by Greg Weisman
SPIRITS OF ASH AND FOAM
ALSO BY GREG WEISMAN
Rain of the Ghosts
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SPIRITS OF ASH AND FOAM.
Copyright 2014 by Greg Weisman. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Designed by Anna Gorovoy
Map by Rhys Davies
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK
ISBN 978-1-250-02982-9 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-02981-2 (e-book)
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First Edition: May 2014
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
TO SHEILA AND WALLY …
A COMPOSE FOR ALL THEIR LOVE AND SUPPORT …
SPIRITS OF ASH AND FOAM
CHAPTER ONE
DETRITUS
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8
I must have dozed off. With a start, I woke up beneath a mahogany tree to find the clearing deserted. Only minutes before, or so it seemed, the N.T.Z. had been packed with local teens celebrating the end of summer. Or celebrating despite the end of summer, I suppose. But now there wasn’t a soul in view. Or a ghost, for that matter.
I got to my feet and stretched, arching my back and craning my neck. What had been a roaring bonfire was now a cold, wet fire pit, but there was no shortage of light. The nearly perfect circle of an almost full moon illuminated the nearly perfect circle of the clearing. I padded over to the sandstone slab at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the Atlantic. A heavy quilt of mist had descended upon San Próspero below. Competing smells—orchids and bananas and ozone from the storm that had passed through earlier—tickled my nose. Mostly, I was hungry.
I scoured the place to see if the kids had left anything behind, but half a corn chip does not a meal make.
So I took off, slipping under banana plants and into the dense jungle that surrounds the N.T.Z. Heading down Macocael Mountain, dodging low-hanging vines and leaping over exposed roots, I passed “The Sign.” I glanced back over my shoulder to confirm it hadn’t changed. Because, as Maq is fond of saying, in these parts, you never know. But the incongruous artifact remained a true constant: a stolen PED X-ING sign with two iconic pedestrian-tourists surrounded by a hand-painted red circle with a line through it. Above the figures, the hand-painted, slashing red initials N.T.Z. marked the hidden, semisecret clearing above as a haven for local kids only. No Tourists Allowed in the No Tourist Zone.
Near the bottom of Macocael, I passed into the wet blanket of mist and, reaching Camino de Las Casas, paused to violently shake myself and fight off the damp. Then I trotted down the Camino toward Próspero Beach. I knew Maq would be there, and I knew he’d have something for me to eat.
I wasn’t wrong. (I rarely am.) Maq had a small driftwood fire going on the sand, which would have been lovely and warm, except he had constructed it ridiculously close to the incoming tide. A baby breaker spilled water into flame, extinguishing about half of the already minute blaze. But Maq didn’t seem to mind. He cheerfully fed more driftwood into what remained of his fire and a nice piece of fresh snapper into my mouth.
“It’s long after midnight, Opie,” he said. “Where’ve you been?” I was too busy wolfing down my meal to answer. Still, he seemed satisfied with that response and nodded sagely. I swallowed, and he said, “Want some more?”
Well, we are feasting tonight. I barked my approval, and he rubbed his knuckles across the yellow fur between my ears, while dropping another chunk of fish into the sand in front of me. I wagged my tail. (Okay, yes, I’m canine. Get over it.) Another wavelet sloshed into his shallow, struggling fire pit, as I snapped up the snapper.
Seconds later, I was bouncing around him like a batey ball, hoping for more—before realizing there was none. So I settled in beside my best friend and watched him contemplate the universe from beneath his straw hat. Maq stared down at the fire as the ocean finally put it out for good with an accompanying hissss and a cloud of steam, smoke and ash—all instantly carried off by a stiff breeze from the east. The water receded, leaving behind a layer of dirty seafoam amid the soaked coals, the foam quickly absorbed by the sand beneath. Maq, more pensive than I’m used to seeing him, considered this and nodded once again. “So many things are fleeting,” he said, in that voice he had appropriated from W. C. Fields, back when the famous Hollywood actor had come to party on the Ghost Keys in 1935. “But even the most fleeting things return.”
At first, I didn’t have the slightest clue what he was talking about—but I was pretty sure he was talking about something. So I widened my perception beyond the beach, beyond the Pueblo, beyond San Próspero. And there, across the bay, I found what I was looking for on Sycorax Island: Isaac Naborías, bushy gray hair peeking out from under the hat of his official Sycorax Inc. security guard uniform, paused before the silent archaeological excavation at the mouth of the old bat cave.
It was part of Isaac’s lonely, 4:00 A.M. rounds: a trip about the Old Manor, past corporate headquarters, between the three factories and the cannery, and then out to the dig and the cave—soon to be the site of a fourth factory. (Or is it a second cannery? Naborías wondered, none too sure.) Normally, he’d take a quick peek inside the cave, shining his heavy flashlight into its depths to make sure none of the late-shift employees were in there smoking anything funny. But tonight, just as he took a couple of shuffling steps toward the mouth, a lone bat flew out—right into his face. Naborías, eyes screwed shut, waved the thing away frantically; he hated bats! When he opened his eyes it was gone. He thought the exterminators the boss hired had taken care of those pests. Poisoned most of them and driven the rest away. Unfortunately, the cave was clearly still infested. He’d write that up in his nightly report, of course. That was his duty. But there was no way he was going inside there with those flying rats. So Isaac walked away in a huff—thus completely missing the bloodless, pale corpse lying face up, not five feet away on the dark, sandy floor of the cave.
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8
Rain Cacique’s alarm clock woke her at 6:00 A.M. sharp. While Maq slept off the previous night on a bus bench, and I scratched at some sand fleas beneath it, Rain vaulted out of bed, excited to begin what she was convinced would be a brand-new chapter in her life.
Quickly, she skittered into her bathroom, turned on the hot water, stripped out of her pajamas and jumped in the shower. Steel drums played in her head, the morning’s mental soundtrack: bright and warm, tangy and full of promise, just like her life since gaining … it.
As the near-scalding water rained down on her copper skin, she touched the two golden snakes entwined around each other and around her upper left arm. One snake, the Searcher, had tiny chips of turquoise-colored stone for eyes; the other, the Healer, was sightless. Together, this armband of braided snakes—which for years she had seen her grandfather wear casually on his wrist—was the zemi. She wasn’t exactly sure what a zemi was or even what the word zemi meant, but she knew the thing had mystic powers. The night before, the Healer snake had emitted a golden glow and mended a nasty scratch on her arm from a harpoon. (A harpoon!) Within the same hour, the Searcher snake had emitted a blue glow that helped save herself, her best friend, Charlie, and a whole bu
nch of ghosts from, well … from an evil, killer hurricane-woman! Okay, yeah, it sounds crazy, she thought, but that’s exactly what happened! And she couldn’t be more pleased. She soaped up, rinsed off and was soon toweling dry in front of the mirror.
She stared into it, while brushing first her teeth and then her long black hair. She studied her face, staring into her almond-shaped, almond-colored eyes. She felt sure she should look different now—now that she had … superpowers. I see dead people. She giggled. Of course, the most important dead person in her life was her grandfather, her Papa Sebastian. But his ghost was somehow asleep inside the zemi and wouldn’t wake and emerge until sundown. And, oh, she couldn’t wait until sundown.
She got dressed: panties, bra, khaki shorts and a royal blue sleeveless tee with absolutely nothing imprinted on it that could label her as part of any circle, faction or clique. She searched for her favorite shoes … and then remembered Charlie had been more or less forced to drop them overboard last night while they were trying to escape from that jerk Callahan. The World’s Most Dangerous Tourist had stolen the armband, somehow knowing it was important even before Rain had figured things out. But Rain had stolen it back, leaving Callahan none the wiser. And now she knew it was the key to unlocking the ancient mystery of the Ghosts, the chain of eight islands on which Rain had spent her entire life—all thirteen years of it.
Was it only a few days ago she had felt so trapped? So completely locked into a tedious existence of school and work, making beds and cutting bait for tourists? An existence that would transition when she graduated only into a tedious eternity of making beds and cutting bait for yet more tourists? Okay, sure, graduation is a long way away. In fact, today was the first day of the new year, the first day of eighth grade. Well, she could live with that, knowing what she now knew: The zemi wasn’t the only Searcher/Healer. Rain was also the Searcher and the Healer. She picked out another pair of deck shoes (honestly, she had like a hundred pairs anyway—well, okay, five) and put them on. Then she began braiding her long dark hair into the tight, thick rope she favored.
Relying on muscle memory alone, her fingers deftly and automatically danced the three lengths of hair into the braid, while her mind raced over all she had learned. Her zemi—a gift from her grandfather, who had himself received it as a gift from his abuela long ago—was only the first of nine zemis she had to somehow search out and collect, so that she could heal a “wound.” She had not a clue what the wound was, how she could heal it or even where to look for the next zemi, but all those questions hardly weighed down her soaring thoughts now. Right now, all that mattered was the soaring. She didn’t feel trapped in a small life anymore. She had real purpose, real responsibilities, and ironically, that made her feel free. The rest I’ll figure out, she thought. I mean, one down, eight to go. How hard could it be?
She pulled her backpack out of the closet and her battered notebook off a shelf. It was jammed with notes from her various seventh-grade classes. Without a moment’s hesitation, she clicked open the binding and dumped every single sheet of used paper into the trash. Then she refilled it with a fresh, clean stack pulled from the plastic bag of school supplies she had purchased yesterday morning—a lifetime ago.
Also in the shopping bag were a couple of new pencils, a couple new pens, a fluorescent yellow highlighter, a two-pocket folder for handouts and assignments, and a very old framed photograph of ten World War II airmen in front of their B-17 bomber, the Island Belle. She studied the photo for a moment or two. They were all dead now, except Old Joe Charone. There he was, decades ago, as an injured young tail gunner. And there was Sebastian Bohique as a dashing young bomber pilot: not the old, warm, gray Papa ’Bastian she had known, worshipped and loved—but a Dark Man with a very dangerous smile. Beside ’Bastian and Joe, their crew: the Eight. All gone now. Released, at last, to their final rest, thanks to ’Bastian, Charlie and herself. She carefully propped the picture up on her dresser and finished packing for school.
She exited her room, carefully locking the door behind her and double-checking to make sure. She didn’t want any more unwelcome visitors lifting her stuff as Callahan had done. Then, with backpack slung over one shoulder, she descended the front staircase of the only home she had ever known: the Nitaino Inn.
Her father, Alonso Cacique, was at the front desk, checking out the DeLancys and the Chungs. It was the standard routine: asking how their stay was, suggesting they recommend the Nitaino to their friends, etc. Rain was about to continue on through the dining room to the kitchen to help her mom serve the breakfast portion of the Inn’s “Bed & Breakfast” promise, when the front door opened and a crowd of bodies noisily poured in.
She recognized Timo Craw, who led the way, hefting two very large rolling suitcases over the lip of the threshold. Timo was one of San Próspero’s half-dozen full-time cabdrivers, and, of course, Rain knew every local on the island. He was followed by an Asian woman in her midthirties, who—in addition to Sherpa-ing multiple airplane carry-ons—was trying to shepherd three very sleepy kids, ranging in age from eight to four. This brood was followed by their disheveled father, an Asian man about the same age as his wife. He also had two large rolling bags, which he had carried up the four cobblestone steps in front of the Inn, but which he had put down just short of the door frame. Now he was struggling to roll them over that last small speed bump with little luck or joy.
With a wiry grace, Alonso instantly slid out from behind the desk, dodging his slim but muscular six-foot form around a DeLancy here, a Chung there, until he had reached the side of this newest paterfamilias and effortlessly taken charge of his bags. (All those years working the charter boat had to be good for something, Rain thought.) Alonso introduced himself as one of the Nitaino’s proprietors, and the exhausted, somewhat befuddled, but certainly grateful dad shook his hand and said, “I’m Fred Kim. This is my wife, Esther Kim. We’re the Kims.”
Alonso nodded to Rain, who knew the drill. While her dad did the heavy lifting, she crossed behind the desk and turned the register to face their new guests. “Hi, I’m Rain. I can check you in.”
Esther Kim eyed the thirteen-year-old. “You work here?”
“Kinda have to. My folks run the place.”
Mrs. Kim nodded and started to sign the guest book. Meanwhile, Timo had sized up the situation. The lobby of the Nitaino was generally considered large and warm and welcoming. However, with four guests checking out, five checking in, plus a ton of luggage, two Caciques, a cabdriver and a postcard rack, things had become decidedly cramped. To Timo Craw, that meant opportunity: “You folks need a ride to the airport? I got room fo’ four.”
John DeLancy and Terry Chung glanced at each other uncomfortably. John stammered, “Uh, w-we’re n-not—”
“—Together,” Terry finished.
Timo shrugged. “Sharing cab be cheaper, Captains. But it good with Timo either way. I take one couple now. Come back and take the other couple … sooooon as I can.” Rain smiled at Timo’scheek. A second taxi could be there in five minutes easy—but the gamble paid off.
“Well, if it’s cheaper,” DeLancy said.
“Don’t want to miss our flight,” said Chung.
So, despite the dirty looks from Elizabeth Ellis-Chung and Ellen DeLancy, Timo was soon clearing some space in the lobby as he escorted the two couples and their luggage out the door—though not before Ms. Ellis-Chung had slipped an envelope into Rain’s hand: her tip for serving breakfast, cleaning bathrooms and making beds. Rain smiled and thanked her and watched her go.
The click of the door shutting behind them seemed to act as some kind of ON switch for the three Kim kids: the whining started instantly.
“I’m so tired…”
“What are we gonna do here anyway?”
“Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.”
Mrs. Kim handed Rain her credit card and then turned to crouch before her kids. “I’m right here. I’m right here. I’m right here.”
Rain ran the c
ard immediately to secure the Kims’ deposit before they could be told the inevitable bad news: Check-in time wasn’t until 1:00 P.M., and the two connecting rooms the Kims had reserved had only just been vacated by Timo’s latest fares and weren’t yet ready for occupation. Rain glanced down at the guest register and read the following names upside down:
Rebecca Sawyer, Hannibal, MO
Mr. & Mrs. John DeLancy, San Francisco
Terry Chung and Elizabeth Ellis-Chung, Cambridge, Mass.
Callahan
Judith Vendaval, New York.
Fred, Esther, Wendy, John & Michael Kim, Seattle
Wow, Rain thought, they came all the way from Seattle! They must have been flying all night. The inevitable bad news was going to be really bad news. She looked at the other names. Mrs. Sawyer and Ms. Vendaval were still staying at the Inn, but Callahan, thank God, was long gone.
At her first opportunity, Rain returned the credit card to Mrs. Kim and disappeared into the dining room—just as Alonso was saying, “You’re going to have to give us a little time…”
Tourists. They were Rain’s life—in fact, practically the sum total of her life until this past weekend. She lived with her parents in the Inn, which was almost never completely empty of guests. Among other chores, she served them breakfast, cleaned their rooms on weekends, and, every couple of weeks or so, helped crew her dad’s charter boat for them. Now all that had changed. Tourists had become a side venture. Her life now was with the zemi, and she wanted to shout it to the world.
Although maybe not to Rebecca Sawyer. The old woman was sitting alone in the dining room, reading a Lew Archer mystery novel and sipping black coffee. A half-eaten fresh-baked scone sat on her bread plate. She glanced up over the top of her paperback and smiled. “Hello, Rain.”
“Hi, Rebecca.” The first morning after she had checked in, Mrs. Sawyer had insisted Rain call her Rebecca or Becky. Rain had settled on the more formal of the two options. “I’ll have your breakfast in just a minute. Mom took your order?”
