Earth Sentinels Collection

by Elizabeth M Herrera

  “He told me there is a silver bell hidden in the dirt floor under the window. He buried it as a child, thinking it would bring luck. But does it matter? I’m offering your life back. Take it!”

  The boy discussed the news with his mother. She nodded. He relayed her decision, “We will take it.”

  Mahakanta’s Farm

  EIGHT PEOPLE, INCLUDING the driver, were packed inside a mid-size taxi speeding toward Mahakanta’s farm. Farmers in the fields watched the yellow car drive by, leaving a trail of dust. When they reached the farm, the driver parked in the shade of an old banyan tree. Everyone got out, stretching their legs. The girls ran around the house playing. A neighbor woman came over to greet Mahakanta’s wife, who cried with happiness at seeing a familiar face.

  With Zachary beside him, Mahakanta’s son walked into the empty house. The teary-eyed boy proceeded to the window where a ray of sunshine marked the spot. He hunkered down, digging in the soil with his bare hands. Faster and faster he dug, suddenly stopping. Gently probing with his fingers, he pulled out a rusty tin. Holding his breath, he opened the lid, peering inside. A tarnished silver bell was inside. He stared in amazement at the symbol of his father’s past hope. Tears ran down his cheeks as he held it close to his heart.

  Zachary left the house to give the boy privacy. When he stepped outside, Marilyn, Larry and Mahakanta’s wife stared at him, anxiously waiting for him to indicate whether the bell had been found or not. He nodded.

  The wife raised her arms, shouting at the sky in her native tongue, “Thank you, Mahakanta!”

  The moneylenders came the next day, meeting with Zachary’s parents to settle the debt for $825 in US dollars—a paltry sum by American standards. In addition, the Thompsons gave Mahakanta’s family money to buy traditional seeds, a pair of oxen, a cart, and still have enough left over for a tough season. It was agreed that they would never use the “magic seeds” again.

  Japan

  SMOKING A LONG-stemmed pipe, Haruto gazed out the window. Her thoughts were interrupted when a young woman informed her that the next client had arrived. Haruto nodded, walking over to a table set against the back wall. There, she emptied the tobacco from her pipe into a brass urn, closing the lid to seal in the smoke.

  A man strolled through the door, standing boldly in the middle of the room. “Nice place you got here, Haruto.”

  Recognizing the voice, she spun around. Overcome with emotion, she rushed toward Billy and he moved toward her. They came together, embracing. Billy stepped back and peered into her eyes. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”

  “How did you find me?” asked Haruto in stilted English, astounded by his presence.

  He took out his wallet, pulling out a piece of torn newspaper. Printed on it was an advertisement featuring the grand opening of the yoga and meditation center, complete with photos of the Mikos. “Very twenty-first century!” he commented, “And nice photo! I see some of the women offer massages. I might get one of those!”

  Haruto smacked him on the arm. “I will be the only one giving you massage!” she insisted, then blushed, realizing the implication of her words.

  Without saying a word, Billy went to the door and locked it. With a devilish gleam in his eyes, he returned to her, sweeping her into his arms, kissing her passionately.

  Outside the temple, the birds sang, ignoring the devastated nuclear plant billowing steam in the distance.

  Searching for Conchita

  IN THE FARMHOUSE kitchen, Zachary sat at the table with his parents explaining his newest plan.

  Larry reiterated, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. After you turn eighteen, you want to go to Peru and wander through a rainforest filled with hostile tribes that have never seen a white man to search for Conchita. By yourself!”

  “Yes! She’ll have her father spread the word among the tribes to keep an eye out for a light-skinned young man…asking them not to hurt me.”

  “Son, I’m beginning to think you have a death wish.”

  “I like to think of it as not being afraid to live!”

  Thirty-nine days later, a toucan warily studied Zachary and his two hired guides traveling through the rainforest. The guides were a last-minute addition, which so far had proven to be a good decision. The men were familiar with the forest, provided protection, and spoke both English and the native tongue. Zachary carried a backpack stuffed with life-saving gadgets, as well as a mini popup tent that the guides found humorous.

  It had been three days since they first set out into the jungle, and although the heat and humidity were oppressive, they were fortunate it was the dry season, because that meant there were fewer mosquitoes and the trails were more accessible.

  A monkey hooted. Leaves rustled. The guides warily scanned their surroundings.

  Through the forest, a shout echoed, “Zach…car…ree!” Conchita stepped out of the shadows with a baby monkey perched on her shoulder. Next to her was Pahtia and three tribesmen with painted faces holding spears.

  Zachary’s heart skipped a beat, overwhelmed with excitement and relief at finding Conchita, but fearful of the men staring menacingly at him.

  Thump. Something hit Zachary on the head. A piece of fruit bounced on the ground. Rubbing his head, he peered into the trees searching for the culprit.

  A Capuchin monkey with a scar across his face sat on a branch hooting and pointing.

  Conchita and the men laughed at the primate’s mischievous spirit.

  Zachary ignored the hostile fruit tosser and set down his backpack. Gathering his courage, he walked past the men to approach Conchita. The baby monkey jumped to Pahtia’s shoulder as Zachary leaned in to kiss Conchita on the cheek, wrapping his arms around her, silently thanking the universe for manifesting his greatest desire.

  Pahtia shouted a command. Startled, Zachary let go of Conchita. Pahtia repeated the command, but Zachary couldn’t understand him. Without the benefit of the spirit realm, they weren’t able to communicate.

  One of the guides translated Pahtia’s words, “He said, ‘You get married today or go away.’”

  Zachary glanced at Conchita, who smiled shyly, then he looked back at the trail. Thoughts of never seeing his parents again or enjoying modern conveniences ran through his mind. Phones, refrigerators, video games, cars. But the jungle’s lush foliage, exotic birds and monkeys beckoned him—although the fruit tosser was a dubious character. At that moment, Zachary knew he would never be happy sitting in a college classroom or working in a cubicle. He turned his head toward Conchita and smiled. To demonstrate his acceptance of the “proposal”, he kissed Conchita on the lips. The men cheered! There would be a celebration tonight!

  The two guides bid him farewell.

  “Wait!” Zachary rummaged through his backpack, pulling out an envelope and a sheet of paper. He took a minute to jot down a message, then sealed it in an envelope, handing it to one of the guides along with some money, asking him to mail it when he returned to town.

  The guide nodded his head.

  Zachary watched the guides disappear into the jungle, heading back to the outside world. For a brief second, he was tempted to follow them, but when he turned around, admiring his beautiful bride-to-be, the urge passed. He clasped her hand, ready to begin a new life in the mysterious world of the rainforest.

  The Letter

  ON A COLD January night, Marilyn and Larry lounged on the couch, enjoying the warmth from the flames crackling over the logs in the stone fireplace. The dogs lay near the hearth while their newest member, Buddy, rested his muzzle on Larry’s lap.

  Zachary’s mother glanced at the open envelope lying on the coffee table.

  “Read it again,” Larry requested.

  She reached over, tenderly taking out the letter, reading it aloud, “Dear Mom and Dad, I found Conchita! We will be married! Wish you luck on the farm. Love, Zachary.”

  Marilyn cried, pressing her face into her husband’s chest. He tried to comfort her, saying, “He’s safe an
d happy. That’s all a parent can hope for, and look on the bright side, he’ll be bilingual and a father soon!”

  His words upset Marilyn even more. She sobbed, “I may never see my grandkids!” After a while, she calmed down, peering at her husband with cheeks glistening from tears. “At least he’s happy. He’s probably hunting game and hanging from trees. What more could a boy ask for?”

  With a bit of wistfulness, Larry whispered, “Indeed.”

  OF STARS AND CLAY, BOOK II

  In the clay, god and man

  Shall be bound,

  To a unity brought together;

  So that to the end of days

  The flesh and the soul

  Which in a god have ripened –

  That soul in a blood-kinship be bound.

  — Sumerian Tablet

  Our creators were alien geneticists,

  Claiming to be gods.

  We were made to be slaves,

  Formed out of stars and clay,

  Abused offspring who blindly obeyed,

  Generation after generation,

  Until the gods fought, and then left,

  Leaving us mired with the fallen ones and serpents,

  Who took their place.

  But their numbers dwindled,

  Under the harsh sun and earth’s vibration.

  So they fled beneath the surface,

  Scraping out an existence,

  Using humans for subsistence,

  Controlling the minds of the masses,

  Controlling the ruling classes.

  They still exist, but,

  Now the battle has begun anew,

  As the serpent fights for supremacy,

  Manipulating our genes,

  Altering the vessel to suit their needs,

  Taking the final step,

  For total domination.

  Amazon Jungle

  THE DAY THE world changed forever seemed like an ordinary day in the heart of the Amazon jungle where a handful of tribesmen fished along the shore of the mossy-green river.

  Takwa, the tribe’s best hunter, brought a gourd to his mouth, taking a long guzzle of the fermented brew, chicha, contained within. The colorful feathers in his hair hung back. Red-and-black lines were painted on his bare chest and arms. After quenching his thirst, he let out a satisfied sigh, passing the gourd to the man next to him. It was then that Takwa looked to the sky. A passenger plane flew high overhead, leaving behind an iridescent exhaust trail. He pointed at it. “Look!”

  All of the tribesmen stared at the strange flying beast. They didn’t often see an airliner this far from civilization.

  Standing among them was a young man named Zachary, who was notably different from the others—tall and lanky with sandy-blond hair, and fair skin that was perpetually sunburned. He had no painted lines on his body, and instead of a loincloth, he wore cut-off jeans and a ragged t-shirt with a Pittsburgh Steelers logo on it. He put his hand to his forehead to shield his green eyes from the sun as he gazed at the plane. He frowned because he knew the exhaust fumes weren’t normal. The pearly sheen of the far-reaching trail made it obvious that something was amiss—at least to him.

  Farther from the shore, wandering alone through the scrub was the tribe’s shaman, Pahtia, an older man with gray hair who was searching for the herb Pau D’arco, which, when found, would be cut and dried, and then used at a later date as a remedy for warding off infections. He stopped his quest when he noticed his fellow tribesmen staring at the sky. Curious, Pahtia hobbled through the underbrush, making his way to the riverbank where the jungle canopy gave way to the open skies. He stood behind the other men, leaning on his staff while studying the plane’s exhaust trail that reflected the colors of the rainbow. He muttered, “Bad omen.”

  Zachary overheard his father-in-law’s comment and felt he was right, but, at that moment, a fish nibbled on his bait. The young man jerked on the line, swiftly sinking the hook into the mouth of an impressive-sized Pacu—one of the best-tasting fish in the Amazon. The fish fought for its life, wriggling out of the water, shimmering in the sunlight before plunging back into the depths.

  The other men salivated at the thought of roasting the delicious Pacu, wrapped in banana leaves, over an open fire.

  “Careful!” one of the men shouted.

  “Not too fast,” another advised.

  Takwa tried to steal the line from Zachary’s hand. “Let me do it.” But Zachary resisted. It was his fish. Takwa gave up, but stood nearby, disgruntled.

  The Pacu flipped and flopped, desperate to free itself, causing the line to spin off the stick that served as the fishing pole. Zachary rewound the line, trying to exhaust the fish. His amateurish technique frustrated the other men.

  The stakes were raised when a fourteen-foot Black Caiman noticed the commotion. The prehistoric creature slid into the river, gliding toward an easy meal. Although caimans, like alligators and crocodiles, were not usually a threat to grown men, preferring smaller game and fish, one could never be too careful, so Zachary kept an eye on the encroaching beast as well as his fish.

  No longer a passive bystander, Pahtia warned his son-in-law, “Hurry up! Or you will lose it!”

  Sweat ran down Zachary’s forehead. Too fast. Too slow. He tightened the line.

  The caiman swished its tail more vigorously, closing the gap, its primordial eyes and ridged spine cutting through the rippling waters. Then the reptile submerged.

  The tribesmen knew the caiman would attack from below.

  “Pull!” yelled Pahtia.

  Zachary yanked the line, causing it to cut into his fingers. The fish flew into the air, bounding toward the shore. Everyone’s eyes followed the glistening Pacu. The line slackened as it soared. And as it did, Zachary envisioned himself being the one to bring in the prize catch of the day. However, his dreams of grandeur died a quick death when the caiman lunged out of the water, opening its tooth-riddled jaws, consuming the entire fish and cutting the line before splashing back into the river.

  The men groaned.

  “You will never fit in,” Takwa said.

  Pahtia sighed and shook his head, but then he noticed the blood running down Zachary’s fingers. The healer knew the cut could fester in this hot humid rainforest, easily turning into a life-threatening infection. Not wanting his daughter’s scorn, he reluctantly offered to help the young man. “Come with me.”

  Zachary hung his head low with indignation. He hated relying on Pahtia for anything, but it was better than staying here among the other men. Takwa’s contempt was obvious even with his back toward him.

  Pahtia shuffled along, his staff steadying his gait as he led Zachary down a narrow path that meandered through dense foliage, tangled vines and ancient trees, heading toward his hut on the outskirts of the village. Few tribe members visited the shaman there. Most only came to see him when they were sick or needed guidance. His powers scared them a bit. After all, if he had the power to heal, didn’t he also have the power to make them sick? Or worse? But this arrangement suited Pahtia just fine. He was happiest away from the others. He liked being undisturbed while hunting for herbs or journeying to the spirit realm. He knew that one could only clearly hear the spirits’ voices when the mind was quiet.

  As the two of them neared their destination, a flock of blue-headed parrots scattered. From an overhead branch, a toucan studied them, its observant button eyes peering past its enormous black-tipped orange beak. Squirrel monkeys, hidden in the trees, hooted.

  The shaman’s thatched-roof hut came into view. Its walls were made out of bamboo slats spaced evenly apart. The gaps let the breezes flow through. They also allowed Pahtia to detect if anyone was approaching, yet still gave him some measure of privacy. Inside, dried wild flowers, roots and herbs were tacked to the walls while others hung from the ceiling. Some fresh gatherings were spread across the worktable.

  Pahtia instructed Zachary to sit near the ash-filled fire pit, then walked to the back of the hut where he rummaged throu
gh his assorted botanicals, selecting a few leaves and roots, placing them in a stone bowl. He added a splash of chicha, then began grinding the ingredients together.

  Meanwhile, Zachary sat staring out the doorway, thinking about the ill-boding plane trail. “Pahtia?”

  The old man stopped mixing, looking up. Deep creases surrounded his eyes.

  “Why don’t we visit Bechard and ask him about the plane?” Zachary asked.

  “Never again! That spirit tricked us.”

  “He meant well.”

  Pahtia shook his head. “He holds a darkness in his heart.” He tapped his chest to emphasize his point.

  “Pahtia?”

  With a touch of irritation, he answered, “Yes?”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about the plane.”

  “I know.” The shaman walked toward Zachary carrying the stone bowl. He sat down to finish mixing the compound.

  “What should we do?”

  “I am not sure. I will visit Maka later. She always has good advice.” Pahtia was referring to his spirit guide, who helped him with healings, divination and guidance on physical, mental and spiritual matters. The man gathered a clump of the smelly herbal remedy with his gnarled fingers. “This will go on your wound to keep it from getting infected so Conchita will not be mad at me.” He added, “You can die from infection, you know.”

  Zachary sighed. “Yes, I know.” He hated being treated like a complete idiot.

  Pahtia shaped the clump into a ball, casually mentioning, “When I die, I will shapeshift into a great caiman.” His eyes gleamed as he imagined reincarnating as this noble beast. “Maybe next time, I will take your fish.” He let out a rare chuckle, annoying his son-in-law, and then hummed while applying the fresh salve to the young man’s injured fingers.

  Zachary winced.

  Pahtia smiled.

  Too embarrassed to return to the river, Zachary went home to his wife, Conchita, who stood in their hut cradling their infant son. Her long black hair hung over her face as she gazed down at the baby while singing a traditional lullaby. The moment Zachary saw them, he forgot all about the failed fishing incident.