Time Dancers (37 page)

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 space.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“There has been another, earlier Gogorati. Ours will not be the first!” He laughed again. “Who is to say, perhaps there have been many?”

The thought raced through each of our minds and instantly, intuitively, we knew Trumoi-Meq was right. The idea was outrageous and mind-numbing to think of the expanse of time involved, but somehow we knew that it was true. And that made the Gogorati seem more confusing and fearful than ever. What was it?

Jack came back sooner than expected, saying he had hit the jackpot in La Coloma. He opened the trunk of the DeSoto and displayed two wooden crates full of lobster and shrimp, harvested that morning by a local fisherman. Jack bought the fisherman’s entire catch plus rubber fins and masks his children no longer used. “Enough for everybody,” Jack said, then asked if I would mind picking up some fresh fruit at a little stand he saw not a mile from Luis’s house. Geaxi decided to accompany me and we set out walking under a brilliant blue sky with towering white cumulus clouds building to the south.

Two children, a boy and a girl, ran the fruit stand. There wasn’t much to buy in the stand, but what they had looked delicious—coconuts, ripe bananas, lemons, limes, and a Cuban passion fruit called
guerito.
Ciela served it often, by itself or mixed with other fruits. Geaxi held one of the apple-shaped fruits in her hand and asked the children in Spanish if they knew where the fruit got its name. The children said no and Geaxi told them the name came from its flower, which was known as “
flor de las lagas,
or flower of the five wounds.” At first the children showed no understanding, then they beamed, smiling and saying in unison,
“Ah, sí, sí, Pasion de Cristo!”
I paid for our fruit and turned to leave, but Geaxi lingered, talking and laughing with the children. I watched her carefully. When we returned to Luis’s house, it seemed as if she had been partially renewed, in a manner similar to the way our bodies heal, only this was a wound that could not be seen. Ten minutes later, without anyone asking, she gave us a full account of what happened in Guernica and to whom. She started talking and didn’t stop until the awful tale was told.

Geaxi and Mowsel entered Basque country on the night of April 25 from the north, through the Pyrenees using secret trails and hidden routes they had known for centuries. Pello and several Basque compatriots met them outside Pamplona. The men all wore berets and most carried rifles. Geaxi said their faces each reflected the stress of war and their eyes knew death at close range. In stolen trucks, the men drove through the night, arriving at Pello’s compound of
caserios
before dawn. After sleeping through the morning, Pello suggested going into nearby Guernica for market day. War or no war, Pello wanted to have a feast to celebrate Geaxi and Mowsel’s arrival. In Pello’s tribe, the ritual was older than the country of Spain itself and he had no intention of letting a few fascists from Madrid break the tradition. A group of twenty or so men, women, and children, along with Geaxi and Mowsel, piled into two open trucks and started through the hills for Guernica. At that time, Guernica was an open town far behind the lines of fighting and Pello felt there was nothing to fear.

Geaxi said the sky was a clear, soft blue and the market was full. Peasants crowded in from the countryside and all the neighboring villages. The women shopped and gossiped, the men smoked and relaxed, and the children spilled out in five directions. The afternoon passed. At 4:30 P.M. a church bell rang the alarm for approaching airplanes. Five minutes later a single German bomber dropped three or four bombs in the center of town. Fifteen minutes later came another bomber, then more and more, wave after wave of bombers followed by fighters demolishing Guernica and murdering innocent people indiscriminately and without mercy, killing anyone, even machine-gunning children trying to run away through the fields. Geaxi and Mowsel were trapped in the town along with everyone else. She saw Pello trying hard to get his people to safety, but there was too much chaos and they were too scattered. Building after building began collapsing. Geaxi said she and Mowsel took refuge in a sewer, standing six inches deep in water until the attacks subsided. People screamed with pain everywhere. Most were missing arms or legs or both. Blood pooled and ran in the streets and people were dying all over the crumbling town in piles and heaps. Geaxi and Mowsel waited, then made their break for safety. As they were running past the church of St. John, Mowsel saw a girl wandering aimlessly, in shock and completely oblivious to everything. Just then, the incendiary bombs began to fall. Mowsel stopped and tried to get the girl to take his hand, but she only stared at him, then backed off in horror. He tried again. Suddenly she turned to run into the church and Mowsel reached out and grabbed her just in time. The church of St. John exploded and stone, glass, and splintered wood knocked them all back ten feet. The girl was left unconscious, but alive, and Geaxi was unhurt, except for several cuts and bruises. Mowsel had taken the blow directly in his face. Hundreds of tiny shards of glass ripped into both eyes and destroyed the optic nerve. Instantly, he was blinded and probably beyond normal Meq restoration and repair. He was also bleeding. Geaxi quickly tore her shirt into strips and wrapped a temporary patch around his head. With Mowsel holding on from behind, Geaxi carried the girl to safety in the hills, where they stayed the night. Geaxi said she never slept, and all night long she watched the most ancient town in Basque country become an inferno.

The next day, after finding a home for the girl, they learned Pello Txopitea and twenty-three of his closest family and friends had perished. His son, Koldo, alone survived, but only by pure chance. Earlier in the afternoon, he had experienced an upset stomach and decided to leave Guernica and return to the compound. When Geaxi and Mowsel finally made it back, they asked Koldo if there was some way they could help. Koldo thanked them but told them they should probably leave Spain as soon as possible. He said there was nothing Geaxi and Mowsel could do. This was a Basque tragedy—the tragedy was theirs, the war was theirs, and it was only the beginning. Geaxi and Mowsel stayed long enough to say their farewells to Koldo and the remainder of his tribe, then walked out of Spain and began their journey to Cuba and Finca Maria.