The Meq

Captain Woodget and I came ashore after dark with his first and second mates. “This is a human cargo,” he said, “a job beneath me, but still worth the money.”

As we made our way up a rocky path, he told me we were transporting the mistress of Antoine Boutrain, a well-known captain of the French shipping firm Bourdes, to New Orleans.

“Seems the good captain has a beautiful and loving wife at home,” he said, “but he likes to have this one meet him in different ports around the world. She cannot sail with him, so this time she sails with us. He is a warped man, I tell you, probably from trading that damned Chilean nitrate, but he pays well and guess what more is in it, Z?”

“I think I know,” I said.

Captain Woodget stopped on the path and turned to look at me. It was dark all around us, but I could feel his eyes bearing down.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I mean, I’m not sure, but then again, I am.”

“Damnit, Z, say what you mean!” he fumed.

“This woman,” I said, “this mistress you’re picking up, she has an entourage; two of them, two Basque like me, right?”

“Holy Trident and dammit to hell! How did you know that? Only Captain Boutrain told me and I told no one.”

I looked in Captain Woodget’s face. He knew me as well as anyone by now.

“I don’t know,” I said.

We left the rocky way and started on a path of sand between the seagrass and weeds. The ground leveled out. We could see the house ahead of us, alone and lit by candles, white against the black sky.

I heard the song first. The lonely notes. The ancient melody and words woven into the night. Two voices exchanging lines, sad lines in a forgotten language; singing, swelling, falling. I knew that language. It was Papa dying, singing Mama’s song.

Captain Woodget asked if I was all right. I nodded and we walked toward the house.

The captain introduced himself and his first and second mates to the mistress, whose name was Isabelle, and was ushered in. I hung back in the shadows. The singing had stopped, if it had even begun. I turned and made my way in the dark around the house to the rear, which sloped down through the marsh and rocks toward the Atlantic, a thousand yards away. I stood in the silence.

Then I felt them. I couldn’t hear them, but I felt them. I felt them closing in, coming nearer. I knew they would and they knew I would feel them. It was what we knew. It was knowledge I had never been taught, but now could never forget.

“I am Unai,” he said.

I turned to my left.

“I am Usoa,” she said.

I turned to my right.

I looked back and forth between them, our eyes exchanging greeting and welcome. They had come to within ten feet of me and never made a sound. They were both dressed in loose black trousers tucked into leather boots laced to the knees. They wore broad-collared cotton shirts and no jewelry, except that he had a necklace around his neck and she a priceless blue diamond in her pierced right ear. They looked like twins, and if they were twins, I could have been their triplet.

“I am Zianno,” I said.

“We know,” they said in unison.

“I heard you singing, I think. What is it?”

“It is an old Meq song,” Unai said, walking over to Usoa and taking her hand in his.

“It is about Home,” Usoa said, “and return, the longing for return.”

“It was beautiful, but I don’t know the language.”

“You will,” Unai said.

“It will come to you,” Usoa said.

“But how?”

“Be patient,” Unai said, “you have come a long way, Zianno. You are learning, believe me, but I should introduce myself formally. I am Unai Txori, Egizahar Meq, through the tribe of Caristies, protectors of the Stone of Silence.”

He lifted Usoa’s hand. “And I am Usoa Ijitu, Egizahar Meq, through the tribe of Autrigons,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say. It had been over twelve years since I’d seen one of my own kind and the last time had been almost too short to remember. But there was a presence, a kinship. something.

“You’re wearing the Stones around your neck, aren’t you?” I asked Unai.

“Tres bien, Zianno. You are learning recognition. Later, you will learn more than any of us — more than your father.”

“You knew my papa?”

“Of course,” he said, “and your mother.”

“And you know Geaxi?”

“Oui,” he said.

“Then you know that I look for Sailor and Umla-Meq.”

He glanced at Usoa and they exchanged a bewildered look. “Both?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “it was the last thing my mama told me to do.”

Usoa looked at me and said, “Sailor is the wind, Zianno. He finds you, you will not find him.”

I looked at Usoa and then over to Unai and understood that I would get no more directions to Sailor from them; that somehow I was to find Sailor myself.

They turned together, holding hands, and started back toward the house. I went with them.

“I see you have learned the Giza,” Unai said, “and you work well among them.”

“Yes, I have,” I said.

“It is a good way to travel; to be with one who needs the Stones. We do the same for the woman, Isabelle, and we have our freedom.”

“Do you travel together always, you and Usoa?” I asked.

“Yes, always,” he said. “We do the Itxaron, the Wait, together. We will cross in the Zeharkatu when it is time. when we have finished something. Until then, she is ma cherie.”

We had reached the stone steps at the back of the house. I looked at them. Their black eyes were shining in the light. They were absolutely quiet and still.

“How old are you?” I said.

They both laughed, sounding just like two children giggling.

“On the way to New Orleans, Zianno. There is time for everything.”

“Why do you go to New Orleans?” I asked.

“Because the woman Isabelle goes there,” he said, “and Usoa and I seek an evil one. Let that be that.”

Captain Woodget, his two mates, and Isabelle appeared that moment at the door and we set off — first to the Clover, then to the Gulf, and eventually to New Orleans.

On the voyage, I learned many things about the Meq and heard tales of adventure that trailed back to the courts of Charlemagne and beyond, but I wanted more. I wanted to know everything; I was hungry and thirsty for any and every detail. I asked about Mama and Papa and they told me of caravans and crusades, journeys to the East Indies with the Portuguese, all manner of people and places and times they had witnessed together. I listened to it all and still wanted more. They sang Meq songs and once, while my eyes were closed, I caught myself singing along without any idea how I even knew the words. Usoa laughed and told me it was common, a trait we carried inside ourselves from the time we were painting horses on the walls of caves in the Pyrenees, caves that were still unknown to the rest of the world. “Oui,” Unai added, “it is true, Zianno. Not even the Visigoths were aware of the caves, and believe me, some of them preferred caves.” We all laughed together at the inside joke and I could only marvel at the fact that it was based on real experience.

The captain sailed the Clover at her usual pace, but it seemed too swift for me. I