To the people of the south wind
To the people of the wind
To the people of the southern wind
To the people of the south wind
Got to be there again
To the people of the southern wind

It's the people of the south wind
It's the people of the wind
It's the people of the southern wind
It's the people of the south wind
Got to be there again
It's the people of the southern wind

With the people of the south wind
With the people of the wind
With the people of the southern wind
With the people of the south wind
I want to see 'em again
With the people of the southern wind

"So this song is where this secret society, the People of the Southwind, got their name," Jeff said as the song faded to silence.  Michael turned off the CD player.

"Yes," his father said.  "It's from Kansas' 1979 album Monolith.  The song's title is an approximate English equivalent of the name of the Indian tribe from which both the state of Kansas and the band took their names."

"So the song is about Indians?" Emily asked, a confused little smile playing across her face.

"No," Michael said.  "Kerry Livgren wrote it about his early days of playing rock music, before Kansas became famous.  It's a bit of musical nostalgia on his part, a yearning for simpler times, for 'good old days' that don't exist anymore.  He's remembering old friends whom he symbolically calls 'People of the South Wind.'  Another song he wrote, 'When the World Was Young' on Kansas' Somewhere to Elsewhere album back in 2000, covered somewhat the same ground, although from a different perspective.  Anyway," he said as he walked back over to the desk where he had decoded the second message, "that's where the People of the Southwind got their name."

"It's got a peppy bounce to it," Bev said as she started to sing the chorus in her practiced mezzo-soprano voice.  "It's the people... of the south wind..."

"It reached number twenty-three on the pop charts back in the summer of 1979," her husband added, sitting down at the desk, "not long before Kerry Livgren's conversion."

"They're the People of the Southwind," younger Michael said, laughing, "and they're quite in-de-fa-ti-ga-ble, like the Knights of the Round Table in Monty Python and the Holy Grail."  Graham started cracking up at that.

"The song sounds a bit like disco," Jeff said, "kind of a..."  His voice trailed off as his father turned toward him, a solemn, serious look on his face.

"That word is anathema to the People of the Southwind," Michael said calmly to his son.  "Let it not fall from your lips again."

Jeff wasn't sure if his father was joking or serious.  The continuing lack of a smile on his father's face quickly led him to decide "serious."

"Something doesn't make sense to me," Graham finally spoke up, breaking the sudden silence.  "You said that this secret society's initials were 'P.S.,' for 'People of the Southwind.'  But in the song's title, 'south' and 'wind' are two separate words.  Wouldn't that make their initials be 'P.S.W.'?"

"Actually," his father answered, losing the serious look, "in their public communications they use the initials 'P.o.t.S.W.,' corresponding to all the words of the song's title.  But in certain secret communications with one another they use 'P.S.' instead.  That way, if the message happens to fall into the hands of outsiders, whoever finds it will think it's just a postscript."

"Like you did at first," Katherine piped up.

"Um... yes," Michael replied, a hint of discomfort in his voice.  Bev wasn't sure what to make of the expression on his face.

"Besides, um," Michael continued after a moment, his voice regaining its steadiness, "on the society's original Web site 'Southwind' is rendered as a single word, so the abbreviation 'P.S.' isn't a mistake.  I'll show it to you on the computer when we get back home."

"So," Bev said after a few seconds, "if, as you said, the 'P.S.' in 'P.S.: Find Kerry Livgren' in fact isn't a postscript or afterthought at the end of the original message we found, that would make it..."

"The whole point of the first message," Michael said.  "The 'P.S.' directly addresses the People of the Southwind.  That would make the last line of the first message be a command: 'People of the Southwind: Find Kerry Livgren.'"

"Or a plea," Bev added.

The room fell silent.  Bev and the older kids stared at Michael, not sure what to make of his somewhat odd behavior in the few minutes since he had decoded "I flee a dingbat" as "indefatigable."

"So," Jeff finally said, recovering from the look his father had given him a couple of minutes earlier, "this song that you played for us is from the Kansas album Monolith.  Didn't you say that that was the tour when they first did that stunt with the dummy falling to the stage?"

"Yes, on the Monolith tour," his father said, "in the middle of the song 'How My Soul Cries Out for You,' just as they did the other night when we found the message on the stage."

"So everything seems to be leading us back to this Monolith album," Graham said.

"It looks that way,' Michael said, "although why I still don't know."

"Well," Bev said, still not sure what any of this meant, "speaking of Monolith, would it be safe to say that these 'People of the Southwind' themselves form a 'monolithic' whole?"

"Maybe for a brief time decades ago," Michael replied, "but in the years since the society has splintered into numerous factions that don't always get along with one another."

"Factions?" younger Michael asked.  "Like what?"

"Well, let's see," his father answered, counting on his fingers.  "There are the Original Sextet Puritans, the Ehartian Temporalists, the Williamsian Axialists, the Hopian Foundationalists, the Steinhardtian Electrificationists, the Walshian Body Worshippers, the Livgrenian Second Adventists, the Elefantian Soloists, the Greerian New Generationists, the Morsian Progressivists, the Robertian Backgroundists, the Ragsdalian Classicists, the Streets Repairists, the A.D. Reformationists, the Pro-Walsh-Anti-Elefantists, the Pro-Elefante-Anti-Walshians, the Pro-Walsh-Pro-Elefante-Can't-We-All-Get-Alongists... the list just goes on."

"That's confusing," Emily said.

"You think that's confusing?" Michael continued.  "Some members of a given faction consider themselves to be members of multiple factions, even ones that you might think would be at cross-purposes with one another."

"So how do they all stay together if there are so many differences between them?" Katherine asked.

"For all their differences and occasional in-fighting, they are held together by a common name: Wheatheads."

"'Wheatheads'?" Katherine said, laughing.  "That's silly."

"A common name and a common creed," Michael answered, ignoring his daughter's interjection.  "A common affirmation of faith."

"An affirmation of faith?" Bev repeated dubiously.

"Yes," Michael replied, rising from his chair, "the Wheatheads' Creed."  He cleared his throat and began to speak, an almost reverent tone to his voice:

"'I believe in KANSAS the prog band almighty,
makers of music and dreams,
and in Kerry Livgren their wayward son our bard,
who conceived a band of unique sound,
was borne on wings of steel,
studied under Wagner and Strauss,
was converted anew and enlightened,
he descended into contract hell
(some FAQ sites omit this),
with A.D. he rose again,
he ascended into independent recording label ownership,
and sitteth at the account books of KANSAS the prog band almighty,
with whom he shall come to judge hip-hop and Sony.
I believe in the recording of new material,
the wholly international fanbase,
the communion of Body Worshippers,
the forgiveness of mailing list faux pas,
the resurrection of Steve's voice,
and the Tour Everlasting.
Carry on.'"

"That sounds a lot like..." Katherine started to say.

"Yes, I know," her father said.  "But it's not an insult to Christianity or the church.  Because of Kerry Livgren's own Christian faith and its effect on the music of Kansas, many members of the People of the Southwind passionately approve of the Christian element in the band's music while just as many passionately regret the unavoidable divisiveness that that element has had upon the band and their fans.  The solution was for them to treat their love of the band and their music as a religion itself, with all the predictable denominational differences among themselves that you would expect to find in any organized religion.  This way they could celebrate their diversity while still affirming their commonality with dignity and respect for one another."

"How very Presbyterian (U.S.A.) of you to put it that way," Bev said.

"Oh... thank you," Michael replied.

"So they're like a religion," Bev continued, "but they're also a secret society."

"Right," Michael answered.

"But if they're a secret society," Graham asked, "does that mean that they get together for secret rituals and stuff?"

"For the most part, no," Michael said, "although the Walshian Body Worshippers, or WBWs, do have this thing they do with cat suits..."

"Cat suits?!" Emily burst out laughing.

"And I seem to remember that the WBWs also refer to Steve Walsh's wife as 'She Who Is Not Mentioned,'" he added.  "Of course, they're an extreme example.  The vast majority of the People of the Southwind are not quite as, um, devoted to the cause as are they.  Most of them are in it simply for love of the music and the people who make it."

Michael stopped.  His wife was looking at him oddly.

"'Walshian Body Worshippers'?  'She Who Is Not Mentioned'?" she said.  "Cat suits?  Just what kind of a society is this?"

"It's not like I'm making all this up," Michael replied.  "The WBWs are merely one faction out of many that make up the People of the Southwind.  Granted, they're a somewhat... enthusiastic... faction, but just one.  The majority of the society's members simply enjoy listening to the music, staying in touch with one another on the Internet and going to the shows, like we did the other night.  In fact, members of the People of the Southwind were probably all around us at that show."

"Well, if there were members of this secret society at the show," Jeff asked, "how come we're the ones who found the secret message?"

"That," his father said, "is the sixty-four-dollar question.  If we knew who had left it, that might tell us the why."

"Well," Bev said, walking over toward the dresser, "maybe this package you got at the record store will give us the answer."

"Maybe so," Michael said, walking over the the dresser and taking the package in his hands.  "Let's see what's inside."

Michael gently began to untie the knot that secured the string around the paper wrapping.  As he worked with the knot, he began humming a tune that seemed vaguely familiar to his kids, although they couldn't quite place it.  His wife did, though, and after a few seconds she started humming along with him as they both began swaying together to the tune's rhythm, much to their kids' consternation.  After a few more seconds Michael had succeeded in undoing the knot, and as he removed the string and began working on the wrapping he and his wife hit a point in the tune where they broke out together into song: "Brown paper packages tied up with string/These are a few of my favorite things..."

"Aaugh!" younger Michael groaned, holding his hands to his ears.  "They're subjecting us to culture!"

Mock cries of "Aahh!" and "Nooo!" rose from their kids' throats.  Michael laughed his best "evil" laugh ("Yes!  Show tunes!  Bwah-hah-hah-hah!") as he removed the remaining paper from around the package and placed it on the bed in front of them.  The kids' mock terror at being subjected to culture subsided as they moved in for a closer look at the mysterious, unwrapped package.

"It's a box," Emily said.

"Yes," her father replied, his voice rising, "but not just any box.  A secret box!  A secret box that may well contain the secretiest secret in all of secretdom!  If you only knew the secrety secret that this secret box secretly secrets, it would--"

"Yeah, we know, Dad," Katherine said, laughing, "it would change our lives forever, no one else knows its secret, not even Squidward's house, blah-blah-blah..."

"Honey," Bev said, trying to dampen her husband's enthusiasm, "let's just quietly take a look at it."

The box was a rather elegant looking lock-box, bound in what appeared to be black leather, about a foot wide, about eight inches tall and nine inches deep, as Michael had estimated when he first saw it wrapped up at the music store.  Underneath its lid on the front side of the box were five gold rotary dials with characters imprinted on each of them, looking much like the dials of the combination locks on Michael's briefcase.  A push button to the right of the dials evidently opened the box with the right combination.  But the most striking feature was the image on the top of the box.  Embossed into the black leather was a perfect circle filled with what looked like a curving, luminous bank of clouds.  Emerging from the clouds appeared an angelic female figure, face upturned, eyes closed, an almost beatific expression on her face, which was framed by shoulder-length golden tresses.  From where her shoulders and arms should have been there instead extended outspread golden wings of metallic feathers.  She appeared to be clothed in armor, her ample bosom and midriff encased in a gold-plated bustier.  From her waist down, however, the image changed.  What looked to be a large, thick metallic ring encircled her waist and hips, but from where her navel would have been there extended downward into the clouds a long, pointed object, somewhat resembling a lance carried in jousting tournaments by knights of old.  What appeared to be a long, flowing skirt also extended downward from her hips into the clouds, curving away on either side from where her legs would have been.  The image as a whole resembled nothing so much as an idealized form of the prow of an ancient sailing vessel, its proud figurehead emerging upward from the clouds.

"I've seen this before," Jeff said after a moment.  "It's the image from the back cover of Kansas' Point of Know Return album."

"Right," his father said, "and it also reaffirms that everything we've encountered since the concert the other night has to do with the People of the Southwind.  This image is also the society's secret insignia, their signet.  It appears on their original Web site as well as their current one.  Again, I'll show you on the Internet when we get home."

All seven of the Brookses stared silently at the impressive image for a few more moments until Graham raised the obvious next question.

"How are we going to open the box?" he asked.

"It's obviously a combination lock," his father replied.  "Dial the right combination and it opens."  He studied the dials and button for a moment.  "Hey," he said, chuckling, "maybe the combination is 1-2-3-4-5, like in the movie Spaceballs."

"Well, maybe," Jeff replied, "except that the characters on these dials are letters, not numbers."

"Hmm, you're right," Michael said, toying with the dials, which he found moved freely beneath his thumb.  The workmanship was obviously superior to that of the locks on his briefcase, which sometimes wouldn't open cleanly even after he'd dialed the proper combination.

"We could just try all possible combinations of letters until we find the right one," Graham offered.

"Do you know how many possibilities there are?" his brother Michael replied.  "Twenty-six to the fifth power.  Eleven million, eight hundred eighty-one thousand, three hundred seventy-six.  Even if we could try one combination every second without stopping, it would take us one hundred thirty-seven days, twelve hours, twenty-two minutes and fifty-six seconds to go through them all."

Michael stared at his middle son. No wonder he won the math award at school.

"Oh, yeah, smarty-pants?" Graham responded to his brother's impromptu display of mathematical prowess.  "Well, I'll bet you can't do this," Graham continued, lifting his right leg upward, hooking his right foot behind his neck and hopping around the room on his left foot.

"Why would I want to do that, you idiot?" his brother replied, laughing.

"Guys, guys," their father interjected.  "Quiet down.  Whatever the combination is, it probably represents something of significance to the People of the Southwind, some awesome mystery known only to them.  Why, this box could even hold the secret of the Holy Grail itself!"  He stared at the dials for a few more moments.  "What on earth could the combination be?" he whispered to himself.

"P-O-T-S-W," his wife suddenly said.

"Hmm?" her husband responded, looking up at her.

"P-O-T-S-W," she repeated.  "They're the People of the Southwind, this is a five-letter combination lock, the abbreviation of the song's title has five letters, those are the initials they use for public communications... it's worth a shot."

"You really think it would be something so obvious?" Michael replied.  "Anyone could just guess it."

"Well, if it's not, at least you'll know that you can skip 'P-O-T-S-W' when you come to it while you spend the next four months checking the other eleven million and some possibilities."

Michael looked again at the lock.  "Well, it is worth a shot," he said, as he slowly began moving the first dial to the letter 'P.'  In quick succession he moved the other dials to 'O,' 'T,' 'S' and 'W.'  "Here goes nothing," he said as he placed his thumb over the button and pressed down on it.

To his surprise, the button descended cleanly into the surface of the front of the box with a click, which was immediately followed by the sound of a spring-loaded mechanism releasing from inside the box as the lid popped upward slightly.  Some of the children gasped in amazement.

"You were right, honey," Michael said.  "I wouldn't have expected such an obvious combination, but you were right."

They all stood staring expectantly at the unlocked box, whose secrets were now within their reach.  Michael looked at his wife and children, who were standing around him in a semi-circle, as he placed his fingers under the lid.

"Let's see what's inside..."