He finished his tuna and, looking up at me, blinked his eyes and licked each side of his upper lip. In what I took to be a gesture of satisfaction, he came close and rubbed his head against my knee. I let my hand run the length of his body, and then, picking him up, carried him to the salon where I gently placed him in the corner of the settee. He immediately curled himself into a ball, and as soon as he was settled, promptly closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Just then, I heard the sound of an approaching outboard motor and, grabbing my hat and jacket, went out on deck. It was Parker, finally returning from his trip to Daufuskie. I lashed the skiff to the dock as he unloaded his meager gear. It consisted of an old surplus navy sea bag, a large box of tools, and a cardboard carton.

We quickly hustled back inside where Parker jumped into a hot shower to get the chill of the day out of his bones. When he came back in again I passed him a steaming cup of coffee and handed him a bottle of Irish whiskey to top it with. Parker gratefully accepted both the cup and the bottle and when his coffee was properly doctored he held it under his nose and with closed eyes let the vapor waft over his face.

“I didn’t intend to be gone so long, Kennesaw,” he said as he lowered the cup from his lips. “But I had loaned out some of my tools and it took me a while to round them all up again. I just didn’t want to start a job without my own tools.”

“Of course,” I replied.

That was understandable. No workman wants to be without his tools. And when you own very little in the way of personal belongings, they become either very important to you or very unimportant.

“There’s also a message from Miss Cyriah. She says to tell you this, ‘It’s moving, and it knows who you are.’ ”

Parker looked away after delivering Cyriah’s warning, as though he did not wish to see the impact of the words.

I nodded. “Thank you, Parker.”

“Oh, by the way,” Parker said with a start, putting down his cup and crossing the galley in one long stride. “Miss Darcey sent these.”

He reached into the cardboard carton and, lifting out a quart jar in each hand, held them aloft to catch the overhead light.

“Homemade vegetable soup. She calls it her summer soup because she makes it from the vegetables in her garden every summer. She said we were to have some as soon as I returned.”

I looked at the jars as he presented them for inspection. Through the shimmering glass could be seen every vibrant color of a vegetable garden: red tomatoes, white potatoes, green cabbage, purple peas, yellow corn, orange carrots.