Time Dancers

Steve Cash Time Dancers

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank Cody Cash for helping me in every way from beginning to end. I am lucky to have him as a son and know him as a friend. I also want to thank Frances Bissell for her wonderful insights and constant support, and I would like to thank Betsy Mitchell for her always accurate advice, patience, and belief in the story.

Previously, in The Meq

The Meq are running out of time. World War I has ended, and in less than a hundred years they must assemble at the mystical gathering called the Gogorati, the Remembering. Within a rapidly moving twentieth century, Zianno Zezen, or Z, recounts his tale of the search for who and what the Meq truly are.

All Meq grow to the age of twelve, and are human in appearance, but this is where the similarities end. The Meq retain the physical body of a twelve-year-old for as long as they are able to survive or until they find their Ameq—their one true love and companion. Then the two must make a conscious decision whether to continue in the Itxaron, the Wait, or to “cross” in the ancient but little-understood rite known as the Zeharkatu. Those who choose the Zeharkatu become completely mortal and begin to age. They are also able to procreate, and this is how they have survived for countless millennia. Those who remain in the Wait cannot get sick or contract diseases, and they heal from all wounds and broken bones in a matter of minutes or days. They can be killed by decapitation, drowning, bleeding to death from a slashed throat, or by being—as Ray Ytuarte, one of Z’s closest allies, puts it —“stomped beyond recognition by somethin’.”

The Meq experience every human emotion, but in the past they have kept human beings, known to them as the Giza, at a distance. They must. To the Meq, the Giza are greedy, dangerous, and their lives are simply too short. The ancestral home of the Meq is in the Pyrenees, and at some point in the distant past the Meq formed a symbiotic relationship with five Basque tribes, who became their protectors. Z shares this relationship with the Basque, yet he was born in the United States, and it is in St. Louis where Z begins his own history and adventures. He forms many different and lasting relationships with the Giza, most notably the inimitable Solomon J. Birnbaum and Carolina Covington Flowers. Now nearing fifty, she is Z’s oldest friend and her family has become Z’s family.

Unfortunately, the mysterious, murderous Meq assassin known as the Fleur-du-Mal has taunted and tortured Z for over two decades, always posing a threat to those Z cares most about in his obsession to find the elusive, mythical Sixth Stone. Five of these magical, egg-shaped black rocks are known to exist. They have been carried and passed down since prehistory, or what is called the Time of Ice, by five separate Meq families. Each Stone has a certain meaning and title, as well as possessing a curious hypnotic power. The Stone of Dreams is now carried by Z, the other four by Sailor, Geaxi, Nova (the youngest among them), and Opari, Z’s Ameq. The ultimate purpose of the Stones is unknown, though the Meq are convinced it relates to their lost origins.

Thus, the story begins and continues. The Meq and their long, tangled tapestry of the past is gradually revealed, as well as their flickering present, but the future, even for the Meq, remains uncertain and unknown.

PART I

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

—C.P. Cavafy

1. Biharamun (Day after Tomorrow)

Where are you looking? Through a window, from a bridge, down a well, over the rainbow, out of a mouse hole, into the light? Where are you looking? Or, rather, what are you looking for? Out there, somewhere, at some time, do you see a wish fulfilled, a dream come true, a simple affirmation and clarity of that which we cannot speak? Look closely. Can you see the day after tomorrow? Do you recognize it? Will you ever? It is approaching.

The date was March 9, 1919, and it was snowing. We were taking the train down from Chicago to St. Louis and as we crossed the bridge spanning the Mississippi, the sun’s light was fading fast. The water below us looked dark, darker than I ever remembered, and deep under the low light and falling snow. I was in the aisle seat in the back row of our compartment. Opari was sitting next to me. She sat in silence with her head turned away, facing the window. Suddenly she made a trilling sound with her teeth and tongue, then whispered an ancient word in slow repetition. “Amatxurlarru,” she said. “Amatxurlarru.” The word was haunting. Her careful pronunciation was hypnotic and sounded somewhere between song and prayer. I had never heard the word before, but I knew it was Meq.

“What does it mean?” I asked. I was looking past her, through the glass, speaking to her reflection.

“It is from the Time of Ice,” she said. “Great rivers, like this one, were givers of all life and death. The phrase is only spoken when one crosses a river that is a Mother to many others.” She paused a moment and I assumed she was returning to events, stories, people and places, adventures and wisdom, passed down to her from a time so distant I could only imagine it. She went on, “The word, both in dreams and in real life, means ‘the Mother bleeds.’”

A few more seconds passed. I watched the snow while the train tracks rattled underneath us. Finally, I managed to say, “Really.” It was neither question nor statement, and I was trying once again not to show my relative youth and ignorance. I know now that time and the passing of it, the difference in ages and the awareness of it, should not be a problem when you are in love, but these things have taken me a lifetime to learn, let alone accept without wonder.

Ahead, just past the western end of the bridge, the lights of downtown St. Louis were coming into view. Opari said, “This is your birth city, is it not, my love?”

“Yes,” I answered. “It is that…and many other things.” I continued staring out the window, but not at the falling snow, or St. Louis, or even the great Mississippi River. Instead, I gazed into the reflection of two beautiful black eyes, understanding then and there that I will always desire to do just that, as long as I am on this Earth. I felt the presence of her inside me the same way I had seen, for a timeless second, my own mama and papa look to and through each other, also on a train crossing a river, in 1881.

To my right, directly across the aisle, sat my oldest friend and confidante, Carolina Covington Flowers. She was almost fifty years old now, although a stranger would never guess it. She was smiling and staring through the window. Her long hair was pulled back and a few strands of silver and gold hung loose, framing her face. She wore a long black skirt and a simple white blouse buttoned to the neck. A green woolen shawl draped around her shoulders. Her only grandchild, the baby Caine, slept peacefully in her lap. As I watched, she silently wiped a single tear from her cheek. I started to ask if anything was wrong, then decided against it. There was nothing wrong and there was nothing I could do. Sad, happy, maybe both, maybe neither, it was more likely she was only experiencing the same thing I had been thinking about all day, ever since we left Chicago—return. And