Wildwood Dancing

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Officials in small boats came out to halt us while our captain gave an inventory of the goods on board and the passengers he was ferrying. An impressive personage in a snowy turban and a robe of purple silk was asking all the questions.

When the formalities were complete, he gave Father a little bow and the hint of a smile, and they exchanged courteous greetings in Turkish. Then the chain-link barrier across the Golden Horn was lowered for us, and we sailed into the docks. We had arrived.

I had expected carts by the waterfront to carry our cargo to Salem bin Afazi’s warehouse, but the bales and sacks were unloaded onto the dock, then borne away on the backs of workers whose every move was watched by a hawkeyed overseer with a coiled whip at his belt. I had known there would be slaves here, but the sight gave me a cold, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.

Father was in intense conversation with a man who had come on board. The newcomer was wearing an expertly tai-lored short robe over wool hose and felt boots, and a velvet cap on his head. He had the well-kempt, well-fed look of a successful trader. They were speaking in Greek. I let the talk drift past me as I scanned the craft moored around us, my gaze moving from tiny, weather-beaten fishing boats to grand three-masted carracks, from merchant vessels swarm-ing with activity to swift, elegant caiques that served as ferryboats. I looked back along the nearby docks and my gaze stilled. The Esperanca was moored at some distance from us, her sails furled now, the only sign of life a solitary crewman making a slow patrol of the deck. I could not see if he was armed. Perhaps Duarte da Costa Aguiar was already out there in the city somewhere, making a generous offer for Cybele’s Gift.

I narrowed my eyes. What was that patch of black, a tattered length of cloth next to the Esperanca’s mast? It was flapping as if stirred by a capricious breeze, yet nothing around it moved. Wasn’t that . . . No, it couldn’t be. And yet that was what I saw: Halfway up the mainmast was the figure of a woman clad in a black robe whose folds billowed out on that uncanny wind. Her head was turned in my direction, but I could not see her face, for she wore the style of veil that conceals all but the eyes. She seemed to be beckoning. And I heard a command, not aloud but clear in my mind: It’s time, Paula. It’s time to begin your quest. Goose bumps broke out all over my body. Without a shred of doubt, it was a voice from the Other Kingdom. A familiar voice. I could have sworn the speaker was my sister Tati.