by Greg Weisman
Seconds later, all three of them were back in front of Rain’s door. Glancing involuntarily at Room Six once more, Rain again dropped Charlie’s hand to pull out her key.
“It must be kind of sad,” Charlie said as he rubbed the hand Rain had just released.
“What?” Rain asked.
“Eating alone every night. I mean, even if the food’s great and it’s all paid for, you’re still eating alone.”
“Yeah,” Rain agreed, distracted momentarily by seeing Judith’s glamorous life from this new perspective.
Then ’Bastian cleared his throat, and Rain unlocked her door. They all went inside.
Rain shut the door and faced ’Bastian. “Mom couldn’t see you.”
“And there’s no point tormenting her with the knowledge of something she can’t experience.”
“And probably wouldn’t believe.”
“So we keep the secret among ourselves.”
Rain turned to include Charlie. “Only the three of us can know about this. Do you swear?”
“No one else would believe us anyway.”
“That’s your vow?” she asked, unimpressed.
He held up a hand. “I swear.”
She looked at ’Bastian, waiting. He grinned. “Who am I going to tell? How am I going to tell? You’re the only one who can hear me.” She suddenly looked very cross, and he quickly held up a hand. “I swear.”
Charlie glanced over at the mirror on the closet door and watched Rain hold up her hand, saying, “I swear too,” to empty air. Then he had a thought.
“Rain, can you see ’Bastian in the mirror? Can he see himself?”
Both Rain and ’Bastian turned toward the closet and were stunned by the lack of what they beheld. ’Bastian wasn’t reflected in the glass. Rain’s head ping-ponged back and forth between ’Bastian and no-’Bastian. This was almost freakier than the fact that he existed. The ghost himself took a couple of steps forward, as if getting closer might suddenly make his reflection appear.
“It’s like you’re a vampire,” Rain said in a hushed voice.
“So I take it that means no,” Charlie said. “Makes sense when you think about it. The mirror reflects actual light, not mystic glows or whatever.”
Disturbed, ’Bastian turned his back on the closet. Rain sank down onto her bed. Charlie felt stranded in the middle of the room and ultimately retreated back to the desk chair. They were silent for a while. Then finally, Rain said, “Why me?”
’Bastian and Charlie looked up at her.
“I mean, I’m glad, honestly. I like that I’m the Searcher. But I don’t understand why, and I’m a little afraid…”
“Of what, Raindrop?”’Bastian asked gently.
“That there’s been some kind of mistake.”
They all thought about this for a long minute. Then ’Bastian spoke. “I don’t think there’s been any mistake.”
Independently Charlie said, “Remember Rubio the Pirate?”
“Exactly.”’Bastian nodded in agreement.
Rain rolled her eyes. (Oh, if Maq and I had a quarter for every time she did that, we’d never go hungry.) “Oh, come on,” she scoffed. “My imaginary friend from when I was four?”
“You used to swear he was real, Rain,” Charlie said firmly.
“You used to point to him and say, He’s right there!”’Bastian said in a similar tone.
She crossed her arms. “He was. An imaginary. Pirate.”
“He taught you Spanish,” Charlie said.
“He did not!”
“Maybe he did,”’Bastian said, thinking. “Your folks and I wanted you to be bilingual, but we always forgot to speak Spanish around the house. But somehow you were fluent by the time you were five. For a while we thought you were a bit of a genius.”
“But you got over that?” Rain asked crossly. In fact, this whole Rubio tangent was putting her on edge in a way she couldn’t quite explain to herself.
“It drove me crazy,” Charlie remembered. “You were always speaking Spanish to Rubio and leaving me out of the conversation. Kinda like you two do now! Honestly, when I think about it, it’s probably why I took French.”
“And it wasn’t just Rubio,”’Bastian said thoughtfully. “There were others. You’d wander off sometimes and say Martha wanted to show you something or Stefano had found a penny. I never took it too seriously, but it actually worried your parents. And even at age six, you could see they were worried. So first you stopped telling them about your ‘friends,’ and then you promised you wouldn’t see them anymore. Your ghost-sight, Rain. I think you willed it to go away.”
Rain was stunned. From somewhere in the dim recess of her memory, she could picture Rubio and Martha and Stefano and Guillermo with more clarity than now made sense for figments of her imagination. And when she pictured them, they were always surrounded by a soft white glow. Still she resisted the obvious conclusion. “So if I willed away my ghost-sight, why’s it back now?”
“I think because I died,”’Bastian said, “and you wanted to see me.”
Charlie had his own theory. “Maybe the zemi healed you. The way it healed your arm after Callahan harpooned you.”
Or, Rain thought almost against her will, the way it healed your foot this morning. Or Mom and Dad’s hearts at dinner. Haltingly, she said, “Let’s … talk … about the zemi.”
“Well, I don’t know much more than I’ve already told you,”’Bastian said. “I got it from my abuela when I was injured in the war. It probably saved my life, though I didn’t believe that then. After I recovered, I offered to return it, but she told me it wasn’t hers to take back or to keep. It had been given to her by her tío abuelo. In fact, she told me it had been handed down within our family, for generation after generation, for four hundred years. She said it was my turn, but that when the time was right, I’d pass it on to my child or grandchild. I remember telling her I didn’t think I’d ever have kids. She laughed at me.”
Charlie waited as long as he could stand before clearing his throat overdramatically. Rain quickly repeated what ’Bastian had told her.
Then she asked her abuelo, “Tell me about your abuela.”
“She was born and raised on Tío Samuel—until the U.S. Navy took possession of the island and the family moved here to San Próspero. She went to Mass every Sunday at the Catedral. But she was infamous for laughing at, well … inappropriate moments during the service or the sermon. When I was little, she was already old, and my friends used to tease me and say she was una bruja.”
“Rain,” Charlie said.
“She was a witch,” Rain said.
“I didn’t say she was a witch,”’Bastian protested. “That’s what they called her. I think she simply valued the old ways along with the new. And that made her threatening to some people who didn’t understand.”
“She was a misunderstood witch,” Rain said.
’Bastian sighed heavily.
Charlie was running some calculations through his head. “So ’Bastian wore the armband for…”
“Sixty-nine years,” Rain said.
Both Charlie and ’Bastian looked at her wide-eyed while mentally confirming her arithmetic. She didn’t want them making a big deal out of it. “What? I did the math. I’m a genius, remember?”
“Who said you were a genius?” Charlie asked, mock-appalled.
“He did. Look. Why does the number matter?”
“Well, I was thinking maybe that’s why he’s tied to it. Because he wore it for so long. But then I figured that if his abuela got it from her great-uncle, she probably wore it for at least a few decades. Sooooo … is she in there too?”
’Bastian was taken aback. Slowly, he said, “I don’t think so.”
Rain shook her head.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “So did he displace her when he died?”
’Bastian scowled. “I don’t think so.”
Rain shrugged.
Then Charlie pointedly asked her, “And if yo
u keep wearing it, will you get stuck in there when you die?”
This notion truly horrified ’Bastian. It was one thing for him to stick around and have more time with his granddaughter, help her to complete her mission. The thought that she’d be trapped for all eternity in the snake charm—with no rest, no heaven—was another matter. He whispered, “Rain. Maybe … maybe you should take it off.”
But on this point, Rain was firm, solid. “No. I’m the Searcher and the Healer. If I heal the wound like I’m supposed to, we won’t have to worry about that. I’m not taking off the zemi.”
’Bastian still felt a little queasy, but Charlie simply nodded. “Okay,” he said. “That just leaves us with one real question: What’s a zemi?”
CHAPTER TEN
NIGHT MOVES
MONDAY AND TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8–9
Nine P.M.
They talked a while longer. Rain told them about her trip to the Cache and the roll-of-quarters shape of the second zemi. But they reached no further conclusions about what a zemi actually was or how they could, would or should go about finding out, let alone finding the next one. Eventually, Alonso knocked on the door to tell Charlie his mother had called and it was time for him to go home. As he got up to leave, Rain hugged him without warning and whispered, “Thanks. I couldn’t do this without you.” She started to disengage, but without thinking, he gave her one last squeeze before letting her go. Then, terrified he’d revealed too much, he all but pushed her away. She hadn’t noticed—though the same couldn’t be said of a smiling ’Bastian or a frowning Alonso.
Charlie said his “See you tomorrow” and departed with Alonso as fast as he could manage.
Leaving Rain alone with ’Bastian. Now what? It suddenly occurred to both of them that for all intents and purposes, granddaughter and grandfather were roommates for the foreseeable future. Awkward.
Ten P.M.
What am I going to do all night? ’Bastian thought. Or maybe he said it aloud. When you’re a ghost and all your dialogue is basically psychic anyway, it can occasionally be problematic telling the difference.
Rain said, “I suppose it’ll get pretty boring sitting here, watching me sleep.” Maybe a little creepy, too, she thought—though she didn’t like thinking that way. She had never placed her Papa ’Bastian and “creepy” in the same sentence before. The fact that he now appeared to be less than ten years older than Rain wasn’t helping. “I guess … I guess you could put on the zemi and go for a walk or something.”
’Bastian instantly brightened at the idea. “I’d like that.”
“But you need to be supercareful. You’re invisible; the zemi isn’t. You can’t let anyone see it floating down the street.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“And don’t forget to be home before sunrise. Way before sunrise.”
“Curfew. Sunrise. Yes, sir, General Raindrop, sir!” He saluted. But she didn’t find it as amusing this time.
She took the armband off and slowly handed it to him. He placed it on his wrist. Then she crossed to her bedroom door, opened it slightly and looked around. “The coast is clear,” she said. “I’ll go down with you and open the back door.”
He nodded.
Suddenly, she froze. She wheeled on him and blurted out, “I’m supposed to pack up my stuff and move upstairs to your old room on Wednesday. Is that okay?”
He looked stunned for a moment and then thoughtful. Then he said a bunch of things she couldn’t hear. She shook her head. He smiled. It was a relief that even as the dangerous and dashing young Dark Man, he was still capable of her Papa ’Bastian’s patented Old Man Twinkle. Almost as big a relief as knowing he was okay with the move.
Just to be sure, she said, “Nod if it’s okay.”
He nodded.
She beamed. They headed down the hallway.
At the back door, off the kitchen, Rain pointed down at the doggy-door installed ten years ago when ’Bastian had brought home a mutt named Guillermo that Rain remembered slightly better as an imaginary friend/ghost than as a living animal. Guillermo was hit by a car only a month after arriving at the Inn, but because Rain had claimed he was still around, she never needed, wanted or asked for another pet, which, frankly, was a relief to Iris, who didn’t want to risk the potential liability, should a dog bite one of their guests. (I genuinely like Iris, but she does have her blind spots.)
Rain whispered, “You should be able to get the zemi back inside through that.”
’Bastian nodded. Clever girl. She opened the door for him and watched him sneak away.
The wrought-iron gate off the Nitaino’s back courtyard presented a bit of a challenge. However, with a little care, ’Bastian was able to slip the zemi between two iron bars, while he himself phased through like smoke.
Then the late, great ’Bastian Bohique went for a walk.
Eleven P.M.
He walked, and he walked.
As ’Bastian passed under a streetlamp, a car sped by without warning. He tried hiding the zemi behind his back—then realized how useless that was. Fortunately, the car drove on, its occupant oblivious to the floating snake charm. ’Bastian exhaled another airless breath. I do have to be more careful.
He stuck to the shadows as much as possible, but truthfully, the little lanes were all but deserted anyway. Rain hadn’t lied when she told Judith that Old Town wasn’t the hub of San Próspero’s social scene—particularly on a Monday night. It was too far from the ocean, and parking on its skinny cobblestone streets was a nightmare. During the day, Old Town’s quaint shops and authentic cuisine attracted an economy-boosting minihorde of tourists, but they generally scattered by seven or eight o’clock at the latest. Now ’Bastian pretty much had these streets to himself.
At first, with Rain’s cautions ringing in his ears, this was a relief.’Bastian had never been a man uncomfortable in his own company. The full moon directly above his head seemed a charming companion, and his spirits were light. But as he meandered without purpose down Rue de Saint-Germain, the thought occurred that this solitary state—in what promised to be night after night of walks just like this—was no longer a matter of choice or occasion. This was his “life” from now on. A few hours between sunset and bedtime with his granddaughter, and then no one but himself and the moon. (And on some nights, not even the moon.)
Which perhaps explains why he ultimately found himself walking down Old Plantation Road toward the graveyard.
Twelve A.M.
The main gate at San Próspero Cemetery was closed but unlocked. ’Bastian couldn’t open it, of course. Nor could it keep him out. As with the courtyard gate at the Inn, it simply required a bit of careful maneuvering to walk through it with the zemi.
He was no longer meandering. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. He hadn’t been present for his own funeral—after all, it had taken place during the day—but he knew where he was buried. Because that’s where his heart was buried too. He beelined—walking right through various headstones—to the headstone. A single slab of carved granite marking two graves, one old, one brand-new. The inscription was simple: ROSE & SEBASTIAN BOHIQUE. LOVING PARTNERS. LOVING PARENTS.
He tried to touch, to caress the stone, as he had touched, caressed it so many times since Rose’s passing. Of course, his hand passed right through. He sat down on the ground and was momentarily distracted by the realization that he wasn’t so much sitting on the soft earth as hovering more or less even with it, as harlie said, out of habit. The concern was fleeting. He spoke out loud to his late wife, asking if she was here, if she was near. If maybe, just maybe, she might be willing to appear. (Had he meant for his appeals to rhyme like that? I’m honestly not sure.)
In any case, Rose Linda Nitaino Bohique remained absent.
He missed her and wondered even now, with absolute proof of life after death, whether he would ever see her again. Or has she found her peace … while I’m condemned to this for eternity? He felt like crying but was stumped by the question C
an a ghost shed tears?
I watched him from beneath the bougainvillea-covered arch that separated the graves of men and women from the Pet Cemetery. I felt a canine need to ease his pain with my presence and was about to pad over to him. Maq intervened to stop me.
Or maybe he wasn’t even aware of ’Bastian. Who knows with Maq? He waved a split half of guava under my snout and lured me deeper into the animal graveyard. We both sat—appropriately enough on this night—by the little bronze plaque that a softhearted Alonso had purchased for Guillermo. I had been quite fond of Guillermo both before and after his death. He wasn’t too bright, but his rear had a delightful chocolaty scent. I was sorry to see him move on, but after young Rain had refused, for her parents’ sake, to acknowledge his ghostly presence, it was clear it was time for him to go.
Maq placed my half of the guava on the ground in front of me. I smooshed my face into it, chewing and licking up the sweet fruit, seeds and all. Maq raised his half up to his face and smooshed as well. When we were through, we smiled at each other, two gooey, smooshy messes.
Then, out of nowhere, Maq said, “Hura-hupia owes me a quarter.”
One A.M.
Out in the Florida Straits, on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle, Hura-hupia was forming out of wind and spray.
The moon took no notice, but the artificial satellites of men would register what briefly appeared to be the formation of a hurricane. Of course, it wasn’t just any hurricane but a vintage hurricane: 1945’s Santa Julia, last seen only the night before by Rain, Charlie and ’Bastian when it had tried to destroy them all by bringing down their haunted bomber off the coast of Tío Samuel. Julia had been thwarted then. She did not wish to be thwarted now.
Lightning and thunder overhead spooked a pod of dolphins that dove deep and swam away as Julia moved toward Sycorax Island with forty to fifty mile per hour winds as her harbingers. Then, as multiple urgent calls were being exchanged between the offices of the Weather Prediction Center, the National Hurricane Center and the National Weather Service, the storm coalesced into a human woman with copper skin and black hair the exact same color as Rain’s. With eyes that burned red in the dark, Julia stepped down gently on the shore of Sycorax. To the distant authorities, the sudden nightmare of a storm had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Meanwhile, the true danger walked toward the excavation and entered the ancient bat cave.
