The Remembering tm-3

by Steve Cash

  At sunset on May 1, 1974, inside the “Honeycircle” and next to Baju’s sundial, we buried the urn containing Carolina’s ashes. Antoinette said another prayer in French, while Jack and Caine and I shoveled the dirt. Star sang a beautiful and simple lullaby, one that Carolina said she had sung to Star as a baby. Jack smoothed out the surface and said his own prayer. “I love you, Mama. Be at peace now.”

  Jack and I stayed up late that night, talking and drinking coffee in the kitchen. It was well after midnight when we finally said good night and I walked upstairs and went to bed. The big house felt empty without Carolina’s presence. I lay in bed and thought about her until I eventually drifted off and fell into a deep sleep.

  The dream begins with me on the pitching mound in old Sportsman’s Park. It is midday and the sky is a clear bright blue. The grandstands are empty except for my mama and papa, who are sitting twenty rows up, directly behind home plate. I have Mama’s glove on one hand and Papa’s baseball in the other. There are no other players on the field and no one is at bat. Somewhere in the distance a dog is barking. A figure walks up out of the dugout and steps onto the field. It is the Umpire. He is dressed completely in black. Even his chest protector and mask are black. He starts toward me and I walk to meet him. He is only an inch or two taller than I am. He stops. He reaches up and slowly removes his mask, then runs his other hand through his strawberry blond hair and smiles. He is a she. The Umpire is Carolina. She is about twelve years old and the freckles spread across her cheeks and the tiny flecks in both her blue-gray eyes sparkle like gold dust. She takes hold of my hand. “Come with me,” she says. “I have found something for you.”

  She leads me down the steps of the dugout and into a tunnel that narrows, then widens and changes into an underground passage through a cave lit by torches burning animal fat. The stone walls are cold to the touch and I can see my breath. Carolina seems unaffected by the drop in temperature. We pass by a long panel of spectacular paintings in black charcoal and red and yellow ochre, depicting herds of mammoths, reindeer, rhinoceroses, aurochs, and horses. We turn left, then right. “Where are we going?” I ask. “Shhh,” she says, and walks through the ashes of a still-burning campfire in the passage, scattering coals and sparks all around. I am right behind her. We come to a set of brass double doors. She pushes her way through and we are standing in a massive empty space with marble floors and a great vaulted ceiling. I recognize it. We are in the Grand Hall of Union Station. Carolina points to something shining and spinning in the middle of the huge room. It is a carousel, but instead of painted ponies going up and down, I see all the markings on the sphere from Portugal. I hear strange music and look to my left. In the shadows, Scott Joplin is playing ragtime on a calliope. He waves at me.

  Carolina leads me closer to the carousel. It is lit from within and seems to glow. The markings are life-size, as tall as I am. They are floating in something, spinning and bobbing up and down. The something is neither here nor there. It has no appearance whatsoever, no top, no bottom, yet it floats, it moves, it supports the markings. It is the “water” of Time. Carolina squeezes my hand and we walk through the “water” into and onto the carousel and step around the markings while they spin round and round, up and down, and the calliope is playing its endless, jangling melody in perfect time with the bouncing, circling, floating markings. And I know I know how to navigate; how to shepherd; how to listen, learn, teach, dream, and travel my way through. They are each one as common and familiar and known to me as the toys in a child’s bath. I think back to the first Meq phrase I found inside the cave in the Sahara Desert. The phrase was in the form of a cross or an X with the word “is” as an axis. It read: “Where Time is under Water — Where Water is under Time.” And now I am there. Carolina lets go of my hand and kisses me on the lips. I taste honey and rose water. She turns and walks in the direction of Scott Joplin and the calliope, then vanishes into the shadows. In my heart and mind, I hear an echo. It is Carolina. She says, “Farewell, Z … my only Z.”

  I awoke to the sounds of a cardinal and her chirping hungry chicks nesting in the big tree outside my window. The sun was just rising. My first thought was of a milk barn in East Germany and what was inside. My second thought was, “How fast can I get there?” That same morning I told Jack my intentions and he said he would take me himself. He said he needed to get away from St. Louis, and he could check on the Giselle in Paris. As soon as Star was told of our plans, she asked to go along and Jack said, “Good idea. Let’s go tonight.” Star said, “Okay,” and that’s what we did. Caine and Antoinette drove us to Lambert Field and after saying good-bye, we left on the last flight out to New York. From there, we flew to Paris, where Jack and Star remained, and I continued on to West Berlin alone.

  Before we parted, I said to Jack, “Tell Sailor I may have found it.”

  “And he’ll know what that means?”

  “He’ll know.”

  * * *

  A light rain was falling when Hans Mannheim turned into the long driveway of the farm and finally brought the big Mercedes to a stop. I leaped out the door. I had called ahead, and standing under a wide umbrella, Opari and Ray were there to greet me. The Fleur-du-Mal was nowhere in sight. I ducked under the umbrella.

  Ray said, “Are you all right, Z? You look kinda odd.”

  I gave Opari an embrace and told Ray I was fine. I also said I had the worst of news and the best of news. Briefly, I told them about Carolina’s passing and the burying of her ashes next to Baju’s sundial. Both of them were saddened, especially Ray, who had known Carolina well, and he promised to give a toast in her honor after dinner. Then I told them I had experienced a special and unique dream unlike any other. I asked Ray, “Where is he, where is the Fleur-du-Mal?”

  “He’s in the milk barn,” Ray answered. “He’s always in the milk barn.”

  I kissed Opari and ran out from under the umbrella. “Follow me.”

  Without knocking, I opened the door of the milk barn. The Fleur-du-Mal turned his head and looked up as I entered, with Opari and Ray close behind. He was sitting at his desk near the cylinders and spheres. There were stacks of books and charts around him, and to his right stood a large, portable chalkboard filled with theories, notations, and scribbles. “Ah, mon petit! You have returned.”

  “Yes … I have,” I said, ignoring him and walking over to the spheres. All the lights were turned on. I watched as each sphere turned in a slow rotation on top of its gleaming steel cylinder. In my mind, I saw the image of the carousel, lit from within and turning. Carved exquisitely in granite, the familiar markings floated by. “You were right,” I said, glancing at the Fleur-du-Mal and reaching out to gently touch the sphere from Portugal. “They truly are ‘Dreamstones.’ ”

  Twenty minutes later I had “read” every marking on the sphere. It was as simple and clear as if I were reading an invitation to a party, which, in a way, I was. In its “dream language,” the message carved on the sphere began with the salutation “Welcome, Traveler.”

  7. Bidaitari (Traveler)

  All our journeys are singular. We travel within ourselves, no matter where we go, alone among others we learn a traveler’s language, a code of recognition and respect. The longer the journey, the deeper the dream, the more we become one. We never forget. We remember everything and everyone. We survive. We are travelers.

  No one said a word while I was “reading” the sphere, and if they had I would not have heard them. The experience was trancelike. As the markings and their meanings came to me, it was much more like being in a dream state than the conscious act of translating or decoding. It was an intuitive understanding, but I also realized that once learned, the ability could be taught to others. The markings were there not just for me; they were there for all of us.

  I turned to look at Opari. She had a nervous, excited expression on her face. “Are you able to read the sphere, my love?”

  At first, I said nothing. Then for some reason, I laughed. “Yes …
yes, I am.”

  The Fleur-du-Mal had walked out from behind his desk and was standing near Ray. “Is it a message? What does it say, mon petit?”

  “It’s not really a message. It’s more of an … invitation.”

  “An invitation to what?” Ray asked.

  “I’m not sure what, but I know where. These markings are directions — elaborate, specific directions to a specific place on Earth. It is a system and a language that is not words, not symbols, but an intuitive, collective set of instructions, understood by the heart as much as the mind.”

  “Damn!”

  “The Remembering is never mentioned?” Opari asked.

  “No,” I answered, then smiled. “But the Sixth Stone is, and the Egongela, the Living Room, although the markings are closer to meaning the ‘Shelter.’ ”

  I walked over to the sphere from the Caucasus and studied it briefly, then circled the oldest sphere of the three, the one found among the possessions of “the Thracian.” Each sphere was a set of instructions and directions, with the one from Portugal being the most complex, ornate, and precise, as if the “dream language” had evolved or added layers. There was one marking that did not change and appeared exactly the same on all three spheres. “The nearest equivalent in English is the word ‘West,’ but in the ‘dream language,’ the meaning is animate. It is a living ‘West.’ ”

  “Where is this ‘place on Earth’?” the Fleur-du-Mal asked.

  “Nearer than you might think.” I looked around me, into the shadows of the spacious room. “Do you have a globe somewhere in the milk barn?”

  “Yes, of course. Come with me.”

  We walked between the desk and the chalkboard to another crowded area in the rear of the room. The Fleur-du-Mal switched on a floor lamp and pointed to a beautiful freestanding globe two feet in diameter. “There,” he said.

  I turned the globe until I found the location, then put my finger on it.

  “The south coast of Wales?” Opari said, a little surprised.

  “Yes. Near Swansea.”

  “That ain’t far from Caitlin’s Ruby,” Ray replied.

  “About a hundred miles.”

  The Fleur-du-Mal said nothing for several moments, staring at the globe and frowning. “Can you teach me to read the markings, mon petit?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I said, realizing suddenly that I finally had some leverage with the Fleur-du-Mal. “However, I will not do it here. I want you to move the spheres to Caitlin’s Ruby. It may be difficult to get them out of East Germany, but I know you can find a way. And I will teach everyone to read the spheres, not just you. This invitation is for all of us.”

  The Fleur-du-Mal stood motionless for a few seconds, still frowning, then reached out and spun the globe with one hand. “Agreed,” he said with a bitter smile.

  Opari, Ray, and I left for Paris the following day. The Fleur-du-Mal assured me it should take no longer than a month to arrange delivery of the spheres. I asked him how he planned to do it and he told me to mind my own business. He also demanded his own private quarters at Caitlin’s Ruby, saying it was nothing personal, just habit. I said I would look into it and reminded him that Koldo and Arrosa Txopitea were the owners of Caitlin’s Ruby; we were merely their guests.

  Once we were back on the Giselle, things went very quickly. After Sailor heard about the breakthrough, he seemed happier and more gregarious than I’d seen him in years. When I told him I could teach him to “read” the spheres, he became almost ecstatic and couldn’t wait to begin. Sheela said, “Well done, Z.” I told her it wasn’t me, it was Carolina, and Sheela and Sailor exchanged puzzled looks.

  The next day we sent word to Geaxi, Mowsel, and Zeru-Meq to meet us at Caitlin’s Ruby within the week. Jack and Star acted as our “chaperones” entering England, and we all boarded a train in London for the trip west to Cornwall. Along the way, the weather was perfect, and the passing farms and fields were green and lush and in full flower.

  Koldo and Arrosa greeted us in Plymouth and drove us in separate cars the rest of the way to Caitlin’s Ruby. I was told by Arrosa that once again we had missed seeing Kepa and Yaldi. They were both touring in North America. I told her more of us were on the way, and she said there was plenty of room and we should not worry about it. I brought up the Fleur-du-Mal’s request and she had the solution. He could stay in the garage, which she had recently refurbished and converted to a studio with a small apartment and a full kitchen. I asked if Tillman Fadle’s old cottage was occupied, and when Arrosa said no, I knew it was the ideal place to house the spheres, once they arrived, and teach the others how to “read” the “dream language.” As we pulled into the long gravel driveway and approached the main house, almost all the cats of Caitlin’s Ruby were there to greet us. They lined the low stone walls and every window ledge.

  “Is this an omen?” I asked Arrosa.

  “Oh, yes, Z! A good one,” she said.

  Jack and Star returned to London two days later, only hours before Geaxi, Mowsel, and Zeru-Meq arrived. The trip to Paris had worked its magic and lifted their spirits, and they were both anxious to get back to St. Louis. As we were saying good-bye, I told Jack something important was about to happen for the Meq, but I couldn’t tell him what it was. I also said I didn’t know when I would be in St. Louis again and apologized for being so mysterious about it. Jack laughed and told me no apology was necessary; it never had been and never would be. He said, “Mama explained to me when I was a kid that you and your ways should never be doubted or questioned. She was right, Z. Just knowing that you and the others exist in this world has made my life a rich one.” We embraced and he added, “Be well, Z, and we will see you when we see you.” I hugged and kissed Star, then Koldo drove them away, with Star waving out the back window until they were completely out of sight.

  It felt good to have everyone in one place again. We settled easily into Caitlin’s Ruby and our routines, which included a great amount of walking and talking. We didn’t hear a word from the Fleur-du-Mal, and we expected to wait at least three to four weeks before we did. However, just ten days into our stay, we were surprised to see two identical white vans driving up to the main house and entrance and coming to a stop. In bold black print on the sides of the vans were the words, “MINISTRY OF AGRICULTURE, FISHERIES & FOOD.” The two drivers and two other men stepped out. They each wore white coveralls with the letters MAFF printed on their backs. The side doors of the vans were opened and inside were three large crates, two in one van and one in the other. “FRAGILE” was stamped in red on the crates.

  Koldo looked at the men. “May I help you?”

  One of the drivers said, “Where would you like us to put them?”

  “I’m sorry,” Koldo replied. “Put what?”

  “The beehives, the Czechoslovakian HFN2 beehives. We took good care of them. Nothing to worry about there, sir. Now, if you please, we have a long drive back, so where would you like us to put them, sir?”

  Koldo gave me a blank look. “How about down by Tillman Fadle’s cottage?” I said, nodding my head up and down.

  “Yes, yes,” he told the men. “Of course, that’s right — Tillman Fadle’s cottage. I will show you the way.”

  After the vans and the men had gone, we opened the three crates with a crowbar and a hammer. Then we opened the beehives themselves, and inside sat the three spheres. To get them into the old cottage, it took the efforts of Koldo and four of us. Koldo had no idea what they were or what their purpose was, and he didn’t ask. With a slight smile and a wink, he only said, “Strange-looking bees, no?”

  An hour later a cream-colored Rolls-Royce convertible drove through the gate and slowly made its way down the long driveway to the main house. Arrosa walked outside to greet the visitor. A chauffeur got out from behind the wheel and opened the rear door. A boy wearing an expensive short-sleeved silk shirt and linen slacks stepped out. He had his black hair combed, pulled back, and tied with a green ribbon. His red ruby earrings
sparkled and so did his false smile. “I am Xanti Otso,” he said, glancing around at the beauty of Caitlin’s Ruby. He took hold of Arrosa’s seventy-year-old hands and kissed the backs of both of them. She smiled. “And you must be the lovely Arrosa,” he said.

  Ray and I were standing on the front porch of the cottage watching the arrival. Ray slipped off his beret and scratched his head. “He’s a genuine, certified piece of work, ain’t he, Z?”

  “That … and a few other things.”

  A doctor must be a traveler, … Knowledge is experience.

  — Paracelsus

  Teaching everyone to “read” the spheres began the next morning. They were all familiar with written and oral languages from around the world, but I told each of them that “reading” the spheres required an approach that was more unconscious than conscious, and more collective than individual. That was the reason why it was necessary for every single one of us to “understand” the invitation before we answered it. I assumed the oldest one among us would be able to do this much easier than the youngest one. However, it was not Susheela the Ninth, it was Nova, the youngest Meq, who was first to break through and surrender to the meanings behind the markings. She smiled and touched a sphere with her fingertips. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.” Perhaps it was Nova’s long history of having “visions” that did it. I don’t know, but she was the first to “read” the spheres. Ray and Geaxi were next. Then it was the Fleur-du-Mal, who had an expression on his face that I had never seen before. It was a cross between profound wonder and absolute humility. Sailor was humble himself when he made the unconscious connection to the markings and their meanings within meanings within meanings. Zeru-Meq, Trumoi-Meq, and Opari followed Sailor, and finally the eyes of Susheela the Ninth watered and tears ran down her cheeks. She reached out with both hands and, one by one, we made a chain of hands, a circle around the spheres, and breathed the air around us as one body, one mind, ready to travel, ready to answer the invitation.