by Dixie Lyle
“I’m a chef. I blame string cheese for everything.”
We lapsed into a gloomy silence.
“Wait!” I said. “I know! Let’s have sex!”
“Okay!” And then we both tore off all our clothes and …
No. That’s not the way it happened.
But the way it did happen was, well, almost that dumb. And not terribly romantic. We went for a walk (I’m a big fan of oxygen-induced inspiration; I find that often a little exercise is exactly what you need to bring a problem into sharp focus) and wandered through the gardens, and then the zoo, and found ourselves in this corner of the estate where hardly anybody ever goes and there was this toolshed and I laughingly wondered if my master key would open it and it did and then we were alone and feeling frustrated and I don’t really remember who said what or how things started.
What I do remember is that he was a great kisser. And I never thought of using a wheelbarrow like that. Or a weed whacker.
Nope. It didn’t happen like that, either.
Scenario number three: “I need to get out of here,” Ben said.
“You want to go for a walk?”
“Yeah. But not here.”
So we went somewhere else.
I was a little surprised when he took me back to the graveyard, but he avoided the area where we’d left Augustus and headed in a different direction entirely. We wound up down by Davy’s Grave, a quiet little spot surrounded by trees. But that wasn’t our destination, either; he raised his hands and did the whirlwind thing, taking us …
To Bunny Heaven.
There was no mistaking where we were. The air was warm and smelled of clover. The ground was all gently rolling hills of lush green grass interspersed with dense thickets. Rabbits of all shades hopped from thicket to thicket or nibbled on the greenery. It was very peaceful and bucolic.
“Um,” I said. “Interesting choice. But is this okay? I thought human beings weren’t allowed in the animal afterlives unless they were specifically invited.”
“It’s okay. Being messenger of the gods has a few perks; me and the rabbit god have an understanding.”
“You and the rabbit god? When did this happen?”
“Well … I sort of dropped in unannounced.” He looked a little embarrassed. “I was exploring my abilities. Thought that the rabbit afterlife would be relatively safe.”
I could sense there was more to it than that. “So why didn’t you pick something even safer, like mice?”
Now he was definitely uncomfortable. “I … kind of wanted to look someone up, too.”
(BEN!)
A big black rabbit came bounding out of a thicket. He charged straight at Ben and started nudging his legs, while Ben tried to suppress the huge smile on his face and failed. “Hey, Cap. Yeah, I’m back. Miss me?”
(I did! It’s so nice to see you again! Who’s your friend? Is she a Thunderbird, too, or is she dead?)
I laughed. “No, I’m just visiting. I’m Foxtrot, a friend of Ben’s.”
(Nice to meet you. I’m Captain Fuzz.)
I gave Ben a look. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Cap,” said Ben, “it’s great to see you again, too. Think it would be okay if me and Foxtrot just hung out here for a while? We both need a little peace and quiet.”
(Sure! Isn’t it great here? I’m so happy!)
“Um,” I said.
(Um! That means there’s something you’d like to say but feel awkward! I bet you two want to be alone! Nice to meet you! Bye!)
And he hopped right back into the thicket he’d appeared out of. Not only that, but within a minute all the other rabbits had done the same. We were all alone.
I looked around in amazement. “Huh. They’re very … agreeable, I guess.”
Ben chuckled. “Not to mention perceptive. Turns out rabbits are really, really good at reading subtle social cues. And they seem to like me—or they like the Captain and he likes me, which apparently amounts to the same thing.”
“Ah. Captain Fuzz, huh? How old were you?”
“When I got him? Six. When he died? Twelve. Six years. I sure did love him.”
“Do,” I corrected gently. “You sure do love him. And how did the rabbit god react when you decided to pop in for a visit to see your childhood pal?”
Ben shrugged. “He wasn’t all that pleased, at first. But once he found out I was a Thunderbird, he softened up. And then the Captain arrived and vouched for me, and I was golden. They said I was welcome to come back anytime.”
“With company?”
“Actually, yeah. Rabbits are very social animals. They understand the need for … companionship.” Now he looked more bashful than anything else.
“Mm-hm,” I said. “Why do I get the feeling I’m a girl on a first date and you just slipped the maître d’ an extra hundred?”
“Even gods like to be owed favors. I just promised I’d remember his hospitality, and that seemed to satisfy him. Or her; I couldn’t really tell, and I wasn’t about to ask.”
I was about to make a joke about the Easter Bunny, then remembered exactly where I was. Instead I said, “All right then, I’ll stop worrying. We’re here and we’re welcome. I have to admit, it certainly seems relaxing.”
We went for a stroll. There were paths—rabbit-sized ones—that wound through one meadow after another. Some of the fields were full of sweetgrass, others alive with wildflowers. We found a crystal-clear stream no more than two feet across, burbling along quietly to itself, and sat down next to each other on a flat, mossy rock.
“This is nice,” I admitted, leaning back and putting my weight on my hands. The moss felt soft and springy under my palms, and smelled wonderful, too. “It’s very different from the others we visited.”
“That it is. Difference between a carnivore and an herbivore, I think. Lions and tigers still want to hunt down their dinner; rabbits just want to eat it.”
“Is that all they do?” I took off my shoes and socks, and wiggled my toes in the moss. It felt—well, heavenly.
“Honestly, I haven’t done a lot of research into the pastimes of the post-living cottontail. But if the Feline Paradises are any indication, rabbits probably do much the same things here as they do in the mundane world—only more so.”
“Really?” I lay back on the moss and closed my eyes. It was like lying on the world’s best-smelling plush carpet. “Now I understand why you brought me here. You’re trying to seduce me by luring me to a dimension steeped in supernatural rabbit sex pheromones.”
“You got me,” he said. “How’s it working?”
I opened my eyes, studied him for a second, and smiled. “I’ll let you know,” I said, “after you kiss me.”
Which he did.
And then we did.
And that—maybe—is what actually happened. When I figure out whether or not getting physically intimate on a mossy, sunlit rock while surrounded by an unknown number of dead bunnies is sexy, creepy, or romantic, I’ll let you know for sure.
Maybe.
* * *
The whirlwind dissipated, the lightning fizzed out, the dust cleared; we were back in the graveyard again. But we weren’t alone.
Abazu Chukwukadibia stood with his back to us, considering a headstone. I don’t know all the details of traveling by mystic vortex, but it seems as if ordinary people don’t really notice it coming and going. Just like the ghosts of the graveyard—even though they’re all around, only certain individuals can see them.
But sometimes, an invisible ally is exactly what you need.
Tango, I thought. Can you bring Augustus to Davy’s Grave?
Tell him there’s someone who’s really interested in meeting him.
“Ben,” I whispered. “Can you slip away? I want to talk to Abazu, but I think we need to be alone.”
“You sure?” he whispered back.
�
�I am.” I kissed him, long and hard, and then reluctantly tore myself away. He grinned at me, and walked off down the path. Well, maybe strutted is a better word. He was part bird, after all.
“Hello, Abazu,” I said.
He whirled in surprise. “Ms. Foxtrot? I did not hear you approach.”
“I can be stealthy when I want to. As can you.” I met his eyes, let him see the challenge there.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” He sounded mildly puzzled, but I wasn’t buying it.
“What I mean is that I know you were the one who broke into the zoo’s clinic,” I said. “And I know why, too.”
His eyes changed. The serene benevolence drained away, leaving a sharp wariness. It was like watching a domesticated animal turn feral right in front of me. He didn’t say anything, just waited to hear what would come out of my mouth next.
“The Star of Africa,” I said. I put just the slightest trace of amusement in my voice, making it not a question but a joke shared between friends. “You know what surprises me? That you really thought no one would find out.”
It was a pretty standard technique, one I came across a lot in the mystery novels I read (or used to read, when I still had free time): refer to a single piece of vital information with such nonchalance that the other person assumes you also possess all the other pieces of the puzzle connected to it. Bluffing with one card showing and a knowing smile on your face.
“I knew I would be discovered eventually,” Abazu admitted. “But it was a chance I had to take. I have been chasing the Sacred Stone for a very long time, and when I learned that it had come to this country, I was compelled to follow.”
Careful, Foxtrot, careful. Choose your words like they’re marking a path between land mines. “But you weren’t the only one.”
Abazu’s eyes hardened. “No. But the others have no idea of the real worth of what they pursue. They see only the coin of the material realm, not the vast spiritual riches that are the Stone’s true bounty.”
That was the second time he’d referred to the Stone, and I doubted he meant Mick Jagger (though Sir Mick had stayed here in the past. Up at six every morning to go jogging). Which meant that, like Rajiv, he was after the fabled other half of the Cullinan diamond.
For religious reasons.
Okay, Abazu was South African, meaning he probably came down on the lion-based side of the theological debate, which gave me a way to play this. I nodded and said, “Apedemek.”
His eyes registered disbelief. “You know of Apedemek?”
Know of him? He almost ate me. “The Great Lion of the Burning Mane?” That was pure speculative hyperbole, but you generally couldn’t go wrong heaping honorifics on a mythical figure. Besides, in Apedemek’s case it was more literal than figurative. “Some.” Said with just enough irony to imply I knew a lot more.
“Then you know how important my quest is.”
No, I don’t. “In my experience, only the person on the quest can truly understand its importance. Tell me—in your own words—how your path began, and how it took you to this moment.”
Here’s another truism, just in case you’re collecting them: Most people love to talk about two things—themselves, and their passions. Ask a mystic about his beliefs and how he came to hold them, and even the most stoic of monks will talk your ear off. I know, I sat next to the Dalai Lama once.
Abazu rested both his hands gently on the weathered headstone before him and studied the rough gray rock for a moment before beginning. “I am from a place called Timbavati. In the tongue of my people, Timbavati translates as ‘the place where the star lions came down from the heavens.’ More than four centuries ago, while Queen Numbi ruled the region, a bright light tumbled from the sky to the ground. The Sacred Stone carried the spirit of Apedemek himself, but it broke apart and fell to earth in two places. One of the places was Timbavati, in southern Africa. From that time on, many of the animals born there were strange: cattle with two heads, leopards with green eyes. And one such animal was the white lion.
“Such creatures exist to the present day, but only in Timbavati; they are the children of the Sun God, the lion Apedemek. We who worship him are few, but loyal. And we live for the day that the Sacred Stone will be made whole once more, so that Apedemek can live among men and rule them as he was meant to do.”
I had a very interesting discussion with Bishop Tutu once about African secret societies, which not only still existed but were both plentiful and powerful. Apparently the one Abazu belonged to worshiped Apedemek. I’m not that well versed in African geography, but I guessed the Cullinan mine wasn’t that far from Timbavati.
And apparently Abazu believed that the largest diamond in the world was also from outer space.
None of which explained what any of this had to do with Augustus. “We all know what happened to one half of the Sacred Stone,” I said. “It’s locked up with the British Crown Jewels. So how did the other half wind up in America?”
“It has been watched over by the Priesthood of Apedemek for over four hundred years. But it was stolen by evil men, who sold it to Branco Gamboa without understanding its true worth.”
Branco Gamboa was the drug lord who previously owned Augustus. “And you believe Augustus could lead you to the Stone?”
“Oh, no, Ms. Foxtrot. I believe Augustus is the Stone.”
That wasn’t what I expected to hear. “But … he’s dead.”
“His physical form has ceased to move and breathe, yes. But of what concern is breath or movement to a stone? No, all that has happened is that the spell Gamboa cast on the Sacred Stone has faded away. Soon the body will return to its natural state. I must claim it before that happens, for once the Stone is identified it will be locked away forever.”
“Which is why you tried to steal the body.”
His eyes widened a little, but he nodded. “I see that I was not as stealthy as I had thought. Yes, I attempted to enter the clinic and retrieve the Stone. Obviously, I was not successful.”
And suddenly the thief’s lack of transportation made sense. “You were going to perform some magic of your own,” I said. “Transform the corpse back into a rock and just stick it in a bag. Weren’t you?”
He said nothing, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I guessed he didn’t want to admit that was a possibility, in case he got the chance at some point in the future.
And now I was faced with a conundrum. Because I wasn’t sure whether Abazu could actually do magic, or was just a fanatic with a bizarre idea.
Apedemek was real, but the one I’d met bore only a passing resemblance to a liger and none at all to a pricey chunk of raw gemstone; plus, if Augustus was really the embodiment of the lion god himself, what was his spirit doing wandering around the Great Crossroads getting high on metaphysical catnip? Either Abazu’s cult had a few important details wrong, or Apedemek wasn’t being exactly honest.
Which was when Augustus himself showed up, padding complacently behind Tango.
I watched Abazu closely. If the actual presence of his supposed deity affected him in any way, he didn’t show it. Nor did Augustus seem terribly interested in one of his worshipers, sparing him no more than a brief curious glance.
Augustus? Can you try saying hello to the nice man, here? I figured it was worth a shot.
{Hello, nice man.}
Okay, no reaction at all from Abazu, other than looking at me a bit warily.
“One more question,” I said. “The conservation group you said you represent. How did you fake that?”
“I did not. As I said before, the followers of Apedemek are few but faithful. One of them is a powerful lobbyist for the conservation movement in South Africa, and it was not difficult for him to convince a genuine organization to send me as their representative. Now—may I ask what you intend to do?”
“Did you poison Augustus?”
He shook his head vehemently. “No. I did not. Such an act would be deeply disres
pectful.”
“Maybe you were desperate. Maybe you realized ZZ was going to choose someone else to donate Augustus to, and you needed the time and privacy that a body on a slab would give you and a liger in a pen wouldn’t.”
“The spell does require some time to cast,” he admitted. “But it can be applied just as easily to a living creature as a dead one. Should I have chosen that path, would I not have done so the first night I was here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you couldn’t. Maybe you saw the video cameras around the pen and didn’t want to get caught.”
He shrugged. “I cannot prove my innocence, only insist upon it. And you must follow your own beliefs—as must we all.”
I cut my eyes to the side, at Augustus. He was sitting on his haunches, licking one paw. If Abazu was the one who’d poisoned him, he seemed either blissfully unaware of the fact or extremely forgiving.
I sighed. “Okay. You’re right. Maybe you’re innocent and maybe you’re not, but I can’t prove anything either way. So I’m going to disregard the break-in and not report you to the police. But don’t try it again.”
“You have my word.” Abazu sounded unhappy but sincere. His shoulders slumped and he turned and walked away, in the direction of the house.
“Wait,” I called after him. “You know what kind of security the other half of the Sacred Stone has. How on earth did you ever plan to obtain it?”
He stopped, and his posture straightened. “My plans,” he said quietly, “do not originate on earth, Ms. Foxtrot. Nor am I their architect. They are sent from on high, and they will lead me wherever I need to go.”
I stared after him as he walked away. He was either a fanatic or an extremely good actor, and I couldn’t tell which. But he’d certainly given me a lot to think about.
I studied Augustus, who’d decided now was a good time for a quick nap, or at least an opportunity to lie down. I knew what had killed him, but not who or even why. I knew where it had happened, and a general idea of when. But there was one other factor that I hadn’t really given enough thought to: how had it been done?
I strolled over, then sat down beside Augustus. I had the urge to reach over and stroke his fur, but as that was impossible I managed to restrain myself.
