L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future 34

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Please, señor. You’ve been so kind to me—I shouldn’t ask you for more, but grant me this one request, and I’ll never ask for anything again,” you say, and I hate that you feel you have to beg me for anything. “Please let me go to my parents.”

  I’d planned to tell you everything, actually. I’d planned to tell you that you’d died once, and who you’d been before you died. I planned to tell you that your soul had flown to the nearest vessel—your parents had been making love some ways down the mountain—but that I’d kept a piece of it, safe, for the day when you’re ready to hear all this. I’d planned to tell you that some months later, your father stole a mango from my tree and that I’d asked him to send you to me, someday in the distant future, in return. I’d planned to tell you that I couldn’t even make plans to tell you any of this since you first arrived, because I am a coward. Because I’ve been too afraid of what you’d say. Too afraid that you wouldn’t forgive me.

  Instead, I’m paralyzed by the outpouring of your emotions and the fear that you’ll never come back if I let you go. Yet I cannot be selfish any longer—we’re here in the first place because of me. I won’t stop you while you pack or as you exit the passage leading to the outside world.

  I slide my arms down in such a way that your grip on my wrists is dislodged. Your hands all but disappear in mine. Even your calluses are baby-soft compared to mine. Our gazes meet over my fingertips and their cracked nails. Tears give your eyes a glassy sheen; hope lights up your expression despite that. If only I could make it so that you’d never shed a tear again.

  I say, “Take all the time you need.”

  IX

  After you leave, I prepare to follow you. I’d always intended to follow you, to make sure that you reach your destination unharassed by drunken townspeople, lecherous friars, or suspicious Guardia Civil patrolmen. You’d reach your house, embrace your parents, and never know I was there.

  As I stride up the passageway leading out of my tree, I walk past one of Delonix’s trees and pat the trunk. “Take care of everything while I’m gone.”

  Aray! How would you like it if I whacked you square across the behind?

  I scowl, but keep walking. “You seem crankier than usual.”

  I’m a little sore. I gave Maria one of my saplings.

  “What for?”

  She said she was going to use them to mark her parents’ grave.

  That stops me midstride. “What?”

  You didn’t know? Delonix’s tone tilts subtly toward pitying. It takes much effort to refrain from kicking her. Maria was branded a seditionist and a revolutionary for spitting in the face of the haciendero who tried to claim her town’s farmlands. It’s likely that her parents were executed by the Guardia Civil for hiding her, or for failing to tell them where she went.

  I drag my hands through my hair in frustration and admiration. Why didn’t you tell me? I voice that question aloud, too.

  She didn’t know they were dead until she was shown that vision. And even then, she didn’t tell you the truth because she didn’t want you following her and getting hurt on her account.

  “Of course, I’d follow her!” I bellow. I could punch Delonix, but she’d make me pay for it later. “I—”

  You what? Delonix’s tone is colder than the December chill. Whatever you feel for her, she certainly doesn’t believe it if she knows it! Do you know nothing about women after all this time? They need to hear you say things before they can believe them!

  X

  My earlier fear of your never coming back, stirred by Delonix’s words, has me in its grip and lends urgency to every step. I cross the forest in the shape of a monkey swinging through the trees, and then a lone stallion galloping into the farmlands surrounding the town. Once in town, I become a dog and change course for the cemetery on a wooded hill to the north.

  There are no guardsmen posted by the cemetery gate, which immediately arouses my sense of foreboding. No one accosts me while I change into my old human form and amble through the gate as though I belong there.

  I soon learn why. In the corner of the cemetery reserved for unmarked graves, a dozen or so Guardia Civil, armed with rifles, have you backed against one of the angel-topped columns that break up the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence at intervals. You are the lone person dressed in black among a bunch of dark-blue uniforms. Your hands are raised above your head; farther above your head is a single firefly orb, which they will no doubt use against you as evidence of witchcraft. At your feet lie a black lace mantilla and a spade. A fire tree sapling is planted in a mound of freshly turned grave dirt not too far away. Clumps of dirt still lie in the surrounding grass.

  I change into a snake and slither to the back of the group.

  A tall, blond-bearded man is talking. The orb-light reveals a sharp profile with a nose that could cut and piercing blue eyes. His body shifts a little, showcasing three medals pinned just above where his heart would be. He is likely the Capitan of the Guardia Civil.

  “Binibining delos Reyes, long have we been searching for you,” he declares in heavily-accented Tagalog.

  “You must not have been searching very hard, Capitan,” you say with your characteristic boldness. “I’ve been close by all these months.”

  “You don’t seem to grasp the severity of your situation, binibini.” The Capitan’s expression is neutral as he speaks, but when his gaze drags over your person, it transforms into disbelief, and then outrage. “That’s Señorita Alonsa Chavez’s dress! So you are the thief! For certain you stole her bed, too!”

  “Yes, Capitan, because I am big and strong enough for such a task.”

  The Capitan wavers for a moment, then clears his throat. “Maria Esperanza Isabella delos Reyes y Dagdag, you are hereby under arrest for sedition against the crown of España—”

  “Such a weighty charge for someone who merely spat in the face of a petty haciendero stealing a poor town’s lands—”

  “—theft, resisting arrest—”

  The Capitan’s speech bores me, so I don’t let him finish. I change into a man, grab a rock bigger than my palm, and ram it against the back of a guardsman’s helmeted head. It makes a dent in the man’s helmet and he crumples like a fallen doll.

  The metallic clanking draws the attention—and the rifles—of the rest of the patrol. As the guardsman falls, I snatch his weapon and hit his neighbor in the gut with the rifle butt. He goes down faster than a bag of rice.

  “El cafre!” the Capitan shouts. “Bring him down, alive!”

  I yell, “Maria! Run!”

  I change into a cricket as I pounce for the nearest guardsman. He pats and pulls his uniform all over, and three of his comrades crowd round to help him. But I have already dived for the ground, changing into a snake as I do. I wrap myself around a pair of booted feet outside the circle of commotion and pull. The guardsman topples, taking everyone with him. His rifle accidentally fires, but the bullet hits the angel statue. I become a monkey and launch myself at another guardsman’s neck and use it to swing around and grab his rifle. The moment my simian fingers close over it, I am a man again, rolling on the ground. I swing the rifle at his legs and shoot another in the knee.

  And that’s when a bullet finally gets me in the shoulder. I drop the rifle and clutch the wound. It’s been a while since I smelled my own blood; I’m surprised the scent is still metallic, still human.

  “No!” you scream.

  I raise my head. A guardsman has your hands behind your back. Meanwhile, the Capitan and the rest of the patrol surrounds me, guns pointed, even most of those I tripped up. Eight men, in all.

  The Capitan examines me while the business end of his rifle is pointed between my eyes.

  “El esclavo, el monstruo, el demonio!” the Capitan spits. To you, he says, “Binibining delos Reyes, you will also be charged with assisting a runaway slave and witchcraft.�
��

  “He is a free man! Let him go!” you cry, to my surprise. Of all the things you could’ve said. It warms me to hear it, and my courage swells.

  “I think not,” the Capitan smoothly answers. “A demonio such as this is neither free nor a man. Who shall pay the largest sum for this wretched creature, I wonder? The friars? The militia? Perhaps even the Gobernador-General himself? I can only imagine what they would do with such hell spawn as this, however—”

  I grin at the Capitan. “If I may dispute something you said earlier, Capitan, given how much Señorita Chavez spends in your bed, she needed neither her own bed nor her dresses.”

  It is a stab in the dark, but it works. He goes red, as do you. Another shot hits its target, this time my thigh. I grunt, which turns into a groan as the Capitan plants his booted foot on the wound and presses down. The night I ran away from my former master is repeating itself.

  The Capitan leans forward and looks down his long nose at me. “I won’t kill you, but I need not sell you in one piece!” he says.

  Someone else groans, and we all turn toward the source. The guardsman holding you is a writhing ball on the ground, one hand on his foot and the other on his groin. As the Capitan turns his rifle on you, to my infinite surprise, you tug the necklace off so hard that it snaps—and smash the pendant against the column behind you.

  The cemetery is flooded with light.

  When it recedes, some guardsmen are on the ground while the others stagger between graves like drunkards. All are shouting and clutching their faces.

  “My eyes, my eyes!”

  “I can’t see!”

  “Dios mio! Help! Help!”

  And in the midst of it all, you stand there radiant in white, flowers in your hair, power crackling at your fingertips, the orb haloing your head. Awe and pride bloom within me, a natural reaction every time I see you. Some things just don’t change.

  While they stumble about, you remove the bullets and close the wounds of the men who’ve been shot because you don’t believe in unnecessary death no matter your form. Then you stand up and flex your fingers.

  The ground trembles as the sapling grows into a sturdy tree before my very eyes. Branches as wide as a man and pliable as vines, with each movement creaking like ships and cracking like thunder, knock out the remaining guards with solid conks to their heads. They wrap themselves around the limp bodies and pin them to the wrought-iron fence, the Capitan last of all. What I’d give to see their faces once they awaken.

  Yet my own vision is swimming, clouding, blackening. The last thing I see is you turning to me, running, kneeling at my side.

  As my eyes close, I swear I hear you call out my name.

  XI

  I wake with a start in my own grove, no longer bleeding or in pain. I can’t be blamed for thinking that everything that happened in the cemetery was a dream, or that I’d died. But neither situation is true. There is a slight pucker of a scar on my shoulder and its twin is on my thigh, both a lighter green than my skin. They twinge slightly when I stretch and when I walk, and I know they will be there no matter what form I take. My mind is on you, however.

  Once I step out of the grove, Delonix says, Finally. I thought another day and night would pass with you unconscious.

  He’s awake! He’s awake! Hundreds of flowers rustle and echo.

  “Where is Maria?” I ask at large. Again, hundreds of voices make themselves heard, all with wildly different answers. But one voice speaks above them all.

  “I’m here,” you say.

  Stray giggles and whispers punctuate the sort-of hush that falls over the flora. I spin in the direction of your voice and drop to one knee, my heart pounding in my throat. I want to catch you in my arms and kiss you and dance all at once—but your face is blank, and what’s more, it will take three long strides to get to you. Why are you standing so far away? Are you angry with me?

  You close the distance between us by two strides. “Why do you kneel? Stand up.”

  “You are the diwata of the mountain,” I say, as if that will explain it.

  “Is that all I am to you?” There is something in your question that makes me look up, wondering, hopeful. You hold your hand out as I do; my cowrie shell necklace, undamaged and completely whole, dangles from your fingers as you say, “This is yours.”

  You’re both Maria the diwata of the mountain and Maria the human woman. Everything and nothing has changed. I feel as if magic lingers where your fingers brush mine when I take the necklace from you and put it on. To distract myself, I ask you, “How long have you known that the white stone was in the necklace?”

  Your dark eyes bore into mine. I feel a little faint, but hold my ground. “Only when you gave it to me, and I had that vision.”

  “It seemed like you never really wanted it.”

  “I admit that I would’ve wanted to know about my parents sooner. But some part of me also didn’t want to know. Besides, you’re grumpy but kind. You didn’t treat me like a servant or a slave. I’d have been an idiot to leave such good conditions.”

  Is that the only reason you didn’t leave, though? I’m disappointed, but I try not to show it. “And how long have you known about what the stone can do?”

  “A week or two? Although small, strange things have been happening to me all my life: I could grow crops quicker, soothe the farm animals better, and any injuries healed unusually fast. What Delonix didn’t hint, I pieced together.”

  “You told her?” I raise my voice so that Delonix would know I was speaking to her.

  She said hint. I only hinted. Besides, you weren’t going to hint or reveal a thing, Delonix said.

  Not a thing! Not a thing! So secretive for no reason! The flowers whisper-scream.

  “Good point,” I concede.

  “My turn to ask questions,” you say. “Why didn’t you just tell me about any of this?”

  For the first time since we started talking, I look away, down at my own huge, gnarled toes. I clench my fists. “I … I couldn’t. You weren’t ready to hear it, at first. And when you were … I still wasn’t ready to say it. I was afraid you’d never forgive me. I’m a fool and a coward, Maria.”

  You say nothing for a long while, which makes me think that you are angry with me. I won’t blame you if you leave and never come back. Instead, your bare feet pad into view; I’m surprised when I feel your soft palms on either side of my face. I lift my gaze, startled by your nearness.

  “Hmph. Well, you could’ve avoided getting shot if you’d just stayed home. I would’ve smashed the necklace anyway and handled the Guardia Civil by myself.” For the first time since we started talking, you smile, and it lights up your eyes. Perhaps you even feel the rapid beating of my heart; every part of my body certainly does.

  “I don’t doubt that you would have,” I say. In spite of myself, my lips spread into a grin.

  “Sweet talker.” Your hand trails down my face, down my neck, to the scar on my shoulder, causing a shudder to travel down my spine. You’re wearing a small frown, however, as you examine the pale scar. “I had every intention of telling you about my parents once I returned from marking their grave,” you say as you trace its grooves. “But I didn’t plan beyond that. The risk of me getting caught was too great.”

  A single tear tumbles down your cheek. I think your parents would’ve been proud—as proud as I am, if not prouder—if they could see you now, and I say so. I catch another tear on the tip of my finger. You wipe the rest with the back of your hand.

  “You weren’t meant to follow me,” you continue, resting your fist over the scar. “I didn’t want you getting hurt. It was like the night we met all over again.”

  “How is it that you still don’t understand?” I press my hand over yours, flattening it against my chest. If you hadn’t felt my heartbeat before, you most certainly do now. “I would have fol
lowed you either way.”

  It’s your turn to gaze down at my feet now. I rest my forehead atop your head and inhale its sweet coconut-and-calachuchi smell. My other hand circles your waist and pulls you closer.

  I hear the flowers holding their breath. Some are squealing as quietly as they can. I’m too lost in these moments with you to care.

  “Do you prefer me looking like a human?” I ask.

  Your gaze meets mine. Our noses, our lips, are suddenly much closer. “Ezequiel, you idiot,” you say, your tears streaming, and although your voice is a touch irritated, I am thrilled to hear it saying my name, at last. “I prefer you. I’ve told you that countless times in different ways!”

  I laugh, and as I do, I change into my human form and stop the transformation halfway. Greenish hues play against the black skin, and my hands and feet are of differing sizes. You giggle. Nothing’s changed, and it’s more than I deserve.

  As I change back, I blurt, “Maria. I’m sorry—about everything.”

  Your eyes fall on my lips. Your fingers are already trailing over them. “I already forgave you a long time ago.”

  I take your chin and kiss you so softly, our lips barely touch at all. This is not the kiss I was hoping for on our first meeting in such a long time, but it is appropriate, given your mix of emotions.

  But then you throw your arms around my neck and kiss me harder, longer. My disappointment melts away, as does time. You taste like rain after a long drought and sunshine and salt tears.

  I missed you.

  I realize that the flowers are cheering when we part.

  Finally, you two!

  Well, it’s about time!

  I almost wilted from the suspense!

  You take my hand and tug on it, gesturing down the path. Cheerfully, you say, “Come on, Ezequiel, those farmers could use a little nudge.”

  I know what you’re thinking. “Toward the fires of revolution?”

  “And then some.”

  Always jumping in to help others. It’s one of the things I love about you. But it’s been so long, and just this once I’d like to be the only one on your mind. I tug your hand in the direction of my grove; you let yourself fall back into my arms, giving me the opportunity to plant three slow kisses down your neck. “Couldn’t the fires of revolution wait until morning?”