Free The Meq by Steve Cash Page A

to remember. But there was a presence, a kinship . . . something.
    “You’re wearing the Stones around your neck, aren’t you?” I asked Unai.
    “ Très bien, Zianno. You are learning recognition. Later, you will learn more than any of us—more than your father.”
    “You knew my papa?”
    “Of course,” he said, “and your mother.”
    “And you know Geaxi?”
    “ Oui, ” he said.
    “Then you know that I look for Sailor and Umla-Meq.”
    He glanced at Usoa and they exchanged a bewildered look. “Both?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I said, “it was the last thing my mama told me to do.”
    Usoa looked at me and said, “Sailor is the wind, Zianno. He finds you, you will not find him.”
    I looked at Usoa and then over to Unai and understood that I would get no more directions to Sailor from them; that somehow I was to find Sailor myself.
    They turned together, holding hands, and started back toward the house. I went with them.
    “I see you have learned the Giza,” Unai said, “and you work well among them.”
    “Yes, I have,” I said.
    “It is a good way to travel; to be with one who needs the Stones. We do the same for the woman, Isabelle, and we have our freedom.”
    “Do you travel together always, you and Usoa?” I asked.
    “Yes, always,” he said. “We do the Itxaron, the Wait, together. We will cross in the Zeharkatu when it is time . . . when we have finished something. Until then, she is ma chérie. ”
    We had reached the stone steps at the back of the house. I looked at them. Their black eyes were shining in the light. They were absolutely quiet and still.
    “How old are you?” I said.
    They both laughed, sounding just like two children giggling.
    “On the way to New Orleans, Zianno. There is time for everything.”
    “Why do you go to New Orleans?” I asked.
    “Because the woman Isabelle goes there,” he said, “and Usoa and I seek an evil one. Let that be that.”
    Captain Woodget, his two mates, and Isabelle appeared that moment at the door and we set off—first to the Clover, then to the Gulf, and eventually to New Orleans.
    On the voyage, I learned many things about the Meq and heard tales of adventure that trailed back to the courts of Charlemagne and beyond, but I wanted more. I wanted to know everything; I was hungry and thirsty for any and every detail. I asked about Mama and Papa and they told me of caravans and crusades, journeys to the East Indies with the Portuguese, all manner of people and places and times they had witnessed together. I listened to it all and still wanted more. They sang Meq songs and once, while my eyes were closed, I caught myself singing along without any idea how I even knew the words. Usoa laughed and told me it was common, a trait we carried inside ourselves from the time we were painting horses on the walls of caves in the Pyrenees, caves that were still unknown to the rest of the world. “ Oui, ” Unai added, “it is true, Zianno. Not even the Visigoths were aware of the caves, and believe me, some of them preferred caves.” We all laughed together at the inside joke and I could only marvel at the fact that it was based on real experience.
    The captain sailed the Clover at her usual pace, but it seemed too swift for me. I wanted the sea itself to stop and let me catch up. And yet, for the first time since I had been on my own, I felt the connection that was in the blood, our blood, and I knew it was alive and ancient. As Unai told me one night when I became impatient, “You are Meq, you are Egizahar Meq. Learn your Stone. The Stones speak; we are silent.”
    We arrived outside New Orleans on a late afternoon in March, not long after Mardi Gras. It was snowing—strange weather that was just beginning. We decided to drop anchor and not disembark until morning. Captain Woodget wanted to make sure all his papers were in order, both legal and illegal.
    I was supposed to stay on board and only Captain Woodget would accompany Isabelle and her