Esperanza

by Trish J. MacGregor

  Only then could he suck air in through his clenched teeth. He raced toward Tess’s vanishing shape in the fog, toward Nomad’s frantic barking, toward the roar of the bus’s engine, all these sounds concentrated in one area of the fog.

  But the men surrounded him—and closed in on him. Ian feinted to the right, the left. They moved as he moved, as if they were connected to him, as if they were all part of the same wave, the same netting, the same huge piece of seaweed. He saw a tiny opening, dived, struck the ground, rolled, leaped up, and raced away from them. The bus roared into view and Tess swayed in the doorway, shouting at him, gesturing wildly. He loped toward her, toward the bus, the men pursuing him, nearly reaching him. Tess leaned out and grasped his hand and pulled him aboard, her strength as shocking as the fact that he had escaped at all.

  The doors shut, he and Tess stumbled back against the seats. Manuel shouted, “Hold on, amigos,” and executed an erratic ninety-degree turn away from the group.

  Tess fell into the nearest seat, her head cut off Ian’s line of sight. Then she shot to her feet and grabbed onto one of the bars above her head as Manuel swerved into another ninety-degree turn. The bus skidded back onto the dirt road, tires kicking up dust and stones, and raced ahead, engine roaring, and broke free of the fog.

  Ian grabbed onto the armrests, Nomad sprawled against the floor, Manuel drove madly. When he finally spoke, he sounded angry. “You cannot leave the bus again. Not until we arrive at the hotel.”

  “You haven’t told us shit,” Ian spat. “Neither of us remembers buying tickets to Esperanza. Neither of us has a clue what the hell we’re doing on this bus. There’s a dead man back at that bodega that no one seems too concerned about. Who the fuck were those men?”

  “I cannot explain all the—”

  “We need answers, Manuel,” said Tess.

  “And if we don’t get them, we’re finding the fastest way out of this place,” Ian added. “So either you give us the answers, Manuel, or stop the goddamn bus so we can get off.”

  The bus stopped and Manuel shot to his feet, marched over to Ian, and leaned in close, planting his hands on the armrests, effectively trapping Ian in his seat. “I do not have the answers.” He spoke quietly, a threatening edge in his voice. “I wish that I could make a list for you. One, two, three. But I cannot. I do know this. Those men were brujos, señor. In the recent history of my city, the brujos never have been so bold. Never. An assault on Señorita Tess. You, surrounded by these men. It means you both are important to them. It means . . .” Manuel suddenly paused, blinked. All the anger seemed to hiss out of him. He stood up straight again, so that Ian was no longer trapped in his seat, and his arms dropped to his sides. Nomad growled softly and Manuel glanced at him, then back to Ian, at Tess. “The dog should stay with you. When he growls, when he barks, when he becomes agitated, it means the brujos are nearby.”

  With that, Manuel started back to his seat, but Ian grabbed the hem of his jacket. “Hold on just a goddamn minute, Manuel.”

  Manuel jerked free of Ian’s grasp, eyes burning with anger. “I have told you all that I know.”

  “I don’t believe in witches, so what are these brujos?”

  “They are real, my gringo friend, and it doesn’t matter what you believe. That dead man behind the bodega? The brujos were responsible for that. The mark on Tess’s arm, you being surrounded by them out there . . . Real. So if you cannot believe in real, then you have a very big problem.”

  He spun and hurried toward the front of the bus. Moments later, they drove on.

  Four

  Tension clung to the air like Velcro to cloth. No one spoke. Tess and Ian glanced at each other and he rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to say he didn’t have any idea what had happened. Manuel drove with his shoulders hunched and tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Tess felt sorry for him and even more anxious to get to the city.

  When they were free of the fog, she drank in the stunning landscape. Sheep and goats, cows and horses grazed in the rolling pastures and emerald fields on either side of the bus. Beyond the fields rose spectacular mountains and volcanic peaks that seemed to reach for the sky as if to embrace it. A few buildings appeared, wooden structures with tin roofs, like the Bodega del Cielo, that looked like they were held together with Super Glue and duct tape. An occasional old, rusted car bounced by, tires kicking up dust. But the road was used predominantly by peasants, hauling their goods in burro-drawn wooden wagons or carrying their wares on their heads and shoulders.

  The road turned from dirt to cobblestone. More buildings cropped up, more cars appeared, most of them small and old—VWs, Renaults, Peugeots, and lots of motorbikes and scooters. But pedestrians and people on bicycles outnumbered cars.

  As the city took shape around them, Tess’s first impression was of antiquity, evident in the bleached stone of the colonial buildings, the looming churches, the maze of narrow streets. Every few blocks, parks appeared, filled with monkey puzzle trees, pines, flocks of hummingbirds, and bustling outdoor markets. Wooden wagons brimmed with fresh fruits and vegetables, men and women hawked jewelry, art, woven hammocks.

  As the street widened into four lanes and filled with traffic, restaurants, cafés, and businesses became more numerous. Sleek buildings of steel and concrete appeared. This city, like Quito, seemed to have two distinct sections to it—the old and the new. In between lay the residential area through which they now drove, homes and apartments rising from hilltops, tall, snow-covered peaks looming behind them, embracing the city, protecting and isolating it. And there, distant but approaching, a magnificent condor drifted on a current of air. Tess nudged Ian, pointed out the window. Despite the earlier weirdness, this certainly wasn’t a bad place to end up in accidentally.

  The bus finally pulled up in front of Posada de Esperanza, a colonial-style building that appeared to lie at the border between the old and new parts of the city. Made of bleached stones and wood, with large bay windows, the inn’s single story was shaped like a half-moon. To either side of the double doors stood huge ceramic pots filled with blue and lavender flowers and emerald-green ferns that would cause her mother to swoon with admiration and envy.

  As the doors opened, Nomad bounded off first and trotted over to the doorman, a handsome young man with high cheekbones and a winning smile. He greeted the Lab with a pat, a grin, and a treat that Nomad leaped into the air to catch. The dog’s lungs, Tess thought as she stepped down, were definitely made for this altitude.

  “Welcome to the posada.” Manuel swept his arm grandly toward the building, then pointed at the plaque above the front door. “Mi casa es su casa. My house is your house.”

  His eyes looked strangely smooth and bright. A sense of familiarity swept through Tess, as it had several times since she’d first seen Manuel. It puzzled her. It was as if he were an old friend whom she recognized intuitively, but not consciously. Yet, she was sure she’d never met him before.

  “It is the most comfortable lodging in Esperanza,” Manuel added. “Excuse me, I will be right back.”

  He headed toward the doorman and Tess stood in the inn’s shadow, the early morning chill nipping at her face and hands, her stomach cramping with hunger. She watched the activity on the street—a bus, two men speeding past on bikes, cars, kids in uniforms on their way to school. Ordinary life here didn’t seem all that different. Except for these brujos.

  Manuel and the doorman conversed like old friends and kept glancing toward her and Ian, then both of them came over. Introductions ensued. Juanito Cardenas looked to be in his late twenties and his facial features said he was part Quechua. He tugged nervously at the lower edge of his jacket, and didn’t seem to know whether to smile or frown.

  “Juanito will speak to the clerk and make sure that you have comfortable rooms and everything else that you need,” Manuel said.

  “You have no more luggage?” Juanito asked.

  “Nope, this is it,” Tess replied.

  “Never have I
seen Americans travel with so little. It is a good thing, eh? It means that you are decisive, certain.”

  Tess almost laughed. Decisive? Certain? No way.

  “Right now, we’re just tired and hungry,” Ian said.

  Juanito flashed his dimpled smile. “I understand.”

  They entered the posada. The most unusual thing about it was that no one objected when Nomad tagged along. She couldn’t remember dogs being allowed in motels and inns in Quito. If anything, Quito was overrun with strays and, like most domestic animals in South America, they were treated like shit.

  Ian apparently noticed this oddity, too, and asked, “Is Nomad allowed inside?”

  “Everyone knows him,” Manuel replied, as if this explained it all.

  In the lobby, leather couches and chairs were draped with Ecuadorian blankets, native art festooned the walls. The roaring fireplace reminded her of a ski lodge in Colorado, people sitting around and reading newspapers, sipping coffee. A black and white cat wound his way through their legs, purring loudly. He trotted up to Nomad, they touched noses, then the cat moved on and finally settled by the fireplace. In the bay window, an Amazonian parrot with flaming blue and scarlet wings moved back and forth along a massive perch, greeting everyone who passed.

  “Buenos días, cómo está, bienvenidos.” Now and then it emitted a wolf whistle as some beautiful babe passed by. When Nomad sat in front of the perch, the parrot gazed down at the dog and greeted him in perfect English. “Hello, Nomad, welcome.” Then the bird squawked, picked up a piece of dried fruit from her bowl, tossed it, and Nomad caught it.

  “Cómo te llamas?” Tess asked the parrot.

  The parrot looked her over, whistled softly. “Me llamo Kali.”

  “Wow, Kali, as in consort of Shiva?” Ian asked.

  “Supreme deity of Hinduism,” Manuel added, and pointed at Juanito, now talking to a bald man at the front desk. “The manager is Ed Granger. He and Juanito will take care of you from here. If I can be of help, amigos, here is my card.” One for each of them. “I can drive you around, take you to wonderful restaurants, show you marvelous sights, drive you to the volcanoes, me entiendes?”

  Ian, evidently feeling guilty for his outburst on the bus, quickly dug cash from his pocket and pressed it into Manuel’s hand. “Thank you for everything, and I apologize for getting angry.”

  “It is nothing, señor. I understand. Dealing with brujos . . .” He shrugged. “No two people react the same.”

  Manuel extended his hand to Tess, but she hugged him instead. That sense of familiarity rushed through her again. She stepped back, frowning. “I feel like we’ve met before, Manuel.”

  His quick smile lit up his face. “I know what you mean. But I think not. You are not one I would forget, Señorita Tess.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  As they crossed the lobby, Tess noticed more of its details—the beautiful light that spilled through the glass domes of several skylights, the intricate designs set into the floor tiles, the magnificent craftsmanship of the woven rugs. Music played in the background, something familiar with a Latin rhythm. The faint scent of smoke from the fireplace mixed with the richness of freshly brewed coffee.

  “Hey, it could be a lot worse,” Ian remarked. “We could’ve gotten stuck in that bodega for the next three days.”

  No argument there.

  At the desk, Juanito introduced them to Whiskers, the black and white tuxedo cat Tess had seen moments ago, now curled up on the counter near Ed Granger. Granger looked like an ex-wrestler—a slick, shiny bald head, massive shoulders, a colorful and elaborate tattoo that decorated his right arm and the back of his right hand. “Mates,” his voice boomed. “Juanito tells me you are North American allies.”

  The phrase struck Tess as strange, as though a war had been declared and Americans and Aussies were on the same side. She could tell from the expression on Ian’s face that he found it odd, too.

  “Uh, yes, that’s right,” Ian said. “We’d like two rooms.”

  Ed’s smile shrank. He said something in Quechua to Juanito, who looked flustered, replied in Quechua, then shrugged and hurried off. “We have just one room at the moment, actually a cottage, with two double beds. I hope that won’t be a problem, mates.”

  Not for me, Tess thought.

  “We should have something else by tomorrow,” Granger continued. “Juanito went over there now to make sure the refrigerator is stocked with food. He’ll make you tea that helps counteract the effects of the altitude.”

  Ian looked over at Tess, who said, “It’s fine with me. Right now, a bed in a stable would be fine.”

  “A stable.” Granger exploded with laughter. “Oh, I assure you, mates, the cottage far surpasses any stable.” As he slapped a key on the counter, the tattooed figures on the back of his hand seemed to move, dance, undulate. “Go down the first hall to the right, out the first door. Cottage thirteen is on the east side of the courtyard.”

  Thirteen. That number again, Tess thought. “Do you take credit cards?” She reached into her pack.

  “Credit cards, cash, a check, traveler’s checks. But don’t worry about it now. We’ll settle the bill when you leave. I just need to see your passports.”

  Passport. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d shown hers. But she slipped it out of her pack and turned it over to Granger, just as Ian did. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed he studied their passports just a tad too long.

  As Granger started filling out forms, Ian said, “You know, we both seem to be having memory problems. We can’t even remember getting on buses that dropped us at Bodega del Cielo. Tess was headed to Tulcán, I was going to the Galápagos.”

  Granger made a dismissive gesture. “Not unusual. The bus system in this part of Ecuador is confusing. People end up on the wrong buses all the time. As for your memory, it’s the altitude, mate. Once you cross the Río Palo, the road climbs to over thirteen thousand feet. Esperanza is at thirteen-two. Don’t drink alcohol for at least twenty-four hours. Stay hydrated. Sleep all you want. You’ll feel a hundred percent better in another day.”

  “I don’t remember seeing any river,” Tess said.

  “You crossed it shortly before you reached the bodega.” Granger finished his forms and handed the passports back to them. “As the crow flies, Esperanza isn’t very far from the bodega. But the road twists upward for more than seven thousand feet. It’s like going from, oh, maybe Denver to the continental divide.”

  “Where can we make travel arrangements?” Tess asked.

  “And I’d like to make a call to the States,” Ian added.

  “Calls can be made from the cottage. As for travel, we can arrange things for you here at the desk. Or there’re bus stations in town. But I recommend resting up for a day or two. And while you’re here, you might as well see our marvelous city. If you’re hungry, we have a great restaurant here in the inn, open twenty-four/seven. Or there are other restaurants throughout Esperanza. And your cottage will have food in the fridge. We also have shops in the immediate vicinity where you can buy whatever you may have left at home.” He slipped their passports and two maps across the counter. “City maps, so you can find your way around. The town can be confusing to newcomers.”

  “What’s the population of Esperanza?” Tess asked.

  “About twenty thousand. We lose young people every year, you know how it is—the bigger cities beckon, they go off to the university, find better-paying jobs.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I heard about what happened on your way in. The fog. The, uh, brujos. They often travel in the fog, for cover, so it’s a good idea if you don’t wander outside of town.”

  “What exactly are these brujos, Mr. Granger?” Ian asked. “Back at the bodega, one of them grabbed Tess’s arm and then later on he turned up dead outside.”

  “Dead?” Granger looked as if Ian had just told him a UFO had landed on the White House lawn. His gaze flicked to Tess. “You’r
e sure it was the same man?”

  “Yes. He looked like he had bled out.” Tick-tock, whispered the clock on the wall. Tess watched the hands click forward and realized a full thirty seconds passed before Granger spoke.

  “What did the police do?”

  “The only cop there was drunk,” she replied. “He didn’t do anything.”

  Granger clicked his tongue against his teeth, shook his head. “I’m really sorry you had to go through that.” His soft, conspiratorial voice struck Tess as phony. “These brujos fight among themselves all the time. They’re crazies. Outcasts.”

  “Outcasts from where?” Ian asked.

  “Mate, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be happy to share it. But no one really knows. My theory is they’re thieves, drug runners, undesirables from all over South America who are looking to make Esperanza their home base. They seem to have some sort of, I don’t know what you call it. Unusual abilities?” He shrugged, palms aimed at the ceiling. “Sara Wells will want to talk to you as soon as she returns. She’s the expert on these brujos. She’ll be eager to hear all about your encounter with them in the fog, Mr. Ritter.”

  “And she’ll be back when?” Tess asked.

  “In a few days.” The phone behind him rang just then and he excused himself.

  “I guess we should go find cottage thirteen,” Ian said.

  Nomad barked and trotted off ahead of them. The tuxedo cat leaped off the counter and followed, and the parrot swept through the air, joining the procession.

  Dominica watched Juanito Cardenas hurry along the path, carrying several fabric bags probably filled with groceries. He looked around uneasily, but she doubted that he sensed her presence. Ever since she and Ben had taken his parents some years ago, paranoia had been his normal state.

  It surprised her when he unlocked the door of cottage 13 and slipped inside. Thirteen was reserved primarily for guests who had been targeted by brujos in some way, a signal to the inn’s staff to remain vigilant. Did Ed Granger know the man and woman were transitionals? Undoubtedly. Manuel, the wild card who had mocked her there outside the bus, probably told him. And if Granger knew, then Juanito and everyone else who came in contact with the couple would find out, too.