“It was a little scratch,” Rosa said, flicking away a bee that buzzed too close to her ear. “It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “I could see your bone.”
“So?” Rosa’s eyes burned. “I could have bashed the bone to shards and it still would have healed. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“It does to me,” he muttered. A smoky wind blew past the children, rustling the leaves.
The village was preparing for their annual fiesta. Every year, when summer turned up its heat, they slaughtered a lamb, and the people would mix the blood with green onions, lard, thyme, and dried red chili, and make a feast out of it. It was Sergio’s least favorite day of the year.
“You’re the only one in the village who’s scared of blood, you know that?” Rosa suddenly said.
“Am not,” he said.
“Are too,” she said. “Why?”
Sergio blew a gust of air out his mouth. “I’m not scared. It just makes me a little sick, is all.”
She filled a nearby pot with lake water and let Sergio take the first drink. “Blood’s a part of life,” she said. “Blood and bones. It’s normal.”
Sergio sat up as though he had just grown a spine. “No. It’s not. You scraped through to the bone. The bone, Rosa — that’s not normal. And what about this morning? A thorn went straight through your palm.” He reached out, almost daring to touch the place between Rosa’s thumb and wrist where earlier a cactus thorn had driven through an inch of her flesh. He put his hand back into his lap before he could make contact, but his point stood: where a fresh, painful wound should have been bandaged and still healing, Rosa’s skin was smooth, clean as an apricot.
“You worry too much.” She climbed back into the tree, bees following her up the trunk. “I could slip right now.” She dropped upside down, swinging by her ankles. “I could land headfirst on a rock. Crack my head open like a gourd. Blood, bits of brain everywhere —”
“Stop, stop.” Sergio paled.
“It. Doesn’t. Matter,” she said. “The tree heals us, every time.” She sighed. “It’s boring. It’s too safe here. Nothing new ever happens.”
“But that’s why no one ever leaves,” Sergio said quietly. It was impossible to understand Rosa sometimes. He liked that they were safe, that really bad things didn’t happen in the village. Rosa was so restless — Inés the puppy was better at sitting still than she was.
“I want to go.” She looked at the lake, her face soft, and stood, balancing on the branch, toes gripping the knobbled bark. “I want to see things. I want to know what’s out there.”
He climbed up next to her, pulled out his whittling knife, and carved a piece of dried rose locust wood. His fingers worked on their own; they didn’t need his eyes. He was busy watching Rosa’s every movement, her arms rising, hands pointed like a prayer, eyelids falling shut.
“I want to see the corners of the earth. I want to see oceans. Mountains, forests, even other deserts. Snow.” This last word she whispered.
“No one leaves,” Sergio whispered back. “Not ever. Not even you.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Sergio wondered if she would unfold hidden wings and take to the sky right now, but she sat back down next to him, toes tucked beneath her. As though she were glued to the tree. Stuck.
“Don’t you ever think about those things?” she asked. “The things the Father told us, about the world?”
Sergio carved away a strip of wood and thought. Father Alejandro — the wiry, birdlike father of the mission — was born somewhere else. A kingdom of olive tree orchards, castles surrounded by sprawling gardens, and bullfighting. He came on a ship with a crew, hired to tear the desert apart until they found gold. They searched in rain-soaked jungles, atop the peaks of breathless mountains, along white beaches …
Instead of gold, when he led his expedition north into the dry rainbow desert, he found the lake. And the oasis.
He found the tree.
That was in 1480, Father Alejandro told them. Two hundred years ago — though the village had no use for years. He founded the village and built the mission with the crew, who also felt the tree was worth far more than gold. They made houses of stone and red desert clay, with yarrow thatched roofs.
The village grew. That group of sailors married local women, then raised children and grandchildren, and kept sheep and goats. Their children and grandchildren built huts of their own on the lakeshore. No one ever left. No one ever died. Those sailors grew old, yes, enough to be called the elders of the village, but their aging was slow. They were cheating time.
“I saw shorelines made of pebbles,” Father Alejandro would say, remembering his former life, “and flowers the size of my head. We sailed on gray oceans for so many days and nights that we lost the memory of ground beneath our feet. Sometimes the wind died, and we didn’t move for weeks. I saw cities glittering silver and gold, people made of feathers.” Rosa was always the one begging the Father for these details.
Even now Rosa’s cheeks glowed at the mention of Father Alejandro’s travels, but Sergio knew she missed the whole point of the Father’s stories — that the world was the empty clam shell and the tree, the pearl. Nothing outside the village would ever compare with what they had.
“Is this the tree of life?” a grown-up had once asked.
“The tree of life bore fruit,” Father Alejandro had counseled. “Our tree grows only blossoms.”
“Then it is a magic tree!” Rosa had said.
Father Alejandro’s face had darkened. “Magic is the devil’s tool,” he’d growled. “Our tree is simply a gift. A gift from God.”
“What about everything else we have here?” Sergio tried to say to Rosa now. “What about the lake? And the stars? This tree gives the perfect shade, and the flowers make the village smell so nice, and the bees …” The bees bring life, just like Rosa does, he thought.
Rosa scoffed. “I’ve had enough of this lake, these stars, this tree.” She glared at the nearest blossom. “We’ve seen everything there is to see here.” She sipped the lake water from the pot, and the two of them quieted as the sun fell.
Inés, finally worn out, curled up next to the tree trunk and snoozed.
The village, if one had a hawk’s view, would be a vivid green dot in the middle of the thirsty desert: an oasis. The pale-green lake filled a basin between mesas, and where its water ended, lush, cool grass grew. If the village were an eye, staring up at the sun, the tree was its black pupil, dead center.
Rosa was right. The same people in the village did the same things every day. The only excitement was when a new baby came, born of the same old village families. But even that excitement wore off eventually; because of the tree, babies took longer to grow up than desert tortoises. A dozen years of watching the same baby coo erased the novelty of infancy.
Time in the village moved slower, decades coming and going, almost in a dream.
If time even existed in the village at all.
And of course, when the babies finally did grow up, they stayed.
Everyone stayed.
Travelers were rare, since the village was far off the beaten path. Few souls crossed the desolate heat of the southwestern desert, and anyone who did find the village passed through quickly, as though somehow sensing the strangeness of this place — though they never suspected the truth about the oddly mesmerizing black tree. In their memories, the village was a helpful but forgettable stop on their journeys to bigger, better places.
“Father Alejandro says the tree is —” Sergio said.
“A gift, I know,” Rosa said. “Then we should use that gift to see the world. What else is life for?”
Sergio shrugged. “What about love? And marriage?”
Her teasing grin glowed through the foliage. “Me, married? To who?”
“No one. I don’t know.” He stared at his whittling knife.
Rosa stood. “Marriage is just another
kind of sameness,” she said. Suddenly she sprang into a swan dive and disappeared in the water, a white ring of foam rippling into stillness.
“Rosa!” Rosa’s younger sister, Carolina, rang the mission bell. “Mamá says to come help make the chile caribe!”
Rosa let out a sigh that could be heard from the ridge. “I hate grinding the chilies. Makes my eyes burn.” She trudged to the shoreline. “It’s a child’s chore, anyway.”
“But you are a child,” Sergio said.
Rosa scoffed. “I’m a century old! Father Alejandro says that in the world outside the village, children become adults when they’re twelve. Twelve!”
“Yes, but he also says people die when they’re fifty. Sometimes even younger. And that’s if they don’t split their heads like melons,” he added, feeling queasy at the thought.
“Then maybe it’s time we grew up.”
Inés wagged her tail as Rosa passed, whining for attention. “When are you going to make a sheepdog out of this puppy, eh?” She patted the dog’s head.
“Wait!” Sergio called. “Rosa, what if I”— he turned red —“or someone could make you a life worth staying here for? Would you get married then?”
Rosa plucked one of the blossoms from the branch above her and handed it up to him. “Only if you can figure out how to turn this lake into an ocean.”
She walked back to the mission, a cloud of bees orbiting her head.
Sergio inhaled the blossom’s honey-vanilla fragrance. Rosa was his oldest friend. Just as the village was contained inside the perfectly green, perfectly safe circle of the oasis, Sergio lived his life contained inside a smaller, safer circle. But Rosa always pushed him past his limits, and he always ended up thanking her for it.
He stayed in the tree until the village was dark and the fiesta was over, the lamb’s blood drained and ingested, and the stars were out. He stood, the same way Rosa had, clinging to the branch the way she did. He wondered if he looked as she did, like an eagle perched on a crag, strong in the uncertainty of midnight’s shadows.
When his own family called him home, he leapt into the lake, arms flailing. As he plunged under the chilly water, he pictured Rosa, splayed bleeding on the rocks, vultures circling overhead.
And as usual, he was terrified.
“Rise and shine, girls! Breakfast!”
Mom’s call comes five minutes after I fall asleep. At least that’s how it feels. The disorientation of waking up in a strange new place hits me like a volleyball in gym class. Instead of my crisp white bedroom walls, I open my eyes to a poster of some ancient band called U2. Crackles in the blue ceiling reach out to the corners, like spindly tree branches.
Where am I?
“Girls?” Mom pokes her head into the room, and I remember. The ranch. Dad’s old bedroom. Serge. Bees.
Bees. I dreamed of bees. They’re following me, even when I sleep.
I sit up, so Mom sees I’m awake.
“Morning, hon,” she says, a smear of flour across her forehead. “Breakfast is ready. Come eat, Alta.”
The lump known as Alta grunts.
“You have ten minutes to get up and dressed, or your phone stays in my pocket all day.” Mom’s warning to my sister may seem harsh, but my family knows not to underestimate Alta’s sleeping-in abilities. A zombie apocalypse could start and Alta would snooze right through it. She’d be so zonked, the zombies would mistake her for one of their own.
How is the desert already preheated and ready for baking at eight o’clock in the morning? The warmth seeps through the walls, dry and oppressive. I’m already sticky with sweat. I kick off the sleeping bag like it’s suffocating me.
I remember last night: Dad’s truck woke me, and there were stars, and snakes, and a bloody sheep’s head …
There was Serge’s story, about the tree and the lake and the children, Rosa and Sergio.
Funny that he used his and Grandma’s names in the story. Funny, and also sad; he misses Grandma Rosa so much that she creeps into his fictional world.
My phone vibrates with a message from Gabby. Raging Waters day! It sucks that you aren’t here. :P :(
A picture tries to download but stalls. Reception at the ranch flickers more than Serge’s memory. I know what the picture will show, anyway: Gabby and Sofie squinting in their striped tankinis, sunscreened head to toe, both of them hovering near Manny in the first row of the group shot.
Raging Waters day is for kids who graduate sixth grade. A bus picks them up in the morning, and they swim and talk and play at the water park until closing time.
I wonder if my friends left my space empty, the spot I usually occupy in photos, right between them, since I’m the shortest.
I peck out my reply to Gabby with extra force in my fingers. I know :( Eat a mango-tango snow cone for me.
Is it going to be like this all summer? My friends send me updates on all the fun things I’m missing, and I start every morning in a jealous haze? And then, a worse thought: How long until they forget to send me updates at all? Until they forget me?
You’ll get caught up, I reassure myself. Two months at the ranch. Then junior high will be here, and you and Sofie and Gabby will pick up right where you left off.
I almost convince myself.
Almost.
I get dressed and leave Alta to face the harsh reality of morning alone. The divine smell of breakfast leads me to the kitchen. Mom’s cooking again, apron tied around her middle, whipping up another gourmet Mexican meal from scratch: spinach omelets, pan dulce, and fresh spiced chorizo.
Mom waits until I’ve got a mouthful of cheesy eggs before she says, “I need you to help Serge in the barn today.”
Suddenly my food tastes of bribery. “Aw, Mom,” I say.
“Serge says the sheep need to be dosed and sheared.” Mom flips another perfectly symmetrical omelet onto a plate, a delicious bribe for some other unsuspecting soul.
“But I don’t know how to do any of that sheep stuff,” I say.
“Serge will take care of the sheep.” Mom lowers her voice. “I just need you to … supervise.” She cracks more eggs into the pan. “Alta! Get up now!”
“I am up!” comes the holler from the other side of the house, even though Alta’s most likely still horizontal under the covers.
Mom turns back to me. “Dad and I have our own to-do lists today. And you and Serge seem to have a special thing —”
“No, we don’t,” I say automatically.
“Sure you do,” Mom says. “You’re the only one he’s talked to besides Dad.”
I scowl, not wanting to admit that she’s right.
From the moment I met him yesterday, something about Serge has drawn me in — maybe the glow of his eyes when he looks at me, or the way his forehead is always furrowed, or the way he stares at his ranch, like he’s lost in love with this land.
When my parents told me we’d be spending the summer here, I expected to have stiff, forced conversations with this grandfather I’d never met. I expected he’d ask me about school, about my friends, about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t think he’d have anything interesting to say.
I didn’t think he’d spin a magical story about a tree and a lake and a boy and a girl… .
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll supervise. But I’m not touching any sheep.”
“Thanks.” Mom lifts Lu into my arms. “Will you take Lu with you?”
Humph. My friends are hanging out at the water slides, and I’m stuck babysitting Lu and Serge.
After breakfast Serge and I walk down the rickety porch steps, Lu in tow.
Dad’s on a ladder angled to the roof, holding a paintbrush. “Morning,” he calls. “How’s it look?” He gestures to the wood trim around the house.
To me, there’s no difference between where he’s painted and where he hasn’t — it’s all the same moldy beige.
“Looks good,” I say.
Dad hops down in front of us. “Where you heading?”
“Sheep need shearing,” Serge says.
“Mom’s making me,” I add, in case he thinks the real Carol was body-snatched by a new, alien Carol who’s a sheep enthusiast.
Dad frowns at his father. “In the drought?”
Serge folds his arms. “The ranch doesn’t shut down because of a drought.”
“But they’re so bony,” Dad says, his eyes weary. “Don’t they need their wool?”
“Are you a sheep farmer now?” Serge stretches, taller than I’ve ever seen him, his anger stretching tall, too.
Dad digs the toe of his boot into the grass like a little kid. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’ve been running a band of sheep longer than you’ve been alive,” Serge says, “and don’t forget, niño: You left. I stayed.” He kicks up a tornado of red dust as he stomps to the barn. His oxygen tank leaves tracks in the dirt.
Dad bursts the bubble of silence. “Carol. Grandpa is …” Whatever he’s about to explain, it melts away in the heat. “Let me know if he does anything out of the ordinary.”
I sling Lu onto my hip. “I’ve never sheared sheep before. How will I know if he’s doing something out of the ordinary?”
Dad’s eyes flash black, the only cold in all the desert. “Just come get me if he does anything weird.”
Weird. I turn the word over in my mind. Does Serge’s story about the lake and the tree count as weird?
Dad’s already back up on the ladder, muttering to himself. He paints in violent slaps, marking the wood with splotches shaped like little witch brooms. Of the two of them, Dad’s the one acting weird.
I follow my grandpa to the barn.
Yesterday, when I was looking for Lu, the barn felt like a sacred space, a cathedral in disguise. It must have been the illusion of sunset, because today, in the bright morning light, the barn is just a barn. Lu squirms, turning to jelly in my arms. I drop him, and he waddles to a worn-out saddle and bounces on it.
“You must forgive your dad,” Serge says, propping the square doors open. “He forgets how long it’s been since he was home.”
I don’t say anything. We all know how much Dad hates this place. Mom about keeled over in shock when Dad brought up staying at the ranch to help Serge move. “He’s still my father,” Dad had said. “He needs help. There’s no one else but us.”
Hour of the Bees Page 6
