Time Dancers

7. Pixkanaka (Little by little)

According to a strange fable long told at sea by Basque whalers and fishermen, there was once an old man in the mountains who one day set out walking, along with a young boy who rarely spoke. The old man had lost much of his memory and nearly all of his eyesight, so he took the boy with him, but the boy had no idea where they were going. They kept climbing and climbing, walking on and on until they were nowhere really, halfway between heaven and earth, alone together and completely uncertain if they were anywhere at all. The old man rubbed and scrubbed his eyes, frantically trying to regain his vision. The boy seemed unconcerned. Finally, after finding nothing at all familiar or recognizable, the old man turned to the boy and asked, “How did we get here?” Without hesitation or even blinking an eye, the boy replied, “Little by little, sir…little by little.”

Rune Balle was laid to rest on New Year’s Day. The air felt frigid but the sky was crystal clear and deep blue. Svein Stigen accompanied Penelope and Knut, along with Opari and me, to a small stone church and cemetery less than a mile from where Rune was born. We buried him in a grave adjacent to his father and grandfather. Penelope and Knut had taken Rune’s death hard. Opari and I promised to stay as long as we were needed or could be of some comfort. Also, I wired Owen Bramley and Carolina to send a substantial transfer of funds to Bergen in Penelope and Knut’s name. I felt extreme guilt about everything, even though it had been the Fleur-du-Mal who had done the killing. The truth of it is that Rune should not have died. Little by little, he had been drawn in and used, by all of us, not just the Fleur-du-Mal. We had to make it up to them in some way. Money would be a start. Long ago, Solomon had made sure we had it. We could do the same for Penelope and Knut.

Sailor and Zeru-Meq left Bergen almost as soon as we arrived. They bought tickets for the train to Oslo, and from there would begin their long trip to India. Sailor paused to remind me of what Susheela the Ninth had revealed. He said it meant we now knew something the Fleur-du-Mal did not—there is no Sixth Stone. We could use this against him. “It is a significant weakness,” Sailor whispered with a wink of his “ghost eye.” “And I shall exploit it.”

Mowsel stayed behind with the rest of us, but before Sailor and Zeru-Meq had gone, he suggested we all meet in Spain in ten years’ time, which they agreed to do. Zeru-Meq casually mentioned he had not been back to Spain in a thousand years. “Then it is time, my friend,” Sailor said. “The Gogorati is less than ninety years from now.” He turned and looked each of us in the eye. “All Meq should see Spain again.” Both Zeru-Meq and Sailor wore similar clothing, including leather boots laced to the knees. They were the same height and weight. Each had dark hair, though Sailor wore a braid behind his left ear and Zeru-Meq did not. As they walked away in close conversation, they looked like brothers, possibly twins, yet they had been antagonists to one another for centuries. The chase for the Fleur-du-Mal had something to do with bringing them together, but that couldn’t have been the sole reason. I asked Mowsel what happened, what brought about the change? He said, “I do not know what either of them would tell you; however, I believe the answer is quite simple. Sailor had to abandon the question, ‘Why us?’ and Zeru-Meq had to abandon his position, ‘Why anything?’”

Nova and Ray wanted to spend more time together, as did Opari and I. They had not been apart since the avalanche. Though he never said so, Ray had wanted to be with Nova for decades. She was Egizahar and he was Egipurdiko. Mowsel said a true union between the two had never taken place, but there was no doubt when I looked in their eyes they were each other’s Ameq and always had been. Ray said quietly, “I say we oughta get back to St. Louis, Z. Maybe spend a little time there. I don’t know what to do about Zuriaa. I’m gonna have to think on it awhile.”

Mowsel announced he was taking Geaxi to France. “There is a man in the Dordogne,” he said. “He wishes to show us a cave his son discovered. I am intrigued.”

“Do you think about the Remembering often, Mowsel?” I asked.

“Often?” He opened his mouth, displaying his gap. “Constantly, Zianno. Sailor is correct. We must all be vigilant for signs. We are running out of time, and we must never be as ignorant and vulnerable as we were here again. We cannot afford it.”

When he and Geaxi departed Bergen, I told him, “Egibizirik bilatu, Trumoi-Meq. And you, too, Geaxi. In ten years’ time,” I added.

Geaxi said, “Five winds, young Zezen.” She threw on her black beret and adjusted the angle.

“One direction,” I said back.

Mowsel raised the collar of his old and tattered navy coat and he and Geaxi disappeared up the ramp and onto a ship sailing south for the Mediterranean.

On January 3, Opari, Nova, Ray, and I said farewell to Penelope and Knut and boarded a Norwegian ship bound for Reykjavik, Halifax, and New York. It wasn’t necessary, but to be discreet we boarded separately. The crossing was cold and wet. It made no difference to me. One port at a time, I was going home again. I knew it for certain once we had passed through customs in New York. Ray said he wanted, in order, a roast beef sandwich, a root beer, a copy of The New York Times, and a shoeshine. Opari and Nova laughed, but he was serious and did all four. A kid about our size polished his boots, and Ray gave him pointers from start to finish, along with a short lecture on the various techniques of brushing and slapping the rag. Afterward, Ray tipped the boy a double eagle, leaped out of the chair, and shoved the sports page in my face. He jabbed at a picture and the caption underneath.

“Remember him?” Ray asked.

I recognized the big man in the picture immediately. Anybody would, though the last time I had actually seen him play was in St. Louis as a lanky pitcher with the Boston Red Sox. That day he hit a grand slam to win the ball game. His name was Babe Ruth. Now he was the most famous baseball player in America.

“He hit sixty home runs last season, Z. Sixty!” Ray shook his head, rolled the newspaper in his hands, turned, and took an imaginary swing for the fences. “Damn,” he said. “Welcome home.”

Early in the morning just before arriving in St. Louis, I had an unusual dream. The dream was strange throughout, though it began in a familiar place—Sportsman’s Park. I was standing on the pitching mound. The field and the grandstands were completely empty, except for Mama and Papa, who sat together with faint smiles on their faces. The odd thing was that I could see them at all. It was night and huge, bright lights attached to standards rose over the ballpark, lighting the whole field and grandstands. But lights, light standards, and night games had not yet occurred in reality. They were several years away. I didn’t have time to ponder it because, one by one, they began going out. Opari stood next to me. She wore Mama’s glove on one hand. In the other, she held Papa’s baseball with the Stone of Dreams still stitched inside. She turned and handed me the ball. The lights kept going out—right field, center field, left field. I looked to home plate. There was no hitter, no catcher, only the umpire. He took one step toward me and stopped. He removed his mask. I could see his eyes. I knew what was inside them. It is what I see when I look in the eyes of all Meq. The umpire’s eyes were Meq, but there was something not quite the same, something…more than Meq. “Throw the ball,” my papa yelled from the stands. “Throw the ball, Zianno.” I hesitated for a split second, then turned and threw the ball to the umpire. I couldn’t see him catch it, but I heard it hit his bare hand and knew he had. Then he spoke, or tried to speak. His voice was unlike any Meq I had ever known. All I could understand was the word “union.” What did it mean?

“Union Station.”

“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“Union Station,” Opari said. “We are in St. Louis. Wake up, my love.”

The Meq, especially old ones, begin to notice change in the world and in the Giza, change in the way they look at life and live it, long before the Giza recognize it in themselves. Old ones also are acutely aware of populations, migrations, and population growth. For Opari, in just a few short years of the twentieth century, the Giza had changed the world dramatically and irreversibly, and they were everywhere. It was no longer the world she had known for three thousand years and never would be again. Yet, she lived in the moment completely, as do all old ones, letting each day appear and disappear equally.

“This city looks beautiful in the fog,” Opari said. “I have always loved cities in the fog.”

The four of us were in a taxi on Lindell Boulevard, headed for Carolina’s house. Patches of snow from a recent snowfall covered rooftops, sidewalks, tree limbs, and in the early morning light, buildings and people seemed ghostlike as we passed. Traffic was sparse because of the hour, but I could tell St. Louis had grown and thrived in our absence. And Opari was right—it was beautiful in the fog.

Ray tipped the driver and we walked up the long drive and under the stone arch to the kitchen entrance of Carolina’s big house. We hadn’t telephoned or sent word ahead that we were on the way, so I expected to surprise someone. I knocked lightly on the door, but there was no response. I heard noises inside and turned the doorknob. It was open.

Star stood at the kitchen counter. She was in her late twenties and looked to be the exact replica of Carolina at her age—strawberry blond hair pulled back, loose strands hanging in her face, blue-gray eyes flecked with gold, and freckles across her cheeks and nose. She wore a long robe and slippers and was furiously scrambling eggs in a large bowl. Behind her, Caine was standing at the stove frying bacon. He was almost ten years old with dark hair and piercing dark eyes. He had already grown to my height and was beginning to resemble his father, Jisil al-Sadi. Star smiled wide when she saw me and dropped her whisk in the bowl when she saw Nova. Years earlier, they had become friends as close as sisters and both ran to embrace the other. Caine didn’t know quite what to do. He seemed startled and mumbled, “Hey, Z.”

I laughed and said, “Hey, Caine.”

“Where is everybody?” Ray asked.

“Grandma and Owen and Jack went to Cuba.”

“What?” I asked.

Star explained. “They went to visit Ciela, Z. Mama said she missed her and worried about her. Owen suggested they go down for the winter and pay her a visit. They’ve been gone since Christmas. I’m glad you’re here, Z.” Star gave Nova another hug and said, “I’m glad all of you are here. Caine and I were getting lonely.”

“When are they coming back?” I asked.

“Not until sometime in the spring. In her last letter, Mama said they haven’t decided. She said she and Ciela were busy with ‘a project,’ whatever that means.”

“Spend the winter in Cuba…” Ray said. “Sounds nice, don’t it, Z?”

For Nova, Ray, Opari, and me, it had already been a long winter and there was more to come. The idea did sound good and I knew what Ray was really saying—“Let’s go down there now.” But Star meant it when she said she and Caine were lonely. I could see it in her eyes. “Maybe next year, Ray,” I said. “Let’s have some breakfast.” He winked back, understanding. I looked at Star. “Have you got enough for us?”

“Always, Z, always,” Star said.

For the next three months, we lived slow and quiet lives. Opari and I settled into our old room on the second floor and Ray and Nova moved into Owen Bramley’s room across the hall. Two weeks before they left for Cuba, Star said Owen had moved in with Carolina in her carriage house above the “Honeycircle.” Carolina told Star she was “simply too old for the comedy of pretense.” Owen Bramley had always said Carolina was remarkable. I knew, as did everyone else, his true feelings ran much deeper, and for that reason the news came as no surprise. Knowing Carolina’s fierce sense of independence, it probably took her this long to admit she felt the same. Owen Bramley had been her ally for years—now he was her partner. It was good news.

Opari and I spent many hours with Star and Caine. Star still possessed her natural exuberance and joy, but she had matured and become more introspective. Though she was completely at home in St. Louis, she experienced the times in which she lived from a slight distance. Star admitted missing Willie Croft and talked about him often. She said she also had been dreaming of Jisil, explaining that the dreams began the night after she and Carolina had taken Caine horseback riding for the first time. Caine was a natural and instinctive rider and took to it instantly. It was in his blood. All of his family were expert horsemen and had been for centuries. And for the first time Caine asked about his father. Star had no answer and that night the dreams began, including images of Jisil, his murdering brother, Mulai, and the Fleur-du-Mal.

“Are we in danger again, Z…from the evil one?”

“I wish I could say no, Star, but I can’t. You must always be vigilant for Caine. We all must.”

Carolina, Owen, and Jack returned on the eve of the first home game of the year for the Cardinals. They were completely surprised to see us, and Carolina insisted we all go to the game the next day to celebrate. She said they had been watching baseball all winter in Cuba. Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder had begun his career in the Cuban League and Carolina and Ciela attended several games in several towns. All the ballparks were rough. Carolina longed for Major League baseball and Sportsman’s Park. She was nearly sixty years old now and finally beginning to show her age. Lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened, but her beauty remained and she seemed extraordinarily healthy. Even though she was fair-skinned and freckled, she had a suntan. Owen and Jack were equally tan and robust. I remarked on it and asked what they’d been doing to radiate such health. Carolina answered with one word that was unfamiliar to me. “Snorkeling,” she said. Jack had discovered the recreation through a friend and Carolina fell in love with it. They all did. After she explained what it entailed, I understood her fascination and told her I’d like to try it. I asked about Ciela and Carolina said together they had opened a home for underage girls, whom they quietly rescued from the brothels of Havana, where absolutely anything or anybody, including children, could be bought and used for pleasure. Carolina said Ciela was determined to make the refuge a permanent home and Owen Bramley had given her the money to ensure she could do it without financial burden.

Owen Bramley was a few years older than Carolina and also just beginning to show his years. He still wore his wire-rimmed glasses, which he would often wipe clean on his white shirt. Owen rarely wore any other color of shirt than white. And he continued to construct his Chinese kites for Caine, teaching him how to make them fly in Forest Park.

“My God, Z,” Owen said. “What have you been doing?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later, Owen. It may take a while.”

“It always does, Z. Are you all right? Is everyone healthy?”

“Everyone is fine.”

“Of course, of course.” He paused and wiped his glasses. “My God, it’s good to see you. It’s damn good to see all of you, isn’t it, Carolina?”

“Yes, it is, Owen,” Carolina said, looking at me eye to eye. “It always is.”

I don’t know whether it was because of the return of spring, or baseball, or simply being together, but within two days, Carolina’s house had transformed into a busy, bustling home again, full of voices and stories and every kind of activity. It felt like it always had, except that Caine was now the only child among us, at least the only real child.

The Cardinals had a pennant-winning season that year. Opari and I went to nearly every home game during the summer, taking turns occasionally with the others because there were only so many seats in Carolina’s box. All the players knew Carolina and many stopped by to say something before each game. Some even made a ritual out of it. Just for luck, they each made sure Carolina blessed their bat. It must have worked. By the end of the season, every player in the lineup was doing it, and the manager, Bill McKechnie, never forgot to tip his cap to Carolina just before the first pitch. The Cardinals set an attendance record and won ninety-five games, finishing ahead of the New York Giants by two games, but then losing the World Series to the mighty Yankees in four straight. Our longtime friend, Sunny Jim Bottomley, had a fantastic year. He batted .325 and led the league in home runs and RBIs. Jack followed the season closely and wrote about it in the Post-Dispatch. His writing was passionate, accurate, and insightful. He always touched on something beyond the facts. Jack wrote about the human inside the uniform, mentioning nuances and aspects of the game missed by other reporters. Jack was twenty-two years old and now resembled his father, Nicholas, more than ever. Carolina was proud of him, and rightly so. I liked him a lot. He had become a realist and a dreamer, an absolutely necessary combination for a reporter who writes beyond the facts.

Caine adored his uncle Jack, though he never called him by that name. They were twelve years apart in age and yet they acted as brothers, or more aptly a young father and son. Jack had taught Caine how to care for Mama’s glove, how to choose the best oil and rub it in softly with the proper technique. Caine had another glove he used for playing catch, but he always kept Mama’s glove oiled and well protected. And after losing an entire childhood together, Jack and Star had been allowed to be a real brother and sister and became close friends.

The next year was the end of the decade and the Cardinals’ season went down with it. By July they were essentially out of contention. In the fall, there were two events that occurred a month apart and both would affect and impact America and the world for the rest of the century. One of them affected things instantly, the other was not as obvious and took a while. In October, the Stock Market crashed on what was called Black Tuesday, and in November, Ray, Caine, and I went to the movies. We saw Mickey Mouse for the first time in Steamboat Willie.

Mitch Coates never did come back from Paris. The freedom and complete lack of discrimination he felt was much stronger than his love for baseball. However, it is my guess his love for Mercy Whitney was the true reason. He kept in touch with postcards and occasional long letters, mostly about nightlife in Paris and the continuing troubles and adventures of Josephine Baker. He said he and Mercy had become as close as family with Antoine, Emme, and my goddaughter, Antoinette. In a letter dated January 1, 1930, Mitch gave Owen Bramley instructions to liquidate all his business interests in St. Louis, including his stake in the St. Louis Stars, keeping only his home, which he asked Carolina to look after until he returned.

News from Sailor and Zeru-Meq was nonexistent, but Mowsel sent word that he and Geaxi were on their way to pay an extended visit to Malta, Geaxi’s jaioterri, or place of birth. The Cardinals won it all that year and again the next, beating the Athletics both times in the World Series. During this period, Ray, Nova, Opari, and I never left St. Louis or stayed anywhere but Carolina’s home. The city changed and grew around us, yet our lives were insulated—insulated but not invisible. Staying unnoticed, unknown, and most important unremembered has always been essential to our survival. We were becoming careless. I was made aware of it twice in October. On the seventh, after Wild Bill Hallahan pitched the Cardinals to victory in Philadelphia, Opari, Caine, and I went for a long walk in Forest Park. Caine was growing up quickly. He was already several inches taller than Opari and me. As we walked our usual path, we passed an older couple we had seen for years along the same route. Having seen Caine come of age and rise to our height and beyond while we remained unchanged had frightened them. They no longer were glad to see us and turned away as we approached. We were not normal, not at all like other children and they could sense it. They didn’t know what we were, but they knew what we were not. We had been recognized and remembered.

“It may be wise to leave this city, my love,” Opari whispered.

“Maybe,” I said.

Three days later, on the tenth, the lefty Wild Bill Hallahan beat the Athletics again to win the World Series for the Cardinals. Ray and I witnessed the whole game from Carolina’s box seats. Two boxes down from ours, the commissioner of Major League baseball, Kenesaw Mountain Landis, sat with various dignitaries and celebrities, as well as several local St. Louis politicians. His bony face and snow white hair stood out among the others. When he wasn’t talking to someone, he observed the game and the players with piercing concentration. After the game and the celebrations on the field, he and the other men turned to leave. We were still in our seats as he passed by. He glanced at me, then stopped abruptly when he saw Ray and stared down at him like a hawk. His eyes narrowed and his thin lips tightened. Then the commissioner of baseball spoke to Ray. “I never forget a face,” he said. “I have seen you before, son, and either my mind is playing tricks on me, or else I want to know who you are.”

Ray looked him in the eye. “I don’t believe we ever met, Judge.”

“Perhaps not, but I have seen you before, son. Cincinnati it was, I am certain.” He paused and leaned over slightly, so that only Ray could hear him clearly. “That was over thirty years ago, which is impossible.”

Ray waited a heartbeat, then winked at him. “Damn, Judge,” Ray said, “you got a hellava memory.”

The others began urging the commissioner forward. “I want to know who you are, son. Do you hear me?” But he never had a chance to find out. The press and photographers were shouting to him and the other men pulled him on, then Kenesaw Mountain Landis disappeared into the crowd.

Ray turned to me. “It’s about time we got lost, Z.”

The encounters with the older couple and the commissioner were unlikely, rare, and probably harmless, but I agreed with Ray, it was time to get lost for a while.

Ray and Nova left for New Orleans a week later. Ray said he wanted to see his “old stompin’ grounds.” Nova was all for the adventure and they both looked forward to spending more time with each other. Opari and I couldn’t decide where to go. Our decision was made in an instant on the afternoon of Carolina’s annual Thanksgiving Day feast, which she calls only a “fancy lunch.” As the garlic and rosemary mashed potatoes were being passed around the table, a telegram arrived from Ciela in Cuba. In it she said Biscuit Bookbinder had been selected to start as shortstop for the Cuban All-Star game in November. Before we finished the meal, arrangements had been made and within three days, Opari and I were on our way to Havana, accompanied by Owen Bramley and Carolina, who couldn’t wait to teach us how to “snorkel.”

The train ride to Florida allowed Carolina and Owen a chance to speak with Opari and me in a different manner than they would at home. With Caine, Jack, and Star, they maintained a more maternal and paternal attitude, even though it wasn’t necessary. I think it was unconscious and instinctual on their part and they couldn’t help themselves. But alone with Opari and me and away from St. Louis, they both became candid and reflective in their remarks. Their own mortality, or a reference to it, crept in at the edge of many conversations. It was lighthearted and casual, but it was still there.

“I’m falling apart piece by piece, Z,” Carolina said somewhere in Alabama.

“I don’t think so, Carolina,” I said and meant it. “You look as healthy as ever.”

“Illusions, illusions,” she said, laughing.

Carolina truly did look in top health, but Owen Bramley seemed a little less energetic and long-winded than he’d always been. He was a few pounds thinner and his reddish hair had turned light gold and silver. Red and brown blotches were now mixed among the freckles on his skin. He removed his glasses, wiping them clean on his shirtsleeve and talking about the state of the economy with weary eyes. The world was headed for a deep depression and Owen Bramley saw it approaching. He stared out at the passing soybean fields and spoke without his usual optimism.

“We won’t be able to feed them, Z, there will be so many unemployed. The whole damn thing is going to collapse.”

“What about you?” I asked, then followed the thought. “What about Carolina, what about us? Will we be all right?”

“We’re the fortunate ones, Z. Solomon made sure we had enough money and I made sure all our investments were diverse and secure. Everything we own is paid for and we’ve got plenty of cash reserves. We’re set, but that will not stop the collapse, Z. One big collapse—worldwide.” He wiped his glasses one more time and shook his head back and forth slowly. “It’s a damn shame.”

By the time we reached central Florida, the skies had cleared and the temperature had climbed twenty degrees. At the first stop, Opari and I opened our window and breathed in the overpowering smell of countless ripe oranges. Miles of orange groves lined both sides of the train tracks. St. Louis and the coming winter suddenly became a distant memory. All my thoughts turned to Cuba.

I asked Carolina about the home she and Ciela had started. I was told it was not really a home at all, but an old resort and tobacco farm called “Finca Maria.” And it was nowhere near Havana as I assumed, but in the hills north of the small town of Vinales. All of the girls living there came from the streets, brothels, and bars of Havana. Ciela found them and gave them a chance for a new life in a completely different environment. Some rejected it and returned to the life they had always known within weeks, unable to adapt or accept the change. Most welcomed the chance and willingly began to transform themselves under Ciela’s guidance and endless generosity. Carolina said even the girls who left respected Ciela and her work. The pimps and bar owners despised her, which made her work clandestine and dangerous. Carolina remarked that Havana was probably the most corrupt and wide-open city she had ever seen. Owen Bramley agreed, but added that Ciela was not being foolish, only fearless. He admired her a great deal and made certain she had anything she needed. He also hired a few men he could trust to silently watch over Finca Maria as a kind of discreet security force. “You just never know about those characters in Havana,” Owen said.

We boarded a small passenger boat in Miami on a balmy Sunday morning and sailed south for the Straits of Florida and the old Havana harbor.

On the crossing, I told Opari a few true tales from my time as a smuggler with Captain Woodget. On several occasions the captain found quick and safe refuge in the port and harbor of Havana. I also told her about the countless number of slave ships that passed in and out of the same port.

Ciela and Biscuit were waiting for us. Owen slipped us easily through customs. Opari and I held new passports that Owen had procured. They weren’t forgeries, either. They were genuine United States passports and I have no idea how he got them. When I thanked him, he waved it off, saying it was nothing, he only had to know one man—the right one.

Ciela had gained weight and her hair was streaked with silver, but she looked healthy and she was overjoyed to see us. Her skin had turned a dark brown from the Cuban sun and her wide smile was exactly the same. She gave everyone a great hug and a shower of greetings in rapid Spanish. Biscuit waited patiently, then wrapped his arms around Carolina, embracing her without a word. His arms had become the arms of a young man in his early twenties. He stood slightly shorter than Owen and wore a thin mustache on his upper lip.

Carolina looked him over carefully and frowned in mock disapproval. “Biscuit,” she said, “I believe I will have to call you Oliver now instead of Biscuit. You are much too handsome for a name like Biscuit.”

He owed his life to Carolina and he knew it. “You can call me anything you want, Carolina, for any reason.”

“Does that go for me, as well, Oliver?” I asked.

“No chance, Z. You’ll have to call me Biscuit.”

“What was your batting average last year, All Star?”

“.336.”

“Not bad. How many errors?”

“One.”

“What happened?” I asked, knowing full well only one error in a whole season for a shortstop was phenomenal.

“It was a bad hop, Z,” he said with a tiny smile, then turned to Owen Bramley. “Jorge Fuentes is waiting for you in Cojimar. I’ll take you there.”

We squeezed into a maroon and black DeSoto sedan Owen had purchased for Ciela to use. The heat and humidity were stifling. We kept the windows open and drove east. Cojimar was only six miles down the coast. We stopped alongside a promenade that nearly ran the length of the small fishing village. It was late in the day, but there were still a few hours of light remaining. White clouds swelled and spilled over the horizon to the west. Carolina and Opari took their shoes off and walked barefoot.

Biscuit led us to a lazy, open-air restaurant called La Terraza. We found a table where two Cuban men were engaged in quiet conversation. They were each about thirty years old and both men rose to their feet as we approached. Jorge Fuentes greeted Owen in English and shook his hand warmly, then introduced his cousin, Gregorio Fuentes. After exchanging pleasantries, Gregorio excused himself and left. There were only four or five other fishermen sitting on the open terrace. Owen put his arm around Jorge and said to the rest of us, “Jorge is the best damn fishing guide on the island.”

“No, please, señor,” Jorge replied. “This is a grand exaggeration.”

“Well, say what you like,” Owen said, giving Carolina a wink. “It’s the truth, is it not, Carolina?”

“It is the gospel truth,” Carolina answered. “And diving guide, I might add.”

“Indeed,” Owen said.

“You are too kind, señor.”

While Owen and Jorge made arrangements to rendezvous in La Coloma in one week, Opari and I walked to the other side of the terrace and let the light ocean breeze blow across our faces. The water and sky were both deep blue, with high cirrus clouds in feathered rows stretching west until they merged with the clouds on the horizon. Half a dozen fishing boats and a small yacht were moored nearby. Nothing seemed to move, and if it did, it moved slowly. The only sounds except the sea were the voices of Owen, Carolina, and Jorge. Opari took my hand in hers and whispered, “This destination is jator, my love, the very best choice.”

Biscuit still had several road games to play before the All-Star game itself and was unable to go on to Finca Maria. We decided to spend the night in Havana with Biscuit, then Owen drove the hundred or so miles to Vinales. The roads were rough but the scenery was beautiful and changing constantly. After turning north in Pinar del Rio, we entered the Sierra de los Organos and the Vinales Valley where huge masses or buttes of limestone called mogotes rise out of the green tobacco fields like silent guardians. Opari said they reminded her of the odd limestone hills of Quilin in southern China.

Winding up into the sierra, we reached the small tobacco town of Vinales. A few miles higher up, the buildings and fields of Finca Maria spread out from the narrow road. All the buildings were painted in pastels—pinks, yellows, pale blues, and greens. All had red tile roofs and open beam ceilings. The surrounding fields and gardens were lush and well manicured, and even though Owen had hired workmen to renovate everything when Carolina and Ciela bought the property, the whole place still had the feel of the Spanish Colonial era.

Six girls approximately between the ages of thirteen and eighteen came running out to meet us. They each wore simple cotton dresses and some were barefoot. They all were smiling. None of them looked like they’d ever heard of Havana, let alone lived there as virtual slaves in the bars and brothels of the poorest neighborhoods. It was clear that whatever Ciela was doing was working. They had been given their lives back.

Opari and I were given our own room in a large rambling ranch house that had served as a resort near the turn of the century. One by one, Ciela’s girls fell in love with Opari, each wanting to adopt her as a little sister. Opari spoke fluent Spanish with them and they all were impressed by her facility with languages. Ciela’s first condition on living at Finca Maria was that every girl must learn to read, write, and speak English. She also taught them basic skills in cooking, cleaning, manners, hygiene, and personal grooming. Her intention was to assure each girl a chance at living and working anywhere she wished, including America. Owen had already assisted in the emigration of two girls to Miami, where they both found good-paying jobs in the front office of a Miami hotel.

In the short week that followed, we took three long bicycle rides and hikes through the Vinales Valley and among the mogotes. Our guide was “the best damn guide in the valley” according to Owen Bramley. His nickname was “Indio” and he led us to several limestone caves and underground rivers inside the mogotes themselves. The entire Vinales Valley was spectacular and time went quickly. On a clear Sunday morning, Owen, Carolina, Opari, and I said good-bye to Ciela and the girls, then left to meet Jorge in La Coloma. It was Indio who drove us south in the big DeSoto. He had a younger brother living in La Coloma, and when he mentioned that his brother had been born mute, Carolina thought of Georgia and insisted Indio accompany us.

On the trip, Owen and Indio discussed the current political and social situation in Cuba. “This dictator Machado,” Indio said, looking out at the poverty in each passing village, “he must exit, he must be removed. The end is near. There will come revolution, señor.” Owen nodded and agreed with Indio, but quietly and without passion, which was unlike Owen, and he was sweating profusely. Opari noticed the same thing. Carolina never mentioned it and kept her conversation limited to where we were going and what we might see while we were snorkeling. Then she heard Indio say Machado had closed all the schools indefinitely and her attention shifted. She could not believe he would deny the children of Cuba an education. To Carolina, it was an intolerable and criminal act of involuntary starvation. Owen said he would “have a chat with a fellow in Washington” and see what could be done about it.

But I never got to find out who the fellow was and we never went snorkeling. Just as we arrived in the small coastal town of La Coloma, Owen turned white and his breathing became rapid and shallow. Indio asked if he was all right and Owen couldn’t answer. Indio sped to the home of his brother, Luis, and we rushed Owen up the steps and through the door. Inside, there was a couch piled high with rubber fins, rubber goggles with glass lenses, nautical maps, nets, and two spear guns. Indio and Luis cleared the couch with one motion and we laid Owen Bramley down.

Carolina removed Owen’s wire-rimmed glasses and wiped his face and neck with her handkerchief. Indio found a wet towel and Opari laid it across his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was barely conscious. Luis set a small electric fan on an end table and positioned it to blow on Owen’s face. Then he asked Indio a question by signing with his right hand. Indio answered, “Sí, sí, rapido!” Luis turned and ran. I assumed he left to find a doctor.

A few minutes passed. Owen’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened suddenly. “My God,” he whispered and focused on me with great difficulty. “I am going out like Solomon, Z.”

“You are not going anywhere just yet, Owen Bramley. Do you hear me?” It was Carolina. She took one of his freckled hands in hers and kissed it. “You’ll be fine. We’ll rest here and then I’ll take you back to Finca Maria when you can travel. You only need a little rest, Owen. Just a little rest.”

I glanced at Opari. She was staring at me, shaking her head back and forth. That was when I knew Owen was right, he was dying like Solomon. Opari had seen it a thousand times in a hundred different countries. She would not be wrong.

Luis had to travel to Las Canas to find the doctor. By the time they returned the sun had set and Owen Bramley had died in Carolina’s arms. He slipped into unconsciousness shortly after speaking to me and woke once, just as he was about to take his last breath. He opened his eyes and mumbled, “Kites…kites.”

Carolina cried silently but openly. All of us did. Luis’s front door was standing ajar and Carolina sat motionless, staring out across the asphalt road toward the sea a half mile away. She said nothing. She let her tears swell and roll down her cheeks without wiping them away. I thought back to that unknown crossroads somewhere in the depths of China. A train was under repair and on the other side of the train in a wide field full of laughing children, I saw kites rising into the air, one by one. Owen Bramley was making them. Maybe that’s where he was now.

Carolina closed his eyes and kissed his eyelids. “Good-bye, Owen, good-bye,” she whispered.

Beside me, in a low, mournful drone, Opari chanted, “Lo egin bake, lo egin bake.”

Solomon used to say Owen was “one of those damn Scottish men; he will pay you no mind and get the job done and done right.” That was true and much more. In all the years I knew him, Owen had never once asked who or what the Meq were, yet he devoted most of his life to helping us. He was “remarkable,” as Owen himself might say. I reached for his wire-rimmed glasses on the end table and carefully fit them over his ears and nose. He looked as he always had to me. I would miss him for many reasons and many years.

In the time that passed before Luis arrived with the doctor, Carolina talked about Owen Bramley. Carolina talked and Opari and I listened. We walked out of the house and across the road to a narrow strip of beach between two outcroppings of rock. The sea broke hard against the jutting rocks, then lapped up gently onto the beach. We took off our shoes and let the water come up to our knees. Carolina said Owen had always loved her for the very best of reasons, never the easy ones. Opari smiled and said, “Carolina, you are a wise woman.”

When Luis and the doctor returned, the doctor conducted an examination of Owen and confirmed he had died of a heart attack. He then asked Carolina what she wished to do with the body. Indio interrupted, saying he would be honored and pleased to take care of the arrangements, whatever she wished to do. He added that it was the least he could do for Señor Bramley, a fine man. Carolina did not hesitate. She said Owen had been as happy here in Cuba as he ever had, and she would bury him at Finca Maria.

Before Indio and the doctor took him to the mortician, Carolina washed Owen’s face and smoothed his hair. For burial dress, she told Indio where to find clean clothes in the DeSoto. Indio mentioned that Jorge Fuentes was anchored in La Coloma awaiting word from Señor Bramley. He said he would give Jorge the sad news instead. The doctor and Luis carried Owen out to the car, laying him down carefully across the backseat. Indio started the engine. The doctor climbed in and the big sedan pulled out onto the road and sped away. The three of us were left standing on the steps with Luis. No one said a word until the DeSoto was completely out of sight.

Carolina turned slowly and asked Luis a question, not with words, but by signing with her hands. She and Georgia had never needed the skill, but Carolina had since learned to do it on her own.

Opari leaned over and said, “I must learn this language of the hands.”

Luis answered in rapid movements and fingering, then Carolina thanked him with spoken words in Spanish. She looked at Opari. “Luis has given me directions to a nice beach only a mile or two from here. Would you walk with me? You’re welcome to go along, Z, if you like?”

I looked in her eyes. I knew them well. “Maybe later, Carolina,” I said. “I think you need to be with Opari now more than me.”

Carolina smiled faintly. Then she and Opari removed their shoes and walked away. Opari reached for Carolina’s hand and they kept walking, an older red-haired woman and a dark-haired little girl. Luis and I watched them. They didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary. We watched until they disappeared in the distance, across the road and through a line of palm trees. They were still holding hands. Often, the best and longest-lasting gift is in the smallest package. I loved them both at that moment more than ever before.

Luis tapped me on the shoulder and crooked his finger, motioning for me to follow, but before we turned to go he touched his heart and pointed in the direction of Carolina and Opari. I stared into his eyes. They were dark brown and he had the same smooth, broad face as his brother, Indio. Luis was only in his mid-twenties and looked even younger, yet he already possessed the poise and awareness of a much older man. He knew instinctively there was something curious or odd about Opari and me, and he respected it. To Luis, we were simply another mystery in the world.

“Sí, Luis, sí,” I answered, touching my heart.

He smiled, then turned and led me through his small home to a courtyard in the rear, which was larger in area than the house itself. White stucco walls enclosed the space on three sides. Inside the walls, several fully mature orange trees provided shade at all times of the day. Dozens of stone sculptures and pre-Columbian stone heads, some of them Olmec, were scattered throughout the courtyard. Luis led me to a few cane chairs covered with bright-colored cushions. The chairs were clustered around a long, low table made of oak slabs and in the middle of the table sat a solid stone ball, perfectly round and about a foot and a half in diameter. The ball was gray-black speckled granite and must have weighed two hundred pounds. It was slightly cracked and missing chunks of stone on one side. The surface had been ground, sanded smooth, and polished. The stone was old and had been worked by experts. There were strange markings carved at five intervals in a broken line around the ball. The ball was unique, I had never seen anything like it, but it was what covered the top that stunned me. A handprint, a small hand, wider than mine and with shorter fingers, but a child’s hand for certain, had been carved across the top of the ball. I glanced at Luis, then looked closer at the markings. Suddenly I recognized one of them. It was the symbol in Meq script for the word “is.” I had seen it in the Meq cave in Africa, in the center of an “X” that translated, “Where Time is under Water—Where Water is under Time.” The symbol appeared in the palm of the handprint and at all five intervals in the broken line around the ball. My heart jumped.

“Where did this come from, Luis?” I asked, then remembered he was mute and I didn’t know how to sign.

Luis motioned for me to wait where I was and turned to go inside. He was back within thirty seconds carrying an old photograph and a map of Cuba. He pointed to the photograph and put his finger on one of two boys who were standing on both sides of a man wearing a fishing hat and grinning ear to ear. They were standing on a pier with an enormous blue marlin hanging upside down behind them. The big fish must have been twelve feet long and weighed six hundred pounds. Luis touched the man’s face in the photograph, then touched his heart, and I knew the boys were Luis and Indio and the man was their father. Then Luis ran his finger along the entire southern coast and western tip of Cuba. He pointed at the stone ball, then the map, and then to his father, and I got my answer. Luis’s father had found or purchased the ball on the southern coast of Cuba when Luis was a boy. But I had many more questions and decided to wait for Carolina before I asked them.

Opari and Carolina were separated by over three thousand years in age, one being Meq and one being Giza, and yet I could tell the instant they returned that the walk along the beach had served its purpose. Carolina loved Owen in a different way than she had Nicholas, perhaps not as intensely, but just as deeply and for a much longer time. Opari helped Carolina cope with the suddenness of losing Owen, though she never mentioned him by name. She told me later they talked only of their sisters, Georgia and Deza, and how little time they had been allowed to spend with them, and how much they missed them still. There was sadness in Carolina’s eyes, but she seemed resigned to what had happened.

The three of us had a quiet conversation about informing Star and Jack in St. Louis and Willie Croft at Caitlin’s Ruby in Cornwall. We discussed whether to wait for a burial and Carolina made the decision there would be no funeral or formal service. We would bury Owen at Finca Maria ourselves, simply and privately, just as Owen preferred to live.

Indio was due back soon and Luis was waiting for us in the courtyard. I told Carolina and Opari I wanted them to see something and led them through the house and out to the long low table with the perfect granite sphere resting in the middle. Opari made her haunting trilling sound when I showed her the handprint on top of the ball. She ran her fingers slowly over the stone, marveling at the expertise of the workmanship and the smoothness of the surface. She commented on the age of the stone, wondering aloud how old it might be. “Old,” I told her, then I showed her the Meq word “is” among the strange markings at the intervals, and especially in the palm of the handprint.

Opari gasped. “Where did this ball come from, Z?”

“Right here. Right here in Cuba!”

“Where in Cuba? How does Luis come to have this?”

I turned to Carolina and looked in her eyes. “That’s what I’d like to find out,” I said. “If you’re up to it, Carolina, I could use your help with Luis. I need you to sign for me so I can ask him some questions.”

“This ball is important, isn’t it, Z?” Carolina asked.

“It could be, but if you don’t feel like it, I understand. We can always do it later.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, “let’s do it now. God knows Owen would.”

Indio returned two hours later and in that time we learned everything Luis knew about the stone ball. His father had discovered it while diving after a major hurricane passed over western Cuba and rearranged miles of coastline, exposing features previously unknown and unseen. The ball was on the floor of a cave nearly thirty-five feet below the surface. Luis said his father was able to dive and hold his breath for five minutes or more at a time. Even so, it took two men two days to get the ball into the boat. Luis said his father kept the location of the cave secret, not telling Indio or Luis where it was for fear that being young they might be tempted to tell someone. He said his father and the other man both died within the next few years before ever revealing the exact location. Luis only knew that it was somewhere from La Coloma west to Playa Maria La Gorda, or along the southern coast of Isla de Pinas. I asked Luis why keeping the location secret had been so important to his father and the other man. When Carolina told me what he said, I wasn’t expecting it. “The answer is why I live in La Coloma,” Luis signed, “and why I am also a diver and still search for this cave. My father said there were more stone balls in the cave. I want to find them.”

I glanced at Opari. A tiny window of curiosity opened in our minds that neither of us could close. “I’d like to come back sometime, Luis, maybe next year. You can teach me to dive. I’d like to help you look for that cave.”

Luis signed that we were welcome anytime and he would be glad to teach me to dive, although he wasn’t sure I could go that deep.

“You might be surprised,” I said.

We spent the night in La Coloma, then said farewell to Luis and started early for Finca Maria. It was a long, hot, and difficult journey. Carolina remained quiet along the way, while Opari and I kept our conversation limited. Finally, rising up into the hills above Vinales, the air became a little cooler and drier. Ciela was waiting for us. She gave Carolina a warm and silent embrace the moment she stepped from the car. Biscuit was absent, but Ciela said he had been informed.

Carolina filled the next day by driving with Indio to Pinar del Rio and taking care of legal matters. Owen Bramley’s casket arrived the following day in a separate vehicle driven by a mortician. He was resting inside a simple but elegant coffin of hardwood and brass. We buried him at sunset under a sky of pale gold with fiery layers of orange and red. The gravesite had a clear view of three massive mogotes in the distance. They looked like great elephants forever frozen in place, perhaps as sentries. Carolina said a prayer, one that she had composed herself, and Ciela said one in Spanish, crossing herself at least a dozen times. Not far away, the girls of Finca Maria each released a Chinese kite in his honor. Opari finished by singing a prayer in Meq, a droning lament, which allowed all of us to shed our tears. Then, with Indio’s help, we gently lowered Owen Bramley into the earth.

On our walk back to the house, Carolina turned to me and said, “Z, I’ve been thinking about something and yesterday in Pinar del Rio I finally said, ‘Why not?’”

“Why not what?” I asked.

“Why not stay here?”

I looked in her eyes. I had seen the same expression many times in her life, the first being when she told me she was going to place a whorehouse in the most exclusive neighborhood in town.

“I’ve thought it through,” she said. “I could send for Star and Caine, they will love it here, and Jack can take care of the house. The work I’ve been doing here with Ciela is more important and rewarding than anything I could do in St. Louis.” She paused. “I need to get away from St. Louis for a while, Z.” She glanced at Opari. I could tell they had discussed this on their walk. “And you and Opari want to find Luis’s cave, don’t you?” She paused again. “Well, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why wait for next year? Do it now. We will all go diving.”

I reached for Opari’s hand. “What do you think?”

Without hesitating, Opari said, “I believe it is an excellent plan, Carolina. I could not have thought of a better one myself.”

The decision had been made. Carolina telephoned St. Louis and relayed her plans to stay in Cuba and the reason why. The unexpected news about Owen shocked Jack, Star, and Caine, who had grown to be like a son to Owen. Jack understood and agreed to watch the house in St. Louis. After traveling by train to Miami, Star and Caine arrived at Finca Maria on the last day of December 1931. All the girls were bewitched by Caine, who was starting to enter puberty and acted embarrassed by the whistles from the girls and the teasing he received. But he didn’t run from the attention. Caine already possessed the dark good looks of his father. Star embraced the life at Finca Maria. She relished the food and slower pace of life and became close to all the girls. By February we had settled into a routine that we followed week after week, then month after month, and eventually year after year. While the rest of the world plunged deeper into the Great Depression, in western Cuba, little by little, we began our Great Obsession. Each Friday at noon, Carolina, Opari, Caine, and I loaded the DeSoto with supplies and Carolina drove from Finca Maria to La Coloma. We stayed in a bungalow Carolina purchased for almost nothing. It was close to Luis and near the marina where his boat was anchored. The bungalow was small and simple, and after Carolina had improved the wiring and plumbing, and redecorated, she named it “Pequeno Maria.” Every Saturday and Sunday, we sailed and explored with Luis, covering miles of coastline, sometimes fishing, but mostly diving, and always searching for the lost underwater cave with the stone spheres inside.

At first it was fun, a game, an adventure like treasure hunting. We had some difficulty finding equipment small enough for Opari and me to use, but once we did Carolina and Luis taught us all about rubber goggles, fins, and snorkeling, and Opari taught me a method of breath control she learned from Chinese pearl divers during the Ming Dynasty. Within weeks, Opari and I were able to dive with Luis, going down thirty to forty feet and staying down four to five minutes, while Carolina and Caine patrolled above in the boat. Luis called it “skin diving.” Opari and I fell in love with it. The more we did it, the more we wanted to do it, and the more I studied the stone ball in Luis’s house, the more I wanted to see the others. It was the same for Opari. Quickly, diving was no longer just “fun.” We became obsessed with finding the cave.

Luis’s father left behind a journal and several notebooks filled with detailed drawings of underwater landscapes and odd formations he had observed surrounding the cave. The problem was that all his notes pertaining to location were written in a personal code only he understood. Luis continued to use the notes as reference, but not for guidance. Instead, he carried out a systematic search based on grids he had drawn over nautical maps, coastal maps, and geological surveys. He was exploring each grid one at a time and there were hundreds remaining.

Usually, we drove back on Monday and our life at Finca Maria occupied our weekdays. However, during exceptionally good diving conditions Opari and I would stay through the week and continue diving with Luis until Carolina returned the following weekend. Many times early on, I thought we had found the cave or at least a landscape to match the drawings, but it was never the right one.

Our time at Pequeno Maria became completely isolated and we rarely talked of anything other than diving and the search. The area was extremely remote and the population sparse. At Finca Maria, though there were many of us living on the sprawling farm, the surrounding country was rural and news mainly concerned local events. Biscuit brought us baseball news when he visited and Indio kept us abreast of current events in Cuba, particularly the opposition to Gerardo Machado and his secret police, the “Porro.” Jack kept us informed about the world at large through long letters and telephone calls, which Carolina made from Pinar del Rio every week. On May 12, she spoke with Jack and learned that the kidnapped baby of Charles Lindbergh had been found dead. The sudden news saddened all of us and Carolina became depressed and melancholy for days. She said she missed planting flowers in spring and tending to her “Honeycircle,” and she missed Owen more than ever. Then she decided to plant a “Honeycircle” at Finca Maria in his honor. She placed honeysuckle bushes and wildflowers in a wide ring around his grave, and planted fragrant white mariposas throughout. Whenever she felt the need, she spent the whole day tending to the “Honeycircle.” It worked. She would always return with a smile, refreshed in mind and spirit.

Our life was basic, simple, and our routine changed little. Days were slow and full, yet time seemed not to exist. The days and months ran together like small streams into a river. In the evenings at Finca Maria, kitchen scents of cumin, sour oranges, onion, and garlic mingled with echoes of distant mockingbirds, and on weekends the scent of sea spray and salt. Four years slipped by and I barely took notice. Even though I was Meq and understood our unique perspective on Time, this “detached” feeling was brand-new to me, so I mentioned it to Opari. She told me not to worry. “It is common,” she said. “You are experiencing what the old ones learn to do gradually as segments of time become longer. I have felt two hundred years pass in the state of mind you are experiencing. It is said that before the Time of Ice, this state was given a name. It is called ‘denbora dantza egin,’ or ‘timedancing.’ You will come to know this delicate balance intuitively and how to extend it or contract it. You must learn this well, my love.”

I continued in the same exquisite balance and strange state of being here/not here for another year, learning the nuances and shadings, and learning how to “extend or contract” as Opari had said I would. There were odd “side effects,” which Opari said were normal. One I welcomed and one was a trade-off that frightened me. When I thought about Opari living in this state for two hundred years or more, I gained new respect for her and all the old ones. I welcomed the fact that while I was in this state I had not one thought or dream concerning the Fleur-du-Mal. He simply was not relevant. What frightened me was that I also began to lose my ability to feel beauty of any kind, in anything, from Opari’s beautiful face to pink and golden Cuban sunsets in the Vinales Valley. I saw the beauty in things, but I was unaffected, empty, and numb to it. Beauty, like the Fleurdu-Mal, was not relevant. I now knew old Meq had to endure long stretches of time without one of the true joys in life. There are many trade-offs in extreme longevity, but that was one bargain I wasn’t sure I could accept. I also realized I had no choice.

Only Opari knew of my curious state of mind. I showed no outward signs or symptoms and to others I seemed no different. I was able to watch Biscuit play baseball in crowded Havana ballparks or talk politics on the veranda at Finca Maria with Indio. I ate well, I laughed, and I explored. I welcomed Willie Croft, who came for a short visit in 1934 and decided to stay at the request of Star. Carolina even taught me the skill of signing, which enabled me to have endless conversations with Luis about the cave and the stone balls. We heard nothing from Sailor and Zeru-Meq, or Geaxi and Mowsel, and the Fleur-du-Mal was not only out of mind, he was out of sight, silent, and his presence was never felt. Then, in March 1937, I began to return to my normal state of mind. Each day felt as if I were walking through a large house from one small room to another. In weeks I was outside and in the open air. My mind was once again clear and focused, and my love of Cuban sunsets returned, along with an active and palpable hatred for the Fleur-du-Mal.

On the last day of the month Opari and I went diving with Luis. The day was overcast and colder than usual. We were exploring a small rocky inlet near Cabo Corrientes. On our first dive of the day, Opari, who was not wearing her rubber fins, slashed her feet severely on a patch of coral none of us had seen. Blood streamed from the wounds and spread through the water around us. Luis and I each grabbed one of her hands and swam for the surface. Once we were on the boat he tried to clean the wounds, but she continued bleeding profusely. Each gash was a half inch to an inch deep. Opari remained conscious and calm. She said when she stepped on the coral it felt as though she had stepped on a bed of razor blades. Luis went to get fresh towels and bandages. When he returned, he dropped the bandages where he stood and stared at Opari and her feet. Her wounds had all closed and the bleeding had ceased completely. In minutes, several deep open cuts had become a few jagged red lines, which would also disappear within an hour and leave no scars or even a trace of one.

“What are you?” Luis signed. “You must tell me. This is magic I have witnessed—magic or a miracle!”

Opari spelled out the answer. “We are called the Meq.”

“What are the Meq?” he asked.

Opari glanced at me and smiled. “Dendantzi,” she said out loud, then signed “Timedancers.”

In early April, Jack arrived for a visit and a celebration of his birthday later in the month. He was going to be thirty-one years old and was now a well-respected reporter and correspondent whose columns covered everything from Dizzy Dean to Mohandas Gandhi. He resembled Nicholas more than ever. Before he said hello he handed me a letter from Geaxi. It had been sent from Malta and he received it a week earlier. I opened it immediately. It was a strange letter with only two enigmatic sentences, one in Basque and one in Phoenician. I could read the Basque, but Opari had to translate the Phoenician. The letter read: (Basque) “Have found something UNDERWATER—we are on our way to Pello’s.” (Phoenician) “Many Ports, One True Harbor.” Neither Opari nor I knew what she meant, but the word “underwater” intrigued me.

We had already planned a big fiesta for Jack’s birthday, but Ciela saw no reason why we should wait. Within an hour she and the girls had prepared a delicious ajiaco, which they served outside, along with the American beer that Jack brought with him. As the celebrations were beginning, we had two surprise guests, a boy and a girl who arrived in a taxi all the way from Havana. The boy wore an old red beret and grinned at me with dazzling white teeth. The girl wore heavy black eye makeup, reminiscent of Cleopatra. It was Ray and Nova.

Nova went straight to Carolina and gave her a long and warm embrace. Ray looked at Carolina, Ciela, and all the girls, then glanced at Willie Croft, Jack, Star, and finally Caine, who was now nearly eighteen and stood a foot taller than Ray. He turned to me, taking off his beret and fanning his face with it. “Damn, Z, I thought this was supposed to be Cuba.” He waved his beret in the direction of Carolina, the girls, and everybody else. “This ain’t nothin’ but South St. Louis.”

I laughed out loud. It was always good to see Ray. “How was New Orleans?”

“We only spent a few weeks down there, Z, then took off for Mexico. New Orleans has lost its charm if you ask me. We were in Veracruz until last week. I called Jack and he said he was goin’ to Cuba. When he told me about Owen, I thought we ought to come for a little visit.” Ray glanced at Carolina. “I know it’s been a while now. How’s she doin’, Z?”

“She’s all right, no, she’s better than that—she’s remarkable. We buried him over there,” I said and pointed to the “Honeycircle.”

Ray looked off in the distance at the surrounding hills and the three mogotes standing guard on the horizon.

“Damn good spot,” Ray said. “Owen’s gonna like it here.”

Jack brought us all up-to-date on current events everywhere, including the state of Major League baseball in America, the Depression, FDR, fascism in Europe, the Spanish Civil War, and several long and hilarious tales involving his most recent girlfriends. Carolina was prompted to say he should be ashamed of himself. Of course, Caine loved these stories best and begged Jack for more. Opari and I were concerned with what Jack told us about the war in Spain. We learned that as recently as March 30, the Nationalists had opened an offensive in the Basque region. The Nationalists had also enlisted the help of the Italians and the German Luftwaffe. The fighting was bitter and bloody and Spain itself was being torn apart. Jack said this was only the beginning—it would get much worse for Spain, the Basque, and their homelands. Opari had not seen her homeland in over twenty-eight hundred years, but she thought this news to be especially foreboding. My first thoughts were of Pello and his family and tribe. If the war came to them I knew they would fight, and fight to the death. What I couldn’t understand was why Geaxi and Mowsel were traveling directly into a civil war. The Meq have never involved themselves in Giza politics or war and try to avoid all war zones, even in their homeland.

Two weeks later, Willie Croft received a cable from Arrosa in Cornwall. In it she said Koldo had left Caitlin’s Ruby for Spain. He was headed for Pello’s compound of small estates and caserios only a few miles outside Guernica. Opari told me the town of Guernica was considered an ancestral and symbolic home for all the Basque. On Jack’s birthday, the twenty-sixth of April, before Willie could cable Arrosa an answer, we heard the shocking news of the bombing of Guernica and all the nearby towns and villages. It was the first known aerial bombardment of civilians with the intent of total annihilation. Squadrons of German planes dropped bomb after bomb starting about four o’clock in the afternoon on market day and continuing until darkness, creating a firestorm that burned the town into oblivion. Men, women, and children died by the thousands under the bombs, bullets, and falling buildings. Many were gunned down in the surrounding fields while trying to flee.

“So this is the twentieth century,” Opari said, barely in a whisper. Her eyes were the most beautiful and sad I’d ever seen. “The Modern Age, no?”

We waited for word from Spain or from Arrosa and heard nothing for three days. Finally, Willie Croft made the decision to leave immediately for Caitlin’s Ruby. Star surprised no one by announcing she was leaving with him. Star and Willie had been living together as a true couple for months. It was Caine who surprised everyone, particularly Carolina, when he announced he was going along. He said he’d always wondered about Caitlin’s Ruby and he wanted a chance at attending Cambridge. Caine had been home-schooled in Cuba, but he also had amassed a large library at Finca Maria and read voraciously. I thought he had a decent chance and wished him well. Carolina beamed with pride and I think Star saw, possibly for the first time, a little bit of Jisil come clearly into focus through Caine’s eyes. Willie gave Caine a wink and said, “I know just the man to reach. He’ll make certain you get a damn good crack at it.”

Carolina and Indio drove Willie, Star, and Caine to Havana where they would catch a ferry to Miami, then sail for England. The rest of us said our farewells to them at Finca Maria. Star leaned in close to me as she turned to leave and whispered, “Should Caine and I still worry about the evil one?” There was no true answer, but I didn’t want Star or Caine living in fear, even if that fear was justified. I also knew they were powerless against the Fleur-du-Mal. He had proven it over and over again. So I lied and answered, “No.” That same night, rain began to fall throughout the Vinales Valley and most of western Cuba. It rained for six long days and nights. The temperature never fell below eighty degrees and the humidity soared. On the afternoon of May 4, my birthday, a taxi arrived from Pinar del Rio. Inside, there appeared to be two children in the backseat, a boy and a girl about twelve years old. They both got out slowly. The girl wore a black vest held together with leather strips attached to bone, ballet slippers for shoes, and she carried a black beret in her hand. I saw a profound weariness in her eyes. The boy seemed to need assistance from the girl and placed his hand on her arm for guidance. Once outside, he jerked his head back and breathed deeply, taking in the heavy, humid air and filling his lungs, straining to catch the rich, sweet scents of Carolina’s “Honeycircle” in the distance. The boy’s hair was dark and it curled around his ears and over his collar. He wore a white cotton shirt, loose black trousers, and despite the heat, leather boots laced to the knees. His eyes rolled back in his head and he grinned wide, revealing the gap of a missing front tooth. It was Trumoi-Meq and he was blind.

I walked out to meet them. “Buenos dias, young Zezen,” Geaxi said. She paused and looked around, stopping to stare at the mogotes, three humps of gray-black stone and green vegetation barely visible on the horizon. “I assume this is Finca Maria,” she said softly. Her voice was as weary as her eyes.

No one spoke of Trumoi-Meq’s blindness or asked Geaxi the reason for their sudden appearance. Opari and I simply welcomed them to Finca Maria and everyone, including Ray, embraced, then Carolina led us all inside. Mowsel walked beside Geaxi, sensing her movement more than touching her, and moving with equal grace. His blindness seemed almost undetectable or somehow irrelevant.

Ciela prepared a simple meal of black beans and rice, which we ate in the kitchen, pulling up chairs around the table or sitting on countertops. We limited our conversation to local gossip and the latest news from Biscuit in Havana. Indio and Jack discussed politics and Cuba’s current dictator, Fulgencio Batista, but the civil war in Spain and the massacre at Guernica were never mentioned. Everyone respected Geaxi’s and Mowsel’s silence. We each knew they would take us there eventually, when the time was right and they were ready.

After dinner, it was Jack who suggested coffee and sweets on the veranda. Carolina, Ciela, and Indio stayed inside while Jack and the rest of us sat outside on wicker chairs facing west. The sun had just disappeared behind the mogotes and the rain had finally ceased. Two dogs barked in ragged dialogue somewhere far in the distance, however I might have been the only one who heard them. Geaxi and Mowsel sat quietly. Ray glanced at me once, saying nothing. Nova never spoke and held Ray’s hand, as Opari held mine. Jack broke the silence, lighting a cigar and saying, “Z, I think we ought to take everybody down to La Coloma tomorrow. I think you ought to go skin diving.”

I looked at Jack and smiled and thanked him with my eyes. I knew instantly going to La Coloma was exactly what we should do. Opari squeezed my hand, thinking the same thing. “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Let’s go to La Coloma. Tomorrow!”

We rose early and packed what we needed into the old DeSoto, then headed south. Jack had the wheel and he handled the rough Cuban roads as best he could. Geaxi remained attentive, but spoke rarely. Mowsel was more animated and asked question after question about the Cuban landscape and climate. Ray asked Mowsel if he’d ever been to Mexico. To my surprise, after such a long life and countless journeys, Trumoi-Meq answered, “No, I have not.”

Approaching La Coloma, I decided to bring up something Geaxi had said in her letter from Malta, before she and Mowsel left for Spain. She was staring out the window. I leaned over and tapped her on the knee to get her attention. She turned her head toward me slowly. “You said you found something on Malta, something underwater,” I said. “What was it, Geaxi?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because where we are going, there is something unusual that was found here and it was also found underwater.”

Geaxi glanced at Mowsel. His eyes were focused elsewhere, but his head was turned and tilted in my direction. “What is it, young Zezen?” she asked.

“A sphere or ball. A perfectly round, solid granite ball.”

Mowsel opened his mouth in surprise. “With engraved markings and symbols?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And a strange, small handprint engraved on top?”

“Yes.”

“This sphere, it was found by a diver?” Geaxi asked.

“Yes, in an underwater cave by the father of the man who lives here. His name is Luis and his father died before Luis could learn the location of the cave. He still searches for the others.”

“Others?” Mowsel asked, tilting his head in the opposite direction.

“Yes. His father said there were other stone balls in the cave. That’s what we have been doing here all this time—searching for the cave.”

Just then, Jack came to a halt in front of Luis’s home a mile or so west of town. Luis was gone, probably at sea, however his door was never locked. Everyone in the tiny community knew and loved “the nice man who spoke with his hands.” Jack said he was going for supplies and would be back within the hour. He left in the direction of La Coloma and we hurried inside. I led everyone through the house and out into the courtyard and the shade of the orange trees. Mowsel followed easily, and without touching anyone or anything. Nova mentioned the many sculptures and admired the Olmec heads scattered throughout. Ray said he liked the orange trees. As we neared the low oak table, Geaxi saw the stone ball resting in the middle and stopped dead in her tracks. “It is the same,” she said in a hushed voice.

Mowsel reached his hand out. “Where is it, Zianno? Let me touch it.”

I took his hand and leaned over, placing his fingers directly on one of the markings, the old Meq symbol for “is.” “Do you recognize this?” I asked.

He said nothing for a moment, then smiled wide, exposing his gap in front. “This was in the cave in Africa!”

“Yes, it was.”

“What does this symbol mean?”

“It is the old word for ‘is.’”

“What do the other markings mean? Can you read them, Zianno?”

“No…not yet.”

Geaxi looked at Opari. “What do you make of this?” she asked. “Had you ever heard of these spheres, or seen them before?”

“Never. Zianno and I have debated the possible meaning for years. Nothing has been revealed. We are certain the sphere is old, very old, from before the Time of Ice, however its purpose remains an enigma.” Opari looked once at me. “And now we know there are other spheres in other parts of the world. What can this mean? Does this have anything to do with the Gogorati, the Remembering? If it does, we must decipher it.”

Mowsel had both hands on the stone ball and his fingers traced over the markings again and again, furiously following the lines and curves of the carved symbols. At times, his eyes rolled back in his head as he concentrated. Suddenly he asked, “How deep was this cave?”

“Thirty-five feet at least,” I answered. “Why?”

“Because the cave on Malta was approximately the same depth. This is important, do you see?”

“No.”

“Think, Zianno. With the melting of the ice, sea levels have risen since the world of the stone spheres existed! The face of the Earth itself has altered. Perhaps…just perhaps, the Meq have as well.” Suddenly he laughed out loud. “Yes, Opari,” he said, tilting his head and searching for her scent and presence. “These spheres have everything to do with the Remembering.”

“Then why am I unable to read this writing, except for one word?” I asked.

“Because the spheres have nothing to do with our Remembering.”

I looked at him blankly. I didn’t understand, nor did anyone else.

“Do you not see, Zianno? The answer is as simple as it is mystifying.” He paused again, staring into space.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There has been another, earlier Gogorati. Ours will not be the first!” He laughed again. “Who is to say, perhaps there have been many?”

The thought raced through each of our minds and instantly, intuitively, we knew Trumoi-Meq was right. The idea was outrageous and mind-numbing to think of the expanse of time involved, but somehow we knew that it was true. And that made the Gogorati seem more confusing and fearful than ever. What was it?

Jack came back sooner than expected, saying he had hit the jackpot in La Coloma. He opened the trunk of the DeSoto and displayed two wooden crates full of lobster and shrimp, harvested that morning by a local fisherman. Jack bought the fisherman’s entire catch plus rubber fins and masks his children no longer used. “Enough for everybody,” Jack said, then asked if I would mind picking up some fresh fruit at a little stand he saw not a mile from Luis’s house. Geaxi decided to accompany me and we set out walking under a brilliant blue sky with towering white cumulus clouds building to the south.

Two children, a boy and a girl, ran the fruit stand. There wasn’t much to buy in the stand, but what they had looked delicious—coconuts, ripe bananas, lemons, limes, and a Cuban passion fruit called guerito. Ciela served it often, by itself or mixed with other fruits. Geaxi held one of the apple-shaped fruits in her hand and asked the children in Spanish if they knew where the fruit got its name. The children said no and Geaxi told them the name came from its flower, which was known as “flor de las lagas, or flower of the five wounds.” At first the children showed no understanding, then they beamed, smiling and saying in unison, “Ah, sí, sí, Pasion de Cristo!” I paid for our fruit and turned to leave, but Geaxi lingered, talking and laughing with the children. I watched her carefully. When we returned to Luis’s house, it seemed as if she had been partially renewed, in a manner similar to the way our bodies heal, only this was a wound that could not be seen. Ten minutes later, without anyone asking, she gave us a full account of what happened in Guernica and to whom. She started talking and didn’t stop until the awful tale was told.

Geaxi and Mowsel entered Basque country on the night of April 25 from the north, through the Pyrenees using secret trails and hidden routes they had known for centuries. Pello and several Basque compatriots met them outside Pamplona. The men all wore berets and most carried rifles. Geaxi said their faces each reflected the stress of war and their eyes knew death at close range. In stolen trucks, the men drove through the night, arriving at Pello’s compound of caserios before dawn. After sleeping through the morning, Pello suggested going into nearby Guernica for market day. War or no war, Pello wanted to have a feast to celebrate Geaxi and Mowsel’s arrival. In Pello’s tribe, the ritual was older than the country of Spain itself and he had no intention of letting a few fascists from Madrid break the tradition. A group of twenty or so men, women, and children, along with Geaxi and Mowsel, piled into two open trucks and started through the hills for Guernica. At that time, Guernica was an open town far behind the lines of fighting and Pello felt there was nothing to fear.

Geaxi said the sky was a clear, soft blue and the market was full. Peasants crowded in from the countryside and all the neighboring villages. The women shopped and gossiped, the men smoked and relaxed, and the children spilled out in five directions. The afternoon passed. At 4:30 P.M. a church bell rang the alarm for approaching airplanes. Five minutes later a single German bomber dropped three or four bombs in the center of town. Fifteen minutes later came another bomber, then more and more, wave after wave of bombers followed by fighters demolishing Guernica and murdering innocent people indiscriminately and without mercy, killing anyone, even machine-gunning children trying to run away through the fields. Geaxi and Mowsel were trapped in the town along with everyone else. She saw Pello trying hard to get his people to safety, but there was too much chaos and they were too scattered. Building after building began collapsing. Geaxi said she and Mowsel took refuge in a sewer, standing six inches deep in water until the attacks subsided. People screamed with pain everywhere. Most were missing arms or legs or both. Blood pooled and ran in the streets and people were dying all over the crumbling town in piles and heaps. Geaxi and Mowsel waited, then made their break for safety. As they were running past the church of St. John, Mowsel saw a girl wandering aimlessly, in shock and completely oblivious to everything. Just then, the incendiary bombs began to fall. Mowsel stopped and tried to get the girl to take his hand, but she only stared at him, then backed off in horror. He tried again. Suddenly she turned to run into the church and Mowsel reached out and grabbed her just in time. The church of St. John exploded and stone, glass, and splintered wood knocked them all back ten feet. The girl was left unconscious, but alive, and Geaxi was unhurt, except for several cuts and bruises. Mowsel had taken the blow directly in his face. Hundreds of tiny shards of glass ripped into both eyes and destroyed the optic nerve. Instantly, he was blinded and probably beyond normal Meq restoration and repair. He was also bleeding. Geaxi quickly tore her shirt into strips and wrapped a temporary patch around his head. With Mowsel holding on from behind, Geaxi carried the girl to safety in the hills, where they stayed the night. Geaxi said she never slept, and all night long she watched the most ancient town in Basque country become an inferno.

The next day, after finding a home for the girl, they learned Pello Txopitea and twenty-three of his closest family and friends had perished. His son, Koldo, alone survived, but only by pure chance. Earlier in the afternoon, he had experienced an upset stomach and decided to leave Guernica and return to the compound. When Geaxi and Mowsel finally made it back, they asked Koldo if there was some way they could help. Koldo thanked them but told them they should probably leave Spain as soon as possible. He said there was nothing Geaxi and Mowsel could do. This was a Basque tragedy—the tragedy was theirs, the war was theirs, and it was only the beginning. Geaxi and Mowsel stayed long enough to say their farewells to Koldo and the remainder of his tribe, then walked out of Spain and began their journey to Cuba and Finca Maria.

“Why did you go to Spain in the first place?” I asked.

Mowsel answered. “There was a man in Pello’s tribe who contacted me on Malta. While blowing a bridge for the Republicans, he said he had exposed a cave in the rocks underneath. Something unique was found inside; however, he did not say what it was in the letter. Geaxi and I were too curious to stay away.”

“I only wish we had,” Geaxi whispered, “things might have been different.”

“You must put that thought out of your mind,” Opari said.

We were in Luis’s courtyard, sitting in the cane chairs around the oak table. Jack and Luis were grilling the lobster and shrimp not far away. Geaxi glanced at Trumoi-Meq, sitting proud and blind, tilting his head toward the drifting smoke, then leaning forward and caressing the stone sphere with his fingers, still feeling for the truth behind the symbols.

“What do you think, young Zezen? It is ironic, no?” Geaxi asked.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Geaxi.”

“As we learn more about the Remembering…little by little, we are falling apart.”

8. Puxika (Balloon)

When is childhood truly left behind? Is there a certain place, or place in time where this occurs? Is it inevitable? Is it in the mind, body, or both? Is it gradual, as the apple ripens, or is it in the moment the apple falls? Perhaps the answer lies with a grand balloon seen rising silently to the top of the sky; a terrible balloon that is not a balloon at all and shall never, ever be a toy.

We spent two continuous weeks in La Coloma under fair skies and on calm seas. We found no trace of the cave, but Ray and Nova fell in love with the underwater world of skin diving. I discovered Ray to be an excellent swimmer and faster below the water than any of us, including Luis. Geaxi said she had been diving since she was a child, but never with rubber fins and goggles. Mowsel always insisted on going along, though he stayed in the boat with Jack while we were underwater. Each day we sailed the coastline and every night we ate fresh fish and drank Cuban beer in the courtyard with Luis and Jack. It was a good and healthy two weeks for all of us. As we were preparing to leave, I asked Mowsel where he thought Sailor and Zeru-Meq might be. I was certain that wherever they were, they would have heard about the Spanish Civil War and realized our planned rendezvous in Spain in 1937 was out of the question. Mowsel said he had no idea and I should not hold my breath while waiting to find out. Sailor might inform us from time to time, if it suited him, but Zeru-Meq had never informed anyone of his whereabouts at any time. But that was before we returned to Finca Maria. The moment Jack pulled the old DeSoto to a stop, Carolina handed me a letter from Star. In the letter, Star said Arrosa was alive, well, and staying in Paris with Mitch Coates and Mercy Whitney. She had attempted to reach Spain after the bombings, but Koldo insisted she go back to England until the war was over. She fled to Paris instead. Arrosa had been devastated after learning of the deaths of Pello and the others. The only good news lay in the fact that she was now safe and out of harm’s way. Also, folded inside Star’s letter there was another letter, a one-page note and envelope postmarked six weeks earlier. The letter was addressed to me and had been mailed to Caitlin’s Ruby from Singapore. Opari translated for me because it was written in Chinese and in a style I didn’t recognize. She said the peculiar technique had gained popularity only during the T’ang Dynasty. I did recognize the signature at the bottom. The letter was from Zeru-Meq.

The literal translation was this:

I asked Opari to read it again. I knew “the old one” referred to Sailor, “the city of the Saint” was St. Louis, and the date was the eighth of June. The rest was a complete mystery to me. “Does anyone know what this means?”

“I only know Zeru-Meq has never written to us, nor has he ever been to America,” Mowsel said, bobbing his head back. “This ‘List’ must be of extreme importance. Que es, Geaxi?”

“No se,” Geaxi answered, then glanced at Opari. “Have you ever heard of a ‘List’?”

“No,” Opari said. “I am unfamiliar with this.”

I looked at Ray and Nova. “Do either of you know anything about a ‘List’ hidden in a wall?”

“Ain’t got a clue, Z,” Ray said.

“Neither do I, Zianno,” Nova added.

I looked at Jack. He was listening, still sitting in the driver’s seat of the DeSoto with the door open. To him, it was all gibberish and riddles. He shrugged his shoulders. Carolina stood a few feet away from the car, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I know what it is,” she said suddenly.

All heads turned to Carolina. She was staring at me, but her eyes were in the past.

Quietly I asked, “What is the ‘List,’ Carolina?”

“It was 1904,” she said, “just before the World’s Fair. Solomon had helped many diverse people from the Far East, people he had met and befriended in his travels before his eventual encounter with Sailor.”

“Yes,” I said, “at Solomon’s ‘remembering’…all of them were there.”

“That’s right, Z, but there were some among them with something else in common besides Solomon, something you did not know.”

“What?”

One at a time, Carolina glanced at Ray, Nova, Geaxi, Mowsel, Opari, and then back to me. “Some had knowledge of you…of the Meq. Solomon said the names of these people were written on a list, a special list, which he gave to me to keep in my safe in Georgia’s room.”

“And Sailor…did he know about the ‘List’?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“Solomon told me there were a few names on the List he thought Sailor did not know about.”

Geaxi interrupted bluntly. “Who were they?”

Carolina glanced at Geaxi. “That I don’t know. I never read it. I simply locked it in the safe and forgot about it.” She turned back to me. “Until now.”

“We must leave soon,” Opari said. “Zeru-Meq will not be late; however, he may be early. It is an old pattern of his. I know it well.”

“I agree,” Geaxi said, “as soon as possible.”

I looked at Carolina. “They’re right…we’ve got to go.” I watched her. She still held her hand up, shielding her eyes. “Are you ready to go home, Carolina?”

“No, Z…not yet. I’ll give Jack the combination to the safe.” She dropped her hand and took hold of Opari’s hand, then mine, and the three of us turned and started walking into the house. “I believe I’ll stay here with Ciela a little longer,” she said.

By making a single telephone call to Washington, D.C., Jack made it possible for all of us to travel together and still pass through United States Customs without suspicion or delay. The customs agent in Miami was waiting for our entourage and ushered us quickly through a separate entrance with only a quiet smile and a wish that we “have a nice stay.” I asked Jack the identity of the man in Washington and Jack said he had never been told his real name, but Owen assured him the man could be trusted implicitly. Owen gave Jack the number in confidence five years earlier, along with instructions not to use it unless absolutely necessary. Owen called the man “Cardinal” and told Jack to always say the password “sunrise” when the man answered. Mowsel and Geaxi appreciated the assistance of “Cardinal,” as we all did; however, Mowsel expressed concern about not knowing the man’s true identity, while Geaxi wondered out loud if Owen had compiled a “List” of his own. Jack said he was not aware of one, but opening Carolina’s safe might answer the question. In five years, this was the first time Jack had called the number. It would not be the last.

Winding through the Deep South, our train passed through parts of Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, and Kentucky. Life in the rural areas seemed much the same as it always had, but when we slowed down, weaving our way through cities and towns, the effects of the Great Depression could be seen in each one. Whole blocks of buildings and businesses were closed, boarded up, and abandoned. In every city of any size, I witnessed men, women, and families on the move with little to eat and nowhere to go. Jack said, “Believe it or not, Z, things are better now than they were a few years ago.” As we crossed the Mississippi River and entered St. Louis, I saw the same effects. Still, it was midday June 1, the sun was shining, the city was bustling with more traffic than ever, and it felt good to be there. I turned to Opari. Before I could say a word, she whispered, “Welcome home, my love.”

Outside Union Station, Jack hailed a taxi and we loaded what little luggage we had into the trunk. Jack sat in front with the driver, while the driver watched the six of us in his rearview mirror, piling into the back, including a blind Mowsel in a beret, who grinned wide when he felt the man staring at him. He tilted his head in the man’s direction and removed his beret. “I smell the scent of the great river,” Mowsel said, “but tell me, sir, how is the baseball team faring, the one named for the Cardinal? I have heard much about them.” The driver continued to stare at Mowsel in silence for several moments, then turned to Jack. “Where to, mister? And is that kid for real?” Jack gave the driver Carolina’s address, then looked straight ahead and smiled. “You’ll have to ask him,” he said, “but as far as I can tell, they’re all for real.”

It was a tight squeeze for us on the ride to Carolina’s house, even with Opari sitting on my lap. I sat on the far right side and Mowsel sat on the far left with Geaxi to his right. Whispering in his ear, Geaxi described for Mowsel the people, automobiles, buildings, churches, trees and parks, anything and everything we passed, while he leaned his head out the open window to catch the changing scents and sounds along the way. Mowsel wanted to remember it, but more as a guide and internal map than an aesthetic experience. Ray sat in the middle and Nova sat pinched in next to me. At the intersection of Olive and Grand, I felt something prodding my right side and lower back. I asked Opari if she could reach down behind me and find what was causing it. She did and pulled out an old Post-Dispatch newspaper, rolled up and wedged between the seat and door. Opari unrolled it and read the date—May 7, 1937. The front page was covered with an enlarged photograph of the German zeppelin, Hindenburg, burning in the sky over Lakehurst, New Jersey, on the previous night. We had heard of the event in Cuba, but none of us had yet seen a photograph of it. In the photograph, underneath a massive ball of fire exploding above them, people could be seen running for their lives. None of us spoke. The photograph itself defined the horror of the tragedy. Opari began to roll the newspaper back the way it was, but Nova reached out and grabbed the newspaper and kept staring at the image and the photograph. She didn’t say a word or make a move. She didn’t even blink. She was frozen. Finally, Ray glanced at me, then ripped the newspaper from Nova’s hands and threw it out the window, which prompted the driver to yell something back at Ray. Ray ignored him and gently lowered Nova’s eyelids with his fingertips, then held his hand in place over her eyes. Gently, he pressed her head down on his shoulder and she relaxed, falling asleep the rest of the way.

“She has done this before, no?” Opari asked Ray.

Ray looked up at Opari and nodded, then whispered, “More than once.”

“Is she also having visions again?”

“No…not visions.”

“What then?” Opari whispered.

Ray turned his head as far to the right as he could and looked at me. “Dreams,” he said.

Carolina’s neighborhood was in full bloom. Overhanging trees and thick green hedges made her house barely visible until we turned into the long driveway. The driver let us out under the stone arch and Jack unlocked the big house first, then the carriage house above the garage and swung the louvered windows out wide. He told Ray to let Nova rest in Carolina’s room overlooking the “Honeycircle.” Jack said a soft breeze filled with the scent of honeysuckle might be just what she could use.

Geaxi, Opari, and I opened all the windows of the big house, letting the fresh air circulate. Jack had closed everything tight when he left for Cuba, nearly two months earlier. As I walked from room to room the hot, slightly musty air made the house seem old for the first time. In Caine’s room, I paused, then remembered something. I looked in his closet. I was fairly certain it would be there. I reached up and pulled down the shoe box where I knew he kept it, along with neat’s-foot oil and a clean cotton cloth. I took the lid off the shoe box and picked it up. It was small, made for a child, and old, a relic by modern standards, but the stitching still held and the leather was soft. I put one hand inside and pounded the pocket with the other. It was Mama’s glove and it fit me perfectly. I rubbed the pocket slowly with my fingers and thought about Mama. I could see her cutting and stitching the leather. She’d laughed at my first dream, which was baseball, but she’d also created with her own hands and imagination the means to pursue it. Mama gave me her glove and Papa gave me his baseball and they both gave me what was inside—the Stone of Dreams. Unconsciously, I reached down and felt for the ancient egg-shaped black rock. I took it out and held it in my palm, staring at it, wondering what it truly was, what it truly meant.

“Z…where are you?” It was Opari and she was standing in the doorway, but she didn’t see me in the closet. I walked out, holding the Stone and still wearing Mama’s glove. She glanced down at my hands. “Zianno, what are you doing?”

I paused, then slid the Stone back in my pocket, placed the glove back in the shoe box, and put the shoe box back on the shelf. I turned and walked over to Opari and took her hands in mine. I held them up to my lips and kissed her palms. I looked in her eyes and they were black as coal, just like Mama’s. “I suppose I was dreaming,” I said.

Opari smiled and kissed the back of my hands. “Then I must wake you,” she said, leading me toward the door. “Come, my love. Jack is about to open Carolina’s safe.”

We hurried downstairs and through the alcove leading to the little room Carolina called Georgia’s room. It was her sanctuary in the big house and always had been. Books filled the oak shelves and Georgia’s piano still sat in its place against the wall. Carolina’s beautiful cherrywood desk and Tiffany lamp rested in front of the only window in the room. Her desktop was crowded with photographs of Jack, Star and Caine, Owen Bramley in various parts of the world, and one picture each of Nicholas and Solomon. As we entered, Jack was opening the window for fresh air. Mowsel sat on Georgia’s piano bench, staring somewhere beyond the little room, and Geaxi sat next to him.

“Where’s Ray?” I asked.

“He stays with Nova,” Geaxi answered.

Just then, Ray burst through the door. “You ain’t opened it yet, have you? I love to open safes. You never know what you might find.”

I looked at him. “How’s Nova?”

“Asleep,” he said. “She’ll be fine in a while.”

I glanced at Opari and her expression said differently. She was concerned for Nova.

Ray walked over and ran his fingers along the edge of Carolina’s desk, admiring the grain and color of the wood. He sat down on the corner of the desk. “Where’s she hide it, Jack? No, don’t tell me. Don’t even move. Let me look around first and I’ll tell you where it is.”

Jack laughed and said, “All right, Ray—where is it?”

Ray had his beret in one hand. He placed it at the proper angle on his head and scanned every wall of the little room, then took three steps over to a space between the bookshelves where an oval mirror in a white frame hung on the wall. He grinned at the rest of us and gently pulled on the bottom of the frame. The mirror swung out on its hinges without a sound, revealing a square wall safe with a black combination lock. “Sometimes, it’s obvious,” Ray said. He removed his beret and took a deep bow, waving his beret in front of him.

We all laughed, including Mowsel, though I’m not sure he knew why, then Geaxi said, “Open the safe, Jack. Let us see what this ‘List’ contains.”

Jack read the numbers Carolina had given him and turned the lock four times, twice right and twice left, and the door opened. He shuffled through a few papers, mumbling to himself, “Deeds…contracts…property.” He took out the papers, along with pieces of jewelry and a few other things belonging to Carolina, and set them on the desk. He looked in the safe again and removed two items that were behind the papers. One of them I recognized. I’d seen it once before on the day it was put in the safe, the day of Solomon’s “remembering” in 1904. Scott Joplin had surprised Carolina and me in the little room and requested a favor. He had written an opera especially for Lily Marchand to sing, but she had disappeared. He wanted Carolina to keep the manuscript for him until she was found. Unfortunately, I was the one who found her two years later, butchered and murdered by the Fleur-du-Mal during a hurricane. Scott Joplin died a decade later without ever knowing what happened to Lily. Jack read the title of the piece, “A Guest of Honor—an Opera.” He also read an attached handwritten note that said, “This one’s for Lily, and only Lily—Scott.”

The other item was an elegant black lacquered box, probably Chinese, with the initials S.J.B. painted on top in crimson red. The box was old, yet still in excellent condition. Jack unfastened the tiny latch on the front and lifted the lid. He looked inside. “It’s a letter,” he said. Jack took the envelope out gently and laid it on Carolina’s desk. The paper was yellowed and fragile, but the ink of the writing was visible and clear. The letter was addressed to Solomon J. Birnbaum, Hotel de Mondego, in Macao. It was stamped and dated September 1, 1885. Jack handed the letter to me. “You knew him best, Z. You should read it.”

I took the two-page letter out of the envelope and unfolded it carefully, making sure not to tear the paper at the creases. The first page read:

The second page of the letter was filled with three columns of names. The first two listed the Giza who had known Sailor and the third listed the five who had “done business” with Xanti Otso. The names were in a dozen different languages and beside each name Captain Boutrain had written the man’s country of origin or the port where they had met. I read the lists out loud to everyone and no one recognized any of the names. Silently, I read over the lists again to myself. Suddenly one of the names looked familiar, then a face to match the name came to mind. It was the face of an old Ainu man I’d first met on the train to St. Louis, then again at Solomon’s “remembering.” There, through his granddaughter Shutratek, he asked me, “What do you keep alive?” It was an unusual question to ask and I never knew why he asked it. Still, I answered with the truth. I told him, “The Meq is what I keep alive.” My answer seemed to please him, but it definitely did not surprise him. Now I knew why. Sangea Hiramura was his name and I started to speak the name aloud and tell the others. I never got the chance.

Before I could say a word, Nova came stumbling in the room wearing only a torn cotton nightshirt. She was barefoot and covered with bleeding scratches on her arms and legs. She fell into Mowsel and Geaxi on the piano bench, sending them all to the floor. Ray rushed over to help Nova, while Geaxi got up on her own, pulling Mowsel up with her. Nova was conscious, but her eyes looked glazed and vacant, and her face was ghost white, except for ruby red lipstick smeared across her mouth. Tears mixed with heavy black eyeliner ran down her cheeks in black streams.

“Nova,” Ray said softly, holding her by the shoulders. “Come back, Nova…come on back to us…you can do it…you’re safe, Nova, you’re safe…come back now, darlin’…please…come back, baby.”

Nova’s knees buckled and she collapsed, but Ray held her shoulders and knelt to the floor with her slowly, letting Nova’s head come to rest in his lap. Opari hurried over to check her breathing and take her pulse. Jack said he’d get some water and a wet cloth from the kitchen and left the room. Mowsel asked Ray if Nova was conscious. Ray said, “I don’t know…maybe…her eyes won’t focus.” Ray was worried. This was much worse than anything Nova had been experiencing recently.

“Kiss her,” Geaxi said suddenly, almost laughing.

Everyone turned and looked at Geaxi. Mowsel angled his head sharply to the right and gradually, as he understood what Geaxi had said, opened his mouth in a wide grin and nodded his head up and down.

“What did you say?” I asked.

Geaxi looked at me, raising one eyebrow slightly. “I told Ray to kiss Nova, young Zezen. Was I not clear?”

“Yes, but…I don’t understand.”

“Geaxi is right,” Opari said. She looked up at me and smiled. “This is something you should know, my love, and I had nearly forgotten. It is older than all of us.” She looked back to Ray. “Kiss Nova on the lips, Ray, and she will wake, and wake as herself because she is your Ameq. This ancient gift is yours now, Ray,” Opari said. She reached out for my hand. “And ours, Zianno, if we should need it.”

“You got to be kiddin’ me,” Ray said. “Somethin’ that simple?” He didn’t hesitate and kissed Nova with passion. Nova’s smeared lips responded and she moaned once, as if she were being pulled from some other place. Ray held her close and after a few more seconds, backed away and looked in her eyes. She blinked several times, then focused and found Ray’s eyes. She lifted one hand and ran her fingers back and forth over Ray’s lips. No one spoke or moved. Slowly, deliberately, Nova turned her head to see where she was and who was in the room. She gazed down at her bare feet and felt the scratches on her arms and legs. Then she stared directly at me.

“What happened, Nova?” I asked.

“I had a dream, Zianno.”

“What about?”

Nova turned and glanced at Opari, Geaxi, and Mowsel. She touched Ray’s lips again and smiled, only it was a timid, fearful smile. She looked up at me and started to laugh, then stopped herself. “A balloon,” she said.

“A balloon?” I glanced once at Opari, then back to Nova. “What kind of balloon?”

Just then Jack ran into the little room with a glass of water in one hand and a dampened towel in the other. Nova looked up at him from the floor. “Nova!” Jack shouted. He was surprised to see her conscious. “Here,” he said, handing her the glass and giving the towel to Ray, who wiped Nova’s eyes, cheeks, and mouth clean, then helped her to her feet and into Carolina’s chair behind the desk. Nova took several sips of water and thanked Jack twice. He asked if she was all right, if she needed anything else? Nova said no, she was fine, and sat back in the chair. The faint scent of honeysuckle drifted in through the open window and across her face. Nova turned her head toward the scent and breathed in deeply. She closed her eyes once, then turned back to the rest of us, completely awake and alert.

“Tell us your dream, Nova…if you wish,” a voice said gently. It was Mowsel’s voice and even though he was blind, he knew Nova was herself again.

She turned to me. “It happened so fast, Zianno, it was terrifying…and it didn’t feel like a dream…it felt real.”

“Where were you?”

“In the dream, I awoke as I would in this world, except I was standing by a gate at the entrance to a castle. I don’t know where I was, but I was waiting for someone. It was late morning on a beautiful summer day and the castle was deep in the hills. I could see the coastline of a large bay in the distance to the west. The only sound I could hear was the sound of wind blowing through pine trees. Then the gate opened and an old woman walked out. She was no taller than me and kept her head bowed. Her hair was elaborately braided and she wore a blue silk kimono covered with embroidered pink and white cherry blossoms and birds of every color. ‘I am Murasaki Shikibu,’ she said. ‘I see you have found me.’ She raised her head and smiled, staring at me with green eyes. She had brilliant white teeth and her smile was bitter and sardonic. ‘Look to the west, Nova,’ the woman said, and I knew who she really was. I turned and far to the west across the bay I thought I saw a balloon rising high in the air and changing colors like a kaleidoscope. Yet, somehow, I also knew it wasn’t a balloon; it was something else, something evil beyond description. The old woman turned to me and threw off her kimono and wig, laughing long and loud. It was the Fleur-du-Mal. He looked me in the eye and inside I felt the deaths of a hundred thousand souls passing through me at once. I screamed and tried to run away, but I don’t remember where I ran. I just ran and ran.” Nova looked down at the scratches on her arms and legs. They were already healing. “I must have jumped out of Carolina’s room into the honeysuckle bushes. The next thing I remember is waking to Ray’s kiss.”

For a moment no one spoke. I glanced from face to face to see if anyone knew what the dream might mean or portend. Geaxi asked Nova if she had dreamed of the Fleur-du-Mal before. Nova said, “Never.” Mowsel leaned forward and asked if she had ever been to Japan. “Never.” Opari asked the central question: “If the balloon was not a balloon, what was it?” Nova couldn’t answer; she only knew it was unspeakable. I asked, “Who is Murasaki Shikibu?” Nova shook her head back and forth. “I’ve never heard of her, Zianno.”

“I have,” Jack said. He was standing by Carolina’s bookshelves. He scanned the shelves until he found a certain book and tossed it to me. “The Tale of Genji by Lady Murasaki,” Jack said. “Her full name was Murasaki Shikibu. Most people think it’s the first novel ever written. She wrote it almost a thousand years ago.”

I looked at Nova. “Have you read this book?”

“Never.”

A few seconds passed in silence. No one knew what any of it meant, but we were all in agreement that the appearance of the Fleur-du-Mal in Nova’s dream must not be ignored. Geaxi said, “Zeru-Meq is due to arrive soon. Perhaps what he has to say will shed some light.”

Ray walked over to the open window and looked up through the trees, surveying the sky. It was cloudless and bright blue. “Well, I just hope he don’t come tomorrow. He won’t like it.”

“Why not?” Jack asked.

“There’s gonna be thunder, rain, and lightnin’ all day long, maybe worse.”

“How do you know that? Today’s a perfect day.”

Ray swiveled his head and grinned at Jack, but didn’t say a word.

I said, “Because he’s the Weatherman, Jack,” and Ray gave me a wink.

Ray was right, of course. Just before dawn, booming thunder woke us all and by the end of the day three separate storm systems had moved through St. Louis from the west. Ray grinned every time he saw Jack that day. On the sixth of June, the Cardinals played a doubleheader against the Phillies at Sportsman’s Park. Jack, Opari, Ray, and I went early and took our seats in Carolina’s box. Opari had become an avid fan of baseball. She even wore a Cardinals’ ball cap to the game, but took it off when she overheard someone behind her say, “What a cute little girl!” The Cardinals won the first game 7–2 and the umpire, “Ziggy” Sears, ended the second game early by calling a forfeit in the fifth inning and giving the win to the Cardinals. The Phillies had gone into a stall, trying to slow the game down until the Sunday curfew would cancel the game. The fans booed the Phillies off the field. On the way home, Opari asked about the unusual event. I told her in the game of baseball, the Phillies had tried a tactic that was more cheating than strategy, and such a play was against the rules. And in baseball, the umpire starts the game and can end the game, if necessary. On the field of play, he is the final authority.

“Zeru-Meq will find this game amusing,” Opari said. “He will like these odd nuances.”

“Speaking of Zeru-Meq, I thought he liked to arrive earlier than expected. Where is he?”

“I said he may arrive early, it has been one of his patterns, but nothing about Zeru-Meq is expected or predictable, my love. Zeru-Meq is his own umpire.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, groaning slightly. “I remember China.”

June 8 passed uneventfully and without a word or sign from Zeru-Meq. No one expressed concern. On June 13, the Browns played the Yankees in a doubleheader. Ray and I decided to go, even though we rarely attended Browns’ games. Both of us were anxious to see the second-year center fielder for the Yankees, Joe DiMaggio. Jack was covering the doubleheader for the Post-Dispatch and let Ray and me sit with him in the press box. In the second game, Joe DiMaggio smacked three home runs and made several great defensive plays. DiMaggio’s third home run towered over the center field fence and was caught by a kid who made a spectacular bare-handed catch. The kid waved the ball high in the air, then removed his cap and took several deep bows, which drew laughter from the big crowd. I couldn’t see the kid’s face clearly, so I borrowed Jack’s binoculars and focused on the center field bleachers, but the kid had already disappeared somewhere among the fans.

That night, long after dinner, Opari, Ray, and I walked the short distance to Carolina’s “Honeycircle” to have a quiet conversation about Nova. While we talked, Ray was catching lightning bugs and then letting them go. Opari stood by Baju’s sundial and I was sitting on the grass next to her. At one point, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow moving silently into the opening of the “Honeycircle.” I turned my head slowly. In the darkness, I could see the dark figure of a boy, standing with his legs spread wide and his hands on his hips. I panicked at first, remembering the Fleur-du-Mal’s figure standing over me in almost the exact same place the night he slashed every tendon in my knees and shoulders. I jumped to my feet and faced him. There was just enough moonlight to see he was wearing boots laced to the knees and some sort of gem on one hand because it sparkled in the faint light. He started toward me and I knew he wasn’t the Fleur-du-Mal.

“Zeru-Meq?” I asked.

The boy took another step. “I should think not,” he said, and kept walking until we could all see his face easily.

Opari laughed and said, “Hello, Sailor.”

Sailor tossed a baseball he was holding to me. When I caught it, he asked, “Did you see the catch, Zianno?”

I didn’t understand until I glanced at the ball. It was an authentic Major League baseball. “That was you today, the kid in the center field bleachers?”

Sailor didn’t answer, but asked if I was aware of the fact that the stitching on a baseball was remarkably similar to an ancient design for infinity. Then he asked, “Did you find the ‘List’?”

“Yes,” I said. “What about—”

Sailor cut me off. “I will explain later, Zianno.”

“But the letter from Zeru-Meq?”

“A necessary ruse,” Sailor said, glancing over at Baju’s Roman sundial. He stood in silence for a few moments admiring the ancient timepiece before he spoke. “Last week, on the eighth of June, in the Pacific and on the coast of Peru, there was a Bitxileiho. Totality exceeded seven minutes. The last time this occurred was over eight hundred years ago.” He paused. “Baju and I were there,” he said, then looked away quickly. He offered his arm to Opari and she smiled, folding her arm in his. “Shall we go inside?” Sailor asked, and started walking toward the big house before Ray or I could move.

“Damn,” Ray said.

“I suppose that means yes,” Sailor said over his shoulder.

I was surprised Sailor didn’t ask to see the “List” the moment we stepped inside. Instead, he suggested tea in the kitchen. Geaxi and Mowsel had gone for a walk in Forest Park. Nova was washing dishes and Jack was sitting at the table writing a letter to Carolina and Star. The popular song “My Funny Valentine” was playing on the radio in the next room. Sailor greeted Jack warmly, then walked over to Nova and embraced her. “How is my niece?” he asked quietly. I had never heard Sailor address Nova as “niece” and he seemed to be acutely aware of her recent fragile state of mind. Nova assured him she was fine. Jack left to turn the radio off and the rest of us took our seats around the table. Except for his boots, Sailor was dressed like any other kid in America. He even had a floppy, snap-brimmed cap exactly like the caddies at the golf course in Forest Park. He said he wanted to hear everything that had happened to Pello and his tribe in Spain. He knew there had been many deaths, but he wanted to know the extent. Opari prepared the tea while I tried to relate some of what Geaxi had told us about the bombing of Guernica. Sailor listened without moving. His “ghost eye” glazed and clouded and swirled. He was horrified. I hadn’t yet told him of Mowsel’s blindness when the kitchen door burst open and in walked Mowsel himself, followed by Geaxi.

Mowsel almost bumped the table. He stopped short and felt his way to an empty chair. He was mumbling something about glass greenhouses and light. Geaxi saw Sailor instantly and stood still in the doorway. Sailor watched Mowsel without saying a word. Then Mowsel suddenly fell silent and turned his head toward Sailor, but his eyes focused somewhere on the ceiling. He grinned and said, “Do I smell the sea or is that merely the scent of an old mariner?”

Sailor made no response. He glanced once at Geaxi, who said nothing. He moved his chair closer to Mowsel and held his hand up in front of Mowsel’s face. Mowsel continued to stare at the ceiling. Sailor leaned even closer. “How long have you been blind, old friend?”

Without hesitation, Mowsel answered, “Since Guernica.”

Sailor paused. “Do you think it is permanent?”

Mowsel dropped his grin and angled his head in the opposite direction. He seemed to be remembering something, maybe Guernica. “It is possible,” he said.

Sailor looked up to see if Jack was in the room. He wasn’t. Sailor’s jaw was set tight with anger and he twirled the blue sapphire on his forefinger round and round. I hadn’t seen him that way since northern Africa when he told me about the Greeks who traded and sold the bones of the Meq who had been slaughtered in Phoenician temples. Sailor turned to me. “These Giza…” he said bitterly, “they will kill us yet.”

Opari leaned forward and laid her hands on the table. “We cannot change the Giza, Umla-Meq.”

“No, we cannot, but the Giza are changing everything else!”

Opari waited for Sailor to look at her. When he did, she pressed one hand against her chest, over her heart and over the Stone of Blood hanging from a leather necklace beneath her blouse. “We will survive, Sailor. We are Meq…we must.”

Mowsel reached out and found Sailor’s face with his right hand. He gave him a gentle slap on the cheek and grinned. “Do not worry, Umla-Meq, I am well, and Opari is correct—we must survive.”

Sailor started to respond just as Jack entered the kitchen. Jack looked at me and said, “I thought you might want to use Georgia’s room, so I opened the safe.”

Sailor glanced over at me. “The ‘List’?”

“Yes.”

He stood and motioned for me to lead the way. “Shall we, then?”

As we left the kitchen, Mowsel fell in behind Geaxi, never touching her and matching her step for step without running into anything. Sailor watched his longtime friend with admiration and affection. I even saw the hint of a smile cross his lips.

With all of us in Georgia’s room at once, it quickly became close and crowded. Sailor stood by the Tiffany lamp and read Antoine Boutrain’s letter without reaction or expression, except for a single nod of his head, as if confirming something. When he was finished, Geaxi asked him bluntly, “What is this about, Sailor?”

Jack had left as we entered and there were only Meq in the tiny room. I realized for the second time in my life, all five Stones had gathered in the same place. The last time had not gone well.

“Zianno,” Sailor said. “Do you recall our final conversation in Norway? I told you the Fleur-du-Mal now had a significant weakness because we knew something he did not.”

“That there is no Sixth Stone?”

“Precisely, and I said we could exploit his obsession.”

“Yes.”

“Our opportunity has arrived and we must act soon.” Sailor’s “ghost eye” swirled. He looked around the room from face to face.

“I’m confused,” I said, pointing at the letter. “What does the ‘List’ have to do with it?”

“Zeru-Meq and I recently became aware of this ‘List’ in Singapore, quite by accident through a family he has known and trusted for centuries. The family had once conducted several clandestine affairs with Captain Antoine Boutrain. I knew nothing of this ‘List’ and I am certain the Fleur-du-Mal is unaware of its existence. Someone on the third list, the list of five names who associated with Xanti Otso, has a descendant we must find and find soon.”

“Why?”

“He or she will likely know the exact location of the castle where Susheela the Ninth is imprisoned. Zuriaa is there. The Fleur-du-Mal is not. He seems to be working again, and at fever pitch, as well as searching for the Sixth Stone.”

“Now I am confused, old one,” Mowsel said, leaning his head to one side.

“I concur,” Geaxi added. “Make yourself clear, Sailor.”

Sailor rubbed the blue sapphire on his forefinger. “Yes, yes, of course, you are right. I shall begin where it began, which was India six months after leaving Norway. However, I suggest we do this in another room. This room is charming, Zianno, but not for seven of us on a summer night in this city.”

“It should be cool in the ‘Honeycircle,’” Nova suggested.

“Indeed,” Geaxi said, starting for the door with Mowsel a step or two behind.

On the way out, I whispered to Sailor, “I recognized one of the names on the list of five names. I met him briefly in 1904…and he knew I was Meq, I’m sure of it.”

Sailor stopped walking, completely surprised. He still held Antoine Boutrain’s letter in his hand. “Who is it?”

“Sangea Hiramura.”

“Japanese?”

“Yes and no. He was Ainu.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I doubt it. He was at least seventy-five then.”

“Tell me about him,” Sailor said. His “ghost eye” almost glowed.

“I will…after you tell the rest of your tale. I want to know what’s going on.”

Sailor nodded once. “Agreed,” he said.

“There’s something else. Opari and I discovered an unusual object in Cuba, as did Geaxi on Malta, almost simultaneously. They are old, Sailor, very old, and I know they have something to do with us, maybe the Remembering, or at least one Remembering. They were found underwater.”

Sailor gave me a quick glance. He seemed intrigued, but turned and started out of the tiny room. “Later,” he said.

We walked to the “Honeycircle” in silence. Overhead, only a few stars were visible through a dark haze of clouds. Traffic could be heard faintly in the distance, but Carolina’s neighborhood was still one of the most quiet neighborhoods in the city.

Everyone sat in a loose ring around Baju’s sundial. Sailor sat on the sundial’s stone base, while the rest of us were sitting on the grass, or in Ray’s case, lying on the grass. Lamps inside the carriage house shone through louvered shutters and cast long bars of light across Sailor’s face. “As I was saying,” he began. “Six months after leaving Norway, Zeru-Meq and I arrived in Madras. We had not yet seen, heard, nor felt a trace of the Fleur-du-Mal. In Madras, we were hoping to find the family of his Indian accomplice, Raza. In that effort we were unsuccessful. However, while we were there, on a whim, Zeru-Meq attended a Hindi gathering at which the pacifist leader, Gandhi, gave a passionate speech. When he returned he told me he felt the presence of his nephew at the event.

“Why the Fleur-du-Mal was present is still a mystery, but finally Zeru-Meq had a trail to track. Zeru-Meq has several unique abilities he has learned through meditation; however, I also learned Zeru-Meq has an innate ability to follow the Fleurdu-Mal without seeing him. We are not certain how or why this occurs, perhaps the reason is because he is the uncle of Xanti Otso. Whatever the answer, he is only able to sustain this ability at a certain distance, which is always difficult to predict. The Fleur-du-Mal moves rapidly, as we all know, and particularly so when he is working. Nevertheless, we followed his ‘trail’ to Goa.” Sailor paused for a moment, stroking the star sapphire on his forefinger. Then, suddenly, he asked Mowsel if he remembered their first voyage to Goa in the late 1500s. “Was the year 1581 or 1591?”

Mowsel angled his head toward Sailor’s voice and frowned. “It is you who are the Stone of Memory, Umla-Meq…you tease me, no? It was during the winter and spring of 1591. A magnificent voyage; we discovered a great deal.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sailor said quickly, all the time twirling the star sapphire as he spoke. He continued to talk and he talked for half an hour. When he finished, Sailor had revealed more about the Fleur-du-Mal, his activities, his motives, methods, moods, and madness than we’d ever known before, even how he began to establish bases of operation in India, Ceylon, Singapore, China, and Japan going as far back as the 1550s. It was as if Sailor had been corresponding with him—intimately, psychologically. We also learned Zeru-Meq was not and had not been in Singapore. Sailor wanted the Fleur-du-Mal to think the opposite, thus the “necessary ruse.” The Fleur-du-Mal had discovered he was being followed. The false letter Sailor wrote had enough veracity in it to be believable and was purposely allowed to fall into the Fleur-du-Mal’s hands. Meanwhile, Zeru-Meq continued his surveillance and Sailor was able to make his way to St. Louis. He also told us the Fleur-du-Mal had been working covertly for a Giza government, assassinating several political and social figures, though Sailor didn’t know which government or what country. The assassinations had occurred throughout Southeast Asia and along the coast of China and were becoming more frequent. The Fleur-du-Mal no longer took the time to carve roses into the backs of his victims, Sailor said. The kill itself, however, was the same—a quick and clean slash of the throat from ear to ear.

I wanted to ask the obvious question, but Geaxi beat me to it. “How do you know what you know, Sailor? You seem to have acquired a great deal of knowledge about the Fleur-du-Mal. No, you seem to know more than a great deal. How did you learn these things?”

Sailor hesitated. “She tells me.”

“She?”

“Susheela the Ninth,” Sailor said, and turned to me. “Through dreams, Zianno. She tells me through dreams, though they are infrequent and irregular.” Sailor looked at Opari. “She speaks in Deza’s voice, Opari. She uses Deza’s voice, but she is not Deza.” He looked back to Geaxi and glanced once at Mowsel. “She is…denbora dantza egin… like no other among us.”

“What the hell is that?” Ray asked.

“Timedancing,” Opari answered. She winked at me and smiled. “Ask Z about it, Ray.”

“What is it, Z?”

“Uh…well…it’s hard to describe, Ray. It’s kind of a strange balance you keep inside, like a weightless walking dream or a dance through time. You’re here, but you’re not here. It’s like a waltz with what’s real and what’s not.”

Ray stared at me, squinting, then he said, “Hell, I do that all the time.”

“What do you mean, ‘like no other’?” Geaxi asked Sailor.

“She goes deeper, much deeper, farther, and for as long as she desires. It is effortless for her. She is a master at it and this infuriates the Fleur-du-Mal. He has imprisoned her for it and vowed to keep her imprisoned until she tells him what she has done with the Sixth Stone.”

“Why?”

“Zeru-Meq says it is simply envy and jealousy. He calls his nephew ‘a sad and dangerous pilgrim who chases magic instead of truth.’ The Fleur-du-Mal is obsessed with powers he does not possess, particularly the ‘ability’ of timedancing. He has never been able to do it and knows he never will. He must endure his madness and his pain alone and in real time.”

“Why is that? Why can’t he do it?” Nova asked. She sat cross-legged with Ray’s head in her lap. Ray sat up when she spoke.

Sailor looked down at Nova, then at Ray. The long braid behind his ear fell forward into a shaft of light. The tassel on the end was weighted with an oval piece of polished onyx. “Because, like Ray, he was born with green eyes. He is Egipurdiko and the Fleur-du-Mal is fully aware that only Egizahar are able to cultivate this ‘ability.’ It is the one and only true difference between the ‘diko’ and the Egizahar.”

“Damn,” Ray said under his breath.

As Sailor spoke, I noticed whenever he mentioned Susheela the Ninth, his “ghost eye” cleared completely. He also stopped twirling and stroking the sapphire on his finger.

“What about the ‘List,’ Sailor,” I asked.

“A few decades before the Fleur-du-Mal found and purchased Askenfada in Norway with the assistance of Raza, he did the same in the Far East. One of the names on the list of five was the man or woman who acted as broker for Xanti Otso, finding and purchasing a well-fortified medieval castle somewhere on the Pacific rim in China or Japan. The descendants of this Giza will likely know of the castle and its location. We must find the castle while the Fleur-du-Mal is working and I am certain we do not have long. The Far East is quickly being usurped and occupied by the Japanese. Soon, travel may be difficult, even for us.”

Mowsel had not said a word. He kept his head bowed, listening to every word Sailor said without showing any emotion or expression. Slowly, he raised his head and leaned forward. “Will there be war in the East, Umla-Meq?”

Sailor looked at Mowsel and stood up on the stone pedestal of the sundial. He reached one hand out and ran his fingers along the edge of the bronze gnomon. In the darkness, the gnomon cast no shadow and told no time or season. “It is inevitable,” he said evenly. “And from what I read, and also what Zianno has told me of the German bombers in Guernica, there will be war in Europe as well.” Sailor paused and turned to face Mowsel. “It seems this time, old friend, these Giza are determined to slaughter each other by the millions.”

“What do you propose, Sailor?” Opari asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said, holding up Captain Antoine Boutrain’s letter between his thumb and forefinger like a winning card in a poker game, “we shall divide the names on the list of five among us and begin our search for each of them and their descendants.”

“This ain’t gonna be easy, Sailor,” Ray said. “Not if what you say about the Japanese bein’ everywhere is right. The word ‘difficult’ won’t be close to what we’ll run into. We’re gonna need some help.”

“He is correct, Sailor,” Geaxi said. She stood and began to pace the “Honeycircle.” Her steps made little or no sound in the grass.

Opari turned to me. “Jack,” she whispered and I knew immediately what she meant.

“Sailor,” I said, “give me a day or so. I think Jack might know someone who can help us.”

“Who is it?” Sailor asked.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know who it is.”

“Then why should he help us?”

“Owen Bramley knew the man. Owen left Jack a number to call in Washington if we ever truly needed help. When we wanted to leave Cuba together, and quickly, Jack contacted the man and the next day in Florida we were whisked through customs without being asked a single question.”

“And you do not know his name or identity?”

“Jack was only given the name ‘Cardinal’ and a password, ‘sunrise.’”

Sailor looked at Opari, Geaxi, and down at Mowsel. “Do you trust this elkarte, Trumoi-Meq, this association?”

“No, Umla-Meq, I do not. I believe it is Giza joku—adult games—they play. However, we must respect and trust the judgment of Owen Bramley. This has been proven many times.” Mowsel leaned his head in the opposite direction. “And we have no option, old one. If you think we should make haste in finding these names, Ray is correct, we will require help.”

Sailor looked at me. With no hesitation, he said, “Talk to Jack, Zianno. Find out what he can do, and soon.”

Nearby, within twelve feet but completely invisible in the darkness, Geaxi asked, “Sailor, why do we not pursue the Fleurdu-Mal before finding the castle? Is it not logical?”

A few seconds of silence followed. “We shall need Susheela the Ninth alive, Geaxi,” Sailor said. “We cannot eliminate the Fleur-du-Mal once and for all without her.”

A few more seconds passed. From the dark, Geaxi said, “I see.”

Sailor stepped down from the stone pedestal and took hold of Nova’s hand, pulling her upright and folding her arm in his. He started walking, leading both of them and us toward the opening in the “Honeycircle” and back to the big house. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a cat squeal, followed by a barking dog. “In the morning, Nova,” Sailor said, “I want to walk with you in Forest Park and tell you the story of your father and his wonderful sundial.”

I spoke with Jack the next day and told him our problem. He understood and agreed we should call “Cardinal.” He dialed the number in Washington and someone picked up the receiver after one ring, but said nothing. Jack used the password “sunrise.” Ten seconds later, “Cardinal” was on the line and Jack wasted no time in telling him exactly what we needed and gave him the list of five names. On the spur of the moment, Jack added that we could also use seven diplomatic passports. To everyone’s surprise, and without hesitation or even asking a single question, “Cardinal” said it would all be arranged. A week later, a plain brown package appeared one morning in Carolina’s driveway, lying alongside the Post-Dispatch. Jack opened the package on the kitchen table and spread the contents out. Five separate folders contained long dossiers on each of the five names plus dossiers on their descendants and their current addresses, except for Sangea Hiramura. His dossier contained a single sheet of paper with no information on him and only the names and history of three sons and one daughter, Shutratek, the same woman I spoke with on the train to St. Louis and again at Solomon’s “remembering.” The dossier said Shutratek had returned from the World’s Fair in 1904 and was still living in Hokkaido. Two of the sons had remained in Japan during the Fair. One son eventually moved to Tokyo and the other moved to Anchorage, Alaska, in 1915, where he disappeared. The fate of the third son, the one who had accompanied Sangea and Shutratek to St. Louis, was unknown. Along with dossiers, the package contained seven brand-new diplomatic passports for seven children from the same family in Brazil. The children looked remarkably like us. Jack laughed once, then dealt the passports out like playing cards to Nova, Ray, Geaxi, Mowsel, Sailor, Opari, and me.

Sailor mumbled under his breath, “I should like to meet this ‘Cardinal’ one day.”

“I think not,” Mowsel said, leaning his head toward Sailor. “Before you meet him, old one, I think we should know more about him than he seems to know about us.”

“Trumoi-Meq is correct,” Opari said.

“Agreed,” Geaxi added.

Sailor glanced once at Mowsel and turned to Jack. “If possible, try to find out who ‘Cardinal’ truly is, Jack.”

Jack said, “I’ll do my best, Sailor.”

All that day and night we discussed the names on the “List” and their dossiers. Sailor informed everyone of my connection to Sangea Hiramura and it was decided that Sailor and I should be the ones to find and track down his descendants. Among the five names, there was one other Japanese name. His descendants were now living in Manila and Nova and Ray would go there. Two of the remaining three names were Chinese, one of them a woman from Nanking and the other a merchant from Hong Kong. Opari chose to investigate the woman, saying the woman herself was not familiar, but the name was well known. Opari said the family had been a powerful and infamous force in the region since the Ming Dynasty. Geaxi and Mowsel chose the other Chinese name, mainly so Geaxi could fly across the Pacific in Pan American Airlines’ flying boat, the China Clipper. The last name on the “List” was American and his descendants now lived in Honolulu. Since there were no more of us to do it, Jack suggested he investigate the American and his family.

“The China Clipper leaves for Hong Kong from San Francisco,” he said. “She makes her first stop in Honolulu.” Jack paused and looked at each of us one by one. “Why not me?”

No one said a word for a moment or two, and it wasn’t me, or Opari, or Geaxi, Ray, Nova, or even Sailor who answered. It was Mowsel. He grinned wide, exposing his gap and tilting his head in Jack’s general direction. “Why not, indeed!” he said.

The Egizahar Meq may be able to use and develop various forms of dealing with time and the passage of time, including the elegant, bewitching, difficult, and conscious/unconscious art of timedancing. Most if not all of these skills and “abilities” involve the illusion of time slowing down. According to Sailor, Mowsel, and Opari, this has always been so. In a similar, but external and practical manner, all Meq possess the ability to mobilize and simply leave—anytime, anywhere, and for whatever length of time is necessary. This is not illusion. The Meq can and must be able to move. Our survival depends upon it.

Jack wasted no time in wiring Carolina and telling her he was closing the big house and going on the road for several weeks, maybe months. He kept his destination vague and said he would stay in touch. Then he informed the Post-Dispatch that he would be unavailable and out of the country until further notification, bought our train tickets, and by the end of June we were leaving Union Station and heading west. In San Francisco, on the Fourth of July, along with the rest of America, we celebrated Ray’s birthday. We spent the whole day taking long taxi rides back and forth across the new and beautiful Golden Gate Bridge.

We had made reservations on the China Clipper before we left St. Louis. Our departure date was set for the sixth. On the fifth, Jack picked up our tickets and itineraries for the long flight and brought them back to the hotel. In the package along with the tickets, there was an unmarked envelope with a neatly typed, two-page letter inside. It was unsigned, although there was little doubt who wrote the letter. It was from “Cardinal” and included a short, but comprehensive dossier on the third son of Sangea Hiramura, the one who had supposedly disappeared years earlier in Alaska. His name was Tomizo, though he was often called Sak or “strong wind.” The dossier listed an address in Juneau where he had lived as recently as 1935. “Cardinal” suggested we begin our search there. Since this was more information than we had on the other sons or Shutratek, Sailor and I changed our plans. Instead of flying to Hong Kong and sailing to Japan, we were going to Alaska. Sailor welcomed the new information, saying “Cardinal” seemed to have exquisite timing, then he turned to Jack with a wry smile. “I cannot help wondering, Jack,” Sailor said, giving me a quick glance, “are we being led, followed, or simply anticipated?”

“I can’t answer that,” Jack said. “But I can stop this thing right now, Sailor…if you want. You tell me and I’ll tell him and it’ll be over.”

“I do not think it would be that easy at this point,” Sailor said. “No, we must play it out. We must find the castle. If ‘Cardinal’ can help us in this, then so be it. We have no choice.”

“We always have choice, Sailor,” Geaxi remarked.

Without looking at her, Sailor said, “Not this time, Geaxi.”

The morning of July 6 began cold and foggy. In our hotel room, Opari and I woke early and stayed in bed all morning, holding each other and talking, telling stories, and laughing. We had spent the last few years being together almost every day. I would miss her more in this parting than ever before and she felt the same. I was learning once again the Itxaron, the Wait, only intensifies with time. Any and all partings and farewells become more difficult as the Wait lengthens. Both of us were learning to spend the precious hours and moments before departure, not by sharing our thoughts of separation, but our dreams of return.

Just before noon, the seven of us, plus Jack, met for a quick meal and Sailor outlined his plan. He suggested we relay all information concerning the castle through Jack in St. Louis. Sailor seemed to think Jack would be home in weeks and none of us would be searching longer than six or seven months. Mowsel didn’t agree, but we all agreed to relay our information through Jack. By one o’clock, the skies had cleared. An hour later, Sailor and I watched from the dock as the giant, luxurious, and graceful seaplane, the China Clipper, lifted out of the water of San Francisco Bay, circled in a wide arc, and flew directly above the Golden Gate Bridge, then disappeared over the horizon. Before the big plane was out of sight, I thought I caught a glimpse of Ray tipping his beret to us through his passenger window.

Sailor and I left the next day. On an impulse, we went shopping for new clothes. We packed them in our suitcases along with our Brazilian passports and boarded a train for Seattle. Though we didn’t know it at the time, that same day on the other side of the Pacific, Japanese forces were invading China at the Battle of Lugou Bridge, also known as Marco Polo Bridge. Once we were in Seattle, we booked passage on a small passenger ship, the Sophia, whose course north, according to their itinerary, “followed the whales to Alaska.” To Sailor and me, that sounded good enough.

On the beautiful trip up the coast, the weather held and most passengers roamed the decks of the ship constantly. Sailing inside Queen Charlotte Sound, the Sophia followed Hecate Strait, staying on the inside passages, stopping in Ketchikan, then on to Petersburg and beyond to Stephens Passage. The rugged, green coastline was visible nearly every day of the voyage. As Sailor and I became a common presence on deck, several of the women passengers commented on our comportment and good manners. They were impressed with Sailor’s English and the fact that two children could be traveling alone and without a chaperone. Sailor usually answered, “Brazil is very far away, madam. We have learned quickly.” Our story was a simple one: we were on our way to visit our uncle for a year. No one ever doubted the story and we raised no suspicions with the captain or crew. Ten days after leaving Seattle, the Sophia anchored in Juneau on the only bad weather day of the journey. The captain said he’d never seen such good weather hold for so long. In Juneau, a steady rain was falling, and it continued to fall. During the next four months, there were three clear days in Juneau.

On the first day there, we found the address “Cardinal” had given us. It was a boardinghouse a half mile up the hill from the docks on the north end of town. The tenants seemed to be mainly fishermen and longshoremen. Tomizo Hiramura was nowhere to be found, but he was remembered affectionately by the landlord, who even showed us a unique piece of sculpture he once received from Tomizo in lieu of rent. He handed the piece to Sailor for him to examine. It was part of an antler, hand-carved and sculpted into the shape of a hunter at sea, alone in his kayak. Tiny geometric shapes and symbols were etched into the kayak, and the whole piece was polished to a high sheen. Sailor ran his finger lightly over the shapes and glanced at me. “Ainu,” he said. The bottom of the kayak had been flattened so the piece could sit on a mantel or table. Sailor turned it over and carved into the base was the name Sak. The landlord said he’d heard the odd man was still in Juneau; however, he hadn’t seen him.

A little over four months later, we were still in Juneau ourselves, searching, asking questions, and coming up empty. It occurred to me that every time Sailor and I had ever gone searching for something or someone, they always became impossible to find. In December, another worry clouded my mind. We learned from the newspapers that the Japanese had taken over Nanking and a massacre of the civilian population was rumored to be taking place. My singular thought and worry was Opari. I knew she was in extreme danger and I could do nothing about it. Sailor reminded me Opari was much more acquainted than were the Japanese with the people and landscape around Nanking. She would be able to intuit who to see and where to go well ahead of the Japanese. “And do not forget, Zianno, she carries one of these,” Sailor said. He reached inside his shirt and slowly extracted the Stone, which hung from a leather necklace. I knew he was right, and tried to put it out of my mind, but my dreams became continually more restless and filled with horrific images for weeks.

On a tip from a salmon fisherman, we flew by bush plane to the town of Sitka, where we spent the rest of the winter. The days were short, wet, cold, and dark. We traveled on to Valdez on another tip, but found no current or reliable information on Tomizo Hiramura, though many people had recollections of him. From Valdez, we followed leads to several small coastal towns and a few villages. By the end of summer, we were staying in Seward. We had no luck in Seward either; however, they did have an excellent local semipro baseball team and I went to every home game. We lived the better part of the next year on, in, and around Kodiak Island, one of the most beautiful and isolated places we’d been. We met fishermen from all over the world, including Russians, Norwegians, Japanese, and native Aleuts. Tomizo was not among them.

Moving around Alaska at that time was not too difficult for two twelve-year-olds on their own. Alaska was still a territory and not yet a state, which meant most things were a little more wide open. Sailor and I often drew stares, but never a question. Most Alaskans had seen stranger things than the two of us.

The country is so big and so wild it is difficult to describe in any language. It must be experienced. Mountains and coast, coast and mountains, Alaska seems to never end. From Kodiak Island we went to Kenai, based on a conversation we had with a potter. He showed us a beautiful bowl he had been given. It was decorated in an ancient style the potter called jomon. I turned to Sailor and asked, “Ainu?” Sailor nodded yes. The bowl also had “Sak” etched into the base.

That same night, there was a display in the skies over Kenai like I had never seen before, even in Norway. The northern lights shimmered and danced above us in five, six, seven shades of blue and no other color—only infinite folding curtains of blue, opening and closing all night long across the sky. Sailor and I walked along the shoreline, watching and talking about the Meq. Sailor spoke at length of missing friends and family. He shared memories of Eder, Baju, Unai, Usoa, and also related several adventures he’d had with my own mama and papa, Xamurra and Yaldi. We discussed Nova’s dreams and Sailor showed deep concern for Nova. We talked again about the stone spheres and Sailor asked a few questions about where they’d been found and by whom. At some point, I brought up the Fleur-du-Mal.

“Why does he do it, Sailor?”

“Do what, Zianno?”

“All of it…every despicable act! Murder, torture—name it. Why does he hate so much and so many? What happened to him? And why is he so obsessed with the Sixth Stone? Why doesn’t he believe Susheela the Ninth and just let her go?”

“Firstly, he cannot let anything go. There lies his true problem. Secondly, you have asked two questions, Zianno. It is ironic both questions seem to have the identical answer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you recall in Norway when Zeru-Meq confronted his nephew?”

“Yes. Zeru-Meq told him he knew why Xanti wanted the Sixth Stone and he ‘saw what he saw.’ I have always wondered what he meant and what it was Zeru-Meq ‘saw.’”

Sailor paused and looked up again at the northern lights. He turned his star sapphire between his thumb and forefinger. “I also wondered these things. Once we left Norway, I confronted him directly and asked him to tell me what he had ‘seen.’ If Zeru-Meq had not been the one to tell me, I never would have believed it. But, alas, Zeru-Meq never lies.”

“What did he see?”

“And Xanti was only twenty-two months old at the time.”

“Sailor, what did Zeru-Meq see?”

“In my opinion, he saw nothing less than the birth of the Fleur-du-Mal!”

I looked at Sailor dumbfounded. “I’m lost. Please…start at the beginning.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, glancing up at the sky once more. Dawn was at least an hour away and the northern lights still danced above us, but we both knew a fog bank would soon be creeping into Cook Inlet and within thirty minutes everything would be obscured. “I suggest we return to the hotel room,” Sailor said. “I shall relate exactly what Zeru-Meq witnessed and then you divine its meaning. I tell you, Zianno, this incident explains everything.”

An hour later, Sailor had finished talking. He was sitting in the one chair the room had to offer and I sat on the edge of my bed. Like Sailor when he had heard the story, I could barely believe it. It sounded impossible, especially for a twenty-two-month-old Xanti Otso. The incident had occurred 2,128 years ago in Sabratha, Xanti’s birthplace. His father’s name was Matai and he was on the run from the invading Romans. Matai was Meq, but he had also been a known assassin for Hannibal and other Carthaginian generals. Hilargi, Xanti’s mother and Zeru-Meq’s sister, had asked to leave Sabratha and escape to Spain as soon as possible. Zeru-Meq was to assist them down the coast to a small village where he had arranged a clandestine crossing to Spain with a Basque fisherman. Hoping to surprise his sister, he arrived in Sabratha a day earlier than expected. As he approached the small house, he heard a woman screaming. It was Hilargi. Zeru-Meq rushed inside to see Matai standing over Hilargi, who was on the floor, bleeding and dying with a knife plunged deep in her throat. Rose stems and rose petals were scattered around her. Matai’s face and hands were covered with scratches. Xanti sat on the floor ten feet away. In his hands, he held two wooden toy blocks Zeru-Meq had made for him. He was staring without emotion at Matai. In the next instant, a kitchen knife came flying through the air and plunged into Matai’s throat. He fell to his knees, then looked once at Xanti and collapsed on top of Hilargi, rolling over and gagging. He died within seconds. Zeru-Meq glanced down at his nephew, but Xanti said nothing and did nothing. He simply stared at Matai. No one had thrown the knife. Zeru-Meq is confident there is only one explanation—Xanti did it with his mind. For what reason, he never found out. The boy never said a word then and he has never used telekinesis again, but Zeru-Meq thinks Xanti has been driven ever since by an insatiable desire to regain this ability and power. Zeru-Meq says Xanti believes the Sixth Stone will give it to him.

“Do you not see the pattern, Zianno?” Sailor asked. “The Fleur-du-Mal seeks dominion over everything and everyone. He has developed acute abilities and skills which no other Egipurdiko Meq has ever possessed, before or since. He flaunts all things Meq simply because he can, as well as curses and spells, such as the one in Mali—the ‘Lie’ and the ‘Prophesy.’ However, all this aberrant and perverse ambition is driven by his true desire and obsession for the one ‘ability’ he craves more than all others—telekinesis. It is because he has lost this ‘ability’ and cannot regain it that his madness was born, thus the Fleur-du-Mal.”

I let a moment or two pass and thought about what Zeru-Meq had seen and Sailor’s theory about what it meant. I wasn’t sure if the theory was the correct one or not. There were so many contradictory facts concerning the Fleur-du-Mal. Sailor’s theory seemed too simple and predictable for Xanti Otso. I’d looked in his green eyes many times and each time there were more heads than one on the beast inside.

“Did you know Matai Otso, Sailor?”

“No, I did not. He had an unsavory reputation to say the least, yet he was never said to be unstable or particularly vicious. He was merely known as a reliable and efficient killer.”

“Did you know Hilargi?”

“Yes, I knew her well. She and Zeru-Meq had a bond as close as twins although she was five years his junior. Hilargi had a pure heart, a warm smile, and a quick wit. I shall never understand why she crossed in the Zeharkatu, nor shall Zeru-Meq.” Sailor paused and sat forward in his chair. “Zianno, regardless of the Fleur-du-Mal’s motives, we must free Susheela the Ninth. This is imperative!” Sailor’s “ghost eye” cleared instantly.

I hadn’t heard him mention Susheela the Ninth in some time. “Have you heard…the voice recently? In your dreams?”

“Do you mean Deza or Susheela the Ninth?” Sailor asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Either…both.”

Sailor remained silent for a full ten seconds. “No,” he said finally.

Sailor and I left Kenai for Anchorage soon after, where we lived through the winter and spring, the “long season” I called it because of the many short days and long, dark nights. In Anchorage, I was able to contact St. Louis. I was surprised but pleased to hear Carolina’s voice. She had returned to St. Louis earlier in the year when Jack told her he would be away from St. Louis for an extended length of time. I asked if she knew where he was going. Carolina said Jack told her he was “on assignment.” “For whom, the Post-Dispatch?” I asked. “He never said,” Carolina answered. She also mentioned she had been in touch with Star, Willie, and Caine in Cornwall, and Mitch in Paris. They all feared war was inevitable in Europe. Caine was in his second year at Cambridge and Carolina was worried. I asked if she’d heard anything from one of us. “Not a word,” she said, then added, “Z, are you all right?” I assured her I was fine and so was Sailor and I promised to write a long letter. It would be over two years before I did, and under much different circumstances.

During that spring in Anchorage, Sailor found and befriended a local taxidermist who had met with Tomizo Hiramura the previous year concerning various methods of mounting large birds of prey, such as hawks and eagles. This was puzzling information, but it was our first lead in months. The taxidermist believed Tomizo had relocated to the interior, possibly to Fairbanks.

After paying too much for a bush pilot and a flight to Fairbanks, our frustrations only began to multiply. Not one person we spoke with had ever heard of Tomizo, and life for two boys traveling alone became more difficult daily. It was much harder to remain anonymous in Fairbanks. We left two months later with nothing but a piece of advice, which Sailor construed to be a good clue—the best place to watch eagles. An old man in Fairbanks had told him to go to Homer where the eagles were “thick as crows.” We reached the little town of Homer at the far end of the Kenai Peninsula in six days, one day after war had been declared in Europe.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun was already a faded, pale yellow far to the west. Low, broken clouds spread across the sky. Sailor and I walked the length and breadth of Homer in twenty minutes. Sailor said he felt an odd sensation, but didn’t elaborate. At the south end of town, jutting out on a spit of land and rock, was a restaurant and saloon with its own sizable dock and direct access to the sea. As we approached, we detoured down to the water’s edge and made our way toward the dock. Suddenly Sailor stopped in his tracks, holding me back and pointing to a lone figure of a man squatting on the dock, staring up at the forest of pines and boulders in the hills above the restaurant. We followed the man’s gaze with our eyes. “Eagles,” Sailor said, and he was right. I could see at least fifty or sixty bald eagles perched in the tops of trees and maybe twenty more in the air, circling and soaring. We walked the ten paces separating us, stopping just short of the dock. The man had his back to us. He was wearing baggy trousers and a heavy, plaid shirt. His hair was dark and thick.

Sailor said, “Sak?”

The man turned in one motion and stared at both of us without saying a word or showing any expression. Gradually, a trace of a smile crossed his face and he reached inside his pocket, fumbling for something. He found it and extended his arm with a closed fist toward Sailor. Then the man surprised us more than we had surprised him. He turned his hand over and opened his palm, offering Sailor a small cube of salt and uttering the oldest of Meq greetings. “Egibizirik bilatu,” he said. “I am Sak.”

Sailor glanced once at me and turned back to Tomizo Hiramura, saying something I had never heard him say to a Giza. “I am Umla-Meq,” he said, “Egizahar Meq, through the tribe of Berones, protectors of the Stone of Memory.” After that, he introduced me in the same manner.

Sailor then dropped his formal speech, but continued talking. Once again I was amazed by his facility with languages. Speaking to Sak in the same even tone he always used, he spoke for twenty minutes. There was nothing unusual about that, except it was in fluent Ainu, a language I had never heard, nor had many others. I had no idea what Sailor said; however, I heard him mention the Fleur-du-Mal twice. He finished abruptly. He bowed his head once, saying in English, “I thank you for listening to the foolish tale of a foolish traveler.”

Silence followed for a moment with Sak and Sailor staring at each other. Sak was only a few inches taller than Sailor and me. He had a wide, square jaw with a thick beard and thick eyebrows over dark eyes, and looked to be about forty to forty-five years old. He and Sailor stood on the dock nearly eye level with each other. In the late light, the only eagles visible were the few still in the air.

A hint of a smile appeared again on Sak’s face. In a deep and clear voice he said, “What do you wish of me, akor ak?”

Within twenty-four hours the three of us were in Anchorage and booking passage to Nome. In that short span of time, Sailor had learned that Sak did know of a casi, or mountain castle, purchased around the turn of the century in Japan by his father and sold to a Meq known to the family only as Xanti. The location of the castle was kept secret, even from Sak, but he said his brother, Nozomi, could find out. I wondered how Sak had known the oldest of Meq greetings, “Egibizirik bilatu,” which roughly translated means “the long-living truth, well-searched for.” I learned from Sailor the ancestors of Pello and the ancestors of Sak were part of the same great clan of Giza who were seafarers and travelers during and after the Time of Ice. Using reindeer hides for sails they navigated the world’s oceans and seas for millennia, migrating immense distances, trading knowledge of the sea, sailing techniques and technologies, culture, and most of all—language. Sailor believed the Ainu tongue, at its root, is the only language on the planet similar to Basque. Sak agreed to help us and even lead us to someone he called “the Russian cousin,” who would take us into Japan without being noticed. Sak seemed more perplexed at how we became aware of his existence at all, let alone found him. Sailor didn’t tell him about “Cardinal,” but he did mention Solomon, whom Sak had heard his father and sister speak of many times and always with great respect.

Landing in Nome, we disembarked just as the first winter winds swept in from Siberia. Sak led us to a small hotel in an older part of the historic town. Nome and the small hotel had both seen better days. A devastating fire in 1934, combined with the Great Depression, had taken its toll on Nome.

The storm that followed the winds gave Sailor and me time to get better acquainted with the odd, middle-aged Ainu, Tomizo Hiramura, or Sak as he preferred to be called. Sak had a keen mind and wit. He spoke English well, with only a slight accent, but he had a habit of incorporating slang terms and certain expressions that were purely his. For example, he called everyone “son” in the same way Mitch might use “man” to address someone, and every so often for no apparent reason, he would shout out the phrase “Holy Coyote!” None of this affected his efficiency, however. After the weather cleared, we traveled up the Seward Peninsula to the home of “the Russian cousin.” The man’s face was lined heavily and burned dark from years at sea. His name was Isipo and Sak introduced him as “the last of the Kuril Ainu.” Isipo owned a fishing trawler, which regularly sailed the coasts of Alaska and Russia, fishing mostly for salmon and trading with the native populations, and caring little for international laws and regulations. He could easily get us to the Russian port of Petropavlovsk in Kamchatka. From there, we could make our way through the Kuril Islands and into Hokkaido. Once we were safely in Japan, we could find Sak’s brother in Tokyo. Isipo assured us we could make the run before the weather got too rough. The plan sounded risky, but good, and Sailor and I put our complete trust in the two Ainu men, two of the strangest characters we’d met in years.

It took Isipo a mere four days to prepare the trawler and gather enough false papers and certificates of commerce to cover us if we happened to be stopped or boarded. Isipo set the time of departure for dawn the next day. Sailor and I used the time to shop for new clothes and footwear more suited for life at sea in rough, cold waters. In Nome, finding them in boys’ sizes wasn’t easy.

Sailor thought we should not send word to St. Louis about what we’d learned or where we were going. “What purpose would it serve?” he asked. “Even if Geaxi or Opari or any one of the others were to receive the information, it would be too late.”

“Too late?”

“Yes. If…no, I should say when the Japanese are finally at war with the West, the Fleur-du-Mal will surely return to his castle and Zuriaa, and especially Susheela the Ninth. He will not lose her nor take the chance of it. I have no doubt.”

“How do you know the Japanese will be at war with the West?”

“I have seen countless wars begin, Zianno. Except in scale, this one is no different. Believe me, another world war is coming. It is simply a matter of time.”

Luck was with us crossing the Bering Strait and sailing south to the fishing lanes along the coast of Russia. Isipo handled the trawler skillfully, while navigating our way through wild and turbulent seas. Many times, the troughs between waves sank twenty to thirty feet deep. Nevertheless, in a month, we were preparing to enter Avacha Bay and the city of Petropavlovsk. It was bitterly cold, but clear, and the majestic, snow-covered peaks of three separate volcanoes rose up behind and around the old port.

“Koryaksky, Avachinsky, and Kozelsky,” Isipo said, waving at each of them one by one. “Most beautiful,” he added with a grin.

There was a sizable Soviet naval force stationed in Petropavlovsk, as well as an extensive coast guard. Isipo was stopped by a small patrol boat and asked a few questions. Gratefully, we were cleared and told to proceed into port. We made repairs and restocked supplies, then set out for the Kurils the next day.

In three weeks, we’d snaked our way south as far as Kunashir Island, where we were surprised just after dawn by a Japanese naval patrol. While Sailor and I stayed silent and unseen in the background, Isipo showed the young lieutenant his false papers. The lieutenant scanned the papers and gave Isipo and Sak a hard, vicious look, followed by an expression of disgust. He turned and ordered his first officer to draw his pistol and arrest Isipo. Sailor and I glanced at each other. We hadn’t used the Stones in years, but we had no choice. Without hesitating, Sailor and I withdrew our Stones and held them out toward the two sailors.

“Lo geltitu, lo geltitu,” we droned in unison. “Ahaztu! Ahaztu!”

The lieutenant’s face suddenly clouded over with confusion and he instantly went blank. His first officer dropped his pistol on the deck and stared at it, as if the gun had no meaning whatsoever.

“Go like lambs, now, Giza. You will forget,” Sailor said in perfect Japanese. “Ahaztu!” he repeated.

The two sailors climbed slowly back into their patrol boat and the lieutenant walked numbly toward the bow and pointed with a weak finger in the direction of the port of Yuzhno-Kurilsk. In minutes, the patrol boat was over the horizon and Isipo headed the trawler south to Hokkaido. He and Sak never said a word about what they’d witnessed. They both seemed to have expected it. By the time the sun set, we’d cleared the straits and rounded the eastern coast of Hokkaido and were slipping into Kushiro as just another fishing boat, coming in a little late. After all that time in Alaska, we were finally in Japan. It was the last day of January 1940. That same night, Sailor’s dreams began again.

We said farewell to Isipo from the docks in Kushiro. He was going to return to Petropavlovsk and spend a few weeks, depending on the weather, and eventually sail home to Alaska and the Seward Peninsula. Sailor thanked him in Ainu and in Meq. Isipo nodded and shook our hands. His hands were strong and sinewy as rope. He told Sak to come home in one piece, then said good-bye.

We turned and disappeared fast. We had no legitimate identification, and wouldn’t have until we reached Sapporo and the home of Sak’s sister, Shutratek. It helped that Sak was an Ainu and he and Sailor spoke Japanese, but none of us were legal. We decided in case we were asked for identification, Sailor and I would pose as Portuguese orphans abandoned in Macao and rescued by Sak. Luckily, we had no confrontations because the story would never hold up to someone like the naval lieutenant we had encountered at sea. Neither Sailor nor I wanted to use the Stones again unless absolutely necessary.

We followed several lonely, wintry roads to Obihiro, catching short rides where we could. There weren’t many. Along the way, we exchanged our Western clothes, piece by piece, until we were indistinguishable in a crowd. In Obihiro, we obtained seats on the only bus traveling through the mountains to Sapporo. It was a long, beautiful, treacherous journey, and cold. Sailor seemed to doze and sleep often on the trip, much more than usual. Every time he woke he muttered a name under his breath. He said the name slowly, with his eyes closed and a faint smile on his lips. In a low whisper, he breathed, “Su…shee…la.” He said it with such quiet reverence, I could think of only one thing. I knew it didn’t make sense, but it sounded as if he was in love.

As we approached the outskirts of Sapporo, Sak seemed bewildered by how much the city had changed and grown since he’d last seen it. I asked how long it had been and he paused before answering. He was anxious and agitated. I knew something or someone had driven him from Sapporo and his family years earlier, but he’d never given a reason and I’d never asked. Sak said, “Thirty years next month.” His anxiety was understandable. He also had no gift to give his sister, and this seemed to upset him more than anything else. Sailor solved the problem by removing the piece of onyx hanging on the tassle of the small braid behind his ear. “This should suffice,” Sailor said. “It is very old and from very far away—Ethiopia.” He handed Sak the polished black stone. Sak accepted it humbly and thanked Sailor for saving him profound embarrassment.

Shutratek lived in a large complex of houses and buildings, all clinging to and around the sides of a steep hill. A wide veranda circled the house on three sides and made the view even better. Birch trees and scrub pine crowded the hillside. Falling snow kept the neighborhood quiet and traffic was light. Sak knocked once on the door.

When their eyes met Shutratek and Sak both began to cry. Neither made a sound. He presented her the stone and they held each other in silence and let the tears roll down their faces. Shutratek was in her mid-sixties; a short, stout woman with steel gray eyes and silver hair pulled back and tied in a bun at the back of her head. “My brother,” she said finally in Ainu. She looked once at Sailor, then over to me and smiled. I wondered if she remembered. “You have very old eyes for one so young,” she said. I laughed then, recalling what her father, Sangea, had told her to tell me on the train.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” I said.

Shutratek laughed along with me, a big hearty laugh for such a small woman. “Nineteen-oh-four,” she said. “Seems like yesterday.”

Shutratek served us a delicious fish and onion soup with noodles and she warmed her best sake. She smiled each time she looked in Sak’s eyes, but their reunion was bittersweet. Sak learned their father and his older brother, Nozomi, had been murdered only three years after Sak left Sapporo. He also learned his eldest brother, Bikki, the one who remained in the United States at the conclusion of the World’s Fair, had never come home. Shutratek and Sak were now each other’s last living relative. When Shutratek learned our purpose and the reason for Sak’s return was to find Xanti Otso and his fortress/prison, she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

“This one you seek,” she said, “he have green eyes, wear ruby earrings?”

“Yes!” Sailor interrupted. “Yes, he does.”

Shutratek turned and put both hands on her brother’s face. “This is same one who kill father and Nozomi,” she said. Waiting a moment, then speaking in Ainu, she said, “He carve roses in their backs, Tomizo.”

Sak was shocked, but I wasn’t, nor was Sailor. It made perfect sense in the Fleur-du-Mal’s mind to eliminate anyone who had assisted him in finding his fortress, then leave his grotesque signature and calling card behind for much darker reasons.

“Shutratek,” Sailor said, “do you know the location of this place?”

“No,” she answered. Shutratek saw the disappointment spread across Sailor’s face. “I never learn…they never tell,” she said.

I looked over at Sailor and he looked at me. His “ghost eye” clouded over and swirled. We were in Japan all right, but it felt like we were back at the beginning.

“We’ll find it, Sailor,” I said. “And we’ll find her.”

“I will go with you,” Sak said. There was a fury in his eyes I understood well.

“And so I,” Shutratek said, taking Sak’s hand in hers.

By April, our search was under way. We traveled together posing as grandparents and grandchildren. Sak and Shutratek played their parts well. Sailor and I darkened our faces and all of us dressed simply. We were rarely stopped and both Sak and Shutratek could ask our questions and make our inquiries. We used buses and trains, crisscrossing the landscape and following whatever information we could uncover, which was little or none. The hardest part of the puzzle was in knowing and defining exactly what we were seeking. The medieval castle of Japan is called a shiro and there were less than a hundred not in ruins. But as Sailor pointed out, the Fleur-du-Mal would prize the location of the fortress more than condition. He would have it renovated to his specifications regardless of its physical state. This made the number of possible locations increase tenfold. The entire northern island and province of Hokkaido was eliminated from the search because of its isolation. Tokyo was taken from the list for the opposite reason—it was too convenient and likely to be bombed first if war broke out. We thought it more probable the Fleur-du-Mal would choose somewhere in the mountains or along the coast. Therefore, we ignored the plains-type castles and fortresses and concentrated on the mountain castles, which are a different type of structure and all located in central and southern Honshu or on the island provinces of Shikoku and Kyushu.

That first summer and fall, Sailor remained patient in our search, although his dreams continued nightly. He didn’t talk about them, but gradually his eyes showed concern, frustration, and alarm. The military presence and increasing numbers of soldiers everywhere, combined with the fanatic actions, attitudes, and speeches of their leaders, made him feel certain war with the West was imminent. Sailor said he agreed with Zeru-Meq, who loved all of Japan and Japanese culture, but hated the Japanese Empire.

We pushed on through the winter and spring and into the following summer. The fall of 1941 found us in and around the ancient capital of Nara. By December, we had moved to Kyoto and were staying as guests of a Sumi-e master Sailor and Sak had befriended. On the eighth of December, Shutratek and I awoke early and walked down to the open market. As we entered, the smell of daikon was everywhere, overpowering and masking the other fresh scents in the market. Music was blaring through a loudspeaker directly above the daikon stand. At seven o’clock, the Japan Broadcasting Corporation began their first news broadcast of the day. The local population usually paid little attention to the radio, but that morning they all stopped precisely where they were standing and every one of them acted stunned by what they heard. I asked Shutratek what the man had said. She blinked once, as if waking herself, then translated literally: “The Army and Navy divisions of Imperial Headquarters jointly announced at six o’clock this morning, December 8, that the Imperial Army and Navy forces have begun hostilities against the American and British forces in the Pacific at dawn today.” World War II had finally erupted. From that moment on, I could not smell daikon without thinking of war.

That evening, Sailor and I discussed our plight and tried to speculate on where Opari, Geaxi, Mowsel, Ray, and Nova might be, or more accurately, where they got caught, because from now on it would be impossible to move at will. We also assumed we had missed our chance to find Susheela the Ninth before the Fleur-du-Mal returned. Sailor was certain the Fleurdu-Mal was already in Japan, or would be shortly. Once he returned, there was no predicting what he might have in mind for Susheela the Ninth. This thought upset Sailor visibly. His face tightened and his “ghost eye” clouded and blackened like a thunderstorm. Much later that night, Sailor shook me awake and held me by the shoulders, staring at me. His “ghost eye” was completely clear.

“She is awake,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Who? Who is awake?” I asked. Sailor looked furious. I had never seen him so angry.

“Susheela the Ninth is awake. She is no longer denbora dantza egin… timedancing.”

“Is that bad?”

Sailor spit out his answer in a bitter, low voice. “Zuriaa is torturing her, Zianno!”

From that moment on, World War II became agony for Sailor. Every day he sank deeper in despair because every night he heard the sighs and screams of Susheela the Ninth. I also began having another series of dreams about Opari. In the dreams, she was always alone, but I couldn’t quite reach her, and she was always standing among bodies, always the broken bodies. I would wake in a sweat, knowing she was on the planet somewhere. I ached inside to know where. News from anywhere other than Japan was unknown. I worried constantly for Arrosa, Koldo, Willie, Caine, and Star, who were probably in Europe and in harm’s way. Many times I wondered where Jack was and what he could be doing. I knew Carolina would be in St. Louis, waiting…waiting for all of us.

Still, we persisted. As Sailor put it, “Our war is with Time, not the Japanese.” The war did make everything we did and everywhere we went a dangerous activity. Strangers, even Ainus, asking strange questions on the home front during a war will only arouse suspicion and make people reluctant to answer. Sak and Shutratek never seemed to lose their resolve and their belief that we would surely find the fortress in the next town, near the next city, over the next hill. And we kept on, despite the war. We traveled to Osaka, Nagoya, Okayama, Kobe, and back to Kyoto. We saw the castles of Hamamatsu-Jo, Matsue-Jo, Odawara-Jo, and dozens of others, some completely intact and some completely in ruins. None had any connection to the Fleur-du-Mal, past or present. The years of 1942 and 1943 became a blur. We had no true idea of how the war was going. The Japanese only spoke of great and glorious victories for the Emperor, never defeats. But by the end of 1944, conditions had spiraled downward rapidly. Food shortages and clothing shortages were critical. There was little or no gasoline and oil. Bicycles and carts hauled most people and things around, and we even heard rumors Japan might be losing.

All this time, we were never once stopped or interrogated. Sak and Shutratek became good and close friends to Sailor and me. Shutratek had tremendous stamina for a woman in her mid-sixties, yet I could see in her face that our constant travel was taking its toll. Sak seemed to only get stronger as time went by. His clear obsession to avenge his father and brother drove him on like fuel.

In May, we learned of Germany’s surrender and Sailor and I believed an invasion of Japan could not be far away. Sailor feared the chaos of an invasion would be worse than existing conditions. Then the fire bombing of Tokyo and other cities increased and intensified and women and children were being evacuated from all the cities to anywhere available. Trains and roads became clogged or shut down, but by August, we were on the island province of Kyushu in the city of Kitakyushu. On the fifth, Sak and Shutratek visited Kokura Castle and met with the family of the staff who served under Mori Ogai at the turn of the twentieth century. Within minutes, we had our break. Not one, but two fortresses in the Nagasaki prefecture had been purchased and restored extensively during that time by the same buyer. One castle was in Nagasaki itself and the other fifteen miles away in the hills above Oomura Bay, northeast of the old Portuguese properties.

“There it is!” Sailor almost shouted. “There is our answer and I should have known it. The Fleur-du-Mal first came to Japanese shores with the Portuguese ships in the sixteenth century. He is familiar with this coast and these ports. This is the place and Susheela the Ninth is in one of those castles.” Sailor paused and looked at me. He was more excited than I’d seen him in four years. “We have found her, Zianno.”

Taking the train south on the morning of the sixth, I asked Sailor if the Fleur-du-Mal was in Japan, where was Zeru-Meq? Sailor said there was no way to know, then he reminded me that the Meq assume survival and Zeru-Meq had seen many wars in many places and always survived.

“This war is different, Sailor.”

“I am aware of that, Zianno, but so is Zeru-Meq.”

Unknown to us, an hour earlier on the island of Shikoku, the city of Hiroshima and a hundred thousand lives had been obliterated in an instant by an atomic bomb nicknamed Little Boy.

Sak and Shutratek had only been given the districts where the castles were sold, not their exact locations. However, they were said to be so distinctive, neither could be missed—massive five-story structures of stone, wood, and tile, surrounded by moats and gardens and stone walls seven feet thick. It was Sailor’s plan to go to Nagasaki, then decide which castle to seek first. We stepped off the train in Nagasaki Station at three o’clock. The station was crowded as usual with soldiers. We walked through quickly and then out into a sprawling port city on a beautiful summer day. Finding a place to stay was difficult, but in an hour or so, Sak had found decent lodgings. It wasn’t until the next morning that the first full reports from Hiroshima began to surface. When we heard the number of estimated dead, we didn’t believe it. It was impossible, too many to imagine. A few reports mentioned a “super-bomb” and a “white light brighter than the sun.” None of us knew what that meant, but Sailor thought it was only the beginning.

“The invasion is upon us,” Sailor said. “This horrendous event means we must find the castles immediately.” The map of the entire Nagasaki prefecture was laid out on the table in front of him. Sailor looked down at the map, then at me. “We should divide into two parties,” he said. “Zianno, you and Shutratek search for the castle in the hills to the northeast of Oomura, while Sak and I search for the one in Nagasaki. Do not try to enter the castle if you find it.” Sailor looked hard at Sak and Shutratek and told them the Fleur-du-Mal was dangerous, extremely dangerous, and should never be taken on alone. “We shall meet back here in two days. If one of us has found the castle, then we return together. Agreed?” No one said a word, but we all agreed.

Shutratek and I left for Nagasaki Station and transferred to Oomura. From Oomura, we walked up sloping, winding streets to the district where the castle might be located. We passed dozens of Western-style buildings and residential areas, asking questions along the way, describing the castle as it was described to us. The day was warm and we walked miles without learning anything. The next day went the same and Shutratek and I both fell into a deep sleep not long after sunset and didn’t wake until after dawn. I had a dream just before waking and the sound I heard in the dream was one of the strangest I’d ever heard. I heard the sound of an entire forest falling.

On the morning of August 9, we dressed and left for a breakfast of rice cakes and miso, then began canvassing higher in the hills of the district. About ten o’clock, we stopped at a newspaper stand to read about Hiroshima. I mentioned the castle to the old vendor at the stand and asked if he knew its location. We got lucky. He told us where the castle was and how to get there. I had one 1906 double eagle American gold piece in my trousers that I’d always kept with me. I gave it to the vendor and Shutratek and I walked farther up into the hills toward the castle. After a long climb of nearly an hour, we rounded a corner and suddenly saw the ancient stone walls rising and the castle beyond the walls. A canopy of trees hung over the castle. There was only one gate and it was in the wall on the south side. It looked as if a drawbridge had been in its place at some time in the past. We crept closer to the gate. Shutratek looked at her watch. She was sweating heavily. The time was eleven o’clock and we were supposed to meet Sailor and Sak in Nagasaki at noon. But we couldn’t leave now. We had to get closer. About twenty feet from the gate, I noticed the gate was open slightly, maybe the width of a hand. I couldn’t resist; I had to look inside. I took a step.

Then it happened. A white light flashed everywhere at once for a split second. It was as if God had taken a snapshot with a flashbulb. Several seconds later, the ground rolled beneath us and we heard the distant blast. We turned to see something rising over Urakami Valley, a ball rising, changing colors from pink to purple to gold—a balloon! I saw Nova’s awful balloon rising over a city that Shutratek and I knew no longer existed.

Shutratek shouted, “Sak!” then fell at my feet unconscious and dying. She’d had a massive heart attack. I bent to pick her up. I held her head and tried to make her breathe in, but she never did. She never breathed and she never awoke. I closed her eyes with my hand and laid her down. I looked up again at the balloon, climbing ten thousand, twenty thousand feet in the sky and trailing a long tail of white and black smoke.

“Sailor,” I said, “Sailor.”

A moment later, from somewhere above and behind me on top of the stone wall, I heard a voice. I knew the voice well.

“Bonjour, mon petit,” he said.