Immortal

by Pati Nagle

  “Buckle in, everybody. We don’t want to get a ticket.”

  I fastened my own seat belt, then helped Caeran with his. I watched in the mirror while Nathrin fumbled with his belt for a moment, then got it fastened.

  “Anybody need anything before we head out? Food, bathroom?”

  “No,” Caeran said. “Thank you.”

  “OK, then. Guadalupita, here we come.”

  I drove north on Rio Grande, taking the scenic route through the valley to Alameda. Nobody talked. Glancing in the rearview, I saw Nathrin’s attention fixed on Mirali. Maybe they were a couple.

  Caeran was watching the scenery, golden cottonwoods along most of the way. I realized I had deluded myself—I wasn’t going to have any deep conversations with him, not with the other two in the car.

  Still, I was with him, side by side, close enough to touch. That was worth it, right? And I was doing him a favor, so maybe he’d be grateful.

  Maybe I was nuts.

  Well, it was a beautiful day for a drive. Couldn’t beat that. We’d gas up in Las Vegas, take a break at the raspberry farm in Mora.

  I glanced in the mirror. Breaks would depend on how well Mirali weathered the ride.

  I wondered what was wrong with her. Couldn’t ask—that would definitely be too nosy. Caeran had assured me she wasn’t contagious. Beyond that, it wasn’t any of my business.

  I pulled onto I-25 and accelerated. Caeran shifted in his seat and I glanced at him. He was staring ahead, looking tense. Not used to freeway driving, maybe. I turned on the CD, which held a disk I liked to listen to in traffic—mellow guitar music, to keep me from getting to angry with idiot drivers—and turned the volume to low.

  “That OK?” I glanced in the mirror. Nathrin looked oblivious.

  “Yes,” Caeran said after a second.

  I tried to think of a question that might start a conversation, but wouldn’t offend. Came up with nothing for several long minutes. It was Caeran who spoke first.

  “This is very pleasant music.”

  “Oh, thanks! It’s an Australian guitarist. I really love his stuff.”

  “It reminds me of—our music, somewhat.”

  “Are you a musician?”

  “Merely as a pastime.”

  “What do you play?”

  “A flute.”

  “Classical?”

  He glanced at me and I felt a whisper of the tingle his intense look always gave me. “Ancient. It is a style of reed flute created by our people.”

  “Oh, cool. I love folk instruments.”

  We lapsed into silence. Not wanting to lose the interaction, I blurted the first question I thought of.

  “Did you bring your flute with you? I’d love to hear you play.”

  “Yes, I have it with me.”

  “If I’d known, I would’ve brought my guitar. I’m not that great, but I can play a few songs.”

  Caeran didn’t say anything, but I felt his smile. I could guess what he was thinking: that he was glad I hadn’t brought the guitar, glad he wouldn’t have to listen to me trying to play and then say something polite and kind and completely false.

  Caeran didn’t like falsehoods, I’d gathered. He wasn’t great at lying—it always seemed to make him uncomfortable. Even the little polite lies that most people uttered without thinking, like the customary phrases of greeting and farewell; conversational pit stops, places where everyone could breathe and regroup. The words might have no literal meaning, except that to Caeran they must have, or why would he keep stumbling over them?

  The silence stretched. There was enough traffic on a Friday afternoon between Albuquerque and Santa Fe to keep me plenty busy. Though I wanted to talk more, I decided not to stress out about it. Better to get Zen and just enjoy the moment than to be anxious that it was less than perfect.

  Caeran was apparently comfortable with not talking. Nathrin hadn’t participated at all anyway; he was totally absorbed with Mirali. I kept an eye on them in the mirror, not that things changed much in the back seat. I didn’t know if Mirali was asleep, or in pain, or what, but she never opened her eyes.

  As we approached Santa Fe I asked again if anyone wanted to stop. Again, Caeran said no, so I stayed on I-25, bypassing the city and striking east through Glorieta Pass. I offered my guests water and granola bars; Caeran and Nathrin both accepted the water and turned down the munchies. Mirali was still out of it.

  “Have you spent much time in these mountains?” Caeran asked when we were well into the pass.

  “I used to go to summer camp up in the Pecos.” I gestured north, toward the mass of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. “It’s beautiful country.”

  “Are there many people there?”

  “The towns are pretty tiny, but there are a lot of cabins, especially along the river. People like to fish the Pecos in the summer, and there’s hiking and hunting. There’s a huge wilderness area. I guess you’d say it’s sparsely populated, but there are lots more visitors than residents.”

  “Ah.”

  “Forget about using your cell phone up there, though. Oh—you don’t have one. Never mind.”

  Caeran smiled again, appreciating the joke, however lame. I liked him a lot in that moment. He was generous.

  By the time we got to Las Vegas I needed a pit stop. I pulled into a gas station and hustled in to use the bathroom, then came out to pump gas. To my surprise, Caeran was already filling the tank.

  “Hey, you didn’t have to do that!”

  He shot me an inquiring look. “You suggested we buy the gas.”

  “Well, yeah, but you don’t have to pump it.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, thanks. Need anything from the store?”

  He shook his head. I looked in the back seat window and saw Nathrin holding Mirali’s hand. Her eyes were open, so I opened the door.

  “Hi. How are you feeling?”

  She gave me a startled deer look. Nathrin answered for her.

  “She is somewhat tired.”

  “I bet. Traveling’s no fun when you’re sick. You could use the restroom while we’re stopped, if you need to.”

  They exchanged a look. I backed out and gently closed the door, leaving them to talk it over. As I straightened I noticed Caeran watching me with the intense look that was becoming familiar. It still made my gut clench, and I couldn’t look away from his eyes. He looked like he was about to say something, then Nathrin’s door opened and he got out, helping Mirali out of the car.

  When I turned back to Caeran, he was putting away the gas pump. Moment lost.

  I followed the sweethearts into the store. I was restless and craving salt, so I picked out some chips and a soda. Very naughty, especially after the junk burger for lunch. I’d have to exercise more control over the weekend.

  Suddenly it occurred to me that I had no idea where I’d be spending the night. I hadn’t brought a change of clothes or a toothbrush or anything. Feeling stupid, I found an overpriced toothbrush and carried it to the counter with my snack. Through the windows I saw Caeran standing by the car, as if he was guarding it. I paid for my stuff, then walked to the back of the store where Nathrin was waiting outside the ladies’ room.

  “She OK?” I asked.

  He nodded. I went away but stayed in the store, just in case Mirali might need help. I looked at the newspapers, then at the maps. When she came out of the restroom I headed back for the car.1

  I got in and opened my chips, indulging in a mouthful of salty decadence. Caeran waited for the others before climbing in.

  “Want some?” I offered him the chip bag.

  He surprised me by reaching in and carefully extracting a potato chip. I watched him examine it before eating it. Sure looked like he’d never tried one before.

  Who was this guy? What planet was he from?

  And how could I get there?

  Nathrin had Mirali settled again. She sank back into the corner of the seat, looking exhausted by her visit to the store. I
gave her a smile but she’d already closed her eyes.

  “Seat belts, everyone. Last call for food or drinks.”

  It took Nathrin a minute to get himself and Mirali buckled in. I picked out another CD—Deuter’s Land of Enchantment, fairly soothing—and swapped it into the player.

  We were making good time, but we were leaving the freeway now so the driving would be slower. Heading northwest toward Mora, we left urban civilization behind and started climbing into the hills and high meadows of north-central New Mexico. The mountains to the west loomed larger, patches of aspen showing in vast, golden splotches against the blue of the evergreens. The air was cooler here. I’d definitely want my sweater later.

  Watching the countryside slide by, driving at a slower pace, I began to relax. Caeran listened intently to the music; flute music, and he’d said he played the flute. I waited about halfway through the disc, then on a song he seemed less interested in, I posed a quiet question.

  “Do you know if this curandero is planning to put all of us up?”

  Caeran looked at me, wearing the frown that meant he was confused. I rephrased.

  “If there’s no place for us to stay in Guadalupita, we might have to go back to Las Vegas. No problem, we should be able to get rooms.”

  He nodded, apparently trusting me. That gave me a good feeling but it also made me want to laugh.

  We reached Mora and I glanced in the mirror. Nathrin was watching Mirali, who was conked out again.

  “Anyone like raspberries? There’s a farm we could stop at, if we need a break.”

  Nathrin didn’t respond. Caeran answered after a pause.

  “Perhaps we should continue. How much farther is it?”

  “Probably about half an hour. I brought a map, but it’s in my pack in the trunk. Heck, I need to stop and get it out anyway. I don’t know the number of the highway we’re looking for.”

  I pulled over at the raspberry place and hopped out. Raspberry picking season was over or I’d have been more tempted to linger. As it was, I was good and didn’t even step into the store, just got the map and came back.

  I showed the map to Caeran. “Here’s the road we need—434. Did we pass a sign that said that?”

  “I did not notice.”

  I handed him the map and started the car. We drove around a bit and found the road (Mora’s a pretty tiny town, though bigger than where we were headed.)

  The sun was dipping toward the mountains. Sunset would be earlier because of them. I felt anxious, which was strange. Maybe the uncertainty of what would happen when we reached our destination was bothering me. Or maybe I was worried my adventure with Caeran would end before it had really begun.

  “Hey Caeran?” I kept my voice low, glancing at him for his reactions.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you date much?”

  “Date?” Frowning.

  “Are you seeing someone. You know, a girlfriend?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Are you asking if I have a lover?”

  “Um—well, I was trying to be more subtle than that, but I guess yeah.”

  “I do not.”

  “Oh.”

  I could feel my face burning. I was such a klutz! I tried to think of something else to talk about. Caeran didn’t help, he just sat there brooding. I’d been too nosy, damn it.

  “So, how about them Dukes?” I muttered to myself.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Stupid joke.”

  “You know dukes?”

  “It was a baseball team. In Albuquerque. They’re gone, though—they went up to Portland and turned into the Beavers. We’ve got the Isotopes now.”

  That shut Caeran up good, not that it had been my intention. I couldn’t tell whether he was offended or just hopelessly confused, and I didn’t want to make it worse so I shut up too. We arrived at Guadalupita in silence.

  “Town”—even “village”— was a generous description. It would have been nothing more than a handful of ranches if it hadn’t been for the post office. One house, right on the road, looked like it used to be a store.

  The bar looked like it had been a house, up until, say, day before yesterday. Old adobe, the sort of old farmhouse that had started as one room and had more added on over time. The tin roof sported patches of rust. Black-on-white cardboard sign in the dusty window: “Open.”

  Two pickups were parked in the driveway. I stopped the Saturn on the shoulder of the road, turned the engine off, and looked at Caeran.

  “I think this is where we ask for directions.”

  He looked at the building, doubt in his face.

  “Shall I come in with you?”

  He nodded, frowning, and got out. I joined him and walked up to the building, pulling open the ancient, blue screen door. The door behind it was painted blue also, which I actually took as a good sign. Someone had wanted to protect the house from evil spirits.

  I glanced at Caeran as I opened the door, a silly thought fleeting through my mind that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to enter. He proved that wrong right away, stepping through the door and looking around in silent wonder at the dim interior of the house.

  A neon Budweiser sign on the wall behind the bar and a TV mounted high in one corner provided the majority of the light in the place. There were two tiny cafe tables—empty—and six tall, backless stools in front of the bar. Three of them were occupied by two men and an overweight woman, all Hispanic. They stared at Caeran in belligerent silence. I got a glance or two, but apparently I was normal enough to dismiss. Caeran was hard to ignore.

  The bartender was a bleached blonde chica with hoop earrings and long, red nails. She looked at Caeran with more curiosity than animosity, then after a minute turned to me and raised an eyebrow.

  I put on a smile I didn’t feel as I stepped up to the bar. This was going to take some diplomacy.

  “I’ll have a Bud,” I said, glancing at the single tap mounted on the bar.

  She snapped her gum once, then pulled a glass out of a cooler set into her counter and filled it. “What about your friend?”

  “He’ll have a Bud, too.”

  I paid for both beers, then picked mine up and sipped it, trying to look like I enjoyed it. My taste runs more to ambers and dark beers. I guess I’m a snob, but to me Bud tastes like sour water.

  I caught Caeran’s eye and summoned him to join me with a nod. He took the stool on my left, as far as possible from the locals. The bartender put his beer in front of him.

  “You look like someone I know.”

  Caeran gave her a startled glance, then looked at me as if seeking help. I nodded and tilted my head toward her. Caeran turned back to her.

  “Would his name be Madera?” His voice was rough. He was nervous.

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “We came here to ask his help.”

  “Oh.” She looked at me, as if trying to figure out what my problem could be. “He’s very good.”

  “Can you direct us to his place?” I said, impatient to get on with it.

  Her eyes narrowed a little. “What’s your name?”

  “Caeran,” said my companion. “I called him yesterday, and he told me to ask here for directions.”

  “Hang on.”

  She walked over to the far corner of the bar and consulted a spiral notebook next to a phone. The people at the bar exchanged a few words in Spanish. I detected no outright obscenities, but couldn’t catch the gist. Caeran shifted slightly on his stool, though. I glanced at him, but his face was neutral.

  “OK.” The bartender came back and handed Caeran a business card with an address scrawled on the back. “Go north eight miles and turn left at the carved owl. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Caeran accepted the note with one of his quaint little bows, then slid off his stool. He hadn’t touched his beer. I took a gallant swig of mine—dinner—and followed him out, leaving a tip on the bar.

  Just in the time we’d been
in there, the sun had set. There was already a nip in the air. I thought about getting out my sweater, then decided to wait until we got to Madera’s place.

  “Can’t miss it” turned out to be a slight exaggeration. I was looking for a number or a mailbox, but there was only a gap in the fence, and I would, too, have missed it if Caeran hadn’t pointed it out. The carved owl sitting on a fence post looked like a hawk to me at first glance. I had assumed it was alive, watching for supper to run by.

  The driveway was half a mile of dusty, rutted road. I took it slowly, trying not to jostle Mirali too much, but I couldn’t keep her from feeling some of the bumps. Finally a house came into view. More old, sprawling adobe. This one sprawled more than usual; it was a pretty big place, and had probably housed a big ranch family at one time. I wondered if Madera had a family.

  The house faced east, and a deep portal ran its length, to provide shade from the fierce morning sun. An antique-looking amber glass porch light shone beside a large zaguan door—big enough for a wagon to roll through—with a smaller door set into it. Beyond the house, Venus hung above the mountains like a jewel in the velvet blue evening.

  I parked near the door and shut off the engine, then hurried around to the trunk to grab my sweater and my pack. Nathrin and Caeran helped Mirali out of the car. She looked pale, and after she took a couple of shaky steps, Nathrin swept her up into his arms and carried her to the door.

  No doorbell, unless you counted the giant brass bell hanging on the wall nearby. Caeran pounded on the door instead. I stood behind them all, feeling superfluous.

  I was expecting the curandero to be Hispanic. Silly me. When he opened the smaller door within the zaguan gate I nearly gasped.

  He was tall and lean, with fine bones and an unconscious grace. Sure, his hair was black and his skin was a shade more tanned, but he could have been a cousin to Caeran and his friends.

  His gaze went to Mirali and he said something in a flowing language I didn’t recognize. Caeran stepped forward.

  “Señor de Madera?”

  The healer stopped talking and looked up at Caeran, suddenly guarded. His gaze flicked to me for an instant, then returned to Caeran.

  “Yes.”

  “May we come in?”