He is considered dead, even by his own family.”

“True enough,” Geaxi said, “until recently. I believe I now know where he has been and where he may be at the moment.”

“What—where for God’s sake?”

“The Left Bank.”

“But, but, that’s here, that’s where we are!”

“I know,” Geaxi said with a smile. “We could use your assistance, Mercy. You are familiar with the area and you know the people. We will have to ask questions. You could make it much easier for us.”

“I would be more than happy to help,” Mercy said. She shook her head, then broke into another round of boisterous, contagious laughter.

Finally, Geaxi asked, “Mercy, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t help thinking about something Arrosa said in her letter. It’s a bit of an understatement.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“She told me to ‘expect the unexpected.’”

Two days passed in a blur of activity. From early morning until late at night we combed the streets, shops, cafés, and bars of the fifth, sixth, and seventh arrondissements. We made countless strolls up and down Saint Germain and Saint Michel, asking questions, searching, hoping to find a connection to Rune Balle. No one seemed to know him, which was not odd since he had been considered dead for twenty years. Lindbergh’s name, however, was everywhere and on everyone’s lips. Mercy accompanied us during the day, but at night she was working at Chez Josephine. We spent both nights in Montmartre, high up on rue Florentine, loitering near two clubs across the street from each other, Bricktop’s and Zelli’s. Geaxi said they were the kind of places Rune Balle had preferred in his youth. We watched the traffic and never saw a sign of him, but Nova became completely absorbed and fascinated with Parisian street life—the personalities, hairstyles, conversation, and especially the fashion. Geaxi seemed unaffected by it, telling me, “Il faut cultiver notre jardin,” or “We must cultivate our own garden.”

By morning of the third day, we still had not heard from Mitch. I worried about it. It was unusual for him not to call or come by. Whatever the reason, if he had fallen down, fallen ill, or fallen in love, it was probably serious. We made our rounds anyway and then headed back to Mercy’s apartment for lunch. The telephone rang. Mercy picked up the receiver, laughed, then held out the receiver so we could hear. The voice came through loud and clear. It was Josephine Baker, laughing and shouting and telling Mercy to get those children from St. Louis over to her apartment now, faster than a pig squirms. She wanted to meet us before we went to the benefit that night. She couldn’t wait to talk about St. Louis. She was sending over her car and her chauffeur within the hour. From her place we would all go to the Theatre des Champs-Élysées together. She went on and on. Mercy finally stopped her and said we would be waiting on the front steps.

Less than an hour later we were picked up and driven to Josephine Baker’s apartment. Her chauffeur opened the door getting in and out, then ushered us inside the apartment. Mercy had warned us that Josephine loved animals, but the reality was bizarre. Between and among a cluttered, exotic, eclectic collection of things and furniture, including a bust of Louis XIV, stacks of letters and magazines, records, clothes, costumes, and furniture, she kept a parakeet, a parrot, three baby rabbits, and a snake. We were led through the apartment into a large kitchen, where half a dozen people were gathered in a small circle, each with a smile on their face and a champagne glass in their hand. In the midst, kneeling and talking rapidly, Josephine Baker was telling a story about Berlin. She was also grooming her pig. The pig’s name was Albert and he smelled of perfume. She caught a glimpse of the chauffeur and looked up, first at him, then to Mercy, then over to us. She was at eye level. She was dressed in a full-length silver gown with sequins sewn in an intricate design, platinum loop earrings, and a string of pearls around her neck. Her short hair was styled similar to Mercy’s, only the wave across her forehead ended in a spit curl. She wore heavy eye makeup and oxblood lipstick. On her head she wore a lacy skullcap covered in sequins. She was a beautiful, stunning, brown-skinned girl of only twenty-one—the rage of Paris—and yet, she looked familiar. I was certain I knew her, I had seen her before, but I couldn’t place it. Then she smiled. It was a great, wide grin, which took me back instantly to the night I met Arrosa at Mitch’s club in St. Louis. I remembered a young girl backstage, trying to sneak in and watch the dancers. Mitch called her “Tumpy,” but he said her real name was Josephine. For a second that night, the girl and I caught each other’s eye and she smiled, just before Mitch pushed her out the door.

Josephine Baker’s smile faded and she stared at me. I saw in her eyes the gradual recognition of our mutual memory, followed by the puzzling paradox that comes with it.

“I remember you,” she said. “It was St. Louis…I was a kid about your size…I remember you, but…”

“How is it possible that I appear the same now as in your memory?”

“Yes.”

“Because the true you chose to remember it that way. If you did not, I would not exist.”

Josephine Baker laughed and whistled. “That sounds almost crazy, honey.”

“You’re not the first girl to say that.”

“But that don’t explain nothin’,” she said.

Nova smiled and said, “Oh, yes it does.”

“It could explain everything,” Geaxi said.

Josephine Baker stood and waved her arms high in the air and shook her hands as if she were in church or singing in a revival. “Tout de même,” she said. “You must be an angel because Mitch needs some hometown cheerin’ up and I ain’t been able to help him one little bit.”

“Is this where he’s been staying since he got to Paris?” I asked.

“That’s right, and we were havin’ a swell time until this mornin’. Then Mitch came down with the blues real bad. He’s as sour and mean and quiet as a man can be.”

“Where is he?”

“In a church.”

“Church?”

“Yes, and I’m worried about him. He’s been there for hours. Why don’t you talk to him, honey? Cheer him up—talk him into goin’ with us tonight.” She pointed to a dark-haired man with a thin mustache standing near her. “Pepito will take you there.”

“I’ll go right away,” I said.

Pepito was Josephine Baker’s companion and soon-to-be husband. He was an obvious hustler, but he was nice to me and we struck up an easy conversation. He led us through traffic for several blocks until we stopped in front of an old and ornate church, Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis. The facade was three-tiered and rose seven or eight stories, covered in great stone columns and arches with statues in recesses on all three levels. Pepito climbed the steps with me, saying he would wait for me under the massive stone arch of the entrance. I walked inside. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light and I found a place to sit near the aisle on the last row of pews. The cavernous cathedral was eerily silent and all the pews were empty, except for two people: a young girl in the front row who seemed to be weeping, and a black man two rows ahead of me. He sat with his head bent forward and his eyes closed. It was Mitch. As always, he was wearing his tuxedo, but the jacket had been removed, the tie loosened, and the collar unbuttoned. I stood and walked down two rows. He kept his eyes closed. I sat and moved over until I was within five feet and waited.

Thirty seconds passed. Almost whispering, I said, “Mitch, are you all right?”

He looked up slowly, not even surprised to see me. There were no tears in his eyes, but there was a deep and true sadness. “Hey, Z,” he said. His voice sounded dull and flat. “I been meanin’ to call, man. I just…I just ain’t got around to it.”

Another twenty seconds passed. I gazed around the cathedral. “I didn’t know you liked churches, Mitch.”

He smiled faintly. “I can’t say I frequent the joints, Z.”

“Any reason you picked this one?”

“It was old.”

“Sounds like a good reason to me.” I let a few more moments go by. The girl in the front row rose to light a candle at the altar. I heard her mumbling a prayer. I turned to Mitch. “What’s wrong, Mitch?”

He took a deep breath and sighed. “Nothin’ I won’t get over. Today is May 27, the same day my old man died in Ithaca. It hit me hard this time around.” He paused and looked up at the girl by the altar. “I think about him different now than I used to. I miss him.”

“I know how you feel. I miss my papa every day.”

“No, Z, that ain’t what I meant. You miss what you two had together. I miss what we never had until the very end, and then we just ran out of time. I only got to know him those last few months. Inside, I hated him most of my life, but in the end I got to know him. And I forgave him inside. Now I miss him and I can’t bring him back. It’s not fair, man.”

“I agree. There’s nothing fair about it.”

“And he died confused, Z. That ain’t fair either.”

“What do you mean, ‘confused’?”

“He never got rid of his guilt…and his regret.”

“Because he left you and your mama?”

“I think so, but you see, he’d done it before. He told me he did it twice in his life—once in Africa, and again a few years later in St. Louis. He spent several years with his family in Africa before he left, but he left St. Louis not long after I was born. He said I got a half sister somewhere. No doubt about it, he had a pile of regret. And you know what the saddest part is, Z? He never knew why. ‘I have searched my soul,’ he told me, ‘and I have never known why I did it—either time.’”

“That is sad, though he must have been happy to finally have you with him.”

“Yeah, he loved it. He had a hell of a life, Z. He was an engineer, a gambler, a preacher, and a professor. He quoted Walt Whitman all the time, and the Bible. He survived a shipwreck off West Africa and being captured by a desert warlord named El Heiba, then escaping with the daughter of a shaman. She was being held as a slave because El Heiba believed she had some kind of voodoo power. They made it out of the desert and cross-country all the way back to her village, where he lived with her and her people for years as man and wife. Wild stuff, man, but he lived it.”

Suddenly, I got a chill up my spine, not because of the story but because I’d heard it before—in Africa! The coincidence was too startling to be an accident. “Mitch, did your papa ever tell you the name of your half sister?”

“Yeah, he said it out loud one time. He whispered it. He called her ‘Emme.’” Before I could say anything, Mitch added, “I got a picture of him right here, Z. I took it myself about a week after I got to Ithaca.” He reached for his tuxedo jacket and withdrew a photograph from the inside pocket. “Here he is,” Mitch said, “that’s Cayuga Falls in the background.”

I looked at the snapshot and another strange coincidence occurred. I had seen the face in the photograph before. I had met the man in 1919, just as we were preparing to dock in New York. It was when we were bringing Star home, finally, after all those years in Africa, along with the bodies of Nicholas and Eder. I was walking the deck alone when a thin old black man asked me to watch his things while he stepped inside. I remembered the books he carried with him, Leaves of Grass and the Bible. His bookmark in the Bible was a train ticket to Ithaca, New York. Mitch’s father was the same man. I almost laughed out loud at the recognition, then realized where we were.

“Mitch,” I said, “you are not going to believe a couple of things I have to tell you.”

Just then, the wide doors behind us opened and I heard Josephine Baker’s voice saying, “Merveilleux! Merveilleux! What a church!”

Mitch and I both turned around. Mitch said, “Tumpy, what are you doin’ here?”

She wore her long silver gown with sequins and they sparkled in the half-light and shadows. She marched over to Mitch, speaking in exaggerated whispers. “Because, Mitch honey, we have decided that you need a night out and we won’t take no for an answer.” She stopped and looked down at Mitch in the pew. Pepito followed close behind her. She glanced his way. “Ain’t that so, Pepito? We all agreed, right?”

“Sí, sí, we all agreed,” Pepito said. He started to say more, but decided to light a cigarette instead. Josephine grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth before he could light it and stuffed it in his coat pocket without saying a word. She turned back to Mitch and flashed her biggest, widest grin. “Come on, you got to go, honey. What do you say?”

Mitch answered slowly and without much emotion. “Josephine, don’t take this personally, but I believe I’ll pass on this one.”

Josephine almost stamped her feet in frustration, then glanced at me for help.

“I think she’s right, Mitch,” I said. The sadness still filled his eyes.

Mitch looked away, toward the altar. “I just don’t feel like it, man. I just…I don’t know…I just…”

I heard the doors swing open behind us. I turned and Mercy Whitney walked through, dressed in an elegant crimson dress and wearing a skullcap similar to Josephine’s. She smiled when she saw us and hurried over. Ruby earrings dangled from her ears. Her lips were the same color as the rubies. “What a beautiful old church,” Mercy said. Mitch suddenly looked startled, as if a bell had rung. He turned in his pew instantly. His eyes found Mercy’s and Mercy’s found his. The exchange was and is one of the rarest moments in life and I was witness to it. I recognized it because I had experienced the same moment in China when Opari and I first looked into each other’s eyes. It is a split second of wonder, mystery, and magic. It is love at first sight. Unexpected and unprepared, and in the dim light of the church of Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, Mitchell Ithaca Coates and Mercy Whitney were given the flower of that moment. It came to them unasked and unannounced and in full bloom. I couldn’t help myself and laughed out loud with joy, despite where we were. Josephine Baker had also seen the exchange and joined in, understanding immediately what she had seen. Mitch and Mercy ignored us. Their eyes were locked. I watched Mitch’s eyes. I have never seen such a sincere and heartfelt sadness disappear so quickly. Finally, Mitch smiled and said, “I just changed my mind, Tumpy.”

“I can see that, honey,” Josephine said.

I noticed an older priest walking up the aisle from the altar. He was not pleased or amused. “I think it’s time to leave,” I said, nodding in his direction.

“Time indeed, the car is waitin’ for us,” Josephine added.

Outside, there were two limousines lined up against the curb. We climbed in the open door of the lead car and were welcomed by Geaxi. She said Nova was in the second car with the rest of Josephine’s entourage. The lights of Paris were shining all around us. Josephine told her chauffeur, “Theatre des Champs-Élysées, Etienne, s’il vous plaît.” We pulled into traffic and in moments the church of Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis became a memory, but the moment inside was alive and well in the front seat, where Mitch and Mercy were only beginning a conversation that would last the rest of their lives.

After waiting in a long line of limousines on avenue Montaigne, we arrived at the gala event. When Josephine stepped out, she was more than welcomed, she was practically worshipped. Shouts of “La Perle Noir!” and “Our Fifine!” surrounded us. She rushed past, waving at everyone and throwing kisses. The presence of children in her entourage was nothing unusual. The people of Paris knew she loved animals and children and often took them with her wherever she pleased.

We were met inside by one of the managers. Josephine was currently dancing with the Folies Bergere, but I was told she had become famous at the Theatre des Champs-Élysées, where she performed her outrageous Banana Dance in La Revue Negre. The manager accompanied us to a private box reserved especially for Josephine. Whistles and scattered applause greeted her as she appeared, waved, and took her seat. It was nothing compared to the thunderous, hysterical standing ovation a few minutes later as Charles Lindbergh made his entrance. He waved from a private box on the opposite side of the hall, along with local dignitaries and a few aviators. He was taller than all of them and looked half their age and half their weight, but he was the reason they were there. He was the reason everyone was there. Even Josephine clapped and whistled, shouting his name with abandon.

Geaxi, Nova, and I took our seats behind Josephine, Pepito, and a half dozen others. Mitch and Mercy sat off to one side, completely oblivious to everyone and everything. They spoke rapidly and never stopped staring in each other’s eyes. The diva, Mary Garden, dressed as Lady Liberty, sang the Amercan national anthem and the show began.

Geaxi kept her attention focused on Lindbergh’s box throughout the first two acts, then turned to me. She winked and said, “I think I shall take a stroll, young Zezen.” She slipped on her beret and gracefully exited unnoticed into the hall behind us.

Nova enjoyed everything about the show and the performers. She wanted to know each of their names and was constantly asking Josephine about costumes, sets, jewelry, and makeup. She was fascinated with the theater and the people who lived the life of the theater. She told me she loved the “illusion of it all.” She watched every act with anticipation and joy, laughing and clapping, sometimes jumping up and down, exactly like an excited twelve-year-old girl—the best illusion in the room.

Occasionally, I glanced at Lindbergh’s box, fully expecting Geaxi to suddenly appear, but she never did. Mitch and Mercy continued falling in love, oblivious to most of the show and the people around them. At one point, I saw Mitch touch Mercy’s lips and trace the outline with his fingers. I remembered doing the same thing with Opari and for several minutes I was lost in a kind of dream, thinking only of Opari, longing for her, aching for her.

It was Geaxi who broke the reverie. “Zianno, come quickly!” I turned and she was standing directly behind me. She motioned for me to follow. “Quickly!” she repeated. I rose and left without a word to anyone.

Once we were in the hall, I asked Geaxi, “Did you get to see Lindbergh?”

“No,” she said, pulling me aside. The hallway corridor was crowded and she wanted privacy. Geaxi acted calm, though her black eyes burned bright with energy. “I just met someone,” she said. “I was, in fact, near Lindbergh’s box, observing the security, which was extensive. To devise a plan, I found a seat on a small bench against the wall of the hallway. As I was thinking, a black woman approached me directly. I remained silent and she sat down on the bench. ‘Do not be alarmed,’ she said, then smiled. I smiled back.” Geaxi paused.

“So, that’s not unusual,” I said.

“Yes, but then she asked, ‘Do you know Zianno Zezen?’ I did not answer right away. Instead, I looked in her eyes. She was aware that I was Meq and she was completely comfortable, even respectful. I examined her closer and realized she must be a shaman’s daughter. She had been deliberately scarred as a child with three raised lines on both temples.”

“Emme Ya Ambala!” I shouted.

“Yes. We spoke at length. She recounted your time together in Africa and said her grandfather’s last words contained your name. She then asked what we were doing in Paris. I trusted her intuitively and told her the truth—we were searching for a man named Rune Balle.” Geaxi’s eyes brightened again. “Without hesitation, the woman said she could help. ‘If Rune Balle is in Paris,’ she told me, ‘my husband will find him.’”

“I know him,” I said, “and she’s right, he is the perfect man to help us.”

“She is waiting. She wishes to see you, young Zezen.”

I burst out laughing.

“What is so humorous?” Geaxi asked.

I turned to run back to Josephine’s box. “Stay here,” I said, “there is someone else she needs to see.”

In less than a minute, I returned with Mitch and Mercy in tow. Geaxi seemed puzzled, but she spun in an effortless motion and led the way toward Lindbergh’s box.

We hurried through the crowd, which was an assortment of the Parisian elite dressed in jewels, gowns, and tuxedos, along with World War I aviators in full uniform, most missing an arm, or leg, or wearing an eye patch. As we got closer to Lindbergh’s box, photographers and reporters gathered and filled the hallway, all waiting and hoping to get a picture or a quote from “Lucky Lindy.” Then I saw her. Apart from the crowd, on a small bench against the wall, sat a black woman in her late thirties. Her skin was dark chocolate and her hair was cropped close to her head, like Geaxi’s. She wore a dress covered in the bright colors and designs I had first seen in Senegal. She was very attractive and very pregnant.

I tapped Geaxi on the shoulder. “You never told me she was pregnant.”

“As Sailor would surely point out, young Zezen, you never asked.”

I glanced back at Mitch. I had not yet explained where we were going or why. I had simply grabbed him and said, “Follow me.”

Captain Antoine Boutrain stood next to her. His hair was streaked with silver and his face was beginning to show the weathering from years at sea, but other than that, he looked well and healthy. Emme smiled broadly and reached for his hand as we approached. She stared up at me in silence, then we embraced for several moments. As we separated, she said, “I knew we would see each other again. I am thankful it has finally come to pass, Zianno Zezen.”

“I agree, Emme. And there is something you need to see. Mitch,” I said over my shoulder, “show this woman the picture inside your jacket.”

“What?” he asked.

“Just do it. Let her see the picture.”

Mitch gave Emme the photograph of his father and she looked at me, then studied the picture. For a full minute she said nothing, then she spoke. “I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”

Behind me, Mitch said, “That’s Walt Whitman, man.”

Emme glanced at Mitch. “Why, yes it is.”

“I think you should meet someone,” I told her. “Someone you never knew existed.” I pulled Mitch toward me. “Mitch,” I said, “this woman is from Mali in West Africa. She is the granddaughter of a Dogon shaman and holy man. She speaks perfect American English, which she learned from her father a few years before you were born. He was a black engineer from the United States…from Ithaca, New York.”

Mitch gazed at me in disbelief as the truth came to him. “Emme?” he said, stunned.

Emme looked at Mitch, then to me with a baffled expression.

“Emme Ya Ambala,” I said, “I would like to introduce you to your half brother, Mitchell Ithaca Coates of St. Louis, Missouri.” I looked at Mitch standing with Mercy. “Mitch, my friend, this is definitely your lucky day.”

Emme glanced down at her father smiling in the photograph, then back to Mitch’s face. She smiled and Mitch smiled back. All three had the same smile. “Is he still…?”

“Alive?” Mitch asked.

“Yes.”

Mitch said nothing, then shook his head slowly back and forth. Mercy had her arm wrapped in his and she seemed to hold him a little tighter. Antoine Boutrain placed his hand on Emme’s shoulder. Emme nodded and started to speak, but never got the chance. Without warning, two photographers rushed right through us, one of them almost clipping Mercy with his camera as he ran. Charles Lindbergh had decided to leave early and every photographer in the hallway was scrambling for a shot.

Geaxi said, “I shall be back shortly,” and headed directly into the crowd. For some reason, I felt compelled to follow. “We won’t be long,” I said, and sprinted to catch up.

Geaxi moved as smooth as a pickpocket, slipping by and around and squeezing through the onlookers, reporters, photographers, city officials, and security people. Still, we could get no closer than fifteen feet from where Lindbergh would make his exit. The crowd pushed and pressed together and we had to think of some way to get a better view. Geaxi said it was not necessary that we get any nearer, only that she be able to see him clearly.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

Geaxi adjusted her beret and we both fought to keep our place. “Do you still carry those gold coins, those double eagles?” she asked.

“Yes, it’s a habit now. I have two in my pocket.”

“Give them to me.”

I handed her the double eagles and she turned and spoke in French to two reporters pushing against us from the back. In ten seconds, a deal had been struck. Geaxi gave one of the men one of the coins, then turned and said, “Follow me, young Zezen, and hop on.” The first reporter bent down enough to let Geaxi straddle his shoulders, then stood up. “Excellent view!” Geaxi said. The second reporter kneeled and I climbed on, the same as I had when I first rode on my papa’s shoulders to watch a baseball game, fifty-two years earlier. The man stood at the exact moment Lindbergh appeared in the hallway, surrounded by dignitaries and security. They helped him through the mass of reporters and photographers. Lindbergh walked quickly. The crowd kept shouting his name from all directions. He looked like a boy to me—a tall, shy boy caught in the middle of something he never imagined. He tried to thank the people as he passed, but there were too many. Shouts, praises, and questions from reporters filled the hallway and drowned everything else out.

I glanced at Geaxi. She was smiling. Lindbergh was thirty feet away now, almost out of sight. Geaxi closed her eyes, then opened her mouth and used “the Voice.” Without making a sound, she whispered, “Alegeratu! Congratulations, Slim. Good luck.”

Lindbergh stopped abruptly and turned, looking back over the crowd. The people around him urged him on and kept him moving, but he glanced back twice before disappearing down the stairs and out of sight.

I looked at Geaxi. “Can you do that whenever you want?”

She grinned. “Yes,” she said. “However, until now I was not aware of it.” She tapped the reporter on the shoulder to let her down. I did the same. Geaxi gave the men the other double eagle and shook their hands, thanking them in medieval French. They seemed confused, but pleased about the money, and left speaking rapidly back and forth. Once they were gone, she said, “Tomorrow, young Zezen, we begin our search for Rune Balle.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t say ‘tonight.’ ”

“You are attempting to be humorous, no?”

“Sí, un poco,” I said. Inside the huge hall, the show went on in high spirits. A duet was singing Me and My Shadow. “It has been a long day, Geaxi. That was the best I could do.”

A month to the day passed and no sign of Rune Balle’s presence in Paris could be found, even though Captain B, or Antoine as he preferred to be called, had his extensive underground network combing every district in the city. Geaxi, Nova, and I usually went with him when he would rendezvous with informants. They all wondered if he had suddenly adopted grandchildren, but Antoine ignored their comments. Mitch and Mercy stayed with Emme while we made our rounds. Mitch and Emme had long discussions, sharing their separate memories of their father. By the end of the month, Mitch began talking about opening a club in Paris with Josephine as a partner. He even said he was going to learn to speak French. I reminded him that they didn’t play baseball in Paris and Mitch solved the problem by saying he would come home in the summers. Mercy and Emme became close friends and Mercy helped her with all the household chores. Emme was going to have her baby at any time and Mercy promised to stay with her through the ordeal. Antoine seemed nervous about becoming a father, but his happiness was self-evident. Emme never complained about anything and couldn’t wait to be a mother. Her eyes would dance and sparkle with delight at the thought of it. One night while we were sitting at the kitchen table, I told her I wished PoPo could be there with us. She rubbed her swollen belly and said, “Oh, but he is, Zianno, he is.”

On June 27, Geaxi and I were having lunch at a café in Montparnasse. Antoine and Nova had gone to see a stained-glass artist who lived a few blocks away and had once known Rune Balle.

“Before Nova returns, there is something we must discuss,” Geaxi said.

“What is it?”

“It is time for Nova to experience the Bitxileiho, the Strange Window. There is to be a total solar eclipse not far from Caitlin’s Ruby in two days. The path of the eclipse crosses Wales and northern England. I shall take Nova, but you should stay here to continue our search for Balle. If all goes well, we will be back in Paris by the first of August.”

I hadn’t thought of the Bitxileiho in years. I remembered the helplessness, the inability to move, and the cold terror of the infinite. The experience is unique to the Meq, but necessary for our “maturity.” It is also the place and state of mind where we cross in the Zeharkatu. However, because of her “visions,” for Nova the experience might prove dangerous or harmful.

“Do you think she’ll be…all right?” I asked.

“I do not know,” Geaxi answered. “It is a chance we must take. We may not have another opportunity for years.” Geaxi paused, then asked, “Do you agree, young Zezen?”

I didn’t like it, but I also knew its importance. “Yes, I agree. Have you contacted Willie?”

“Yes, he will be waiting for us in London. From there, we head straight for Giggleswick in northern England.”

I studied Geaxi’s eyes. She gave nothing away, as always, but I could tell she didn’t look forward to the event. “Good luck,” I said.

“Yes, well, let us hope we shall not need it.”

Antoine and Nova returned fifteen minutes later. They sat down with disappointed looks on their faces. The man they had gone to see was in Chartres and would not be back until August 1.

Geaxi turned to me and said, “Perfect.” Then she looked at Nova and said, “Nova, we need to talk.”

Early in the morning on June 29, a total eclipse of the sun passed through Wales and swept across North Yorkshire. There was only one place along its path where it was visible from the ground—Giggleswick. The weather before the eclipse had been miserable, but a sudden break in the clouds allowed witnesses there to experience twenty-four seconds of totality. Geaxi, Nova, and Willie observed and experienced it from the school grounds in Giggleswick, along with dozens of astronomers and photographers. In Paris, at about the same time, I was still asleep—and dreaming.

It was winter in St. Louis. I was in Sportsman’s Park, standing at home plate. The grandstands were empty and the entire field was covered in snow. Dressed in black, the umpire stood on the mound with his back to me, facing center field. I felt the bat in my hands, but I couldn’t see it. The umpire turned and stared at me. He wore a mask, which he removed slowly with one hand. But one mask only revealed another. A chill ran through me. He seemed to smile beneath the mask and threw the pitch at high velocity. I saw a sphere racing toward me. It was white, but it was not a baseball. It was a snowball, which then became a snowflake, spinning through space like a wheel with six spokes. I swung and everything went white. I woke up breathing hard and fast, as if I had been sprinting for my life.

When Geaxi and Nova returned to Paris two days later, I knew the instant I looked into Nova’s eyes that twenty-four seconds of totality had been enough time to affect her deeply. There was calmness, resolve, and wisdom in her I had never seen before. Nova had changed completely. I saw a new purpose, or direction. She reminded me a great deal of her papa. She and Geaxi were standing just inside the door of Antoine and Emme’s apartment. Antoine was out, and Emme and Mercy were in the kitchen.

“You’ve seen your papa, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, slightly startled. “How did you know, Zianno?”

“I can see him in your eyes.”

“He came directly through the Window, Zianno. He was like a star as bright and blue as Sirius. He spoke in a way that was similar to ‘the Voice,’ but not quite the same. He told me there was no longer any need to fear my visions. He said I could learn from them…we could all learn from them.”

“He’s right,” I said.

“I know that now. Somehow, in some way, my papa has released me, Zianno. It sounds naïve, silly almost, but I finally, firmly realized I am not losing my mind.”

I told her I once felt the same way about my dreams. Then I turned and asked Geaxi if the Bitxileiho had been a pleasant experience for her.

“I assume that is another one of your attempts at humor and irony, no?” She had one eyebrow raised and was glaring at me. “The Bitxileiho is never fun, young Zezen. Nor is it a ‘pleasant experience,’ at least not for me. I could easily pass an eternity without experiencing another.”

Before I could respond, Antoine burst through the door and ran into Geaxi. She tumbled forward in one graceful somersault, then leaped to her feet and spun in a quick pirouette to see who or what had hit her. Antoine apologized immediately, then went on to say he had heard from the stained-glass artist. The man had contacted Antoine and informed him that Rune Balle was currently in Chartres, repairing and restoring the ancient stained-glass windows high above the clerestory in Chartres Cathedral. The man had seen Balle and spoken with him only a week ago. Geaxi suggested we leave on the spot and Nova agreed. I looked at Antoine. Chartres was very near Paris; however, I could tell he was reluctant to leave Emme, even for a day. She might go into labor at any moment.

Geaxi noticed his anxiety and said, “This time, Antoine, you should stay here.”

He smiled gratefully. “Oui, mademoiselle. This is the choice I prefer. Merci.”

Geaxi and Nova took baths and changed clothes while I waited for them in the kitchen. I watched Emme talking with Mercy. Her belly was big and round as a giant, prize-winning melon, which she was massaging gently with her fingertips. I knew she would probably have her baby before we returned. Emme seemed to sense what I was thinking and said, “Zianno, I would like your blessing before I go into the hospital.”

“You have it, Emme, but you won’t need it. Everything will be fine. You’re an expert. I’ve seen you deliver a baby before. Remember?”

She laughed. “I could never forget,” she said.

Half an hour later, we were in the street and on our way to catch a train for Chartres. Emme sent along roast lamb sandwiches and cucumbers, and we ate them on the train as the sun set in the west. A faint mist and drizzle caused the light coming through the glass of the window to fracture and dance in patterns and shades of gold, pink, and tangerine.

“Do you enjoy that effect, Zianno?” Geaxi asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “yes, I do.”

Geaxi took a large bite from her sandwich and stared out the window as she ate. A full minute passed. Quietly and without elaboration, she said, “Then you shall likely enjoy Rune Balle.”

Sudden violence, or the nearness of it, when felt or sensed in advance, gives any warrior, hunter, or shepherd a primary advantage in any conflict—the element of surprise. The Meq have always had this ability, especially when traveling together. As we approached the gothic Chartres Cathedral, I noticed its twin spires rising into the night sky like two black blades. Nova, Geaxi, and I each sensed an imminent danger within.

We raced to the three massive front doors. They were all locked. Geaxi led the way around the corner and along the south wall, stopping suddenly in front of a small doorway almost hidden from view. The door was open. Geaxi seemed to know it would be there.

“How…?”

“Never mind,” she said. “Follow me.”

Without hesitation, I reached for the Stone in my pocket. Simultaneously, Geaxi and Nova reached for their Stones. Geaxi also carried hers in her pocket. Nova wore hers on a leather necklace, which she removed and held in her palm. Even in the darkness the gems sparkled bright and brilliant around the Stone of Silence. My Stone and Geaxi’s were no more than heavy, pitted oval rocks—two black eggs, but regardless of their appearance, we would need all three.

We entered a narrow hall and moved quickly until we came to a small opening, which led to another opening covered by a thick curtain. Geaxi parted the curtain, revealing the vast interior of the great cathedral. There were no lights on, but a few candles were burning on top of scaffolding erected along the far wall and extending out into the church, ending forty feet in the air above the inlaid stones of the Chartres Labyrinth. On the highest platform a struggle was taking place, causing the scaffolding to shake and sound as if it might be coming apart. The two Maori assassins we had interrupted in St. Louis were about to murder or torture a man they were holding between them. They had torn open the man’s shirt and they held him in the air with one hand apiece. Each had pearl-handled daggers in the other hand. The captured man had wild gray hair and a ragged beard. He was screaming at the Maoris in Norwegian. It was Rune Balle. He yelled, “Morder! Morder! Snikmorder! Din mor liv inn helvete!”

Geaxi began climbing the scaffolding without taking her eyes off the Maoris. Nova and I tried to keep pace. Geaxi climbed silently and quickly. In seconds we were over the top. The Maoris stood ten feet away. They had their daggers poised. Rune Balle screamed something, then spit in their faces. The daggers started forward.

“Hear ye, hear ye now, Giza!” Geaxi droned, holding the Stone out and pointing in their direction. Nova and I joined her. “Lo geltitu, lo geltitu, Ahaztu!” we said in unison. The Maoris dropped their daggers instantly and stood with their arms at their sides. Their tattooed faces went blank, their eyes dulled. Almost automatically, we added, “Turn and go now, Giza, go like lambs. Ahaztu!”

It was an ill-fated command for the Maoris. We had unintentionally sent them to their deaths. They turned with puzzled expressions and calmly walked in the opposite direction, off the scaffolding and into thin air, falling forty feet and landing headfirst and dead center on the six-petaled rosette at the heart of the Chartres Labyrinth.

Rune Balle had dropped to his knees. He rubbed his chest where the daggers would have pierced his heart. He crawled to the edge of the platform and stared down at the Maoris and the blood spreading across the stone floor. From the height of the platform, their blood looked black instead of red. He turned to us and said something in Norwegian, then in French.

Geaxi said, “In English, Rune, speak in English, please. Your nephew said you speak English fluently.”

Rune looked down at the Maoris. He let out a long sigh, then took in a few deep breaths. He rubbed his chest again and spit twice, watching the spit fall until it hit their bodies. Geaxi let him gather himself. He looked up at her. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“No, however, we were scheduled to meet not long ago through your nephew. Unfortunately, circumstances prevented it.”

“Do you mean my nephew Knut? In Trondheim?”

“Yes.”

Rune Balle ran his eyes over the three of us, studying us carefully from head to toe. His eyes were pale blue and piercing. Sharp features, tangled long hair, and scruffy beard, along with his shirt being ripped to shreds, gave him the look of a captured Viking. He focused on the Stones we still held in our hands, particularly Nova’s with the embedded gems. “I have heard of those,” he said, rubbing his chest. “He told me of them once in the mountains…and what they could do. I thought it was a fable.”

“He?” All three of us practically shouted.

“Who is ‘he’?” I added.

Rune Balle stood and looked down into my eyes. He was at least a foot taller. “Your eyes are dark, each of you. His were green.” He paused, then went on. “Other than that, the boy resembled all three of you.”

“Is he the one who bought your property?” Geaxi asked.

“No. A man the boy referred to as ‘Uncle Raza’ purchased the farm. I believe the man was Hindu. His name was Raza Vejahashala. The boy was the strangest boy I ever met. They requested a tour of the farm and all the surrounding mountains. I had several unusual structures on the farm. One was a greenhouse, where I maintained a rose garden year round. The boy seemed overjoyed with it, but his joy was expressed in a bitter, haunting laugh that has echoed in my mind ever since.”

I glanced at Geaxi and Nova again. It was the Fleur-du-Mal without a doubt. Then another thought came to me—Zuriaa! Searching for her presence, I turned in a slow circle. The cathedral was vast and the light dim, but Zuriaa was nowhere near. Geaxi, Nova, and I all wondered the same thing—who sent the Maoris, and why? It didn’t make sense.

Nova picked up an old red sweater lying on the platform between two trays of stained glass. “Yours?” she said, handing it to Rune Balle.

He removed what was left of his torn shirt and pulled on the sweater. “Takk. Thank you,” he said.

“Could you tell us where to find your farm?” she asked. “We will be glad to pay for the information.”

“There is no need,” he said, “I will take you there myself.” He gazed down at the two dead men lying on the cathedral floor in the center of the labyrinth. “My work here is finished.”

We would have left Paris the next day, except Emme decided to have a beautiful baby girl at ten after ten in the morning. The baby weighed eight pounds, two ounces and was twenty inches long. Her skin was the color of milk and coffee, her eyes were dark, and tiny black curls covered her head. She was given the name Antoinette PoPo Boutrain. A day later, Emme would sign a paper naming Antoinette’s godparents—Mercy Whitney and Zianno Zezen. I couldn’t have been more proud. Geaxi and Nova agreed to delay our departure another day in order for us to visit Emme and Antoinette in the hospital. By that time, the police had informed Rune Balle he should not leave Chartres until the investigation was complete. Rune was not suspected of any wrongdoing, but the Maoris carried no papers or identification on their persons. Along with tattooed faces and expensive dark suits, the Maoris were a mystery and their strange deaths warranted further study. After two weeks of futile investigation, Rune Balle was told he was free to travel at will. The police had found no clues whatsoever and the Maoris were simply filed away and forgotten.

During that time, Antoine had been listening to some of our discussions about where we were going and why. Antoine believed we would need assistance in eliminating the Fleur-du-Mal, though he never mentioned him by name. He said he had known many assassins, but none as cruel or invisible as our “friend.” I reminded Antoine he had just become a father and he ought to remain in Paris. He still insisted on going. Geaxi, Nova, and I all said no, and I was surprised when Emme said he should go. Through PoPo and me, she had learned long ago of the Fleur-du-Mal and his infamy. He needed to be stopped and Antoine could help. She said Mitch and Mercy would give her all the assistance she needed, while Antoinette would give her more than enough love, and all of them would pray for our safe and swift return. Still, we said no.

I cabled Owen Bramley and Carolina in St. Louis, asking if all was well and if they had heard from anyone, meaning any of the Meq. Carolina cabled back within a day saying Owen Bramley was on an extended trip to Hawaii and Japan. She assured me that all was well, then chastised me for being gone so long. She said Charles Lindbergh had returned to St. Louis and was greeted by a huge crowd and Mayor Miller. She added that she had not heard from anyone else.

We packed lightly and left Paris the next day by train, deciding to purchase anything we might need in Norway. Rune Balle had arranged for us to stay in Bergen with his sister, Penelope, and his nephew, Knut. They lived in a large three-storied home his family had owned since the 1840s. I asked him if Penelope was a common name in Norway. He laughed and told me his father’s favorite work of literature was The Odyssey, which he used to read to them as a bedtime story when they were children. “My sister,” he said, “was named for the wife of Odysseus. She may be the only Penelope in Bergen.” I asked if his farm was near Bergen. “Relatively near—less than one hundred kilometers, but isolated,” he answered, then added, “no, not isolated, protected.”

London was our first stop after ferrying from Le Havre. Geaxi wanted to check our deposit box at Lloyd’s for messages. There were none. I telephoned Caitlin’s Ruby and spoke with Arrosa and Willie. Neither had heard from anyone. It was as if every Meq except Geaxi, Nova, and me had disappeared. Geaxi assured me it was nothing unusual, there had been centuries of absence and silence in the past. It was common for the Meq. That was true; however, it failed to relieve the anxiety of not knowing. She then reminded me there were other Meq in the world I had never met. Did I ever wonder where they were or worry about them? I had no answer.

“Aside from that, young Zezen, I suspect there is only one you are truly concerned about, no?”

I said nothing because we both knew the answer.

We caught a late train for Newcastle, where we spent the night and then early the next morning boarded a ferry for Bergen. Halfway across the North Sea, we encountered rough seas, which gave Nova a bout of seasickness. It was highly unusual. Geaxi said she had never heard of one of the Meq experiencing seasickness. Nova recovered quickly, but she seemed bewildered and alarmed by what had happened. She said she had never been seasick before and it might portend some ill will for us. Geaxi tried to assure her there was nothing to be concerned about. But once we reached the outer islands and approached the Vagen harbor of Bergen, all our spirits lifted, including Nova’s.

Bergen is a thousand-year-old port city. Surrounded by mountains, the city has long been called “the town between seven mountains.” As we entered the inner harbor, the sun was setting behind us. Two of the peaks, Floyen and Ulriken, were golden in the last rays of light. Green pines covered the hillsides and ships and sailboats were everywhere. I had never seen a more beautiful town and harbor. Geaxi remarked that she had first visited Bergen in 1350 on a Hansa ship, only a year after the Black Plague had appeared and spread throughout Norway. She said at that time the harbor was equally beautiful, but a miserable destination.

Rune told me to enjoy the clear air and colorful sunset because in the past he had seen it rain in Bergen for twenty days in a row on several occasions. I replied that rain could not dampen the beauty of Bergen. Rune grunted and said I might make a good Norwegian.

After disembarking with the other passengers, Rune escorted Geaxi, Nova, and me through customs. We walked along the quay, then up narrow streets and steep hills to Rune’s family home. With the sun down, the air cooled dramatically and by the time we arrived, I could see my breath. It was the middle of September. The days were getting shorter and colder. The Fleur-du-Mal might or might not stay the winter in Norway. I hoped silently we were not too late.

Penelope and Knut welcomed us inside the large entry hall. She was a stunning woman, probably in her mid-forties, with coal black hair and ice blue eyes. She made me think of how Caitlin Fadle must have looked. Knut was a young man in his early twenties and had the same features as Penelope. They were both clearly ecstatic to see Rune. I could tell Knut idolized his uncle. Rune then asked if someone named Svein was still alive. Knut said he was. Rune looked relieved, glancing at Geaxi and saying, “Roses…Svein takes care of the roses.”

Rune was right about the weather. The next morning we not only had to buy rain gear, but sweaters, wool caps, boots, jackets, and gloves. Rain fell cold and steady and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. By midday we were finally outfitted properly and on our way to Voss, an ancient town on the northern edge of Vangs Lake, and only an hour by train from Bergen. In Voss, we leased a small fishing boat from a man Rune knew and trusted. We launched immediately, with Rune behind the wheel. Our destination was the farmstead of Rune’s old friend and confidant since childhood, Svein Stigen, gardener and caretaker for the Fleur-du-Mal.

When Geaxi first told me the Fleur-du-Mal had purchased a home in Norway, I thought it was a joke. This would be the last place, I thought, where he would consider living. Norway was too remote for his international tastes and habits. Why had he chosen it?

Rune slowed the engines and veered to our starboard side. Suddenly, an almost invisible inlet appeared between two headlands, two promontories of sheer rock, rising 150 feet above the lake.

“Through this channel lies Askenfada,” Rune said. “It used to be uninhabited during the winter months because of heavy snowfall and the danger of avalanches.”

“Askenfada?” Geaxi asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what that word means?”

“No,” Rune said. “No one seems to know the source of it. The word is not Norwegian. This place has always been called by that name.”

Geaxi turned to Nova and me. “The word is an old Meq word,” she said.

“What does it mean?” Nova asked.

Geaxi stared up at the steep cliffs as we passed through the narrow channel. The rock faces were streaked black and gray in the rain and they seemed to disappear into a fog hanging over the channel. She looked away and said, “The word means ‘final enclosure.’”

The cliffs ended abruptly and the channel opened onto a wide, tear-shaped cove and harbor, surrounded by two green valleys connected at the far end of the cove by a slim strip of land beneath a wall of rock. At least three waterfalls fell from the cliffs. Both valleys were dotted with firs, pines, paths, pastures, stone buildings, barns, and farmhouses. Mountains with snow-covered peaks encircled and towered over everything. The place was an idyll, a fortress—a naturally protected world within a world.

What happened next is difficult to explain to anyone but the Meq. Geaxi, Nova, and I all felt it at once. I can only liken it to a chill or shudder running up and down your spine simultaneously. However, it is not a chill or shudder and it runs through Time. It is a sudden recognition of an intense Meq experience. The memory of the experience inhabits a particular place or space. This one came from the Time of Ice and it was a warning or beacon of great danger. Something terrible had happened here.

“Geaxi, do you know of this place?” I whispered.

“No,” she said calmly. “Nor does Sailor or Trumoi-Meq or anyone else. The Fleur-du-Mal has discovered something…unusual.”

Rune made a turn toward a small dock on the shore of the southern valley. Nova asked him why he ever sold such a property. Rune explained there had been no choice. The family fortune had dwindled and Penelope’s husband had vanished, leaving behind a mountain of debt. About that time, the tall Indian man called Raza appeared and offered Rune enough money to ensure Penelope and Knut would be well taken care of for the rest of their lives. Rune took the offer without hesitation, but insisted his friend Svein be allowed to stay and live in his farmhouse. The Stigen family had lived in this cove for over two hundred years and Svein was the last of them. His terms were accepted and Rune soon left for Paris to work in Chartres. “You know the rest,” he added.

“Is there no other way in or out than through the channel?” Geaxi asked.

“No,” Rune answered. “A tunnel was begun once in the 1860s. It was never completed. Svein and I explored it together as children.”

He eased the fishing boat into position along the dock and we tied off, then hurried through the rain and up a steep path to a large, rambling old stone and timber farmhouse. Svein Stigen was standing in the open doorway with his arms spread wide. He wore a bright red and gold sweater and a big gap-toothed grin. He greeted Rune in Norwegian and the two men embraced warmly. Svein had the same wild gray hair and scraggly beard as Rune. It looked like a reunion of two unrepentant Vikings.

He seemed a little surprised to see Rune, but especially surprised to see us. “Who are these children?” he asked Rune in Norwegian.

“In English, Svein, old friend. Speak in English.”

“Ah! English it is then,” he said, and quickly led the way inside. “Come stand by the fire and warm yourselves.”

An hour later we were well fed, warm, dry, and sadly informed that we had missed the Fleur-du-Mal by three days. Using a speedboat, he and Raza had left in a hurry. They did not say where they were going or when they might return, only that it would be sometime before the end of the year. Svein was to watch over everything in their absence, especially the greenhouse and precious rose garden. We were disappointed but not dispirited. We still had the element of surprise in our favor. All we had to do was wait. We knew we could do that well.

Two and a half months passed. During that time we had ample opportunity to explore Askenfada and the surrounding landscape with Svein and Rune as our guides. The Fleur-du-Mal’s residence and most of the larger buildings lined the hillsides of the valley opposite to Svein’s farmstead. By water, the distance was less than a mile and the crossing took only a few minutes. Walking around the teardrop cove and across a narrow strip of soil and loose rock at the base of a wall of cliffs took half the morning. As the temperature dropped and the weather deteriorated, our journeys by land ceased completely. Snow came early and often. Firs and pines along both valleys were blanketed white for weeks at a time. Constantly, wind whipped at the mounting snow on the surrounding peaks. Svein said we must all be vigilant for avalanches. In the infinite silence of Askenfada, they were commonplace. And there was no sign of the Fleur-du-Mal.

Most of the buildings and structures were open and accessible to Svein, but even he was locked out of the Fleur-du-Mal’s private residence. The large stone and timber building attached directly to the greenhouse and rose garden. Its heavy wooden doors were locked securely and every window barred. Svein’s entrance to the greenhouse was completely separate. Rune said that once he sold the property to Raza, extensive reconstruction began all around Askenfada. Svein was not allowed to live here during this period. Nevertheless, the entire place had remained beautiful in its starkness and simplicity.

We rarely left the cove, except for supply trips to Voss. Occasionally, Rune would leave for Bergen to visit his sister and nephew. Geaxi, Nova, and I made no attempt to contact anyone, Meq or Giza. Silence was necessary to keep our presence at Askenfada completely unknown.

For the last seven days of November through the first five days in December, snow fell day and night. We were essentially snowbound. We played chess, watched the falling snow, and ate meal after meal of Svein’s cooking. On December 6, the storm finally broke. Rune announced a visit to his sister’s home and asked if anyone wanted to join him. I said I would love to go, but hesitated to say yes. The Fleur-du-Mal could appear at any moment. I think Geaxi saw the cabin fever in my eyes and told me to go along. “If the Fleur-du-Mal arrives, we shall wait for your return before taking action. Go, young Zezen, enjoy yourself.”

Rune and I left for Voss, then boarded a train for Bergen. As we looked for seats on the crowded train, Rune said, “In Bergen I will take you to the Fisketorget, the Fish Market. It is the best in Norway. We will find something special for my sister to cook tonight, eh!”

“Good idea,” I said. “Svein Stigen is a fine man and a true friend indeed, Rune. But he is a terrible cook.”

Suddenly our compartment went dark. We had entered the mouth of a tunnel, the first of many to come. In the darkness, Rune and I laughed all the way through.

Penelope did prepare a delicious meal that evening, a baked cod dish she said she first learned from a Basque fisherman. Afterward, we gathered around a well-used upright piano and Rune entertained us with Parisian cabaret tunes. He was off-key, his French was bad, and Knut continually begged him to stop, but Rune would have none of it and sang for two hours. Outside, the night sky was crystal clear and the lights of Bergen burned all around the harbor. Finally, after we had finished the last of the champagne and Rune’s voice began to fade, we said good night and I fell into a long, dreamless sleep.

When I woke in the morning it was a different world. Snow was falling thick and heavy. At least a foot and a half had already fallen. I dressed quickly and woke Rune with a rap on his door. “Time to go,” I said. A raspy voice inside asked, “Where?” “Look outside,” I said. “We don’t want to get snowbound in Bergen.” A few moments later the voice said, “Give me twenty minutes.”

With a basket of fresh rolls from Penelope, we caught the morning train for Voss, then settled into our seats. The train was crowded but quiet. We shared rolls and coffee and watched the snow through the window. The hour-long ride passed mostly in silence. My thoughts drifted and I daydreamed until we pulled to a stop at the station in Voss. Slightly unfocused, I gathered my cap and muffler and stepped from the train onto the platform. In the next second I felt the presence of Meq more intensely than I ever had in my life. My mind sharpened in an instant and I took in a shallow breath. It was overwhelming. I turned to Rune. “Wait for me,” I said and walked toward the source of what I felt.

Everyone in the noisy crowd wore big coats, caps, and boots. All were in a hurry to get home. I was bumped hard several times and never looked up or said a word. I walked in a straight line until I saw them, all of them, huddled together in a corner of the station on two benches. They looked like children waiting for their parents. They each wore boots and heavy coats like everyone else, except they were not like everyone else and never had been. They were in the middle of a rapid and fierce conversation, which allowed me to notice them before they noticed me. One of them, a girl, an ancient girl with beautiful black eyes, turned and stared at me with a look of total surprise. “Zianno!” she shouted, then smiled and whispered, “my love.”

It was Opari. Ray Ytuarte sat next to her. Trumoi-Meq, in his tattered navy jacket, sat next to Ray. Sailor sat on the second bench. Zeru-Meq, whom I had not seen since China, sat next to him. They all looked up at once.

“Can this be true?” Sailor asked. His “ghost eye” swirled like the snow outside the station.

I walked the few feet between us and stared down at him, then looked at Opari. Her eyes flashed up at me. “Oh, it’s true, all right,” I said.

Ray said, “Damn, Z!” He moved over next to Sailor and I sat down next to Opari. I took her hand and she laced her fingers in mine. I glanced back at Sailor. “But why are all of you here, Sailor?”

He nodded toward Zeru-Meq and Mowsel. “The three of us were closing in on Susheela the Ninth. We tracked her from New Delhi to Berlin, then to Oslo. We lost her trail here in Voss. She vanished again. Yesterday, Opari and Ray appeared without warning. They were following Zuriaa’s trail and a single clue—an old Meq word—‘Askenfada.’”

“We followed the trail from Reykjavik to Trondheim to Voss,” Opari said.

“We lost it, Z,” Ray added, “right here in this station.”

“Now, why are you here, Zianno?” Sailor asked.

I was just as confused as they were. I looked around the station. “The Fleur-du-Mal lives near here,” I answered. “A hidden cove called ‘Askenfada.’ Geaxi and Nova are there now, waiting for his return.”

“The Fleur-du-Mal has a home?” Ray asked.

“It’s a little more than that.”

Trumoi-Meq leaned forward and grinned, exposing his missing tooth. He looked everyone in the eye, one by one, until he stopped at Zeru-Meq. He said, “It would seem we have a coincidence beyond proportion.”

Sailor interrupted, as if something had just occurred to him. “All five Stones have been together only once since the time of Those-Who-Fled!”

Zeru-Meq turned to Sailor. His bright green eyes sparkled. He was the uncle of the Fleur-du-Mal and the only one among us who knew his true history. “Yes, old one,” he said, then glanced at Mowsel, “and the occasion is no coincidence.”

“What are you saying?” Opari asked.

“Today is the seventh day of December, no?”

“Yes.”

“We have been tricked, Opari, tricked and manipulated into being here for a celebration—a very wicked one, I imagine.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Xanti Otso, my only nephew, bless him, was born on December 7. There is something he wants all of us to see together and he was clever enough to arrange the event on his own birthday. His arrogance is boundless.”

“And his madness,” Sailor said. He was turning the star sapphire around his forefinger in frustration. “What are the intentions and involvement of Susheela the Ninth and Zuriaa in this ridiculous scheme?”

No one said a word. Behind us, the crowd was thinning. I turned and glanced through the windows of the train station. It was still snowing.

Ray broke the silence with the truth. “There’s only one way to find out,” he said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Let’s go to the party!”

Rune was standing near the exit doors, staring out through the windows and peacefully smoking a pipe. His wild, tangled hair seemed to fly out in every direction. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and the pipe fell from his mouth. Rune had gotten used to seeing three of us together, but to see me with five others was almost too much for him. Staring each of them in the face, Rune said, “Illusjon! Magisk! Umulig! Impossible!”

“We must hurry, Rune,” I told him. “I’ll try to explain later.”

He looked at me and laughed. “There is an explanation?”

“It’s complicated,” I said, then we turned to leave for the docks. The cabin of the fishing boat was cramped, but we managed to fit inside, protected from the wind and cold and snow, which fell all the way to Askenfada.

Rune cut the engines to a low drone as we entered the hidden inlet behind the headlands. Once we passed into the channel between the cliffs, the silence around us became total. Slowly, we cleared the channel and drifted into the secret cove and harbor. Fog and snow made it impossible to see the ring of surrounding mountain peaks, but both valleys were visible.

“Damn,” Ray said. “You’d never know this was here.”

“Precisely,” Zeru-Meq said.

“Is the channel the only entry?” Sailor asked.

“The only entry and the only exit,” I answered.

“I now know why this place carries the name Askenfada,” Mowsel said, amazed by the silent beauty and extreme isolation of the ancient cove. “The Meq have been here long before Xanti Otso.”

“Yes,” Opari said quietly. “I can hear them.”

“No,” Sailor whispered, “not them—just one…a very old one of us.”

I glanced at Sailor. It was strange. For a split second, his “ghost eye” had stopped swirling and cleared completely.

Barely audible, Ray said, “Susheela the Ninth.”

Rune stared straight ahead, toward Svein waiting for us on the tiny dock below his farmstead. All of us, all the Meq inside the cabin, stared across the cove to the other side. We looked up the valley toward the shadowy maze of stone and timber structures dotting the hillsides. The complex was almost invisible through the falling snow, but in the greenhouse and in the private residence of the Fleur-du-Mal, the lights were on.

Rune turned and caught us staring. He sensed our concern and unease.

I realized at that moment how completely we had been deceived. The element of surprise was exposed and lost. The irony is that we never had it. The Fleur-du-Mal had it all along. Now he was waiting for us.

Sailor must have been thinking the same thing. “An obvious trap,” he said. “He will be expecting us by water. Is there no other way across?”

“Yes,” I answered, “one—but in the snow and this late in the day, the trip would be impossible.”

Sailor turned the star sapphire on his forefinger round and round and glared at the lights across the cove. “He knew it would be this way. There is no longer any reason for stealth. As Ray said, ‘Let’s go to the party’ and see what this mad child has in mind.”

After docking, we stepped from the fishing boat one by one. Oddly, Svein showed no surprise whatsoever at the number of us. “This way,” he said, “there is warmth inside.” Svein’s voice was the only thing I heard and it cut through the profound stillness surrounding us. Snow fell in large, soft flakes, and our footsteps landed in silence.

Geaxi opened the wide front door, expecting to see me, but not what trailed behind. Once she saw the others, she let out the high, trilling sound she and Opari make when something extraordinary occurs. Even in the frigid cold, the sound gave me chills.

Sailor paused as he passed by Geaxi. The two of them stared at each other without expression. Sailor smiled first. “You seem well, Geaxi.”

“And you, Sailor,” Geaxi said flatly. She turned to go inside before he could see her smile. Opari gave me a wink.

Sailor also stopped when he saw Nova. He noticed the change in her instantly. “Aha!” he said. “It has happened! You once proclaimed or predicted ‘the shift is soon.’ I see clearly, Nova, there has been a shift.” Sailor gave his niece a long and warm embrace, the first time I had seen him do so. Briefly, he introduced her to Zeru-Meq, then said to all of us, “We must talk now.”

Rune and Svein disappeared into the kitchen while we gathered in the living room. In minutes, we were out of our heavy coats, gloves, and caps, standing in a semicircle in front of a crackling fire, warming our hands and sipping hot cider.

Sailor said, “I will begin. I will tell everything Zeru-Meq, Mowsel, and I have learned to this point. Opari will follow and speak for her and Ray, then you, Zianno—tell us what you know.” He paused and looked hard at each of us. “We must be brief and do this quickly. Perhaps we can solve this riddle. Only then should we discuss our purpose for being here, regardless of the Fleur-du-Mal’s purpose.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“The same as yours, Zianno,” Mowsel said. “We are here to assassinate the assassin. We are here to kill the Fleur-du-Mal.”

I glanced at Sailor and looked at Zeru-Meq. Xanti Otso was an evil, amoral being, but he was also related to Zeru-Meq. I wondered how Zeru-Meq felt about plotting to kill his own nephew. He saw my concern and said, “The Fleur-du-Mal, poor soul, shall die the way he prefers to kill—by the blade.” He reached down and withdrew a long dagger from inside his boot. The knife blade glinted in the firelight. There was silence in the room, then Sailor, in his measured voice, began to talk.

Thirty minutes passed. Sailor spoke and Opari spoke and I spoke, accurately recounting the events leading each of us to Norway and Askenfada. We were seeking an answer or a clue as to why this elaborate rendezvous had been orchestrated. Why was Zuriaa here? Was Susheela the Ninth involved or had she also been tricked and lured to this “final enclosure”? Was the Octopus with her? The Fleur-du-Mal most likely knew what we wanted, but what did he want? All was still a mystery.

Trumoi-Meq suggested there was no need to wait any longer. Rune and Antoine would ferry us across the cove and accompany us the rest of the way from a distance. Svein would stay here. Once there, we would act on instinct. We should remain apart and approach the residence with extreme caution. We must be vigilant and ready to act at any moment.

We all agreed without saying a word. In a mock toast, Sailor held out his mug of cider toward the fire, which popped and crackled at almost the same instant. “Egibizirik bilatu,” he said bitterly. “Let us hope this is a proper course of action.” Sailor set his mug down on the hearth. He reached for his heavy coat and removed a small leather satchel from an inside pocket. He opened the satchel and handed out five daggers to Geaxi, Nova, Ray, Opari, and me.

“The ‘Knives of Caesar’?” Geaxi asked.

“Yes,” Sailor answered.

I looked down at my dagger, which had an ivory handle engraved with a Latin inscription. “These aren’t—”

“Yes,” Sailor interrupted. “These are a few of the knives used to murder Caesar. I have always carried them, but never used them. Now is the perfect time.”

Svein advised us to have one cup of soup before we left, which we did. After collecting our coats, gloves, caps, and mufflers, we made our way down to the fishing boat and climbed aboard. Rune started the engines and we pushed off. There was no other sound in the cove. The snow on the peaks of the mountains looked heavier and deeper than ever.

As we made the crossing, I began to experience something strange, yet I was certain I had experienced it before. It was not déjà vu; it was an echo through time from someone shouting in a language I did not understand. It felt like a warning or signal of distress. It was old. Opari squeezed my arm. I knew she also heard it or felt it. We were huddled together, standing in the stern of the fishing boat. Everyone else stood packed inside the cabin with Rune. Ahead of us, the long dock on the opposite shore slowly came into view. The speedboat was anchored there inside a covered slip. Beyond the dock and up the steep slope, I could see the hothouse lights of the expanded greenhouse. Through the swirling snow and against the dark background of cliffs and peaks that surrounded the compound, the powerful electric lights burned like a cluster of fuzzy stars.

Rune cut the engines and docked the fishing boat with barely a sound. We stepped carefully onto the dock and Mowsel turned to Rune. He asked him to follow at a safe distance, but Rune refused and insisted on going with us. He had his own personal reasons and would not even consider staying behind. No more was said about it and we set out for the nearest stone path leading up the slope toward the greenhouse and the home of the Fleur-du-Mal. We walked in three groups. Rune, Sailor, and Zeru-Meq led the way, followed by Geaxi, Nova, and Ray. Trumoi-Meq, Opari, and I were last.

Our progress up the hillside was slow. The complex of buildings had changed since Rune owned the property. After two days and nights of continuous snowfall, he was deliberate about choosing our route. Everything in Askenfada was built on a series of connecting terraces. The Fleur-du-Mal’s residence and greenhouse were on the highest terrace, virtually at the foot of the massive cliffs and overhangs, and there were several ways to approach. No one spoke as we climbed steadily higher and closer. Tall firs, their limbs heavy with snow, were scattered between the stone paths and buildings. One by one, we climbed the terraces, each one slightly steeper than the last. I glanced up at what I could see of the sky. We probably had more than an hour of daylight left, but it was already getting hard to see. On the terrace just below the greenhouse, Sailor motioned for everyone to stop with a wave of his arm. In silence, we each looked up at the bright lights shining through the foggy windows of the greenhouse. Every other building in the complex was dark, including the Fleur-du-Mal’s private residence. The greenhouse was the most reconstructed and renovated structure on the property. A new wing now stretched a hundred feet from the residence itself to the building that was once the entrance to the abandoned tunnel and now housed a generator for the hothouse lights. Directly behind everything, a rock overhang rose fifty feet in the air. I noticed huge snowdrifts piled high on the ridge above the overhang. Opari tugged at my sleeve and pointed out three entrances to the greenhouse, spaced about thirty feet apart. Three stone stairways led down from the doors to our terrace. Sailor was thinking the same thing and waved for each group to cover one of the doors. Without a word, we spread out and climbed the final set of steps to the upper terrace.

On the top step, we paused and stared at the amazing structure Rune had begun and the Fleur-du-Mal had completed. Made of iron, stone, and glass, the long greenhouse glowed like a warm lamp against the frozen background of rock and snow. Then we heard the music, barely audible and coming from inside the greenhouse. It was a recording. The melody was haunting, spare, and beautiful. I looked at Opari and Mowsel. Mowsel whispered, “Mozart—Piano Concerto Number 23 in A—Adagio. My favorite.”

The entrance itself was recessed in the wall and the door was in shadow. On either side, the glass windows were fogged over, but only the lower panes. Opari stood watch inside the recess while I climbed on Mowsel’s shoulders and peered into a higher window. I looked inside. The rose garden was directly beneath me. Dozens and dozens of rosebushes, all in red, were planted in perfect rows. All had been tended immaculately. Bright lights shone down at certain angles, capable of creating the illusion of different times of day and seasons. The soil in which the roses were planted was dark and rich. Svein had said the foundation was three meters deep and could be heated from below, if needed. Deep within the garden, a space had been cleared. In the center of the space stood a rare Ming Dynasty three-panel screen. It was positioned behind the phonograph playing the music. Six feet away a boy was snipping and trimming a rosebush while Mozart played. He wore leather boots laced to the knees. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tied with a green ribbon. He had his back to me. He worked carefully on the roses and made each cut with precision. Suddenly he stopped and laid down his scissors. A second passed—two, three, a dozen—finally, slowly, his head turned in my direction. Then I saw it, there in his pierced ear. This boy was not wearing the ruby earrings of the Fleur-du-Mal. He was wearing Usoa’s blue diamond. It was Zuriaa!

She knew exactly where I was and looked in my eyes. A cruel smile crossed her face. She laughed and walked over to the standing screen. She folded back two of the panels, revealing a girl, a black girl, gagged with a red scarf and bound to a chair with rope. Her skin was the color of coffee beans, rich and dark. Her hair was black, silky, and cropped close to her head. Susheela the Ninth. In her lap was a small black box made of onyx, inlaid on top with a unique design in serpentine and lapis lazuli—the Octopus. She glared up at Zuriaa with fury in her green eyes. Zuriaa walked behind her and withdrew a curved dagger from her boot. She jerked back Susheela the Ninth’s chin with one hand and lightly traced the long knife blade across her throat, smiling at me as she did it.

I stood down from Mowsel’s shoulders and started to tell him what I’d seen. He shook his head and nodded toward the recess in the wall. I turned.

“Bonsoir, mon petit,” a soft, familiar voice said from the shadows.

My heart froze, but I said nothing.

“You are late,” he said. “What kept you, pray tell?”

I took a deep breath and glanced at Mowsel. “Yes, well…it snowed.”

I heard a rustling sound and a gasp from Opari. He pushed her forward and they came into the light. The Fleur-du-Mal was standing behind Opari. He was dressed in black and silver fur and leather. He held Opari’s head at an angle with one hand and a dagger to her throat with the other. Her eyes stared into mine. I saw anger and concern, but no fear. I told myself to calm down. Inside the greenhouse, the music had stopped playing.

“What do you think of Askenfada?” he asked, smiling.

“I think it’s lonely.”

His smile faded. “You are like your pitiful grandfather, Zezen, and all the others—you know nothing of true beauty!” He forced Opari forward slightly, pressing the knife harder against her throat and bringing a trace of blood. “Do you still think of this ancient girl as beauty?” he asked, holding Opari’s head at a severe angle, then licking her on the cheek and neck. He looked me in the eyes. “Shall I kill her now, mon petit?”

Rune saw me start forward and held me back.

The Fleur-du-Mal laughed sarcastically. “You make me sick to my stomach!” He spit at the ground.

I said nothing. Absolute silence surrounded us. Our breathing was the only sound I could hear. Several seconds passed. “Call the others,” he said finally. “I tire of this charade. I know where they are.” He nodded toward each of the entrances. “It is time.”

“Time for what?”

“I have a surprise for all of you,” he said. “Do it!” he whispered through clenched white teeth. He pulled Opari’s head back again with a jerk of her hair, baring her throat to the light. He pressed the knife down even harder, drawing more blood. “And please, Zezen, do not yell. It could prove dangerous.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t hesitate to do what he said. I stood clear of the entrance and waved to Sailor, ninety feet away, and Geaxi, thirty feet closer. They were barely visible through the falling snow.

Before they approached, the Fleur-du-Mal backed Opari into the shadows of the entrance. As they came closer, he whispered their names, even Nova and Rune. The last to appear was Zeru-Meq. “Well, well, well,” he said, “I never expected you, Uncle.”

Quietly, cautiously, Sailor passed the others and walked up to me. He looked once at Mowsel, then asked, “What have you seen, Zianno?”

I didn’t answer.

In a soft snarl from the shadows, the Fleur-du-Mal said, “The Holy Grail, Sailor…Zezen has seen the Holy Grail.”

All the others stopped in their tracks when they heard his voice. He prodded Opari forward into the light. Sailor glanced at Opari and the dagger at her throat, but showed no emotion or reaction. In his own calm voice, he asked, “What do you mean, ‘the Holy Grail’?”

“The very thing you seek, Umla-Meq, possibly more than me—the Octopus and the old one who stole it.”

Zeru-Meq took a few steps forward. “Happy Birthday, Xanti,” he said.

“Stop there, Uncle! Go no farther or I will take Opari’s life in an instant!” the Fleur-du-Mal snapped. “None of you move,” he said to the rest. Gradually, his smile returned. He looked at Mowsel. “You,” he said, “raise Sailor on your shoulders as you did Zezen. I want Sailor especially to see for himself.”

Mowsel glanced at me, then put his hands on his knees and squatted down, letting Sailor climb onto his shoulders. He stood upright and Sailor leaned against the glass window and gazed inside. When his eyes found Zuriaa and Susheela the Ninth with the Octopus in her lap, he almost lost his balance, then he seemed lost in something else. He stared in frozen silence for thirty seconds. He seemed to be listening more than watching. Slowly, he turned his head, looking at the Fleur-du-Mal with ultimate contempt. Sailor was furious, but his voice remained calm. “What is this about, you madman?”

“Get down now, Umla-Meq, and go stand with the others. You do the same, Uncle.”

Sailor surveyed everything around him with his eyes. He looked once at Opari, then hopped down with barely a sound and took a few steps toward the others. He stopped suddenly and said to the Fleur-du-Mal, “By the way, would there happen to be a Sixth Stone inside the little box? I was just curious, but you are not obligated to answer, of course.”

The Fleur-du-Mal laughed bitterly. “At the moment, the Stone is elsewhere. The ancient black witch refuses to tell me where it is, poor thing. She will surely regret that decision, just as she will surely lead me to it.” He paused. “She is not obligated, of course.” He laughed again, a hollow sound, and no one laughed with him.

“I see Zuriaa does your bidding,” I said. “I thought you told me she was insane and hated you.”

“Oh, make no mistake, mon petit, Zuriaa is quite insane. I simply found I could use her skills and easily directed her hatred to fear and then into worship, of a sort. As long as she continues to be able to function and be of value, she will be used.” He paused again. Sailor had stopped next to Zeru-Meq and Rune. “Enough of this chatter,” the Fleur-du-Mal said. “Zezen, you stand with the others. The moment is at hand.”

“Why are we here?” Geaxi asked.

“Ah, my dear Geaxi, you have surely noticed by now that all five Stones are present, have you not? It occurred to me once I had found the black girl, the other five Stones were no longer relevant, nor the Meq who carried them. I threw some crumbs out and each of you came eagerly, like blind mice. But I digress. To answer your query, Geaxi, you are here to die. It is unfortunate about Uncle being present, but c’est la vie.”

Zeru-Meq spoke. “You and I both know why you want the Sixth Stone, Xanti, and why you are obsessed with these roses. You cannot erase it or make it go away. The Stone will make no difference.”

“Silence!” the Fleur-du-Mal screamed. “You know nothing!”

“I saw what I saw,” Zeru-Meq said.

“You saw what you wanted to see. You always have, Uncle. And now, sadly, you shall have to die with the others. Raza, come into the light!”

The tall Indian man named Raza Vejahashala walked quietly from the shadows, opening the greenhouse door behind him as he stepped forward. The light from inside framed the Fleur-du-Mal and Opari in silhouette. The dagger was still at her throat.

Raza wore a long, full-length fur coat. Before anyone knew exactly what he was doing, he withdrew a coiled black bullwhip from his coat, which he unwound and held at arm’s length. The Fleur-du-Mal said, “Gjensyn, mon petit.” Raza raised his arm in a quick, fluid motion, then cracked the whip as hard as he could. The crack sounded like a high-powered rifle shot. It echoed off the rock overhang surrounding the greenhouse, then rose up the steep ridge above. The stillness afterward lasted ten seconds before we heard something faint and far away. It sounded like a waterfall high in the mountains. In moments, I realized it was not a waterfall—it was snow, a wall of snow dislodged from the ridge by the crack of the bullwhip and falling fast. We had seconds to escape. I looked in Opari’s eyes. She was staring back at me.

In that same instant, the Fleur-du-Mal released Opari, giving her a boot in the back, which sent her lunging toward me. He laughed as loud as he could, telling Opari, “Go die with the others!” He and Raza ducked back into the greenhouse and closed the door. I caught Opari and the two of us turned in one motion and started running for the edge of the terrace. There was no time to take the stone stairway. I glanced once at the others. Everyone was running. Rune stumbled and fell. Zeru-Meq tried to help him and was knocked down. I thought I saw Sailor turning back to help them both. We ran for the edge and bounded into the air, falling twenty-five feet to the next terrace. We tumbled over and over, then regained our footing and ran to the edge of that terrace and jumped again. We landed, ran, and jumped again. Small clumps of snow and rock hit us from behind and above as we ran. I could hear the roar as the avalanche came thundering down from the overhang, burying the greenhouse and everything around it.

Finally, luckily, on the fourth terrace down from the top, we were safe. I was certain I had broken my ankle, but I knew it would heal within hours. Opari had only a few cuts and bruises. Geaxi, Nova, Ray, and Trumoi-Meq all made it without serious injury. Sailor and Zeru-Meq had been partially buried on the third terrace down, but they survived and crawled to safety.

Rune had not been so lucky. He did not possess our speed and was caught and buried under a wall of snow. In seconds, the greenhouse and all the roses inside had disappeared forever. I looked up the steep slope to where they had been moments earlier. Now there was only a giant swirling cloud of snow rising in the silence. The Fleur-du-Mal destroyed his own creation in order to destroy all of us. Except for Rune Balle, his plan failed. But where was the Fleur-du-Mal? It was too late in the day to find the answer or search for Rune’s body. We had been fooled, trapped, and nearly killed. I was the only one with broken bones, but everyone was bruised or bleeding somewhere. We got our bearings and Sailor led the way down to the dock. We found the fishing boat and climbed on board. Ray started the engines. As we pulled out in the cove, I looked down to the covered slip where the speedboat had been anchored when we arrived. The slip was empty.

As we stepped from the boat onto Svein’s dock, Sailor grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. His “ghost eye” was filled with clouds. “She spoke to me, Zianno,” he whispered.

I said nothing at first, then I understood.

“Did she speak to you, Zianno?”

“No, she was bound and gagged,” I said. “How did she speak?”

“From inside with a voice I recognized in my heart of hearts. I heard her clearly.”

Sailor looked across the cove. It was nearly dark. He squinted and stared up the slope to where the greenhouse had been. Then he shook his head back and forth.

“What?” I asked.

“She told me over and over there is no Sixth Stone—the Octopus is an empty box! She remains alive only because the Fleurdu-Mal thinks she has hidden it from him.”

I followed Sailor’s gaze across the cove. I thought about what he said. I had no doubt Susheela the Ninth was capable of speaking with her mind. I knew the instant I looked in her eyes she was older than all of us beyond measure. “Do you believe her?”

“Yes.”

I turned and looked at Sailor. As he stared up the slope his “ghost eye” cleared. He seemed frozen again, detached, more listening than watching. “It was Deza’s voice I heard.” He turned his head and looked deep in my eyes. “She spoke in Deza’s voice, Zianno.” Deza, Sailor’s Ameq, had been decapitated by the Phoenicians in Carthage almost three thousand years earlier. Sailor never imagined he would hear her voice again, but Susheela the Ninth had somehow found what was deepest in his heart and mind and spoken to him in the same voice.

An hour later, after we changed clothes and warmed ourselves around Svein’s roaring fire, we gathered in the kitchen to discuss how we might recover Rune’s body. Svein said he could hire a crew in Voss the next day. The snow must be removed before it built up on the ridge again. Mowsel suggested the rest of us stay out of sight until the crew finished the job, in order to avoid any unnecessary questions. I kept thinking of Penelope and Knut. I knew how this would break their hearts, but I also knew I must be the one to tell them. We would find Rune’s body and I would take him home to them. Opari sensed what I was thinking and held my hand in hers. Together, all of us decided not to discuss anything further that evening. We each knew how lucky we were to be alive. It was time to rest.

As Opari and I climbed into bed, she asked, “What does she look like?”

“Susheela the Ninth?”

“Yes.”

“Except for green eyes and black skin, she looks like you, Opari…she could be your twin.”

Early the next morning Svein left for Voss. He returned soon after with a full crew and they set to work immediately. The weather improved. The sky never cleared completely but snowfall was limited to occasional flurries. By the end of the day the crew had found and recovered Rune’s body. He had been caught on the second terrace down and buried under fifteen feet of snow. Svein and his crew also discovered how the Fleurdu-Mal escaped the avalanche. During his reconstruction of Askenfada, he had completed the abandoned tunnel Svein and Rune had played in as children. By extending and expanding the greenhouse, he disguised the entrance and the tunnel became his secret passageway, not through the mountain, but down the slope and exiting onto the terrace nearest the dock, just above the covered slip and the waiting speedboat.

I hated the Fleur-du-Mal. I hated him for many reasons, all of them personal and fundamental. He was an abomination and an aberration as a living being. He was a murderer, not merely an assassin, and he had nearly killed us all. He was complex, devious, and unpredictable. He was a psychopath with no boundaries and without moral conscience, and he was still a mystery to me. He seemed to have no weakness, no vulnerability, and he only acted with calculated malice. Did he have a Bihazanu, a heartfear? If so, what was it? I had questions for Zeru-Meq. I wanted to know what he meant when confronting the Fleurdu-Mal, he said, “You and I both know why you want the Sixth Stone” and “I saw what I saw.” But I was sick of the Fleur-du-Mal and decided I would ask these questions another time. Sailor, who had never personally pursued the Fleur-du-Mal before, announced that he and Zeru-Meq would leave immediately for India and attempt to find any information they could about Raza or his family. “We must find a way to stop the Fleurdu-Mal once and for all. There is too much at stake,” Sailor said. “And we must do it now. There is no other option. He has crossed a line I never thought he would cross. Zeru-Meq agrees. When we find him, we will send word.”

No one spoke much after that. Even Opari and I said little to each other. We sat together for hours by the kitchen window, drinking tea and watching Svein and his crew far across the cove and high up the hillside, digging in the snow. Once, without looking at me, she took my hand and wove her fingers through mine. In the softest voice in the world, she said, “We are Meq, my love. We go on.”

Later that night, long after Svein’s crew had gone, Opari and I walked outside and down the stone stairs to the small dock. Snow was still falling, but only in great, single, floating flakes. We walked to the end of the dock. Slowly, the sky began to clear. I saw a star, then two, then a three-quarter moon appeared, sending faint shafts of light across the cove. I turned to Opari. She was looking up. One of the last snowflakes in the sky spun down through the light and landed like a frozen butterfly on her cheek. Instantly, it became a tear.