by SL Hulen
“If you weren’t such an impious creature, you’d know. A proper pilgrim wears nothing on his feet when entering a sacred place.” Khara placed her socks inside her boots and tucked them under her arm.
“Who said anything about a sacred place?”
“Don’t be stubborn. Do you want to spoil our chances for finding a miracle?”
Victoria leaned against the Jeep and crossed her arms. “Look, there are things even the faithful don’t do any more, and walking around barefoot is one of them. It’s considered—”
“Lowly? But it demonstrates a certain humility, does it not? And those are your religious teachings, aren’t they? You would know this if you ever went to Mass—“
“So, now we’re pilgrims?” Victoria wondered aloud. “Well, I suppose it sounds better than fugitives…and definitely better than criminals.” She tore at the laces of her hiking boots and stripped them off, flinging them over her shoulder. “All right. Where to?”
“We will follow the Camino Real to its end. Nandor said a miracle would await us there.”
Victoria said nothing for a few moments. Then she demanded, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re not arguing.”
“Why would a mere mortal argue with the earthly embodiment of Hathor and Isis, the Queen of the Two Lands, and the Divine Daughter of Ra?”
“Exactly.”
It was good to hear Victoria’s rapier tongue again. They walked along the winding street, admiring the soft corners of the mud walls and the gates with peeling blue paint, which were draped with pink blossoms.
How soft the soles of Khara’s feet had become! Every pebble and pine needle was an enemy, and she made a game of avoiding them. The smell of burnt sugar wafting through the lazy afternoon air was sweet enough to fill her empty stomach. The solemn procession of the faithful that she had conjured in her imagination—pilgrims dressed in white linen—was nowhere in sight.
Victoria explained that the buildings had been built by the Spaniards in the seventeenth century, making them some of the oldest structures in the country.
“At only four hundred years? Hah!”
One more turn down a winding street brought them to the Plaza. At one end, the porch of the Palace of the Governors was lined with women enticing shoppers to trays laden with turquoise and silver. A few wore black velvet tunics, wide, colorful skirts, and knotted hair that Victoria explained was traditional dress for Navajo women.
“Go ahead, shred your feet if you like, but I’m putting my boots back on.” Victoria dusted off the bottoms of her feet and slipped into her socks. “We’re going to need to find a place to stay before it gets any later. I hope there’s something we can afford.”
They hunted for a room while the sky darkened. Twice, Khara waited outside, watching for Mieley while Victoria went inside. “The police may be looking for us,” she’d reasoned. “If so, two women will draw more attention.”
The second time, she returned looking satisfied with herself and singing, “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
“You were able to find something?”
“I told the clerk that I was scouting accommodations for next year’s conference on immigration reform, and we’d need every room in this hotel and several others. Voilà! We got a suite! It won’t be ready for a while, though. Khara? Are you listening?”
Her sights had settled on the building at the opposite end of the square. “Let us wait someplace more discreet. At the church,” she suggested, pointing.
“Now there’s a surprise,” Victoria answered and Khara could not tell how she meant it.
Refusing to go inside, Victoria stood obstinately outside the Loretto Chapel, under a yellow-leafed tree. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she attempted to mollify Khara by handing her a bill. “I’ll wait here,” she announced, self-consciously. “Take your time.”
“Victoria—”
Seriously, take as long as you want. Just don’t include me.” At the small desk just inside, Khara waited, her heart fluttering. When it was her turn, she pushed the wrinkled bill into a metal drawer and walked inside.
A middle-aged man called, “Your change, miss.” She looked back at the silver coins.
“Keep it, Father.”
“That’s very generous of you. I’m not a priest, though. The chapel was deconsecrated by the Catholic Church more than forty years ago; it’s more of a museum now. Are you sure you don’t want some change back?”
Khara had little use for museums. The tragedy that had befallen the Great Sphinx still haunted her, as did the unimaginable disgrace that had befallen the mummy of Ramses the Great, which had been revealed to her on public television. “Then it is no longer a holy place?”
“You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”
Defeat accompanied her through the wooden doors and onto the red carpet. The light-stone-and-gold-trimmed columns could easily have been in an Egyptian temple. She imagined that, at any moment, she would hear the gentle swoosh of the High Priest’s robes and Unam would appear like the vapor of incense. He had been conveniently missing on the day Nandor sent her father’s traitors to the next life in pieces. She closed her eyes, banishing the image from her mind.
A woman wearing a yellow-brimmed hat and a blouse with no sleeves hurried past her. Behind her trudged a man wearing the expression of the truly oppressed. “Hurry up, Mel! You want to see the miraculous staircase, don’t you?” When the large woman whispered, her voice reverberated down the carpeted aisle and floated upward, bouncing off the milky stone arches of the ceiling. He shrugged and followed, and Khara followed him. At the foot of a wooden staircase, the woman halted. The man seemed reluctant to join her and left a large space between them, which Khara quickly filled.
“It’s not too often you get to see a miracle,” the woman remarked, her voice friendly and begging for company.
Rather than appear dimwitted, she nodded. The man took two paces backward, removing himself from the conversation.
“I read that it’s really two miracles—they don’t know who built it, and then there’s the engineering. No one knows how it was done.”
“No one? It seems ordinary enough,” Khara commented, trying not to sound like a heretic or as if she were disputing the woman’s claim.
“Oh, but it’s not at all.” She took a pamphlet from her bag and unfolded it carefully. “The legend says the sisters of Loretto tried in vain to find a solution that allowed them the much— needed access to the choir loft.” Pointing upward to a second story, she added, “There was no space for a proper stairway. Eventually, they did what any group of good sisters would do; they made a novena to St. Joseph. On the final day of their prayers, a carpenter appeared on a donkey, looking for work. He labored tirelessly, hardly eating or sleeping, and completed the staircase without pay. That was practically a miracle itself, even in 1877. Afterward, he simply disappeared. But that’s only the first part! See the two complete 360 degree turns? There are no visible means of support. Not a metal screw or pin—only wooden pegs hold it together. Why, it practically floats!”
For the first time, Khara could see that the man on the cross had once been alive. She could picture beads of sweat and sawdust clinging to him as he varnished each step until the staircase shone like tiger’s eye. In her mind’s eye, he stroked his beard while studying the small space before deciding how to answer the sisters’ prayers.
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Just like the pyramids. To this day, I don’t think anyone knows how they got those corners so square. Brilliant, I tell you—”
“A massive undertaking, to be sure.”
“I have an extra one,” she said of the pamphlet. “I only need one for my scrapbook. Here, take it.”
The woman pressed the picture of the staircase into her hand and left. Khara checked her watch. Thirty-seven minutes had gone by, and still Victoria remained outside. She took a seat on the last row of pews.
Just as Nandor had decreed, a mi
racle indeed waited at the end of the Camino Real. She did not mind that the miracle was not for her, perhaps he had only meant to encourage her, though that feeling escaped her now. Had she expected too much? Turning in her seat to admire the rear window, Khara decided that the afternoon light shining through the bright blue and red of the stained-glass window was the loveliest thing she had ever seen.
Outside, Victoria rose quickly from her spot underneath the tree when she saw Khara. A raucous crowd was quickly assembling on the square, chanting, “Zozobra, Zozobra, he burns tonight!”
“Who is Zozobra, and why must he burn?” Khara asked. “It seems an unorthodox punishment, especially in a holy city.”
“I’ve heard it mentioned a couple of times now—something about a ritual burning. This is America; they can’t be talking about a person. By the way, I hope you said a prayer for Bea.”
Khara’s cheeks flamed. “She’s your dearest friend, and yet you will not push aside your pride to pray that her precious family be protected.” Khara grabbed Victoria’s arm and dragged her past the man at the door. “How will you ever forgive yourself if something happens to her and you did nothing? Whatever your dispute with the King of Kings is, this has gone far enough. I will not hear another of your petty refusals.”
Rather than make a scene, Victoria allowed herself to be led inside, muttering, “Bah!” After seeing the miraculous staircase, she took the brochure Khara offered with some hesitation before taking a seat on one of the last pews. Eventually, she unfolded the kneeler and lowered herself onto it. Khara watched her take the cross out from underneath her sweater and kiss it. Over and over, the same phrase came from her lips, too softly to understand. She carried on this way for some time, the expression of a lost child on her face. At last she made the sign of the cross and tucked the necklace back into her sweater. Rising stiffly to her feet, she walked out.
For some time after they left the church, few words passed between them. They walked with no particular destination in mind, knowing that each step brought them closer to a warm room and bed. At a busy corner, the smells coming from a café lured them inside. At last, Victoria smiled.
Khara did not remember when she had eaten last. The plates of food floating on the hands of quick-moving waitresses made her mouth water and her knees weak. When it was their turn to be seated, Victoria ordered plates of blue-corn enchiladas, roasted squash, steaming bowls of beans, and lemonade. The squash took Khara straight back to Piri’s table, and she pushed food into her mouth until her belly could hold no more.
A young man approached their table, dropping four small pieces of paper—two red and two turquoise—in the center of the table. “Last chance, ladies,” he told them, though his face was anything but serious.
“Last chance for what?” Victoria asked, eyes narrowed, a knot surfacing in her jaw.
The young man, who had hair the color of carrots, pulled up a chair. “If you don’t know, you must be here for the eclipse. They say it’s supposed to be remarkable.”
“Who says?” Khara asked, trying not to sound as interested as she was.
“The researchers at St. John’s College Observatory. They’ve even put a countdown in the local paper, and everyone’s been following it for weeks. The day after tomorrow, 10:43 in the morning.”
Then that is not the reason for these?” Khara inquired, holding up the colorful papers he had dropped so casually.
The young man shook his head, a playful smile still on his lips.
Victoria swallowed a mouthful of food and mumbled, “You were saying?”
“I have your attention?”
“At least until dessert comes,” Victoria shot back. “Last chance for what?”
He leaned across the table. “Why, to divest yourself of sadness! Wanna know how it works?” His excitement was no doubt fueled by their blank stares. “Write down your saddest thoughts. See that bowl near the cash register? When the sun goes down, all the papers will be gathered up and taken down to Old Fort Marcy Park and placed inside Old Man Gloom.”
“Who?”
“Old Man Gloom. Zozobra. When we set him on fire, all the sad thoughts in Santa Fe will go up in flames.”
He disappeared behind a swinging door at the back of the room. Khara put a hand on Victoria’s arm and brought her head close. “It certainly seems a worthy superstition.” She laid the red papers just above her companion’s plate.
Victoria put her fork down, walked to the counter pointed out by the young man, and returned with a pencil. “You might as well use them all.”
“Something troubles you?”
“You’d burn your right arm at the altar if you thought it would bring you luck. You’ve become some sort of twisted spiritual junkie; you don’t care who or what you believe in as long as you can use it to your advantage. It’s total bullshit, if you ask me.”
“You are mistaken,” Khara argued. “Religion is my only link to a life which is…what is the term? Oh yes; extinct. Still, I feel that Isis has not abandoned me. Often she walks in step with Jesus Christ, and sometimes Mohammad joins them.
“Don’t you see, that I must do everything in my power to return to Egypt? Besides, who is to know which god is greatest? How many more must die because each of us believes our religion is the only true one? Perhaps the many gods are only one, but I fear the answer is a thousand times more elusive than the mysteries of the atom, and look how long that discovery took. What you see as heresy is, in fact, desperation. If it means exposing my soul on a piece of red paper, or praying to the patron saint of lost causes, or—”
Oh, hell. Be quiet and give me one,” Victoria spat. Scribbling quickly, she folded the paper in half and passed it across the table. “Your turn.”
Chapter Forty-six Khara
Nightfall arrived, bringing a mischief that seemed to infect even the most virtuous of Santa Fe’s citizens. Victoria and Khara lingered inside Café Pasquals, intimidated by the noisy crowd that was quickly filling the streets with sounds of sacrilege and the smell of beer.
“It’s only going to get worse out there, we should get to the hotel,” Victoria warned, when at last, she pushed open the door.
“But the entire city has turned out to watch Zozobra burn. Why not subject ourselves to one last exercise in mindless superstition?”
“They won’t hold our room past nine.”
“We’ll be back long before then; I’ll make sure of it,” Khara promised, checking her watch. “Besides, I’ve never seen a fifty— foot marionette. Have you?”
“It would be a first.”
At the park, the music was roaring so loudly that Khara felt it pounding in her chest. She would have covered her ears except that no one else had, and she didn’t want to look conspicuous. Someone handed Victoria a beer which she drained quickly, followed by another. Her worried look began to fade.
With sated appetites and lightened spirits, they stood waiting to see Old Man Gloom burn. “Zozobra,” Khara had learned, meant “anxiety,” which was exactly what she felt as she watched him shriek and moan and wave his arms from side to side.
Dancers dressed like yellow and red flames waved long torches and darted mischievously between his legs. He shouted down at them and they ran off, but returned quickly and began his torment all over again. When there had been enough theatrics and the crowd had drowned out his cries, the dancers set fire to his legs. A fresh wave of merriment erupted as Zozobra’ s screams filled the night.
So this is how it feels to be a part of a crowd, she thought. Khara felt the shackles of her upbringing loosen. Her hips began to sway. In the pounding beat, she became someone else; a woman who could choose whether or not to marry, to arise each morning at whatever hour pleased her; a woman who could lounge in the privacy of her own home without attendants, or officials, or the needs of an entire nation.
In the midst of her thoughts, Victoria took her hand. Hips bumping, hands in the air, laughing and singing together— Khara had never felt anything l
ike it.
“Samba,” Victoria told her dreamily.
“Show me.” She had never felt so invisible in her life. Her body moved in rhythm with Victoria’s while explosions of gold and blue filled the night, and strangers hugged each other in an unbridled merriment she would never know again.
And then, in spite of everything around her, a tingling crept up the base of her skull. It subsided quickly, but returned—a singularly disturbing sensation she likened to the hiss of an asp. Scanning the multitude of figures illuminated only by the tiny lights waving in time with the music, she looked to the right and saw nothing unusual; but when she looked over her left shoulder, she watched as he cut a swath through the crowd, his malevolent expression spreading a chill through her chest. She cried out, and Victoria put her hand to her ear.
“What?”
“Mieley!”
They reacted as one, diving deeper into the assembly. Khara kept her focus ahead; elbows spread wide, painfully aware that the path she was forging was making it easier for Mieley to catch up.
“Do you remember how to get to the hotel?” Victoria shouted from behind. Much of the gathering was behind them now.
Khara nodded.
“Go there as fast as you can and wait for me in the lobby. I’ll try to head him off. Hurry!”
In an instant, Victoria turned north, moving at little more than a trot to lure him away.
Thankfully, the fireworks had stopped. As Khara exited the park, she could hardly see her hand in front of her. Thank you, Isis. She ran, her footsteps echoing through the empty streets. When she was certain no one had followed her, she paused to catch her breath. The view overlooked the plaza. She was safe, but what of Victoria? Had Mieley taken the bait, or had he captured her? A wave of worry washed over her.
Soon Khara heard church bells. The Loretto Chapel was closer than she’d thought! With luck, Victoria would soon join her. The bell chimed eleven o’clock as she ran past. The hotel came into view, and with it, a new plan. She would not wait inside, it was better to remain in the shadows where she could make sure that Victoria arrived alone.
