“Also, you must remember, Zianno, at this time the Fleur-du-Mal was not of much concern to the Meq. We followed him from a distance, disapproving, of course, but uninvolved. Aitor had even met him on three separate occasions over the previous two hundred years. They had exchanged a few unpleasant remarks and Aitor was not impressed, being repulsed by Xanti Otso’s mind and presence. During that time, the Fleur-du-Mal was extremely active and proud of it. Assassinations were rampant and he was in demand. However, to our knowledge, he had not yet killed or tortured one of us.
“Itzia said Galen knew she was Meq and became a trusted friend. He also knew of Aitor’s fascination with marine biology, especially the octopus. Apparently, on one long night in front of the fire, Galen told Aitor about a nefarious man, an opium dealer, he had encountered on the island of Crete. The man told Galen about a strange green-eyed boy who never seemed to age. The boy kept his hair tied in the back with a green ribbon and he wore red ruby earrings. Galen did not know the Fleurdu-Mal. What he thought Aitor might be interested in was the fact that the boy was an addict, and in his opium stupor would always ask, “Where is the octopus? Where is the octopus?” Galen thought the story was hilarious. Aitor was intrigued. A year later, Aitor was traveling to Crete concerning another matter. By the evening of his second day there, he was in the streets of Iraklion and the surrounding countryside asking guarded questions and searching for the opium dealer. After a week of disappointment, he finally located the man. The poor fellow had sunk into the depths of addiction himself. He was emaciated, lost and hopeless, but he happened to be lucid on the afternoon Aitor visited him. Whatever secret Aitor learned about the Fleur-du-Mal was learned there. It could not have simply been the fact that the man exposed the Fleur-du-Mal as an addict. His drug use was legendary and only one of his minor depravities. Much later, I discovered the opium dealer had been brutally murdered and decapitated shortly after Aitor’s conversation with him. That is when I first realized the extent of the Fleur-du-Mal’s network of information and how fast he can act upon it. In Aitor’s case, however, he did not. His confrontation with Aitor was much more diabolical. He waited a full two years, until Itzia became pregnant with your father, then on the night of his birth, appeared out of the darkness unasked and unannounced on Aitor’s doorstep. Itzia told me later she was in bed with her newborn and Aitor was sitting next to her. Aitor rose to answer the knock at the door, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out of the room. She never saw him again. She said she heard a raspy voice, a boy’s voice, congratulate Aitor, then ask him something about an octopus, after which Aitor raised his voice, saying “Outside with this!” and they left. The next morning, Aitor was found near a tide pool in the same condition in which we found Giles, except Aitor’s throat had been slit and he had been scalped. A green ribbon was woven into the hair and the whole scalp had been placed over Aitor’s face. No notes, no reasons, nothing. The Fleur-du-Mal disappeared.”
I was stunned and sickened and speechless for several moments. Finally, I asked, “Was Zeru-Meq informed of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He wept,” Sailor said in a flat monotone. “He wept and then wandered into the Caucasus without a word.”
“Zeru-Meq told me in China he thought the Fleur-du-Mal was only a ‘sad, dangerous pilgrim.’”
“Yes, and Zeru-Meq likes to think of himself as seeking a higher truth, when in fact he lives a lie. He could help to end this madness and he knows it. He is aware of something about the Fleur-du-Mal that we are not, likely the truth concerning the deaths of his parents. While she was living, Zeru-Meq had always been protective of his sister, Hilargi, the Fleur-du-Mal’s mother. The father I never knew. Perhaps, Zeru-Meq bears a secret guilt. It is possible. After Aitor, it is not important. Guilt was not acceptable as an excuse for his silence. He can stop this insanity and he has not, he does not.” Sailor paused, then sighed. “Still, I suppose we must try again.”
I let Sailor’s words and images sink in permanently. Below us, the blue Mediterranean spread out in all directions. “Let’s go to Cairo,” I said.
Sailor unconsciously twirled the blue star sapphire on his forefinger, then stood up. “Yes,” he said, “Cairo it is.”
There were fair winds every day and clear skies every night on our sail south and east. I watched the stars for hours at a time, pacing the ship. I could not get the image of Aitor out of my mind and had trouble sleeping. As we approached Egypt, the summer heat became intense and oppressive, and on the night before we made landfall, I awoke after a long, strange dream. I had dreamed I was observing a card game from a distance. We were in a loud, smoke-filled saloon in the Far East, somewhere near the sea. The time was in the past, though it felt like the present. There were several men sitting around a large, round table littered with whiskey bottles, glasses, lit cigars in ashtrays, poker chips, and money. One man was shoving all his chips and gold coins across the table to another man, whom I knew quite well. He looked up and turned his head in my direction. “Welcome, Zianno,” he said. He winked once and added, “Yahweh has been good to me.” The other man raised his head and looked at Solomon, then at me. He seemed older than he does now, but I was certain the man was Captain B.
I awoke suddenly. I was dripping with sweat. I reached for a towel and silently made my way on deck to dry off and get some air. Only two men were on watch—Captain B, who was at the wheel, and his first mate, a man who went by the nickname Pic. Pic was getting ready to go below and whispered a last remark to Captain B. I don’t think he saw me, but even if he had, he would not have suspected I could hear him. He spoke French. Translated, he said, “If you want my opinion, I would listen to her, Antoine. She is your wife!” Then he saluted casually and disappeared belowdecks.
The night sky sparkled with stars. I walked up to Captain B, wiping the sweat from my head and arms.
“Can you not sleep, monsieur?” he asked.
I glanced at the sky. “Not tonight, Captain.” I leaned over the railing to catch the sea spray on my face. The cold felt good, but the salty spray stung my eyes. I wiped them clear and found myself staring down at the painted name on the side of our schooner—Emme. I thought back to the only Emme I had ever known. I wondered where she was and how she was. I turned and looked toward Africa, which was just over the horizon. She had saved my life and spent almost a decade of her own trying to help me find Star. I owed her a great deal, as well as her grandfather, PoPo.
Captain B saw me staring at the name. “Is something wrong, monsieur?”
“No, no, Captain. I was just thinking of someone I once knew, a girl named Emme. She was special in many, many ways.”
“Oui, she is.”