Even Aaron, the youngest of the men, at sixteen, had found his niche.
I asked him about it late one afternoon. We were sitting out by the small fishing pond, watching the early twilight sky change colors.
"What do you do all day?" I asked. "I mean, when you're not being my personal social director. Do you go to school? I don't see a little red schoolhouse anywhere in the valley."
"There is no school," he told me. "At least not the kind you're thinking about."
"Well then, this must be heaven after all."
"We learn from each other," he explained. "And what we can't teach, we can read up on in Abuelo's library. Abuelo even gives lectures on everything from philosophy to physics―whatever his current interest is."
"I guess when you've been around as long as he has, you become an expert in just about everything," I said. "But you still haven't answered my question. How do you fit in here?"
Aaron smiled. "When I'm not your social director, I'm everyone else's," he said. "I'm in charge of what Abuelo calls 'purposeful amusement.' I create games and challenges. I set up things to do when everyone gathers in Abuelo's mansion, or for the picnics on Sunday afternoon."
"So, then, you're a"―I tried to come up with the perfect word―"a recreologist."
He looked at me funny, and his expression made me laugh.
"Recreologist," he said, mulling it over. "I like it. You're good with words." He held eye contact with me, and it made me uncomfortable. What was it with these people? They were all gorgeous, and yet they could all stand to look at me. People simply didn't do that. Not even Momma, who could withstand my face better than anyone, was able to hold my gaze that long.
"Don't look at me like that!" I said, almost angry about it, because it defied everything I knew about myself. "Look at me like a normal person does, which is not looking at all!"
I stood up, knowing my face was getting red and blotchy. I stood at the edge of the little pond and dared to catch my reflection off the surface. I saw myself for only a few moments―my tainted, awful image―then the water defended itself as it always did, clouding over so it didn't have to reflect the likes of me. I growled in frustration.
"I wouldn't worry about that," Aaron said, seeing the sudden murkiness of the water. "It doesn't mean anything."
At that moment I wanted to throw him into the pond! "How can you say it doesn't mean anything? How many other people here fog water just by looking into it?"
"Abuelo says once you see a person's soul, you no longer see the outside."
"Abuelo's full of it!" I told him. "I'd like you a whole lot better if you just admitted, like a normal person, that I'm ugly!"
"Fine," Aaron said, getting miffed for the first time since I'd met him. "You're ugly. You're totally, completely, and undeniably ugly. If it makes you happy, I'll shout it to all of De León."
I still felt the flush in my face, but the reasons for it were changing. "It doesn't make me happy," I said quietly.
"Well," he said, offering me the slightest grin, "we'll have to find other ways to make you happy."
I can't quite say what I felt for Aaron during those first days in De León. Was it gratitude? Respect? Awe? It certainly wasn't the same kind of hopeless longing I had felt for Gerardo, and it couldn't quite be love, because I barely knew him. I liked his attention, though, and the way he treated me. Most of the good-looking people I knew were terminally self-centered, but Aaron didn't seem to be that way. He was genuine, he was thoughtful, he was too good to be true―and that kept me suspicious.
He was also very good at what he did. I got a taste of Aaron's "recreology" that first Sunday. He organized all sorts of clever races and contests―and everyone joined in, including me.
It was a Tom Sawyer kind of life in De León, and Abuelo was like our own Hispanic Mark Twain. I told Abuelo that, and he just laughed. "I am partial to Cervantes," he said, and he explained that Cervantes was the Spanish author who had written Don Quixote, a famous story about an old knight who did crazy things, like attack a windmill. "He thought the windmills might be giants," Abuelo said. "I applaud a madman who sees the fantastic in the ordinary."
The point is, life was frozen in De León, in a time that may never really have existed. You might be tempted to call them backward, or ignorant, but you'd be wrong. They knew and understood technology, all the conveniences of modern life, but they simply didn't need any of it. Cars? Why have a car when the valley was only a mile long, and the walk was so refreshing? Electric lights? What was the point, when candles and hearths were so much more friendly and inviting? Telephones? Why not talk face-to-face when so much of communication is body language?
There was simply nothing wrong in De León―and, like I said, that kind of perfection is highly suspect. And then, of course, there were the Seven Mysteries, which made me wonder about the place even more―but I'll get to those later.
Even with my suspicious nature, I quickly fell into the easy pace of life there, and each day I found myself thinking about my old life less and less. It's not like I forgot about my family, or Gerardo, or even Marisol and Marshall... but when your days are packed with people who are genuinely kind and unburdened by their own lives, how can you choose to think of bad times? The thoughts did come, though. Usually at night. I would worry about Momma worrying about me. I thought about how Dad would blame himself because of that stupid deal he'd made with Marshall about the car. I thought of Miss Leticia, and mourned the fact that I hadn't been there for her funeral. But then morning would come, Aaron would be at my door with a smile that appeared to have no ulterior motive, and those lonely night thoughts dissolved like the early-morning mist.
Getting to know everyone in De León, and seeing how well they all fit in, made it more and more obvious to me that I didn't. It was a constant reminder that I'd eventually have to leave. I didn't know where I would go, only that I couldn't go back home. I mentioned this to Aaron, and he just became uncomfortable, and shrugged. The thought of me leaving was the only thing that ever seemed to rattle him―after all, I was the only one here his age, and beggars can't be choosers.
Harmony was much more open when I talked to her about eventually leaving.
"If you find your place among us," she asked, "will you still want to leave?"
I thought about it. "No," I told her, and it was the truth―but I couldn't imagine anything I could do that would be of use to anyone in De León.
After I'd been in De León for a week, my little one-room cottage had become furnished and inviting. There was something missing, though, and I couldn't put my finger on what it could be. It was Aaron who had the insight to see what was really missing from the place.
It was the evening of my seventh day. He had just come over with a wooden board game he had invented and Willem had built for him. Kind of a cross between Stratego and chess. We had just started playing when he looked around the room, and said, "These are all things other people wanted to give you... but since you've been here, you haven't said if there's anything you want."
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Maybe a radio? A laptop? A TV Guide!" But I was kidding, and he knew it. If I missed any of those things, I only missed them on the surface, because they were familiar. I thought about his question a bit more deeply. Once I did, my answer was easy. "How about a bamboo paintbrush, some ink, and some paper?"
Aaron nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
The next afternoon he came to my cottage all smiles, with a jar of ink in one hand and a brush in the other. "We didn't have bamboo," he said, "so Willem used his lathe to make you one out of birch wood."
I took the brush, holding it like something precious. The pale bristles were soft and tapered to a point, the way I liked it. I could tell it wasn't wolf hair, or even rabbit. "What kind of hair is it?"
Aaron blushed a bit, and scratched the side of his head, revealing a little thin patch on his scalp.
"No!" I said. "You didn't."
"I did. You've got yourself a genuine Aaron-hair brush."
"That's just plain creepy."
He shrugged. "It just means there'll be a little bit of me in everything you draw."
I looked at the brush again, deciding it wasn't as creepy as it was sweet. Then I realized something was missing. "Is there any paper?"
He smiled and gestured toward the empty white walls of the cottage. "Who needs paper?"
I think that was the moment my feelings toward Aaron took a quantum leap beyond gratitude, respect, and awe.
14
The seven mysteries
I once saw this documentary about a family who had adopted a young chimpanzee. They raised it as part of the family. It ate at the table, had its own room done up like any other kid's room. The little chimp had all the love it could handle, and yet there was a deep sadness in its eyes. It knows there's something wrong, I remember thinking. It knows it can never be like the tall, slender creatures around it. I wondered if he was human in his dreams, only to wake up to realize it was never going to happen.
That's how I felt among the beautiful people of De León, and no matter how accepted they made me feel, I knew I would never be like them. I wondered how long it would take for them to realize it and send me on my way.
I had been in paradise for three weeks when Abuelo paid a surprise visit to my cottage. What had begun as a bare room was now decorated with furniture, quilts, and other warm touches brought by the residents of De León. Everything, of course, but mirrors.
I was doing my ink drawings―I had already filled up two whole walls and was working on a third. I stiffened when I saw Abuelo at my open front door. Abuelo never came to visit you― you always went to see him. I looked at the ink drawings on the wall and felt as if I had been caught doing something wrong.
"Hola, mi hija," he said as he stepped in. "I came to see how you are getting on."
"I'm good," I squeaked out. Abuelo never did anything without purpose. I was convinced that this was the day he would cast me out. After all, I had yet to make myself useful here. Was my free ride over? My heart began to beat like I was running a marathon, but I tried not to let it show.
He took a look at the walls, taking them in, saying nothing, then stepped back from the fullest wall to see it as a whole. "It looks like . . . writing," he said.
"It is . . . kind of," I explained. "I use the basic strokes of Chinese writing for all my drawing." I picked up my brush and on a blank spot of wall showed him the seven simple marks I had taught myself years ago.
"The Chinese call these strokes the Seven Mysteries," I told him.
Abuelo studied the seven marks, then stepped closer to examine the individual drawings, each one no larger than a sheet of paper, since that was the size I was used to. I waited for him to turn to me, offer his apologies, and tell me I had to leave De León. But he didn't. Instead he pointed to three of the drawings. "This one is the view from your porch," he said. "This, I think, is Harmony's garden. And this ... this is me!" He smiled broadly. "Que bueno!"
I can't tell you how relieved I was by his approval. A man who smiled like that wasn't about to hurl you back over the mountains. "You got all three right!" I said. Even though the drawings were stylized, and simplified with the barest gestures of lines, he had figured them out.
Then he turned to the one wall I hadn't gotten to yet―still stark white, without a single brushstroke. He pointed to it. "Leave this wall blank," he said. Then he nodded to me, said adios, and left without another word.
As relieved as I was that he hadn't expelled me from De León, I was also confused.
Leave this wall blank.
It was a mystery. The seventh mystery, I thought, and glanced at the individual drying brush marks on the wall. Even more than keeping track of the days, I was keeping track of the many strange things that didn't sit right with me about De León. I was supposed to "find the answers" here, but for a place that was supposed to hold all my answers, the people of De León didn't care much for my questions. Oh, sure, they were polite when I asked, but through the pleasant talk, there was a silent air of secrecy―like they all had a malformed child locked away in the attic―which was impossible, because of mystery number one: There were no children in De León.
Aaron had become uncomfortable when I asked him about it during my first days there.
"The women here don't seem to be able to have babies," he told me. "I think it's something in the water."
"That's awful."
Aaron shrugged. "They don't mind. Or at least they don't anymore."
It bothered me, but not as much as it might have, since I didn't plan on inflicting my genes on a defenseless, unsuspecting future―but how could such a thing not bother all the other women here? I asked Aaron more questions about it, but he just changed the subject.
It wasn't just him. Everyone I spoke to had the same kind of response to my questions. It was like all of their information was sifted through a strainer, to remove anything juicy before it got to me.
Mystery number two: "To Serve Abuelo."
I learned about this particular mystery while weaving with Harmony and a few of the other women, when I questioned them about the isolation of the town.
"If nothing comes in or out," I asked Harmony, "how did Abuelo send me his letter?"
The women in the room, who had seemed so happy with their weaving and their humming, now looked at one another apprehensively.
"The monastery," said one of the other women. She was immediately shushed, and the silence that fell made the birds outside seem loud.
I looked to each of them, but none would return my gaze. "Monastery?" Hadn't Abuelo once mentioned something about monks?
Harmony sighed. "We're not entirely self-sufficient," she said. "Our valley is small. We don't have land to raise our crops, or to raise livestock. So Abuelo struck a bargain a very long time ago with the Vladimirian monks."
I thought of the various kinds of monks I knew about. Buddhist. Franciscan. Benedictine.
"I never heard of the Vladimirian monks," I told them.
"And you never will hear of them again," a woman named Gertrude said. "They exist to keep us secret. To bring us the food we cannot grow, and to take messages to the outside world when we need it."
"And what do they get out of it?"
"The joy of serving Abuelo," Gertrude said.
"And," said Harmony, "that's all there is to know about that." Then she launched into a song, and the other women joined in. Although I had a ton more questions, it was clear there were no more answers in this sewing circle.
Mystery number three: "Go with the Flow."
I stumbled upon this one while visiting with Claude and Willem, the two men who made furniture. I enjoyed watching them work, and I loved the smell of the fresh wood―but I had a better reason for hanging around them. Unlike many of the others, they got careless with their talk―especially once they grew more comfortable with me.
"How long have you lived here?" I once asked them as they worked together on a table.
"Not all that long," the tall one named Willem said. "Our little group is nomadic by nature."
"Nomadic?" I said. "It seems to me you've been here for a long time."
"Long is a relative word," said Claude, with a distinctly French accent. "We were in Lourdes before this. And before that Tibet― a valley in the Himalayas, not much different than this, although even less accessible."
"We Mow the flow," said Willem.
"The flow of what?"
The question hit a nerve, and they both became a bit uncomfortable.
"Just the flow."
I knew I had stumbled upon something important, but what it meant, I had no idea. "So how much longer will you be staying here?" I asked.
Willem rubbed his hand thoughtfully on the smooth wood of the tabletop. "Abuelo seems to think it won't be much longer. But I think he might be wrong." Then he looked out the window. "Just look at tha
t grass. Look how rich it is, look how green."
Claude shook his head without looking up from his work. "He was right the last time."
"Yes. Well, we'll see." And then Willem changed the subject. "Have you considered what your place might be here? What you can add to our little community?" "That's easy," I told him. "Nothing."
"Pshaw," he said. "I'm sure you'll think of something." I never actually heard a person say "pshaw" before. I almost laughed. "You must have some skills."
I shrugged. "I can spell."
"Ooh," said Claude, "witchcraft! We have no witches here. That would be new."
"No." I sighed, thinking about poor Miss Leticia, who had made the same mistake. "Not that kind of spell. I spell words."
Willem rubbed his chin thoughtfully, getting sawdust all over it. "Hmm. Words, words, words . . . we already have a poet."
"And a scribe."
"Ah, well," said Willem, this time with less conviction. "I'm sure you'll find something."
Mystery number four was the weather, and mystery number five was everything that grew beneath the unseasonably warm sun. See, it was almost winter now. Back in Flock's Rest, sycamores would have lost all their leaves; the days would be cold and the nights colder. But in De León, it was always spring on the edge of summer.
I asked Petra, our resident piano virtuoso, about it, and she answered without missing a single note in her sonata. "It's the pattern of winds, and thermal vents in the mountainside," she said. "I think it's called a microclimate. I'm sure there are books about it in Abuelo's library."
I looked, but I couldn't find a single one.
The fishing pond was mystery number six. Soren was De León's designated fisherman―a big Scandinavian with a blond beard that hid most of his face. He would have looked natural in a Viking hat.
I stopped to watch him fish one day and asked how such a small pond―no bigger than thirty yards across―could support so many fish, and so many different varieties.
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