Ali Pasha stood and helped the Baba to his seat in the deep cushions.
‘The Baba has spoken, but he is weary,’ the pasha told the group. Then he held out his hands, for little Haidée and for Kauri, who sat beside her. The two young people came to stand before the Baba, who motioned them to kneel. Then he blew upon their heads, one after the other: ’Hu-Hu-Hu.’ The üfürük cülük – the blessing of the breath.
‘In Jabir’s day,’ said the Baba, ‘those who were engaged in alchemical research called themselves the Blowers and the Charcoal Burners, for these were secret parts of their sacred art. That is where many of our terms come from, in our sacred art today. We are sending you, by a secret route, to our friends in another land – they are also known as the Charcoal Burners. But now, time is of the essence, and we have something of value to send with you, which Ali Pasha has protected for thirty years—’
He paused, for there were shouts from above, coming from the sealed upper rooms of the monastery. General Vaya and the soldiers raced toward the door to the steps.
‘But I see,’ said the Baba, ‘that we have no more time.’
The pasha had reached within his robes in haste, and now he handed the Baba something that looked like a large, heavy black lump of coal. The Baba handed this to Haidée, but he addressed himself to Kauri, his young disciple.
‘There is an underground route out of this building, which will deliver you near to your skiff,’ the Baba told him. ‘You may be detected by others, but as children you will be unlikely to be apprehended. You are going to cross the mountains by a special route, to the coast, where a ship will be awaiting your arrival. You will travel north by directions I give you – you will seek a man who will lead you to those who will protect you. He knows the pasha well, from many years past, and he will trust you – that is, once you have given him the secret code that he alone will understand.’
‘And what is the code?’ asked Kauri, anxious to take off quickly, as the sounds of hammering and splintering wood proceeded from the floors above.
But the pasha interrupted. He had pulled Vasiliki to his side, with one arm protectively around her shoulders. Vasiliki had tears in her eyes.
‘Haidée must reveal to this man who she really is,’ the pasha told them.
‘Who I am?’ said Haidée, glancing in confusion at her parents.
Vasiliki spoke for the first time – she seemed in some sort of pain. She now took both of her daughter’s hands in her own, as they still held the large lump of coal.
‘My child,’ she addressed Haidée, ‘we have kept this secret for many years, but now, as the Baba has explained, it is our only hope, as well as yours.’ She paused, for her throat had choked on the final words. It seemed she could not go on, so the pasha intervened once more.
‘What Vasia means, my darling, is that I am not your true father.’ When he saw the look of horror on Haidée’s face, he added quickly, ‘I married your mother out of my great love for her, almost as a daughter, for I am greatly her senior in years. But when we married, Vasia was already expecting you – by another man. It was impossible for him to marry her, as it still remains. I know this man. I love him and trust him, and so does your mother, as well as the Baba. It has been a secret, kept in agreement by all of us – against this day when it might be necessary to reveal it at last.’
Kauri had grasped Haidée’s arm with great strength, for it appeared that she might faint.
‘Your true father is a man who possesses both wealth and power,’ the pasha went on. ‘He will protect you – and will protect this as well, when you show him what you bring.’
Haidée felt a dozen emotions warring within her. The pasha not her father? How could this be? She wanted to scream, tear her hair, cry – but her mother, weeping over her hands, was also shaking her head.
‘The pasha is right. You must go,’ Vasiliki told her daughter. ‘Your life is at risk if you remain longer – and it is too dangerous for any but the boy to go with you.’
‘But if the pasha is not – then who is my father? And where is he? And what is this object we are bringing to him?’ Sudden anger was helping her to recover a bit of her strength.
‘Your father is a great English lord,’ said Vasiliki. ‘I knew him well, and I loved him – he lived here with us at Janina, in the year before your birth.’
She could not go on, so the pasha continued.
‘As the Baba said, he is our friend and is connected with those who are our friends. He lives on the great canal at Venice. You can reach him by boat within a few days. You can easily find his palazzo – his name is George Gordon, Lord Byron.
‘You will bring him the object you hold in your hands, and he will protect it with his life, if necessary. It is disguised in carbon, but beneath is the most valuable chess piece from the ancient Service of the Tarik’at created by al-Jabir ibn Hayyan. This special piece is the veritable key to the Secret Path. It is the piece we know today as the Black Queen.’
Wyrd oft nereth unfaegne eorl, ponne his ellen deah. (Unless he is already doomed, fortune is apt to favor the man who keeps his nerve.)
– Beowulf
Mesa Verde, Colorado
Spring 2003
Before I’d even reached the house, i knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Even though on the surface it all seemed picture-perfect.
The steep, sweeping curve of drive was blanketed deep in snow and lined with stately rows of towering Colorado blue spruce. Their snow-covered branches sparkled like rose quartz in the early-morning light. Atop the hill, where the driveway flattened and spread out for parking, I pulled up my rented Land Rover in front of the lodge.
A lazy curl of blue-gray smoke rose from the moss rock chimney that formed the center of the building. The rich scent of pine smoke pervaded the air, which meant that – although I might not be warmly welcomed after all this time – at least I was expected.
To confirm this, I saw that my mother’s truck and jeep were sitting side by side in the former horse stable at the edge of the parking area. I did find it odd, though, that the drive had not yet been plowed and there were no tracks. If I were expected, wouldn’t someone have cleared a path?
Now that I was here at last, in the only place I’d ever called home, you would think I could finally relax. But I couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong.
Our family lodge had been built at about this same period in the prior century by neighboring tribes, for my great-great-grandmother, a pioneering mountain lass. Constructed of hand-hewn rock and massive tree trunks chinked together, it was a huge log cabin that was shaped like an octagon – patterned after a hogan or sweat lodge – with many-paned windows facing in each cardinal direction, like a vast, architectural compass rose.
Each female descendant had lived here at one time or another, including my mother and me. So what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I ever come here without this sense of impending doom? I knew why, of course. And so did my mother. It was the thing we never spoke about. That’s why – when I had finally left home for good – my mother understood. She’d never insisted, like other mothers, that I come back for familial visits.
That