Steve Cash created “an absorbing [and] intriguing saga” ( The San Diego Union-Tribune ) in his debut novel, The Meq . Outwardly indistinguishable from human beings, but with abilities no human can claim, the Meq search for their lost history and face a mysterious prophesied reckoning. . . . It has been thirty-eight years since Zianno—known as Z—turned twelve. In appearance, he has not aged a day. Like all Meq, Z has become accustomed to a near immortal existence, possessing an uncanny ability to recuperate from injury and resist disease. Like only four others of his kind, he holds one of the fabled Stones, the Stone of Dreams. These bearers believe it is their destiny to guide the Meq toward and through the Remembering, where it is said that they will recall their long-forgotten origins and purpose. But the rogue Meq assassin called the Fleur-du-Mal threatens their efforts and their lives. Pursuing rumors of a lost Sixth Stone, he is intent on finding the legendary talisman and eliminating anyone, Meq or human, who stands in the way. Z and his allies—Opari, Sailor, Geaxi, Nova, Ray, Mowsel, Carolina, Jack, and others—embark on a desperate quest spanning decades and continents to track down the stone before their lethal adversary gets to it first. Along the way, every belief they have about themselves will be challenged and shaken—and a new, even deadlier enemy will arise. Praise for The Meq “Vivid personages, a startling premise richly elaborated, and . . . derring-do and dastardly schemes.” –The Washington Post Book World “Mesmerizing.” –The New York Times 1 BIHARAMUN (Day After Tomorrow) Where are you looking? Through a window, from a bridge, down a well, over the rainbow, out of a mouse hole, into the light? Where are you looking? Or, rather, what are you looking for? Out there, somewhere, at some time, do you see a wish fulfilled, a dream come true, a simple affirmation and clarity of that which we cannot speak? Look closely. Can you see the day after tomorrow? Do you recognize it? Will you ever? It is approaching. The date was March 9, 1919, and it was snowing. We were taking the train down from Chicago to St. Louis and as we crossed the bridge spanning the Mississippi, the sun’s light was fading fast. The water below us looked dark, darker than I ever remembered, and deep under the low light and falling snow. I was in the aisle seat in the back row of our compartment. Opari was sitting next to me. She sat in silence with her head turned away, facing the window. Suddenly she made a trilling sound with her teeth and tongue, then whispered an ancient word in slow repetition. “Amatxurlarru,” she said. “Amatxurlarru.” The word was haunting. Her careful pronunciation was hypnotic and sounded somewhere between song and prayer. I had never heard the word before, but I knew it was Meq. “What does it mean?” I asked. I was looking past her, through the glass, speaking to her reflection. “It is from the Time of Ice,” she said. “Great rivers, like this one, were givers of all life and death. The phrase is only spoken when one crosses a river that is a Mother to many others.” She paused a moment and I assumed she was returning to events, stories, people and places, adventures and wisdom, passed down to her from a time so distant I could only imagine it. She went on, “The word, both in dreams and in real life, means ‘the Mother bleeds.’ ” A few more seconds passed. I watched the snow while the train tracks rattled underneath us. Finally, I managed to say, “Really.” It was neither question nor statement, and I was trying once again not to show my relative youth and ignorance. I know now that time and the passing of it, the difference in ages and the awareness of it, should not be a problem when you are in love, but these things have taken me a lifetime to learn, let alone accept without wonder. Ahead, just past the western end of the bridge, the lights of downtown St. Louis were coming into view. Opari said, “This is your birth city, is it not, my love?” “Yes,” I answered. “It is that . . . and many other things.” I continued staring out the window, but not at the falling snow, or St. Louis, or even the great Mississippi River. Instead, I gazed into the reflection of two beautiful black eyes, understanding then and there that I will always desire to do just that, as long as I am on this Earth. I felt the presence of her inside me the same way I had seen, for a timeless second, my own mama and papa look to and through each other, also on a train crossing a river, in 1881. To my right, directly across the aisle, sat my oldest friend and confidante, Carolina Covington Flowers. She was almost fifty years old now, although a stranger would never guess it. She was smiling and staring through the window. Her long hair was pulled back and a few strands of silver and gold hung loose, framing her face. She wore a long black skirt and a simple white blouse buttoned to the neck. A green woolen shaw