The Lightning Queen

by Laura Resau

  From behind me, light glinted. It was just enough to make me look back at the little adobe room. The source: the warm glitter of candlelight on coins.

  There, at the doorway of the room, was Esma.

  Esma in her flowered dress, a garden spilling over with petals, a treasure chest overflowing with gold, a bolt of lightning.

  Esma, loping across the room, pushing others out of the way, throwing herself over my body.

  Esma, clutching my face between her hands.

  Esma, shouting, “Come back, Teo! Come back! My friend for life! Come back!”

  Her shrieks were ear shattering. The howl of wind during the wildest of storms. She threw back her head and opened her mouth and screamed, as if she were at the river. As if all those screams had been building up to this moment. Her howls filled the room, bounced off the walls. “COME BACK, TEO!”

  There I hovered, attached to my body by the thinnest sliver of thread, looking between Lucita and Father and Grandfather and Esma.

  Grandfather’s voice resounded, deep and rich. “You’re needed there, Teo. You need to be the healer. You need to fill my place.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Look,” he said. “You made a promise to Esma. Even death cannot break it, Teo.”

  “Life is too hard,” I said. “Without you, without my mother.”

  “Maestra María will be your mother. Esma will be your friend forever. Your cousins and aunts and uncles will always love you. As will your animals. They all need you, son.”

  “But I miss you, Grandfather!” I wanted to run into his arms.

  Still, he kept his distance, his palm raised to stop me. “You can visit me when you like. Simply turn away from the movie of your life for a bit. There’s no need to die, dear boy.”

  He didn’t understand the emptiness inside me. “There’s nothing to live for. Nothing to look forward to.”

  Grandfather sighed. “In your world, you’re walking along a mountain path, only seeing what’s in front of you. The present moment. But in this world, I’m a bird, seeing the entire mountain range from above—past, present, future. And, Teo, I see that not only will you and Esma be friends for life. So will your grandchildren.”

  Our grandchildren? Something shifted inside me. Something filled my emptiness. The possibility of my future, and my grandchildren’s. I couldn’t imagine myself as an old man, but the idea of it made me look back again.

  Now the little adobe room was emptied of everyone but Flash and Spark and Thunder, huddled in Esma’s lap. My aunts and uncles and cousins must have gone to sleep. But Esma remained, aglow in the candlelight. Her hand clutched mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Teo,” she said softly. “So sorry we came late. My stepmother had a baby and then there were mudslides …” Her voice broke. “Everyone else wanted to turn back, but my grandmother insisted we come. She knew, Teo. She knew you needed me.”

  Silence except for small whimpers; stillness except for her shaking shoulders.

  And then, “Oh, Teo! What would I do without you?” She paused, took a long breath, collecting herself, steadying her voice. “Your uncles and aunts are worried the priest can’t come to bless your body before … before the burial. But I know you’ll come back. Won’t you? You have to! You promised!”

  All this time, I felt the strain of the silvery thread pulling me toward my body. At the same time, I felt the tug of the other world, so easy and glittering and colorful, the promise of an eternity playing with Lucita, basking in the warmth of Grandfather and Father.

  And then, into the adobe room strutted Roza, Mistress of Destiny. She set down a burlap sack and plopped beside Esma, taking in her red and tear-streaked face. Roza tugged her granddaughter’s braid gently, tapped the side of her head, and said something in Romani.

  “Squash head.”

  In this in-between place, I could understand their language. Or perhaps I could simply understand all the feelings between the words. What mattered.

  “My impossible squash head,” Roza said quietly. Her nose held perfectly still. “Your grandfather is making us go. There’s too much rain here to show movies. Everyone wants to leave. I can’t change their minds.”

  “I’m staying with Teo,” Esma said.

  Roza pulled her pipe from a deep pocket, chewed on it for a while. “I know you are, squash head,” she said gently. “I’ve always known.”

  From her sack, she pulled out a bundle wrapped in twine and a worn black violin case. She set them at Esma’s feet. Then she removed a necklace of gold coins that reached down to her waist and draped it over Esma’s head. It mingled with Esma’s own strands of beads and coins and shells, shining brighter than the rest.

  “Thank you,” Esma said, wrapping her fingers around the necklace.

  “Go make your own fortune, child. Your future is here. Now is the time.”

  Esma threw her arms around her grandmother and sobbed. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Make sure this boy lives,” Roza said. “And he’ll make sure your fortune comes true.”

  Her words entered me, etched themselves into my spirit. This echo of a promise I’d made, to be Esma’s friend for both of our long lives. A promise that only death could break …

  Or perhaps not.

  Esma moved her grandmother’s hand to the forehead of my limp body. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “He’s already cold, Grandmother. No pulse, no breath.”

  Munching on her pipe, Roza surveyed my body. Then she tugged at Esma’s braid again. “What is it you always say, child?”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Esma whispered.

  “Well then, work your magic, Queen of Lightning.” A tear streamed down Roza’s mountainous nose, trickling through its valleys and nooks like a tiny river.

  After a long breath, she stuck her pipe back in her pocket, stood up, and headed toward the door.

  “Wait, Grandmother! How? How do I bring him back?”

  Roza’s nose danced to an invisible melody. “Sing, my dear squash head. Sing.”

  My soul string was stretched to a single, quivering, delicate strand.

  Esma took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

  The song swirled out like silver ribbons.

  She rose and spun and more ribbons spiraled out from her outstretched fingertips, the rippling hem of her dress, ribbons of lightning and pure, raw power.

  She swirled and sang and the ribbons braided themselves into my soul string, more and more and more until the cord was solid and thick as a tree trunk.

  When I remembered to look back at Grandfather and Lucita and Father, they were far off, growing smaller and fainter and dissolving until they were only hands waving in a kind of mist.

  And then nothing.

  I turned back to Esma, felt her song pull at me, tugging me closer and closer to my body.

  As I floated downward, Flash’s ears perked up. He skittered onto my chest and nibbled at my ear. I could feel the gentle little teeth that always drew out laughter.

  Then there was Spark’s tongue, velvety soft and licking my arm, up and down, covering every last patch of skin. It tickled.

  Then there was Thunder, biting at my ankle, so hard it hurt.

  In a rush, I felt the beat of my heart and the flow of my blood and the whoosh of my breath.

  I opened my eyes and saw Esma, twirling, and though I could no longer see the ribbons, they were there, making my soul string stronger and stronger with every note.

  And then, all at once, Flash’s nibbling and Spark’s tickling and Thunder’s biting made me laugh. A dry, hoarse, rough cry of a laugh.

  Esma heard. She slowed her spinning, paused her singing, and stood, dizzy, meeting my open eyes. Hers were the color of my soul string, raindrop silver.

  As she took my hand, a bolt of lightning shot through, right into my center.

  A sudden commotion broke out. Beyond the door, in the courtyard, voices and cries and sobs shattered the night.

  It was Maestra Mar�
�a’s voice, yelling, “No, no, no, it can’t be! He can’t be gone!”

  She stumbled into the room, and when she saw me with my eyes open, she crumpled to her knees at my side.

  I felt her love, something warm and real and solid that I could hold in my hand, in my heart. The love of a mother. She covered my face with kisses and sobbed prayers of thanks, and when she finally caught her breath, she said, “Oh, Teo, they told me you’d died.”

  By this time, the doctor—a stout, bald man in a damp suit—had taken out his black bag and was pulling out a stethoscope.

  Half-asleep, my aunts and uncles and cousins rushed over, touching my face, my hair, my flesh in disbelief.

  “He’s warm again!”

  “His heart’s beating!”

  “He’s breathing!”

  “His eyes are opened!”

  “But how can this be?”

  “He was dead.”

  “He was cold.”

  “He had no pulse.”

  “No breath.”

  “I came back,” I said.

  Everyone gasped.

  “Esma called to me,” I said. “She saved me.”

  Esma shrugged a shoulder. “He saved himself. I just gave him a little nudge.”

  Maestra María threw her arms around Esma. “You sang,” she said. “Your song brought him back from the dead.”

  I nodded.

  Esma reached out to stroke Spark’s ears. “Really, it was his animals,” she said. “They tickled him back to life.”

  “Well,” I said with a feeble laugh, “Thunder’s bite is a little more painful than a tickle.” Weakly, I reached out my hand, tapped the side of her head, and added, “One day I’ll save you, too, squash head.”

  And then, Maestra María threw her arms around me again and kissed me twenty more times.

  The boy’s in stable enough health,” the doctor announced after examining me. “His vitals are strong.”

  “But he was dead!” Aunt Perla said, hand over her mouth.

  The man scratched his hairless head, mystified. “Perhaps he fell into a coma, or a near-death state in which his organ function slowed down. You might not have detected a heartbeat or breathing. His temperature would have dropped.”

  As Uncle Paco translated the best he could, my relatives looked at one another, puzzled, and rested their gazes on Esma, as if she held the secret.

  The doctor shrugged as he packed his equipment away. He patted the maestra’s shoulder and said, “Your son should recover soon.”

  My relatives looked even more confused at the doctor calling me the maestra’s son.

  “Give him rest and plenty of food,” the doctor added. “He’ll be fine.”

  At the mention of food, my aunts scurried out to prepare me atole and soup and tea. Meanwhile, my uncles volunteered to drive the doctor home since Maestra María refused to leave my side.

  She turned to Esma, eyebrows soft with compassion. “We saw your people leaving as we came here. Maybe you can ride with Teo’s uncles and catch up.”

  Esma shook her head. “I’m going my own way now.”

  Maestra María’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I don’t understand, dear.”

  Esma raised her chin. “My grandfather always says, ‘Better to be the head of a mouse than the tail of a lion.’ ”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” said the maestra.

  “Even though the Duke lives life on the outskirts, at least he’s his own master. He decides where and when to travel. He answers to no one.” She wrapped her grandmother’s coin necklace around her wrist, then unwound it. “But if I stayed with my people, I’d always be the tail of a mouse.”

  “And what is it you want to be?” Maestra María asked.

  Esma stood up and tore off her scarf, letting her shell-woven braids and waves of hair tumble wildly over her shoulders. “The head of a lion!”

  Maestra María laughed. “I can see you as a lion’s head.”

  I grinned. “Esma has the chance to be a famous singer.”

  “I can see that, too,” the maestra said.

  Esma pulled the business card from her pocket. It was well-worn, the edges soft and rounded.

  “I can read it now,” she said, handing it to the maestra.

  From the other pocket, Esma pulled out the notebook that Maestra María had given me a year earlier.

  The maestra and I took turns looking at both items, clearly precious to Esma. The notebook was filled with writing, every last space crammed with letters. In the early pages, the writing was big and uneven and the words ran together. Yet by the end, the writing was neat and small and well spaced. They were poems—maybe song lyrics—about dreaming and longing and missing. And, I noticed with a blush, the word Teo was on almost every page. How could I ever have thought she’d forget me?

  I found I could read the business card now, too.

  Antonio Reyes Salazar, Agente de la Música

  Calle Morelos No. 20, Coyoacán, México, D.F.

  Impressed, Maestra María asked, “He’s interested in starting your singing career?”

  We nodded.

  Her left eyebrow arched with an idea. “Once Teo is better, we’ll drive you there, make sure this man is legitimate.”

  “And if he is?” Esma asked tentatively.

  “Why, then we’ll help you settle in!”

  Esma gazed adoringly at the maestra.

  And I thought, This is exactly the mother I want. The mother I need.

  The next time Maestra María drew me in for a hug, I whispered one word.

  “Mamá.”

  And then, just like that, she was.

  During my weeks of recovery, Esma stayed in Grandfather’s old room. Her dresses and scarves and hair absorbed the scent he’d left behind—an earthy, smoky, copal scent. Sometimes, as she breezed by, I breathed in the pieces of Grandfather that lingered in her.

  Every evening, she read to me from the maestra’s books in a lilting singsong voice that I could have listened to forever. Sometimes she cried there in the darkness, whispering that she missed her little cousins and grandparents. She told me funny stories about them, recounted their favorite sayings, their quirks and antics. She told me how she’d convinced her old-geezer fiancé that the lightning had zapped her brain, too, and made her crazy. And her laughter turned to tears as she confided that after she’d scared the man away, her stepmother and father treated her worse than a rat.

  I held her hand and tried to comfort her. I told her to look at the whole mountain range of her life, to remember that on one of the nearby peaks, she would become the head of a lion. I told her that on one of the distant peaks, our grandchildren would become friends. And as I told her this, I secretly wondered: If our grandchildren were friends, could they also be brothers and sisters and cousins? I felt her warm hand in mine, and a secret part of me imagined us getting married on one of those peaks.

  During the days, Esma’s spirits were higher as she loped and swirled around the Hill of Dust. She took good care of Flash and Spark and Thunder, and helped my cousins pasture the goats in el monte. With my aunts, inside the smoky kitchen, she learned to make tortillas and atole and salsa.

  My relatives remained in slight awe of Esma. They were friendly toward her, and respectful, but almost too respectful, treating her like the Virgin María, a miracle worker not entirely of this earth.

  Once, Esma sighed and said, “It would be good to be someone’s granddaughter or daughter or sister, wouldn’t it?”

  I saw the longing in her eyes. I couldn’t tell her she was like a sister to me. No, she was something else, something more. So I simply nodded. “It would be.”

  A month after my time with death, during a lull in the rains, Esma came into my room and said, “Let’s take a walk today!”

  Slowly, supporting me with her arm, she led me down the muddy path to my mother’s abandoned fruit grove, where rotting oranges and mangoes littered the ground. We walked among the trees, picking fr
uit from low-hanging branches and dropping it into our sacks. Sunlight fell through the leaves, wandering over Esma’s skin, gleaming off her coins. Spark and Flash poked at the fallen fruit, scavenging bits here and there, while Thunder found small puddles to splash around in.

  “What are you going to do when I leave?” she asked.

  “Keep pasturing the animals, I guess.” I kept my voice steady, tried to ignore the pain in my chest. “Eventually plant my own fields like my uncles.”

  Esma squinted at me. “Maestra María told me about the scholarship. Your chance to go to secondary school. I think you should do it.”

  I sat down, leaned against a tree trunk, hugging my knees. I still lost my breath easily and had to rest often. Flash nestled in the space beneath my legs, and I stroked his tail, thinking. “Esma,” I said finally, “I can’t just go to school. I have to contribute somehow—with work or money.”

  She picked up an orange, tossed it from one hand to another. Then she picked up two more and juggled them. “You could be a healer, like your grandfather.”

  I turned an orange over in my hand, breathed in the sweet, tart scent. Broke it open and fed it to Flash. “You really think so?”

  “Yes!” Oranges in midair, she spun around, caught all three, then picked out the biggest and dug her fingertips into its liquid center. She popped a few sections into her mouth, letting juice spill down her chin.

  I wondered if one day, oranges would remind me not of my father’s unjust death, but of Esma, juggling and spinning and licking sweet nectar from her lips. Just as her swirling screams by the river had replaced Lucita’s cries.

  “I know you can, Teo.” She wiped off the drops, took another bite. “And after you graduate, you could train with doctors in hospitals, too. So you’ll know how to heal in your Grandfather’s way and their way, too.”

  I rubbed my face. “I’m not the head of a lion, Esma.”

  “True,” she said, wiping away more trickles of juice. “You’re not.”

  Spark settled in my lap, and I rubbed her silky ears. “What if I’m just the tail of a mouse?”