The Arkana Mysteries Boxed Set

by N. S. Wikarski

  “You mean like the mother of Jesus?” Cassie asked in surprise.

  “No, there is no relation to the biblical Mary though I suspect that Christian missionaries eager to convert the natives would have exploited the similarity in the names as much as possible. The goddess of the Basques is hardly a meek handmaiden of an overlord thunder god. She is a powerful creation deity and a stickler for proper behavior from what little I’ve read.”

  The three were so engrossed in conversation that they failed to observe a middle-aged man who had walked up to their table. “Good day,” he said in accented English. “I believe you are waiting for me?”

  The Arkana team looked up in surprise. Griffin rose and extended his hand. “I do beg your pardon. You must be Ortzi.”

  “Yes, I am.” The man took a few paces forward and shook hands. “My name is Ortzi Exteberri.” His manner was quiet and unassuming. He gave an overall impression of roundness. There were no sharp angles either to his features or his shape. He might have been in his fifties since the hair curling beneath his black beret had gone grey.

  Griffin completed the introductions. Ortzi solemnly shook hands with both Cassie and Erik. Each time he coupled the handshake with the word kaixo.

  Cassie resisted the urge to utter gesundheit. She assumed the word kaixo meant hello.

  Griffin offered the newcomer a seat.

  “I see you have tried some of our local specialty—pinxtos.” Ortzi pointed to the empty plates. “Did you like them?”

  “They were really good.” Even Erik readily agreed.

  “Are you the Basque trove keeper?” Cassie asked.

  “Yes.” Ortzi nodded. “For many years now.”

  “I really hope you can help us,” the pythia said.

  “It is not I who can help you,” the trove keeper demurred. “After the scrivener told me what you are looking for, I think it is my Aunt Ochanda who will know. I have come to take you to her. She does not like the city.”

  “I take it she lives somewhere out in the country,” Griffin inferred.

  “Not very far. A little way past Durango. About thirty kilometers from here.”

  “What’s that in miles?” Cassie whispered under her breath to Erik.

  “Twenty or so,” he answered.

  “My car is parked at the end of the square. If you are ready, we can go now.”

  “We have so many questions,” Griffin said worriedly. “You see we’ve already travelled very far to very little purpose.”

  Ortzi Exteberri gave the Arkana team a cryptic smile. “Izeba Ochanda is our etxekoandre. She knows many things—things that have been forgotten by everybody else. Come, she is waiting to meet you.”

  Wordlessly, they rose and followed him.

  Chapter 27 – Boozin’ Buddies

  Chopper Bowdeen sat alone in a Rush Street bar nursing a light beer. He wanted his head clear for what was coming. His last conversation with the diviner had set him on his ear. It was one thing to teach a handful of kids to aim a gun. It was another thing entirely to order them to train those guns on their own families. All his plans to stay the course had flown out the window. He needed more intel before he could decide what to do and there was only one person who was likely to give it to him.

  He checked his watch. Leroy was late. He should have been here half an hour ago. Chopper felt a sinking sensation. What if he didn’t show at all? Bowdeen had to make some quick decisions, but he couldn’t do that without knowing the whole story.

  “Hey, brother, how you doin’?”

  Chopper jumped when he felt a friendly paw slap him on the shoulder. He hated how twitchy his nerves had become lately. He glanced over at the man who had just joined him. Hunt was still sporting his Hollywood cowboy look—Stetson hat, string tie, snakeskin boots and a silver belt buckle big enough to knock somebody’s teeth out. Hunt removed his hat and laid it on the bar. He ran a comb through the pompadour wave in his hair.

  Bowdeen put on his game face and smiled. The scar across his lip must have made it appear more of a snarl, but Hunt didn’t seem to notice. He was busy telling the bartender to bring him a shot of tequila.

  Leroy straddled the bar stool next to Bowdeen’s. “Life been treatin’ you good, Chopper?” When the name escaped his lips, it sounded like “Choppuh.”

  “Can’t complain,” Chopper said noncommittally. “That old preacher is keepin’ me hoppin’.”

  “That so?” Hunt sounded genuinely surprised. “Last I heard he wanted you to train some greenhorns on the business end of a gun. That shoulda been a slam dunk even with those retards.”

  “He’s got me workin’ on something else now. Security for the compound.”

  Leroy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That place is already shut up so tight that a flea ain’t gonna jump inside without settin’ off bells and whistles someplace. What’s he want more security for?”

  Chopper shrugged. “You tell me. I think it’s because one of his wives disappeared.”

  Leroy chuckled silently.

  “You know something about it?”

  Hunt downed his shot in a single gulp and signaled for another. “Fact is, I’m on her trail right now. Guess she didn’t cotton to marryin’ an old coot like Abe. Gal’s barely out of diapers herself and about to be saddled with a young ‘un of her own. Them Nephilim sure got some strange notions about women.”

  “Findin’ a kid like that should be a piece of cake for an ole tracker like you. Remember when we used to go coon huntin’ back home? Everybody always said, ‘Don’t need no hound. Got Leroy.’”

  Hunt guffawed and slapped his knee at the memory. “Yup, I surely do recall them times. Wasn’t a critter I couldn’t run down. Didn’t make no difference how small. I once tracked a squirrel on a bet. Course it wasn’t no ordinary squirrel. Lost half its tail in a fight or some such. Anyhow, I bagged it in a couple hours.”

  “So how come you got a problem now?” Bowdeen asked in puzzlement.

  The cowboy scowled before replying. “Turns out this little gal is a mite more clever than a stumpy squirrel. Managed to find her way to the big bad city all by herself. Of course, she mighta had some help from—” He cut himself short.

  Chopper knew there was more to the story, but Leroy wasn’t about to tell him what it was.

  Instead, Hunt changed the subject. “So, you called me to come meet you ‘cause you got a hankerin’ to talk about the old days?”

  Chopper peered into the depths of his beer glass. “Naw, that ain’t it. I wanted to find out what you know about Metcalf. What’s he got up his sleeve?”

  “What you mean, ‘what’s he got up his sleeve?’”

  Bowdeen shrugged, trying to appear casual. “He’s got bigger plans than just training kids at the compound. He wants me to train all the kids at all the compounds around the world.”

  Leroy let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Sounds like you fell into a pile o’ money. That’s a sweet gig.” He signaled to the bartender to refill his shot glass.

  Chopper finished his beer and ordered another. “It would be a sweet gig if I could figure out what he needs all that firepower for.”

  Hunt’s eyes narrowed. “Time was, you wouldn’t of asked a question like that.”

  “Time was, I wasn’t in the business of training homegrown terrorists!”

  Hunt swiveled on his bar stool to stare directly at Bowdeen’s profile. “Now that’s gratitude for you! I hand you a ticket to ride on the gravy train, and all you can do is piss and moan ‘cause you ain’t got all the facts?” Hunt’s voice was getting loud enough that other patrons turned to stare at the pair. “What’s the matter, man? The old preacher’s money ain’t green enough for you?”

  Chopper felt stunned by the cowboy’s reaction. “Take it easy, Leroy. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  Hunt got off his barstool and grabbed Bowdeen by the collar. He shoved his face in close to whisper, “I swear if you queer this
deal for me, I’ll track you down and gut you like a wild hog. And you know I ain’t lyin’!”

  Chopper raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Now hold on. I ain’t gonna rock the boat or interfere in your business.”

  Leroy backed off a few inches. “That’s more like it. From where I’m standin’ you got no call to bellyache. Just the opposite. Didn’t your momma teach you no manners? When a feller does you a favor, you’re supposed to say ‘thank you’ but I ain’t heard those words come out of your mouth one time yet.”

  Bowdeen retreated even further. He decided nothing more could be gained by riling Hunt. “Sorry, man. I got a little sideways. You’re right.”

  “Damn straight.” Leroy resumed his seat and downed another shot.

  “The next round’s on me,” Chopper added. “Like you said, it’s a sweet gig. Thanks, brother. I owe you one.”

  Leroy nodded. “Now that’s proper manners. My momma would’a liked that.”

  Hunt lapsed into a mellow silence after a few more shots of tequila. Bowdeen was glad of the conversational lull so he could ponder his problem anew. Rather than getting some answers, he’d been hit with an even bigger and more troubling question. Leroy was obviously working on something else for the old man, and he probably had an agenda that the preacher wasn’t aware of. What deal was he so worried that Chopper might queer for him? Bowdeen sighed and added that mystery to the stack he’d already accumulated.

  The only useful bit of information he’d learned tonight was that Leroy had no clue about the diviner’s grand plan, whatever it was. In all the years Chopper had known his cowboy pal, there was one thing you could count on. Leroy only cared about what was good for Leroy. The rest of the world could collapse around his ears, and so long as it didn’t clock him when it came crashing down, he wouldn’t even blink.

  Chopper signaled to the bartender and ordered a double shot of whiskey. He was going to start drinking in earnest now. Leaving his contract with the Nephilim was out of the question. He already knew the cult would be after him if he quit but that idea didn’t trouble him half as much as the thought of getting on Hunt’s bad side. He might elude the Nephilim, but he knew for sure he’d never outrun his old buddy. Leroy had a gift that way. He always nailed what he was after. Always. For a brief moment, Bowdeen pitied the girl Leroy was tracking now. She didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter 28 – Hex Marks the Spot

  Ortzi maneuvered his sedan through the streets of Bilbao and onto the open highway of the surrounding countryside. He had insisted that the pythia take the front seat. Fortunately for her two companions, the back seat afforded a good deal more legroom than Thea’s tiny electric car.

  Cassie observed the green valleys and grey mountains that rolled past her window. At regular intervals, a succession of large buildings dotted the landscape. They all seemed to follow the same pattern—boxy design, three stories high, gently sloping red tile roofs. Their facades were a combination of whitewashed stone and painted wood.

  “Is there a name for a building like that?” Cassie asked the trove keeper, pointing to one of the distinctive structures as they drove past it.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “That is a Basque farmhouse—what we call a basseri. Some of them are quite old, going back many centuries. The farmhouse can be inherited by a man or woman. If it is a man, he is called the etxekojaun or, in English, ‘the master of the house.’ If it is a woman, then she is the etxekoandre or ‘lady of the house.’”

  “Isn’t that what you called your Aunt Ochanda?” Cassie asked. “You said she was the etshe... etshe—”

  “Etxekoandre. Yes, she is the lady of the house though she will retire soon.”

  “The term ‘lady of the house’ is deceptive,” Griffin observed. “In practice, the etxekoandre is something more like the matriarch of the family. She governs all matters related to the kin group and its ancestral home. She even leads some of the religious ceremonies. Basque culture has a long-standing tradition of female authority. Strabo, the ancient Greek historian, said that the Basques practiced a sort of ‘woman-rule’ which he concluded was most uncivilized.”

  Ortzi glanced at Griffin in the rear-view mirror. “You know much about the Basque people.”

  “It’s what he does,” Cassie remarked. “Whenever we go on a field mission, he reads up on everything he can find about the places where we’ll be travelling. Not only that, he remembers everything he reads.”

  “It is useful to have such a person with you, yes?” Ortzi asked.

  “Absolutely!” Cassie agreed. “Griffin’s the best.”

  The scrivener blushed at her enthusiastic endorsement.

  Apparently feeling left out, Erik decided to demonstrate what he knew about the region. “The Basques don’t automatically pass property from father to eldest son like overlord cultures do.”

  “Also true,” their guide concurred. “When the etxekoandre and etxekojaun are old and wish to retire, they decide which of their children will inherit the farm. It will be passed down to the one most capable whether it be a daughter or a son. Sometimes it is the youngest daughter who will inherit the property. The basseri is never supposed to be divided or sold out of the family.”

  “So, it’s more like being a trustee than an owner,” Cassie commented. “The one who inherits manages it for the family as a whole.”

  Ortzi nodded.

  Cassie studied another basseri passing by the window as they drove on. “Those buildings are huge. Basques must have really big families.”

  Their guide chuckled. “The building is for the family, yes, but not only the family. Part of it is a barn for the pigs and sheep and goats and cows and horses. Another part is for storage. Some basseriak have cider presses as well.”

  “Then it’s like a whole farm operation under one roof,” the pythia noted.

  “And as more room is needed, additions are built on one side or the other.”

  “Because these farms have been in operation for centuries, it stands to reason that the core building would keep expanding over time,” Griffin remarked.

  “Sure beats the hell out of a pole shed and a chicken coop,” Erik said.

  “I think they have character.” Cassie’s voice held a note of approval. She paused as another thought struck her. She turned eagerly toward Ortzi. “Is that where the Basque trove is hidden? In your basseri?”

  Ortzi shook his head. “The trove is hidden deep in the mountains where nobody who should not know of its existence can find it. I am not taking you there because none of our artifacts can help you.”

  “Oh,” Cassie said in a small, disappointed voice. She’d secretly been hoping for a grand tour.

  As they rounded the next curve, a large stone farmhouse came into view. The second-floor windows were framed by wooden shutters and decorative cross-beams painted red. The first level contained a huge wooden door beneath an arch. Both were also painted red.

  Ortzi pulled the car up near the building. As they got out, the front door opened, and an elderly woman emerged.

  She was of medium height and squarely built with curly silver hair and sharp hazel eyes. Her weathered skin bore the appearance of someone who had spent much of her life out of doors. She was dressed in black pants covered by a bright blue smock that reached to her knees. When she saw the visitors, she gave a welcoming smile and gestured for them to come inside.

  “I am Ochanda Exteberri. Welcome to the home of my family.” Her English, like her nephew’s, was very good. “Come in, come in,” the old woman urged. She beckoned them into what appeared to be a huge kitchen. The walls and floor were made of fieldstone. The high ceiling was supported by dark oak crossbeams. A large stone hearth dominated the side wall. At the moment, it glowed with the embers of a banked fire.

  “Please sit down.” She pointed to a trestle table in the center of the room. Each visitor took a chair around it. After Griffin had introduced everyone, Ochanda murmured some wo
rds in Euskara to her nephew. He immediately went to one of the cupboards and fetched down half a dozen glasses. Then he left the room, only to return a moment later with a bottle.

  “We are just beginning our apple harvest,” the matriarch explained. “You must try some of our cider. It is very well known. We sell it in the market in town.”

  While Ortzi was busy filling glasses and passing them around, Ochanda piled plates with fruit, nuts, and cheese and laid them on the table.

  “This cheese is called idiazabal. It is made from sheep’s milk,” she explained.

  “I don’t recognize the fruit,” Cassie said uncertainly.

  “In English, the name is quince.”

  Ortzi handed the pythia a glass of cider. “This is last year’s vintage. We have none ready yet for this year.”

  Cassie took a sip of the amber liquid. The first taste made her realize that this wasn’t like the cider back home. It was apple wine. She assuaged her guilt by remembering that she was of legal drinking age in Spain, if not in the US. “Very good,” she said.

  They all readily agreed as they chatted and consumed the accompaniments. Griffin launched into an explanation of their quest to the etxekoandre and her nephew.

  While he was speaking, Erik leaned over and murmured in the pythia’s ear, “I’m cutting you off after one glass, toots.”

  She shot him an offended look. “So now you’re the apple police?”

  “Just looking out for you. It’s my job, remember?”

  “I’m legal in Spain.”

  The security coordinator cocked an amused eyebrow at her unfortunate choice of words. “One glass,” he repeated. “That’s it.”

  They turned their attention back to the others.

  Griffin was just beginning to recite the clue which had brought them there. “Let Eurus fill the sails twelve days, then follow Eberos where it climbs to the sky. Set your course four bees from the dragon’s wing to the sea. When the bull turns the season, mark where the goat grazes the spinner’s peak. There lies the second of five you seek.”