Time Dancers

by Steve Cash

  On the drive back to Caitlin’s Ruby, I sat up front with Willie. All I had to do was look at him and he realized what I wanted to know.

  “I suppose you were wondering about Star and Caine, right?”

  “Yes, I was. Has something…changed?”

  “No, not exactly. I still love her a great deal, Z. I always will. It just seems to me I should be back here, at least until I find someone I trust to live in and look after the Ruby full-time.”

  “I agree, Willie, and you’re right to do it. But that’s not all, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.” He hesitated and glanced over at me, keeping both hands on the wheel. Rain continued to fall and every road was treacherous. “I think she needs to find something, Z, and at the present time, I do not know what that is.”

  “Is she depressed? Is she angry, what?”

  “Now don’t get me wrong, Z, because I’m not speaking of Opari here, but I think they’ve all gone bonkers—Star, Nova, Geaxi, even Carolina on occasion, maybe the whole damn country. On top of that, it is now impossible to order a pint of ale at the corner bar because of bloody Prohibition!”

  I almost laughed out loud, but Willie was being earnest and I checked myself. “Bonkers? How do you mean?”

  “I mean bonkers, loony, completely unpredictable and living as if there is no tomorrow. Geaxi is off in Illinois somewhere living as a ‘wing walker’ in a traveling air show. Nova hears ‘voices’ constantly and often wanders from coast to coast to find their source. She is also what is known as a ‘movie star.’ Yes, it’s true. She is a child actress in motion pictures. Our privacy has become a ridiculous problem. Geaxi used to travel with her, but now Star is her companion. Star is obsessed with acting and her beauty is attracting the sharks. There was no place for me, Z. I’m afraid my only obsession was Star and that became quite awkward for both of us. For now, at least, it is better if I stay away. And as for my mother, I would never let Caitlin’s Ruby go under, never—for Daphne, for all of us.”

  I watched Willie and I could see the sadness in his eyes finding a good, wise place to go. There it would settle in him, becoming a part of him just as he was a part of Caitlin’s Ruby. I said, “I understand, Willie, but what did you mean when you said, ‘even Carolina on occasion’?”

  “Between blues players and ballplayers coming and going, taking care of Caine, Biscuit, Jack, Owen, and arguing with Ciela, she is fine, and as bonkers as the others, if you want the truth. It’s a bloody zoo, Z, so be prepared.”

  “When was it any other way?”

  Willie ran one hand through his damp red hair, brushing it back off his forehead. He glanced across at me on the turn into Caitlin’s Ruby. “Quite,” he said, steering the big wheel and smiling faintly.

  Later that evening Willie prepared a meal in honor of Daphne. He announced the kitchen to be off-limits to everyone while he cooked. The meal included all of her favorites, even an apricot tart. Willie made a valiant and admirable effort, but the result was slightly dangerous to the digestive system.

  In three days the weather cleared and for the first time in our visit the cats of Caitlin’s Ruby appeared. Moving, resting, moving again, they were on every window ledge and rock wall, dozens of silent curious witnesses in every shade and color, never making a sound, not a one. None looked the same and none came forward. They were true sentinels in a wild place.

  That night, under a full moon, Mowsel, Sailor, Ray, and I took a walk along one of the many paths leading away from the main house. I told them about Nova’s recent behavior and public celebrity, and both Mowsel and Sailor showed genuine concern. They seemed shocked and confounded. I agreed. It was not only that she was Meq, but through Baju’s bloodline, Nova also carried the Stone of Silence.

  Sailor was unable to speak for several seconds, then he took a step forward. His “ghost eye” became a hurricane of clouds, but Mowsel grabbed Sailor’s shoulder and held him back. “Silence of water—” he whispered.

  “We are,” I finished. It was one of the lines Trumoi-Meq had written on the wall of the first Meq cave I discovered in Africa.

  Finally, Sailor said, “Indeed.”

  “It don’t surprise me, Z, not a bit,” Ray said. Then he turned to Mowsel and Sailor and winked. “I don’t think we seen the end of it, either.”

  I also informed them of Nova’s “voices” and Sailor became even more agitated and concerned. “You must tell her this is of grave importance. She may be the bridge in finding the Egongela, the Living Room. Do you understand? I need not remind you we have less than one hundred years until the Remembering. And where is Geaxi? Why is she not there to watch over Nova?”

  I told him what Geaxi was doing. He looked over at Mowsel, who shrugged. For a brief moment Sailor smiled, then dismissed the whole subject with a mysterious comment. “Geaxi is being seduced,” he said.

  We left Caitlin’s Ruby early on the morning of June 24, the day before Ray and I were scheduled to depart for America. Willie drove us back to Southampton in the big limousine. From there, he and Sailor and Mowsel planned to continue on to London in order to meet a man of about twenty years of age named Douglas Douglas-Hamilton, the future fourteenth Duke of Hamilton. Willie was supposed to teach him how to fly airplanes. Sailor informed me that Mowsel had arranged the meeting and the lessons. He had been a quiet and close friend of the family for centuries, and tried to maintain a personal relationship with each generation. I knew Mowsel was looking forward to the meeting because he told me so as we were saying our farewells. We were standing dockside, not far from the memorial to the Titanic. The ship was still loading cargo and passengers were beginning to board. Mowsel and Willie were about to leave to find petrol for the limousine and the rest of their trip to London. After we embraced, Mowsel reminded Sailor they had an appointment with Douglas-Hamilton and asked him not to dally. “I think I may be able to learn a great deal from this young man,” he said.

  As he was turning to go, I had to ask, “Mowsel, what could you possibly learn from a twenty-year-old that you do not already know?”

  He glanced at Sailor, then grinned. “I cannot answer that before it happens, Zianno, but this I will tell you—I intend to listen well. I am surprised that with your ‘ability’ to hear beyond any of us, you still have not learned to listen well. Do this, Zianno, and you will learn many things you never imagined.” He held up one hand with his palm facing out and his fingers slightly spread. “Five fingers,” he said.

  “One hand,” I answered, holding up my hand and mirroring his.

  I watched him as he walked away with Willie and even though it was a warm, clear summer day, Trumoi-Meq withdrew a long plaid woolen scarf, or muffler, and wrapped it once around his neck, letting the rest trail behind. Just before he was lost in the crowd, he turned and yelled back, “Hail Hadrian!”

  I turned to Sailor. “Why does Mowsel like to praise Hadrian? What does it mean? Is it a joke?”

  Sailor burst out in a rare and rowdy laugh, causing several early arriving passengers to look our way. He ignored them. “If it is a joke,” he said, “I am certain it is on Hadrian. Believe me, it is no joke to Mowsel. Someday, I shall tell you the tale. It is the origin of his name ‘Mowsel’ and the reason he is missing a tooth.” Sailor looked once toward our ship and the passengers queuing up to board. “Have a safe voyage, gentlemen. I will notify you when—”

  I interrupted. “Tell me the tale now, Sailor. We’ve got time.”

  He glanced in the direction of where Willie and Mowsel had gone. “Why not?” he said. “However, it must be a brief recounting.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Damn right,” Ray added. “I’ve always wondered about that crazy name.”

  Sailor smiled faintly and gazed not out to the open sea, but northward over the low horizon and beyond. “In the country of what is now Scotland, the land of Douglas-Hamilton’s distant ancestors, Trumoi-Meq is a living legend, just as he is to a few precious families in Cornwall. And it all began w
ith the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, and the construction of his infamous wall. In Cilurnum, a cavalry fort on the River Tyne, in AD 123, Trumoi-Meq was recognized as Meq and captured by a Greek slaver who arrived with the First Cohort of Vangiones from the Upper Rhineland. Trumoi-Meq had been traveling and living throughout the northern island chains studying the standing stones and ancient sea routes for hundreds of years before the Romans invaded. Being Meq, he moved easily among the many Celtic tribes, often as a messenger because of his quick understanding of their diverse dialects and customs. On one of these missions he heard reports of a slaver who had been stealing children while accompanying the cavalry on their frequent raids into the ‘barbarian’ north. Through Cilurnum, the slaver was shipping the children to all parts of the Empire, but if he found one particularly exotic, that child would be sent directly to the Emperor where they would usually be sacrificed in an equally exotic manner. How this slaver knew of the Meq has never been determined. What is known is that he recognized Trumoi-Meq as one of us and to prove it to the soldiers, he had one of Trumoi-Meq’s front teeth forcefully extracted, boasting to the Romans that the wound would heal in minutes and another tooth would take its place by morning. Trumoi-Meq was in agony and bleeding profusely, as anyone would be, but the wound did, indeed, heal within minutes. Using that small triumph, the slaver had Trumoi-Meq chained and thrown into solitary confinement until the following day. The Roman soldiers crowded around, saying such things were impossible, and the slaver took all wagers offered. He was no charlatan—the boy would grow another tooth! He had also secretly planned to personally present Trumoi-Meq to Hadrian, thereby becoming instantly wealthy from the Emperor’s abundant delight and gratitude.

  “That night in the damp and dark of the tiny cell where they kept him, Trumoi-Meq did something quite extraordinary, especially for the Meq. In order to survive, he consciously willed his body, his metabolism, blood, and ancient genetic code, everything in his being, to stop his tooth from regenerating. The Meq have a word for this impossible ability, an old word rarely used—askenameslilura, the ‘last mirage.’ Only by doing this could Trumoi-Meq prove he was not Meq. The slaver would be discredited and forced to set him free. It might be his only chance for escape. No one had ever done this before, but Trumoi-Meq did, and the following morning he was inspected and released. Before running away, he turned to the slaver. Grinning like a buffoon, he displayed the great gap that is still permanently in the front of his mouth. ‘Hail Hadrian,’ Trumoi-Meq said, then disappeared through the soldiers and into the crowd. However, he did not leave Cilurnum right away. He was now determined to take every stolen child in the slaver’s custody back to their various mothers, fathers, and tribes. Then something occurred to him instinctively. In the same manner, Zianno, as you knew how to read the old script without ever having seen it, Trumoi-Meq knew he could use his missing tooth to save the children, and he knew how. He ran swiftly to the west gate of Cilurnum and the building housing the bread ovens servicing the entire fort. The long building lay in the shadow of the west gate. Below the great brick and stone ovens, the Romans had also dug a narrow tunnel that led away from the fort a good hundred and fifty yards before surfacing in a grove of trees near a small spring. Only a few men at a time used the tunnel, normally for clandestine night raids and reconnaissance patrols. Trumoi-Meq had already befriended and easily bribed the baker in charge of the ovens, whose name was Ith. He had been born a Celt and was sympathetic to the plight of the children. When told of the plan, Ith reminded Trumoi-Meq that it must be done just before dawn, during the brief time he would be preparing the loaves. Once he lit the wood fires and the ovens were warmed, it would be too hot to enter or exit the tunnel. Trumoi-Meq told the baker not to worry, the children would all be moving in silence and without delay. The escape was set for that evening. With a crescent moon high above the fort, long after the soldiers had fallen asleep, Trumoi-Meq slipped into the area where the children were being held. Two dozen children filled the room. They were sleeping on a bare stone floor covered with straw. The smell and stench of stale urine was overwhelming. Their faces were terrified and half starving. Slowly, the children gathered around Trumoi-Meq, but none stood up. They all sat huddled together at his feet. The room was dark and he waited until each one could see his eyes and mouth. He began to speak in an even manner and tone, using a common Celtic tongue. He said, ‘Look into the mouse hole, dear ones, and listen. Do not be afraid. Look and listen.’ Trumoi-Meq then opened his mouth and grinned. He knelt down until his face was level with the children’s faces and let each one gaze into his grin and his gap, his missing tooth, his magic mouse hole. What they saw and what they heard transported them into a suspended, hypnotic state that was not quite a trance, but more a state of infinite trust. Inside Trumoi-Meq’s gap, they each found safety and sanctuary. Trumoi-Meq then used the ‘voice’ he had discovered and understood instinctively, the ‘voice’ that could save the children. ‘Be silent, be swift, and do not be afraid. We are going home. Follow me.’ And they did. Once he had picked the locks of their linking chains, Trumoi-Meq led the children through the darkness across the entire fort, from the barracks, past the stables, to the bread ovens and the west gate. The silent voice acted as a beacon in the dark and they arrived unseen and unheard just as Ith was ready to light his fires. ‘Not yet,’ Trumoi-Meq told him. ‘Now open the tunnel, my friend.’ In silence, one by one, the children stepped down into the narrow tunnel and none showed any fear or hesitation. ‘Into the mouse hole,’ Trumoi-Meq said gently as they entered. ‘Do not be afraid.’ After the last child had disappeared below, Trumoi-Meq followed. By dawn, all were beyond the reach of the slaver and within a week, each had returned to his or her home, though many of them discovered they were now orphans. Trumoi-Meq eventually found a home for them as well. Whenever asked how they had escaped with only another child to lead them, the stolen children always gave the same answer. ‘Through the mouse hole,’ they said. In the course of time, the name changed and shortened into one mystical, mythical place and person—Mowsel.”

  Sailor looked back through the crowd and saw something or someone he recognized in the distance. It was Trumoi-Meq. He was standing on the running board of the limousine, waving his long plaid scarf in a circular motion. “It is time,” Sailor said, turning back to Ray and me. I stared into his swirling “ghost eye” and thought again about Trumoi-Meq and Sailor and how long they both had been traveling, seeking, and surviving. Sailor would never admit it, yet both of them, without exception or hesitation, still adhered to one basic principle and simple code of behavior—the “Golden Rule.” “Ray,” Sailor said, “I can see you have an intuitive connection with Nova. You may be the only one she can trust, the only one who may be able to unravel what is troubling her. Do you understand?”

  “You bet.”

  “Keep her in this world, Ray. We need her.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Sailor.”

  Sailor began backing away and his last comment surprised me. “Zianno, does young Caine wear the blue stone, the lapis lazuli I gave him outside Alexandria?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Make sure that he does,” Sailor said, then darted into the rush, threading his way through the stream of oncoming passengers and luggage, never slowing down, never touching anyone and barely being seen.

  The America to which Ray and I returned was not the America we left, and we were given a short preview of it on our four-day passage from Southampton to New York. A large group of mostly young Americans, none older than thirty, were traveling together in what seemed to be a rambling party, constantly flirting, arguing, or laughing with each other in a shifting, never-ending exchange. They gathered in different areas of the ship or walked the decks at all hours of the day and night. None of them seemed particularly rich, yet they drank champagne to excess, often making loud obscene toasts to Prohibition, which never failed to arouse a cheer from each of them. They discussed and debated everything from politics to polyrh
ythmic African chants. They dressed in various styles and manners ranging from plain and sloppy to tie and tails. Their American slang was unfamiliar, and except for one name, T. S. Eliot, so were their references to current painting, poetry, and music. Many had been directly involved in the Great War and all had left it far behind. Something had changed. These were new Americans in a new age.

  Ray noticed the same thing and talked to several of them whenever he got the chance. Since we were still carrying our Egyptian passports, he used that as an excuse to strike up conversations, saying he and I were brothers wishing to practice our English. Being children, we were rarely turned away. After we docked and passed through customs, Ray summed it up in a taxi on our way to Pennsylvania Station. Smoke and gas and noise surrounded us. New York seemed to have a million cars and trucks and ten times that many people, all in motion. He said, “Looks like we’re a little behind the times, Z.”

  Inside the station we ate a delicious meal, bought our tickets, and boarded the first train through to St. Louis. Traveling on our train and sitting across the aisle from us was a young man in his early twenties who had a warm smile and gentle nod for anyone and everyone. In no time, Ray was in conversation with him about all the current news in America, especially baseball. The young man knew a great deal about baseball, more than most fans, and was impressed with Ray’s questions. He finally introduced himself, which explained it. His name was Jim Bottomley, better known as Sunny Jim. He was a Major League ballplayer with the St. Louis Cardinals. He had the pleasant disposition and quiet demeanor of an accountant or store clerk, but as we witnessed later, he could play. He was traveling on his own because he had been hit in the head by a pitch in the last game of a series against the New York Giants a few days earlier. He lost consciousness and was diagnosed with a concussion. The doctor wanted him kept under observation in the hospital for at least forty-eight hours. The Cardinals were scheduled to leave New York for Pittsburgh that night. Sunny Jim stayed behind in the hospital. Now he had fully recovered and was on his way to rejoin his teammates in St. Louis. This was his first complete season in the big leagues and at the end of it he would be named Rookie of the Year in the National League. At Ebbets Field the next year, he would hit twelve RBIs in one game, a record that still stands. He would also become a close and loyal friend to Ray and me and Carolina’s family.