by Steve Cash
And there it was! A strange silver bird with no eyes, and wheels instead of talons, more albatross than eagle, flying low and straight on the horizon, close to the water. Suddenly and without warning, our wave, our chorus, increased and swelled. Another powerful voice had joined us, sweeping us forward, our “Voice” changing, filling and spilling down, directly through the silver bird and the living mind within. “A—haz—tu!” we sang. For a brief moment, the strange bird dipped slightly, then recovered and regained its true and steady course toward the east and the light of dawn.
I opened my eyes. I looked for Nova, but she had shifted position. She now stood to the west of “the slabs,” staring back at Geaxi. Neither spoke for several moments. Geaxi searched her eyes. I started to reach for her and Geaxi grabbed my arm, holding me back.
“Are you awake, Nova?” Geaxi asked. She took a tentative step toward Nova, extending a hand. “Do you know where you are?”
Nova stopped staring at Geaxi and glanced at me, then down at her nightgown and bare feet. She seemed puzzled, confused, like a small child who has just awakened from a long dream. “How did I get here?” Nova asked. “And what are you doing here, Zianno?” She rubbed her eyes and turned in a slow circle, trying to understand.
I laughed and smiled. “You walked,” I said. I was simply glad to have her back.
“And you spoke!” Geaxi said.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Nova replied.
Geaxi and I exchanged quick glances.
“Who woke me?” Nova asked. “The voice was not you, Geaxi, and it was not Zianno, but it was Meq. I heard it clearly. The three of you were singing, ‘A—haz—tu.’ ”
“That was another?” I asked. “The other voice was not you? I assumed the other voice had been yours.”
Nova looked to Geaxi. “Who was it?”
“I do not know,” Geaxi said. She paused and looked west again, frowning. “Yet, his voice was completely familiar to me in a way no Meq ever has been.”
“He?” I asked.
Geaxi dropped her frown and turned to me. “What?”
“He—you said he was familiar to you.”
“I did? I said that?”
“Yes.”
Geaxi shook her head back and forth. Gradually, a small smile appeared. “I do not know who or what it was,” she said, “but I have never felt such a thing. Never.”
Back at the house, Arrosa was up early and preparing breakfast. She was shocked to see Nova, but not completely surprised. The Meq and their mysteries were not unfamiliar to her.
Later, all of us, including Arrosa, Koldo, Willie, and Mitch, gathered in the courtyard of Caitlin’s Ruby to watch the skies. It was Saturday, May 21, 1927. In the thirty-first hour of flight, the Spirit of St. Louis was sighted and signaled while flying over Cornwall. We never saw the Spirit of St. Louis, but the drone of the big engine could be heard for miles.
Geaxi said, “We shall go to Paris. I must congratulate him.”
Mitch said, “I second that! The man has earned it.”
Nova continued to look slightly confused. “Who? Who is he?”
“The ‘lone eagle,’” I said. “Charles Lindbergh.”
At 10:24 P.M. that evening, he landed safely in Paris at Le Bourget airfield. The entire flight had taken thirty-three and one-half hours.
His life would never be the same.
6 Elur (Snow)
Snow is separate from all other phenomena in Nature for one specific reason: when it snows, each tiny six-sided snow crystal, every single snow “flake,” is unique and unlike any that has ever fallen before or ever will after. Still, is it not strange that at the end of this miraculous creation and fall, each instantly becomes part of a whole, forever unrecognizable as they were? Punishment or reward? Remember, Nature makes no mistakes.
W e left Caitlin’s Ruby early in the morning, just as the last remnants of fog were burning off and all of Caitlin’s cats were scattering back into obscurity. All except one, a big white male Persian with an enormous tail, who sat staring at us from a stone wall close to the limousine.
“I call him Snow White,” Nova said. “He is the only one among them who will not let me near.”
Nova took a tentative step toward the wall and Snow White jumped and ran the length of the wall before stopping. He looked back once, then disappeared over the side with the others.
Arrosa sent us away with plenty of food and a letter of introduction to a woman now living in Paris on the Rue d’Ulm in the Rive Gauche, the Left Bank. Geaxi had not been to Paris in several years and had no existing contacts in the city. Also, for various reasons, she did not want to stay in a hotel. I had never been to Paris and neither had Nova. Mitch said he was planning on staying with an old friend from St. Louis—“a surprise visit,” he called it. Arrosa assured us her friend could be trusted in every way and would be glad to give us shelter and any assistance we needed. They had first met as dancers in New York and had remained close ever since. Her name was Mercy Whitney and she had been living in Paris throughout the 1920s. Arrosa said she was independent in mind, spirit, and bank account, and loved to laugh.
Geaxi thanked Arrosa and said, “Those are good attributes for anyone.”
I loaded what little luggage we were carrying and in minutes we were headed east. Willie did the driving and Mitch sat up front with him. Geaxi, Nova, and I sat in the back.
“First stop—London,” Geaxi said. “I must check the mail at Lloyd’s, then we are off to Paris.”
“The mail?” I asked. “At Lloyd’s? What’s the joke?”
“I should have said safety deposit box; however, it is still the mail to me. We have used Lloyd’s Bank in London for over a century as an occasional message drop, particularly by Trumoi-Meq.”
“That sounds much too modern to be Meq,” I said. I scratched my head and winked at Nova. “I would have thought it more likely we had a drop at Stonehenge.”
Nova laughed, but Geaxi did not. “We do, young Zezen,” she said evenly, then leaned forward and began talking over the seat with Willie about current experimental aircraft design in Europe.
I laid my head back and let my mind drift. Spring was in full bloom and the English countryside became a rolling kaleidoscope of color and texture. We opened the back windows of the limousine and let the wind rush through. It felt the same way good fresh spring water tastes. I smiled all the way to London.
Once we were in the city, Willie drove with skill and patience through the narrow maze of streets. The noise and traffic seemed to have tripled since the last time I’d been there. Luckily, a block from Lloyd’s, we found a place to pull over and park. Geaxi, Mitch, and Willie left for the bank while Nova and I stayed behind.
As soon as we were alone, Nova turned to me. She was wearing her heavy Egyptian mascara and her lips were a deep red. She showed not a trace of the frail and pale ghost she had been only days before. Still, something was troubling her.
“Z,” she said, “you are the Stone of Dreams. I know of no one better than you to tell.” She paused and stared blankly out the window.
“Tell what, Nova?”
“I have been having a series of dreams, but one in particular. Over and over, more and more horrible each time.” She paused again.
“What do you see? What’s in the dream?”
“A balloon—a huge, awful, burning balloon. Over and over, rising, burning. I can’t make it stop.” She turned back to me. “What does it mean, Z?”
I knew she wanted an answer. She was desperate for one, and I wanted to give her an answer, but there was no answer, no truthful one.
“I don’t know what it means, Nova. It is your dream and your balloon.” I looked into her eyes closely. “Can you live with this nightmare, Nova? Will you be all right?”
She sighed and smiled slightly, then laughed once. She put her hand over the center of her chest, where the Stone of Silence hung from a necklace underneath her blouse. “Yes, of course, Z. As Geaxi likes to say, after
all, we are Meq.”
In less than twenty minutes, the others returned. Willie and Mitch jumped in the front seat. Geaxi climbed in back with Nova and me. “To Paris,” she said, throwing three London newspapers across the seat. Charles Lindbergh’s flight was the headline story in all three. Without delay, Willie put the limousine in gear and we were on our way. He would drop us at the docks, where we would be off to Calais, then on by train for Paris. Geaxi withdrew a letter from her vest, waving it back and forth. “News from Mowsel,” she said.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“New Delhi. He is with Sailor. They have found Zeru-Meq. Negotiations are under way to enlist his assistance in finding Susheela the Ninth and stopping the Fleur-du-Mal however possible. No decision yet, and also no sign or rumor of the Fleur-du-Mal himself. I think I know why.”
“You?”
“Yes. I do not believe he is anywhere near New Delhi. Quite by accident, I learned of something in Norway. It is the ‘other news’ I mentioned in my telegram to you.”
“What is it?”
“The Fleur-du-Mal has a home.”
“A home!”
“Yes—in Norway. I believe he is there now and has been there since you saw him in Egypt. The man I was waiting to meet in Trondheim is the man who sold it to him. Nova was stricken before he arrived and I never got the exact location of the home. However, I know where the man was going from Trondheim. If we are in luck, he is still there.”
“Where?”
Geaxi smiled wide. “Paris,” she said.
Mercy Whitney’s home on the Rue d’Ulm was a sprawling, light-filled, ten-room apartment directly above a small restaurant and café called “La Belle Étoile.” The building was old, but clean and well kept, with dark green shutters and wrought-iron balconies. Day and night, delicious aromas and scents drifted up from the kitchen below and filled the air with traces of garlic, fresh-baked bread, or roasted lamb. During our entire stay in Paris, I was constantly hungry. In our first conversation, Mercy Whitney acknowledged the problem.
Geaxi, Nova, and I stood in the hallway outside her apartment door. Mitch had gone his own way at the train station, saying he would stop by the Rue d’Ulm address in a day or two. He never mentioned where he was going or whom he was surprising, but he checked his luggage twice to make certain he had packed his tuxedo.
I knocked on the door. In seconds, I heard footsteps and the door swung open. An attractive black woman in her late twenties, taller than average and dressed in denim overalls, stared back at us. She had reddish brown hair, which was cut short and parted on one side with a dramatic wave plastered across her forehead. She was barefoot and her overalls, hands, face, and feet were splattered with yellow paint. She looked each of us over thoroughly, then spoke to me.
“Am I dreaming?” she asked. “Are you three children for real?”
“I think so,” I said. “I’ve never been asked that before.”
“And you speak American English. Are you triplets?”
“No, but we’re very close. Maybe this will explain it. It’s a letter from Arrosa.”
Her eyes lit up. “Arrosa?”
“Sí,” I said and handed her Arrosa’s letter.
As she read the letter, Mercy Whitney laughed with abandon at every sentence. I couldn’t help but smell the wonderful aromas wafting up the stairs. When she finished, she said, “Come on in. I haven’t seen that girl since she moved to Cornwall. I need to hear all about her.” She saw the hypnotized expression on my face. “Afterward, I’ll clean up and we’ll go downstairs and eat. You will not be able to stay here without thinking about it, so we better fix that craving right away. What’re your names?”
I gave her mine and Nova and Geaxi introduced themselves. As she led the way inside, I told her we were from St. Louis.
“Well, you two sound like you’re from St. Louis,” she said, nodding toward Nova and me. She looked at Geaxi. “But I cannot place your accent at all. What would you call it?”
“English with a hint of Phoenician,” Geaxi said flatly.
A moment passed. Then Mercy Whitney laughed again—a big, generous, lusty laugh. “Of course, of course,” she said. “What else could it be?” She turned and waved for us to follow her down the hall, then stopped and winked at Geaxi. “I like the beret and leggings.”
“Thank you, Mercy. By the way, is Charles Lindbergh still in Paris?”
“Oh, yes, he’s still in Paris, all right. That man is the toast of the town—no, I should say the toast of the world!”
“So it would be difficult to see him, no?”
“Impossible, unless you were asked.” She paused and raised one eyebrow. “Do you know Lindbergh?”
“He saved my life once.”
“Of course he did.” Mercy started to laugh, then stopped. Something else occurred to her. “Wait,” she said. “There may be a way and my boss will love it. Three nights from now, she is invited to a gala performance at the Theatre des Champs-Élysées, a benefit for the Airman’s Relief Fund. Lindbergh is going to be there. She loves children and you’re from St. Louis, her hometown. She would love to take you along, I just know it.”
“Who is your boss?” I asked.
“Josephine Baker.” Mercy looked at me and waited for a reaction. “You never heard of her?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I have,” Nova said with a smile. “She’s amazing.”
Mercy laughed big and loud, then turned in a pirouette spin even Geaxi could admire and waved for us to follow, saying over her shoulder, “Yes, yes, and yes.” She laughed again. “Josephine is amazing. That she surely is.”
We were led down a long hallway that both divided and connected the entire apartment. The living room, dining room, and kitchen adjoined each other and all rooms opened onto the hallway. There were five spacious bedrooms and two bathrooms. A dozen huge windows lined the north and west sides. Mercy said we were lucky, we could each have our own room. She often had boarders filling up the place for weeks. She said dancing with Josephine Baker paid well, but not that well, and from time to time she needed extra income to afford the apartment. And she had to live in this apartment because of one room at the end of the hallway—the artist’s studio. Dancing paid the majority of her bills, but she was in Paris to live in this apartment and paint in this specific studio.
“Why?” Geaxi asked bluntly.
“Because Rune Balle once lived and painted in this studio. He is my inspiration.”
“Rune Balle!” Geaxi almost shouted.
“Yes.”
“Who is Rune Balle?” I asked.
“Few have ever seen his work,” Geaxi said. “Let alone the man himself. He is more than merely obscure. He and his work are virtually unknown to all but a handful of people. He is also the man I was waiting to meet in Trondheim.” Geaxi paused. “How do you know of Rune Balle, Mercy?”
“My father owns a painting of his, done in 1903 shortly after Balle studied with Edvard Munch. It is called Snowblind. My father first showed it to me when I was twelve. I’ve wanted to be a painter ever since.”
“I see,” Geaxi said. “And how did your father obtain the painting?”
“I’m not sure. I never asked. But did I just hear you correctly? Did you say you were waiting to meet Rune Balle?”
“Yes.”
“Rune Balle has not been seen or heard from since 1906. He is considered dead, even by his own family.”
“True enough,” Geaxi said, “until recently. I believe I now know where he has been and where he may be at the moment.”
“What—where for God’s sake?”
“The Left Bank.”
“But, but, that’s here, that’s where we are!”
“I know,” Geaxi said with a smile. “We could use your assistance, Mercy. You are familiar with the area and you know the people. We will have to ask questions. You could make it much easier for us.”
“I would be more than happy to help,”
Mercy said. She shook her head, then broke into another round of boisterous, contagious laughter.
Finally, Geaxi asked, “Mercy, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just that I can’t help thinking about something Arrosa said in her letter. It’s a bit of an understatement.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“She told me to ‘expect the unexpected.’”
Two days passed in a blur of activity. From early morning until late at night we combed the streets, shops, cafés, and bars of the fifth, sixth, and seventh arrondissements. We made countless strolls up and down Saint Germain and Saint Michel, asking questions, searching, hoping to find a connection to Rune Balle. No one seemed to know him, which was not odd since he had been considered dead for twenty years. Lindbergh’s name, however, was everywhere and on everyone’s lips. Mercy accompanied us during the day, but at night she was working at Chez Josephine. We spent both nights in Montmartre, high up on rue Florentine, loitering near two clubs across the street from each other, Bricktop’s and Zelli’s. Geaxi said they were the kind of places Rune Balle had preferred in his youth. We watched the traffic and never saw a sign of him, but Nova became completely absorbed and fascinated with Parisian street life—the personalities, hairstyles, conversation, and especially the fashion. Geaxi seemed unaffected by it, telling me, “Il faut cultiver notre jardin,” or “We must cultivate our own garden.”
By morning of the third day, we still had not heard from Mitch. I worried about it. It was unusual for him not to call or come by. Whatever the reason, if he had fallen down, fallen ill, or fallen in love, it was probably serious. We made our rounds anyway and then headed back to Mercy’s apartment for lunch. The telephone rang. Mercy picked up the receiver, laughed, then held out the receiver so we could hear. The voice came through loud and clear. It was Josephine Baker, laughing and shouting and telling Mercy to get those children from St. Louis over to her apartment now, faster than a pig squirms. She wanted to meet us before we went to the benefit that night. She couldn’t wait to talk about St. Louis. She was sending over her car and her chauffeur within the hour. From her place we would all go to the Theatre des Champs-Élysées together. She went on and on. Mercy finally stopped her and said we would be waiting on the front steps.
