turned to the slaver. Grinning like a buffoon, he displayed the great gap that is still permanently in the front of his mouth. ‘Hail Hadrian,’ Trumoi-Meq said, then disappeared through the soldiers and into the crowd. However, he did not leave Cilurnum right away. He was now determined to take every stolen child in the slaver’s custody back to their various mothers, fathers, and tribes. Then something occurred to him instinctively. In the same manner, Zianno, as you knew how to read the old script without ever having seen it, Trumoi-Meq knew he could use his missing tooth to save the children, and he knew how. He ran swiftly to the west gate of Cilurnum and the building housing the bread ovens servicing the entire fort. The long building lay in the shadow of the west gate. Below the great brick and stone ovens, the Romans had also dug a narrow tunnel that led away from the fort a good hundred and fifty yards before surfacing in a grove of trees near a small spring. Only a few men at a time used the tunnel, normally for clandestine night raids and reconnaissance patrols. Trumoi-Meq had already befriended and easily bribed the baker in charge of the ovens, whose name was Ith. He had been born a Celt and was sympathetic to the plight of the children. When told of the plan, Ith reminded Trumoi-Meq that it must be done just before dawn, during the brief time he would be preparing the loaves. Once he lit the wood fires and the ovens were warmed, it would be too hot to enter or exit the tunnel. Trumoi-Meq told the baker not to worry, the children would all be moving in silence and without delay. The escape was set for that evening. With a crescent moon high above the fort, long after the soldiers had fallen asleep, Trumoi-Meq slipped into the area where the children were being held. Two dozen children filled the room. They were sleeping on a bare stone floor covered with straw. The smell and stench of stale urine was overwhelming. Their faces were terrified and half starving. Slowly, the children gathered around Trumoi-Meq, but none stood up. They all sat huddled together at his feet. The room was dark and he waited until each one could see his eyes and mouth. He began to speak in an even manner and tone, using a common Celtic tongue. He said, ‘Look into the mouse hole, dear ones, and listen. Do not be afraid. Look and listen.’ Trumoi-Meq then opened his mouth and grinned. He knelt down until his face was level with the children’s faces and let each one gaze into his grin and his gap, his missing tooth, his magic mouse hole. What they saw and what they heard transported them into a suspended, hypnotic state that was not quite a trance, but more a state of infinite trust. Inside Trumoi-Meq’s gap, they each found safety and sanctuary. Trumoi-Meq then used the ‘voice’ he had discovered and understood instinctively, the ‘voice’ that could save the children. ‘Be silent, be swift, and do not be afraid. We are going home. Follow me.’ And they did. Once he had picked the locks of their linking chains, Trumoi- Meq led the children through the darkness across the entire fort, from the barracks, past the stables, to the bread ovens and the west gate. The silent voice acted as a beacon in the dark and they arrived unseen and unheard just as Ith was ready to light his fires. ‘Not yet,’ Trumoi-Meq told him. ‘Now open the tunnel, my friend.’ In silence, one by one, the children stepped down into the narrow tunnel and none showed any fear or hesitation. ‘Into the mouse hole,’ Trumoi-Meq said gently as they entered. ‘Do not be afraid.’ After the last child had disappeared below, Trumoi-Meq followed. By dawn, all were beyond the reach of the slaver and within a week, each had returned to his or her home, though many of them discovered they were now orphans. Trumoi-Meq eventually found a home for them as well. Whenever asked how they had escaped with only another child to lead them, the stolen children always gave the same answer. ‘Through the mouse hole,’ they said. In the course of time, the name changed and shortened into one mystical, mythical place and person—Mowsel.”
Sailor looked back through the crowd and saw something or someone he recognized in the distance. It was Trumoi-Meq. He was standing on the running board of the limousine, waving his long plaid scarf in a circular motion. “It is time,” Sailor said, turning back to Ray and me. I stared into his swirling “ghost eye” and thought again about Trumoi-Meq and Sailor and how long they both had been traveling, seeking, and surviving. Sailor would never admit it, yet both of them, without exception or hesitation, still adhered to one basic principle and simple code of behavior—the “Golden Rule.” “Ray,” Sailor said, “I can see you have an intuitive connection with Nova. You may be the only one she can trust, the only one who may be able to unravel what is troubling her. Do you understand?”
“You bet.”
“Keep her in this world, Ray. We need her.”
“I’ll do what I can, Sailor.”
Sailor began backing away and his last comment surprised me. “Zianno, does young Caine wear the blue stone, the lapis lazuli I gave him outside Alexandria?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Make sure that he does,” Sailor said, then darted into the rush, threading his way through the stream of oncoming passengers and luggage, never slowing down, never touching anyone and barely being seen.
The America to which Ray and I returned was not the America we left, and we were given a short preview of it on our four-day passage from Southampton to New York. A large group of mostly young Americans, none older than thirty, were traveling together in what seemed to be a rambling party, constantly flirting, arguing, or laughing with each other in a shifting, never-ending exchange. They gathered in different areas of the ship or walked the decks at all hours of the day and night. None of them seemed particularly rich, yet they drank champagne to excess, often making loud obscene toasts to Prohibition, which never failed to arouse a cheer from each of them. They discussed and debated everything from politics to polyrhythmic African chants. They dressed in various styles and manners ranging from plain and sloppy to tie and tails. Their American slang was unfamiliar, and except for one name, T. S. Eliot, so were their references to current painting, poetry, and music. Many had been directly involved in the Great War and all had left it far behind. Something had changed. These were new Americans in a new age.
Ray noticed the same thing and talked to several of them whenever he got the chance. Since we were still carrying our Egyptian passports, he used that as an excuse to strike up conversations, saying he and I were brothers wishing to practice our English. Being children, we were rarely turned away. After we docked and passed through customs, Ray summed it up in a taxi on our way to Pennsylvania Station. Smoke and gas and noise surrounded us. New York seemed to have a million cars and trucks and ten times that many people, all in motion. He said, “Looks like we’re a little behind the times, Z.”
Inside the station we ate a delicious meal, bought our tickets, and boarded the first train through to St. Louis. Traveling on our train and sitting across the aisle from us was a young man in his early twenties who had a warm smile and gentle nod for anyone and everyone. In no time, Ray was in conversation with him about all the current news in America, especially baseball. The young man knew a great deal about baseball, more than most fans, and was impressed with Ray’s questions. He finally introduced himself, which explained it. His name was Jim Bottomley, better known as Sunny Jim. He was a Major League ballplayer with the St. Louis Cardinals. He had the pleasant disposition and quiet demeanor of an accountant or store clerk, but as we witnessed later, he could play. He was traveling on his own because he had been hit in the head by a pitch in the last game of a series against the New York Giants a few days earlier. He lost consciousness and was diagnosed with a concussion. The doctor wanted him kept under observation in the hospital for at least forty-eight hours. The Cardinals were scheduled to leave New York for Pittsburgh that night. Sunny Jim stayed behind in the hospital. Now he had fully recovered and was on his way to rejoin his teammates in St. Louis. This was his first complete season in the big leagues and at the end of it he would be named Rookie of the Year in the National League. At Ebbets Field the next year, he would hit twelve RBIs in one game, a record that still stands. He would also become a close and loyal friend to Ray and me and Carolina’s family.
On July 3 our train made a long stop in Akron, Ohio. It was late in the afternoon and inside the train the heat was stifling. While we waited, porters offered free lemonade outside on the platform. Sunny Jim and Ray decided to look for any bootleg cold beer that might be available for a price. Sunny Jim said all you had to do was ask the right fellow and you could find some hooch practically anywhere in America. And he didn’t think it was unusual in the least that a boy like Ray might want a beer instead of lemonade. He said he grew up on the stuff. I chose the lemonade and then went to send a telegram to Owen Bramley informing him of our arrival in St. Louis the following day.
While on my way back to the train I spotted a large poster advertising a demonstration of aeronautical skills coming to Akron later that summer. Many top pilots and barnstormers were flying, including “Tex Rankin of Walla Walla,” Marcellus Foose, and Bessie Coleman, or “Queen Bess,” the only black licensed pilot in the world. The show also featured wing walkers and parachute jumpers and their names were listed at the bottom of the bill. The last name I hadn’t seen in forty-one years. I almost laughed out loud. It said, “Also appearing by popular demand, The Great Geaxi, Spider Boy of the Pyrenees.” Not far from the air show poster was another poster advertising a “double feature” motion picture extravaganza now showing downtown at the Rialto Theater. One film was titled
