Through the Fire

by Shawn Grady

  A winding road took me through rocky bitterbrush-covered hills, westward toward the ocean and my uncle’s estate. The peak of the last hill brought with it the unbridled blue of the Pacific Ocean, contained only by the limits of my vision south and by a misty haze creeping in from the north. Cormac’s place was easy to find, the only house for a mile in any direction, encompassed inland by horse corrals and a weathered barn, and on the west by an elaborate garden and deck overlooking the water. The word estate had never really hit me until then. I was amazed by what the American dollar could buy in a third-world country.

  I pulled the Cruiser to a stop on Cormac’s gravel driveway, a small dust cloud bypassing the vehicle as I opened the door. The air smelled sweet and humid. A light breeze cooled the line of sweat along my spine. Cormac appeared from around the corner, his thick hairy arms outspread, his grin surrounded by a salt-and-pepper beard. He’d gained weight.

  “Aidan!”

  I stood trapped in a bear hug before I could bring my arms up. Cormac stood a few inches taller than me. My face squished against his shoulder.

  “How’s my favorite nephew?”

  I managed a muffled “Hey, Uncle Cormac.”

  “What was that?” he said.

  I pulled away and coughed. “Hey, Cormac. It’s great to see you.”

  He shook his head. “It has been too long.” He glanced at the gauze wrapped around my palm. “What happened to your hand?”

  “This? Oh, you know, nothing. It’s only a flesh wound.” I laughed, anxious to change the subject. “But you’re right, it has been too long. It’s weird to see you with a beard after all those clean-cut years with the department.”

  He waved a hand. “Ah, who wants to talk about the department, anyway?”

  I scoffed. “Yeah, count me out.”

  He stole a glance toward the car. “Christine couldn’t make it?”

  I swallowed. “Oh. You know. She’s swamped with her master’s thesis.”

  His bushy eyebrows crunched.

  “Yeah. Something about beatnik writers and grammar teachers. I don’t know.”

  He just stared at me.

  I ran my hand along the back of my neck. “She’s out visiting her mother.”

  His eyes crinkled at the sides, just like my dad’s. Just like mine. “Say no more, son.”

  And that was it. Nothing more needed be said. I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “It is great to see you again.”

  He stroked his beard, then pointed his index finger. “You must be hungry.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, actually—”

  “Come on. Let’s grab your stuff and I’ll give you a quick tour. Rosa should have the pescado soup done real soon.”

  “Rosa?”

  “You think I can keep this place up by myself?”

  “Must be nice living the good life.” I grabbed my backpack from the car.

  “Yeah. But it comes at a price. My pension doesn’t cover everything, so I'm still doing consulting work stateside.” He pulled out the rolling luggage.

  “Thanks.” My eyes trailed over the eastern hills. “So, Lazaro Cardenas. Most of the people here farmers?”

  “Miners.”

  “Oh?”

  “The old salt mines down south. Probably still employ sixty percent of the population.” He paused outside a thick cedar door.

  “Well, here we are.”

  The door opened into a column-lined entryway paved with marble. A small fountain trickled water into a basin with koi swimming under lily pads. The hallways were cool and naturally lit by recessed skylights and transom windows.

  “Beautiful home, Cormac.”

  He let his eyes traverse the room, then sighed. “Come on, I’ll show you the garden.”

  We emerged from the main house onto a large paver patio. The guesthouse sat in the middle of the garden, river rock and mortar walls supporting a ceramic-tiled roof. The inside couldn’t have been bigger than five hundred square feet. But it had a kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom. A stone fireplace rose along a side wall.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  I turned off my cell phone and set it on the kitchen counter. “It’s amazing. Just what I needed.”

  “Feel free to get yourself situated. I’ll be on the porch.”

  “Sounds great.” I extended my hand and we shook. “Thanks again.”

  He stepped out the door, his face half hidden by the frame. “Don’t mention it.”

  Rosa’s soup smelled like autumn in a bowl. Fried tortilla strips floated in claret-colored liquid with corn, beans, peppers, and shredded halibut. A dollop of sour cream topped the mixture.

  The evening fog moved in on the horizon, bringing with it an unexpected chill that prompted me to zip my fleece jacket up to the neck. The sky melded monochromatic gray, the ocean beneath mirroring its brooding brow.

  Papier-mâché lanterns dangled from wire strung beneath the wooden porch covering. A solitary candle on our table flicked in the light breeze. The kitchen windows radiated a warm glow from where Rosa busied herself washing pots. Inside, on the far corner of the countertop, lit candles enshrined photographs of a silver-haired man amid the same yellow marigolds I’d seen in town. Crosses formed from small white bones, tied at the crux with twine, bordered an arched mirror behind it all.

  Cormac leaned back in his chair, one elbow on the armrest, the other holding a mug of hot sangria. He stared at the water and the fading sunlight diffusing though the cloud cover. I swallowed a spoonful of the soup, letting the warmth radiate through my chest.

  “Did Rosa lose a relative recently?” I nodded toward the kitchen.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

  I sipped the sangria. Cinnamon, cranberry, and root-stalk earthiness graced my palate. I pointed with the mug. “Did she make an altar for a loved one she lost?”

  His mind was elsewhere. He leaned back and glanced in the kitchen. “Oh, that. Yes. But not recently. That’s all part of Día de los Muertos.”

  “Part of what?”

  He raised one eyebrow, something I could never do. “You don’t know about . . .” He made little circles in the air with his hand.

  I smiled and shook my head. “No. Not really.”

  He interlaced his fingers and leaned forward on the table. His pale blue eyes turned translucent, his lips thin and emotionless beneath the beard. “Day of the Dead, Aidan. Día de los Muertos.”

  Something flicked in those eyes. His expression changed, like someone snapping from a trance. He sat upright. “Matter of fact, tomorrow evening I was planning on joining some compadres in town for the celebration. Should be a good time. You in?”

  I swallowed. “Yeah. Sure. Sounds like a good time.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers across his belly.

  I stared at my soup, tracing my spoon in a figure eight. “You know, today is the day when Dad—”

  “Of course I know. You think I don’t?” He paused, wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m sorry, A-O. It’s just—”

  I put up my hands. “No, no. It’s fine. Of course you do. I’m sorry. Even after five years it’s still hard for everyone.”

  He put his hand by the candle, warming his palm. “You know . . . this, the fire . . .” He passed his fingers through it, back and forth. Black smoke wisps snaked skyward. “It doesn’t care. It has one focus, Aidan. One. To consume.” He cupped his hand beside the flame. “It may give warmth. It may give light. But that’s not its purpose. Its sole desire is to devour and to consume and to take that which was and to make it no more.” He stared at it for a minute, then pinched the wick, extinguishing the flame.

  He pushed his chair away from the table. “It’s late. You've got to be tired from your travels. Sleep in. Relax. Tomorrow evening we’ll celebrate. Tomorrow we’ll remember the dead together.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  L azaro came out.

  The town emerged, alive in its
celebration of the dead. That next night transformed the quiet pueblo into a raucous Mardi Gras conglomeration. A parade filled the streets with fire-eaters and costumed revelers. Macabre floats depicted scenes of death and the departed.

  Cormac took me to a bar called La Milagrosa. The custom upon entering was to knock on the doorframe three times, a nod to the bar’s namesake who lay with her newborn infant in eternal sleep. A standing-room-only crowd mingled under dim lighting and darkly painted walls decorated with wool tapestries sporting intricate patterns of scarlet and gold. A four-man band huddled in the center, moving fingers with flamenco speed over twelve-string guitars and skin stretched toms. A light cigarette-smoke haze levitated overhead.

  Joining our party were three of Cormac’s friends—Virgil, a lanky youth who looked as if he’d fall between the floorboards; Berto, a shorter stocky man who replied to everything by nodding with a smile and saying “Yes, yes”; and Rodrigo, a local ranch owner who’d migrated up from Panama during the Noriega years and also happened to be fluent in several languages.

  We baby-stepped through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder. Virgil led the way, standing a head taller than most and wearing a white cowboy hat.

  Cormac turned in front of me. “We still got Berto?”

  A set of smiling teeth peeked out between bodies. “Yes, yes.”

  Cormac put his hand on my back and said something. I leaned my ear by his mouth. “What?”

  “I’m going with Virgil to get us some drinks. Hang here with Rodrigo and Berto.”

  I nodded with exaggeration. “All right.”

  We huddled in the back third of the bar by a dark hallway. A regular flow of people walked in and out of two separate doors that looked like entrances to restrooms. A wooden sign hung between them from two eyebolts in the ceiling. A long sentence spelled out in Spanish on it.

  I tapped Rodrigo on the shoulder. “What does the sign say?”

  A smile turned at the corner of his mouth. He leaned near. “ ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ ”

  The crowd encircled around the quartet danced. Two bartenders spun shakers and poured tequila into shot glasses. A small group roared and cheered after several heads knocked back a swallow.

  Cormac returned with Virgil, holding several shot glasses. They passed them out, two for each of us. Cormac raised both hands in a toast. “To the white man!”

  “Bah!” Rodrigo said. “Make a real toast.”

  “All right, all right.” Cormac paused. His voice took on a somber tone. “To the departed.”

  I lifted my glasses. “Here, here.”

  One.

  And two.

  The five of us downed shots of throat-burning tequila.

  Berto exhaled loudly with grinning teeth. “Yes, yes! Ta kill ya! Ha, ha! Ta kill ya!”

  I blew out a breath and wiped my watering eyes.

  A firm palm slapped my shoulder. Cormac swayed beside me. “What do you think, huh? Funny thing is, Virgil and I already had two at the bar!”

  “That was you guys?”

  Rodrigo looked perplexed. “Where is Virgil?”

  Cormac pointed his thumb. “He went to hit the head, I think. Right, Berto?”

  “Yes, yes, señor. Quieres mas tequila?”

  Cormac laughed. “I like the way you think, amigo. Let’s go, you and me. I’ll take you on, toe to toe.”

  Berto grinned and patted Cormac on the back.

  “You two coming?” Cormac said over his shoulder.

  Rodrigo waved a hand. “I’ll be right behind you in a bit. I’m going to say hello to a couple of friends.” He spoke into my ear. “Mi esposa does not like me coming home . . . how is it you say it in Inglés . . . smashed.” He winked and straightened.

  Virgil returned. “Vamanos ya!”

  “Already?” Rodrigo said.

  Cormac appeared, nodding, taking three steps to maintain his balance. “The horses are here.”

  Rodrigo’s eyebrows elevated. “Los caballos?”

  Cormac grinned. “Two kilometers to the beach. The whole parade is going. Right now. Virgil had horses brought in just for it this year.” He winked at Virgil.

  Rodrigo shook his head. “Cormac, not only is it dark, but you are already drunk. You don’t even ride so good when you’re sober. Now you’re going to climb aboard a thousand-pound animal?”

  Cormac stared at him, swaying slowly. He burst out in laughter. “You are the best, Rodrigo! That’s why I love you, man. Now come on! Let’s go!” He hooked my arm and led me over to Berto and Virgil.

  “You four have fun,” Rodrigo said as he waved. “Perhaps I will see you later tonight.”

  Cormac waved with his back to him. “That man cannot hold his liquor, always does this. But you and me, we have strong Irish blood! Thick like Guinness!”

  I should have eaten something first. My head was already spinning.

  “If it feels like we’re going in circles, we are,” Cormac said, mounted on an Appaloosa whose coloring gave the appearance it had rolled around in soot. “But Virgil knows this route, and trust me, this is the fastest way down the canyon and to the ocean.” The sounds of distant drums echoed off the hillsides. Flickering torches wobbled with horse hip movements in our caravan. Cormac held a large electric lantern, pale luminescence washing blue over his face. “You be good to old Geryon back there. He is the first horse I bought here.”

  Horse was an understatement. Beast seemed more appropriate. Geryon’s coal black neck flexed thick like sequoia roots. I couldn’t remember the last time I had ridden anything not powered by a motor.

  The moon hung high and nearly full, lighting our way. My peripheral vision faded into the inky blur of night, my inability to discern shapes exacerbated by the alcohol making a merry-goround in my head. We passed a sign with an arrow that read Playa del Séptimo Círculo, 0.2 Kilómetros.

  “We must be getting close,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. Virgil could guide this path blindfolded.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” I said. But I don’t think he heard me.

  The sounds of drums were soon matched with music. The canyon opened up, and we followed a creek down to the beach. Bonfires whipped flames over smooth sand and frothing white waves. Skeleton-costumed dancers pranced around one fire, a crowd clapping behind them, cheering and whooping. Beside another fire, three men twirled batons lit at both ends, dousing the flames in their mouths and then relighting them. Bottles of tequila glinted, masked revelers danced, bone necklaces clattered and flopped. Waves crashed and churned around rock outcroppings to the nearby north.

  We dismounted and tied the horses to a log by the creek. Berto split off in a different direction. I followed Cormac and Virgil as they wove their way between the bonfires. Radiant heat burned my cheeks. Someone handed me two more shot glasses. I downed them without thinking. The entire beachfront swayed, the music grew louder, the scene more surreal.

  Hartman’s face met my mind. His bowed eyelids, his unconscious form laid out on the backboard.

  Something like a black hole opened in my chest.

  Veiled women, arms ringed with bracelets, snapped fingers in the air, rocked their hips and batted eyes.

  I thought of Christine. . . .

  Virgil vanished. Cormac was gone. I felt sick to my stomach, dizzy in my head. The whole place hung with the stench of death. What did these people really know about the dead?

  Father . . .

  A thunderclap woke me from my thoughts. I had wandered toward the water. Bubbles reached my feet, then receded. Up the beach, kids played on rocks. Farther out in the water, long white rollers marked the place of crashing waves. The evening enshrouded, but from what I could make out, the swell had increased, the waves now easily over six feet high.

  I saw Hartman again, tubes protruding from his mouth, death’s grip now firm and unrelenting. Perspiration surfaced at my brow. I rubbed the back of my hand over it.

  What am I doing here?

  I turn
ed back toward the bonfires and rubbed my eyes, opening them wide, trying to blink out the buzz. Trudging through the sand felt like lifting lead blocks, each step pulling me to the earth, enticing my resignation down to the dust.

  A hooded figure emerged beyond the fires. He had to have been seven feet tall. Sickle in hand. Nothing made sense. I shook my head and blinked. He was gone, replaced by convective heat waving the air.

  I squinted and made out the form of Geryon. I could ride back. I remembered the way.

  I took three steps before I heard the screaming.

  CHAPTER

  7

  T he stake of reality drove down, pinning carelessness to the sand, stilling the drumbeats, and funneling the attention of the entire milieu on four frantic children waving wildly from the rocks, pointing at a youth swept off, now bobbing between frequent wave sets in the open water.

  Soberness came like a flash flood. Adrenaline outpaced ethanol, my muscles and mind quickened. I’d learned to harness that epinephrine reflex, to temper it to my advantage. As the better part of the crowd froze with shock and then ran to the shoreline, I stood for a few seconds more, gauging what had transpired. The four kids remaining on the rocks were in immediate danger. The swell was now twice the size of what it had been just minutes before. The moon had peaked, yanking the tide upshore.

  I heard a cry from the waves, distant and frantic. “Ayúdeme! Ayúdeme!”

  I ran along the strip of beach farthest from the water, where the sand was more compact, and outraced the crowd to the rocks. Waves exploded against outcroppings, blasting foam into the air, spraying my face, the taste of sea salt hitting my lips. Realizing their frail position, the kids scampered to get down, and before I knew it I was knee-deep in the water, Cormac beside me, plucking the children and passing them down a bucket brigade to safety.