by Alisa Valdes
“We are all just terribly aggrieved,” said my mother into the microphone, tidy and perfect in her red pantsuit, her hair salon-coiffed earlier that day, “to have to share this news with the good people of the city of Albuquerque. We grieve for the Torero family, and extend to them our deepest condolences in the death of their only son. The killer is still at large, but we believe it to have been another member of the same far-reaching Satanic cult to which young Logan Torero himself so tragically belonged.”
Yes, that was the official story. Logan had secretly been part of a Satanic cult. As such, he’d kidnapped me and Kelsey at the dance, to do horrible and unsavory things to us. Kelsey’s dress was covered with blood because he and other boys had sacrificed animals on top of her (we gave ourselves extra credit for thinking that one up) and he had been in the process of cutting my throat when one of his own apparently grew a conscience and used his own crossbow to shoot him from across a field.
“These two young girls,” droned my mother, “including my own beautiful and talented daughter, Maria Luisa, were beyond brave in the face of this terrible incident. As a mother, I feel wonderful knowing that all of the hard lessons I’ve taught her about morality, family, God and safety, all came together in her moment of need to help her escape from what might otherwise have been a most terrible fate.”
The crowd broke into applause here, and Kelsey used the opportunity to fake-sneeze the word “perjurer” in my general direction. I cracked a grin, but did not laugh out loud.
“That something of this evil nature could have taken root at a place as wonderful as Coronado Preparatory Academy is sobering, indeed,” my mother continued. “As a lawmaker, I take this to mean that none of our children are ever truly safe, until we hold our schools and elected officials to the fire and demand that there be better oversight and education for children about these dark forces among us.”
More applause.
“I want to commend the Coronado Preparatory Administration for already implementing sensitivity training for faculty and students around Satanic and cult issues, so that should something like this take sprout again amongst us, we will all be able to recognize it for what it is, and weed it out. What’s more, as a city councilwoman, and as the mother of one of the victims, I am going to make sure that this same training is available to every school in our great city, free of charge, so that no family will have to go through what my family has gone through.”
Again, deafening applause.
“And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask my daughter to step forward, to receive a special gift from me and all of the city councilors, on behalf of the mayor, congratulating her on her quick thinking and survival smarts. Maria Luisa, please come up. You, too Kelsey.”
And so it was that as the crowd rose to its feet, and my classmates joined forces with the local media and political elites to celebrate the lives Kelsey and I both had only because of the bravery and self-sacrificing of Demetrio Vigil, my best friend and I stepped forward to accept the key to the City, silently, on his behalf. Only Yazzie knew that we had agreed to dedicate it to him, and I caught sight of her wiping away a tear as I walked to the side of the stage to pose for photographs. Being alive seemed a strange thing to celebrate, but from where I stood now, most things most of my fellow humans did seemed strange.
Later that day, Yazzie drove me and Kelsey to Golden, to help us drape the chain with the Key to the City of Albuquerque upon the descanso belonging to Demetrio Vigil. As she drove, I told her about the book he’d left behind. Yazzie listened with growing interest, and asked if I had it with me. I did, of course, because I always carried it with me now. It was all I had left of him, and I couldn’t bear to part with it.
When she parked at the descanso, before we got out, Yazzie flipped through the book.
“I have heard of these, but never seen one,” she said. “It’s remarkable that he found the strength to materialize it upon his parting.”
“He took the crossbow, too.”
“You girls do realize that by doing so, Demetrio saved you both from possible prosecution in Logan’s murder?”
“Yes,” we said in unison. We had discussed it many times.
Yazzie flipped through the pages, shaking her head in amazement, smiling sadly. She cried as she flipped, and when her tear hit the page along the margin, an amazing thing happened: pale blue words appeared, shimmering on the parchment.
Beautiful work, they said, or Perfect timing.
“Cry some more,” Kelsey told her, and Yazzie, almost as good an actress as she was an artist, created more tears, dropping them in the margins of the pages. They illuminated what appeared to be communications for Demetrio, about each of the rescues. Some were encouraging, others were advice on how to do it better next time.
“Who’s writing that?” I asked, chilled and excited.
“I believe The Maker of All Things,” said Yazzie, softly and reverently. “It is as though the book were a direct method of communicating with The Maker.”
“With God,” said Kelsey. “God writes uplifting greeting card slogans in magic books. That’s hard to believe.”
“Something like that,” I said, echoing Demetrio’s own terminology with a smile.
“Why do you think he left it for us?” asked Kelsey.
“I think, Maria, that Demetrio left this as a way for you to perhaps appeal to The Maker on his behalf.”
As she said the words, they felt exactly right. “I know that’s what it is,” I said. “I feel it.”
She handed me the book.
“What do I do?”
“Write in it, on a blank page.”
“But what do I write?”
“Whatever’s in here,” she said, touching her heart. “We’ll take the key while you do this. You should do it in private.”
They left me alone in the Jeep with the book, and I flipped to the first empty page. Then, using the quill pen, I began to write.
I don’t know if you can hear me, or see this, but I write to you today to ask that you have mercy on the soul of Demetrio Antonio de los Santos Vigil, who died in this spot and who I came to know and love. He saved my life. He was found to be a kindred to me, a Close Kindred, and we believe we are Kindred Primaries. He did kill a man, but it was done in defense of my life, which he had already saved once. He sacrificed his soul for mine, and I would hope that you might look kindly upon that sort of thing. He doesn’t deserve to be in The Very Bad Place, and I very much would appreciate it if you could see about getting him out of these and letting him come back to finish his good deeds, which I know for a fact he really enjoyed. Thank you very much, sincerely, Maria Luisa Ochoa.
I sat with the page, and began myself to cry. I let the tears fall upon the margins of the page, and watched, in astonishment, as a reply appeared, almost as quickly as I’d written the plea.
“God may be subtle, but he isn’t plain mean.” Albert Einstein
I read the words twice, and then jumped out of the car and ran over the Kelsey and Yazzie. “What do you think this means?” I asked, showing it to them.
“I think it means you need to learn to write shorter,” said Kelsey. “Jeez. Give a girl a magic notebook and she doodles all over it.”
“No, not mine, dork. The answer.”
They read the words, and Yazzie smiled. Kelsey shrugged.
“It means he’s coming back,” said Yazzie, dreamily.
“It does?” I asked, my heart skipping a beat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, child,” she said, bringing me into an embrace. “Ours is a loving, sympathetic creator, not a vindictive one. And maybe this time, you’ll read the stories I give you, so no one gets hurt.”
“Not likely,” joked Kelsey, pouting a little as though she felt left out.
“Come here, Kelsey Epstein,” said Yazzie, opening our hug to include her. “You girls are so crazy.”
“Yeah. So I’ve been told,” I said, and we laughed.
Alisa Valdes, The Temptation of Demetrio Vigil
