Who’d caught the biggest marlin season after season these past ten years? Who was always the last one standing after more rum had been fetched? Who’d won the wrestling every single time since he’d turned thirteen?

It was the same guy in every case. He was chesty cousin Aurelia’s brother. His name was Demetrio. He had to be a warlock.

 

Back on the boat later on, Juno felt a lot more scared than she’d been outside the bar. She’d obviously looked in her crystal ball, and had seen uncle Aurelio holding an al fresco late-night clinic at some kind of bamboo-roofed counter on a square, and Isidora chatting loudly across an alley to her cousin Cristobella while they were both dumping their trash. She’d tracked down pretty much everyone she’d heard of in fact, but, though there sure was a lotta talk about him from men and women alike, she couldn’t flush out Demetrio, nor his sister, the buxom Aurelia. That had to confirm it.

She lay shaking on her big bunk in the bow. So this was the moment. Finally, a real warlock. And probably a witch into the bargain. LA seemed a long way away.

                          

In the morning she was still afraid, though. Suddenly those years in California had fallen off her, and she felt like that girl in her bedroom in Vancouver again, fretting why it was that Magic folks seemed to avoid each other. Now she also wondered for the very first time why she’d never once come across another witch or warlock in LA, which otherwise attracted everyone under the sun. And then here there were two at a time! She so wanted to go to that island immediately, and so didn’t. There was no way she could stay away from the place, but it scared her witless to think it was a mere heartbeat away.

Maybe that was the problem, she eventually figured. Maybe she oughta travel the proper way, to get used to the idea of arriving.

A short while later the Mayan sailed out of Key Largo towards the rising sun, with Juno at the bow big-eyed and jittery like an excitable mermaid.

 

Since it was Juno doing the traveling and not Jock it obviously ended up being only kind of proper. Ish. The trade winds were favourable, but not favourable enough. In the fastest journey ever undertaken by a sixty-foot wooden schooner it took her just ten days and nights of watching Demetrio’s village to cross the Atlantic, and on the last day of March, 1968 A.D., she stepped ashore at her destination.