“The Fountain of Youth?” Annie looked around at her dining companions. “Are you off your nut?”
Leeds smiled without turning to look at her. “Miss—?”
“Crane. Annie Crane.”
“Miss Crane, consider this. If you heard a rumor that a buried treasure was concealed in your back yard, would you fear to dig it up because the rumor might prove false?”
“Of course not. But a fountain that can make someone young again?”
“If it does exist then it is certainly worth discovering. Mr. Kismet and I discussed this at some length. Isn't that right?”
Kismet nodded slowly, unable to tear himself away from the light show of Leeds’ ring.
Leeds continued. “I would have thought he would have shared the particulars with you. There are countless tales of men who have received the gift of extreme longevity. Dozens of men in the Bible lived for many centuries.”
“The Bible?” Annie did not attempt to conceal her disbelief. “What does that have to do with the Fountain of Youth?”
“Oh, a great deal. It would require a source of, dare I say, divine power to turn ordinary water into Waters of Life. That source is a Seed of the original Tree of Life, described in Genesis.
“After the Great Flood, the priests of the Serpent cult captured the Seed and fled their home in Mesopotamia. They escaped across the oceans, perhaps traveling across a bridge of ice from what is now Russia, to the North American continent. They took their prize as far as they could, and placed it at the bottom of a pool, transforming the waters into a Fountain of Youth.”
Kismet heard every word Leeds uttered, but his attention kept returning to the twisting image on Leeds’ finger. Serpent, he thought. Serpent cult. Immortality.
“Is it any surprise that snake worship, in one form or another, is so ubiquitous in ancient American cultures?” asked Leeds, as if sensing Kismet’s fascination with the Ouroboros. “They would most certainly be the descendants of those original Serpent priests. The ancient Maya and Aztec worshipped snake gods — Quetzalcoatl, or Kukulcan — with human sacrifices, hearts cut out of still living victims.”
Annie mouthed: Eew! Gross!
“So this Seed,” intoned Higgins. “And the Fountain of Youth, are probably in Mexico?”
“Not at all. Those cultures arose thousands of years after the theft of the Seed. The object of my quest might be anywhere in the Americas. However, the next clue in our search is the legend of the Fountain of Youth itself. Those natives who instructed Ponce de Leon sent him to the north of Cuba. And Hernando Fontaneda, one of his contemporaries, may have actually found it. You know something about that don’t you, Mr. Kismet?”
Distracted by the serpent's dance in Leeds’ ring, Kismet did not even hear himself answer. “Fortune talked about a cave. But he's dead now.”
“Dead?” Leeds asked the question sharply, and for a moment, the turning of the jewel stopped. Kismet blinked and started to look away, but the rhythmic motion commenced anew. “Well, perhaps it could happen. But he did make contact? He wrote you? Mentioned the cavern?”
Leeds’ voice seemed to cushion him, enabling him to float on the ether as he returned to the fugue, descending deeper into the kaleidoscopic labyrinth. “He took his secret to the grave.”
“Who told you that?”
Kismet opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden sharp pain in his thigh, like the sting of a wasp, distracted him. He closed his mouth and tried to swat the imaginary insect away.
“Who told you of Fontaneda's death?” prompted Leeds again.
In his mind's eye, Kismet saw his hand, brushing at the invisible pest that stung at his thigh. But his hand did not move, and no effort of his will could make it comply. He tried to ignore the sting, but it persisted, growing into a throbbing ache. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as the irritation blossomed into unbearable pain.
“What was his name? You told me, but I can't seem to remember.”
“King,” whispered Kismet. Perspiration trickled into his eyes, stinging them. He wanted to blink, but found himself deprived of even that small act of voluntary movement.
“Of course,” replied Leeds, his voice soothing. “Now I remember. And he wrote from…Where was it again?”
As Kismet opened his mouth to speak, the pain in his leg redoubled. He gasped, and the intensity of the sensation broke his concentration. As the spell gave way, so did his ability to tolerate the pain. His hand flew to the place on his leg where the sensation was most intense, encountering not an insect, but a hard, unyielding object. He looked down to identify the source of his agony.
Annie was staring at him, her eyes wide in disbelief. Her fingers were gripping a dinner fork, the tines of which were buried in the fabric of Kismet's trousers, piercing through to his skin. With an abrupt movement, he wrapped his hand around hers and extricated the fork from the meat of his thigh. He half expected to see blood dripping from the prongs; it felt like she had penetrated through to muscle.
When their eyes met, she relaxed her grip, allowing the fork to fall the floor. He also relaxed, suddenly realizing why she had acted as she had.
“Kismet?”
Kismet turned to look at Leeds again. The other man continued to turn ring with his thumb. At his side, Elisabeth looked on hungrily. Kismet locked his gaze on Leeds’ eyes, refusing to be sucked in again. “I'm sorry. Suddenly I'm not feeling very well.”
Leeds’ visage was hard as ice, and did not crack with disappointment. “How unfortunate. We shall have to conclude our discussion at another time.”
Kismet pushed away from the table, rising to his feet. He did not have to exaggerate his motions; nausea clenched at his stomach. Annie quickly rose, wrapping a protective arm around his waist. “I'll help you to your stateroom.”
Higgins also rose, looking uncertainly from Kismet to Elisabeth. The actress was on her feet instantly, darting around to take Higgins’ arm. “Oh, Alex, you simply must stay. You don't want to miss the séance.”
Kismet nodded weakly. “I'll be fine.”
As soon as Annie helped him away from the table, Kismet began feeling better. He said nothing however until they were outside the noisy dining hall. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I was going to ask you? I think that nutter Leeds hypnotized you.”
Kismet shook his head. “Impossible.”
“He was asking you all these questions about some man who found the Fountain of Youth—”
“Fontaneda?”
“That's it. Only you kept saying ‘Fortune.’ You told him Fortune was dead. Then he asked you about another man. I think you said it was the king.”
Kismet nodded slowly. “Joseph King. He wrote the second letter, telling us that Henry Fortune, who also might have been Fontaneda, was dead. But why on earth would I tell Leeds about him?”
“Well, you did. When I figured out what was happening, I knew I had to break the spell somehow.”
Kismet stopped walking, and fixed her with an accusing stare. “You stabbed me in the leg. With a fork.”
“Good thing I did, too. Who knows what else Leeds would have gotten out of you.”
“You're right,” sighed Kismet. “I can’t believe I let him do that. I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do.” She smiled, then took his arm again and pulled him along. “Come on. Let's get back to your stateroom and see how much damage I did to your leg.”
He laughed. “It takes more than a fork in the leg to slow me down.”