by Mary Morris
That was what I'd left behind, but it came back to me as I stood in the jungles of Tikal, surprised at how easy it was to be with myself. It was then, standing there, that I heard the screeches. The trees shook and water tumbled on me as if it were raining, only it was not. I looked up and saw the trees filled with monkeys—howler monkeys and spider monkeys—screeching at me, jumping from branch to branch, disappearing into the haunted ruins. Toucans flew. Macaws hovered overhead. The animals that had eluded me for so long were there, raucous, wild, mocking. They hurled fruit and laughed and performed wonderful acrobatic feats for me. I stayed and watched them until dusk, when it was time to leave.
I WENT TO THE PYRAMIDS OF TEOTIHUACÁN, IN THE middle of the great Aztec plain, and stood at the place of sacrifice, where men were flayed or decapitated, their blood drained or their hearts plucked out, depending on the god to whom they were being sacrificed. I stood here at the place where Quetzalcóatl opposed Huitzilopochtli, the god of the sun and war, at the place where the female principle warred against the male principle.
My ghosts give way to the gods. I stand alone, at the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, volcanoes on either side, the wind bearing down. I have come to sacrifice myself as the warrior knights did. To let my heart be plucked out so I can become an eagle and fly closest to the sun.
I think of the eagle of my schoolgirl days, the one in that tree not far from my Midwestern home. I wonder if he was not a warrior knight who sacrificed himself to become an eagle, a companion to the sun, so that he could accompany the sun on its journey to the heights. Women were not permitted to be sacrificed in this way. Their tasks were more mundane. The grinding of corn, the weaving of cloth. Their sacrifice was of a more worldly kind. But I want to do something different with my life.
I lay my body down on the sacrificial stone and bare my chest. The wind blows off the plain to the pyramid where I lie. My breasts are large and full. The knife slices and my ribs are pulled back. Birds fly out, leaving white plumes around me. My heart throbs, resilient, and in an instant it is plucked clean, held high. And suddenly I am rid of my body. I am the first woman to be granted this privilege, to be sacrificed to the sun, to be free of my body and free to fly.
I feel my arms grow light and feathery, my body weight decreasing, my bones turning small and frail, and soon I feel myself flapping, reaching up. I soar across this plain that has for so long kept me from going home. I am heading north. I become the eagle of my childhood vision, the traveler eagle, great visiting bird. But now my purpose is different. From on high I watch the birth of many things—seedlings and rabbits. I see donkeys foal, humans moan in travail. I go up and down. The land recedes. I am the only female in the sky. I love my feathers, my beautiful plumes. I love my glide and my dips. My sight is excellent. I fly to the high places and I am happy to perch on high.
I fly to the land of the firebird, to the Ukrainian village where my grandmother was bom, and there I see her, a young girl with the palest of eyes. She wears a pale blue dress and carts water back from the well. I see her brother as he buries a live dog in the mud—this burying alive learned from his mother, who buried her children alive when the Cossacks rode through, only the dog will not live through his ordeal, and Dave, ninety-three years later on his deathbed, will say, laughing, what a cruel thing he's done. And I see a cousin of mine, a small child, being pierced on a Cossack sword, dying a sudden and terrible death. His soul will never rest.
I perch high above the house. I drink black tea, suck sugar in my beak, and munch on dried bread, and when it is time for them to leave for America, I follow. I fly. I must go and build my nest. Return to my places on high, search out the Rockies and some jagged cliff.
A male finds me and we mate, almost in midair. He hovers over my back and our wings enfold; we float in the air. I zigzag, gathering bits of twig, sagebrush, and grass. I am an eagle woman, a builder now, layer of eggs, perched on high, a woman of both heights and heart. I lay two perfect eggs, white and round. My mate disappears, but for forty-two days I sit and wait, and then they hatch.
I care for these young until the fledglings go. And then I am free to fly to new places. I sail north and south and then I go to a place where I know I do not belong. I fly to the Midwest. I fly to a tree in a small woods near a lake, and there I rest. I do not know for how long I rest. When I wake I see a small girl standing by the side of the road, watching me. She watches and watches, and I know what is in her eyes. She wants to come with me. She is asking for the way. As I look closely, I see who she is. I open my wings, because she is asking, and I take her in.
I NEEDED TO GO TO SAN MIGUEL TO CLOSE UP MY affairs, to rent my place, and to say good-bye. It was a journey I did not look forward to making, but I knew I must. I planned to stay in San Miguel for only a few days. Then I would leave. Lupe knew I would be going, and she was prepared for this. It was myself I had to prepare.
When I arrived, the house was clean and full of fresh flowers. I did not know how it was that Lupe knew I was coming, but somehow she did. When I knocked at her door, she let me in. She said she thought I'd be coming soon. I told her I only had a few days and then I must leave. She nodded and said, "Take me with you." I looked at the children, clinging to her skirt.
"You would be unhappy where I am going," I said, and I meant it. I wondered if I wouldn't be unhappy as well. But I couldn't think of this now. It was time for me to go back. I knew that.
Lupe looked very sad. "Where is José Luis?" I asked, peering into her rooms that seemed barren, into the backyard devoid of wood.
"He left with one of his señoras. It has been a while now."
Somehow I sensed that something else was making her sad. In the corner I saw a baby's crib and suddenly the baby started crying. "Lupe, where did you get that baby?" I looked at her stomach. She was still pregnant, but due any day.
"It is Maria Elena's," she said.
"Your grandchild?" I embraced her. "Congratulations. We must celebrate. Where is Maria Elena?"
Lupe reached down to pick up the child. "She is dead. She died giving birth." Lupe handed me the baby. "We called her María." I held the baby to me. "After you."
***
I spent a day or so packing up my things and subletting my apartment to a student named Ralph, who went everywhere with a mangy parrot that had plucked off most of its feathers. I arranged the sublet with the Señora and soon it was done and there was nothing left for me to do except say good-bye.
My last night in San Miguel I invited Lupe and the children for dinner. Lupe and I went to market in the afternoon and bought chicken and rice, avocados and noodles for soup, and we made a dinner for ourselves. We cooked almost in silence, and from time to time Lupe ran off to care for the infant, Maria, and I went on the roof to see if my laundry was dry. From the roof I saw Polio and Lisa in their red and white school uniforms, returning home. I saw the other children of San Antonio, all in uniforms, playing in the unpaved roads. I stood on the roof and saw San Miguel and the desert I had grown to care for. It was a place I could, in a sense, call home, and I realized it had been a healing place, a place that brought me peace.
We sat down and ate while the baby slept in a basket. Lisa, Polio, and Agustín sat on the sofa. We took plates of food to the other children. As we ate, Lupe and I barely talked, and I was aware of an awkwardness and a sadness between us. "Lupe," I said, "I will be back. We will stay friends."
She nodded. "Yes, but you are going far away."
I didn't know what to say, and in fact, I wondered if I would be back. "We will write. Your children can help you with the letters."
Again there was a silence and all I could hear was the sound of crickets, a million crickets chirping in the night. "Listen," I said. "Crickets. I love the sound of crickets."
Lupe shook her head. "I don't like them. They make me sad. They make me think of something I don't want to remember."
"What's that?"
And she told me about when she was a young
orphan girl and had to tend the sheep. One day she was very tired and she fell asleep. When she woke, two lambs had been killed by a coyote. When the old farm couple whom she worked for found out, they made her go to bed without food, and she was hungry all night. "And all night long," she said, "the crickets chirped. And whenever I hear the crickets, I think of the night when I was hungry, and I never want to be hungry again." There were tears in her eyes as she said this. "I never want my children to go hungry."
I reached my hand across the table. "You won't," I told her. "And they won't. I promise you that," and I meant it.
In the morning I walked down by the lake, even though it was a long way to go, to say good-bye to this place stone by stone. I walked and walked down the dusty road that led to the little white chapel near the lake. I went into the chapel for a short time to be with myself. I thought of the promise I'd made Lupe the night before, that she wouldn't be hungry again, and I thought of how I'd keep that. She had learned now how to sign her name. I decided I'd open a bank account for Lupe so I could send money when she needed it.
Content with this decision, I returned home along the sierra by my usual path. Some children followed me for a time, then dropped back. I climbed and climbed past the wildflowers and cactuses, to the highest parts of the hills, and then walked on the trail along the perimeter.
I hadn't walked for long when I saw the old woman who lived in the cave, higher up. She came out and watched me as I had seen her do many times before. I waved, but she just stood there and watched. She wore a sackcloth, and though she had a shawl around her head, I saw her silken hair down to her waist. She was beautiful, and she was old. She seemed to be watching over someone or something, and I asked her silently to look after Lupe and her children for me.
I waved and tried to walk toward her, but as always she turned quickly. All I saw as she ran off was her long stream of black hair, which turned silver in the sunlight, and then, as she disappeared into her cave, it flashed white as snow. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light, but it did not matter. I knew who she was. I recognized her now as one of the ghosts of this place, as I was soon to be counted among its ghosts.