by Steve Cash
The first four days on board the Emme went smoothly. We sailed far to the south, then caught the “breeze” Captain B was expecting out of Africa. We rode it east through the Strait of Sicily and nearly all the way to Gozo. Captain B proved to be a consummate sailor and it became clear his crew respected his ability as well as his authority. I learned early when I first went to sea with Captain Woodget that a sailor honors few things more than good seamanship. Even Umla-Meq, an expert and veteran at sea for centuries, watched and praised Captain B for maintaining maximum speed while exercising minimum maneuvering. “Using this complex rigging, keeping the speed he is keeping,” Sailor said, “one has to know what one is doing.”
I kept waiting for the moment Sailor would get around to telling me about the Fleur-du-Mal and the death of my grandfather. However, I also knew he was once again trying to teach me patience, and I was trying to learn. I just wasn’t a very good student.
Ray enjoyed this type of ship and this way of sailing. He and Captain B made fast friends and Ray spent most of his time alongside him at the wheel. The air was clean, the food was good, and the whole experience seemed to sharpen his mind and bring out the “Weatherman.” He began sensing something in every gust of wind, change of light, or shape of cloud. He sounded a little crazy at first, but I assured Captain B that Ray was authentic and dependable. If Ray said we were heading into trouble, I told Captain B he should heed Ray’s advice. And that is precisely what happened.
On the fifth day out, Ray said he felt something brewing quickly, “A big blow from the south, gale force for sure.” Sailor and I looked at Captain B, who did not hesitate. He stuck out his chin slightly, stroked his goatee once, and gave the orders to turn sharply north, maintaining a north-northeast heading indefinitely. In two hours we received word that a sirocco, filled with dust from northern Africa, was blowing with cyclone force winds and about to cover Malta and Gozo. Because of Ray, the Emme and all aboard were spared a possible catastrophe. Captain B handed out cigars for everyone and then toasted Ray for his rare gift. Unfortunately, there was one serious consequence from our escape.
Three and a half days later we anchored in Mgarr Harbor and made our way ashore. We followed a winding trail through the hills beyond until we found Giles Xuereb’s “little home above the cave.” Giles was there and he was alive, barely. The Fleurdu-Mal was gone. We had missed him by no more than an hour or two. None of us knew it at the time, of course, and even if we had known, none of us would have regretted Captain B’s decision. It was the right one, the only one. However, those three and a half days cost us the next three and a half years and very nearly the life of a trusted friend of the Meq.
Giles Xuereb had long been considered to be many things by many people. He was the last heir to an old Maltese fortune, a dealer in illegal antiquities and semiprecious stones, a master forger, a former professor of religious philosophy at Cambridge, tall, dark, and handsome. As a result of the Fleur-du-Mal’s handiwork, he would never again be considered handsome, but at least he was still alive. Giles was lying unconscious and chained to the massive oak table in the center of his kitchen. His entire face and body were covered in hundreds of bleeding cuts and slashes, carved in a distinct and complex pattern, ranging in length from half-inch “thorns” to whole “roses” in full bloom, each drawn in a single stroke with the blade of a stiletto.
Sailor found some water and let a few drops spill onto Giles’s lips, which helped him regain consciousness. He tried to smile once he recognized Sailor’s face. Then the pain hit. He winced, trembled, and passed out again. We dressed his wounds as best we could, but he would need a doctor as soon as possible, followed by an extended rehabilitation in the hospital. Sailor guessed the Fleur-du-Mal had been torturing Giles for information, or had already obtained it and thought Giles had lied to him, which would have been worse. “Much worse,” I added. Sailor said Giles probably would have tried to trick the Fleurdu-Mal rather than betray the contract they had together. It was the way his family had conducted business affairs since the Middle Ages. Giles happened to be the last in a long bloodline of honest pirates, which was the very reason the Meq had begun a relationship with Giles’s family in the first place. Sailor knew that and the Fleur-du-Mal knew that.
“There is something more, Zianno,” Sailor said slowly. He stared into my eyes, making sure he had my attention. “The Fleur-du-Mal may have done this to send a message.”
“A message to whom?” I asked. “The Meq?”
“No. More specific than that.” He paused again. “This is the exact method the Fleur-du-Mal employed to…to torture and kill your grandfather, Aitor. This could be a message for you, Zianno. His aberrant mind compels him to play games when he kills. He may be saying he knows you are with me. This may only be his opening move.”
“Goddamnit!” Ray shouted, stomping the stone floor and slapping his beret against his leg. “He has to go, Z! We need to take that murderin’ son of a bitch out!”
“I know,” I said, but Sailor’s words had stunned me. Why would the Fleur-du-Mal do that? What would so possess him to do something so cruel? What did my grandfather know?
Sailor was genuinely concerned about Giles and his condition. Every day all of us would ferry over to Malta and the hospital in Valletta to visit him. He drifted in and out of consciousness for five days, then on the morning of the sixth day he was able to speak and he and Sailor spoke to each other in whispers. They used Maltese, Giles’s native tongue and a language I had never heard. Even in slow, hoarse whispers, it sounded distinguished and elegant. Once we were out of the hospital, Sailor was openly relieved that Giles was going to live, but concerned about what Giles had told him.
“We shall see if he acted fearlessly or foolishly,” Sailor said.
“What did he do?” I asked.
“He did indeed lie to the Fleur-du-Mal.”
“We already assumed that.”
“Yes, however, the Fleur-du-Mal believed him. That will surely be a death sentence for Giles when he realizes the truth.”
“Not if we find him first,” Ray said.
“Yes,” Sailor said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.
“What did Giles lie about?” I asked.
“What else? He lied about the Octopus. He told him the box was inlaid with ruby instead of lapis lazuli and the trail to find it begins in Damascus, not Cairo. That means we have an advantage in our search, but Giles will still be here, helpless and defenseless against the Fleur-du-Mal’s anger when he eventually discovers the truth, and he will.”
“How can we protect Giles?”
“We cannot. We must find the Octopus before the Fleur-du-Mal finds the truth. Then we shall bait the trap. It is that simple.”
“That don’t sound like it will be too easy,” Ray said.
“No,” Sailor almost whispered, “it will not.”
Captain B and his crew had the Emme restocked, rigged, and ready to sail by noon of the following day. We would have raised anchor immediately, but Sailor and I were late returning from Valletta, where Sailor wanted to send a cable to Pello. The cable was actually a coded message to Mowsel. Translated, it read, “Find Zeru-Meq now—Giles/Aitor a fact.” While we were there, I wrote and posted a quick letter to Opari in St. Louis. I told her we were on our way to Egypt and I would dream of her every night—I would dream of her face, her voice, her lips…her gift.
On the way back to the Emme, I asked Sailor why he and Mowsel thought Zeru-Meq might be able to help.
“He might be able to unravel the demented puzzle driving the Fleur-du-Mal and his aberrations,” Sailor said. “After the death of Aitor, Mowsel suspected it. Now, with the mutilation of Giles, I agree with him. Aitor discovered something about the Fleur-du-Mal that evoked a vicious response. Mowsel thinks Zeru-Meq may know what it was. I have my own thoughts on the matter, but they are only speculations.”
We walked a few paces in silence. I was confused. “Tell me about my grandfather,” I said.
“That will take some time and make us late for our departure.”
“Then make us late, Sailor. I want to know now.”
“Of course. I understand.” Sailor stopped walking and motioned for us to sit together on a low stone wall just to our left. From there we could see the harbor and the vast blue Mediterranean beyond. “The murder happened there,” he said, pointing north across the sea, “1,739 years ago on the western coast of Italy, near a fishing village along the Gulf of Salerno. The village is where your father was born and the murder occurred on the same night as his birth, a cruel irony that was neither accident nor coincidence.
“Your grandfather and your grandmother, Itzia, before and after they crossed in the Zeharkatu, were a uniquely gifted pair. I used to visit them at least once a year, if only to hear Aitor talk for hours about how it felt, biologically and psychologically, to age. He was obsessed with the science of it. Both he and Itzia possessed keen and curious minds and both had eclectic interests that led them all across the Mediterranean, Near East, and the shores of the Black Sea. Along with being an avid fisherman, Aitor was a student of tidal pools and marine life in coastal waters. He studied every species, but after the Zeharkatu, focused his studies on the cephalopod mollusks, particularly the octopus. Itzia was an expert in the medical sciences and studied for a time under the tutelage of an odd and brilliant Giza, the Greek physician Galen. Oddly, it was Galen who gave Aitor the first bit of information that inadvertently led to his death.
“Also, you must remember, Zianno, at this time the Fleur-du-Mal was not of much concern to the Meq. We followed him from a distance, disapproving, of course, but uninvolved. Aitor had even met him on three separate occasions over the previous two hundred years. They had exchanged a few unpleasant remarks and Aitor was not impressed, being repulsed by Xanti Otso’s mind and presence. During that time, the Fleur-du-Mal was extremely active and proud of it. Assassinations were rampant and he was in demand. However, to our knowledge, he had not yet killed or tortured one of us.
“Itzia said Galen knew she was Meq and became a trusted friend. He also knew of Aitor’s fascination with marine biology, especially the octopus. Apparently, on one long night in front of the fire, Galen told Aitor about a nefarious man, an opium dealer, he had encountered on the island of Crete. The man told Galen about a strange green-eyed boy who never seemed to age. The boy kept his hair tied in the back with a green ribbon and he wore red ruby earrings. Galen did not know the Fleurdu-Mal. What he thought Aitor might be interested in was the fact that the boy was an addict, and in his opium stupor would always ask, “Where is the octopus? Where is the octopus?” Galen thought the story was hilarious. Aitor was intrigued. A year later, Aitor was traveling to Crete concerning another matter. By the evening of his second day there, he was in the streets of Iraklion and the surrounding countryside asking guarded questions and searching for the opium dealer. After a week of disappointment, he finally located the man. The poor fellow had sunk into the depths of addiction himself. He was emaciated, lost and hopeless, but he happened to be lucid on the afternoon Aitor visited him. Whatever secret Aitor learned about the Fleur-du-Mal was learned there. It could not have simply been the fact that the man exposed the Fleur-du-Mal as an addict. His drug use was legendary and only one of his minor depravities. Much later, I discovered the opium dealer had been brutally murdered and decapitated shortly after Aitor’s conversation with him. That is when I first realized the extent of the Fleur-du-Mal’s network of information and how fast he can act upon it. In Aitor’s case, however, he did not. His confrontation with Aitor was much more diabolical. He waited a full two years, until Itzia became pregnant with your father, then on the night of his birth, appeared out of the darkness unasked and unannounced on Aitor’s doorstep. Itzia told me later she was in bed with her newborn and Aitor was sitting next to her. Aitor rose to answer the knock at the door, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out of the room. She never saw him again. She said she heard a raspy voice, a boy’s voice, congratulate Aitor, then ask him something about an octopus, after which Aitor raised his voice, saying “Outside with this!” and they left. The next morning, Aitor was found near a tide pool in the same condition in which we found Giles, except Aitor’s throat had been slit and he had been scalped. A green ribbon was woven into the hair and the whole scalp had been placed over Aitor’s face. No notes, no reasons, nothing. The Fleur-du-Mal disappeared.”
I was stunned and sickened and speechless for several moments. Finally, I asked, “Was Zeru-Meq informed of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He wept,” Sailor said in a flat monotone. “He wept and then wandered into the Caucasus without a word.”
“Zeru-Meq told me in China he thought the Fleur-du-Mal was only a ‘sad, dangerous pilgrim.’”
“Yes, and Zeru-Meq likes to think of himself as seeking a higher truth, when in fact he lives a lie. He could help to end this madness and he knows it. He is aware of something about the Fleur-du-Mal that we are not, likely the truth concerning the deaths of his parents. While she was living, Zeru-Meq had always been protective of his sister, Hilargi, the Fleur-du-Mal’s mother. The father I never knew. Perhaps, Zeru-Meq bears a secret guilt. It is possible. After Aitor, it is not important. Guilt was not acceptable as an excuse for his silence. He can stop this insanity and he has not, he does not.” Sailor paused, then sighed. “Still, I suppose we must try again.”
I let Sailor’s words and images sink in permanently. Below us, the blue Mediterranean spread out in all directions. “Let’s go to Cairo,” I said.
Sailor unconsciously twirled the blue star sapphire on his forefinger, then stood up. “Yes,” he said, “Cairo it is.”
There were fair winds every day and clear skies every night on our sail south and east. I watched the stars for hours at a time, pacing the ship. I could not get the image of Aitor out of my mind and had trouble sleeping. As we approached Egypt, the summer heat became intense and oppressive, and on the night before we made landfall, I awoke after a long, strange dream. I had dreamed I was observing a card game from a distance. We were in a loud, smoke-filled saloon in the Far East, somewhere near the sea. The time was in the past, though it felt like the present. There were several men sitting around a large, round table littered with whiskey bottles, glasses, lit cigars in ashtrays, poker chips, and money. One man was shoving all his chips and gold coins across the table to another man, whom I knew quite well. He looked up and turned his head in my direction. “Welcome, Zianno,” he said. He winked once and added, “Yahweh has been good to me.” The other man raised his head and looked at Solomon, then at me. He seemed older than he does now, but I was certain the man was Captain B.
I awoke suddenly. I was dripping with sweat. I reached for a towel and silently made my way on deck to dry off and get some air. Only two men were on watch—Captain B, who was at the wheel, and his first mate, a man who went by the nickname Pic. Pic was getting ready to go below and whispered a last remark to Captain B. I don’t think he saw me, but even if he had, he would not have suspected I could hear him. He spoke French. Translated, he said, “If you want my opinion, I would listen to her, Antoine. She is your wife!” Then he saluted casually and disappeared belowdecks.
The night sky sparkled with stars. I walked up to Captain B, wiping the sweat from my head and arms.
“Can you not sleep, monsieur?” he asked.
I glanced at the sky. “Not tonight, Captain.” I leaned over the railing to catch the sea spray on my face. The cold felt good, but the salty spray stung my eyes. I wiped them clear and found myself staring down at the painted name on the side of our schooner—Emme. I thought back to the only Emme I had ever known. I wondered where she was and how she was. I turned and looked toward Africa, which was just over the horizon. She had saved my life and spent almost a decade of her own trying to help me find Star. I owed her a great deal, as well as her grandfather, PoPo.
&
nbsp; Captain B saw me staring at the name. “Is something wrong, monsieur?”
“No, no, Captain. I was just thinking of someone I once knew, a girl named Emme. She was special in many, many ways.”
“Oui, she is.”
I turned and looked at him, wondering what he meant. He was smiling. “She has a keen mind,” he said, “but her heart wanders.”
My mouth dropped and I was stunned. “That can only be one person, Captain. A man named PoPo told me the same thing about her.”
“And me, monsieur. I knew him well. It was I who wrote the letter informing her that he was dying.”
“Knew?”
“Oui. He passed on not long after she returned.”
I remembered the day she read that letter. We were deep in the Sahara in a desolate crossroads called In Salah. It was where we said good-bye. “You mean your ship is named after Emme Ya Ambala?”
“Oui, she is the same girl. Only her name is longer now, monsieur, by one name. Mine.”
“Emme is your wife?”
“Oui.” He paused, then went on. “I see we both have this secret from the other, though this thing does not surprise me. Emme is the one who taught me of your existence. She told me you have great abilities, monsieur. Because of Emme, when Mowsel approached me three years ago, I surprised him by recognizing him as, well, what he was…what you are. Now, I do this work when he needs me and Emme protests my absence.”
“Where is she?”
