Earth Sentinels Collection

by Elizabeth M Herrera

  Zachary was confused by the accusation, wondering what she was talking about.

  Her words sank into his mind.

  The limp baby hung in Conchita’s arms.

  The words and sight came together.

  Their son was dead and had died in his care.

  Grief, mixed with shock and guilt, muddled his mind. The last thing he remembered was the entire family falling asleep together. He didn’t know how to defend himself. Was it inexcusable? Wasn’t Conchita here? Oh, God, our son is dead.

  Three weeks later, the surviving teenagers played in the middle of the village, chasing each other and laughing.

  Eva ran over to join them, but a boy pushed her down, yelling, “Go away.”

  She fell to the ground, but, instead of crying, she brushed herself off and found a rock to sit on.

  While the others played, an iridescent Blue Morpho butterfly flew up to Eva, resting on her arm. The insect was soon joined by dozens of the same, which fluttered over the little girl, descending onto her small body. The gentle creatures took refuge on the kindred soul, fanning their cerulean wings.

  A teenage girl stopped in her tracks. “Look!” She pointed at Eva, who was covered with butterflies from head to toe. “She is a bruja!”

  Bruja was the Spanish word for witch—a carry-over from the Amazonian tribes’ brief, but violent, interactions with the Spaniards during the 16th century. It was then the monks brought with them the concept of good and evil, projecting their own fears onto the shamans’ powers, assuming they must be of the devil. These beliefs were added to the tribes’ own superstitions, including cannibalism, which they had practiced until just a few generations ago because they believed they could capture their enemies’ souls by eating their flesh in grand ceremonies. Afterwards, they shrank the heads to keep them as badges of honor and for use in battles to demoralize the enemy. Regardless of who was to blame, the concept of black magic had taken hold. Even now, some of the shamans used dark powers to manifest the Evil Eye and cast spells onto their unfortunate victims, sometimes resulting in death. It was believed any shaman could be corrupted. It took a strong mind to resist the temptation of using black magic for personal gain.

  All the kids stood still as they examined Eva.

  The little girl wore the butterflies like a living cloak, their wings reflecting the sunlight, sparkling like sapphire-and-aquamarine gemstones set in black frames.

  The teenagers taunted her.

  “Bruja!”

  “Go away!”

  “Evil Eva!”

  They threw fistfuls of dirt.

  The Blue Morphos darted into the air, swirling up and away from the danger, dissipating into the trees. Eva sat motionless on the rock, her eyes peeking through the sandy soil covering her face.

  Eva’s defenselessness angered the teenagers even more. They wanted her to take on their fears. “You don’t belong here!” one sneered.

  They walked over to her, scooping up more dirt, piling it on top of her head. The women cooking nearby turned a blind eye to the hostility. Eva covered her face with her hands to protect her eyes as tears rolled down her filthy cheeks.

  Zachary glanced out of the hut and saw the teenagers bullying his daughter. He rushed outside. “Stop it!”

  One of the oldest boys, trying to act tough, uttered contemptuously at Eva, “You don’t belong here! Or you.” He pointed defiantly at her father.

  Anger welled up in Zachary, reaching a level he didn’t know existed within himself. He understood these kids were grieving over the loss of their parents, siblings and tribe members, but to be so cruel to a child was inexcusable. “You should be ashamed of yourselves! Get out of here!”

  The teens scattered.

  Zachary turned his attention to his daughter, brushing off the clumps of dirt from her hair and face. The air became hazy with dust. Tears welled in his eyes as he did so.

  Eva patted him on the arm, saying, “It’s okay, Daddy.”

  “No, it’s not. I don’t want you playing with them again. They’re too old for you.” He knew the problem was two-fold. One, she was the youngest child to survive the outbreak, which meant there was a ten-year gap between her and the youngest teenager. And the second problem was many of the parents resented Eva’s survival because their own children had died, forgetting that Zachary and Conchita had also lost their infant son. The only explanation the other parents could come up with was Eva was either protected by black magic or the white man’s blood. Although the sentiments were unfounded, the tribe was becoming increasingly hostile to both his and Eva’s presence in their midst.

  Zachary grasped his daughter’s small hand, leading her across the clearing, back to their hut where his wife lay on a palm-leaf mat facing away from the doorway. He softly called to her, “Conchita?”

  She turned toward him, her eyes red from crying.

  He said, “The kids were picking on Eva.”

  Conchita lifted her head. “What? Why would they…” She stopped talking when she saw her daughter’s forlorn expression. “Come here, Eva.”

  The little girl tottered toward her mother, expecting to be comforted. As Eva approached, Conchita saw her daughter’s face morph into that of her son’s and became joyful at the sight of him. Her baby had come back to her! But then the hallucination dissolved and Eva’s dirt-stained face returned. Once again, Conchita felt as though her son had been wrenched away from her. A clamp tightened around her heart. She lay back down, sobbing.

  With her mother facing away from her, Eva stood there unsure of what to do.

  Zachary intervened, taking his daughter into his arms, giving her a quick hug. “Pumpkin, go outside for a moment. Okay?” She nodded, doing as he asked.

  He leaned down, touching Conchita’s arm, but she pulled away. He said to her, “You can’t go on like this—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do or how to feel!”

  “You’re right. You can’t help how you feel, but you do need to be here for us, especially Eva. We’re still here.”

  “Are you saying I was not here for the baby?”

  “No, not at all. What happened wasn’t anyone’s fault. Whether you were here or there, doesn’t matter. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “But you were here. Maybe if you had held him, or—”

  Zachary sighed. He was tired of being blamed for their son’s death. He reminded her, “You were with the shaman, yet he couldn’t save himself or the tribe. Why would you expect me to—”

  “You are blaming my father for our son’s death!?”

  “What!? No! I didn’t say—”

  “I need to be alone.” Conchita scrambled to her feet, hurrying out of the hut.

  Zachary rubbed his face with his hands, unsure of how to deal with the situation.

  “Daddy?” Eva peeked around the doorway, remaining outside as she had been told to do.

  He looked at her. She was filthy. A few more grains of dirt fell from her hair. Zachary realized he needed to clean her up. With forced cheerfulness, he suggested, “Let’s give you a bath, kiddo. Would you like that?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go.” Zachary escorted Eva through the village, past the women who had done nothing to protect her from the teenagers. He grabbed a bucket off the ground, carrying it as they headed toward the river.

  Walking along the well-worn path, he stewed over the betrayal and isolation inflicted by his wife and the other tribe members, although he hid his feelings from his daughter who happily surveyed her surroundings.

  When they reached the river, Zachary swept the mucky shoreline with a long willowy branch to scare away any caimans or snakes that might be hiding there. A gold-and-white fish flitted away. After the cloudy water cleared, he filled the bucket, then poured it over Eva’s head.

  She grimaced as the chilly water flowed over her sun-infused skin. “Ooo, it’s cold!” Goosebumps covered her arms.

  He said, “One more ought to do it.”<
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  Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Zachary, an anaconda had left its den at the river’s edge, and swam undetected just below the surface with only its nostrils protruding above the ripples.

  Despite the snake being camouflaged by its brownish-green scales, Eva saw its spirit glowing in the water. Excited, she pointed at it. “Look!”

  Zachary had barely turned around when the 500-pound snake lunged out of the river, sinking its multiple rows of needle-sharp teeth into his ankle. The young man screamed in pain. The bucket fell to the ground.

  With its prey held securely in place, the anaconda calmly slithered out of the river, methodically coiling its tail up around Zachary’s legs, reaching his mid-section, moving higher until it fully encompassed the young man’s body, then it constricted its massive muscles.

  Zachary became light-headed from the suffocating grip. Just before he passed out, he uttered to Eva, “Run…”

  But she didn’t obey him, instead she approached the great snake whose round eyes carefully observed her, even as it suffocated its victim. She pleaded, “Please let my daddy go!” Eva couldn’t understand how these two magnificent spirits could be at odds with one another.

  Sensing the love the little girl had for her father, and how desperate she was to save him, the anaconda felt empathy for her and decided to honor her request by loosening its stranglehold on the young man, who was turning blue. The predator’s extensive body unraveled, and Zachary fell unconscious onto the shore.

  The snake slithered toward Eva, lifting its head, meeting her face to face, its forked tongue tickling her nose.

  The little girl said, “Thank you.”

  The anaconda’s thoughts drifted into Eva’s mind. You are most welcome, dear one. Then something caught its attention. Using the special pits running along its upper lip, the snake sensed the warm bodies of the humans who were hiding in the bushes. Be careful, it warned Eva before sliding back into the river.

  With the snake gone, Eva focused on her father, squatting beside him, shouting in a high-pitched voice, “Wake up! Wake up!” She shook him until he regained consciousness.

  Zachary tried to focus on his daughter, but his vision was blurry. “Give me a minute,” he sputtered, laying there taking deep breaths, oxygenating his body.

  While Eva waited, she drew in the sand with her finger, creating an outline of a snake and a stickman.

  Finally, Zachary sat up. Still lightheaded, he needed a moment to adjust.

  Eva tugged on her father’s arm, encouraging him to stand. He obliged her and got to his feet, quickly realizing he was having difficulty putting weight on his injured leg.

  Hidden in the dense foliage, the tribe’s teenagers watched Zachary hobble beside his daughter. After the pair moved out of sight, the teenagers ran through the underbrush to remain undetected as they sprinted toward the village.

  The Soldiers Arrive

  HARUTO STOOD IN the temple garden surrounded by a bed of purple lavender. The gentle fragrance wafted through the air. She tried to embrace the moment to lessen the pain of losing her baby as well as the elder Mikos who had been her extended family members and mentors, but grief had wrapped itself around her heart with a vise-like grip, causing a constant ache that was so intense she could barely breathe. She needed to find peace—if only for a moment—so she clasped her hands and bowed her head, whispering, “Sweet Devas, I offer my pain to you. Please take it and heal it.”

  Her prayer was heard, and a part of her anguish lifted like a morning fog. With a lightened heart, Haruto’s mind traveled from the past to the present.

  With the agility of a cat, she jumped on top of the stone wall that surrounded the grounds. She stood there breathing in the mountain air while viewing the picturesque countryside and the foothills that rolled down to the metropolis at the edge of the sea. There, the highways sat empty. Steam no longer billowed out of the factory smokestacks. The houses and buildings were gray and barren. She had never expected to miss the noise from Fukushima. Then she heard a sound she hadn’t heard in weeks—truck engines rumbled on the road at the base of the foothill.

  Both concerned and curious, Haruto jumped off the wall, landing on her feet, briskly moving through the garden, bypassing a gnarled cherry tree, following the stone path that rounded the temple, finally coming to the front where she peered down the foothill.

  At the bottom, the dust settled around the military trucks parked on the gravel visitor spots. A dozen soldiers climbed out, glancing up at the Mikos’ sanctuary, realizing they would have to hike up the terraced staircases built into the hillside.

  Haruto’s heart pounded. Were these soldiers bringing supplies? Even if it was a humanitarian effort, she knew the interaction could quickly escalate into something perilous.

  She ran to the rear of the temple, scurrying up the steps and across the landing to where the bell hung from the pergola. She grabbed the horizontal pole that was suspended by rope, swinging it back, letting it rush forward with full force, striking the bell. The low-toned ring echoed over the mountainside.

  The soldiers looked up, wary that a warning had been sounded.

  Haruto hurried inside the temple to wait for her fellow Mikos, who dashed out of their rooms, their silk white shirts and red wide-legged pants fluttering as they hastily moved down the hallways and staircase.

  The women gathered in the common area, wondering why they had been summoned.

  Konomi asked, her eyes filled with panic, “What’s wrong, Haruto!?”

  Hoshino, the oldest Miko after Haruto, demanded to know, “What is going on?”

  Haruto tried to appear calm as she informed them, “There are soldiers at our doorstep.”

  “Soldiers!?” several of the women exclaimed.

  “What do they want?” Hoshino asked.

  “Let’s hope they’re here to help us, but let’s also be cautious,” Haruto said. “Things could easily turn ugly. And no matter how afraid you are, don’t show it. Fear always increases fear.”

  Outside, the soldiers huffed up the hillside stairs, reaching the halfway point.

  Haruto asked Hoshino, “Will you take the lead? I’m going to find Billy and let him know what’s going on.”

  The woman bowed her head, agreeing to the responsibility.

  Haruto rushed out the rear entrance, bounding through the garden. She was out of breath by the time she reached the curator’s house and flung open the door, but the house was empty.

  Haruto turned around, scanning the grounds. Billy stood in the cemetery at the rear of the garden, shaded by an old oak tree whose broad limbs spread over the gravesites like a mother hen protecting her chicks. He was paying his respects beside their daughter’s final resting place, holding his hat in his hands.

  Haruto walked toward him, stepping over the rocky border outlining the burial ground and onto the soft moss thriving in the cool moist soil. “Billy?”

  He continued gazing at the small mound covering their angel, who had never taken a breath during her short time on earth.

  “Soldiers are here,” Haruto informed him.

  Billy nodded.

  The Miko solemnly regarded the grave. The wooden marker, which Billy had carved himself, simply read “Among the Stars”. No name. No date. Grief once again tightened its hold on her heart.

  A gentle wind swept past the couple, rustling the leaves. An owl, perched in the branches, awoke from its slumber, hooting a somber warning. Haruto sharply drew in her breath, afraid the bird of prey brought yet another bad omen.

  Billy said what was on his mind, “Our people have been through this many times before. At the start, soldiers will claim to restore order, but in the end, they always steal, and rape, and kill.”

  “Please don’t let your past make this worse than it is.”

  But the past was etched into his genetic memory—hundreds of years of screaming women and children, stolen land, and tragedies like Wounded Knee and the Trail of Tears. Not to mention his ancestors being forced to l
ive on reservations as prisoners until they were granted “citizenship” on the land that was once theirs. Billy knew those in power were all the same—no matter the country.

  He stepped around the burial plot to be near his lover, embracing her as if it might be their last time together. Both of them dreaded going back to the temple, yet felt an obligation to stand with the others. Billy released his hold on her, then placed his black hat on his head, tapping it lightly.

  The two of them left the cemetery, stepping out into the sunlight, walking hand in hand through the garden. As they passed by a cherry tree, a flash of blue caught Billy’s eye. He halted, pulling on Haruto’s hand, cautiously whispering, “Someone’s here.”

  Billy warily crept around the trunk, pressing his back against the bark as he stole a glance. His expression changed from concern to disbelief when he saw a fallen angel lounging on a stone bench. This ancient being wore a sapphire-colored robe that draped to the ground, and had enormous white wings with blue tips. His hair was jet-black, and his eyes were the color of the Mediterranean Sea. The lost soul’s impressive-sized body was framed by a wooden trellis that supported a tangled wisteria vine whose lavender blooms hung like bunches of grapes ready to be harvested—an iconic scene worthy of being painted by an old master.

  “Bechard?” Billy uttered, not even realizing he had said the fallen angel’s name out loud.

  Haruto exclaimed, “What!?” She bustled around the tree to see for herself.

  Bechard got to his feet, standing nearly nine-feet tall. He smiled fondly at the two of them. “Greetings! It’s been too long, old friends.”

  Haruto winced at being called a friend. “Please don’t tell me you had something to do with this.”

  “Not specifically. However, I have come to warn you.”

  “Warn us!? Why didn’t you warn us about the virus!?”

  Undeterred by the accusation, Bechard asked, “Did I ever tell you the parable about the old farmer whose horse ran away—”

  “I’ve heard this one before.”

  “But it’s worth repeating,” he countered, proceeding anyway, “After an old farmer’s horse had run away, his neighbors came to visit him, telling him it was bad luck. The old farmer replied, ‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’ The next morning, the runaway horse returned with three wild mares. This time, the neighbors exclaimed, ‘What good luck!’ And yet again, the old farmer said, ‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’ The day after that, his son broke his leg trying to tame one of the wild mares. And again, the neighbors came, claiming it was bad luck, and again, the old farmer said, ‘Maybe.’ However, the very next day, the army showed up at the village demanding that all the young men come with them, but when they saw the son’s broken leg, they left him—”