Spirits of Ash and Foam

by Greg Weisman

  His voice was low, gravelly and comically grim. “I’m Manbat!”

  I barked in correction.

  “Right. No, wait. Let me try again.”

  She didn’t wait. She turned away, muttering, “I can’t believe I’m losing to this guy.”

  By the time Maq had climbed out of the Dumpster, she was gone. He looked at me and said, “This is my symbol, you know. I’m the original.”

  We could argue over archetypes for hours, but he was distracted by half a fried fish sandwich—stuck by its mango-chutney dressing to the seat of his shorts. Like a puppy chasing his tail, he began turning and turning in an attempt to grab it.

  I thought maybe I had better things to do and trotted off.

  Half a block later, I passed the Flame & Surf Steakhouse, where Constable Jean-Marc Thibideaux was having dinner on the patio beside the big fire pit with Tess Mvua of Vector Control, Dr. Josef Strauss of the Coroner’s Office, Deputy Constable Mariah Viento of the Ghost Patrol, and Ensign Chris LeVell of the United States Navy. Jean-Marc had originally invited Ms. Mvua because, well, because he was attracted to the smart and shapely 5'2" woman with the onyx skin and the short, short Afro. But at the last minute, he had … blinked … and invited Mariah to join them. When Mariah asked if she could bring her fiancé, Chris, Jean-Marc had at first been pleased at the prospect of a double date, before deciding it smacked too much of being a double date. So he had blinked again and invited Strauss.

  Given this specific crowd, it was hardly surprising when the subject turned to the myriad strange events of the last couple weeks.

  Chris LeVell listened with amused interest as Strauss and Mvua debated the lifestyles of mosquitoes and bats, and as Mariah and her boss discussed the likelihood of three preteen children surviving among drug smugglers for forty-eight hours. Chris listened carefully as the others discussed the bizarre witness reports that seemed to walk hand in hand with each case. For a moment, the ensign was tempted to top their tales with one of his own: the impossible appearance of a ruined B-17 bomber on one of the navy’s landing strips on Tío Samuel. Military forensics and intelligence experts had descended onto the island in force, searching for explanations and finding few. But LeVell stopped himself from spilling. He knew better than to air the U.S. Navy’s dirty laundry in public.

  Distracted as he was by Tess Mvua’s charms, Constable Thibideaux nevertheless recognized LeVell’s abrupt attack of reticence. He noticed the pregnant pause and intake of breath before the ensign was about to speak—strangled off at the last second by LeVell’s better judgment. Instantly, Thibideaux knew something strange had occurred over at Tío Sam’s. Just as something strange had occurred over at Sycorax and here on San Próspero. And at the risk of me making the good constable seem a cliché, I sensed Jean-Marc Thibideaux determining then and there to get to the bottom of it all, starting with the three teenagers he knew were somehow involved: Rain Cacique, Charlie Dauphin and Miranda Guerrero.

  Those three were on my mind too. But I was also keeping track of Callahan, Cash and Setebos.

  The exchange of zemi for money had gone much the same this time as last. Callahan was still nearly blinded by a searchlight shone directly in his eyes, and even Cash could only see Callahan’s employer in silhouette.

  The Pale Tourist was furious when he learned just how big the score was. Fifty K?!! He was only paying me two!! And now he doesn’t even have to pay that!! It made him more determined than ever to find a way to get even and help Rain.

  He thought maybe he was about to get that chance as the topic of the clipped conversation turned to the search for the next zemi.

  Callahan called over to the other boat, “Any hints where to start, chief?”

  Setebos didn’t feel the need to shout. His crisp English accent cut the distance between vessels nicely. “Search the cemetery on San Próspero. I’ll e-mail you all the details I have.”

  “Right.”

  The interview ended. Silas Setebos departed into the night, and Callahan—with his ghostly stowaway—set a course for Próspero Bay.

  I was there already, ending more or less where we started, with a small driftwood fire constructed perilously close to the rising tide.

  Rain, Charlie and Miranda sat barefoot on the sand, using bent wire hangers and a package of marshmallows to add a little melted sweetness to the evening. Unable to partake, ’Bastian was perched on a rock nearby, enjoying the relative stillness of the night. Rain had a little bit of fluff in the corner of her mouth. Charlie pointed it out. Rain attempted to remove it but somehow managed to miss it—twice.

  Charlie finally reached out himself and wiped the whiteness off her lip with his thumb. Miranda watched, shaking her head slightly, as he stared at that thumb for far too long, stranded among his confused, adolescent, pubescent yearnings. So I decided to help by slipping in beside him and licking the marshmallow off. He hardly seemed grateful, scowling at me jealously before exhaling loudly.

  “Thanks, Opie,” he said, but I could tell he didn’t mean it. He tried making up for the sarcasm by rubbing my neck with sticky fingers. As he had chosen the one place on my person I couldn’t reach with my tongue, I pulled away and plopped down closer to Miranda, who fed me a marshmallow and rubbed my belly nicely with her sandy toes.

  A wave rolled in just shy of the tiny fire pit. And with it, Alonso’s camera slid right up against the bottoms of Rain’s bare feet. Stunned, she gawked at it for a few seconds. I barked sharply to snap her out of it before the surf reclaimed the camera. (What would they do without me?) Rain snatched it up.

  The Dark Man and the three teens gaped. Miranda said, “Is that … the…” She didn’t even bother finishing.

  Rain stood abruptly and shouted, “Thanks, Auntie!” She waited for the unseen dolphin/Sister to respond, but no response came.

  So she sat back down in the sand and turned over the camera in her hands, much the same way Callahan had been examining the gourd. Illuminated by the flames, the camera didn’t seem any the worse for wear, and when she checked, all the photos and footage of Aycayia and her transformation were still stored in its memory.

  Charlie looked over her shoulder as she scrolled through the pictures and played the video footage of Her transformation. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  Rain said quietly, “Give it back to my dad.”

  “Not with the camera! With the pictures! The footage.”

  Rain deleted every picture, one by one. Then the footage. “Aycayia deserves better than to be on display.”

  ’Bastian and Miranda nodded. I wagged my tail approvingly.

  Charlie persisted. “But I thought you wanted proof of all the weirdness…?”

  “I don’t need proof,” Rain said as the drums and flute of the areyto played in her head. “The weirdness is enough.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2013

  Thanks to Michael Homler and the other helpful people at St. Martin’s Press, including Bob Berkel, Elizabeth Catalano, Paul Catalano, Edwin Chapman, India Cooper, Stephanie Davis, Jennifer Enderlin, Joe Goldschein, Sarah Goldstein, Anna Gorovoy, Meryl Gross, Paul Hochman, Lauren Jablonski, Sarah Jae-Jones, Aleksandra Mencel, Lisa Marie Pompilio, Jessica Preeg, James Sinclair and Geraldine Vandusen.

  I’d also like to offer a blanket re-thank-you to everyone who was acknowledged in the first Rain of the Ghosts book—the foundation upon which Spirits of Ash and Foam was built—in particular, the original DreamWorks conference room gang: Bruce Cranston, Darin Dusanek, Lydia Marano, John Skeel and Jon Weisman. Thanks also to Kuni Tomita for her artistic inspiration. And thanks to the good friends and objective strangers who blurbed such nice things about Rain: Shannon Delany, Nicole Dubuc, Jonathan Frakes, Stan Lee, Jonathan Maberry and Danica McKellar.

  Thanks to my pals at the Gotham Group: Elise Brown, Eddie Gamarra, Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Julie Kane-Ritsch, Peter McHugh, Quinn Morgan, Julie Nelson, Matt Schichtman and Joey Villarreal.

  Appre
ciation to my Star Wars Rebels family for their scheduling patience during the writing of this book: Carrie Beck, Tracy Cannobbio, Megan Engle, James Erskine, Dave Filoni, Henry Gilroy, Kiri Hart, Pablo Hidalgo, Kevin Hopps, Simon Kinberg, Charles Murray, Rayne Roberts, Diana Williams and especially my hero Athena Portillo.

  For technical assistance on things like my Twitter account (@Greg_Weisman), ASK GREG (http://www.askgregweisman.com) and the Rain of the Ghosts Wiki (http://rainoftheghosts.wikia.com/wiki/Rain_of_the_Ghosts_Wiki), I’d like to thank Erin Weisman, Benny Weisman, Eric Tribou, Todd Jensen, Kevin Chafe and Thailog.

  For help with the animal research: Tuppence Macintyre. For the Spanish translation of the second message of the Cache: Frances “Demona Taina” Vázquez. For taking the picture of me on the book jacket: Marcia Perel. For the map of the Ghost Keys: Rhys Davies. For putting up with 693 multicolored index cards “decorating” our office while I outlined the novel: Wally Weisman and Anita Nitta.

  I also need to thank a few people (some deceased) who have no idea who I am or just how much assistance they rendered. For information on bioluminescence, I want to thank Smithsonian Magazine, specifically the March 2013 issue and an article by Abigail Tucker on the work of Dr. Edith Widder. A Taíno areyto, inspiration for much of the music in Rain’s head, was composed by El Concilio Taino and can be heard athttp://www.prfdance.org/taino.areyto.htm. Aycayia emerges from Tradiciones y leyendas de Cienfuegos by Adrián del Valle. Even more important, I must acknowledge my tremendous debt to the Memory of Fire trilogy, its author, Eduardo Galeano, his translator, Cedric Belfrage, and one of his sources, Benjamin Péret. Galeano’s five short paragraphs on “Mosquitos” provided the lion’s share of inspiration for Spirits, and his trilogy consistently brings me closer to Rain’s world.

  As there are bound to be people I’ve forgotten, my thanks and apologies go out to all of you.

  Finally, I offer my special thanks to my wonderful semiextended family: Jordan, Zelda, Danielle, Brad, Julia, Jacob, Brindell, Jon, Dana, Lilah, Casey, Dashiell, Robyn and Gwin. Ultra-double-thanks to my fantastically supportive parents, Wally and Sheila Weisman, my awe-inspiring children, Erin and Benny Weisman and, of course, my amazing wife, Beth Weisman. I love you all!