Time Dancers

undershirt appeared in the sunlight, staggering forward and unable to speak because his own knife was embedded in his throat. Blood shot from the wound spraying his undershirt and arms. His eyes rolled back in his head. He took three steps, then fell forward, falling directly on top of Arrosa’s black beret. In the next second, the men holding Ray and me screamed in agony, cursing in Greek and letting go their grips as if they had been burned or shocked. Then they each began a series of involuntary tumbles and back somersaults, ending in a heap at the bottom of the tallest stack of crates. Something invisible had pulled or pushed them with great force and speed.

Ray and I looked at each other. Neither of us had moved a muscle. I started to reach for the Stone I had dropped, but before I could, it came to me. At a fairly rapid pace and in a gentle arc, like a baseball toss, the Stone rose from the ground and flew over to me. I caught it softly in one hand.

“What the…” Ray said and never finished. His mouth was hanging open.

Behind the two men, who were barely conscious, the stacked crates full of bananas began to shake and vibrate. In ten seconds they were falling in an avalanche of wood and bananas and buried the two men where they lay.

Arrosa crawled out of the shadows of the warehouse. She was barefoot and her red dress was torn and bloodied. There were several places on her neck and arms beginning to bruise. Still, she seemed to be all right.

A shadow moved in the open space between Ray and where I was standing. It appeared to leap and dance in a diagonal line. Something or someone was on top of the stacks behind me. I turned and saw a figure bounding down from crate to crate. In the glare of the sun, I couldn’t make out who or what it was, but the movements were quick, graceful, intuitive. There was no doubt or hesitation about where to land or where next to leap. In seconds the figure had dropped eighteen feet, then hit the ground with both feet and started walking toward Ray and me. He wore loose black trousers tucked into boots laced to the knees. His shirt was a simple white cotton tunic with intricate orange stitching. He was exactly my height and weight and looked exactly the same as the last time I had seen him, except the braid behind his left ear was now weighted with black onyx. He stopped in front of me. His “ghost eye” swirled with clouds. On his forefinger he wore a ring of star sapphire set in silver. He reached out and lightly tapped my hand, the one holding the Stone.

“You should learn to hold on to that, Zianno.” Then he smiled, which I had not seen in a very long time. “Sorry I missed your birthday. I was…preoccupied.”

He turned without another word and walked over to where Arrosa still sat on the ground, bewildered and exhausted. He gave her his hand to help her stand and steady herself.

“Arrosa Arginzoniz, no? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Umla-Meq, Egizahar Meq, through the tribe of Berones, protectors of the Stone of Memory. Please, call me Sailor, if you wish.”

“Si, senor. I know of your name.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention of any kind?”

“No, no, I am fine. I should not have been waiting in this area. I should have known better.”

“Nonsense. You are completely without blame. Those men were filth and refuse. I have seen men like them on these seas for longer than I care to remember. Are you certain that you have no serious injury?”

“Yes,” Arrosa answered. She was looking down at Sailor, but she could have been on her knees. “Gracias, senor, gracias,” she kept repeating. “Gracias.”

“De nada, my dear.”

Ray had silently walked over next to me. “Did Sailor do that?” he whispered.

“He sure did.”

“How?”

“You know how. In the same way you can run fast and foretell the weather; the same way I can hear things from a great distance. What Sailor does is called telekinesis.” Ray’s mouth finally closed. He rubbed his chin, then mumbled something. “Damn,” I think he said.

“I suggest we return to your ship, and quickly,” Sailor said. “Someone might have questions about this and I feel no desire to answer them. Also, I have news of which you are unaware, news I regret I must deliver.” He reached for the arm of Arrosa. “Are you ready, my dear?”

They made their way out of the jumble of broken crates and bananas, Arrosa walking barefoot and Sailor kicking a clear path with his boots. Ray picked up her sandals and I retrieved her bloodstained black beret. Once again, an old one, Umla-Meq, had shown me something fundamental about the Meq and living in the moment. Never take it for granted and never despair, it will pass. Ray saw it from a little different perspective. Just as we were about to walk up the gangway of the Iona, Ray looked up at Sailor ahead of us and said with a wink, “Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

I laughed, then suddenly remembered what we were doing before I heard Arrosa’s screams. The scratches I found on the papyrus were not scratches at all. They were words, words written in the ancient Meq script that only I could read. “Ray,” I said, “whose name is on that note from Susheela the Ninth? Who was meant to see the papyrus?”

Ray grinned and looked up the gangway at Sailor and Arrosa stepping on board. “Him,” he answered. “The name on the note is Umla-Meq.”

Once we were on board and away from the other passengers, Sailor wasted no time in explaining his timely arrival. It was not a lucky accident. He had been waiting for us for days, even purchasing a ticket for passage on the final leg to Barcelona. When he saw Arrosa leaving the ship, he followed her, taking a position atop the banana crates. He was about to act just as Ray and I ran blindly, without thinking, directly into the danger and nearly paid the price. Sailor glared at both of us as he recounted this and I felt scolded. The heat of embarrassment hit my cheeks, but Sailor ignored my reaction and went on to say he bore sad news, especially for Ray and me. Arrosa offered to leave, saying she longed to soak in a hot bath for at least an hour. Sailor said he understood, but this news concerned her as well. Only a week earlier, Kepa Txopitea had died of a stroke while fishing in the Pyrenees with his son, Pello. He was a chieftain and father of the western clan of the tribe of Vardules. He was also my Aita and a wise and treasured friend to all four of us.

The news was not at all expected and stunned me. Each of us stood in silence for several moments, alone with our own memories of the old man. I started to speak and nothing came out. Then I was overcome with remorse and regret that I had not gone to see him when I could have, just after the war.

Sailor said, “I would not have missed the burial of Unai and Usoa, and now, with great respect, we shall bury them all together.”

Another long silence hung in the air. All of us knew what was ahead of us and it was acknowledged without a word.

Ray finally broke the silence. “I got somethin’ you ought to see, Sailor.”

Sailor raised one eyebrow and unconsciously rubbed the star sapphire on his forefinger. “Then I will see it,” he said and paused, facing Arrosa. “Whatever it may be, you are welcome to come along, Arrosa. Unai never kept anything from you and I will always honor his judgment.”

“No, senor, please,” Arrosa said, then smiled weakly. “Not this time. I want to be alone for a while and I need to rest.”

“I understand,” Sailor said, nodding once. “Then we will see you this evening for dinner, after we set sail. Bueno?”

“Bueno.” Arrosa glanced at each of us and smiled again. Ray handed her the sandals and I gave her the beret. She stared at the bloodstains and her smile slid away and vanished. There was a faint tremble in her bottom lip and her eyes welled a bit, but that was all. She turned to leave. “Thank you, Umla- Meq. Thank all of you,” she said.

After she was out of sight, we began to walk back to Ray’s cabin. Sailor said he wanted to tell us why he had been “out of touch” the past several months. As we walked and he talked, the huge volcanic mountain of Pico del Teide was visible far to the southwest. Wrapped in swirling clouds, the snowy peak reminded me of Sailor’s “ghost eye.”

It was common knowledge among the Meq that Sailor believed there was a Sixth Stone somewhere—lost, buried, stolen, no one knew, but Sailor firmly believed it existed. So he began by stating that he had gained access to evidence, the best in centuries, he added, and the evidence proved the Stone’s existence and possible whereabouts. Then he said something that made little sense to me. It was the kind of statement that had troubled