by SL Hulen
“What about Khara’s passport? And our money?”
“One thing at a time, woman! Now give me your keys— apartment, car, office—all of them. And hand over that damn cell phone.”
“I might need—”
“What you need is to be less accessible. Come on,” Bea coaxed. “You know I’m right.”
“What about Dante?”
“Cats look after themselves,” Then, exasperated, she acquiesced. “Oh, all right, I’ll make sure he gets fed.”
Bea waited while most of the contents of Victoria’s purse were reluctantly given up. The keys were one thing, but Victoria balked at giving up her cell phone.
“Hand it over,” Bea insisted.
“No.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“I already am.”
An hour later, they entered the stretch of desert the Spaniards had notoriously referred to as El Malpais. Approaching headlights became scarce and then disappeared altogether. Tumbleweeds, some four feet in diameter, danced across the highway. When one blew across the hood of the car, Khara cringed. The sky faded into a dreary grey, and a deceitful wind would appear from the still landscape to push the car from side to side. Darkness loomed, and Victoria gripped the steering wheel more firmly. On this stretch of highway, a lightly—grasped wheel could cost you your life. It was bad country, all right.
A lone yellow road sign caught Khara’s attention. “What does it say?”
“‘Welcome to the Land of Enchantment.’”
“Why is it enchanted?”
“Mysterious things have always happened in these parts.”
“What mysterious things?”
“Well, let’s start with the Anasazi. A thousand years ago, they built amazing complexes within the canyon walls, aligning them with solar and lunar paths. They flourished for hundreds of years and then seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Not over a period of time, mind you; all at once. They vanished.”
“How?”
“The Hopi, another native people, say a dark energy took them away. Even the name of the tribe remains a mystery. ‘Anasazi’ just means ‘ancient ones.’ The name of the tribe has been lost.”
“I did not know you were such a student of history.”
“Elias always hoped I’d be interested in archaeology. Every Easter holiday, we’d go to Chaco Canyon and hunt for pottery shards, but I never took to it.”
Victoria hesitated a moment. “And then of course, there’s Roswell.” She studied the approaching night—a perfect one for storytelling. “Some say it’s nothing more than an elaborate ruse about aliens crashing a spacecraft into the middle of the desert, but there are those who swear that beings from another planet landed here. Not enough hard evidence for me, though.”
Khara demanded urgently, “Give me your writing pad!”
“It’s in my bag.”
After spilling the contents onto the floor and retrieving the small notebook, Khara’s first strokes with the pen were round and sweeping. “In this story of Roswell, did the visitors look like this?” she asked. She’d drawn creatures with oval heads, large eyes, and willowy bodies.
Victoria felt the hair on her forearms rise. “How would you know what they looked like?”
Khara sat back. All the air seemed to leave her small body. “The Guardians of the Sky were here,” she said reverently. “The old stories are true.”
“What?”
“We were forbidden to repeat them—the stories of the ones that came from the sky. Supposedly it was they who helped us thrive in the desert and taught us the mathematical theory of triangles—the perfection of the pyramid. I believe you call it the Pythagorean Theorem. As time passed, we took this knowledge for granted. Many refuse to believe in them, but I always felt the stories rang of truth. You have just confirmed it.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I had no idea you were so gullible.” Victoria replied, but gripped the steering wheel even tighter.
“I long suspected that Nandor was descended from these beings. His gifts were too strange, too many. The knowledge he possessed in order to send me here…” She craned her neck to stare at the sky. “Even with the tremendous advancements of your civilization, his knowledge cannot be replicated.”
“So now you’re saying you were raised by an alien?”
“Why not? Father Donato insists that the ideas that most capture our imagination are the ones we cannot see, the ones that can only be confirmed in our hearts.”
“Whatever. Hey, check this out.”
Victoria pushed a button, and the sunroof slid back. Just as she’d hoped, Khara instantly forgot about Father Donato and busied herself tracing the constellations as they began to appear in the night sky. “I have been wondering if I would ever see a star-filled sky again. But look,” Khara beamed, her smile filled with wonder, “they have returned. I think that in all this time, they alone have not changed.”
Khara was something of a savant when it came to stars. She pointed out how they moved through the twelve hours of the night, and how you could tell the exact time by their position. She spoke to them, asking what news they had of home and begging for information about the future. Finally she said, “My father has ascended to the heavens. One day, I too shall live among the stars. Perhaps I will post myself there,” she pointed north, “to watch over you as you have looked after me.”
It was not like Victoria to turn her eyes to the sky on a dangerous road, but that’s just what she did. It made her remember another star-filled night at Elias and Marta’s home when Robert had put his card into her hand, the delectable feel of his breath on her neck.
As though able to see her thoughts, Khara gave her a knowing look and resumed her studies. A half-hour went by before she pointed frantically and shouted, “Stop! We must stop right here.”
“Now what?” Easing the car to the side of the road, Victoria wondered if the place, as barren and still as Mars, reminded Khara of home. “This,” Khara proclaimed, her face serious, “must be the Field of Offerings.”
“They’re gypsum dunes. What’s the Field of Offerings?”
“The first celestial destination on the journey to immortality. It is the only place where the newly deceased may contact the living. Hurry, we must get closer.”
Victoria had seen this look of pure stubbornness before, so she sighed and turned onto the two-lane road that led to the dunes. They stopped and got out. Beyond a chain fence, White Sands National Park twinkled brighter than freshly fallen snow under the full moon. At the gate, Khara stretched her hand through and grabbed a handful of powdery sand.
“The park is closed for the night,” Victoria muttered, motioning to the gate, but it was too late. Khara was already climbing the fence. As soon as she dropped to the ground, she ran for the closest dune and leaned into it. A soft, white cascade fell over her shoulders and sifted through her spread fingers.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it? It feels like—yes, I’m sure of it! With Nandor’s cuff on, I can feel the dunes swaying ever so slightly with the moon.”
Watching her, shoes in hand, Victoria felt ridiculous. “The dunes are still warm from the sun, that’s all. But I suppose you could be right; millions of years ago, this was an ocean.”
“Feel it for yourself,” Khara urged, removing the cuff.
“Oh, no. That’s the last thing I need,” Victoria retorted, backing away.
“The sand will restore you, Victoria.”
“No thanks.”
“I insist. And then we’ll be on our way.”
Exhaling deeply, she rolled her eyes. “Five minutes and not a second more. Agreed?”
Palms together, Khara bowed slightly. “As you wish, radiance.” She raced up the side of the thirty-foot dune and when she’d reached the top, she began digging a hole that resembled a burial plot, only not as deep. When enough sand had flown through the air, she commanded Victoria to join her.
“I’ve made you a bed. Lie down. Li
e here.”
“What are you up to?”
“I’m thinking of you. Isn’t the divinity of this place obvious? We will leave our sorrow and suspicion among billions of grains of sand.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You cannot accept that each separate element of nature is divine, yet you deify a single human above all others and call him the son of god?”
“You’ve been spending way too much time with Father Donato. I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t leave the apartment alone. You gave me your word. Didn’t I explain why visiting the church wasn’t a good idea?”
“You also made promises—among them, to return before noon each day. What will it cost you besides a few minutes?”
“Honestly, do you ever lose an argument?” An imperious smile was her answer. “Remove your clothes and feel the moonlight on your skin.” Her voice was positively triumphant.
“Get lost.”
“Are you worried that the moon will see you naked? Or that I will see you? Your clothes will trail sand for days, but do whatever you are most comfortable with.”
In her right mind, she would have stomped back to the car and waited—or better yet, left Khara in this immense sandbox where she seemed totally content and driven away. But her right mind seemed so long ago. Victoria removed her slacks and blouse, and placed them neatly on the ground. Then she lowered herself into that sandy grave which, at that moment, felt like exactly the right thing to do.
Penetrating, nurturing warmth enveloped her as she succumbed to the tranquility of pure white. Khara piled sand on top of her with both hands until only her head and shoulders were exposed. Victoria did not resist.
A shooting star flashed like a beacon across the sky. “It could be them,” Khara commented, pointing to the yellow— white streak that seemed to touch the ground not far away, “the Ones from the Sky.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Now Khara was making a bed for herself. “It’s difficult to know what to believe; the choices are too many. If one could take a little from this one, a little from the other, and throw in some of the old ways, what a flawless faith we’d have!”
When she finished, only the tips of her fingers lay uncovered. They lay side by side—the stargazer and the dreamer. Eventually, Khara spoke. “Humiliation has prevented me from being entirely honest with you. That, and I did not know you so well.”
“I’m listening.”
“My reasons for returning home are not as simple as I stated. I want revenge for father’s murder. Menefra and the others involved must die. My sister never thought once about what it means to be pharaoh, to take the burdens of an entire nation onto your shoulders.”
The way she said it made it sound like a curse. Victoria did not reply immediately. When she did, she confessed, “I suspected it was something more serious than you let on. And here I am, feeling sorry for myself.” For a time, it was quiet; then she continued. “I have no words of wisdom except to say that Father Donato would try to convince you that vengeance is wrong.”
“I know,” Khara acknowledged quietly. “He says forgiveness is blessed and necessary for our spirits to be free. And yet—could you forgive the murderer of your father?”
“Haven’t you figured it out? I don’t have the answers to anything.” Khara glanced at her and declared, “You, my friend, lack what we Egyptians call ‘ma’at.’”
“Among other things, I’m sure.”
“It means balance or stability—something we cherish because it is not easily attained. I doubt you would make a good Egyptian. Your passion runs too deep, though I find it one of your most admirable traits.” Another star flashed brightly across the sky, and Khara asked, “If what you fear about your uncle is true, what will you do?”
“I don’t know,” Victoria admitted. “Without him and Marta, I have nothing.”
“You have your work. And friends like Bea,” Khara reminded her, “strong bricks on which to build a life. You could have Robert too, if only you would allow yourself some happiness. All my life,” she continued, “it was only me and Menefra. I think about what the priest says; I try to imagine taking her in my arms and forgiving her with all my heart like your Christ advocates. But I cannot.”
Victoria’s eyelids grew heavy watching the stars tiptoe across the immense sky. It seemed that, in such stillness, the earth no longer turned. Stranger yet, it no longer mattered.
In the distance, movement caught her eye. A wind suddenly kicked up from the south, moaning a discordant song. No matter how hard she squinted, Victoria could not bring the mirage into focus, but she sensed something moving toward them.
“Wake up,” she said urgently, grabbing Khara’s hand. “Something’s coming this way.”
Khara struggled under the sand for a moment before pushing through, and then studied the vision. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is it taking the shape of a man?”
“Oh god, he’s found us,” Victoria groaned, fumbling for her clothes. Pulling her back down, Khara whispered, “Stay calm. Perhaps the sand is playing tricks.”
“There,” Khara said, pointing to the sand underneath the shifting, swirling shadow as it stopped about fifty feet away. “It cannot be a man; there are no footprints.”
Visions of her misspent life flashed before Victoria’s eyes. This is what happens when you go prowling in forbidden places at all hours of the night, she thought. And yet, hunkered down and ready to flee, she could not take her eyes off the nebulous shadow. As the dark Goliath floated closer, her legs gave out and she collapsed to her knees.
Astonished, she watched unexpected tenderness come over Khara’s face. She stood, calm and unafraid, and then took several steps forward and bowed low, left fist across her chest. Now it loomed less than twenty feet away, and it was twice—no, three times—the size of a normal man.
“So,” Khara called, “you return as a shadow on a moon—filled night. Still, I recognize you. Will you not come closer, old friend?”
Victoria watched in horror as the silhouette stretched out vast arms and raised them to the heavens. Moments passed before the arms came down across the cyclone that had somehow morphed into a torso, and the great head bowed.
Khara’s voice shook as she fought back tears. “See? I am not the frightened girl you sent to hide in the desert. Let your spirit rest and do not worry for me.”
With that, the apparition nodded and pointed northeast with an arm that seemed miles long. What you seek can only be found by taking the journey of death.
The whispered words lodged themselves profoundly in Victoria’s mind.
From there, you must follow the path of kings until you reach the city of faith.
A giant spray of sand emerged, swirling and enveloping the phantom. As quickly as it had come, the funnel of sand disintegrated and with it, the apparition.
For a long time afterwards, Khara shivered in the fall air, her bare arms stretched piteously toward the empty place on the sand.
When Victoria could rely on her wits and legs again, she grabbed Khara’s sweater and draped it over her shoulders. “It’s not coming back, is it?”
There was no response.
“We need to get out of here,” Victoria urged, tugging at Khara’s hand until she eventually gave in. They dressed quickly and stumbled to the car.
Amid shrieking tires and clouds of dust, they sped away, leaving the dunes far behind. When what was left of her mind told her they were a safe distance away, Victoria pulled onto the shoulder.
“What the hell was that?”
Khara leaned back, a sad smile on her face. “I am not alone. That was Nandor. His presence has given me a great sense of comfort.”
“Comfort? You’ve got to be joking!” She paused and then said, “Wait a minute. I thought you told me he was dead.”
“I witnessed it myself, but father always told me the spirit of a good man lives forever. Nandor still watches over me—over us,” she added.
“That’s all we need.”
“It was right of us to stop here. Earlier today, when you were standing so close to the river, well, you frightened me.”
Victoria swung the car back onto the highway. “So, tell me, what did Nandor say?” she inquired sarcastically.
Khara’s eyes flashed. “You ridicule what you do not understand.”
“But his message—I heard it too. He said, ‘What you seek can only be found by taking the journey of death.’ You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Without question,” Khara affirmed. “And you would, too, if you had known him.”
With the small overhead light shining on Bea’s map, Khara directed them onto Highway 70. Driving east, they began to climb. Within a quarter hour, the hardy shrubs and cactus began to be replaced by creosote bushes and mesquite trees. Clumps of spruce showed themselves along the road. Eventually the headlights found a small hilltop town, and they drove past a handful of dark A-frame cabins. Victoria turned the radio on and found the only station, on which a wounded male voice sang of tragic love and dishonesty.
“Look how tall they are,” Khara marveled, rolling down the window to look at the trees. “The air smells wonderful. What is it?”
“Pine,” Victoria answered, looking for an address, a plaque, or anything that would tell her they were close. Fearing she had taken the wrong turn, she was about to turn the car around when, far in front of the headlights and shrouded in grey mist and shadows, they saw the staggered roofline of the lodge belonging to Bea’s aunt, Celeste Barton-Szabó.
Chapter Twenty-seven Victoria
It was after two o’clock in the morning. They crept up the stairs and tiptoed along the wooden slats of the porch to the black front door, tripping a sensor that lit floodlights at either end of the porch. Shaking in the biting cold, Victoria considered making a run for the car.
The door knocker, an ugly bronze goat with staring eyes, greeted them as they stood like timid rabbits.
