The Copper Egg

by Catherine Friend

  Uncle and Auntie moaned. Ixchel slipped down the alleyway and into the nearest llama stall. She moved toward one of the llamas that knew her, so he barely stirred as she pressed against him. She inhaled his warm fur and wrapped her arms around his sturdy neck. Fear clutched at her. What did this all mean?

  It took Claire longer to come out of this vision. It seemed the more traumatized Ixchel was, the deeper Claire’s connection to the vision. But of course, even though it was dark, Ixchel had never looked skyward. She’d been too busy eavesdropping on the conversation. But if Ixchel never looked up, Claire would never have a clear view of the stars that might help her pin down a location.

  Her phone chirped once, but she ignored it, trying to remember the years of her childhood when the only way people could reach you was by landline. That meant if a person were in a foreign country, in a hotel, the chances of the whole world finding you was slim. You could actually take a break from the normal misery called “life.” Now, in addition to hating the egg, Claire hated her phone.

  It chirped again, insistent. This time she looked. It was another photo, this one so dark she had to squint at the screen. She ran it through her photo editor and lightened it.

  The photo was of an elderly woman tied to a red, wooden chair sitting precariously on a mountainside, on the verge of tumbling down the steep slope. Claire studied the photo.

  Mima! Holy shit. She was bound and gagged, and leaning back as far as she could to prevent the chair from falling forward. A second text came with GPS coordinates.

  Claire called Sochi immediately.

  “Mima’s gone!” Sochi cried.

  “I know. I just received this photo and these coordinates.” She forwarded them both. “Meet me there.”

  Claire didn’t have time to call Nancho or a cab, so Señora Nunez, the owner of the hotel, gave her the keys to a high-mileage Honda Civic. The coordinates led Claire southeast of town and up a narrow road into the foothills. There was nothing at the coordinates but a short widening of the road. She stopped and got out.

  Two minutes later, Sochi screamed up in her battered Hyundai. She leapt from her car, and even through Claire’s fog of fear for Mima she noted Sochi wore a smoking hot skirt with a tight blouse. Her worn boots meant she was ready to hike clear across the Andes to rescue her grandmother. “Is she here?”

  “No, but Higuchi considers himself an imaginative geocacher.”

  “Higuchi took her?”

  “I’ll explain later. Look for clues or something that will give us the next coordinates.” They waded through tall grass, looked up into the nearby trees, but nothing. They returned to the cars. That’s when Claire saw it off in the grass. “Look. Fake rock.”

  Sochi flew to the rock and lifted it to find a piece of paper. “Another GPS location.”

  Claire entered the coordinates into her phone. “Okay.” She pointed up the pathway. “We go up.”

  They climbed over rocky patches, through meadows filled with white-yellow grasses and scolding birds. They climbed through stretches of forest and areas that were nothing but rocks. Finally, in the shade of a stand of trees, Claire stopped. “We’re here.” Because GPS can only get you within five to ten meters of a precise location, they had to do the rest of the work on their own. They began searching through the brush, not knowing if they sought another clue, or Mima herself.

  “Mima!” Sochi called. They both held their breath and waited. “Mima!”

  A sound came from their left.

  Sochi whirled in that direction, flew through the trees and out onto the edge of a steep slope, with Claire right behind her. Halfway down the slope, which was covered in unstable rocks, sat Mima in the red wooden chair.

  Slowly, they picked their way down the hill. It felt like an hour, but probably only took fifteen minutes. In that time the front legs of the chair had sunk deeper into the rocks, and Mima was seconds from a nose dive. When Claire and Sochi finally reached her, they each grabbed a side of the chair and began ascending. Back on solid ground, they lowered the chair. Sochi undid the gag while Claire worked on the ropes around Mima’s hands and feet.

  When the gag was off, such a stream of cursing came from the small woman that Claire was actually grateful she didn’t speak Quechua. Every fourth or fifth word was Spanish, however, so she managed to pick up much of her fury. “A child! They pick me up like a child! No, like a child’s dolly! How disrespectful they were.”

  Claire massaged Mima’s wrists. “Japanese-Peruvians?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “They should have more respect for their elders. Look at my suit. It is ruined.” Grass and dirt stained the pale silk, and the jacket sleeves had ripped. “When I get my hands on those young men I am going to cut off their balls!” She flipped the chair upside down, rested the seat on her head, and began stomping back down the trail.

  Claire heaved a huge sigh, but was too shaky to follow. “Thank God.”

  Sochi’s usually caramel skin was pale as ash. “No, thank you.”

  “Girls! Come!”

  They started down the trail, Claire in front. In just a few minutes, Sochi touched her shoulder. “It wasn’t me.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “We’re going to do this now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay, fine. But it was you. You wanted revenge because I wouldn’t stay in Peru.” Claire struggled to tame her quavering voice. “You told the press so my humiliation would be as public as possible.”

  “That is beyond stupid.”

  “It had to be you. We were alone.”

  “It was not me. I loved you.”

  “But you weren’t willing to leave Peru.”

  “And you weren’t willing to stay.”

  Claire stopped walking, stunned. “But my letter…”

  “Yeah, so moving. A blank sheet of paper with “Good Riddance” printed in the middle. Clearly you didn’t regret abandoning me. You didn’t miss me.”

  Claire gasped. “Of course I missed you. It was like having an organ removed without anesthesia. But I…my letter…” Her stomach began churning.

  “I did not do it. Do you hear me? I did not do it.”

  Claire wanted to fall into those blue pools and forgive, but she was so confused she could barely speak.

  “Girls! Come!”

  Claire stumbled down the path, then whirled on Sochi. “You burned my letter.”

  “Your letter burned me.”

  Claire couldn’t describe how it felt to actually talk with Sochi. It confused her, much like a churning river made things too cloudy to see anything.

  They reached the parking area, where Mima was angrily cramming her chair into the back of Sochi’s car. Claire was having trouble wrapping her mind around the truth—Sochi had received a different letter, not the one Claire had written.

  She stood there, unable to move. “I don’t know what to do with this information, but Sochi, you received the wrong letter. I apologized. I offered to remain in Peru.”

  Sochi drew back as if Claire had slapped her. “What?”

  They weren’t criers, either of them. They just stood, stiff as trees, arms at their sides, tears tracking down their dusty faces.

  Mima was suddenly there, small and dark and concerned. She placed one hand on Sochi’s chest, the other on Claire’s. “Oh, my loves. I know the heart seems the most vulnerable part of our bodies, the most easily broken, but the heart really is the strongest part of each of us. The heart always recovers. It’s built that way.” She stopped and tapped their foreheads. “It’s the mind that stores the hurt and anger and betrayal. When the mind lets go, the heart heals. It’s that simple. Now I want to go home and clean up.”

  Claire watched her stride back to the Hyundai. “That woman is brilliant.”

  Sochi nodded, then said, straight-faced, “She gets it from me.”

  As Claire’s cheek twitched into a reluctant smile, her knees gave out and she leaned against he
r car for support. She gets it from me. Hudson loved Claire’s office because it was so clean. When people complimented Claire on that, he’d grin and say, “She gets it from me.”

  That day, when Claire had been composing the most important apology she’d ever written, she’d been running in and out of her office. Hudson was in and out as well since she had a better printer. She’d left the letter on her desk. He could have read it. Learned about the voices.

  Sochi and Mima drove away without looking back. The scene unfolded in Claire’s head, clear as a movie. Hudson had recognized the opportunity to get rid of Claire in order to get her job. All he had to do was replace her letter with Good Riddance and seal the envelope, thereby sealing the fate of Claire’s relationship with Sochi.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Claire

  Friday, March 31

  The first thing Claire did once Sochi and Mima drove away was call Hudson. No answer. She left a terse message: Call me. She texted the same message. Years ago, Sochi had told her that Hudson had envied her job as subdirector. Hudson was fond of telling Claire, “You have such mad skills that everyone wants to be you, even me.”

  Sochi might have been right. Hudson could have sabotaged Claire’s relationship with Sochi to get her job. She hadn’t known Hudson was capable of that. Her heart died a little, but then she forced herself to wait until he could explain. Innocent until proven guilty.

  Since she had Señora Nunez’s car, Claire drove herself to the shaman. Now that she wasn’t hearing voices all the time, she felt more capable of both navigating and driving. The independence felt good.

  She double-checked the address on the southern outskirts of Trujillo. Yup, this was it.

  The short, compact man who opened the door looked nothing like a shaman. Dressed in loose trousers, sandals, and a faded blue T-shirt, Julio Rojas could have been a campesino just home from work in the avocado groves. His cropped hair was shot with gray.

  “You are Julio?”

  “I am.”

  “The shaman?” came out before she could stop herself.

  “You were expecting a feather headdress perhaps, and a bone rattle?”

  She grimaced, totally busted. “I’m guessing you don’t dance around the house chanting.”

  “Not unless someone pays me to do it.” His wide, infectious grin revealed yellowed teeth. “Right now I’m having a beer and listening to Bob Marley. Care to join me?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  The small front room was sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, all with peeling yellow paint, a faded orange recliner, and a massive flat screen TV.

  Julio laughed when he caught her quick glance at the TV. “My diverse spirituality extends to soccer and Jose de la Vega’s cooking show.”

  “And reggae.” Claire sat in one of the wooden chairs as Julio settled in across from her. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.” The house smelled of cinnamon.

  “I give spiritual guidance to all, even godless Americans.” He winked, deepening the crow’s feet defining his eyes.

  “I’ve studied many of Peru’s ancient cultures, and I worked at Chan Chan for a number of years, but I don’t really know what a shaman does.”

  Julio cocked his head, his lined face kind. “Ah, yes. You are the Tomb Whisperer.”

  She flushed. In the background, Marley sang rhythmically about getting together and being all right. “I no longer hear voices.”

  “I am glad for you, since it must have been exhausting. Clearly, the San Pedro no longer affects you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Shamans speak to the spirits of our ancestors using San Pedro.”

  “You do that often?”

  “No. Drugs really mess you up. Most blessings I perform without altering my mind. Before men dig at a site, I make a payment of coca leaves or tobacco, asking the spirits of the tomb about to be disturbed that they protect the men against landslides, and that they produce much treasure.”

  “You know all the looters and where they work?”

  “I believe that information falls under shaman-client privilege.”

  “But what about La Bruja? I thought women made a tomb’s spirits angry.”

  “Not La Bruja. Her motivation is different from men who only wish to pillage.” He folded his hands on the table. “But enough about my night job. I only use the San Pedro during Holy Week, which is kind of like your American Super Bowl. It’s a big deal. I might perform ten to fifteen ceremonies that week, traveling from dig to dig.” He chuckled. “I’m basically high all week.”

  “You do this at looting sites.”

  Julio gave a noncommittal shrug. “Families bring pots of food and jugs of sweet corn liquor. I use San Pedro to request that the spirits draw ancient pottery to the surface so people can more easily dig it up. As you know, Peru’s ancient past is never far from the surface.”

  Claire reached into her pocket. “That’s why I’m here.” She held out her hand, revealing the three eggs.

  “Chimú,” Julio said.

  She explained about the box and mysterious note claiming the eggs came from King Chaco’s tomb. Then, trusting that a shaman would know she wasn’t crazy, Claire told him about the visions.

  He leaned forward. “Fascinating. Is it as if you are watching a play?”

  “No, it’s as if I’m actually Ixchel, seeing the play through her eyes. I don’t know the language but the meaning goes straight to my core. I’m not translating.”

  “Do you experience all the senses?”

  “I felt mist from the surf, and once, when Ixchel touched Cualli’s hair, I could feel it was thick and clean. But why am I having these visions?”

  Julio picked up the copper egg and closed his fist. They both stared at his hand for a minute, then he returned the egg. “I experience nothing. For some reason, the egg has chosen you.”

  “But am I seeing reality or am I just dreaming? What if I’m making it all up?”

  “The ancient world beneath our feet is separated from us only by a few shovelfuls of sand. The spirit world all around us is separated from us by only a thin curtain. Souls still walk among us, not conscious, but as ghostly proof they existed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When the sea turtle crosses hard-packed sand, what does she leave behind?”

  “Not much, I guess. Maybe a swiggle from her tail, or a claw mark.”

  “Precisely. The sign is small, yet you still know a sea turtle has passed this way. As we live our lives our souls leave behind signs of our existence. You are somehow able to breach this curtain between present and past. You are seeing—or rather, experiencing—the ‘swiggle’ or ‘claw mark’ that Ixchel left behind.”

  Claire pursed her lips. “It seems too fantastical.”

  “You are trying to analyze this rationally, but most of life’s mysteries cannot be rationalized. The gods are giving you a great gift. Do not fear it.”

  “But I still don’t understand. Why me? Why Ixchel?”

  “I do not know for sure. Perhaps you are being given some sort of message. Something in Ixchel’s life might prove valuable in your own.”

  She fingered the copper egg. “Ixchel’s father made the egg. Her aunt and uncle insisted she carry it with her at all times. Uncle said it would save her life one day.” Then, with an electrifying tingle, her hand closed over the egg.

  Ixchel shook. Wind whipped her hair into her face. “I am doomed. The administrator will keep coming for me.”

  Cualli held Ixchel, her breath warm on her neck. “No, I will keep you safe.”

  “You live within the city walls. I am outside them, so he can find me.”

  Cualli’s deep brown eyes calmed her. “No, when the time comes, you and I will leave together. The Chimú live all along the coast. We will go to another city and be safe, together.”

  “But what of Tochi?”

  “We understand each other.”

  Ixchel h
eld her. “I will go anywhere with you.”

  They settled back against the rocks as surf licked at their toes. Ixchel was determined to find a way to be together. If only the administrator would leave her alone. At least, if things went very wrong, she had her father’s copper egg. But how could a copper egg possibly protect her?

  Claire opened her eyes. The light in the house was fading with dusk, but Julio didn’t switch on a lamp. Softened by the shadows, his brow was furrowed in concern. She understood now why the locals put their faith in this man.

  “You have had a vision?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Not much happened. That’s the problem. There must be a reason I’m being shown these visions, but very little happens.”

  “Life isn’t in the drama. Life can be found in the small moments that happen every day, all day long. You are part of Ixchel’s life. The answers will come. But, Claire Adams, this message about the copper egg is one you must heed. Keep the egg with you at all times.”

  Claire heaved an elephant-sized sigh. “How on earth could this little thing save anyone’s life?”

  “Perhaps you will learn that from Ixchel.” He placed his hands on the table, clearly signaling the end of the conversation. “I ask two things in payment for my time with you this evening.”

  “Anything.”

  “First, take this.” He opened a backpack and removed a small vial. He folded her fingers around it. “Another dose of San Pedro might clear your vision.”

  Instead of refusing, she surprised herself by pocketing the vial.

  “Second, trust the spirits. This egg has great power. You must use it when the moment comes.” She swallowed hard, frightened. “Part of trusting the spirits is also trusting yourself.”

  They stood and Claire offered her hand. Julio held it with both of his, gazing deeply into her eyes. He then spoke in Quechua, strange words that flowed up her arms and into her chest. She suddenly felt strong and brave.

  “Thank you. And you don’t need a feathered headdress or bone rattle to impress me. I see now, through your wisdom, that you are shaman.”