The Water Crown

By James Suriano

Jade St. John splits her time between her isolated estate in South Africa, protected by an enchantment her grandmother concocted more than a decade ago, and a basement apartment in Tel Aviv, with a door full of more levers and pulleys than a bank vault. Worldly and confident, she stands out in any crowd.
Zyan, a Bedouin boy, learning the way of the desert from his father’s stories, has accepted a humble path in order to learn the secrets of the nomadic way of life and to establish his roots in the shifting sand.
It’s at the well one day, that Zyan catches a wavy vision of Jade—whom he mistakes for a jinn—which tugs the magical thread connecting them while simultaneously drawing them into a global crisis. As they are pulled closer, their lives become more imperiled, until it becomes apparent that only together can they stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Suriano
• Release date: Aug 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463066539

James Suriano

James grew up in New York and was educated at Johns Hopkins University. He currently lives in Fort Lauderdale, FL and writes speculative and book club fiction in his spare time.He loves to hear from his fans at [e-mail]

Book preview

For Teo,

I hope your life is filled with Adventure, Wonder and Magic.

By James Suriano

Inbiotic

The Antarcticans

Dark

AEON

To Catch a Breath

The Cult of Mao

Truco

Empire of Mud

The Sisters of Woo Magic

Contents

Dedication

Also by James Suriano

Epigraph

1. Desert Apparition

2. Pefferkop

3. Jinn

4. A Sight by the Water

5. Iship

6. Anonymous

7. Searching for Gerry

8. The Man with the Blue Violin

9. Late-Night Calling

10. Sting

11. Front Lines

12. HRH

13. Elephant Vision

14. Watchers

15. Power Beneath the Palace

16. Commonwealth of Nations

17. Dreaming of Nan

18. To Follow

19. Just Go

20. Manifest

21. His Majesty’s Hospital

22. Welloch

23. Hostage

24. Finding Nan

25. Cinnamon

26. The Alhambra Express

27. Lilongwe

28. Breaking and Entering

29. Pomegranate House

30. The Queen’s Associate

31. Israel’s Soldiers

32. The Glow

33. Pink

34. Egrets Cannot Fly

35. An Enemy of the King

36. The Red Box

37. A Symbol of Unity

38. Zhandish

39. Fresh Kill

40. Rivals

41. Altars

42. Message from Nan

43. The Obelisk in the Bush

44. A Meeting of Minds

45. A Broken World

46. Rabat

47. A Coup?

48. Closer to the Truth

49. Chains

50. Associates Rise

51. Peak Fourteen

52. A House Divided

53. Welcome to Isiphephelo

54. Desert Blood

55. Dry Monday

56. Weeping

57. Call for Help

58. Mistaken Weapons

59. Civilization’s Limits

60. Mother’s Surprise

61. Pharaoh

About the Author

You can’t look into the desert too long because the heat will burn your eyes, but it’s important to know what one is up against.

Desert Apparition

Zyan, bring us water from the well and make Grandma Rouvée proud. Baba was taller than most Bedouins, with dark brooding eyes that often made him appear angry. He looked like he had been collecting sand, as it clung to his knotted graying hair and beard and the creases between his fingers. Zyan wanted to please him. He would get the water and not spill a drop on the trip back.

The ten-year-old opened the flap to his tent and trudged into the Sahara. Two goats were chewing on small shoots pushing through the sand underneath a twisting olive tree. His family should have left here weeks ago, but Baba had told them it was Mishwa’s way of keeping them in one place by perpetually offering up food for the animals, as well as a bountiful harvest of olives. Two other families had settled next to the olive tree, where they could pluck the bitter fruits sparingly. Zyan liked having other children to play with in the cool early-morning hours. They were waiting for the sun to drop far enough in the sky not to scorch their skins. The chickens came trotting toward him when they saw the two buckets hanging from the branch upon his shoulders.

You guys coming along with me? You want those tasty grubs, don’t you? When Zyan lightly stomped his feet on the ground, they fluffed their useless wings and gathered behind him in a single file. Buckets meant a trip to the well, where the land around the hole was wet and filled with insects and small plants.

The early-evening sun sat just above the Moroccan horizon, still draping a heavy heat across the windblown mountains of the mustard seed-colored landscape. Zyan patted the camel-leather canteen on his belt to make sure it was full. The well was a kilometer away, close enough to make a daily trek, but far enough that a passersby who stopped for a greedy drink or to refill their reserves wouldn’t see his family’s settlement and be tempted to plunder it. Zyan’s baba was a staunch opponent of firearms, which left the three families vulnerable to anyone more sophisticated in their attacks than a thieving beggar.

The heat from the sand wafted up through the fibrous soles of Zyan’s shoes. The chickens flapped their wings and lifted themselves a few inches off the ground when the sand got warm. He approached the range of sand dunes rising from the flats. They formed reaching shadows on the ground before him, and as soon as he stepped into the shade, relief washed over him.

Zyan peered at the sky. Mishwa, why don’t you flatten out these dunes so my trip to the well will be easier? Baba constantly spoke to their god, Mishwa, as though he were a vagabond traveler standing next to him throughout the day, patiently listening to his commentary on everything from the goat’s cracked hoof to local politics. Sighing, Zyan followed his tracks until they met up with a wider path of other travelers. He always smiled when the wind didn’t blow and he could see who else had taken this trail. There were small footprints this time, a child’s, alongside goat tracks. He thought that was odd; no one except Baba would send their child out into the open Sahara without an adult to accompany them. As hard as he looked along the trail during his climb, he only saw the two sets of prints.

As Zyan crested the dune, he glanced over his shoulder; the chickens were tightly behind him. When he walked this path the first few times with Baba, who had carried the buckets, he lay on the ground and rolled down the dunes faster and faster until he felt he might launch into the air and take flight. Now, burdened with the buckets, he kept his feet firmly planted on the earth. To compensate, he let his mind soar over the top of the horizon, to a castle nestled in an oasis with a wise jinn, who instead of shunning his family because they were Bedouins, welcomed them and treated them as rare and special people.

The chickens pecked at his shoes, urging him to keep moving. Zyan followed the wind-carved path between the hills. On the backside of the last dune, a rocky cave with animal shapes painted on the red stone let him know he was getting close. In the valley he kept a keen eye on the ground looking for vipers and scorpions. He’d made that mistake once, the day before his eighth birthday. As he was stomping through a dark tent, a scorpion had struck his foot, making it swell to the size of a coconut.

He spotted the first green plant, a sign that water ran in veins beneath the ground. It was an easy trek from here. Zyan picked up his pace; the sand became dense and dark with moisture and his feet stopped sinking into it. He surveyed the area to make sure no others might challenge him for the water. When the nearly lifeless land created famine and desperation, others took to hiding near wells and robbing unsuspecting, desert-foolish travelers who carried items of value. It could be argued that bringing the chickens was inviting trouble, but when Zyan had brought up his concerns, his father had badgered him for being overly cautious.

The chickens pecked the ground. Zyan kept his focus on the sunbaked mud bricks built up around the well. Two olive posts, mortared to the top, suspended a bright blue plastic bucket that looked foreign in this place.

Come, come. Zyan tapped each of the chicken’s bottoms with the side of his sandal. They were too focused on the small treasures beneath their claws to realize there were many more insects a few steps ahead. Kneeling at the side of the well, he dropped the timber across his shoulders to the ground. He placed his fingertips together and then to his head and said a small thank you to Mishwa. A moment later, he unhooked the blue bucket and lowered the rope until he heard the splash in the water below.

Baba had told him that one day they’d reach an oasis and permanently stake out a home where even bandits wouldn’t bother them because the water would be plentiful for all. Even though they’d been at their current site longer than any other place, eventually they’d have to move to look for the next well or tent city, where trade would be sufficient to provide food and water for their family. Though it wasn’t easy, Zyan knew it was the life Mishwa had given them.

He pulled the bucket up from the well and dumped it into his. The water dolloped on his skin and created an instant chill. He took his canteen from his side; dumped the stale, warm water and plunged it into the bucket of fresh water. He lowered the bucket into the well, glanced up and spotted a woman sitting alone at a wooden table a few paces away. She was impossibly pale, with bountiful copper hair, wearing a flowing black dress gathered at her ankles leaving her milky shoulders bare. Her colorful gem bracelets sparkled in the desert sunset. She looked at him, her orange irises flickering like fire. They asked something of him, maybe the same question on his mind as he stared back at her: Is this real?

Pefferkop

Jade arrived at the perimeter of the property of her true home. It was a two-hour drive west from East London, South Africa, on an apparently vacant piece of land beyond the reaches of the town of Pefferkop and south of a jagged mountain range. A casual inspection of the dusty road she stood upon would reveal nothing more than ground-up bits of stone, a few stray weeds eking out their existence in the hard-packed earth, and a line of thorny bushes far enough from the road so as not to stab an unsuspecting traveler. Beyond them, the land tilted upward, creating a ramp into the massive green peaks in the distance. They framed out a thin, deep green valley: her home. The trip from Tel Aviv to South Africa—propelling herself through time and space—had exhausted her. Although her abilities were legendary among those who knew, she found them mundane and would have greatly preferred boarding a commercial flight and watching movies for ten hours than navigating the filaments that connected the planet and allowed her to get around. However, the general population of conventionals irked her, and unless she was flying the aircraft herself, she needed to be in control.

She walked a few paces to the north and located the illusory bush, its small sprigs of orange silky flowers set against the contrasting green and brown branches. It was the door into the enchantment that embraced her property. A gift from her grandmother, when Jade had decided to make this her home, to protect her from the curious intrusions of the outside world.

As soon as she stepped through the bush, the sky brightened. To her right, a northern white rhino mother, accompanied by her twins and separated from a group farther on, pulled her head up from grazing the scrub. From the rhino’s perspective, Jade knew she would have appeared to have come from nowhere. The mother studied her, assessing the threat. A second later, the twins caught wind of the human, hesitated, then bounded for her. Jade had been there when they were born. Pouring cool water on the mother’s head and comforting her. Giving her encouraging words and solace as the rhino birthed two babies who seemed reluctant to enter the world.

Chikka and Zumlo! Jade held out her hands, palms up toward the two adolescents. The twins nuzzled against her hands, then rubbed their bodies against her sides, their tough hides and coarse hair scratching through her thin rayon pants. After a few minutes, they returned to their mother, and Jade continued toward her house. A herd of impalas took a break from their dinner to turn in her direction and flick their tails in acknowledgment, while a pack of hartebeests, sunset brown and robust, rammed their twisted black horns, forcing sharp cracks into the air.

The scrub of the bush grass drew fine white lines on Jade’s shins and calves until she reached her house. The building had a white stucco exterior with a thatch roof that hung over a thin stoop that surrounded the house and protected one of the many sacred spaces where she often read. Jade walked to the waist-high gate embedded in the matching white stucco fence. A tangle of herbs and low-to-the-ground vegetables covered the space between the fence and the stoop. The shiny black door, with its spotless upper-half panes, was unlocked. She walked inside and took a read of the energy in her home—an associate’s double-check to make sure nothing was amiss. Her pangolin uncurled from the middle of the kitchen table and excitedly waved her tail.

Gwevlyn. Smiling at the pangolin affectionately, Jade ran her hand over her medallion-size keratin scales. Gwevlyn relished the stroking and pushed her scales up so Jade could wiggle a finger underneath and give her hard-to-reach nooks a scratch. Do you think I might have some tea?

Yes. Jade heard the creature’s voice in her head. It was tender but wrapped in a rough husk, mimicking her body.

Gwevlyn climbed off the table and onto the counter, where she flipped the gas stove handle with her claws and pushed the kettle to the burner with her pointy nose. She fetched the tea from a metal container and used her long tongue to move the loose rooibos into a mug.

Jade went to her dressing room and changed into a comfortable black dress, put on her favorite bangles, and headed out the kitchen door to the back of the house. The stoop gave way to a large wooden deck that overlooked a watering hole. Two crocodiles were sunning themselves at the water’s edge.

The kettle whistled. A few moments later, Gwevlyn carried the mug in her curled tail to the table on the deck, climbed the chair to reach the table, and placed the tea in front of Jade, not spilling a drop.

Thank you. She took the tea, sipped it, and looked out at the crocs again. Standing between the crocodiles was a boy with the sun-darkened skin of a North African, curly light-brown hair, and a bright-blue pail. Sometimes visions crossed her eyes—sights lost from other unconventionals who wandered the filaments and briefly made themselves overt to her. This boy, however, appeared different and rooted in place.

A moment later, he did the utterly unexpected: he caught her eyes, stared into them for elongated seconds, and waved.

Ever since her youth, Jade had made many connections with others in far-off places: people appearing because she had called to them or because they were lost, and on rare occasions because they were trying to find any conduit into the world outside of where they were living and had happened upon her. Never before, though, had someone appeared and gazed at her, as though she were in a public place and he was seeing an old friend from long ago.

Jade stood up, bumping into the table and sending the mug of tea rocking over the edge. Gwevlyn lunged for it, her fast reflexes steadying the turquoise mug. Jade walked to the edge of the deck, swung her legs over the railing, and climbed down a support post in which she had hammered small metal footholds. When she added the deck, she didn’t want a staircase. She knew the animals here, more than likely, would wander up the steps, possibly hurting themselves and destroying the stairs. She kept her eyes on the boy. Although he followed her movements, he wore a look of confusion. Her foot touched the ground, and she slowly walked toward him. When she reached out with her mind to make contact with him, though, nothing was there. No consciousness to interface with. The crocs registered her movement by dragging their heads to point in her direction. Jade walked around the edge of the watering hole. The impalas ran away and the warthogs snorted and wiggled their tails, one of them keeping an eye on the crocs. She was now as close as she could comfortably get to the boy. The crocs turned toward her and opened their mouths, but she knew they wouldn’t lunge unless she was lined up with their snouts.

Are you here? Jade called out to the child.

He said something back to her, his mouth moving, but she heard nothing.

She pointed to her ear. Can you hear me?

He shrugged. When the croc on his left moved its tail, he looked down. His face turned fearful, and he stepped back, turned, and ran. Jade only saw his first few steps. He disappeared into the air, as though he had run through a door. She sensed nothing from the animals; they apparently hadn’t seen the boy. Crocodiles’ consciousness were one-dimensional, and hunger was the dimension—and it was likely at the front of their minds. On the rare occasion when Jade had to dive into a croc mind, the sensation felt no different than her own extreme hunger. To devour a loaf of bread when she hadn’t eaten for a day or to put her head under a faucet when thirst overcame her from a long day of walking in the dry bush.

When she passed the warthogs, she ran her fingers through the mane of the muscular male who was standing guard for his group. He gave her a long snort, as a cat might purr when one pets it. The warthogs’ playfulness amused Jade. Once, she had considered finding someone to enchant a warthog, just as her grandmother, Nan, had done to Gwevlyn, so it might find contentment working in a house. For now, she would settle for visiting with them at the watering hole.

She climbed back to the deck. Gwevlyn had her nose in Jade’s tea and yanked it out when Jade spoke. "Gwevlyn, did you see that boy with the bucket?"

I did not. Gwevlyn shot her a guilty look for drinking her tea.

It was positively strange. He was right there, but it felt like he didn’t know he was here.

I don’t see everything you see.

Yes, you’re right. I’m going to go rest now. Please finish my tea.

Jinn

Zyan’s feet danced and his heart hung in his throat. He tripped over his buckets, spilling them and running away from the well and up the side of a dune to get away from the enormous lizards he’d never seen before. He was far enough away and looked back to see if they’d snapped up his chickens. The well, however, was calm. The chickens were pecking at the land and drinking from his buckets. He cautiously walked down the dune, sliding with each step, scanning for any sign of the monsters. He looked to where the fire-haired woman had sat at the table in the desert. There wasn’t even a flicker in the air marking where she’d been. Although he’d never seen a jinn before, he knew they inhabited remote areas and often pestered lone travelers for unknown reasons. He stepped onto the soaked earth, giving wide berth to the well as he walked around it, searching for any remnants of the jinn or the lizards she’d sent. Everything was normal.

Warily, he refilled his buckets. The shadows of the setting sun were overtaking the desert, and he wanted to return home before the sky turned black. For the first time, a tingle of fear walked up his back when he thought about being alone in the dark. He fixed the branch on his shoulders and began his labored walk. The chickens reluctantly followed. One of them was sitting in a small puddle, wiggling its body in the water.

You don’t want to get eaten by those giant lizards, do you? Zyan asked.

Eventually, the chicken flapped its wings and took its place in the procession. When Zyan settled into his walk, he tried to remember all the stories he had heard about jinns. His mother often cursed jinns when their family traveled to a new place in the desert and the flavors of the meals she had cooked diminished, the precious food having lost its vitality or sometimes burning to a charcoal crisp. Baba, with his lean body and long fingers, would shush her so the jinns wouldn’t hear her, but she countered him by saying only Mishwa could change the world. Jinns were just biting insects, an annoyance, with no real power to cause harm or good. Then Baba would launch into his story from before he and his wife had met, when he was a young man.

You should not dismiss the power of a jinn. When I’d just left my family’s tribe and took my goat to see if I could make my parents proud by creating a life in the city, I spent a night propped against a column of a building. I had tied Goslio to it, although I knew his spirit was connected to mine and would never willingly leave my side. I put my back against the column and Goslio’s head in my lap, just as I had that first night, when he was a newly born kid. I fell asleep with my hand on the hilt of my sword and my other on my satchel of books—the satchel my mother had woven for me when I’d told her I’d be a learned man one day.

Early in the morning, when the city was dark and quiet, still intoxicated by dreams, something woke me. I grasped for my sword but felt only the fabric of my waist tie. My other hand, where my satchel should have been—along with Goslio’s rope—was empty as well. An empty panic took residence in my belly. I’d been so naïve, thinking thieves had stolen my belongings, which had taken me years of hard work and bartering to acquire. I opened my eyes. Staring back at me were hazel-gold eyes, the color of gemstones, more expensive than I could ever afford. He had all my things neatly behind him. His tight-fitting sleeveless linen shirt and shorts were spotless. Bands of platinum, inlaid with otherworldly jewels, wrapped around his arms and legs, making him appear wealthier and more striking than a royal soldier.

"You think you belong in the city among these people?" he asked.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t; my lips wouldn’t form words, and I felt speaking to a man such as this was akin to addressing royalty or a god.

"The city is filled with those who lie so they can cheat, and cheat so they can steal, and steal so they can manipulate. The ease with which I slipped your belongings from your hands while you slept is the same ease with which the evils of this place will withdraw your possessions from you. All done while promising riches you will never see and an existence you will never have. Go back to your people. Your life is in the desert, and there you will know things the city can never teach you, and you will find contentment in riches that cannot be held."

The man handed me my sword, and in a motion so quick that my eyes couldn’t follow, he spun the rope of my goat, placed my satchel beside me and whirled away in a tornado. I stood and looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of him down the street he had taken. It was abandoned except for tiny mice prowling for food and light splashing off the fountain in the square. My heart still doubted what the jinn had said, and Mishwa knows jinns are like people: they may not die, and some may possess mighty abilities, but they have their own agendas and preferences.

When the day broke, my youthful confidence was with me, and I decided my morning visitor was leading me away from my destiny. Standing a head above nearly everyone, with Goslio’s rope in hand, I proudly entered the library and informed the first person I saw of official capacity that I had come here to be educated. A little man I encountered, seated behind a curved marble half wall, seemed amused by my declaration but also took me seriously and hurried off. Goslio bleated, nervous by the strange surroundings. With my first two fingers, I rubbed between his horns to soothe him. A few moments later, he quieted, and a man my baba’s age stood before me, wearing a white linen robe with hair to match and expensive leather sandals.

"What’s your name, boy?" The man crinkled his eyes and jutted his head toward me.

"Naim."

"And you want to be educated?" His voice pitched up, his eyebrows raised in questioning disbelief as he surveyed my goat.

"That’s right."

"And where have you studied thus far?"

"I would be starting now."

He put his palm against the side of his face and rubbed it up and down. You see, there are things you learn here. He held his arms up, as if introducing the building. And there are things you learn in the desert. He pointed to the door. And it’s not that they’re incompatible, for they each serve their purpose. If I start where I start with my little ones, you’ll be a man of my age before you’re ready to absorb the rigors of truly advanced study. Is this how you want to devote your life? Or will you instead follow the path that’s already been set for you?

"I see." At the time, it was a disappointment to me—what I believed was a grave injustice—that I should have a path decided for me long before I had the ability to make the decision. I realized, though, that I now must do what my parents had birthed me into.

The man was gracious. He turned to look into the towering stacks of books and the tables where people of the city were studying. Let me know what you decide, he said. In the meantime, the library is open to everyone. If you can read, you might find enlightenment there. But kindly leave your goat outside. He gave the slightest bow and disappeared behind a column.

I tied Goslio to a light pole near the street and wandered through the stacks. My parents were both literate, a rare skill among Bedouins; I thought I’d already been educated in many ways. However, everyone here could read; it was no different from knowing how to milk a goat or slaughter a chicken—something common and taken for granted. I selected a book of Moroccan history and sat. As I read the pages, a new world opened up to me. Suddenly, I felt someone looking at me from across my table. I slowly averted my eyes from the book and looked up to see who it was. It was the jinn. His eyes were unmistakable, even though now he wore scholar’s clothes.

"Your goat is gone. These books are worthless to you if you have nothing to eat or barter. You should leave and not return until you’re looking for nothing but the information inside this library." He tapped his fingers on my open page.

I ran to the door, looking for Goslio, but the light pole was vacant. Hearing desperate bleating coming from the direction of the fountain, I jumped down the steps and raced toward the street market that had sprung from the cobblestones. I slowed as I saw poor Goslio, who stood on a wooden block. A boy, no older than eight, with a curved sword pulled from its sheath, viciously held Goslio’s mouth closed, with his head pulled toward the sun so his neck was tight and exposed. I saw the goat’s fear, and then the boy struck like a viper, slicing open the neck that had rested on my leg, Goslio having been a constant companion the whole night through. As the life poured from him, I watched my dreams of the city run into the ground.

The jinn was right. I should have heeded his warning.

A Sight by the Water

Jade walked into her bedroom and sat on the bench at the foot of her bed. Her head spun, her energy levels dismal. She headed into the bathroom, bare feet touching the woolly rugs covering two-hundred-year-old pine floors. The tub, which sunk into the floor and looked out over the west side of the property, was inviting, but instead she turned the lock and opened the glass door to the outdoor shower.

The curved rock wall she’d built provided privacy—from whom she wasn’t sure. As usual, the baboons, curious about her humming Moon River, perched themselves on top of the wall and watched. Whenever she entered their minds, they felt like vibrating steel wool pads, complex and advanced, but with a rough and unreasoned edge. Her visitors were sparse, which is why she had named her home Isiphephelo, Zulu for refuge. Most visitors came at her family’s annual reunion. A gathering that resembled a who’s who of unconventionals, with each person trying to out-magic the next and gain applause. Occasionally, Sadie came when Cambridge became too stuffy and the vicissitudes of the world clawed at her. She’d catch a direct flight from London to Johannesburg and rent a car to make the ten-hour journey south. Unplanned visits always sent them talking into the early morning about the years when they were young.

Jade turned off the water and held her wet index finger in front of the closest baboon’s face. She formed small circles in the air, tempting the animal. The baboon lunged, and she clamped down on his mind, which she knew would feel like a smack to the side of his head; she was training him to respect her power. The creature immediately blenched and crouched in submission. She ran her hands over her toned body, wiping the water from it, before she stepped into the bathroom and headed to her bedroom, where she pulled the red curtains together to block out the bright sun. She slipped between the bright-white sheets Gwevlyn had pressed while she was gone. Two blown-glass light fixtures hung from the exposed wooden beams, floating on either side of the bed, with beeswax candles burning. She loved the hue they cast upon the white stucco walls and the warmth they extracted from the blond wood floors and ceiling.

She pulled the quilt up around her chin and thought about the boy, then closed her eyes and wandered over his image. His curly hair had poked from underneath the layers of tan fabric wrapped around his head and the sides of his face and mouth. She saw his eyes, the lightest blue of the shallow calm waters off the coast of Croatia. He was small, maybe nine or ten. His fingers were thick, his nails bitten into dirty nubs—as though he’d worked every day since he’d emerged from the womb. His shoes were pointy and made of a brightly dyed leather. She guessed he was from North Africa, a wanderer of sorts. She couldn’t feel him in the way she could when she was standing close to a living soul; he was an image, an inanimate object set upon a landscape. She pushed her mind into the watering hole and to the savannahs surrounding her house up to the base of the mountains. There she found animal after animal, but not a human soul. The filaments that passed over her property were quiet and smooth—for the most part, unused and undiscovered, as much of this part of the world was.

Letting the mystery rest, Jade pulled herself back into her own head, which swirled with possibilities. Before she dozed off, she saw Gerry and remembered a story Nan had told her, at least thirty years ago—she was perhaps six—while she sat on her lap on a damp winter night in Scotland.

Your great-uncle, Dohaut, was branded as a fixer of sorts. He always worked for wealthy conventionals. People who had understood their half of the world exceedingly well but knew nothing of our half. He looked the part, with a stretched sinewy body, able hands, and glasses that stuck tightly to his head. He could mend furniture, make the animals in the pasture move where they should, and stop plumbing leaks in their tracks. Anything the owners asked him, he got it done. He worked in a manor house on the isle of north in the place of Brusta. I’d never been there; I’d only imagined the images of the rocky green hills, plentiful sheep, and stone cottages he painted with his stories. When we got together at family gatherings, he recounted the problems with the house and his fixes, which he made much to the amazement of the owners. Uncle Dohaut would whisper to the shingles of the roof, and they’d shiver and move. He’d ask a floorboard what it needed to stop creaking and urge a bed of flowers to bloom, at least when the owners were residing there. He said that within each stone of the wall, pipe in the wall, thread of the furniture, and inch of masonry lived memories and intentions. Absorbed by all the years of the people who had moved through its shelter. And the house would many times echo what it had heard, pulling itself in one direction or another to avoid an unpleasant feeling, just as a person might move to a different seat on a bus to avoid a loud passenger. And together, all the memories and actions, intentions and fluttering of the house came together to make something larger.

The day before Uncle Dohaut took me over the narrow stone causeway between turbulent seas that led to the island he told me something he had never told anyone at our gatherings. He told me the name of the house. Declan. Not the owners’ name or the owners’ name for the manor, but the name of the manor itself. When he and I pulled up to the front door of the manor in a buggy, I was scared to get out. I tiptoed behind my uncle, hoping the house wouldn’t notice me. The owners were gone, in London for the business. I put my foot on the first of four steps to the house. Dohaut let me go and unlocked the door, and before I knew it, he had gone inside. I pushed in, with one foot in the door. A boy I thought was my age stood and looked me up and down. I froze in horror; no words were available to my tongue. Memories wafted off him, like the delicate steam from a hot cup of tea. The faces and personalities, and all that came before me here, were someone amalgamated in his form. A single consciousness. He said something to me—his mouth moved—but I couldn’t hear the words, and then he was gone. Uncle Dohaut stood in the doorway between the veranda and the parlor. I see you met Declan, he said.

Jade adored the story every time she heard it. As a child every new house she entered, she tried to imagine what it’s Declan looked like. She wondered if the boy she had seen was the Declan of Isiphephelo. She also knew she likely wouldn’t be here long enough this time to find out.

…

Sometime later, she woke to night sounds, dominated by a lion tearing through flesh and breaking bones. It was a warning for her not to go outside. Although she could talk with the animals, a mother lion’s ferocity at protecting her young’s meal couldn’t be reasoned out with conversation. One of the candles next to her bed had burned out, while the other flickering flame rested on a pool of melted wax. She knew Gwevlyn would be out of the house, rousing termite mounds and