by Steve Cash
Ray and I looked at each other. Neither of us had moved a muscle. I started to reach for the Stone I had dropped, but before I could, it came to me. At a fairly rapid pace and in a gentle arc, like a baseball toss, the Stone rose from the ground and flew over to me. I caught it softly in one hand.
“What the…” Ray said and never finished. His mouth was hanging open.
Behind the two men, who were barely conscious, the stacked crates full of bananas began to shake and vibrate. In ten seconds they were falling in an avalanche of wood and bananas and buried the two men where they lay.
Arrosa crawled out of the shadows of the warehouse. She was barefoot and her red dress was torn and bloodied. There were several places on her neck and arms beginning to bruise. Still, she seemed to be all right.
A shadow moved in the open space between Ray and where I was standing. It appeared to leap and dance in a diagonal line. Something or someone was on top of the stacks behind me. I turned and saw a figure bounding down from crate to crate. In the glare of the sun, I couldn’t make out who or what it was, but the movements were quick, graceful, intuitive. There was no doubt or hesitation about where to land or where next to leap. In seconds the figure had dropped eighteen feet, then hit the ground with both feet and started walking toward Ray and me. He wore loose black trousers tucked into boots laced to the knees. His shirt was a simple white cotton tunic with intricate orange stitching. He was exactly my height and weight and looked exactly the same as the last time I had seen him, except the braid behind his left ear was now weighted with black onyx. He stopped in front of me. His “ghost eye” swirled with clouds. On his forefinger he wore a ring of star sapphire set in silver. He reached out and lightly tapped my hand, the one holding the Stone.
“You should learn to hold on to that, Zianno.” Then he smiled, which I had not seen in a very long time. “Sorry I missed your birthday. I was…preoccupied.”
He turned without another word and walked over to where Arrosa still sat on the ground, bewildered and exhausted. He gave her his hand to help her stand and steady herself.
“Arrosa Arginzoniz, no? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Umla-Meq, Egizahar Meq, through the tribe of Berones, protectors of the Stone of Memory. Please, call me Sailor, if you wish.”
“Sí, señor. I know of your name.”
“Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention of any kind?”
“No, no, I am fine. I should not have been waiting in this area. I should have known better.”
“Nonsense. You are completely without blame. Those men were filth and refuse. I have seen men like them on these seas for longer than I care to remember. Are you certain that you have no serious injury?”
“Yes,” Arrosa answered. She was looking down at Sailor, but she could have been on her knees. “Gracias, señor, gracias,” she kept repeating. “Gracias.”
“De nada, my dear.”
Ray had silently walked over next to me. “Did Sailor do that?” he whispered.
“He sure did.”
“How?”
“You know how. In the same way you can run fast and foretell the weather; the same way I can hear things from a great distance. What Sailor does is called telekinesis.” Ray’s mouth finally closed. He rubbed his chin, then mumbled something. “Damn,” I think he said.
“I suggest we return to your ship, and quickly,” Sailor said. “Someone might have questions about this and I feel no desire to answer them. Also, I have news of which you are unaware, news I regret I must deliver.” He reached for the arm of Arrosa. “Are you ready, my dear?”
They made their way out of the jumble of broken crates and bananas, Arrosa walking barefoot and Sailor kicking a clear path with his boots. Ray picked up her sandals and I retrieved her bloodstained black beret. Once again, an old one, Umla-Meq, had shown me something fundamental about the Meq and living in the moment. Never take it for granted and never despair, it will pass. Ray saw it from a little different perspective. Just as we were about to walk up the gangway of the Iona, Ray looked up at Sailor ahead of us and said with a wink, “Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”
I laughed, then suddenly remembered what we were doing before I heard Arrosa’s screams. The scratches I found on the papyrus were not scratches at all. They were words, words written in the ancient Meq script that only I could read. “Ray,” I said, “whose name is on that note from Susheela the Ninth? Who was meant to see the papyrus?”
Ray grinned and looked up the gangway at Sailor and Arrosa stepping on board. “Him,” he answered. “The name on the note is Umla-Meq.”
Once we were on board and away from the other passengers, Sailor wasted no time in explaining his timely arrival. It was not a lucky accident. He had been waiting for us for days, even purchasing a ticket for passage on the final leg to Barcelona. When he saw Arrosa leaving the ship, he followed her, taking a position atop the banana crates. He was about to act just as Ray and I ran blindly, without thinking, directly into the danger and nearly paid the price. Sailor glared at both of us as he recounted this and I felt scolded. The heat of embarrassment hit my cheeks, but Sailor ignored my reaction and went on to say he bore sad news, especially for Ray and me. Arrosa offered to leave, saying she longed to soak in a hot bath for at least an hour. Sailor said he understood, but this news concerned her as well. Only a week earlier, Kepa Txopitea had died of a stroke while fishing in the Pyrenees with his son, Pello. He was a chieftain and father of the western clan of the tribe of Vardules. He was also my Aita and a wise and treasured friend to all four of us.
The news was not at all expected and stunned me. Each of us stood in silence for several moments, alone with our own memories of the old man. I started to speak and nothing came out. Then I was overcome with remorse and regret that I had not gone to see him when I could have, just after the war.
Sailor said, “I would not have missed the burial of Unai and Usoa, and now, with great respect, we shall bury them all together.”
Another long silence hung in the air. All of us knew what was ahead of us and it was acknowledged without a word.
Ray finally broke the silence. “I got somethin’ you ought to see, Sailor.”
Sailor raised one eyebrow and unconsciously rubbed the star sapphire on his forefinger. “Then I will see it,” he said and paused, facing Arrosa. “Whatever it may be, you are welcome to come along, Arrosa. Unai never kept anything from you and I will always honor his judgment.”
“No, señor, please,” Arrosa said, then smiled weakly. “Not this time. I want to be alone for a while and I need to rest.”
“I understand,” Sailor said, nodding once. “Then we will see you this evening for dinner, after we set sail. Bueno?”
“Bueno.” Arrosa glanced at each of us and smiled again. Ray handed her the sandals and I gave her the beret. She stared at the bloodstains and her smile slid away and vanished. There was a faint tremble in her bottom lip and her eyes welled a bit, but that was all. She turned to leave. “Thank you, Umla-Meq. Thank all of you,” she said.
After she was out of sight, we began to walk back to Ray’s cabin. Sailor said he wanted to tell us why he had been “out of touch” the past several months. As we walked and he talked, the huge volcanic mountain of Pico del Teide was visible far to the southwest. Wrapped in swirling clouds, the snowy peak reminded me of Sailor’s “ghost eye.”
It was common knowledge among the Meq that Sailor believed there was a Sixth Stone somewhere—lost, buried, stolen, no one knew, but Sailor firmly believed it existed. So he began by stating that he had gained access to evidence, the best in centuries, he added, and the evidence proved the Stone’s existence and possible whereabouts. Then he said something that made little sense to me. It was the kind of statement that had troubled Trumoi-Meq and others. Sailor said, “Finding the Sixth Stone will reveal the true reason Unai and Usoa’s baby died. Everything is there, gentlemen, everything is there.” But instead of it sounding delusional or obsessive,
it made me remember the words on the papyrus and the reason for Umla-Meq’s name on the note became clear.
I burst out, “Stop, Sailor, and come with me. You must see what Ray has discovered. Now!”
Sailor and Ray had to run to keep up with me, much to the annoyance of Sailor, who kept complaining as we were running, saying, “Zianno, please, is this absolutely necessary? I am an old man.” An American on board, a fat man in his fifties, was bumped by all three of us as we ran by. He yelled after us, “Goddamn kids! Watch where you’re going, goddamnit!”
As soon as Ray opened the door to his cabin, I said to Sailor, “Look at this.” The papyrus was still out on the bed. Ray said, “And look at this.” He handed Sailor the note he had been carrying since leaving Salzburg. The writing on the note was in a neat black script, handwritten in German and signed “Susheela the Ninth.” Her handwriting could be mistaken for any Giza’s. The name Umla-Meq was clearly visible, appearing twice in the text. Sailor needed no translator to read the note and as he read, Ray related the story of the mysterious black Meq girl who had lived outside Salzburg for a thousand years with the papyrus in her possession, then disappeared, leaving behind the papyrus and the handwritten note and instructions. Ray concluded with, “Thought I’d try and get it to you. Never thought it’d be here, though.”
“These things occur,” Sailor said and glanced at me with a faint grin. I didn’t say anything, but I realized he was back to being the same Sailor I had always known, not the frantic, angry, crazy Sailor I had last seen in Cornwall. He set the note aside without asking Ray one question, then touched the papyrus with his fingertips, tracing the surface until he found the tiny script in faded dark ocher near the center. He leaned over and examined it, not three inches away. Slowly, he turned his head and looked at me. “This is—” he started, but I finished the sentence for him.
“The same script that is in the Meq caves. Yes. Impossible, but true.”
His “ghost eye” narrowed. “What does it say, Zianno?” he asked in a low drone.
“It begins,” and I had to walk around the bed once in order to read the entire text. The tiny lines and half circles were written in the shape of a nautilus shell, beginning in the center and spiraling out to the end. Nine sentences, or “Steps,” each one punctuated and separated by a miniature image of a handprint. “It begins with these words: ‘Nine Steps of the Six,’ then nine lines follow in a spiral—‘The First One shall not know. The Second One shall not know. The Third One shall not know. The Fourth One shall not know. The Fifth One shall not know. The Living Change shall live within the Sixth One. The Five shall be drawn unto the Source Stone. The Living Change shall be Revealed. The Five shall be Extinguished.’ ”
When I finished, I looked up and Sailor was staring out one of the two tiny portholes in Ray’s cabin. The Iona was just getting under way and our next port of call was Barcelona. The whitewashed buildings of Santa Cruz de Tenerife were only a thin white stripe against the deep blue of sea and sky. “This confirms it,” Sailor said evenly, then turned and stared Ray and me in the eye, one to one and back again. He had stopped rubbing the star sapphire and his hands were still. In the light his eyes were like black diamonds. “We must find the Sixth Stone, gentlemen,” he said. “And I know where to begin.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Cairo, then the upper cataracts of the Nile and beyond, possibly as far as Ethiopia.”
“When?”
“As soon as we bury our friends.”
I looked at Ray and he shrugged, knowing what I was thinking and possibly thinking or feeling something similar about Nova.
Sailor could see the reason for my hesitation in my eyes. However, he also knew something about me that could still be summoned and stirred, and he made me an offer I could not refuse, regardless of my desire to return to St. Louis and Opari. “Do you know the reason I could not tell you I would be here?” he asked. “Why only Mowsel and Pello knew my location? It was because someone has been tracing my movements and harassing me from a distance. Someone who believes in the Sixth Stone and has a piece of the same information as I…someone who will surely be on the same trail, either waiting or following…someone I will gladly help you kill in any manner you choose, Zianno. When Mowsel told me of the savage and senseless attack on Unai and Usoa, I made my decision. Xanti Otso shall no longer be tolerated. The ‘Little Wolf,’ the Fleurdu-Mal, must be eliminated and a trap could be set for him with the Sixth Stone. He will chase it like a rat after cheese.” Sailor paused and looked at Ray, then back to me. “I also have something to give you, Zianno, something from Kepa. It was sent to me by Pello, along with instructions that Kepa wanted you to have it.” He bent down and extracted a neatly folded red beret tucked inside the top of his boot. He shook it out and handed it to me.
For some reason, I glanced at Ray’s tattered and torn bowler resting on a chair. “Ray,” I said, “you need a new look for this century. I want you to have Kepa’s beret.”
Ray took the beret and examined it, feeling the texture of the old woven wool, then looked over to his bowler. “It is a fine-looking beret, Z. And a damn nice color of red.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think you’re right. I think I need a change and I think we ought to go with Sailor. The time is right, Z.”
I realized I had already made my decision and I agreed with him. I turned to Sailor. “What about Arrosa?”
“If she wishes to return to New York, she may do so, or if she wishes to remain with Pello, it will be arranged. Whatever she chooses to do, someone from Kepa’s camp will watch over her.”
I nodded. “All right, then. I’m in.”
“Good, good,” Sailor said, then added cryptically, “Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for.”
Ray and I exchanged curious glances. “How do you know about Ithaca?” I asked.
“Ithaca?” Sailor said. His “ghost eye” focused in on me. “I was quoting lines from a poem.”
“Oh,” I said and left it alone.
“I’m hungry,” Ray blurted out. “Is it too early to find somethin’ to eat on this ship?”
“Of course not,” Sailor answered. “Remember, Ray, we are only children. We do not know any better.”
Ray laughed and said, “Let’s go.” He placed Kepa’s red beret on his head at a precise angle, as if he had been wearing it for centuries. He and Sailor started for the door. Before we were out of the room, Ray said, “You know, Sailor, when I was travelin’ with the Baron, many times we were near the country you’re talkin’ about—the Blue Nile and Ethiopia and those parts.” Sailor looked at Ray with surprise and admiration. Ray went on, “That’s right. I nearly got my head chopped off three times and practically starved to death on several occasions. Then I got my foot stomped on by a packhorse, took a spear point in the thigh, and was poisoned four separate times. Beautiful country, though. Beautiful.”
I laughed to myself and followed behind, listening to every word. After all, if the truth is, in fact, unknowable, then a wise man always follows the man with the beret.
PART II
Not to know what is in one’s past is to remain perpetually a child.
—CICERO
4 Olagarro (octopus)
The dying mariner approaches land after a long and troubled journey at sea. He drifts into the shallow pools of a rocky cove with nothing left but his secret, the secret he has stolen and smuggled to this unknown, distant place. Yet, he cannot take it ashore. He must leave it and hide it carefully until the time comes when it will be needed. But where can he hide it? Who can protect it? Who can he trust? Underwater, darting through the shallows, something passes silently from rock to rock. Shy, intelligent, reclusive, with three hearts and eight arms, the octopus moves, blending into the surroundings, changing color, poisoning and paralyzing any enemy if necessary, then disappearing behind a black cloud into hidden holes, crevices, caves, dens, and grottoes, not to
be seen, not to be found. Yes, the mariner decides, the octopus is the one.
S omewhere between the Balearic Islands and the harbor of Barcelona, Sailor disappeared on board the Iona. None of us were surprised. Ray and I were aware and Arrosa suspected that Sailor rarely entered a country or continent legally. He is as good or better than any Meq at using false papers and identities; however, he prefers not to make use of them. The risk is unnecessary and he continues the practice. He would never admit it, but I think he does it simply for the thrill.
The Iona slowly found her berth among the crowded waters of the old port. It was late morning and the sun was high and bright in a clear blue sky. Ray was excited. He said, “I heard this city is as wild as New Orleans.” Arrosa said she had never heard that before, but she did say, “Barcelona is unique among all cities.” She was very familiar with Barcelona and all of Catalonia. Her fluency in Catalan even helped speed us through customs and the stack of paperwork concerning the caskets of Unai and Usoa. We were each in a good mood, perhaps too much so. When Pello met us at the exit gate and I looked into his eyes, I saw a certain kind of pain that brought me back instantly to the true and somber reason for our visit—we were here to bury loved ones. I could see clearly that Pello had loved no one more than his father, Kepa Txopitea. The loss in his eyes was infinite.
“I…I am sorry, Pello,” I said.
He now wore a blue beret instead of red. He was leaning on his cane and shifted his weight slightly, then removed his beret. His hair had turned completely gray in the six months since I had seen him last. “Thank you, señor,” he said softly. “My father was an old man and lived a long, good life.” I could still see the soldier in the back of Pello’s eyes, but the shepherd was in his voice. Pello and Kepa had shared a deep and special bond. Kepa was in his nineties when he died and Pello was his youngest son. Ever since Pello was born, Kepa had given him the friendship of a brother, the love of a father, and the wisdom of a grandfather, all in one. That is a lot to lose.
