Sonora

by Pastor, Juan

  It also occurs to me that cacti have no leaves, yet they still must perform photosynthesis. But they have to photosynthesize food without losing too much water, so they must get one of the things they need, carbon dioxide, at night. Very interesting.

  I didn’t know then, but I do now, as I write this book, that the Cardόn is a cladophyll, a plant that photosynthesizes through its skin by means of modified epidermal cells. If stuff like this bores you, pass over it, but this plant saved my life, and God knows how many other lives over time, and I’d kind of like to acknowledge it. It uses a photosynthetic technique called crassulacean acid metabolism that minimizes water loss. A single Cardόn cactus can hold up to a ton of clean drinkable water in its pulpy trunk. When they flower, the flowers are only open from late afternoon, all night, to early morning. And each flower lives for only one night. So the only way they get pollinated is through night‐flying, nectar‐feeding bats. Another bat, the lesser long nosed bat, times its return migration from Arizona just in time to feed on the fruit, the process helps spread the seeds, of which there are about 800 per fruit, throughout the desert. The fruit is about the size of a golf ball, and has short, yellow‐white, fuzzy spines covering the outside. When the fruit is ripe, it splits open revealing sweet, succulent, red pulp. Besides bats, birds eat the flesh, and so do rodents, and various wild canines that have learned it is a good source of fuel and water.

  The fruit was a primary food source for the Seri people of the Sonora, before Seri numbers were reduced by conquistadores and other tribes. Since the flesh contains alkaloids, it was most likely used as a psychoactive, probably inadvertently at first, when the cactus was consumed as a source of water, but later voluntarily.

  The Cardόn originally thrived in moister alluvial soils, but learned to adapt to drier, unpredictable climates. Eventually bacterial and fungal colonies, in symbiotic relation to the Cardόn, allowed it to grow even on bare rock, when no soil was available at all. The bacteria were nitrogen fixing agents that break down rock to produce nutrients. This plant has so evolved that it includes symbiotic bacteria in the seeds it produces.

  When the wolves are done feeding on the Cardόn fruit, they come to lay in the shade near me. The spots of shade are fast growing smaller. Reina Loba drops a fruit at my feet. She stands there waiting for me to pick it up, which I do. I bite into it, and the sweet juice runs down my chin. Reina Loba, satisfied, goes back to the cactus to gather more.

  When Reina Loba is satisfied that I’ve had enough to eat, she grabs my hand with her mouth, and pulls as if she wants me to stand up. I stand up. With some difficulty still. She, I, and the rest of the pack make our way across the desert.

  The desert is no place to be in the middle of the day. It can get to be well over 50 degrees Celsius (122 degrees Fahrenheit) during the middle of the day. It is almost impossible to carry enough water to not become dehydrated during any 24 hour period. Plants, which can not move, all have defenses against the midday sun. The cacti I mentioned, and their form, are examples of this. Almost any animal will try to get out of the midday sun. I shuddered to think what would have happened to Rosaria’s body had it been allowed to remain where she died. I had heard that a human body will start to deteriorate within 2 hours if left in the midday sun.

  As the pack and I walk, I think almost continually of Rosaria. In a way, both Rosaria and I have been resurrected, she in the wolves, and I in my second life. This makes me think about the whole concept of resurrection, and the hope that comes with it. I meditate about the “Pasiόn de Cristo”, or Passion of Christ, re‐enactment ceremonies that were, and are, held in Antigua every Holy Week. They seem so real, as if one has been transported across time and space, to witness the actual betrayal, condemnation, scourging, flogging, carrying of the cross down the Via Dolorosa in the Old City of Jerusalem, and crucifixion of Jesus at Golgotha. I have witnessed this Pasiόn several times, and each time I see it I am filled with a certain shame for the atrocity of it, and a desire to be a little bit better a person.

  Yet the most subtle and indelible Pascua (Easter) I have ever spent was once when I went to visit Rosaria in El Salvador. On Saturday we took a bus down Calle a Rosario de Mora from San Salvador through Puerta del Diablo, Castillo del Risco, El Penon de las Crucitas, to Santa Cruz. We camped overnight on a cliff overlooking Playa Toluca, near La Libertad. We watched the sun set over the Pacific, and ate some of the food we’d brought with us. The next morning, we walked back to Santa Cruz, bought some fruit at an outdoor market. There was a little iglesia (church) there, and it was having a modest Easter Mass. We attended the mass, and then walked back to the almost deserted beach with its black volcanic sand. We spent a wonderful day there, until a strange thing happened. A large family arrived with a mother and father and young baby in a pickup. But in the bed were six children, boys and girls of various ages. We were the only people on the miles of pristine beach. As Rosaria and I lay on our towels on the beach, and the sun was nearing the horizon, we noticed that the family was in some alarm. The waves here can reach 6 feet in height on a calm day, and there is a wicked undertow for people who are not familiar with it. I should say it is wicked whether people are familiar with it or not. Two of the children went missing. Rosaria and I helped the family look for the children in the surf until the sun set. Then the family thanked us, got back in the truck, and drove away, minus the two children, who now belonged to the Pacific. It was lost on me then because I am used to the names, but I had accompanied a girl named Rosary from a place called The Savior, took a highway called the Way of the Rosary from a place called the Holy Savior through the Door of the Devil, by Cliff Castle, over The Rock of the Cross to a place called The Holy Cross. We had spent the day at a place called, in English, London Beach, near a place called The Freedom. We had celebrated, in the morning, the conquering of death. We had witnessed, in the evening, two innocents succumbing to death. Everyone knows about the resurrection. Only the family we met that day, and Rosaria and I, would ever know about the two children, conquered by death. Or maybe not.

  A Dialectic

  The Virgen Maria appears to me again. She tells me

  it is time for someone saintly to not be conquered by death. She says it is time for a saint to conquer death once and for all. She says she is tired of the good letting the evil make victims of them. She says it is time for just one of them to pick up a sword, or spear, or gun, and finally make a statement.

  That’s when Rosaria appears. Yes, Rosaria is dead but she appears. Not all at once, at first. Her heart comes out of one wolf. Her lungs out of another. Her mind out of another still. Her legs out of two others. Her arms out of others still. Her trunk out of even others. They all come together in a swirling cyclone that synthesizes all the parts of Rosaria into the sum totality of Rosaria. And Rosaria begins to argue with the Virgen Maria. Rosaria doesn't argue any more like a silly young girl might argue. She means business. And she strongly objects to what the Virgen Maria is saying.

  “So you don’t like the way your son Jesús accepted his fate, his destiny?” Rosaria asks.

  “No I don’t.” The Virgen Maria says.

  “You would have preferred he pick up a sword, and defend himself against the Empire?” Rosaria asks.

  “Yes.” The Virgen Maria says. “Now that I’ve had two thousand years to think about it. That is what I would have preferred.”

  “But isn’t that what Spartacus did?” Rosaria asks. “And he was still crucified like your son was, along with thousands of other slaves who thought they might win against the Empire, by, as you say, picking up swords. And not only were the men who participated in the revolt crucified, but tens of thousands of women and children were killed along with them.”

  “At least they sent a message.” The Virgen Maria says.

  “Your son sent the greater message, I would say.” Rosaria says. “What would you say is stronger, water or rock?”

  “Obviously, a rock.” The Virgen Maria says. “Didn�
�t my son say he would build his church upon the rock? But what does that have to do with this?”

  “He was speaking figuratively, like when he said ‘This is my body, this is my blood’.” Rosaria says.

  “You mean literally, don’t you?"

  “No.” Rosaria says. “The rock is figurative, a metaphor. The water is literal. Did you know water is mentioned 722 times in Scripture, and rock only 128 times? Your son even referred to himself as living water. He baptized people with water. He walked on water. He changed water into wine.”

  “He did all this as living parable.” The Virgen Maria says. “Not just anyone can do these things.”

  “Parable is meant to teach us certain things.” Rosaria says. "Your son was teaching us about patience, perseverance and faith. But, in a way, he was teaching us things like a physics professor might teach a class of young schoolchildren. He was trying to teach us how to apply knowledge to our world. And if we did, it would eliminate a great deal of suffering. Anyone can walk on water.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Wait until it freezes.” Rosaria says.

  “And when will it freeze in the desert? The Virgen Maria asks. “For that matter, where will you find a body of water in the desert? How do you change water into wine?”

  “Grow grapes.” Rosaria says.

  “In the desert?”

  “See.” Rosaria says. “That’s irrelevant. It is possible for anyone to walk on water, or change water into wine. The possibility is the point.”

  “But how does water get stronger than rock?” The Virgen Maria asks.

  “Ask la pequeña María.” Rosaria says.

  “Okay, Pequeña. How does water get stronger than rock?” The Virgen Maria asks.

  Apparently, she’s decided not to call me Maria anymore.

  “I don’t know.” I say. “I know an iceberg can sink a ship. I saw a movie once where that happened.”

  I looked at Rosaria for help.

  “Pequeña una gota de agua en un tiempo (one small drop of water at a time).” Rosaria says

  “What does she mean by that?” The Virgen Maria asks, looking at me.

  “I’m not sure.” I say. I looked to Rosaria to explain.

  “One raindrop falls into a crater at the top of a volcano.” Says Rosaria. “Then another. Then another. Winters come. Sometimes in winter snowflakes fall into the crater. Before one knows it, there are enough raindrops and snowflakes to form a lake in the crater at the top of the volcano. Then the stone that makes up the crater walls gives way, and all the water that was once tiny raindrops, comes crashing down the side of the volcano. An entire village gets wiped out. Some people call this an act of God. A flower blooming is an act of God. A child being born is an act of God. A sinner changing his ways is an act of God. And there are acts of God sometimes hidden from us. If you let water dribble on a rock one drop at a time, and if enough time is allowed, those drops will erode the rock. That’s how the Sonora was formed. All this sand and dust was once rock.”

  “The wall that keeps you from the promised land.” The Virgen Maria says.

  “What about it?” I say.

  “How many raindrops and how many years will it take to turn that wall into sand and dust? The Virgen Maria asks. “I don’t feel like waiting another two thousand years for that. Or are you planning to follow some prophet for 40 years, as you wander through the desert, and live off Manna as it falls from heaven, one crumb at a time? Do you think you’ll live long enough to find your way around the wall?”

  “Maybe it will require teardrops, not raindrops.” I say.

  “And maybe neither one of you is listening to me.” Rosaria says. “There are acts of God hidden from us. Even if one doesn’t believe in God, there are things going on in this world that really are miracles. One has to keep her eyes open for those miracles.”

  I look at Rosaria, wondering where she is going with all this.

  “For one thing.” Rosaria says. “I’m not so convinced that anything really dies. If I died, how come I’m still here?”

  “Because I’m feverish, and I’m hallucinating you.” I say.

  “And why am I here?” The Virgen Maria says.

  “Because I’m a very good hallucinator?” I say.

  “Then make me go away.” The Virgen Maria says.

  My attention is diverted momentarily by a tumbleweed rolling by, propelled by a desert mini‐twister. It gets hung up in a solitary yucca plant. Unless it rains, the tumbleweed seeds will never be released. Yet the Yucca, like cactus, is a succulent, filled with life‐giving water.

  722 times, I think.

  When I return my attention to the Virgen Maria and Rosaria, they have both departed.

  Now that I have made the Virgen Maria and Rosaria “go away” I think, Were they ever really here?

  Did I create each of them so that I can tell them things that they can then tell me? If so, what is it exactly that I tell them to tell me? And why can’t I just tell myself? Rosaria, the objective, really existing Rosaria, was a saint. Now she is a martyred saint. What is it exactly she is trying to say? And the Virgen Maria. I never really knew her in real life, when she lived two thousand years ago. But why now does she seem so disenchanted with the world, so disappointed, so militantly determined to do something about the condition of the world? Why do Rosaria and the Virgen Maria have opposing points of view? If anything, it seems to me, Rosaria should be the militant one, and the Virgen Maria the pacifist. If I'm merely imagining both of them, and they are communicating to me my own subconscious thoughts, why are two diametrically opposed thought systems being represented? Am I supposed to analyze them both, and choose, or am I supposed to somehow synthesize both thought systems?

  I realized I am now thinking about things in a much more complex, philosophical frame of mind then I have ever done before. I suppose having a bullet pass through me, and surviving, has something to do with that.

  “Maldita sea (Damn)”, I think to myself. If I survive, and it looks like I just might, am I supposed to just let things happen to me, put my faith in God’s hands, or am I supposed to wage war on this world?

  Can I just be happy? Please! Leave me alone!

  I am getting a very bad headache. It hurts worse than the hole in me where the bullet went through.

  Dust The Way You Are

  The wolves turn their heads to look at the far

  horizon. The cloud of dust appears on the horizon. It is very small at first, but grows ever so slowly. It comes toward me. The wolves do not seem afraid of it, as if they see dust clouds every day. Then I hear the sound, which is probably what draws the wolves’ attention. It isn’t the sound of wind.

  It is very very tiny from where I sit, but the faintest glint of reflected sunlight beams momentarily from the cloud. Then I see it. A dusty jeep. Then I see the driver. The top of the jeep is down, or there never has been a top, because the driver is covered in dust. As he comes closer, I can see the old sweat‐ and‐dust‐stained cowboy hat, and the bandana covering his nose and mouth. The bandana looks like it once was white, but now it is the color of dust. He wears a vest, and the vest and his arms are covered in dust. The vest looks like it might be leather, but it is hard to tell. When he pulls up to me, I can see the dust coating the hairs on his arm. He looks to be an old wiry man. He has long dusty gray hair pulled in a pony tail, and the pony tail sticks out from under the hat. He pulls the bandana down off his face, and it hangs loosely around his neck. He takes off his sunglasses, which are also dusty. His eyes are so blue, they almost aren’t blue at all. More a blue‐ white.

  The jeep has no doors, just openings where doors should be. Dusty cowboy boots with pointy toes and high clunky two inch heels swing out the doorway followed by dusty denims. The dusty cowboy has a rifle set in a little vertical rack against the dashboard of the jeep. I watch how his eyes scan me, the wolves, the surroundings. I watch the wolves watch him. The wolves do not get up to run off. Surely they must see the ri
fle, even if it isn't being held by a man, or pointed their way.

  “This is no place to be in the middle of the day, little lady.” The cowboy says. Even his voice is dusty. “Are you okay?”

  The cowboy walks toward me. Still the wolves do not move. They just keep their eyes on the cowboy.

  “Jesus.” He says when he sees my wound. “What the hell is the matter with people?”

  I keep watching him. Am I imagining him also?

  “You’ve got to let me help you.” The dusty voice says. “If that gets infected out here, you’re a goner.”

  He kneels beside me.

  “In the front, out the back?” He asks.

  He shifts a little to look at the exit wound.