by JJ Flowers
Look at Tajo, Juan Pablo, his abuela noticed.
He’s scared of that lady?
Mario called Tajo back to the patio. Tail tucked between his legs, the little guy kept looking back as he came to Mario.
Dogs smell emotions the way we see emotions on faces.
Emotions? This information surprised him.
Sí. Tajo was confused by the lady’s fear. Why is the lady afraid of me, Tajo wonders. (His abuela was always giving voice to the animals, saying what they were thinking.) The fear scares them; they imagine they will be attacked by this terrified person and they can either run away or fight. People who are afraid of dogs always get bit by them. She released a sigh. Americans have a clever phrase for it: vicious cycle.
Swallowing his fear as best he could, Juan Pablo knelt down and reached out his hand. “Hey, puppy,” he said in a high, sing-song voice. “Easy there . . . easy.”
The dog stopped barking and stared in confusion. He cocked his head, as if to say, “What are you up to there?” He hesitantly wagged his tail.
People think dogs wag their tails to show they are happy, but dogs wag their tail to throw their scent into the air, so you can smell their emotion.
But we don’t smell emotions.
Ah, dogs do not know this.
The dog whimpered, then barked, but a different kind of bark. The creature looked around to the meadow, then back to Juan Pablo. He lowered to all fours, still as if he might spring back into action.
“It’s okay, puppy,” Juan Pablo continued in this manner.
The dog whimpered, his ears stuck straight up, alert with this unexpected situation. He backed up with uncertainty.
As his back paw came down, he suddenly yelped and his foot sprang high in the air. He tried to turn around to bite it. Yelping piteously, the injured leg lifted and lowered. The poor creature yelped every time the paw touched ground.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
He realized in an instant. The dog had stepped on a bee and it stung him.
Yet the dog stared at him with mistrust now, as if Juan Pablo had orchestrated his misfortune.
“Here. I’ll help you,” Juan Pablo started toward him.
Obviously frightened, the dog backed up as the boy stepped forward. He turned and hobbling on his injured paw, he kind of hopped away, looking back as if Juan Pablo might chase him now.
Juan Pablo could scarcely believe this bit of luck.
Wasting no time, he looked around for someplace to hide. Bramble bushes formed a tent between a group of three close trees. He made his way over and hurriedly parted the branches as best he could. Ducking down, he curled up and pulled the dead leaves and branches around him.
The men reached the meadow.
He heard their shouting, but couldn’t make out the words.
A helicopter sounded in the distance, approaching fast.
The roar of the helicopter reached deafening levels and he covered his sensitive ears, trying to block it out. Crouched and tense, hiding like a frightened rabbit, he began to wonder if these men would ever give up. What if they didn’t make it off the mountain? What if Rocio got caught by these people again?
His thoughts began turning in worried circles over the possibilities.
You look worried, Juan Pablo.
What’s going to happen? I mean, what if—
What if, what if. The old woman dismissed this with a chuckle as she lifted a root-bound plant and set it in a bigger pot. This what if is a made-up reality. Instead of choosing something that is distressing, choose something that lifts your spirits; choose something that makes you happy. Choose something fantastic.
What if he and Rocio did manage to escape and make it to America?
The very thought made Juan Pablo’s breath catch.
He imagined being a student in a music academy, a good one, surrounded by teachers and other students who shared his driving passion. He imagined playing in concerts before an audience. The joy of it quickened his heart, even as he sat still, crouched and scared like a hare. And what if Rocio got to go to an American school, a good one, where she got perfect marks and graduated with honors?
Happiness burst unexpectedly upon him.
A butterfly floated just beyond his hiding place.
He watched the delicate flight. Suspended between earth and sky.
Was it late arriving? Or reluctant to leave?
He remembered the first time he found one of the infamous marked butterflies. He and his abuela had been hiking for kilometers, searching the forest floor for a rare mushroom at the end of summer. They might have missed it, but it appeared right at eye level.
Abuela, look. A white speck on its wing.
After studying this curiosity, her experienced fingers gently pinched the creature just so and lifted the white dot before setting the butterfly back in place. The discovery connected them to the Monarch Project. Thousands of people across North American found and caught butterflies, marking them with a tiny white speck that held a number. When someone found one of the marked butterflies, they took the number off and sent the information to the data center. In this way, the scientists had finally grasped the spectacular reach of the monarch butterflies’ migration.
The project also revealed the steady decline of the creatures’ once great numbers. The more he read about their butterflies, the more alarmed he became.
What if the butterflies do go extinct? What will happen to us? To all of us?
His abuela had set down her book. For a long moment she held perfectly still. In a whisper, he heard her speak in what-ifs, but like a prayer. What if the world awakens to the danger we are facing here? What if the great World Wide Web unites all souls to the fate of the butterflies? What if this energy becomes a powerful force directed to saving them? What if, Juan Pablo, it is true, what the Sky People are telling me, that by saving the butterflies, we will be saving ourselves?
The butterfly floated away and Juan Pablo hoped it was true, his abuela’s what-if prayer. He tried to shift his cramped legs. He wanted to make a run for the tepee, but was it safe?
From the distance he heard the helicopter return, flying over first the meadow and then the town, disappearing. The hushed quiet of the forest returned. No human sounds came from the meadow.
Was it safe now?
Almost as if the question produced it, a butterfly flew directly in front of his hiding place. Juan Pablo watched it circle once, twice, then three times.
Why is three a magical number? he asked his abuela, for she seemed to always wait for threes.
Three reasons: the sun, the moon, and the earth; the trinity; the three sides of a triangle.
He knew this game. Why not four? he wondered, supplying, “Water, wind, fire, and earth, the four points on a compass, the four sides of a square?
Four is of the material world where we live.
I prefer seven, he decided. For music. The seven notes that make a symphony.
The weathered face changed with delight. Sí. Music is made from the spiritual three and the material four, she said, as if this made perfect sense.
Juan Pablo smiled at the memory. Rocio was right. His abuela was not really gone; it was just that now she manifested in his mind, popping into being with the slightest reminder of her magical thinking.
Was she with her Sky People now?
He understood it didn’t matter because she would always arrive back with memories. He had only to think of her to bring her back. It was as if thoughts of her formed a velvet bridge to the spiritual realm.
He closed his eyes and felt her love pouring over him.
Your mother often helps you with your music, she said once, when he at last had perfected a piece.
Does she? Was she helping me just now?
His abuela nodded.
It was odd, too, because, like at that moment, he often felt an external intelligence guiding him when he played, especially difficult pieces.
The Sky People are
often responsible for great ideas and wonderful art.
Was his musical success aided by his mother? Or was it his own intuition, his own unfolding talent?
What if the Sky People were real?
Finding courage from this idea, he slowly emerged from his hiding place, greeted by a bright sun and the soothing sounds of the forest. A wind rustled through the trees. Birds called from the trees above. The hum of a nearby beehive reached him. Cautiously, he started back up the hill, stopping every ten paces to listen.
He finally reached the meadow. One look and he saw it was all clear. He made a quick dash to the other side and soon found his way to the tepee.
“JP.”
He fell into Rocio’s embrace.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two days later, after a hundred whispered conversations and plans made and abandoned based on the sound of helicopters or men searching, something had changed. Rocio was reading the first Hunger Games book for the second time. Reading was the only thing that softened her fear of what was happening. Just as the only thing that distracted him from thoughts of the Hunter was playing music in his mind.
For long periods the music stole his fear like magic.
Musicians and other artists are the most fortunate people on earth.
We are? Juan Pablo asked.
You can always escape any unpleasant reality into a beautiful one. What a gift.
He started with the simplest pieces in his repertoire. Imagining he played before a large audience, he heard and felt every note. He noticed he played the most difficult pieces much better in his imagination than he did when actually playing. He finished with the most difficult of Paganini’s violin concertos, a piece he played brilliantly in his mind, but not so well in reality.
Just as he was trying to figure out what, exactly, had changed, he noticed Rocio’s interested stare. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
She reached a hand to knock back a stray lock of his too-long, curly hair.
He knew that smile.
He was amazed to discover they were bored. After all that had happened to them. That was another miracle.
“Your lips are like a girl’s.”
And they were, too, smooth and full and beautiful like a girl’s.
He gave her back her smile and lifted onto his side to stare at her. “And you have feet like a boy’s.”
She used these to kick him. He pretended it hurt.
“I never told you this,” she continued, “but one time, while you were playing at the plaza, I overheard an American couple comment on how handsome you were.”
“Really.” Skeptical and amused both. “Americans are well known for their poor vision. Was this the problem? Had they lost their glasses?”
Rocio’s laughter sounded like music. She punched his shoulder. Then, “Elena always said your green eyes meant you had magic.”
“Rocio,” Juan Pablo rolled those green eyes with vexation, laughing at her. “You are acting strange.” Yet, still she stared at him. “Are you still thinking of my lips?”
She nodded. “I was wondering . . . well, I was wondering if you ever want to kiss me.”
Juan Pablo’s smile grew. “You must want me to kiss you.”
She shrugged, pretending indifference. “Maybe.”
“Ah,” he replied, “you will have to beg me.”
He enjoyed the startled look that changed her face, followed quickly by an outraged yelp. She socked him hard in the arm. He caught her arms easily and pinned them to either side of her head. “Go ahead, beg me to kiss you.”
This was greeted with a peal of laughter. “Never,” she vowed. “Never—”
It was as far as she got. He suddenly did want to kiss her. Even stranger was the realization he had always wanted to kiss her, but had been waiting for the right moment. Waiting for this moment.
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered.
“It will be our first kiss. I want to do it right.”
“Do it like in the movies,” she suggested.
“Like this,” he first asked as he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. Several minutes passed and it came as a surprise, what all the poets were talking about. When he finally lifted up, Rocio’s eyes were still closed and a dreamy, dazed look sat next to some small alarm as well.
“Do you like that, Rocio? Should I kiss you again?”
She managed to recover enough to shake her head.
“Why not?”
“I think I am too young.”
He supposed this was true. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the apex of the tepee. For a long moment they said nothing. “Rocio?”
“Yes?”
“Will you promise me to let me know when you are not too young?”
Her eyes found him again and she smiled. “I promise, Juan Pablo.”
A second startling realization reached him as they lay there in companionable silence, thinking, no doubt, of a future promised to each other. The helicopters had not returned from the morning search. The men who had followed the trail out had all returned yesterday afternoon. There had been no men this morning either. They only had two bottles of almond milk left; they needed to escape as soon as possible.
“What?”
“Listen.”
After a moment, she said, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. The helicopters haven’t returned. I think it is safe.”
They knew they had to get started before their thirst and hunger became the enemy. They formed a plan. Juan Pablo would check the meadow while Rocio packed. They still had five, almost six hours of daylight left. They would hike until darkness and then find a sheltered place in the woods to spend the night.
Juan Pablo emerged into the sunlight. He stopped, listening for any sounds before moving on. He made his way quietly to the meadow. He leaned against the trunk of a tall pine and soaked in the familiar sight. A bowl of blue sky arched overhead. Thousands of butterflies still floated in the afternoon sun. In small clusters, the beautiful winged creatures alighted against tree branches, gently fanning their wings. He drew a deep breath and hurriedly traveled the perimeter of the meadow until he could see down to the town.
A small salamander sunned itself on a rock, but no one and nothing moved. No new activity. He turned back to the tepee.
Once inside, he said, “It is all clear in town. I think I can refill the water bottles. We might need it.”
Rocio looked at the four empty bottles. “Wait.” She handed him one bottle and she took the other. They drained the contents into empty stomachs. He gathered all the bottles to refill. “Use this bag.” She passed him one of Elena’s shopping bags. “Be careful,” she said.
Nodding at this, Juan Pablo took the bag with the empty bottles and ducked outside again. He half ran, half walked to the meadow, and after the briefest of glances, he darted across. Hidden by the forest again, he gave thanks to the trees for their cover as he rushed down the trail to the edge of town. Butterflies followed him overhead, occasionally alighting on his head and shirt. He took it as a good omen.
He paused at the edge of town. Nothing stirred. Without people and cars and noise, the town looked like the set of a movie, not real. His house was first before the forest. As he approached, he knew at a glance it was empty. He raced to the back window and looked inside. He saw his abuela’s empty cot, the small table sitting beneath the window. Bottles lay broken beneath the window, their contents spread over the floor. Just a few bottles remained on the shelves. Drawers were opened, their contents scattered over the floor as well, along with sheet music and dozens of paperbacks. His abuela always kept things so neat and tidy. He was glad she would never see this.
He carefully opened the back door and made his way to the sink. Broken glass crunched beneath his sneakers. He turned on the water and began filling the bottles. Once done, he looked around the room, knowing this was the last time for a long time and trying to think if there was anything he would miss.
His abuela kept money in the pocket of an old coat in case of an emergency, so he made his way to the clothes closet. He rifled through the pants and cotton shirts, drawing in the familiar scent. He brought a sleeve to his face and took a deep breath—lavender and rosemary.
He dropped to the floor, pulling the shirt with him. He tried to choke back his grief, and buried his face in the cloth, calling her name through his tears. “Abuela, Abuela . . .”
He felt the warm comfort of her love in answer. He first thought he must be imagining it, but no. It was as if love were a physical thing.
He suddenly remembered the first time he mastered “Ode to Joy.”
His abuela applauded with that very emotion.
It is such a powerful manifestation of joy. Your mother felt it, too; it was always our favorite music.
Yes, he had agreed. Joy and also love, the two best feelings in the world.
She had laughed at this. Love is not a feeling, Juan Pablo.
It isn’t? But . . . but I feel it.
Love causes emotions, lots of them, but it is not an emotion. Love is an energy, the strongest force on earth, just as it is in the spiritual realm. In fact everything in the spiritual realm has a meaningful manifestation in our material world and nothing is more meaningful or powerful than love.
He suddenly felt warm. The sweet scent of rosemary and lavender seemed to swirl around him. His eyes closed as his heart lifted.
It was his abuela’s love all around him . . .
Te amo, Abuela . . .
He didn’t know how long he sat there or how long he would have sat there, but abruptly he became aware of a buzzing in his ears, a strange sensation, like a warning. He stood up again. He found her orange parka—orange was her favorite color, in celebration of the butterflies—and felt for the hidden inside pocket.
Fifty pesos, a windfall. He shoved the money into his pocket and turned to go.
But there was one more thing.
His abuela’s photo album, photos taken before phones.
His gaze came to his abuela’s bureau. They had left her clothes, but apparently rifled through her jewelry drawer. He peered inside. She had been wearing her plain gold wedding band when they buried her and she had nothing of value after that. He spotted her beaded butterfly pin among the few trinkets left. A gift from a little girl whose life-threatening seizures she had stopped many years ago, it had been a treasure to his abuela. He slipped it into his pocket and opened the bottom drawer where she kept the photo album along with her winter scarves.
