Rosa No-Name

by Roger Bruner

  She must have gone back to our shack during those final minutes and rescued my journal, my mother’s letter, and a photograph of the girls Nikki had taken several months earlier. She’d made a special trip just to bring me a copy.

  Little could I imagine how precious that photograph would become. Tears ran down my face as I looked at it now.

  Alazne had shielded those items by tucking them inside the top of her slacks. They bore only a few small smudges.

  I would probably struggle forever with guilt. Alazne had gone back for those things because she knew how much they meant to me. She’d probably sealed her own fate by doing something so foolish and yet so selfless.

  I was grateful, nonetheless. I wouldn’t blemish her sacrifice with ingratitude. While people gathered for the informal funeral service, I imagined I was talking with Alazne. “Why did you go back for those things? As much as I treasure each of them, they are not worth the price of your life.”

  And she answered, “Because I knew you would have no past if you lost the letter and the journal.”

  “But don’t you realize I have no present or future without you?”

  “That is why I brought the picture. As long as you have it, I am still with you—at least in part. You must love Anjelita twice as much now to make up for my absence.”

  I would always be grateful for the journal and my mother’s letter. But the photograph of my girls was even more precious. It was the only one I had of Alazne, and I would spend hours crying over it.

  I stopped crying when I finally took to heart the words Alazne had said to me in our imaginary conversation—“You must love Anjelita twice as much now.” I shouldn’t let Anjelita think I was so concerned over the loss of her sister that I wasn’t thrilled and thankful I still had her.

  40

  Alazne’s funeral was brief. Several men laid her in the ground, but left it uncovered until a number of the women—and even a few of the teen girls—finished sharing tearful words about Alazne’s bravery and unselfishness. When no one else stepped forward to speak, the men filled the grave with rocks and dirt. They worked as gently as they could—as if not to cause Alazne any additional pain.

  Everyone wept when the men stepped away from the grave. Everyone but Anjelita. I hoped no one else had noticed. She already faced an impossible battle. Too many people would think the black funnel was punishment for the villagers’ failure to punish Pedro’s murderer. Anjelita’s apparent lack of grief for her big sister wouldn’t endear her to the skeptical villagers.

  I worried that her grief might eat her up inside unless she found a way to let it out. But I was helpless. Even if the black storm hadn’t destroyed my library, which of my child-rearing books would have told me how to help a grieving child open up and cry under circumstances like these?

  Anjelita approached me after the funeral. “Momma, I’m hungry. When do we eat?”

  How much simpler things would be if we had died, too. But then I answered her honestly. “We don’t have any food. The black wind destroyed it all. We will try to find plants, birds, and animals to eat, but the storm may have carried them away as well. I don’t know what we’ll find to eat or when.”

  She nodded, her glum look undoubtedly mirroring my own. “What, when…” She didn’t seem to want to continue. “Or whether.”

  I couldn’t respond.

  “What about water? Has the mighty black storm carried away our little river as well?”

  Even if Anjelita had known anything about sarcasm, she wouldn’t have used it knowingly. She wasn’t like that. Yet her tone had contained the same bite and her words the same concerns that were eating at my insides. What good would surviving today’s black storm be if we still faced starvation and dehydration…and eventually death?

  I pretended to smile. “Let’s find out. We no longer have a water jug or cups, but if the river is still there, we can drink with our hands until we are satisfied.”

  We walked to the river without talking, carefully picking our way through the debris

  We went first to the area where we normally got drinking water. The black funnel had almost choked the river to death with debris when it twisted its way from the village in an easterly direction.

  Trickles of water were visible, but contaminants in the debris had probably already polluted the water so much I dared not let Anjelita drink it. Although we dipped our hands into the water and washed our faces with it, we immediately regretted doing so because the stench had already grown repulsive.

  Anjelita pointed to the dead birds and other small animals that lay a short distance upstream. Probably the source of the contamination. “Can’t we cook and eat those?”

  I saw on her face that she already knew the answer. Perhaps her growing hunger had made her unrealistically hopeful. Not that I could blame her.

  “No,” I said. “For the same reason we cannot drink this water. If we drink water that contains death, if we eat anything the storm has killed, we will probably get sick and die, too.”

  She yawned once before nodding.

  What an endless day today has already been, and nighttime is still hours away. Will tomorrow be any better? Or the day after that? What hope do we have of survival?

  I pushed some rubbish out of the way with my foot. “Lie down here for a while, little one. I’ll scout around for food and fresher water.”

  Without responding, she lay down, rested her head on a rock, and fell asleep.

  ~*~

  Since the river was contaminated here, the water downstream at the clothes-washing area wasn’t apt to be any better. I checked anyhow.

  Less debris had fallen downstream, and whatever water reached this area seemed to flow at a reasonable rate of speed. I watched the river for a few moments and saw a piece of trash that had apparently broken free upstream.

  Although I wasn’t an expert about such matters, I thought our water supply might take care of itself in a matter of time. Especially if the villagers worked together to remove the dead animals and the pieces of trash that had formed debris dams upstream. That way, the water could resume its natural flow and eventually wash away the remaining contaminants.

  How far upstream did the litter dams go?

  I hadn’t seen anyone else checking the water supply. But since I had probably read more health-related books than the other villagers, I was also more conscious of the potential dangers.

  Returning to Anjelita—how I envied her ability to sleep in spite of what we’d just been through—I wondered what the other villagers had done after the funeral. Some of them—perhaps most—had probably spent the afternoon surveying the caves to determine which ones to adopt as their temporary or perhaps not-so-temporary homes.

  The caves were miserably uncomfortable to lie down in, and only a few families had brought blankets during the evacuation. During most of the year, the caves were damp, drafty, and chilly.

  Even if someone found fuel and a way to ignite it, the smallest of fires inside one of the caves would be dangerous. Probably fatal. Few of the villagers knew anything about carbon monoxide poisoning. But I did.

  Never had I been so thankful for the variety of books I had pored over since learning to read. If I had limited my studies to what was relevant at the time, my knowledge would have been narrow and almost useless now.

  Each cave would provide shelter. It might be a place to sleep, but it would not be a home. Not after the devastation of losing everything else. Although families that hadn’t owned much before the storm hadn’t lost much, their sense of loss would be just as great as the families that had lost considerably more.

  Probably most important was the fact that the villagers had lost their sense of security and well-being. Each person could put his arm around the shoulder of the next and say, “I know just how you feel” without fear of being contradicted.

  ~*~

  Perhaps the villagers had been searching for food while I was checking on the water supply. The younger children wouldn’t unde
rstand or accept their parents’ explanations that they didn’t have anything to eat. I expected to hear the whimpering of famished children coming from the caves or the flattened village, but I didn’t. Where were they?

  No matter how bad the lack of food was, the lack of water posed a greater threat. One that terrified me.

  ~*~

  After ascertaining that Anjelita was still asleep—she must have been exhausted—I made my way upriver among the debris. I hoped no mother’s desperation had made her ignore the warning her eyes and nose couldn’t have missed.

  To my surprise, I hadn’t fought my way through more than a hundred yards of ever-shallower rubbish before reaching a spot where the river looked clear. Clean. Normal.

  I stooped and sniffed at the water without touching it. So far, so good. I bent down and leaned forward until my knees touched the bare ground. I cupped my hands and scooped some water. I lifted it to my nose and sniffed.

  I smelled only the scent of freshness.

  As I allowed the water to slip through my fingers back into the river, I tried to imagine what would happen if I drank some of it. After scooping another double-handful, I took a chance and touched the water with my tongue.

  It was cool and refreshing.

  I threw the rest of it on my face and then scooped some more. I drank many cupped handfuls before I felt satisfied. If I was that thirsty—if I already needed water that badly—how much more desperate would the children and the old people be?

  I had taken a tremendous risk sampling the water. What if I had seriously underestimated the dangers? Imagining what this water might yet do to me made me tremble in fear.

  But I needed to know. Better to experiment on myself and then tell the others that hope lay just a short distance upstream. If I didn’t get sick or die first.

  Although the temperatures dropped drastically at night in Santa María—even during the summer—the sun was unbearably hot during the day. People needed water. Lots of it. If this upstream water proved unsafe, the whole village would die of dehydration. Person by person by person.

  The villagers would grow so desperate that nothing would stop them from drinking the contaminated water. Their noses would ignore the rancid smell, their mouths the bitter taste. Some people would start throwing up immediately, leaving them weak and unable to eat—even if food were to become available. They would be as likely to die from disease as from dehydration.

  I had read ghastly stories in history books about epidemics caused by contaminated water. Thousands of people had died—and they did not die peacefully.

  Santa María didn’t have thousands of people. I had used the distribution survey to count the villagers: ninety-seven.

  Ninety-seven until today.

  Alazne had been the only fatality, and she had probably died quickly with a minimum of suffering. The terror was probably worse than the pain itself. Still, as much as I mourned her death, I was thankful she didn’t have to face the impossible challenge of staying alive now.

  Ninety-six villagers were alive. Today. But who knew what the number might be by tomorrow?

  ~*~

  I returned to the riverbank where I had left Anjelita sleeping. Stretching and yawning as she started to awaken, she looked fragile. And precious. Much the way Alazne had looked at that age.

  “I found water upstream,” I said. “Fresher water than this.”

  Her eyes opened wider, and she licked lips that had already begun to blister in the burning sunlight.

  “Since it doesn’t stink or have dead birds and animals floating in it, I think it’s safe to drink. I took a chance and drank many handfuls of it.”

  I paused. My next words might frighten Anjelita.

  “If I was wrong, I will probably die in a matter of days. Maybe just hours.”

  Anjelita’s eyes opened wide. She had lost her sister today. Would her Momma be next?

  Now was not the time to pretend all would be well. “Little one, I don’t want to leave you an orphan, especially one the villagers may blame the black wind on.” I knew she had been afraid of that. My next words would be hard for an adult to hear, much less a child. “Will you come and drink, too? Whatever happens to one of us will happen to the other as well. We will both live or we will both die.”

  Anjelita remained silent for a moment. She looked at me as if remembering and evaluating everything I had ever said to her. And everything she had ever read. Then she smiled, took my right hand, and started pulling me upstream along the river bank.

  She led me as quickly as possible through the debris. Once the ground grew sufficiently clear, we broke into a run. “Go just a few yards farther,” I told her. “Just in case.”

  She dropped my hand, nodded obediently, and ran a little farther upstream. I followed close behind. Anjelita threw herself on her stomach so that her head hung over the water and began lapping at it freely without cupping her hands.

  Her hands? She had used her one hand to wash her face in the contaminated water, but I had grown so accustomed to her ability to do with an arm-and-a-half what everyone else needed two hands to do that I had overlooked her inability to scoop water. After she guzzled at least as much as I had drunk a short time earlier, her face looked far perkier—healthier and more alert—than before.

  The sun was starting to set. We needed to return to the cave. Maneuvering through the litter-strewn terrain in the dark would be treacherous. Perhaps deadly.

  Although I was tempted to camp here beside the clean water, I preferred to spend the night in the same cave I had once called home rather than shiver helplessly in the nighttime cold outdoors.

  ~*~

  Dawn couldn’t break soon enough.

  All night long, I fought off nightmares about the approaching black wind, the loss of the warehouse, the marijuana fields, and even the seeds that had been set aside for future use. I woke up from each one envisioning Alazne’s body covered with the shredded remains of my library and hearing her sad voice saying, “The village no longer has any source of income.”

  Although Anjelita and I had snuggled close, we weren’t comfortable. But at least we were warmer than we would have been outdoors.

  Listening to Anjelita’s peaceful snoring, I was thankful to be alive. We had survived the water we’d drunk, and we were going to live. Another day, anyhow.

  Today we would spread the word about the water and hope we weren’t too late to save other lives.

  Locating the villagers proved more difficult than I had expected. They had scattered after the funeral. Most of them—I discovered this later—decided not to stay in the caves. They’d slept on the ground amidst the rubble that had once been their homes. And pulled debris over them like a blanket.

  ~*~

  It was now afternoon and Anjelita and I had spent hours searching for food. The debris prevented us from moving quickly or going very far. Only our hunger kept us from giving up.

  We passed several scrawny berry-bearing bushes growing along the riverbank. In spite of the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of books I had read and the dozens of subjects I was at least somewhat knowledgeable about, I couldn’t distinguish one berry from another. Some were probably highly nutritious. Others were deadly. Who could we ask? Nobody who might know was around.

  I scratched my head. Which ones were which?

  “Momma! Look!” Anjelita pointed at some bushes that bore the juiciest-looking red berries. The very sight of them made my mouth water. The area was thick with dozens of these bushes—and enough berries to keep the villagers alive for weeks.

  If the berries didn’t kill us, that is.

  Anjelita’s eyes never left the berries. She was licking her lips in anticipation. She didn’t say anything. She understood why I hadn’t told her to start eating.

  “Should we take a chance, Anjelita?”

  “I’m famished, Momma. I’m too tired to walk anymore or to go back.”

  “Me, too.” I massaged her shoulders. “But what if they are poisonou
s?” Although I wanted her honest opinion, I knew what we should do. What we would have to do.

  “Momma, I’m not scared. We should both eat the same food today the way we drank the same water yesterday. That way, we will both live or we will both die.”

  I nodded before breaking a full branch of berries from the bush. I divided it in two and held out the pieces for Anjelita to choose the one she wanted.

  41

  The days following the storm proved more devastating than the storm itself. Except for Alazne, the wind had taken its toll only on human property. But subsequent days saw a greater toll on human life, and we experienced firsthand the meaning of survival of the fittest.

  By the end of the first week, only sixty-eight of the original survivors remained. Babies, young children, and the frailest Elders were the first fatalities.

  Of the Council members who died, Señora Valdes went first. After years of agonizing over Pedro and learning the truth in such a tragic way, death must have come as a relief.

  Regardless of my news about the clean water and edible berries upstream, many of the villagers refused to leave the ground their shacks had once occupied and travel the reasonably short distance to obtain the necessities that would have sustained them. Their circumstances had effectively paralyzed them.

  Other villagers were too ill or too fragile to make the trek.

  Only two families had rescued a water jug before the attack of the black wind, and they were among the minority who visited the upper river regularly. At first, they were generous in bringing berries to the villagers who couldn’t go for themselves and sharing a little of the water from their pitchers. But once they lost hope—as all of us did, some sooner than others—they grew less generous.

  Despair drove some of the villagers to such insanity they purposely began to drink the contaminated water, hoping to die before things got worse. Their wish came true.