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years. It’s like I knew!” When Micah’s only response was to regard him dubiously, Howie made a sound like a balloon deflating. Hype might be his stock in trade, but it required effort nonetheless. “Christ, Mi, how long you gonna make me go on like this? Does it make any difference I’m gonna direct this one myself? Please. I’d like you there to see me through it. Like old times.”
    I was amazed that Micah didn’t say, forget it, I’m too busy. Instead, he offered up the clipping on his palm. “Have you seen this troupe perform?”
    Howie folded the shred away reverently. “I’ve read a few reviews. Reede’s booking them worldwide after they leave here. Damn, does it matter? It’s the idea of the thing, isn’t it? It’s artistic freedom! It’s… Tuatua!”
    Micah studied his mug intently. “What are your dates?”
    “Goes into rehearsal in July.”
    “July what?”
    “Fifteenth, by the current schedule. It might be tricky getting them visas and the like, them being unEnclosed and all.”
    “Howard, please. July of what
year
?”
    Here, to his credit, Howie did show a fleeting embarrassment. “This July, Micah. Two months from now.”
    I couldn’t believe the audacity.
    Crispin was brave enough to be vocal about it. “You want an update, boss?” He jabbed at his keypad as if urging it to audible protest. “Bids for Marin are due end of this month, engineering specs for
Deo Gratias
by June tenth, drawings and model for
Cymbeline
before the first of July.”
    To save Crispin from being the only murdered messenger, I added, “And you did agree to have roughs for Willow Street’s new piece by the end of June. Plus there’s
Don Pasquale
for Sydney Opera to begin thinking about.”
    Micah nodded and nodded, staring at Howie, who somehow found the temerity to stare back.
    “Remember, it doesn’t want much,” Howie prodded gently. “An image, an idea. We’ll do it in our smaller theatre. Nothing much to build. It’ll mostly be think-time for you, the part you really enjoy. Give me twenty minutes to lay it out for you. You don’t buy, then God’s honor, you won’t hear another word about it.”
    Micah nodded a bit more, muttered, “Tuatua…” then plunked down his mug, and rose like a sudden flight of birds, winging for the conference room. He paused at the door, caught in his own momentary disbelief, then glanced at the old analogue wall clock that was our only timepiece. “All right, Howard, you’ve got your twenty minutes. See if you can convince me.”
    HOWIE’S RESEARCH: THE CLIPPING IN THE ATLAS
The Christian Observer
, December 16, 1951
    “… stayed in the car, but my husband and I did not regret the steep and sweaty climb to the top of the promontory. There were flowers everywhere, as lush as if tended by human hand. The view of the island was unsurpassed: a bright green ring set in a mirror of blue. On a flat stone table near the summit, a native woman dressed all in blue feathers intoned a singsong ritual before a gathering of her tribe.
    When pressed, our native guide translated a bit that the woman had repeated several times, and it went like this:
    “Of the world’s twelve stations, the first is Rock, the Father, companion to Wind, the Mother, and his name is Pirimaturamiram, who we celebrate in the first moon of the Turning and call on him for his approval.”
    I said to our guide that this must refer to God, being the Father, but he replied, no, this was not God, or even a god, but an ancestor.
    “The rock is her ancestor?” I asked.
    “And yours,” he answered impudently. “She knows not to waste her time praying to gods who can’t answer.”
    I did wonder then what the Mission had been doing in this lost land with our donations, if not bringing God to the tribesmen.
    “If there is no God,” I asked, “then who created us?”
    “We have always been here, changing and growing. Is that not the business of life?”
    So I answered him as I must: “The business