Time Dancers

du-Mal. He had proven it over and over again. So I lied and answered, “No.” That same night, rain began to fall throughout the Vinales Valley and most of western Cuba. It rained for six long days and nights. The temperature never fell below eighty degrees and the humidity soared. On the afternoon of May 4, my birthday, a taxi arrived from Pinar del Rio. Inside, there appeared to be two children in the backseat, a boy and a girl about twelve years old. They both got out slowly. The girl wore a black vest held together with leather strips attached to bone, ballet slippers for shoes, and she carried a black beret in her hand. I saw a profound weariness in her eyes. The boy seemed to need assistance from the girl and placed his hand on her arm for guidance. Once outside, he jerked his head back and breathed deeply, taking in the heavy, humid air and filling his lungs, straining to catch the rich, sweet scents of Carolina’s “Honeycircle” in the distance. The boy’s hair was dark and it curled around his ears and over his collar. He wore a white cotton shirt, loose black trousers, and despite the heat, leather boots laced to the knees. His eyes rolled back in his head and he grinned wide, revealing the gap of a missing front tooth. It was Trumoi-Meq and he was blind.

I walked out to meet them. “Buenos dias, young Zezen,” Geaxi said. She paused and looked around, stopping to stare at the mogotes, three humps of gray-black stone and green vegetation barely visible on the horizon. “I assume this is Finca Maria,” she said softly. Her voice was as weary as her eyes.

No one spoke of Trumoi-Meq’s blindness or asked Geaxi the reason for their sudden appearance. Opari and I simply welcomed them to Finca Maria and everyone, including Ray, embraced, then Carolina led us all inside. Mowsel walked beside Geaxi, sensing her movement more than touching her, and moving with equal grace. His blindness seemed almost undetectable or somehow irrelevant.

Ciela prepared a simple meal of black beans and rice, which we ate in the kitchen, pulling up chairs around the table or sitting on countertops. We limited our conversation to local gossip and the latest news from Biscuit in Havana. Indio and Jack discussed politics and Cuba’s current dictator, Fulgencio Batista, but the civil war in Spain and the massacre at Guernica were never mentioned. Everyone respected Geaxi’s and Mowsel’s silence. We each knew they would take us there eventually, when the time was right and they were ready.

After dinner, it was Jack who suggested coffee and sweets on the veranda. Carolina, Ciela, and Indio stayed inside while Jack and the rest of us sat outside on wicker chairs facing west. The sun had just disappeared behind the mogotes and the rain had finally ceased. Two dogs barked in ragged dialogue somewhere far in the distance, however I might have been the only one who heard them. Geaxi and Mowsel sat quietly. Ray glanced at me once, saying nothing. Nova never spoke and held Ray’s hand, as Opari held mine. Jack broke the silence, lighting a cigar and saying, “Z, I think we ought to take everybody down to La Coloma tomorrow. I think you ought to go skin diving.”

I looked at Jack and smiled and thanked him with my eyes. I knew instantly going to La Coloma was exactly what we should do. Opari squeezed my hand, thinking the same thing. “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Let’s go to La Coloma. Tomorrow!”

We rose early and packed what we needed into the old DeSoto, then headed south. Jack had the wheel and he handled the rough Cuban roads as best he could. Geaxi remained attentive, but spoke rarely. Mowsel was more animated and asked question after question about the Cuban landscape and climate. Ray asked Mowsel if he’d ever been to Mexico. To my surprise, after such a long life and countless journeys, Trumoi-Meq answered, “No, I have not.”

Approaching La Coloma, I decided to bring up something Geaxi had said in her letter from Malta, before she and Mowsel left for Spain. She was staring out the window. I leaned over and tapped her on the knee to get her attention. She turned her head toward me slowly. “You said you found something on Malta, something underwater,” I said. “What was it, Geaxi?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because where we are going, there is something unusual that was found here and it was also found underwater.”

Geaxi glanced at Mowsel. His eyes were focused elsewhere, but his head was turned and tilted in my direction. “What is it, young Zezen?” she asked.

“A sphere or ball. A perfectly round, solid granite ball.”

Mowsel opened his mouth in surprise. “With engraved markings and symbols?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And a strange, small handprint engraved on top?”

“Yes.”

“This sphere, it was found by a diver?” Geaxi asked.

“Yes, in an underwater cave by the father of the man who lives here. His name is Luis and his father died before Luis could learn the location of the cave. He still searches for the others.”

“Others?” Mowsel asked, tilting his head in the opposite direction.

“Yes. His father said there were other stone balls in the cave. That’s what we have been doing here all this time—searching for the cave.”

Just then, Jack came to a halt in front of Luis’s home a mile or so west of town. Luis was gone, probably at sea, however his door was never locked. Everyone in the tiny community knew and loved “the nice man who spoke with his hands.” Jack said he was going for supplies and would be back within the hour. He left in the direction of La Coloma and we hurried inside. I led everyone through the house and out into the courtyard and the shade of the orange trees. Mowsel followed easily, and without touching anyone or anything. Nova mentioned the many sculptures and admired the Olmec heads scattered throughout. Ray said he liked the orange trees. As we neared the low oak table, Geaxi saw the stone ball resting in the middle and stopped dead in her tracks. “It is the same,” she said in a hushed voice.

Mowsel reached his hand out. “Where is it, Zianno? Let me touch it.”

I took his hand and leaned over, placing his fingers directly on one of the markings, the old Meq symbol for “is.” “Do you recognize this?” I asked.

He said nothing for a moment, then smiled wide, exposing his gap in front. “This was in the cave in Africa!”

“Yes, it was.”

“What does this symbol mean?”

“It is the old word for ‘is.’”

“What do the other markings mean? Can you read them, Zianno?”

“No…not yet.”

Geaxi looked at Opari. “What do you make of this?” she asked. “Had you ever heard of these spheres, or seen them before?”

“Never. Zianno and I have debated the possible meaning for years. Nothing has been revealed. We are certain the sphere is old, very old, from before the Time of Ice, however its purpose remains an enigma.” Opari looked once at me. “And now we know there are other spheres in other parts of the world. What can this mean? Does this have anything to do with the Gogorati, the Remembering? If it does, we must decipher it.”

Mowsel had both hands on the stone ball and his fingers traced over the markings again and again, furiously following the lines and curves of the carved symbols. At times, his eyes rolled back in his head as he concentrated. Suddenly he asked, “How deep was this cave?”

“Thirty-five feet at least,” I answered. “Why?”

“Because the cave on Malta was approximately the same depth. This is important, do you see?”

“No.”

“Think, Zianno. With the melting of the ice, sea levels have risen since the world of the stone spheres existed! The face of the Earth itself has altered. Perhaps…just perhaps, the Meq have as well.” Suddenly he laughed out loud. “Yes, Opari,” he said, tilting his head and searching for her scent and presence. “These spheres have everything to do with the Remembering.”

“Then why am I unable to read this writing, except for one word?” I asked.

“Because the spheres have nothing to do with our Remembering.”

I looked at him blankly. I didn’t understand, nor did anyone else.

“Do you not see, Zianno? The answer is as simple as it is mystifying.” He paused again, staring into