by Steve Cash
On June 3, a cold, wet, blustery day, not unusual for any time of the year in Cornwall, we prepared to drive out of Caitlin’s Ruby and head north. Koldo had purchased a full-size tour bus with great, wide windows all around. The ten of us, including the Fleur-du-Mal, boarded the bus, and Koldo kissed Arrosa goodbye, saying he would be back as soon as possible.
We took the A38 from Bodmin to Bristol, and the rough weather seemed to make the West Country even more wild and beautiful. From Bristol, we traveled on the A403 to Severn Bridge and crossed into Wales just as the skies to the west began to clear. We drove on to the outskirts of Swansea and stopped for the night at a small hotel and restaurant along the coast of Swansea Bay called the “Crab and Cockles Inn,” a place Koldo knew well from visits in the past.
The next morning little was said over breakfast, yet there was a glint of excitement in everyone’s eyes. We were calm and anxious simultaneously. On this day something was going to happen, something fundamental to all of us, and none of us knew what it might be. Ray likened it to the feeling you have at the carnival, just after being strapped in and you’re about to enter the fun-house.
Once we were in the tour bus and on our way, no one had to consult a map to know our direction. We even took turns telling Koldo where to turn because inside ourselves our destination was like a beacon in a fog—we merely followed the beam, the path, the compass … the “Voice.” Under a cloudless blue sky, we traveled west along the southern coast of the Gower peninsula. At the far end of the peninsula we came upon the small village of Rhossili and each of us knew we were very close. We drove slowly north, beyond Rhossili Down and along a winding narrow road that followed the contours of the heather- and bracken-covered slopes. Two-hundred-fifty-foot cliffs overlooking the sea loomed only a half mile away. We traveled on another twelve miles until, finally, I told Koldo to pull over and stop. Nothing was around to suggest we were there, only an open gate and a paved country lane that disappeared around a ridge to the west, but each of us knew we had arrived.
Sailor opened the door of the tour bus and stepped out. The others were close behind. I turned to Koldo and paused. He spoke first. “Don’t worry, Z. I will remain here and wait for your return. Now, go,” he said. “Onzorion! Good luck!”
“Thanks, Koldo.” I practically leaped out of the bus and hurried through the gate to join the rest. We walked in silence along the asphalt lane for a quarter of a mile, then rounded the ridge and saw our destination. Facing the sea and nestled against the rock outcroppings on the western side of the ridge was an ancient, fortified manor house of timber and stone. It was a composite of architectural styles and was likely built over the span of several centuries. There was also an unmistakable presence that we all felt at once. It was strange, exotic, and powerful, yet familiar.
I glanced around at us. Almost everyone would have fit into any crowd of twelve-year-old children anywhere in Britain. Even the Fleur-du-Mal had dressed simply and left his hair hanging loose and untied. Only his ruby earrings separated him from the others. Geaxi, however, wore her finest black leather leggings and black vest, which was held together with strips of leather attached to bone. She had adjusted her black beret to the perfect angle, and for shoes she wore her favorite ballet slippers. In full view and dangling on a leather necklace was the Stone of Will. Opari also wore the Stone of Blood around her neck, but inside her shirt, as did Sailor the Stone of Memory and Nova the Stone of Silence. The Stone of Dreams I kept in my pants pocket.
“Do you feel that, young Zezen?” Geaxi asked.
“Yes. Yes, I do, Geaxi.” I took hold of Opari’s hand and we continued on, climbing the wide steps and approaching the massive oak door that served as entrance to the manor house.
I raised my hand to knock and the door swung open. A tall, elderly man, probably well into his eighties, stood in the entry-way. He had ruddy cheeks and pale blue eyes, and except for a few long silver wisps that were left uncombed, most of his hair was gone. He was dressed in formal attire, although everything was slightly ill fitting and a little wrinkled. For ten or fifteen seconds, he stared back and didn’t say a word, gazing at each of us with a kind of childlike wonder. Finally, he said, “Please, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Is it possible to have your whole life and everything you’ve known and taken for granted change completely and forever simply by walking from one room to another? The answer is yes and the next ten minutes would prove to be the most extraordinary ten minutes in the history of the Meq.
We were led through a sitting room crowded with furniture accrued over generations to a much larger room with twenty-foot-high ceilings and wide windows on the south and west sides, which let in a flood of sunlight. Two immense Persian rugs covered the floor and at the far end of the room a fire was burning in the fireplace, even though it wasn’t needed for warmth. Facing away from us toward the fireplace there was a long couch and two chairs, and though we couldn’t see who it was, someone was sitting in one of the chairs playing the cello, and playing it with passion. The low, slow, sonorous tones lifted and filled the big room. The old man turned to leave while the ten of us stood motionless, listening. Then Geaxi, who was on my left, leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “Concerto in D Major by Arthur Sullivan.” A moment or two later, the playing stopped.
“That is correct,” the cellist said. The voice was male, but high-pitched and raspy, and the accent was educated British. From behind the chair, he asked, “When did you last hear the piece?”
We all turned to Geaxi. Without hesitating, she answered, “November 24, 1866.”
“Ah, yes … the premier at the Crystal Palace.” He paused. “What did you think of the performance of Alfred Piatti on cello?”
“He was wonderful … a perfect balance of technique and emotion.”
“Yes, I agree. That night, he was a true master.”
Geaxi frowned slightly. “You were there?”
A long moment passed. “Yes,” the cellist said, rising out of his chair and turning to face us.
He was two inches shorter than we were, but wide-shouldered and long-armed, not unlike many of the tough street kids Ray and I had befriended when we lived in New Orleans. His cheekbones were high and wide, and his browridges were pronounced, but not any more than some of the pirates I’d seen while sailing with Captain Woodget, and certainly not as much as some of the illustrations I’d seen based on ancient skulls. He had a receding chin similar to that of a group of tribes I’d seen on our travels in western China. His lips were full, especially the lower lip, and his nose was broad, much like a prizefighter’s nose after taking too many punches to the face. His eyes were dark and intense, and his hair was a reddish brown and cut short. He was dressed in corduroy pants, which were tucked into green rubber Wellington boots, and a well-worn green plaid cotton shirt. He looked like the son of the gardener, or the gardener himself. But he was no gardener. He was Neanderthal—a living, breathing Neanderthal boy, and without a doubt, he was Meq.
He rested his cello on a stand near the chair and walked across one of the Persian rugs until he was three feet away from Geaxi. He stared into Geaxi’s eyes and she stared back. “Yes,” he said. “I was at the Crystal Palace on November 24, 1866. And I was with you in 1927 at Caitlin’s Ruby when you were trying to wake the aviator Charles Lindbergh. I heard your distress and sent my song to help.”
Geaxi said nothing. It wasn’t necessary. Her eyes said everything. They were exploding with wonder, joy, understanding, recognition, triumph, and surrender. I knew the look well. I had seen it in Opari’s eyes in the first moment we saw each other. As sudden, unlikely, and impossible as it seemed, Geaxi had just met her Ameq. Finally, and almost as an affirmation to what she was experiencing, she whispered, “You … are the other ‘Voice.’ ”
“Yes,” he said, nodding once.
“And you know of Caitlin’s Ruby?”
“Yes … since the beginning.” He reached in his shirt pocket and retrieved
something small, then asked for Geaxi’s hand. She held out her hand and he placed a cube of salt in her palm, gently folding her fingers around it. “I believe your phrase is egibizirik bilatu.” He then made a few sounds unlike anything I’d ever heard and I realized it was the oral version of the “dream language.” He said, “Welcome, Traveler.”
Several seconds of stunned silence followed, then Ray couldn’t help himself. “Damn!” he said.
“Damn, indeed,” Sailor added.
“Indeed, indeed,” Mowsel echoed.
The boy told Geaxi his name in the “dream language.” It was impossible to pronounce and barely translatable, but similar in construction to the way we say Umla-Meq, Trumoi-Meq, or Zeru-Meq. The closest translation in English was “Traveler-All Directions,” so Geaxi decided to call him West. He smiled, showing even white teeth, and told her West it would be.
The boy, or West, turned and shifted his gaze to the rest of us, focusing on our eyes and leaning his head forward. His nostrils flared slightly, and I was certain he was recording and committing our individual scents to memory. One by one, he greeted us and offered cubes of salt. As he did so, he made another gesture, which was touching hands palm to palm with fingers spread, then putting his hand over his heart. He seemed to know a great deal about all of us. He knew I was the Stone of Dreams and guessed correctly that I had been the one to “understand” and “teach” the others. He then said cryptically, “And just in time.”
Staring into his eyes, feeling his touch, watching him move and speak, I couldn’t quit wondering how old West must be. His age would have to be at least twice the combined ages of every Meq in the room. A being that old with that much experience is incomprehensible and unimaginable. Still, he was friendly, gracious, and comfortable with everyone. He joked with Ray and complimented Nova on her “long eyes,” or her ability to have visions. He spoke to Mowsel in Cumbric, an extinct Welsh language, which delighted and surprised Mowsel, who was a scholar of languages. He traded Taoist poems with Zeru-Meq and exchanged greetings with Susheela the Ninth in the language of her childhood, which brought a smile. Sheela had not heard the language in forty-two centuries. He greeted Sailor with deep respect and complimented him for his part in the Meq escape from the Phoenicians three thousand years earlier. He then gave Sailor his condolences for what happened later in Carthage. After welcoming Opari, West told her she had always been the one he knew the least about, then he said the Stone of Blood was essential to the Remembering, which made all of us glance at each other. The Remembering had not been mentioned anywhere among the markings on the spheres.
The Fleur-du-Mal was the last to be greeted. The boy looked hard into the Fleur-du-Mal’s eyes, scanning, searching, then folded the cube of salt into his palm. “For many, many reasons,” he said, “I thought this day might never occur.”
The Fleur-du-Mal stared back without expression, then with a hint of his usual arrogance, he said, “I have a question, sir.”
“I assume you have several, and please, do not call me ‘sir.’ ” The boy turned and glanced at Geaxi, who was following his every word and gesture.
“Of course. Tell me … West … how is it possible for you to know so much about us when, before today, we have never known of your existence?”
No one moved or spoke and the moment hung in the air. I felt like I was in the Wizard of Oz and the Wizard was about to be revealed. “A fair question,” West said slowly.
“And one that deserves an answer.” It was another high-pitched, raspy voice coming from somewhere behind us. We all turned at once. Walking into the big room and carrying a tray of finger sandwiches, scones, and berries, along with a vase full of fresh-cut yellow roses was a girl who resembled West in every way except her hair, which was longer and a deeper rust-colored shade of red. She wore blue jeans tucked into green rubber Wellington boots, like West, and a well-worn corduroy jacket over a white cotton shirt. She also possessed the most powerful essence, aura, and presence of Meq I had ever felt. Following her was the old man we’d met at the door. He carried a tray holding a teapot and a dozen cups made of finely decorated Spode china. They both set down their trays on the long coffee table in front of the couch. The girl looked once at West and the old man turned to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she said after him, then began pouring tea into each of the cups. Speaking to us, but not looking at us, she said, “This is one of our special teas, very rare—Jun Shan Silver Needles. I hope you enjoy it. And you must try the blackberries.” She filled the last of the teacups and turned her head, staring directly at the Fleur-du-Mal. “They ripened early this year,” she said.
The Fleur-du-Mal stared back, and in that moment, in that split second between the angled shafts of sunlight, something so stunning and so unexpected occurred that it seemed imaginary. But it was real, it was a bolt of lightning, and it was “clear as a tear,” as Ray would say. And as with Geaxi, there was no doubt. Xanti Otso, the Fleur-du-Mal, had just looked into the eyes of his Ameq for the first time.
Holding two cups of tea, she walked calmly over to the Fleur-du-Mal. Her hands and fingers were noticeably broader and stronger than our hands and fingers, yet she offered him a cup of tea with the delicacy, charm, and sophistication of a lady of the manor. Then, without warning, but with the exuberance of a football fan, she tapped her cup against the Fleur-du-Mal’s, spilling some of the tea on the great Persian rug. She laughed like a schoolgirl and gave him a mischievous look, saying “Cheers!”
For a moment the Fleur-du-Mal stood mute and frozen, and so did the rest of us. He turned and looked at West, who gave nothing away, then turned back to the girl. Gradually, he awakened to something inside, and a smile began to spread across his face. “What is your name?” he asked.
“In the Language of the Long Dream, I am called by this name,” she said, then made a series of high-pitched, unpronounceable sounds that looped and clicked and squealed together until she stopped.
The Fleur-du-Mal frowned and rubbed his chin with his hand. He glanced at me. I knew he had understood what she had said because he had learned the “dream language,” but what her name meant was too complex to be a name in the same way that we use names. “Well, mon petit?” he asked. “How would you translate that?”
In a formal sense, the name meant “Traveler-All Spirits,” yet it was much more than that. Contained within her name were other names—the Finder of Souls, the Singer, the Far Seer, the Long Listener, the Retriever, the Returner, and many others, all connected with complicated emotional and psychological nuances.
“Yes,” the girl said to me, studying my eyes. “What would you have me called?”
“Fielder,” I answered immediately, thinking of baseball. A good fielder sees and catches everything, including souls.
“Fielder?” the Fleur-du-Mal said.
“Yes. Fielder. It’s as good as any.”
“I adore the name,” the girl said. “Fielder it is, then. I have had many names in the past, but never Fielder.” She exchanged looks with the Fleur-du-Mal, then looked at Geaxi and nodded once, as if introducing herself. She turned to West. “And your name is now ‘West’?”
“Yes, it is,” he said with a smile.
“Good. It suits you.” She paused, taking time to look into the eyes of each of us. “Now,” she said, motioning toward the couch and chairs, “let us sit and share the tea and scones and discuss the last thirty thousand years, shall we?”
Events were happening too quickly to calculate and yet time seemed to slow down in every way. The curtains were opened even wider and we gathered in chairs surrounding the coffee table and couch. The view through the windows to the south and west revealed the steep cliffs and ragged coastline only a few hundred yards away, and the sea below stretching all the way to the horizon. And Fielder was right. The blackberries were delicious. Larger than the ones that would ripen later, they tasted pure and intense. I nibbled on them and sipped my tea and listened. For the next hour and a half we all listened.
The old ones among us, Susheela the Ninth, Sailor, Opari, Trumoi-Meq, each heard things they had never heard before, and we all learned things about the Meq we could never have imagined.
West let Fielder begin, saying she would answer the question the Fleur-du-Mal had asked because she was the answer. Fielder explained by starting with her birth, which was approximately thirty-four thousand years ago in what is now Croatia. Although she was born with the ability to be a “tracker” and “finder of souls,” she had to be nurtured and taught how to do it accurately and at greater and greater distances. Fielder’s teacher was her own mother, who also was the head of their tribe of sixty-three souls, or “Travelers,” as they referred to themselves. They were Meq, like us, but they were in the form of a human species we now erroneously term Neanderthal. And, like our unique and ancient relationship with the Basque, they traveled alongside several tribes of their “parent” species, who acted as protectors. And travel they did. Fielder told of some journeys lasting centuries and covering thousands of miles, which required much more mobility and technical skill than modern anthropologists attribute to them. During these travels, Fielder’s ability to “find” and “hear” others was a valuable and necessary tool for survival. In time, she became known as “Keeper of Souls” because of her expanding powers. Intuitively, at any given time, she knew where every living soul of her kind was on the planet. Then came the newcomers, the ones we now call Giza. She had heard of them, but she had never seen them. And along with the newcomers there were us. There were not many of us, but we were there. Fielder said, “I could feel your arrival and count your numbers on ten fingers … just as I do now.”