plank.
âApekwit,â he repeated kindly, pointing again to the island.
âA-peg-weit?â Henry ventured.
âYes. More or less,â Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk replied. âNo one lives there year-round. The winters are abysmal. No moose or caribou. No bear. We use A-pek-weit,â he said, again with careful, exaggerated emphasis, âas a summer place of feasting and repose.â
Henry smiled at Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk and nodded his thanks. âThe sooner we master their gentle tongue, the better,â he said.
Antonio was less willing to accommodate. âPander at you peril, Sinclair. Let them come to us if they wish to know what we have to offer. Which is nothing less than ease full toil and life eternal.â
Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk liked nothing about this man, in particular his high-pitched, tuneless, crudely whittled flute-stick voice. He returned to the fire.
Sir Athol cocked his head, first left, then to the right. âRotate, I say, rotate your parchments. Like this. The segments integrate...just so.â
Henry examined the edge of the Vatican quadrant closely. Had it been torn, the rip altered to mimic antique degradation?
âAntonio. I believe weâre missing a fragmentâ¦here, the lower left.â
âItâs all I was given.â Antonio drew his finger under two lines of elaborate script. âThis seems familiar but makes no sense; itâs neither Latin nor Persian, nor is it ancient Greek.â
Henry studied the script. âElements of all three, but something else. Something more ancient, perhaps. The illustration offers a clue. Steam or smoke rising from what appears to be a hollowed-out stump....It is at this point we are to base our explorations. So I was told.â
âBy whom?â Antonio enquired.
âThe highest possible authority.â
âSome senile éminence grise of your defunct temple directed you to establish your base camp at a stump? A burning stump?â
Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk re-approached. He studied the map. âThe Place of Boiling Waters. Under the Cape which the setting sun turns to gold.â
âSorry. What?â Henry asked.
Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk glanced at the map, raised his arm, held it straight and steady.
âHe points westward and slightly to the south,â Athol noted. âWhatâs there?â
Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk fluttered the fingers of his upturned hands rapidly, the hands rising and falling slightly to suggest liquid turbulence. âThe Place of Boiling Waters.â He repeated the gesture cycle.
âSomething about a bird, perhaps? Or birds?â Henry speculated.
âFar across the waters from the cliffs of Kluscap,â he said.
He searched their faces: nothing.
âAcross from Kluscapâs Cliffs.â
âWhat?â Henry said.
âCome again?â said Athol.
âWhatâs he pointing at?â Antonio wondered.
âI donât understand.â Henry turned back to the maps.
Back at the fire, Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk dipped the slings in their buckets, spread them on the ground, rolled a second stone into each. He loped gingerly back to the sweat lodge, maintaining a gap between the steaming rocks and his naked calves. As he stooped to enter, laughter rushed up the trail behind him.
Keswalqw and Eugainia burst into the clearing at a full run, Keswalqw chased by Eugainia. It was Eugainiaâs hands Mimk ɨ tawoâquâsk first noticed. They were covered in black, sticky goo. Glistening sludge covered her from head to foot. Little natural skin colour remained, only two white circles where sheâd squinted to save her eyes. They seemed to pop out of her headâthe startled enthusiasm lending a bizarre infantile authority. Nothing of the sea green linen dress, or its crystal embellishments, remained visible. The curtain of tar it had become clung to Eugainiaâs
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