Time Dancers

“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 plait. 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.