She allowed herself to drift backward in time, visiting the small places that held painful memories. A hint of her father’s voice echoed in her mind, and for an instant, she could feel her child’s hand lost in his. Then the feeling vanished. She raised her hand to the moonlight and swore she could see through it, as if her flesh no longer had substance.
She closed her eyes and hummed to the song of the chimes, trying to drive all thought from her mind. A gust of wind lashed her cheeks, forcing her to wrap her arms around herself and rub for warmth, but the rubbing brought neither warmth nor solace. When the goose bumps refused to go away, she rose to join Jason inside, but as she turned, someone startled her from the shadows.
“What do you want?” Her voice trembled.
Benjamin started toward her, but stopped, as if concerned he’d frightened her. “I wanted to express my sympathy for your loss. Your mother told me about your father. I’m sorry.”
Helena mumbled a ‘thank you’ but wished he’d go away.
Instead, he came closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “There’s meaning in this world, Helena, despite what they say. Everything has a purpose.”
“Really? Then tell me the purpose of my father’s death.”
“Not all purposes are revealed to us.”
“That’s just an excuse.” She glared at him. “There was no reason for him to die like that.”
“How do you know? Is life so clear to you?” He gave her time to respond, and seemed to continue only when he sensed her uncertainty. “Of course not. We see as through a glass dimly. We know nothing for sure.”
She dismissed him with a wave and stood to return to the cabin.
He leapt around her, nimbler than she’d imagined, and blocked her way. “Did you see them tonight? All different but all the same. They fear the same, hate the same, love the same. Do you know why? Because the Spirit dwells in each of them. But some want more, want to be better than others. They dream their selfish dreams, pretending their accomplishments will matter, yet in the long run, the only thing that matters is the Spirit.”
She felt blood rush to her cheeks, burning in the cold night air. “You’re a fraud, Benjamin, a charlatan. You fooled my mother, but you can’t fool me. I don’t believe in your myths, and I don’t believe in your Spirit.”
He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Then I’ll pray for you.” He slipped around her and crept back to the pergola, but he stopped at its mouth and turned. “I know you’re bitter at your loss, but tell me: why do you cherish the memory of your father? Why does his passing pain you so?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Why, Helena?”
Suddenly she saw Benjamin differently. His eyes no longer seemed small and close, but dark and piercing. She tried to leave, but his look held her frozen, immobile.
“Why, Helena?” His voice grew softer. “Why?” When she still refused to answer, he released his gaze and looked up through the slats in the roof of the pergola and beyond. Then he turned back, those eyes sharper than ever, locking with hers. “Could it be you shared the Spirit? And can you believe that Spirit you shared is gone forever? No, Helena. Despite your skepticism, it lives on and will never die. If you allow the Spirit to fill your heart, there can be no room for despair.”
With that, he turned and walked away.
Helena surprised herself by calling him back. “If his spirit survived, why can’t I reach him?”
He paused beneath the canopy of the beech tree and stared at his boot tops for what seemed a long time. “Perhaps you’re unwilling to take a chance.”
“You sound like Jason.”
His demeanor changed, the lofty tone dampened for the moment. A sneer crossed his lips. “In what possible way could I sound like Jason?”
“His favorite saying. Take a chance, Helena. It’s how he convinced me to let him walk me home from school.”
A tremor rocked Benjamin, making his shoulders shudder. For a brief moment, he wavered, but then his eyes brightened as if he’d just communed with the Spirit.
His lofty tone returned. “Jason was right. We need to be open to possibilities or we’ll miss the miracles in our lives. Your father’s passing has left a gap in your heart, but maybe in his death, he’s also left the means to fill that gap, not just in your heart but in the hearts of others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shifted to one side so his face was lit by the beam of a spotlight. His arms spread wide. “The child. Did you think it was an accident she came in your hour of need to the spot where you sat by the shore? Do you think it was an accident you brought her here to the farm?”
Panic rose as she envisioned the boat emerging from the fog, crashing on the cliffs, and Jason coming back into her life. A coincidence or something more? Her feelings flew in all directions, a centrifugal whirl of emotion.
Benjamin seemed to sense her weakness. “Yes, Helena, it was meant to be, part of a divine plan. In the darkness left by your father’s passing, the golden child appears from the Blessed Lands with a message for us all. Amidst all this sorrow, there is hope.”
Then he retreated beyond the circle of light that surrounded the sentinel tree, and was gone.
Helena waited a moment, blinking at the great tree as if expecting him to reappear, then resumed her trudge to the cabin. She stopped at the first step, clutching the log railing. After a moment, she headed instead to the common bathroom that lay between the cabins. Inside, she checked the stalls to be sure she was alone, then went to the row of sinks, selected one at the end, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The naked bulb above cast an odd glare, seeming to surround her hair with a corona. She turned on the cold water, cold as the streams that flowed through the farm.
Water is life.
She cupped both hands under the faucet until they were nearly numb, and splashed her face. When she looked up again, the light blurred. In its haze, she could picture Benjamin in the spotlight, his eyes raised to the heavens with a look she at last recognized—a look of hope.
A hope she’d never known.
***
Benjamin dashed through the darkness to the great house. With the moon cloaked by a cloud, he had difficulty keeping to the path and nearly stumbled on a tree root, but nothing would slow him down.
A miracle at last.
In his hour of near despair, the merciful Lord Kanakunai had spoken to him through the lips of a nonbeliever. When she said the phrase, he could see the first three letters burning in the air behind her... and he knew.
He opened the back door to the great house an inch at a time, trying to mute the creaking. With each inch, he felt as if he were prying open a portal to a new world. In the office, he slid the chair so close to the desk his belt touched its edge. Though the blackest hour of night had come and the moon was gone, he left the room dark and relied only on the light from the device.
The welcome screen took forever to appear. When it did, he entered Jason’s name.
Now the test. Am I worthy?
He typed the first three letters and, after a brief prayer, finished the phrase—Jason’s favorite saying: “Take a chance.”
He hit enter and waited; two breaths in, two breaths out.
The screen refreshed, adding a single word:
Connected.
He filled his lungs and let the air out slowly. He’d been granted a miracle, but reminded himself to temper his pride. Yes, he’d send the story of the Daughter summoning the wind, but only to a select few. No sense risking Sebastian’s wrath. Not yet.
He pulled out the scroll from his pocket and picked five of his most loyal followers, those who were at universities but not friends of the farm. He’d swear them to secrecy.
He’d fully embrace this miracle, but first he’d verify that Jason’s device really worked.
Chapter 20 – A Distant Shore
The mariner smiled broadly, causing a web to blossom at the corners of his eyes. He waved
a hand across the boats like a father introducing his children. “Here they are, Excellency. One, two, three. Not the finest boats in the harbor, but they’ve provided a good living for me and my family for forty years. I do what I love. Though I care most about my wife, near behind her is the sea.” He knotted his brows and wagged a finger. “You won’t tell her I said that, will you?”
The minister shook his head and forced a weak smile, but he had no appetite for small talk. He reached across and pressed down on the bow of the nearest boat as if to gauge its buoyancy. “What do you remember from the time the boat was stolen?”
“Remember, Excellency? That I was in shock. With all the finer boats in the harbor, why mine? I’m not a rich man, and the boat is irreplaceable. Forty years to get to four. It was like losing a child.”
“But did you see anything unusual in the days before?”
“Unusual, Excellency? The winds were strong from the southeast, the days hot and sunny, but as you know, that’s not unusual in our land. Now if it had rained, that I’d remember.”
“What about suspicious activity?”
The man glanced at the nearest boat and began absent mindedly checking the knot of the mooring line. “Hmmm... no sir.”
“Or strangers?”
He considered a moment and shook his head.
Frustrated, the minister shifted his attention to the third boat.
The mariner blurted out, “There was one—a little girl, fair-skinned with hair of gold. I suppose you’d call that unusual in our land.”
The minister maintained his mask, but could feel his heart against his ribs as it swelled with blood, preparing for each urgent beat. “A little girl, you say. What did she want?”
“She asked to sit inside each boat, to go for a ride on the waves while they were moored. A strange request but harmless enough. She was just a child.” He must have noticed a twinge in the minister’s expression. “An innocent request, Excellency, don’t you think?”
“The boat that was stolen,” the minister said. “How did it compare to these?”
The man lifted his chin. “It was the oldest and not the prettiest, but it had the broadest beam and deepest keel. Any experienced seaman would know it to be the most seaworthy of the lot.”
The minister reached into his pocket and withdrew a metal case with cards in it. He handed one to the man. “You’ve been a great help. Send a message to the location on this card, and I’ll see to it that you’re compensated for the loss of your boat.”
The web around the man’s eyes crinkled upward. He grasped the minister’s hand and made to kiss it—an outdated tradition—but caught himself.
Instead, he took the card with both hands and bowed. “I’m most grateful, Excellency. If there’s anything I might do for you, please ask and I’ll find a way.”
If only it were that easy.
The minister now knew she’d stolen a boat and supplies. She’d always been curious about her mother’s homeland, and foolhardy though it might be, she had the imagination and will to undertake such a voyage.
“There’s one last thing, master seaman.”
The man made a deeper bow. “Anything, Excellency.”
“Have you sailed far from these shores?”
“Of course. I’ve gone to sea for weeks at a time, following the schools of cod.”
“How far to the west could a boat like that sail?”
“To the west, Excellency? The west is easy. The currents and winds favor that direction. But no experienced sailor would go that far, because the trip back would be too hard. Better tack to the south.”
“But if one was determined to go west, how far?”
A look of understanding crossed the mariner’s face. He nodded slowly, then more quickly. “It wouldn’t be easy, but with a few days of fair winds and a stubbornness of will? All the way.”
“All the way?”
“To the Soulless Land.”
The minister stared out, trying to see beyond the horizon to what he’d always known as the land of lost souls. The sun hung low in the west and brightened a path along the waves, a golden passageway for a golden child. Great white herring gulls squawked and wheeled in circles overhead, celebrating the sunset, oblivious to her fate.
How the poetess loved the ocean. After the girl was born, she begged him to move back to the island where he’d grown up. They were happy for a time. The poetess taught the child to weave orchids into leis, so those leaving the island could toss them into the sea—an offering to the gods for their safe return. He taught her to sail. When the time came for guests to leave, they would all gather on their boat and follow the ferry, the child at the helm. As they approached the mouth of the harbor, she’d turn the tiller over to him, stand on the gunwales, and dive off as a sign of farewell. She’d grown up with the sea.
Now, she’d been clever enough to steal food in small quantities, not enough to force a search for a thief. She’d taken water containers, a compass, and charts. The elements were in her favor, and she had an instinct for the wind.
Was it time to tell the poetess?
At first, they’d waited and prayed. The security service had done its best, searching until the trail grew cold.
He’d watched as the poetess began to disintegrate before his eyes, her skin becoming translucent, as if her essence was fading away. She sat in their mountain retreat and sank into sadness. Her poems became heavy and dark.
His response had been different.
***
The will inside that would not accept despair compelled him to act. Yet he was afraid to leave the poetess alone.
One evening, as they sat on the lanai, he told her his plan. She stared out at the valley below as the last rays of the sun turned the desert red, and he waited, understanding she’d need time to accept his departure. He continued to wait as the great red ball sank beneath the horizon, leaving the desert gray and releasing a cooling breeze from the mountains behind them.
“I’d go with you,” she finally said, “but I’d do more harm than good. I couldn’t bear to learn she, too, has been lost.”
The minister reached out for her, but she stiffened. He pulled until she went limp against him, and warm tears moistened his bare arm. He knew better than to speak. She had more to say.
When they parted, she gazed up at him, uncharacteristically fierce. “Find her. I know she’s alive. Search by the ocean, near our former home.”
He nodded. “If I go, will you be all right?” The dark of night had arrived and with it the desert chill. He could feel bumps on her skin.
She turned to go inside but stopped in the doorway. Light streaming from within gave the illusion of a halo around her hair. “Go and I’ll pray for your return. But I have no strength for false hope. Tell me nothing until you know for certain—one way or the other.”
He was the strong one—he’d survive—but she was fragile, delicate as a desert flower. His strength might yet be his curse; he might survive them all, holding nothing in his hands but sand.
***
Now, he’d wait to tell her, for he’d learned only what was intended, not the result. Likely the girl had drowned. He’d give orders for the shore patrol to search the coast for the debris of a shipwreck or a... small body washed ashore.
What if she’d made landfall on the distant shore? Lines of communication were few. He’d order his staff to monitor messages, to send queries to his contacts on the other side. He prayed that if she’d reached them, the soulless would be kind to her. He’d met some, and they were not as the senkyosei portrayed them in temple sermons—empty shells or demons. They were not so different from him; they loved their children and grieved for their dead.
He closed his eyes to block out the glare, and prayed one last time: Let her be safe, and let me one day bring her home.
Enough. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. The beach had emptied; the gulls had fled. The sole sound was a buoy that tolled in the harbor when aroused by a wave. Soon i
t would be night.
Time to get to work.
Chapter 21 – A Serpent in the Garden
Sleep had brought little comfort to Helena. Bizarre dreams intruded: a boat crashing on the cliffs, herself as the girl in the boat, Benjamin carrying her ashore.
Her anger spread daily like venom in her veins. Each morning, she’d drag herself out of bed and barely muster the strength to bring Kailani to her mother’s studio. Once there, the craft offered no antidote to the poison.
By the third day following the town meeting, she’d lost all patience. Their task that morning was to make earrings from teardrop crystal beads.
Her mother had cut four lengths of chain to support the beads that would hang, two from each earring. “And now, Helena, let’s see if you’ve learned enough to attach the chains to the beads. I’ll do the first one and you can do the next. Watch closely.”
Kailani hovered nearby, fascinated by the process, while Helena observed from behind. Her mother slipped a head pin into a bead, used a pair of chain-nosed pliers to bend the end into a loop, attached it to the chain, and bound it by coiling the pin around itself. It took no more than a few seconds.
She passed a kit—bead, chain, and pin—over to Helena. “Your turn.”
“You did that so well. Why don’t you finish the rest?”
“Can I try?” Kailani snatched the blue bead and held it up to the light.
“Not yet. Let Helena learn first and then we can both help you.”
Helena took bead and pin in hand. They seemed impossibly small. She needed three tries to thread the pin through the hole in the bead, and by that time, her vision had blurred and her fingers were shaking. Her mother handed her the pliers, but as she bent the pin it snapped in two, sending the free end skittering across the workbench.
“You squeezed too hard,” her mother said, passing another pin. “Try again, gentler this time.”
Helena cradled the pliers and twisted until the pin bent at ninety degrees. One more turn and it formed a loop. She attached the chain, but when she tried to wrap the pin around, it snapped again.
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