by Steve Cash
The Fleur-du-Mal sighed deeply, dramatically. “Oh, Zezen, I am afraid you are destined for a short, miserable, frustrating life of inglorious ignorance.” He paused and glanced at the point of his stiletto. “Business, mon petit, business,” he said. “I would have thought that old fool, Solomon, had taught you about the sacredness of contracts…and the consequences if they are breached. I am a professional, Zezen, do you know what that means? I have a certain…reputation to uphold. My word is my truth. Your ideas of truth, reason, and morality are false and archaic, as they always have been, and they have nothing to do with business. And by the way, I had nothing to do with those annoying little monkeys, Unai and Usoa.”
“Unai and Usoa?” Sailor broke in. “You did not murder Unai and Usoa?”
“Now it is you who are repeating yourself, Sailor, but to answer your rude query, no, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I?”
“But, then…” I couldn’t finish my question.
“Think, mon petit, think. Who wanted Baju dead?”
I remembered Baju whispering to me as he was dying, “This is not about theft.”
“Who was in Africa? Who hates everyone? I am certain she detests Opari and I believe the poor girl even hates me. She is riddled with envy. She also impersonates me from time to time. Once, not so long ago, I told you to ask Opari about these things. I said you had the wrong villain. There is one who was a protégée of mine and a student of Opari. She has been called many things, including the Pearl, however, her name is—”
“Zuriaa!” Ray burst out. “My sister, Zuriaa?”
The Fleur-du-Mal looked at Ray again, but this time he looked him up and down, as he would merchandise, or a victim. “She has a brother?” he asked, raising one eyebrow. “Interesting.”
He glanced up at the sky, which was darkening. A quarter moon hung just above the horizon. The world seemed stopped, balanced between night and day. But there was no time to assess the truth of the Fleur-du-Mal’s words. “Now, Sailor,” he said, “without delay, unlock the gate.” He kept the knife blade close to Sailor’s ribs and nudged him forward. As the gate swung open, he motioned for Ray and me to take the lead. By the light of the portable lamp, we walked into the once empty, but now crowded tomb of Seti II.
The short entryway was stacked floor to ceiling with empty wooden crates and pallets, ready for the next load. Three long corridors followed and each was nearly filled with artifacts and furniture. A medley of colors surrounded us as we walked. Every object still shone bright and clear in the lamplight—brown, yellow, blue, amber, russet, black, and gold, lots of gold. We walked slowly through the maze until we passed into a well room that connected to a four-pillared hall, which was also nearly filled with boxes and hundreds of neatly stacked crates. Each crate held smaller, more fragile artifacts, such as vases and jewelry. Off to the side, tucked into the only niche in the wall, a tiny, balding man sat behind a desk lit by a lamp similar to ours. He stood and took off his wire-rimmed glasses. He was no taller than we were. “I have been waiting,” he said in English. “What do you wish to see? To see everything is out of the question. You must be specific. All objects are undergoing notation. Everything is unsorted, except to me.” He wiped his glasses with a handkerchief, then put them back on. He looked at me. “What do you wish to see?”
“A black box of onyx and serpentine, inlaid on top with lapis lazuli in the shape of an octopus.”
The man paused and looked closely at each of our faces, switching rapidly from one to the other, checking for differences and similarities. Then he took off his glasses again and rubbed his bald head. Without explanation, he said, “This way.”
We followed him to the other side of the hall where a burial chamber had been carved from what was intended to be another corridor, had Seti II not died when he did. The king’s sarcophagus was located here. Next to it was a stack of crates. The man removed the top crate and set it carefully on the stone floor. “I will tell you lads the same thing I told the other one. I told her there is no touching until every object has been cleaned and catalogued. You may gaze, but you may not touch.”
“Who was here?” Sailor interrupted.
“A girl,” the man said. “Two nights ago. A girl that greatly resembled all of you, only…” He paused again and glanced at each of us.
“Only what?” the Fleur-du-Mal asked.
“Only the girl was black…black as an Ethiopian tribesman.”
“Susheela the Ninth,” I whispered.
“She is a myth,” the Fleur-du-Mal said sarcastically. “If she existed, I would have seen her by now.”
“She ain’t no myth,” Ray said. “I guarantee it.”
“Open the crate, sir, if you please,” Sailor said softly, ignoring the rest of us.
The man nodded, adjusted his glasses, and pried open the top of the crate. A tangled nest of straw and paper lay inside. There was a small indentation in the center, no bigger than my palm. Whatever had rested there was there no longer.
The man cursed in Arabic and removed his glasses, staring at the empty crate. “Impossible!” he shouted. He fumbled with the straw, searching in vain for the missing object. “She must have stolen it. It was here, I tell you, it was here and I never saw her touch it. I was watching her every second. Impossible.”
Sailor looked at me, then said to the man, “Apparently nothing is impossible, sir.”
“Tell me what was taken,” the Fleur-du-Mal said.
“A black box,” the man said, “inlaid with lapis lazuli. The most beautiful work I have ever seen. The girl called it ‘the Octopus.’ Carter will have my head for this.” He looked over his shoulder as if Howard Carter might be watching and listening. “Quickly,” he said, closing the crate. “You must leave at once, all of you. I want you out of here now. I…I must sort this out.”
He escorted us out of the tomb, taking the key from Sailor and locking the gate behind us. Mumbling to himself, he told us never to speak of this encounter to anyone. If we did, he would deny it ever occurred. We hurried down the slope that led to the paths and roads beyond. The man veered off on an obscure trail within minutes, walking away in the darkness. The Fleurdu-Mal was still side by side with Sailor. He kept the point of his stiletto no more than an inch from Sailor’s ribs. Once the man was out of sight, he began walking away himself, backward, never taking his eyes from ours. Twenty yards in the distance, I could only see his smile, then he turned and ran.
“I want you to know one more thing,” I yelled. “I know what Aitor knew. I know why you want the Sixth Stone. I know why you killed my grandfather.”
At least a quarter mile away, I heard the sound of a dog barking, then yelping in pain. I heard a bitter, solitary, hollow laugh. “You know nothing, Zezen,” he said, and he was gone.
5. Ahots (Voice)
“I’m so far separated from the earthly life I know that I accept whatever circumstance may come. In fact, these emissaries from a spirit world are quite in keeping with the night and day. They’re neither intruders nor strangers. It’s more like a gathering of family and friends after years of separation, as though I’ve known all of them before in some past reincarnation.”
—Charles Lindbergh, over the Atlantic, near dawn, after twenty-four hours in the air
I awoke just after dawn from a long, startling, compelling dream. It was the kind of dream in which you are certain you are not dreaming. It feels too real to be illusion or fantasy. You are in another time, another place.
I was with the hunters, six men from the same clan. The clan mother had told them not to fail and her approval was vital. They took abnormal risks they would usually avoid. Now they were in trouble. The hunters had gone too far, too close to the ice. They were beyond the call of the others and still had not seen the herd of beasts they were seeking. The hunting season was short and nearing its end. Yet there was no return. Not this time. They huddled together for a meeting. The wind howled, sometimes gusting and blinding us with tiny ice crystals
. They decided to make “the Voice.” All six sat where they were and gathered in a tight circle, holding hands and gazing toward the invisible center between them. Then, somehow without speaking, they made a sound together I could only hear from inside my head, or my heart. The sound was one voice chanting the word “ea” over and over. The word meant “come and help” in their strange language. They did this for three days without stopping and without sleeping. It was my duty to keep them warm and out of the wind. I melted ice for water and let it drip onto their lips at regular intervals. I never spoke and their one voice never ceased. On the third day, suddenly, there was another voice answering in reply. However, it was weak and undecipherable. Just as it became louder and began to clear, I opened my eyes.
But where was I? My bed was bolted to the wall and the room seemed tiny. Then the room and everything in it tilted slightly and I remembered. It was my birthday, May 4, 1923. We were on a passenger ship, headed for the port of Southampton, where we were to meet Trumoi-Meq. I dressed in silence and left my berth to watch the dawn from on deck. The air was cool and salty. I leaned against the railing and looked out on a dull gray sea and sky. At the edge of the horizon, in half-light, the nearly featureless landscape of Southampton came slowly into view. Inside, I felt dull and gray as the sea around me and turning twelve again seemed nothing to celebrate. We had missed our chance in Egypt. There was no telling when we would get another. The Fleur-du-Mal had disappeared again without a trace, as had the Octopus and the ghostlike Susheela the Ninth. We had neither suspected nor detected her presence anywhere in Egypt at any time, yet in the end she had proven to be ahead of us all, including the Fleur-du-Mal. We spent a week in Cairo chasing down any lead, bribing every contact Sailor knew, and came up with nothing. Then I received a common tourist postcard in the mail with a blurry image of the Parthenon on the front. It was sent from Athens and addressed to me in care of our hotel. The short note on the back was written in a beautiful calligraphic script. “Mon petit,” it began, “so sorry we were not able to visit longer. I wanted to inquire about that little bastard son of Jisil—Caine, I believe he is named. I could not bear for him to think I had forgotten. Give him my regards, s’il vous plaît. You are such a dear. Wish you were here. Love, Xanti.”
The next day Sailor received a telegram from Mowsel. It read: “COME TO ENGLAND WITHOUT DELAY STOP WILL MEET YOU AT THE GRAPES STOP.” We assumed he had information regarding either the Fleur-du-Mal or Susheela the Ninth and booked passage almost immediately, using our Egyptian passports. The voyage was uneventful and we said little to each other for three days. Finally, over dinner on the third night, Sailor said, “Gentlemen, it has become obvious to me that it is time for us to part. Your thoughts are drifting elsewhere, and they should, it is common. But do not let your thoughts dwell for a moment in despair. Much was learned in Egypt, especially when Ray became ill.”
“Thanks for remindin’ me, Sailor,” Ray said. “That virus nearly killed me.”
“And that is my point. It nearly killed you, but it did not. You lived and recovered completely, Ray. That proves some Meq have resistance, even after becoming ill. Who and why is more difficult to determine. It may have something to do with being Egipurdiko. Unai and Usoa’s baby was Egizahar. Perhaps it is because you are older. I do not know, I am speculating. Mowsel will have an opinion, to be sure.” He paused. “I understand your yearnings, both of you. Do not apologize or defend. I know Ray wants to find the truth about Zuriaa, as do all of us.”
“I have got a question or two for Opari,” Ray said, giving me a wink.
I only wanted to go home and Sailor knew it.
“Zianno,” he said, “I think you should visit Opari as well.” His “ghost eye” closed slightly. He twirled the star sapphire around his forefinger, then added, “From England, I shall be going east. I intend to find Zeru-Meq, no matter his objections. I also have a question or two and this time I want the answers.”
Now the docks of Southampton were in full view in front of me. I leaned over the railing and looked back out to open sea. It was my birthday and I knew I would be going home soon. Home with more questions than answers, but at least I would be going home. The thought was soothing and I let it extend and evolve into the belief that bad luck and bad news were behind us. I was wrong.
Once we were through the formalities of entering England, Sailor led the way to The Grapes, a pub for workingmen and sailors just beyond the dock gates. The door stood wide open and a man wearing a floor-length apron was sweeping the floor. It was still early morning and the pub was empty except for one, Trumoi-Meq, who sat on top of the bar with his legs crossed. He wore his dark blue kerchief and a blue beret, which he removed as we entered the pub. Half in shadow, half in light, he was not smiling and there was the image of death in his eyes. “Come with me,” he said, hopping down from the bar and heading for the door. The man sweeping the floor ignored us completely.
In silence, we walked at a leisurely pace through the streets of Southampton until we reached Watts Park and the stone Cenotaph honoring servicemen killed in the Great War. An overcast and windless sky gave the park a feeling of quiet grace and peace. A familiar figure stood with his back to us, reading the long list of names chiseled into the stone. He turned and smiled, but it was a weak smile and his eyes were sad. It was Willie Croft.
“Hello, boys,” he said, even though he was Giza and the youngest among us.
Each of us said hello, then I asked, “Did you know many of those folks, Willie?”
“No, Z, didn’t know a one. Brave lads, though, every one of them.”
“Has something happened, Willie?” Sailor asked bluntly.
Willie started to answer, then turned and glanced at Mowsel. “Mowsel, why don’t you tell them while I bring round the limousine.”
Willie walked away in his unusual, almost stumbling gait. Mowsel waited until he was out of sight before looking at Sailor. “It took me three weeks to locate you this time, old one. No doubt due to an unexpected misfortune, I assume, but that story must come later.” He paused a moment. “I am sorry to say Daphne Croft is dead, as well as Tillman Fadle. Willie did not want to bury either of them without us present. It was a desire Daphne had put in her will and also expressed to me years ago. I gave her my solemn word it would be so.”
Sailor let out a long sigh and said, “Yes, yes, I agree entirely. We all owe them both a great deal.”
“More than that,” Mowsel replied.
Sailor looked Mowsel squarely in the eye. I could tell they were each recalling events and situations they had experienced at Caitlin’s Ruby, not only during Daphne’s lifetime, but in all the lives of the Bramleys and Fadles going back four centuries to Caitlin herself.
“Again,” Sailor said, “I agree. We must be there.”
“I never did get to know the lady,” Ray said quietly.
“What happened?” I asked.
Mowsel looked up at the low gray cloud cover above us, then toward the west and a small sliver of blue sky on the horizon. “Apparently, about a month ago, sometime in the early morning, Daphne sat down to write a letter, a letter she never finished. While in the act of writing, she suffered a stroke. She remained alive, but unable to move or speak. All day she lay there. You are asking yourself, where was Tillman Fadle, no? The great irony is he had been in the garage since dawn, breaking down the engine of the limousine for repair. Finally, sometime around dusk, Tillman discovered her lying on the kitchen floor. He dragged her to the garage in order to drive her into Falmouth, but of course the limousine was unavailable. In desperation he used Carolina’s black coupe. This vehicle he had never driven and it was missing a headlight. On a curve only two miles from Caitlin’s Ruby, he lost control. I doubt he ever saw the rock wall approaching. They were both killed instantly. Daphne was found still inside the coupe and Tillman had been thrown over the wall. I was in London at the time. Once I was informed of the accident, I wired Owen immediately. He broke the news to Willie in St
. Louis and Willie arrived in Cornwall ten days later. Since then we have been waiting for you.” He stopped talking and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Are you ill?” Sailor asked.
“No, of course not,” Mowsel said. “Are you mad, you old hound? I am tired…simply tired.” He looked to his left, scanning the street. “Hail Hadrian, there is Willie now. Cornwall awaits us.” He put his arm around Ray’s shoulder and started walking toward the street and the big limousine pulling up to the curb. “Now, Ray, you must tell me what happened in Egypt.”
“Do I have to?” Ray asked with a straight face.
Mowsel smiled, exposing the gap of his missing tooth. Then he slapped Ray on the back and laughed. “Make it up if you so desire, Ray. Fact or fiction, it often makes little difference, no?”
Though we were all weary from travel and disappointment, the long drive to Cornwall and Caitlin’s Ruby was beautiful and relaxing. The car was loud, but solid, with good suspension and Willie drove at an even pace. It often felt more like we were in a large boat rather than a limousine. Willie made certain I rode up front with him. I found out why two hours into our journey.
An old suede jacket lay on the seat between us. Keeping one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel, Willie reached into the jacket and withdrew a letter, which he handed to me. There was no envelope and the writing only covered half the page. It was unfinished and unsigned.
“She was writing to you, Z,” Willie said, giving me a quick glance.
“Do you mean Daphne?”
“Yes. She was writing to you when the stroke took her down.” He paused and nodded once toward the letter. “Those were her last words, Z. I…I think you should read them.”
I looked at the letter and read the date scrawled in the upper left corner, then the salutation underneath. I could hear Daphne’s voice in my head.
My dearest Z,