"Thank you, Francis," said Madam Zosi, reaching around the screen to pass him another coin. "Don't forget to come back when the musicians finish."

"Will do, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am." The bellhop quickly stashed the coin in his pocket before facing Gladstone with his palm reopened. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

Gladstone displayed the back of his hand in reply. "I'm all out. Scram."

"I pegged you right," said Francis with a sniff. "Cheapskate!"

Watching the lad depart, Gladstone wished that this would be the last they saw of each other.

The spiritualist poked her pretty face around the screen, her blonde hair hidden by a round black hat. She greeted her guest in a breathy hush. "Keith? I'm so glad to see you!"

Finding his nerves moderately calmed by her welcome, the professor smiled and whispered in reply, "Hello, Ms.—er, Sonya."

"Come around behind this screen, won't you? I have your script."

"A script? Oh, bally good. By all means."

He had to step carefully over a bundle of cables connecting the musicians to the microphone at the front of the stage. Rounding the screen's edge, he beheld Zosi clad in something like a widow's gown, with a black lace veil flipped back over her head to expose her face. She was seated at a small table, holding up a hand-mirror by candlelight, retouching her dark eyeshadow with a makeup brush. If not for the candles, he realized, she would have been in a deep shadow cast by the screen. Lulled by her somber elegance and the music of the string quartet, he found himself momentarily transfixed, snapping out of it only when Sonya put down the brush long enough to shove a piece of folded paper across the table towards him.

Feeling oddly happy despite the reluctant task he faced, he read it in silence, before commenting, "Are you sure you want this exact wording, Sonya? 'Soothsayer and spiritualist' are quite dramatic titles on their own. Don't you think "Queen of the Underworld" is over the top?"

She faced him sternly. "There's the war, remember, Keith? It's necessary."

"Oh, the war! Of course!" he replied, feigning comprehension. "Naturally, anything for the war effort!" Reminded of his own mission the professor shifted his feet, to make sure his radio-suitcase was still there. He had hoped there would be time to send a message to his handlers before a second meeting with Madam Zosi. Her compromising knowledge was most alarming.

"Introduce me the moment the music stops. Then after I address the crowd, I'll cue you to read this second one next." She passed him a second note, this one on parchment. "It's in Sumerian, so you may need a few minutes to study it."

"Sumerian!" His eyebrows arched. "Ah, now I understand why you wanted me."

As the band played its bouncy finale, Gladstone unfolded the parchment and began reading. He had been reviewing ancient Sumerian only that morning, though without his reference notes handy, he found deciphering the words a struggle. "Hail, mighty god of—no, make that goddess of…Kur?". Meanwhile, he was absently tapping his foot to the popular "Andrew Sisters" tune. Because there was no singer, several enthused diners began to sing the lyrics aloud. He was tempted to join them, but froze, suddenly mortified upon recognizing the refrain "Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen". Callous Americans! That refrain was in German!

Finally, the music stopped, and the musicians stood and bowed to raucous applause. The professor made a point of holding his notes with both hands to excuse himself from joining in. He became dimly aware of Bradstreet zig-zagging his way between the tables, making his way back to the screen on stage, as had been arranged. As the musicians put away their instruments and collected their music sheets, Gladstone turned to face Sonya over one shoulder. "I think we're up next," he whispered. "Ready?"

Sonya lowered the black lace over her face. "I'm always ready. Make the introduction and then move the screen to one side. Francis will help you shift the table towards the microphone. The candles are fixed in place, but move slowly, careful not to splash any candle wax or trip over the cables."

"Understood," he said.

"Afterwards, come stand behind me during the séance."

"What! But I'm not dressed for it."

"Shh. You're perfect. Now make the introduction."

Gladstone sighed, realizing he could not refuse. Some part of him could only admit that her regal beauty seemed to justify her imperious behavior. "Very well," he agreed. At the far end of the chamber, he noticed a shadowy blue uniformed figure standing beside a potted fern: Petty Officer Noyes, he was sure.

Throttling the microphone stand with his sweaty left hand, Gladstone looked slowly about the room, trying to imagine himself about to lecture one of his university classes. After one more glance at the script in his other hand, he began.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. Keith Gladstone, professor of Archaeology at Cambridge and your fellow passenger. It is my privilege to have been asked to introduce tonight's featured guest, my …ahem…lifelong friend, Madam Sonya Zosi, whose unmatched talents as a soothsayer and spiritualist have made her famous throughout the world. Tonight, she promises to reveal things most mortals have never seen."

He hesitated, almost choking on the last bit. What would these absurd claims do to his reputation?

"So, here she is without further ado, The Queen of the Underworld!" He finished strong, as though goosed.

There was a murmur from the seated assembly. Someone controlling the room lights dimmed the chandeliers. Relieved to be out of the limelight, Gladstone turned to take hold of the wicker screen and was gratified to see Bradstreet already gripping the opposite edge. Lifting together, they shifted it to one side, revealing Madam Zosi, lit dramatically by candlelight, her eyes twinkling spookily in the shadowy sockets of her skull. As the bellhop faded into the blackness, Gladstone lingered in front of the table just long enough to reposition the microphone directly in front of Zosi. Finally, as previously instructed, he moved around to the rear of the table, beside her.

As she came into unobstructed view, a pall of silence fell across the room. It was rudely disrupted by some harpy heckling from the safety of darkness. "I see no queen!" she brayed.

"No queen?" Madam Zosi turned towards the voice. "Who is it that challenges me?"

"Ha!" answered the same, scornful harpy. "You're supposed to be the soothsayer! You tell me!"

A scattering of derisive laughter erupted but was cut short by a sudden gesture from Madam Zosi. She pointed directly at the heckler, but then lifted her arm and finger slowly, as though tracing an invisible string rising from the woman's head.

"Mrs. Gertrude Fontana," said Zosi. "from Syracuse, New York. Shall I reveal more?"

"Is that your name?" some stranger queried in a whisper.

"La dee da!" said Gertrude. "So, the purser showed you my passport! Ha! I'm onto your parlor tricks."

"You like gin, traveling, ballroom dancing, and telling lies, don't you, Mrs. Fontana."

"What! How dare you!"

"You left your husband, Vincent, at home, telling him that you were bringing your mother to attend her father's funeral in France…"

"You probably have eaves dropping spies. My mother drinks and talks too much!"

"Gertie! I do not!" hissed a voice beside her.

"But your grandmother lives in Austria, and your grandfather died before you were born. In fact, because Vincent beats you, your mother has conspired to help you to leave him forever. You've been corresponding for months with a certain Henri, a charming French Legionnaire, who, after an exchange of photographs, has asked to finally meet you in person."

There were gasps and whispers in the audience.

"Amazing!"

"How could she know all this?"

"You've been opening my letters!"

Another heckler: "Fake! I say Gertrude's in on it!"

Madam Zosi's gaze shifted to the new heckler. "Fake you say, Mr. White? Or should I say, Herr Weiss?"

The blue-uniformed figure began approaching from the back of the room.

"Never mind, Madam," said the heckler. "I made a bad joke. Go on with the show."

Arriving at the edge of the glow surrounding the stage, Petty Officer Noyes stopped and spoke up. "Excuse me, Madam Zosi!"

She turned now to face him. "Yes, Petty Officer Noyes?"

"What can you tell us about the recent murders we've had on board?"

"Shocking, aren't they?"

"Can you help us identify the perpetrator?"

She spread her hands and spun slowly to include the entire room. "As I have already demonstrated, we all wear masks. None of us are exactly what we seem." She raised a palm and hovered it slowly over the crowd like a priestly blessing.

"The murderer may even be present among us. But before I name them…would anyone here, preferring not to be identified, care to leave the room now?"

There was a cacophony of scooting chairs and jangling flatware and glasses as the whole audience looked around to see whether anyone would try to leave. No one dared. Petty Officer Noyes put his hands on his hips and grinned and Professor Gladstone chuckled. From the darkness to their rear, Francis Bradstreet boldly prompted, "Point out the killer, Madam! We'll all jump him!"

She turned her head toward to the professor and said, "We're ready, now professor. Read the parchment." She took a step back and waved him forward to the microphone surrounded by candles.

"What? Oh, now? Oh, certainly, Madam."

Gladstone unfolded the parchment and squinted at it again. It was no longer difficult to read. He cleared his throat and then began to recite.

"Behold, O puny ones, eaters of ash and dust, I am the fearsome Nergal, god of the underworld."

To his surprise, the voice that boomed out of him was a rumbling bass, like that a lion might have if it could speak. The final syllables lingered ominously and then echoed as though he'd been speaking inside a vast cave.

The audience held perfectly silent, as though turned to stone. Petty Officer Noyes' jaw hung open, dumbfounded.

Gladstone turned to Zosi with a puzzled look on his face. "How did you—?"

"Continue," she commanded.

"What mortals dare approach my throne and dining room wearing masks and garments of flesh? Tonight, I will sup on your bones and blood!"

His voice rang in the air like the reverberation of a gong, and the word "blood" repeated in a fading echo.

"Gosh!" said the professor to one side, the parchment rattling in his trembling hands. "Scary!"

Zosi patted him on the shoulder. "Now, when I lift my veil, show them what is in your yellow case."

"Do what? But you know what's in there!"

"Have no fear," she said, then stepped forward again and announced, "The murderer is among you, but will now be revealed."

"Now, Keith," she said. "Do it now!"

His body shaking in fear, Gladstone found himself obeying. He lifted the case onto the table. Besides turning a key in the lock, opening the case required spinning two discrete bolts to a precise orientation. His fingers fumbled nervously, as he performed the dreaded task. Finally, the lock sprang open and he turned the case to face the audience, preparing to lift the lid.

"Your mortal eyes have deceived you!" shouted Madam Zosi, lifting her hands to her veil. "Let us all remove our veils together. Nergal is death incarnate, the ultimate taker of lives. Receive new eyes of ash and dust!"

"Now!" she commanded and lifted her veil.

Gladstone lifted the case lid, and felt the contents fall out. Two severed heads rolled onto the table, bounced off and shook the candlesticks before tumbling onto the stage.

Screams and gasps sounded throughout the darkness, and someone fell out of their chair, dragging down the white tablecloth and dishes with a jarring crash. Petty Officer Noyes pointed an accusing finger from where he stood and seemed about to say something when every other sound was overwhelmed by a roar akin to rushing river rapids or a great waterfall. From the suitcase gushed forth a giant serpent of smoke or shadow, extinguishing the candles and circling the room before gradually resolving into an impenetrable cloud of buzzing insects. A dim light dawned, as at last, the ravenous creatures descended suddenly like locusts onto every passenger and table. As they collectively traded flying for masticating, the awful sound they emitted changed tonally, so that one could hear crashing dishes and screams of terror and agony intermingled with the percussive munching. Petty Officer Noyes, carpeted entirely with insects, flailed where he stood and then staggered backwards before collapsing. Mrs. Gertrude Fontana and her mother were indistinguishable amongst the multitude kicking and writhing beneath the tables.

Gladstone watched the scene in horror and tried to make sense of it. "It's a hallucination," he told himself. "Or a dream." He shut his eyes and tried to visualize an alternate reality. "I'm in my cabin, lying in that awful, bug-infested bunk, probably feverish with some illness and extrapolating from the sensation of bugs crawling all over me."

But the swarm had avoided Gladstone. He patted his arms to check for bugs and then opened his eyes again. Turning to face Madam Zosi, he half expected to find her vanished, missing features or out of focus the way vividly dreamed subjects lose detail when waking from a dream. Seeing her still before him, no longer veiled, the shocking thing was, not that her face had changed or lost detail, but that it had gained new significance. The face before him was that of the woman he loved. She lay beside him on a stone bed cushioned with ashes and framed with stalagmite posts. Her luscious black hair splayed across her stone pillow. As she yawned and stretched, one of her wings lifted towards the vanishingly high, black ceiling—an inverted pit. She was his precious wife and queen, Ereshkigal.

"I had the strangest dream," he told her, drowsily."

"Flying again?"

"No, I was on a metal ship," he said. "It was in another time." Looking around, he spotted their thrones, side-by-side, at the highest point of a vast, black cave. Though the darkness was total, he could see perfectly, in shades of gray. Servants carried bones and dust, to and fro, beside an immeasurably wide underground lake, the color of ink.

"Another reincarnation dream, Nergal, my Lord?"

"I suppose so," he said. "I was a …I forget what I was. I think I taught and studied gravesites and books."

"Was I there, my husband, my king?"

"You were. And someone else we know, too." The Sumerian god of the underworld turned his awful gaze toward the opposite side of the lake, where the ferry man stood beside a boat, confronted by a listless crowd of walking corpses. The underworld sailor allowed several onto his craft, accepting a coin from each into his outstretched palm.

Ereshkigal briefly followed her husband's gaze across the black waters and then turned back to him with a shrug. "Good morning," she said.

Nergal snorted grumpily. "Morning," he responded.

—End—

-