“But, Daddy,” she said, “nothing’s wrong with me.”
He stroked her cheek. “Of course not, honey. And they can help you
… learn to do a lot of fun new things.”
“You sure of that?” Jay asked.
Mark shrugged. “If not, I’ll do the work myself. Maybe that’s what I should have been doing all along, rather than chasing a dream that turned into nightmare for the whole world to share.”
Hei-lian’s mittened hand squeezed his. “You did many good things,” she said. “You helped a lot of people.”
“But it doesn’t make the other stuff right.”
“No. But remembering the good helps us to keep going. The world’s beginning anew for all three of us. Don’t throw that gift away, lover; it isn’t offered to very many people.”
“No kidding,” Jay said. “So, no more Cap’n Trips?”
Mark shook his head firmly. “Those days are gone forever. I’m hanging the purple top hat up for good. I learned my lesson way too well. Nobody should have that kind of power, man. I sure couldn’t handle it.”
Ackroyd looked at Hei-lian. “Just one thing puzzles me, Colonel. All respect to my old bud Mark, here, he’s a skinny old geek. You’re a glamorous lady spy. What’s the attraction, anyway?”
She took hold of Mark’s arm and nestled against him. “He’s both a kind man and a good one. Since he’s the first of those I’ve ever met, I decided it’d be foolish to let go of him. Also, thank you for the compliment, Mr. Ackroyd, but I’m no youngster, either. And unequivocally retired from the spy trade.”
Jay shrugged. Taking a final bite of the apple, he hurled it far off over a nearby dune.
“You shouldn’t litter, Mr. Popinjay,” Sprout said severely.
“It’s biodegradable, kid.” Jay Ackroyd looked up at the clear star-crusted sky. “So it ends here where it all began. White Sands, New Mexico.” He held up a forefinger. “I could just pop you there. Save a lot of travel time. Cut to the chase.”
“Thanks, no,” Mark said. “I figure the trip’ll give Sprout a while to get acclimated. All of us, really.”
“Look, Daddy, look!” Sprout said, jumping up and down and pointing at the sky. “A falling star! Make a wish!”
Mark glanced up as the light grew suddenly to the glowing, spiky pink and ochre conch shape of a Takisian living starship descending from above. “I made my wishes, sweetie,” he said, “and they’re all coming true.”
Bunia
The Congo
There is a grove near Bunia, on the grounds of the old estate and around the ruins of the house there: a garden of many strange plants and trees, many of them not native to Africa but all of them blooming impossibly here in apparent ease. There are orange trees, apple trees, mango trees; there are flowers of every description; there are cacti and Joshua trees and palms. Marvelous flowering vines wrap around many of them, blankets of gentle green punctuated with blossoms of vibrant red and electric blue and oranges so bright the color hurts the eye.
In the midst of that grove, at its very center where the house foundations can still be seen, there are two giant, intertwined baobabs, each with a trunk one hundred fifty feet or more around-savannah trees out of place here in the jungle, yet both healthy and thriving, so massive and huge that they could have been growing there for centuries.
The locals call the baobabs “The Lovers.” They lean upon each other, branches wrapping around the trunk of their partner as if in embrace, their crowns entirely woven together. Monkey fruit hangs heavy on their branches; eagles, vultures, and storks have made their twig nests in the Lovers’ tangled, sleepy heads; owls huddle in the crevices of their trunks; squirrels and lizards, snakes and tree frogs, and thousands of varieties of insects make their home there.
The locals come here for the grove’s wild beauty, but they are drawn also, they say, by its magic. Couples are married here under the shade of the baobabs, and at the end of the ritual they take a seed from the monkey fruit with them to plant in front of their own homes-because then the luck of the grove will follow them through their lives. They bring their sick here, to feed them kuka and bungha made from the trees’ bounty; it is said that the blessing of the Lovers comes sometimes to those who eat from the trees, and those with the worst illnesses might be cured, even when the doctors have given up hope.
They also say that if one stays here at night and listens very carefully in the black stillness, that you might hear a voice whispering among the branches and through the grove. A woman’s voice, calling eternally for someone.
To hear the woman’s voice is the best magic of all. If you listen closely to her, they say, you will hear the name of the person who is destined to be your own lover. The skeptics say it is only the wind, but those who know the grove best will only smile at that, and shake their heads. No, they will say. There is magic here. All you have to do is allow yourself to feel it.
And that magic will never die.