Redemption's Warrior

by Jennifer Morse

  The many eyes of a peacock tail are dragging behind the man. They follow, layer upon layer of feathers, like the train of a fancy dress. Christopher has a feeling all of life is a celebration for this man. Curious he asks, “Do you have a working visa?”

  “No.” Shaking his head, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched, drawing his coat more closely to his chest, the festivity gone. Reading the story his body tells Christopher hypothesizes a man who does not like to deceive. He feels caught in the moment like he’s cheating.

  Christopher gives him a firm pat on the back. He says, “I don’t have a visa either. My name is Christopher.”

  The brown face brightens, feathers lift, hundreds of feathers iridescent blue and green sway together over his shoulders. He smiles and extends a hand, “I am Pepe.” Shaking Christopher’s hand vigorously he adds, “I use the same Coyote every year.”

  Christopher is amused. This man makes a party out of a single statement.

  As they leave the terminal Christopher sees another reward poster. “Again!!” His heart seems to stop then gallops away leaving him lightheaded and short of breath. He leans on a nearby trash can.

  Confused his guide asks, “What? What did you say?”

  Christopher forces himself to stand up straight and smile. “It’s nothing. I’m just glad to be off the boat.”

  Thoughts race, heart pounding, blood rushing his world glitters in paranoia. The hammer of his pulse narrows his vision into a tunnel. He walks in a twilight world, a world where even the most benign landscape can turn deadly in the blink of an eye. From his experience on the streets of Tijuana he understands all too well the instantaneous potential of life as you know it snatched away.

  Imprinted in his memory, driving down the road, hands pounding the steering wheel in time to music, alternating black and white leather, his new tuck and roll upholstery. He’s thinking about his birthday party. Blinking lights, a badge pressed to the window, herald a previously inconceivable future.

  Thoughts of his Chevy still flood Christopher with indignation and rage. The barbershop mirror told the story of his life in prison. His body wears the injustices perpetrated on him like an ill-fitting suit. Hit hard in these first moments of freedom with his last moments of freedom.

  Will I forever wear the body La Luna created? Will my body ever tell another story? A happier story?

  Lost in thought the two men walk quietly through La Paz. Lining the road facing the ocean are restaurants and bars. Half of the businesses are boarded up. Building exteriors are crumbling, a reflection of deferred maintenance in various stages of decay.

  Christopher’s thinks my world no longer rotates around a small patch of real estate. My future is not in the hands of cruel sadistic men. I choose my future.

  They leave the paved road for a hard dirt street meandering into the hills above the bay. He’s relieved to see the bus station. But at the ticket window he sees another damn Recompensa poster!

  His lips press into a hard line. He itches to tear it off the wall. A sour faced clerk gives Christopher a long look. His heart skips a beat. He puts his right hand to his chest and rubs a circular motion. Then he puts his left hand on his new friends shoulder. Looking the woman in the eyes he says, “I pay for my brother’s ticket and my ticket.”

  The clerk takes the dinero and gives them their tickets. Her indifferent attention is on the next customer. His friend smiles with pleasure. “Gracias amigo. I only have money to pay the Coyote and get across the border. Now I will eat while I wait for the Coyote!”

  “De nada, mi amigo. It’s my pleasure. Thank you for bringing me to the bus station.” Sitting in the shade, across the road from the bus station, Christopher and Pepe watch a large converted yellow school bus being fueled with diesel. A crudely stenciled, “Baja Norte” is painted over the faded demarcation, Phoenix Unified Schools.

  A mechanic washes windows with a red rag. The driver arrives dressed in jeans, a faded long sleeve button down shirt and a green bus driver’s hat. He stows a large thermos and lunch bucket behind the driver’s chair. Passengers are crowded near the bus doors waiting to board.

  Doors open and travelers collide making their way to seats. Christopher and Pepe walk to the bus and sit, one to a bench, with Pepe behind Christopher. The bus roars to life. Jerking between gears and belching smoke it agonizingly slow it pulls out of the bus terminal.

  Looking around Christopher guesses by reading his fellow traveler’s demeanor and clothing most are seeking work in the picking season in California. The air is interspersed with ribbons of worry and rays of hope.

  Bouncing north along the paved highway, at sixty miles per hour, passengers feel every pot hole. Christopher thinks this suspension was shot long before the bus’s incarnation as the Baja Norte.

  He absorbs the sparse scenery and mercifully some of his worries fall away. Multiple limbed Saguaro cactus stand amidst sand and rock formations. Christopher has heard others say they are sentinels of the desert. He thinks Saguaros are the shaman’s, the spiritual medicine of the desert.

  This cactus forest surrounded in boulders captivates him. Immersed in the scenery he lets his mind wander. One Saguaro appears larger, distinctive and powerful, shining with health. Sharing vitality, Christopher opens to receive the wonder, a blessing of Beneficence.

  The faint scent of Creosote drifts through the open window delicate and barely perceptible. In Christopher’s reverie he imagines Saguaro the spiritual leaders, Shamans, and creosote binds desert life, the glue, cosmic glue. On Islas Tres Marias the smell of fear and domination saturated clothes, clinging to hair; bitter and sticky. Bedding and towels carried the faint scent of loose bowels and undigested terror. The air charged with violence. To be free of the toxicity, to receive the elusive whiff of Creosote wandering through his reverie, these are gifts Christopher did not anticipate.

  The sound of sirens and flashing lights pull Christopher out of his daydream. Not again! His full attention slams in his body. The flashing lights of police. The driver hits the noisy air brakes. A green canvas covered troop carrier parks across the highway blocking traffic. The driver operates the door level. Doors swing open. Federal soldiers swarm the bus. “Everyone step outside. Pronto!”‘

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BANDITOS

  A soldier with newly posted Sargent’s chevrons barks out orders. In a jumble, passengers disembark. Kids clutch their mothers. Younger children, weepy or wide eyed, are held in their mother’s arms. Facing the uneven line of travelers the Sargent demands the destinations of each male. Another soldier follows holding Christopher’s wanted poster. Unbelievable!

  Sweat begins a thin trickle down the mid-line of his back. The blue dragonfly flies at his eye level. Velocity faster than Christopher’s anxiety ridden mind can comprehend the dragonfly circles Pepe. The young man in festive clothes covered by a drab serape relaxed watches the proceedings with interest. The dragonfly returns back to Christopher’s eye level. A florescent blur repeats the pattern three times. Christopher pauses, what is the dragonfly telling me?

  Soldiers are working down the line toward him and he squeezes his eyes shut. Taking his cue from the dragonfly, Christopher whispers to Pepe, “I have never traveled for the picking season. I don’t know what to do or say.”

  Pepe says, “Permitame hable, let me talk.”

  Christopher nods gratefully.

  The Sargent glares. Up come the peacock feathers, a dazzling display. Full of confidence and excitement, throwing his arm over Christopher’s shoulder his new friend says, “Mi hermano and I go to pick almonds.”

  Nodding agreement Christopher smiles broadly. Tension radiates off him. The dragonfly dances. The peacock feathers are undulating. Christopher’s grinding his teeth. Eternity in the space of three heart beats. The Sargent is satisfied. Adjusting his nightstick he turns to the bus driver. He says, “Vaya ahora.”

  The interlude has passenger’s adrenalin pumping. Returning to the bus conversation is loud. The d
river is speeding. The bus sways groaning on an old frame. Christopher links eyes with Pepe and says, “Gracias amigo. Gracias. This is my first time to cross the border. I did not know how to find the bus, talk to strangers or find a Coyote.” He crosses his arms against a chill. “I thought I would find an abandoned road leading across the border.”

  Pushing his hair out of his eyes Pepe says, “I have gone for the picking seasons since I was young.” He is wrapped again in his wool coat, content. Christopher thinks I need to buy a coat. Reading his mind Pepe says, “You can buy a blanket or serape when we stop in Mulege.”

  Nodding Christopher says, “Pepe, you have been a good friend, sharing your knowledge. You showed me how to deal with scary men who wear new Sargent stripes.”

  They both laugh. They talk easily. Pepe shares his adventures in previous picking seasons until the bus stops in the seaside town of Mulege. A crowded truck stop offers gas for the bus. Bathrooms are available for the travelers. Food and drinks are a welcome break in their journey. Christopher uses loose change to buy a lukewarm egg burrito and an ice-cold soda. Leaving the store he stops at the window. Another freakin poster!

  Pepe materializes at his side. Glancing at the picture of Christopher from the Tijuana jail, he says, “This hombre is a gringo.” He shakes his head. “Gringo” is self-explanatory.

  Below the poster is a stack of cotton blankets. Christopher reaches for a blanket and turns toward the cashier. He shrugs disinterest.

  Back on the bus wrapped up in the blanket Christopher feels good. He enjoys the simple freedom of paying for a meal and purchasing a blanket. Chilly night air, stings. The warmth of a blanket, a blanket free of the odors of Islas Tres Marias, is a luxury.

  A new driver replaces the first. Eight hours or so to go, he thinks.

  Passengers settle in. Mother’s hum lullabies. Whispers replace loud conversations. Drowsy and full of food Christopher walks the twilight land. In the boundary between sleeping and waking Christopher wanders in conversation with Juanita. “La Currandera taught me walking the line between sleep and waking builds personal power.” She explained, “Learning to ‘dream the dream awake’ is a lifelong quest.” Seeing Juanita even if only in the dream Christopher wants to soak in everything. The way her face catches the light, the effervescent sparkles, “Juanita!” he calls.

  Air brakes screech. The bus jerks to a stop. “Banditos!” shouts the driver. Christopher rolls off the bench seat crashing into Pepe’s seat. He ricochets and tumbles to the floor. Juanita! Where am I? Prisoner’s sleeping quarters? Falling off my cot? Did someone say Banditos?

  A full moon outlines a jeep blocking the highway. He jerks upright. This bus is full of migrant workers who saved all year to pay a Coyote to get them across the border for the picking season.

  Again his adrenalin kicks into high gear. Women scream. Children are crying. Men tight lipped with fear and anger. The Bandito climbs steep bus steps wearing crisscrossed ammunition belts covering a big belly. A cartoonish Bandito. His sight shifts. An infinitesimal shift transported he remembers the first time he felt this sensation. Waves of light, flexible and forged pour through him. Millions of diamonds reflect in the path of the moon’s light. Starlight’s flames surround and protect him. A force of nature, appearing as a miniature goddess saying, “I am the Divine Transmuting Flame. I hold the Cosmic Balance. You are mine, Redemption’s Warrior.”

  Suddenly clear to him, filled with determination, he will not hand over money he made selling eggs, barbequed chicken and fish. It was too much work. He needs the money for a Coyote.

  Waving his rifle, Bandito shouts “Everyone off the bus. Pronto.”

  Children have advanced to sobbing. Mothers weep and beg for mercy. The night of high desert has dropped into the low sixties. The group shakes with cold and fear. Sobbing, weeping, praying, begging; a cacophony of noise. Jewel toned colors in ribbons of light are whipping and turning, swirling and leaping.

  In the midst of the chaos Christopher is beginning to shine. A light of palpable force the shining calms and soothes everyone in its perimeter. As light continues growing more passengers become silent. A golden silence, filled with love, and for the first time since Christopher’s car was stolen, a peace. Bigger than his mind, a peace his soul recognizes. He opens to receive and within this growing radiance Christopher stands quietly.

  The Bandito moves toward him. Aggressively the man shoves his gun and face inches from where Christopher is standing calmly. Christopher has been waiting for this moment. The Bandito leers. Christopher stomps on his foot. The Bandito howls in surprise and pain. Stepping forward Christopher’s palm shoves into the Bandito’s nose. The strike has him arching back in surprise. Blood is streaming down his face.

  Christopher steps even closer. He grabs the Bandito’s shoulders. Holding him steady he gathers his force and slams his knee into the man’s groin. Around him passengers are cheering. The Bandito drops to the ground. He rolls on his side, knees tightly held into his chest, the fetal position.

  The bus driver arrives with rope. Christopher kicks the gun away. Pepe picks it up for safe keeping. Christopher walks over to the jeep. Popping the hood he pulls the distributor cap. Pulling it out, he hands it to Pepe, “A souvenir for you.”

  Pepe laughs, white teeth flashing. “Gracias mi hermano!”

  Men slap Christopher on the back. Women with tear stained faces, radiant with relief, thank him. The mood is festive. On the bus again, food and drink are brought out to celebrate. Christopher eats so many tamales I haven’t been this stuffed with food for years.

  Children run the aisle and climb the seats. Men shake his hand. Pepe stands nearby protectively. Occasionally his hand drops onto Christopher’s shoulder. An endless celebration; until night’s darkest hour, where silence lays like a blanket, its weight calming and soothing. In velvety darkness sleep claims the group transformed by their struggles into a village. Christopher’s soul knows the blissful peace of redemption. He watches the night’s darkness replaced by a lightening sky. Gradients of darkness fall to the gradients of light. The sun begins to rise in the east. To the left the Sierra Madre Mountains are purple in pre-dawn light. Christopher sighs. The weight of night falls replaced by the golden light of dawn.

  Christopher is leaving Mexico a man. He came to Mexico on an ordinary errand, a boy questing for his manhood. Within prison life he transformed and balanced the depth of his character. His strengths utilized for the betterment of each day led him out of exile and into his journey home.

  I found love. He will forever hold Star Woman’s message close. “Two people at one in their innermost hearts… Never forget the power of love.”

  A honking behind the bus has each passenger turning to get a look. Christopher’s eyes widen in disbelief. A yellow Chevy speeds by the driver still honking. Christopher hears Cherry Bomb Glasspack mufflers roar a familiar howl. The black and white Tijuana tuck and roll upholstery shabby.

  All four passengers are gesturing angrily at the bus. Christopher is glued to the window. He is greedy to read the telltale signs of his shiny car’s past, everything since their separation. He watches, hungry for each fleeting view, until the car disappears over the horizon. Ownership of his Chevy is in past. His priority is a safe return home. Turning to face his guide he says, “Okay Pepe, what’s next for us?”

  Pepe yawns, “As soon as we reach Tijuana we’ll walk east for about an hour. A home serves as a halfway house. We wait for El Coyote.”

  In the bus terminal they purchase orange sodas from the vending machines. Walking Christopher is lost in thought. He remembers his promise as the boat docked on Islas Tres Marias. His vow to stay connected to beauty, where beauty lived so could he. Now he comprehends Beneficence working in the large and small moments of daily life. Juanita taught me to love. I will never settle for anything less.

  Christopher’s body hums with excitement. Geographically, as the crow flies, they are a half hour from the United States. He considers calling his
parents, going to the border and asking for sanctuary. But these routes are mined with pitfalls. Should he fall into the hands of the Mexican authorities… He has no United States passport. Corrupt cops sold it. The Mexican government searches for him as an escaped felon. How did my life get so crazy?

  When he’s home he’ll look at the night sky and remember the nights of star watching on La Luna. The injustices he suffered will be in the past. These will be his four words of freedom, it’s in the past.

  Unpaved Tijuana roads are still carved deep with potholes. I drove my Chevy around these potholes. Nearby two boys are beating a tree trunk with sticks. Women hang out wash. Old men sleep on the porch with one eye open. Christopher feels none of the hostility he’d experienced driving his car. They look at me now and see a native.

  One foot in front of the other the two men walk. The houses are spaced further apart. In the distance is a white stucco home with an orange tile roof. Across the street is a minimart.

  Pepe announces “We are here mi amigo.”

  He knocks on the door three times. Rap. Rap. Rap. The door creaks open. A young girl with a baby in her arms ushers them in. Her large eyes assess their appearance. Men, women with children, populate the floors. Mariachi plays from a battered radio on the kitchen counter. Shifting the baby to her opposite hip the girl says, “In the backyard we have basuras. If you want paper buy it at the market.”

  Pepe nudges Christopher with his elbow, “Okay Amigo. Pay El Coyote when he shows. You’re own your own.”

  Shaking Pepe’s hand Christopher says, “Gracias, mi amigo. Gracias.”

  Christopher finds a place to sit leaning against the wall. Closing red and gritty eyes is heaven. In this moment there is nothing to do but wait for El Coyote. Inhale and exhale, it feels good. Wrapped in the blanket he bought in Mulege, he curls up against the wall, sound asleep.

  Shrill cries of a baby jolt Christopher awake. Morning sun filtered by sheer curtains, around him many still sleep. Carefully moving around the bodies he walks through the kitchen and out the back door. How could I fall asleep in the midst of strangers? Have I learned nothing about stranger danger?