by Corie Weaver
“Jack, tell me what you see.”
“A boy, tall, dark hair, and . . .” His hushed voice faltered. “Bear Girl, he looks furious.”
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie’s father had moved to a corner of the room and was rearranging objects. “Will here work?”
I nodded. “I would not wish to disturb your work further.” I pointed to a black-and-silver thing with spindly legs. “What is that?”
He stopped puttering with it and turned back to me, frowning. “You said I could record you.”
Jack saved me. “You mean, like TV?”
“Sound and video.”
Jack nodded to me. “It'll be okay.”
“As long as it does not stop my singing, I do not care.”
Maggie’s father finished doing whatever needed to be done to the strange device. “Now, I know you said the four days hadn’t been sung. But there’s no way I can leave you down here alone and if I don’t come home for four days, my wife and kid will kill me.”
“I do not need to be here the whole time. Please tell Jack when you need us to stop and he will tell me.” I looked at Jack. “Gently, like waking someone. Do not startle me if you can avoid it, please. I think that would be . . . uncomfortable.”
He nodded, face severe.
I sat on the cold floor in the middle of the room, between the two ledges. I fought to clear my mind, to remember the words, the patterns that needed to be built like a path between here and the far away land the dead must travel to.
I opened my mouth and it was all wrong.
The wrong sounds, no feeling of power.
Panic filled me. Surely this would not fail simply because I was not in the land of my home. I fought to remain calm, but felt my heartbeat in my hands, my feet, my head.
I put my hands to my throat, struggled with the rising fear.
And felt the cord of the necklace given to me by Spider Old Woman. Of course. Spider Old Woman had said it would not interfere with everyday speech, but this was something different, older. The words themselves had a power that should not be altered.
“Jack?”
He came over quickly.
“I’m going to take this off. I need you to hold it for me, but don’t lose it. And when you wake me, give it back to me right away, all right?” He held his hands out in a cup and before I slipped the cord from around my head I said, “Thank you. I trust you.”
When I resumed, the sounds flowed from me, pure, right, resonating with home, family and love.
I chanted the words, my words becoming stones, to form a path. As I sang I focused on the sad pile of bones that I knew as Tomás.
Tomás, who had seemed so angry, so impetuous to me. But his anger had never been at Isabel, my fear that he had caused her death was unfounded. Whatever the circumstances of their passing, I had to reach him now.
And so I focused again on stitching together the worlds, formed his image in my mind, shaped his presence, one stroke at a time.
And the door crashed open.
The man we had seen at the excavation site burst in, face red, mouth drawn into a fine line.
He turned to Maggie’s father, shouted words I could no longer understand.
Before Maggie’s father could react, Jack strode to him, grabbed the man’s arms, shook him. Pointed to me, where I sat, still singing.
The man, shocked into silence, heard me, heard my words, for the first time. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face. Without another word he spun and left the basement room.
I resumed my craft, building the image up like forming a man out of clay. Tomás had looked like this, his hair this color and length, his mouth, hard to decide. So often smiling, but easy to flash into a frown. I decided I liked him better smiling, and so left it that way.
And I built an image of myself, took a lesson from the black-and-white cat and separated myself from myself, so that part of me remained in the cold room, singing, guarded by Jack, watched by Maggie’s father. And another part of me moved forward, towards the man I had built from memories and the shape of the world he had left.
There. The walls flickered, changed from the silver metal to the dark tans of adobe. Isabel ran down the hallway, calling. I could see Tomás behind her, chasing her through the fire.
I looked around in confusion. Adobe does not burn easily, what could have happened? A section of roof fell behind the running pair and I understood. The wooden poles which made up the roof had caught fire.
I moved through the fire; it could not touch me. I wished with all my heart I could quench the flames, reshape them, make none of this happen. But this part of the vision was fixed, inviolate. I could only watch and hope I understood.
“Isabel!” Tomás yelled, but she did not hear him, only ran faster through the collapsing building.
“Nicco! Nicco, where are you?”
The cat. She had been calling for the cat, searching for her pet. Not running in fear from Tomás.
She ran towards one end of the hall, fled as that section of roof collapsed in front of her, stumbled.
Tomás, his face streaked with ashes, caught her. “Isabel, we must leave. We have to get out of here now!”
With a strength that surprised me, she shook him off. “I have to find Nicco! I have to make sure he’s safe. Not like . . .” Her voice shrilled, broke. “Frey Alonzo. Did you see? Did you see?”
What had happened to the kindly man in the long brown robe? I remembered what the student had said on the bus. Many of the priests had been killed in the revolt. Had she seen his murder? Had the shock driven her mad? My heart broke for her and still, I could do nothing but watch.
Tomás pulled her away from where the fire grew ever closer, held her while she struggled against him.
“Nicco, think about Nicco!”
She stilled, pushed back from his arms. “Where is he? I have to get Nicco out from here!”
He shook her. “That ball of fur waits for you outside. He jumped out the window right after you ran back inside. Your grandfather has him. He’s safe.” The flames crackled as more straw and wood caught. “But we are not!”
Isabel clung to Tomás’ hand as they twisted through the smoke. But no matter which way they ran, fire blocked them.
She screeched as her skirt caught fire and Tomás beat the flames out with his hands.
Cornered, they reached the small room I had seen before. They raced for the side door, but a burning wooden beam lay across the frame. As they spun to leave, the ceiling outside of the room collapsed, trapping them.
Isabel stood still, panting like a deer who has been run to earth and has no more will to evade the hunter. Tomás ran around the perimeter of the room, knocked the last few unburned pieces of furniture away from the flames.
He stopped in front of where she stood, unseeing.
“Isabel, I do not know what to do. One thing is left and it frightens me. But I do not think we have another choice. Will you trust me?”
She did not speak, but held her hand out to his.
He led her to the corner of the room and she stood, placid, while he scrabbled at the floor and then lifted the slab of flagstone which covered the pit.
I screamed at them, tried to stop them. But they could not hear me; this part of the story must also stay unchanged. I wanted to run, to close my eyes, to see no more. But I had to know, had to understand. And so I watched, helpless.
They had no lantern this time, but he grabbed at a long piece of wood that had fallen, lit the end at the flames licking through the room, gave the makeshift torch to Isabel and guided her down the ladder.
The beams above his head creaked and popped. He descended into the hole, pausing only to pull the flagstone back over them, as a spider lies in wait in her trap.
Within moments, the roof collapsed. I forced myself, in this body where I now played the ghost, to cross through the flames, to pass through the stone, to see them, to know the end of this horror.
By
the faint light of the torch they huddled together. She stared blankly at the flame and he held her close.
“I will protect you,” he murmured.
They sat, waiting. Tendrils of smoke reached through the cracks around the stone cover and spilled down, like silent assassins towards the couple below. They sat, unnoticing; she unseeing, he seeing only her.
“We will wait here and it will burn out, pass us by. I will stay with you. We will not be separated. By all the powers, all the pinang that may be. I will not leave you.”
There it was. They had been separated, studied, removed from their resting place.
And then I had separated them further, by sending Isabel away from the home she had haunted all those years.
He noticed the smoke, turned from it, stroked her hair. “Hear me, ancestors of our people. Help us. Avenge us. Do not let us be separated, from now until the world grows cold, until the flood rises and the skies fall.”
I faded away. I did not want to see any more. I knew what had happened, what my presumption had made worse, how this tragedy had ended. Yet, it had not ended. His death wish would bring more sorrow if I did not stop this now.
I brought to my mind the clearing in the trees where I had spoken with Isabel. And then shaped Tomás there, standing in front of me. I did not shape him as I had seen him last, frightened, exhausted, faced smeared with ash and clothing singed, but as I had first seen him when he ran into the mission and stopped to speak with Isabel, light on his feet, happy with the world.
He stood before me now and turned slowly to look around him.
I held my breath, hoped against hope that his spirit would have more sense than poor Isabel, that her confusion lay rooted in the shock she had received prior to her death, that spirits of the dead did not always act as she did.
Tomás returned his gaze to me. In his stare was keenness of mind.
“Who are you?” His voice was sharp. “Why have you brought me here?”
He stepped towards me. Though I knew he was not the threat I had imagined him to be, I stepped back.
“I am not your enemy; I am here to help you. I do not know what you remember, but you called for help. Your call was heard, I am here.”
His face creased. “I called. . . . I called when . . .” He spun around. “Where is Isabel? I promised to take care of her!”
“She is resting; she is safe.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where. Is. She.”
“She is safe, but you must listen to me. Do you remember what happened? The fire at the mission? Tomás, the fire was many years ago. But you called and I came. There is no need to call for help anymore.”
He brushed me aside. “I’m not calling.” He shook his head, continued his search for Isabel.
“You may not realize, but in the fire, you used a great amount of pinang, you——”
He shouted, “Why are you talking to me about this? Where is Isabel?” He reached towards me again.
“Isabel is dead, Tomás." I cried as I dodged his arms. "She’s gone. You’re dead too, and now you’re killing more people.”
He froze. “Say that again.” He stepped backwards. “Say it!”
“She . . . you . . . you both died that day.” Shock and disbelief warred on his face. “She’s not scared anymore. But now other people are hurt by what you did.”
His knees buckled and he sank to the ground. “It was my death curse, wasn’t it? A call for vengeance, for help, to keep us together.” He bowed forward, put his head into his hands. “I failed. I promised to keep her safe.”
I knelt beside him. “You did your best to protect her.” I placed one hand on his shoulder, soft as down. “But people have found the place you took refuge, and in . . .” I searched for the right words, “in their preparations for your burial, they have separated you and Isabel. Only,” I hastened to add in the face of his renewed fury, “for a short time. But they had to separate your bodies in order to give you burial. They did not mean harm, only to show respect. Yet . . .”
He spoke for me. “Yet it was enough, enough to awaken the curse.” He looked up, tears streaking his face. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone, she did not wait for the singing. I found her and she, she was confused.”
Hurt and comprehension warred in his face.
I tightened my hand on his shoulder. “I found her spirit. She was looking for Nicco. I don’t think she remembers the end. You did well. You protected her.”
His mouth twisted. “Her and that cat.” He took a breath, calmed himself. “Now what? Can I follow her?”
I shook my head. “I do not know why you should not be able to. I will sing for you, so you can be free of here. But I do have a favor to ask of you.”
He nodded for me to continue.
“While I sing for you, be patient with me. I have not done this before on my own. And please, try to end your curse. The breaking of your heart has shattered my homeland. All who hear your cry fall ill. What happened to Isabel, to you, was terrible. Please, let it end now.”
I could see the muscle in his jaw twitch, but he nodded.
“Then I will sing the full four days and you will pass and trouble the world of the living no more.”
The ritual words felt awkward on my tongue, but satisfied him.
I let the shaping of the clearing begin to fade from my mind, until he and I stood in nothing but fog.
He spoke once more.
“I never meant harm. I only loved her.”
I brought myself back long enough to answer. “I know that now. I wish I had known sooner. Go when you can. I am sure she will be waiting for you.”
I sat on ground I could no longer see, closed my eyes, and listened for the faint sound of chanting, of my own singing. I chanted along with myself, my voice split into harmony, then resolving into one voice, one singer, one person.
I opened my eyes. I sat on the floor of the cold room, while Jack stood by me, his face concerned.
I brought the song to a close, a place of pause. The work was far from over, but starting had been the hardest part.
My voice stilled and the silence of the room rang loud.
Jack held the pouch towards me, but did not ask me anything until I had slipped the braided cord over my head and nestled the bag under my shirt.
Then his whisper spilled like water down a hill.
“Are you all right? Is he all right? Is it over?”
My throat felt as if I had drunk sand. “No,” I coughed. “We’ve only begun.”
Maggie’s father did something with his device, then walked towards us.
“Thank you. I doubt anyone else has footage of that ceremony.”
He reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet.
“Please understand that each family may sing for the dead differently.”
Maggie’s father slid Isabel’s ledge back into the wall and moved towards Tomás. I put my hand on his arm to stop him.
“Dr. Sanger, I need to ask you one more favor.”
He looked as if I’d handed him a snake.
“Please do not separate them further, see that they are kept together as much as you can. It is all they ever wanted. Do not deny them.”
He looked at me for long moments before answering. His eyebrows raised, and I could guess some of the stories he would ask of me might be different from the ones I had expected to barter.
A curt nod and we were on our way back out of the basement laboratory. I walked slowly, thankful that Dr. Sanger was caught up in his own concerns.
We came to one of the heavy metal doors and I stood in front of it, too exhausted to fight with its weight. Jack opened it, then stood aside to let me pass through.
“Thank you, Jack.” I whispered.
Maggie’s father heard me, turned to us.
“You know, it’s a funny thing. I know that’s a common name, but it was the final straw that made me decide to take a chance with you.” He grinned, startlingly like Maggie. “No offens
e, but my daughter’s dog has that name. He ran away a few days ago and she’s heartbroken. They’ve never been separated before and her mom and I don’t know what to do. I’m not a superstitious man, but I guess I took your name as an omen. I always trusted our Jack, figured I’d trust you.”
He reached his office and stopped to unlock the door. Behind him Jack and I cast frantic glances at each other. How could he have guessed?
“Sorry, I’m rambling.” He stepped into his office and we stayed in the hall. He called out. “How is sometime next week for some of those stories?”
I shrugged. “It is difficult for me to tell when I will be here, but I will try.”
When Maggie and I had struck upon the idea that I could trade information with her father, we had not figured out how I would know when to come back.
Jack spoke up. “I can remind you and bring you back.”
Maggie’s father nodded. “Well, that should work.” He walked back to his desk and waved his hands at the piles of paperwork. “I should call Mr. Sanchez from the Pueblo Center, clarify what we were doing, smooth that out. But you know what?” He grabbed a coat from a hook on the wall and came back out to the hall where we waited. “I’m going home to my wife and daughter.”
On the bus the exhaustion fell on me like a load of wood. Tears fell and I stared out the window, crying.
Jack wrapped his arm around my shoulders and held me. “What do we do now? How are you going to finish the singing? Isn’t it supposed to be four days?”
“It is; it will be. But for once the time difference will help us.”
We walked up the trail in silence, crossed through the tree and felt the wind against us. It seemed quieter, but I could no longer tell.
I sat, put my back against the passage tree, handed Jack my necklace and started to chant.
The days rolled by, I slept little, but fell into a deep trance. Not like when I had shaped the clearing to talk with Tomás, but restful, easy, like running for miles and miles.
Jack stayed with me the first day only leaving once when he ran to the village for a small pot of water. I sipped it to keep my throat clear.
After the first day Jack brought some of the healthy ones from the village to where I sat and their voices joined with mine. They did not know Tomás, but it could not hurt that others, even strangers, sought to give honor to the dead.