by Greg Weisman
“Womanatee!” John called out over his shoulder, unwilling to face either Rain or his parents.
“What did happen?” Esther asked.
“Nothing really,” Rain said. “There was this woman on the beach. I guess she was singing, and she was about to go into the water. And the kids tried to follow her. And we stopped them—because Miranda had just brought our lunch.”
Wendy turned back around, looking betrayed. She tried to form words, to articulate how Rain was lying with the truth, but it was a practice beyond Wendy’s previous experience—and she couldn’t work out how to explain it. So she snapped her mouth shut and glared.
Rain swallowed hard and looked away. Another thing to feel guilty about. I’m shattering their innocence. She didn’t want to overdramatize the situation, but still there was a fog of unease left over from the day before. She tried to sound casual as she said, “So … what do you guys have planned for today?”
“Nothing too ambitious. I think we’re just going to the mall,” Mrs. Kim said.
“To spend more money,” Fred Kim groused before stuffing a good third of a cheese omelet into his mouth.
Rain was relieved. As long as they’re staying away from the ocean. She wished them luck, poured orange juice unbidden into all the Kimlets’ glasses and returned to the kitchen.
Iris was taking inventory. “We’re low on bacon and sausage. Oh, and Lucky Charms. That kid eats a lot of Lucky Charms.”
Not today, Rain thought as she put down the two half-empty pitchers of juice.
“I’ll phone in the order to Rusty,” her mother said. “On your way home from school, stop by and pick it up, okay?”
“Sure, Mom.”
Mrs. Cacique’s eyebrows rose slightly. She wasn’t used to her daughter acquiescing to additional chores without complaint. “Thank you,” she said.
Rain smiled at her mother, then grabbed her backpack off its hook. She took a step toward the back door but paused and gave Iris a kiss on the cheek first.
A speechless Iris Cacique watched her daughter depart for school.
Mrs. Beachum was lecturing about something, but all Rain could think about was the Taíno. This ancient people—her people, at least in part—were connected to everything: the zemi, the mosquitoes, the dolphins, Aycayia—probably even a corpse. She didn’t know what the connections were, but it was clear the key to unlocking the truth was with these original inhabitants of the Ghosts. She started doodling on a blank sheet of paper in her notebook. Crude drawings of dolphins, manatees and bugs. Crude drawings of the zemis in Pablo Guerrero’s office. She started writing down questions. Finally, in big block letters, she wrote WHAT DID THE TAÍNO WANT? across the bottom half of the page.
She glanced at Charlie, who was focused forward. She ripped the question out of the notebook, and the sound of the tearing paper got Charlie’s attention. He watched her fold it up small and reach across to hand it to him.
Mrs. Beachum said, “Passing notes in class? Seriously, Rain, this isn’t third grade.”
Charlie and Rain had that deer-in-the-headlights stare. They said nothing.
“All right, Charlie, bring it up here,” Mrs. Beachum commanded.
Charlie looked to Rain. He didn’t know what she had written, how incriminating or how insane it might read. For a second, he seriously considered swallowing the wad of paper to save his friend. Then Rain surrendered with a shrug. Charlie nodded, stood and shuffled to the front of the room.
Mrs. Beachum took the paper and began unfolding it. “I assume this was important enough that the entire class should hear it.”
Rain actually smirked. Mrs. B wanted to embarrass her, but …
With mild but growing surprise in her voice, the teacher read the note aloud. “What did the Taíno want?” Then she paused. It was taking her a moment to compute this. She looked up at Rain. “You read ahead in the textbook?”
Now Rain was surprised. We’re studying the Taíno in class?! She said cautiously, “I’m … interested … in local history.”
Mrs. B said, “I … I’ve never seen you take an interest in history before.” She had to stop herself from saying, I’ve never seen you take an interest in anything before.
Rain shrugged again.
Mrs. Beachum considered her next move for a moment or two. Then she picked up a marker from the chalk tray. “All right, here’s your punishment. I’m giving you an extra credit assignment due Friday morning. An oral report.”
Rain’s eyes went wide. “Can’t I just have detention or something?”
“No. Now, I want you to source this. Don’t just search the Internet. Anyone can put anything up there. Doesn’t mean it’s true.” She pulled the cap off the marker and waited.
Finally, Rain said, “What am I searching for?”
“I want you to define for the class the Taíno word cacique.” She wrote CACIQUE up on the whiteboard, but she pronounced it kah-see-KAY, Spanish fashion, with three syllables. (Rain and her family always pronounced it in the French style, as the two-syllable kah-SEEK.)
Rain was stunned. Mrs. Beachum, turning back from the whiteboard to face her, smiled a Cheshire grin. “So you didn’t know your name meant something in the language of the Taíno?”
Rain shook her head.
“Quite a coincidence, then.” It was Claire Beachum’s turn to shrug. “Small island.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BAD TASTE
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15
Distracted as she was, Rain had every intention of picking up the bacon, sausage and Lucky Charms for her mother. During eighth period, while Charlie and Miranda were rehearsing with Madame Conduttore, Rain was walking up to the automatic sliding doors of Rusty’s Wholesale Market when he exited. They stood there, glaring with equal measures of undisguised contempt and barely contained fury: Rain Cacique and Callahan.
His first impulse was simply to wring her neck. But the parking lot was half full, and though his massive form practically filled the doorway, impatient shoppers exited and entered the store by slithering to either side of him. No, Rusty’s was too open and too public for him to murder a meddling kid in broad daylight. Instead, he smirked down at the little twerp and, shopping bag tucked under his thick arm, stepped around her and walked away, going about his business and at least taking some satisfaction in knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop him.
Rain watched him stride away, clomping off in his heavy boots. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about Callahan was not the fact that he had stolen her zemi or even that he had tried to kill her—since he had ultimately failed at both crimes. What bothered her the most was that somehow this big jerk had known the significance of her zemi before either she or ’Bastian had figured it out. And I’ll bet he still knows more than I do!
So she followed him to find out what else he might know. It was easy. He took an obvious route back to the harbor, and, being as familiar with the geography as she was, she knew exactly where and when to move and where and when to hide. She maintained a more than discreet distance but was never in danger of losing him; his height and his spiky, blond head made it easy to keep track of him from afar.
Of course, Callahan wouldn’t be worth his exorbitant rates if he couldn’t spot a tail in broad daylight, let alone a thirteen-year-old’s tail. He knew she was there the whole time, and he didn’t care. In fact, he reveled in her wasted effort. He climbed aboard the Bootstrap, sporting a big old grin, and rapidly prepared to launch.
When he was ready, he turned to face her. He knew she had ducked down behind the RULES OF THE HARBOR sign, and he waited patiently, or patiently enough. When her head popped up, she found him looking straight at her. “I’m hunting zemis,” he said. “Wanna come along?” He thought she would run and was unpleasantly surprised when she hesitated, as if actually considering his offer.
Finally, she shook her head. “No thanks,” she said. “I’ll find them myself first.”
His face crushed inward
on itself into a dark, murky scowl. His upper lip twitched. He shouldn’t have mentioned the zemis. What is it about this tiny sheila? She got under his skin so easy; he was constantly slipping up around her. Again he thought of snuffing out her life, fantasized about dumping her body out at sea, permanently removing the bad taste she left in his mouth. Unfortunately, there was an old bum in a straw hat going through a garbage bin not ten meters away. He thought of killing the bum too, but the bum had a dog, and the dog might cause a ruckus. Plus, Callahan didn’t like killing dogs if he didn’t have to. (Oh, yes, I was so touched by the sentiment.)
Callahan growled and turned his back on Rain. He brought in the lines and turned on the engine. Rain watched the Bootstrap leave the harbor, taking note of its general heading toward Chapel Ceiling. This surprised her. For some reason, she’d thought he’d be heading directly across the harbor to Sycorax and the bat cave. Unconsciously, she scratched at her few remaining mosquito bites.
“Mosquito Boy’s had a taste of you now.”
Rain turned to look at Maq, who had folded his entire upper body into the garbage bin. His voice echoed from within the metal container. “No one can eat just one.”
“Excuse me?” Rain asked.
“No one can eat just one.” Maq sprang up, holding a half-eaten bag of Lay’s Classic Potato Chips. He reached into the bag, pulled out a chip, blew a fly off it, and popped it into his mouth.
I was jealous, but Rain made her icky-face. “Hi, Maq,” she said, and then, “Gotta go.” She took off at a fast pace up the dock.
I wondered if it was really just her nausea that distracted her from questioning my companion or if he was somehow casting to prevent her from focusing on his obvious connection to her quest. Either way, Maq only seemed interested in warning her unconscious mind. And unconscious or not, I felt he might have done some good dropping a helpful hint about Aycayia as well. Clearly he didn’t agree, and hints—helpful or otherwise—aren’t my department.
We watched her go. “I wonder where she’s off to,” he said through a mouthful of chips. But I bet he knew. Her determination was as loud as any hound baying at the moon. She was headed to Island Hospital to visit Isaac Naborías.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE EVIL LEGEND OF MOSQUITO BOY
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15
Rain glanced out the first-floor window. A hummingbird flitted from flower to flower outside. Rain watched it for a few moments and then turned back to Isaac Naborías propped up in his hospital bed. Just looking at him made her itch. Thanks to her zemi, most of her mosquito bites had already healed. But Isaac’s skin was still covered with tiny welts. He had lost a lot of blood during the attack, but he crossed himself and whispered painfully through swollen lips and an inflamed windpipe that his prognosis was good, though his hands were wrapped to keep him from scratching.
She stepped up to the side of the bed and took his hand. The zemi’s Healer snake glowed its golden light, which sped down her arm to her hand—only to be thwarted from crossing over to him by his bandages. Rain realized she needed skin-on-skin contact. Okay, this is going to be awkward. He was already looking at her a bit strangely.
She reached out again, this time gently touching his forehead. The glow made the leap, but it seemed weaker, spreading thinly around his face before disappearing beneath his bedclothes and bandages. Weak or not, Isaac seemed to receive some relief. He straightened up in his bed and smiled for the first time since Rain had entered his hospital room.
The smile quickly vanished when Rain asked, “You know a lot about the Taíno and their stories, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Very little.” Still, the zemi had done its job; his voice was clearer, less ragged.
“Do you know any of the old words?”
He repeated, “Very little.”
“Do you know what Cacique means? I mean, kah-see-KAY?”
Now he couldn’t help grinning. He even chuckled a bit. “Do you mean to tell me, Rain Cacique, that you don’t know the meaning of your own name?”
She shrugged and tried to look appropriately embarrassed.
“Cacique means chief,” he told her.
“Like First Chief?” she asked, stunned.
“Exactly. And do you know the Taíno word for First Shaman?”
She shook her head quickly.
“Bohique,” he said. “Like your grandfather ’Bastian. You are descended from First Chief and First Shaman. The ones we call Great Searcher of Truth and Great Healer of Ills.”
Rain’s mouth had gone dry.
Isaac said, “You are true nitaino.” He watched her eyes widen further. “Yes, that’s the name of your parents’ inn and the maiden name of your Grandma Rose, I know. But it is also the Taíno word for nobility. And you are descended from true Taíno nobility. Not like me. I’m mere naborii. A commoner. A peasant. But still, going back, we are all cousins. All family.” It warmed the lonely old man to think of Rain as his family.
Rain always knew she had Indian blood, but this was something else, something new and something very, very old as well. This was a heritage. A legacy. Better still, this was an explanation. This is why I was chosen. Why the Searcher couldn’t be Dad or Mom or even Papa ’Bastian. I’m the only one that unites the bloodlines of the Caciques and the Bohiques. The only one who could be both Searcher and Healer. Tears of gratitude welled up in her eyes, and she wiped an arm across them. Get a grip, she thought. This is great, but you’re not done. She gripped Isaac’s hand again and squeezed it tight. The old man squeezed hers back.
“Mr. Naborías,” she said, “Cousin Isaac. I need you to finish telling the story of the Hupia.”
Instantly, “Cousin Isaac” lost his grin and pulled his hand away. “I can’t remember it,” he said.
“It’s important.”
“Best to leave those stories alone.”
“No, it’s not best,” she said. “A man died. You nearly died. And that thing is still out there.”
“The constables. The scientists. Leave it to them.”
“We both know they’re not equipped.”
“And you are?”
She stared at him. Why can’t I tell him at least? He’d have to understand. But she sensed that less was more. “I have to be,” she said. “He’s got a taste for me now.”
Isaac swallowed hard. He didn’t want anything to happen to this girl. This girl who saved him. This Cacique-Bohique. His new Cousin Rain. Still, he was afraid. “Just stay away from Sycorax,” he said.
“I have a friend who lives on Sycorax. Miranda Guerrero. What if she’s next?”
“Tell her to leave.”
“Mr. Guerrero’s daughter? How would that work?”
He looked away, knowing it wouldn’t, couldn’t.
She pleaded, “At least tell me what a hupia is…”
He mumbled something.
“What?”
He glanced at her angrily and glanced away. When he spoke, his voice was still quite low but very clear. “It is the Taíno word for ghost … or for vampire.”
“And that’s what we’re up against?”
He shook his head. “No. We can’t fight it. All we can do is stay away.”
“You don’t have to go back there,” Rain said, urging him on, “but I need to know the full story. How can I protect myself—or help anyone else—without knowing the full story?”
Isaac still wouldn’t look at her. But after a few seconds he nodded curtly. Then he cleared his throat. Despite his reluctance, he easily fell back into the old rhythms, the old ways of telling …
“In the First Days, the First Murderer was discovered to be a child. First Shaman denounced the child to the entire tribe as a demon. And all but his mother agreed the sentence must be death.
“But the small boy only laughed. He said, ‘There is only one way to kill a demon. And you do not have the courage for it.’
“But First Shaman knew the method for killing demons. And First Chi
ef had the courage. Together, they dragged First Murderer to the First Fire, eternally burning in its great pit. Again, the boy laughed, saying, ‘You have not the courage…’
“And so First Chief and First Shaman consigned the child to the pit, to the fire, to a true demon’s death. But First Murderer had fooled them both. For although the flames consumed him, his ashes rose into the air and became the First Mosquitoes.
“And the plague of death continued worse than before.”
Isaac looked up at Rain, as if to say, Do you see now? Do you see the Hupia cannot be stopped?
Rain frowned, answering his unspoken questions. “But somehow the Taíno must have found a way.”
Naborías’ head wobbled back and forth, up and down, not quite nodding yes and not quite shaking no. “But the stories don’t say how. And there are other whispers too.”
“What whispers?”
“It is said that in 1566, the Spanish conquistadors released the demon again. And it all but destroyed them.”
Another voice spoke from the doorway. “It wasn’t your demon that devastated the Spanish. It was malaria.”
Rain and Isaac turned. Dr. Strauss stood in the doorway. He looked cranky. He hadn’t meant to be caught eavesdropping, but he couldn’t stop himself from asserting science over Cousin Isaac’s myths. Now, as he entered and made a show of checking Naborías’ chart, he wasn’t sure if it was the old man’s superstition or his own inability to let it slide that was making him cross. He decided it was the latter and surrendered to it. “There was a malaria epidemic in 1566 that devastated the Spanish community on the Ghosts. That’s how the French were able to come in and rout them in 1567.”
“But what if it wasn’t malaria?” the girl asked.
Strauss grimaced. This is why superstition is so dangerous. It’s more contagious than any disease. And the old pass it on to the young. “The symptoms of malaria include fever and headache, shivering, vomiting and joint pain. And, yes, some people blamed vampires. But staking a scapegoat isn’t going to provide a cure.”