Jemez Spring

by Rudolfo Anaya

  “Did you see José?” he asked.

  “No. Is he here?”

  Sonny nodded. “He came with me—”

  “Say nothing to Augie. The police are looking for him.” She looked out the door where Augie had exited.

  She held his head back and peeled up his eyelid. Her owl eyes peered deep into the light cells.

  Her body smelled of sweet herbs. Her gentle touch seemed to move into his skull, then down along his spine. He relaxed, knowing she possessed the power of healing.

  “It didn’t cut the skin, but it’s going to swell and close your eye.”

  She took a small bottle from her curandera pouch and touched a drop of the contents to the bruise. The pain eased away.

  “Gracias,” he said. She had the healing powers of the owl in her.

  “You know the story of Horus,” she said as she held a handkerchief to his eye.

  “Yeah, the guardian son who while avenging his father lost one eye in a battle with his uncle. Funny you should mention it; I’ve been thinking of that story today. But it doesn’t apply to me.”

  “Every story taking place in your mind’s eye applies,” she corrected him.

  Yes, she was right. A man carried a bag full of stories. The winged eye was one such primal image. Horus was the falcon god of the ancient Egyptians. Was there a falcon god in the Indian pueblos of New Mexico? There were eagle dancers who in feathered costumes imitated the eagle so gracefully that they transported the viewer into a world in which man became the mediator between the gods and the earth’s people. But, no, there were no gods like Horus in the pueblos. Perhaps someday a storyteller would write a poem for Isis, and such a thing would come to pass.

  In his metempsychotic dreams Sonny had wandered along the banks of the Nile with his brothers, Osiris and Seth. He understood the Egyptian pantheon, and its stories reached even the shores of the Rio Grande.

  “Did you talk to Rita?”

  “Yes. She’s all right. It’s you I worry about.”

  Sonny knew Lorenza was soul-sister to Rita. Even the preacher Ezekiel, he who had been transported into the realm of God in a flying saucer, knew the power of soul-sisters.

  “He took the Zia medallion.”

  “Damn!” she cursed. “We came too late.”

  “Not your fault, I walked into it.”

  I’m sorry, the old man said from the corner where he sat in quilted shadows.

  Not your fault either, Sonny replied. He struggled to understand what had happened. He had walked into Raven’s circle totally unprepared. And it wasn’t just the blow to the forehead that had him off balance. Raven was working a strange new medicine. Would it be possible to enter Raven’s night world and rescue Rita’s child? The feeling of impotence overwhelmed him.

  “What now?” Lorenza asked, stooping to retrieve the dream-catcher.

  “Get it back—”

  “Sonny, that’s a bad blow you got. You’re not—”

  “Able,” he said, standing. “I’m okay.”

  He felt uncoordinated. But he had no choice. Raven had thrown the gauntlet. Dared Sonny to go to him. Now he had the Zia medallion. The solar disk. The same symbol carved on a Babylonian stone, twelve centuries before the birth of Christ.

  “He wants you like this,” Lorenza said. “Weak—Let me go with you.”

  “This time it’s just the two of us,” he replied. “I’d feel better if you checked on Rita.”

  He felt lousy. Stumbling into too many incidents. Unprepared. And the old man seemed unable to help. But why dump his chagrin on the old man? He just had to plant his feet more firmly.

  He walked to the boulder Raven claimed was the Zia Stone and kicked it. The soft tufa stone crumbled.

  “He never quits.”

  He can’t, the old man said. It’s his nature. He loves to play games.

  “Yeah, except the bomb on the mountain isn’t a game.”

  “You bet it isn’t,” said Augie, entering, pistol in hand. “Nothing out there but a flock of crows. Went up in the air like a black cloud.”

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” Sonny asked.

  “Hey, that’s a bad bruise you got there. What happened?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I followed you.”

  “To take a shot at me!”

  “Shoot you? Why the hell would I—Hey, you’re really mixed up. You’re not well—”

  “Let me check your pistol!” Sonny challenged him.

  Augie looked at his pistol, then at Sonny. He shook his head. “Against regulations,” he said, smiling. “If it goes off, you might be dead. I’d lose my job. The force doesn’t like messy cops.”

  The two men gauged each other, then Augie’s smile turned to a grin. He tossed the pistol for Sonny to catch.

  Sonny smelled the barrel. “It hasn’t been fired.”

  “God no,” a very satisfied Augie chortled. “Only time I get to fire this baby is on the range. You don’t think I’d take a pot shot at you, do you?”

  “So why here?” Sonny handed him the pistol.

  “I saw your truck leave the drive-in and followed.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell, Sonny, you’re driving into the bosque with a wanted felon in your truck and you’re asking why I followed?”

  “José? A felon?”

  “Yup, one José Calabasa. We got him on a misdemeanor. Threatened to blow up Cochiti Dam. He’s with those so-called Green Indians. Troublemakers is what they are. He was in the Bernalillo jail last night—”

  “José?”

  “That’s right. Broke out early this morning. Hell, everybody breaks out of the Bernalillo jail. He headed up 550. Where did you meet him?”

  “Never mind. Have you talked to anyone on the mountain?”

  “Nope. I know what you know. It’s ticking. Hey, let the lab boys handle that. What I’ve got is a lot more interesting.” He turned to Lorenza. “Nice meeting you. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help. But when this thing blows over maybe I can call you.”

  Lorenza picked up the Fool’s card from the floor and handed it to Augie. “Maybe.”

  He looked at the card. “Yeah, right.” He stalked out the door.

  Sonny and Lorenza followed him outside. They watched the police car disappear down the dusty road.

  “Safe to come out?” José asked, coming from behind a thick tamarisk clump, pistol tucked in his belt. “Whatju find?”

  “What do you mean what did I find?” Sonny retorted.

  “Did you see Raven?”

  “Did you?”

  “Saw a flock of crows. Guess he flew.” Looking at Lorenza, “Did you tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what now?”

  “Who sent you to find me?”

  “I did,” Lorenza said. “José’s on our side. Yes, he was in jail, but the charges are ridiculous. Intimidation. It’s Augie doing Dominic’s dirty work.”

  Sonny nodded. The professor had fingered Augie, saw him coming out of the Bath House, but admitted the light was dim; he only thought the man looked like Augie.

  “It’s a big conspiracy,” José said, “but you can’t go to the attorney general with a conspiracy theory.”

  “Yeah.” Sonny agreed. The whole thing was murky. Let the good cops find out who murdered the governor. Still, he had a bad feeling that Naomi was in danger. Both the governor and Naomi knew the fringes of Dominic’s plan. When the governor backed out, they drowned him. And Raven was playing all sides.

  Chica! He would go after Chica!

  He turned and sprinted up the dirt path to the truck. The door was open, and Chica was gone.

  He looked into the bosque and shouted “Chiiii-ca!” But he knew Raven had struck. Four black feathers rested by the door.

  “Damn!”

  Other black feathers fluttered in the tree branches, droppings of the whirlwind of crows.

  “He took the dog,” José said. “Why?”

  �
�To get at Sonny,” Lorenza answered.

  “I don’t have much time,” Sonny said, jumping into his truck.

  “You better take this.” José handed him the pistol.

  Sonny tossed the pistol in the glove compartment.

  “I’ll go by Rita’s,” Lorenza offered. “You take care—”

  “I will,” he replied. “You?” he asked José.

  “Lorenza can drop me off. Hey, Sonny, I’m sorry. I should have stayed by the truck.”

  “I’ll find her,” Sonny said. He started the truck and screeched out of the bosque, following the road back to Bernalillo.

  He sped through town and took the old Camino Real to Alburquerque, thinking, the old man is right. I’ve made too many mistakes. Not thinking straight. But I’m not going to rest till I get that sonofabitch.

  Overhead, in the clear spring light of the equinox a swirling cloud of birds swooped over the bosque, and Sonny thought he heard Raven’s laugh echo up the slope of the mountain.

  But as confused as he felt, he now knew Raven’s plan. The events of the day were falling into place. Raven wanted respect, if only momentarily. He would meet with the mayor and the Los Alamos Labs director and promise to clear up everything. The Al Qaeda operative had been planted as the fall guy. The events of the day meant everything had been orchestrated to draw Sonny into Raven’s net.

  Half a mile from Tramway Boulevard Sonny swerved, the truck skidded sideways, and he brought it to a stop on the shoulder of the road.

  A turtle, probably finished with its winter hibernation, had pushed its head up from the riverbed of damp earth and rotting leaves, smelled spring in shoots of grass, and was once again alerted by its reptilian brain. Arise and rumble! Its nature and the mud-ooze of the hidden waters called it to make time. Time to eat and procreate. Spring had dug its fingers of renewal into the flesh beneath the skin of earth.

  Sonny jumped out of the truck and ran back to the turtle, which had been sideswiped by a car.

  He picked up the wounded creature tenderly, and hot yellow pee squirted out of the shell, a sure sign of trauma. He held it and then slowly the four leathery feet and the small, green head came out of the shell.

  From a scratch on one foot oozed a dark green liquid, just starting to form a crust. Although the acrid smell of turtle blood still hung in the air, its sodden, burnished shell had saved it from the blow of the car, which had hurtled it through a space it had not anticipated. The green fragrance of the river shone in the turtle’s sad eyes, a plea for help.

  The creature opened its amber, unblinking eyes, but one bruised eyelid would not quite lift. A one-eyed turtle, it peered from its reptilian past to gaze into Sonny’s eyes, its forlorn look seeming to say, my savior.

  16

  Pobrecita, the old man said.

  Sonny looked closely at the tortoise.

  It won’t make it, out there.… He meant on the road where sooner or later crows would settle around it, curious at the find, a roadkill delicacy. The crows would proceed to peck at it, and smelling the blood they would go for the eyes until they completely blinded the creature. Then, taking their time, they would, in bits and pieces, extract the flesh.

  Turtles don’t die in a hurry, the old man said. Nebuchadnezzar the Babylonian king knew. He hired magicians to interpret his dream. But the old fart didn’t tell his wizards his dream. Tell me what I dreamed, he said. They couldn’t. So off with their heads. Can you beat that? Imagine. The shrink must know your dreams when you step into his office, or off with his head. But what the devil, we have no Daniels in our world.

  Sonny wasn’t paying attention to the Nebuchadnezzar story. He had to get to the mayor’s office. He had to know what Raven was promising and where.

  The one thing we haven’t considered, he said, still holding the turtle, Dominic hired Raven.

  Yes, the old man replied, but either way Raven will strike out on his own. You know, future wars will be fought over water, not oil. Sure, the GIs beat Saddam’s ill-equipped army, and the first thing they took were the oil fields. But just wait till Turkey says it can build dams on the Euphrates. Then you’ll see a real fight. Same on the Jordan, in Africa, and here on the Rio Grande. Wherever a river or an aquifer crosses borders, that equals war. Every nation has to feed its people. Corn, soy, and wheat need water.

  What do we do with the turtle? Sonny asked. He couldn’t leave it. Never leave a wounded animal on the road.

  The old man was looking at the mountain. Musing. I read in National Geography—

  Geographic.

  That’s it. The ancient Chinese honored turtles. They placed bronze turtles at the entrances of their temples. Those who came to turn the prayer wheel or to light candles and incense for the ancestors paused to rub the front feet of the turtle for good luck. Over the centuries the bronze wore to a polished sheen. Millions of hands had touched the turtle.

  Yeah, but now, Sonny said.

  Maybe take it to the pueblo, the old man said lamely, for although he had recovered some of his strength, he didn’t want to tell Sonny what to do.

  Sonny nodded, but he knew he didn’t have time. Raven’s trail would grow cold.

  Take it to the casino, Sonny suggested. He could drive up Tramway and drop the turtle off at the front door.

  The old man laughed, a sneer. Damn it, Sonny, you drive up with that wounded creature and those white people the pueblo hires to run their business will kick you out faster than you can fart.

  You never gambled?

  Life is enough of a gamble, the old man answered. Why go looking for trouble? Besides, I heard about an elderly woman from Belen who met el diablo—

  I heard the story, Sonny interrupted. Maybe the losers tell those stories. But he knew better. The people told stories. Soon a corrido about the woman would be sung. People would report a man in black sitting next to anxious housewives at the slot machines. He watched with burning eyes as would-be winners polished the buttons on the slots on machines that were not lucky turtles.

  Sonny held the turtle up to the sky, toward the mountain so that the outline of the creature was the exact outline of the Sandia Mountain. A perfect fit. The mountain itself was a turtle facing north, a living creature, and those who understood turtle dialogue could hear its story.

  The old man was in a storytelling mood. He told how long ago Father Sky came to lie on Mother Earth and the weight of Father Sky formed the soft depression that became the great valley of the Rio Grande. All forms of life came into being from that divine connubium. The begetting in the Bible paled before the life forms that sprouted from sperm clouds and earth meeting. Everything was born of that union: trees, grass, flowers, deer, raccoons, beavers, snakes, even the dragonflies and other common insects. But they could not grow because Father Sky continued to press on Mother Earth, continually fertilizing her and yet not allowing growing room for the life they engendered.

  So the animals, whose desire was to sprout upward, sent a black bear to lift Father Sky. The bear pushed and grunted, but he wasn’t strong enough. Then buffalo was sent, but he couldn’t budge the sky. Even the mighty cottonwood tried, lifting its huge arms like a gymnast pumping iron, but even this Tree of Life could not lift the sky. Life was trapped in a claustrophobic atmosphere. Each cell wanted to grow upward on the chain of potential, but they were stifled by the weight of the sky.

  Finally the meek turtle, a water creature, volunteered to lift the sky. The other animals laughed. Even the river trees, whose desire to grow exceeded everyone, chortled. How could a mere turtle lift the weight of Father Sky?

  The little turtle lifted its small head and announced to Father Sky that in order for life to grow, he must move. Father Sky didn’t move, and so the turtle in its knobby shell began to push. It pushed and pushed until slowly but surely, it lifted Father Sky.

  Imagine the relief of the plants and animals! They could finally breathe! Every living organism, including the rocks, gasped for air. The turtle rose like a mountain, lifting
Father Sky about a mile high. Now our valley people call that turtle Sandia Mountain. It’s still holding up Father Sky and allowing all of us the space to breathe and grow.

  Divine connubium, Sonny thought, a marriage made in heaven. Stories of the sacred marriage were older than Joseph’s marriage to Mary. The sky god Zeus had come to visit good-looking mamasotas on earth, and Isis had lain on the dead body of Osiris. Life blossomed.

  Sonny blinked. A second ticked by. The blinking of the eye created time, as did the ticking heart. Count the heartbeats for a minute. Multiply by sixty. Multiply by days, months, and years to arrive at the Source of the First Dream.

  Is there such a thing as divine marriage? he wondered. That’s what he wanted for himself and Rita.

  I like that story, he said, looking up at the granite face of Sandia Mountain, the orienting feature of the valley.

  I think it’s an Egyptian myth, replied the old man. From the time of the pharaohs. They had their Nile, we have our Rio Grande, so we share stories. The Egyptians don’t mind; as you know, most of the pharaohs are dead.

  So mountains hold up the sky, Sonny mused, and if one is blown apart the sky will fall. The Chicken Little story has an ominous ring to it.

  Mountains have many uses. I read that the Babylonians constructed zig-gu-rats. The Egyptians pyramids. Later those ideas came to our ancestors, the Olmecs, possibly from Chinese and Japanese boat people who landed on the coast of Peru long ago. They spread to the Vera Cruz. From there to other Mexican civilizations. Like Teotihuacan. Those magic mountains are all over, even as mounds in Illinois and Ohio.

  If Raven blows up the Jemez, a gaping hole will appear on Mother Earth, a wound from which will seep the hidden waters. Blood of the mountain. A wounded turtle. And a large part of Father Sky will cave in, fall into the vacuum. Everything will be contaminated with radioactivity.

  Sonny knew this wasn’t science, but it was a way of relating to the natural order of the cosmos. Relate with the wisdom of story, not the microchip. Stories, legends, and myths are what connected the humans to the Eternal Mystery, connected one person to the other, because all shared the same history, the same First Mother, the same First Father.