Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  Behind us, the mountain rumbled and shook; we felt the vibrations in our bones. Then came an explosion, and for a moment the pilot lost control of the helicopter. Huge clouds of ash filled the air. “The Lady’s changed the shape of Abenanyi,” Kaya said. “She’s dancing, now.” Kaya stood beside the pilot and pointed out over the mountains, speaking rapidly. He followed her directions, and sometime later set the helicopter down in a fallow field beside a narrow dirt track across from the corpse of a hut—three walls and a collapsed roof, broken ribs still showing but thatching long gone. In the dawn light—or maybe it was still the eruption that was lighting the eastern sky—we seemed to be deep in the middle of absolute nowhere. Kaya opened the helicopter cabin door. Even after the distance we’d traveled, the air was still ashy; I still couldn’t take a deep breath.

  “I have to leave you here,” she said. Her eyes were on Em and her voice was full of regret. Em nodded, long-faced.

  “Don’t you want to get a little closer to your destination?” I asked. “You’re not in any shape to be hiking.” Kaya glanced at the helicopter, with its State Security Service medallion, and shook her head. “No, no nearer.”

  I heard the beat of wings and saw a shadow resolve itself into a glossy black bird. Kaya held up her right arm, and it landed just above her elbow, then hopped up to her shoulder.

  “It’s your crow!” said Em, brightening a little.

  “Yes, it’s Sumi. I’m glad you’re safe, friend,” she said, kissing the crow’s head. It made a series of low clacks, more conversation than bird call, then flew off over the broken hut and into the trees.

  Kaya turned to Em. “You really are a miracle,” she said, “everything about you, from the start. I wish … I’m so sorry …”

  “I wish I’d’ve learned some words of your language,” Em mumbled, dropping her head. She plowed a narrow ditch in the soft earth with the half-melted heel of her sneaker. “Then I could say goodbye properly.”

  “I’ll teach you. Listen.”

  It was several syllables.

  “It means, literally, ‘When the sun next comes.’ Like ‘See you tomorrow,’ in English, but with tomorrow standing for some day, one day …”

  Em tried out the unfamiliar sounds. Kaya said them a second time, and Em repeated them again.

  “Good,” said Kaya, with a trace of a smile. She released another stream of syllables.

  “That’s, ‘I’m so happy to see you,’” she said. “A greeting for when we meet next.”

  “Can you say it again?”

  Kaya did, and Em repeated the phrase back. Kaya’s smile deepened. Then she turned to me.

  “The book I brought with me. There’s a record in it. I don’t know if you can find anyone who can read my language … It will probably be hard. But if you can, it has the truth of what I’ve done, this past month and a half. You said you’d see that my side of the story got told. Even if no one will listen, if you can share it with Em, at least …” Kaya trailed off. She seemed to be shivering. Shock?

  “I wonder if there’s a blanket or something in here,” I muttered, looking back into the cabin.

  “I don’t want anything from the helicopter,” Kaya said, somewhat sharply.

  “All right, but take my jacket, at least.” Kaya let me drape it over her shoulders. With its sleeves dangling halfway down her thighs, she looked more like a refugee, like some child abandoned by the roadside, than a separatist leader.

  “Now you should go,” she said. “Here.” She handed me the gun. Em went to give Kaya another rib-crushing hug, but stopped short. Kaya’s face was tight with pain.

  “You aren’t going to die, are you?” Em asked.

  “After you’ve gone to all this trouble to keep me alive? How could I?” But Kaya’s smile this time was wan, and Em looked unconvinced. Still, she let me guide her back into the helicopter and tapped on the window and waved furiously as the helicopter ascended. Kaya, however, had sunk to a squat on the ground, head down, and didn’t wave back.

  “What if she does die?” Em asked, a sob in her voice, as we leveled off and headed northwest, toward Palem.

  “She not die, this time,” the pilot volunteered, startling both of us. “Her people maybe probably nearby, hidden, waiting we go.”

  We’d already flown too far to tell if he was right, but it’s worth hoping for.

  Must close now. I see Mr. Henry and some other suits in the hallway talking to the nurse on duty. They don’t look happy. Time to face the music, I suppose. I’ll write or call soon.

  Love you,

  Justin

  “Dramatic escape amid Abenanyi eruption”

  October 24 (Reuters) – A young American girl and her chaperone narrowly avoided death in a volcanic eruption in the tiny Southeast Asian nation of W— early this morning, W— government sources say.

  The two were visiting separatist leader Kayamanira Matarayi, under house arrest at a temple at the volcano since January, in hopes of persuading her to comply with a transfer to a safer location, but the visit reportedly degenerated into a standoff that ended with one State Security Service officer dead and Matarayi’s escape in a State Security Service helicopter. The helicopter pilot was able to bring the Americans safely back to the capital city of Palem, where they received treatment for minor injuries and smoke inhalation.

  A staffer at the US embassy in W— would not confirm the W— government’s story and said only that the United States condemns the endangerment of its citizens and the increasingly violent actions of the separatists and urges both sides to work toward a peaceful resolution of differences. Prime Minister Ija Vin has vowed that separatist actions will not be allowed to destabilize the nation.

  17

  The Sea Heart

  October 28 (Em’s diary)

  I’m glad to be back home. I was afraid they wouldn’t let us leave W— at first. The State Security Service kept wanting to talk to me and kept asking the same questions over and over again and picking at what I told them. What makes you think Lt. Sana was shooting at you? Didn’t you say you went into the temple? If you went into the temple, how could you know what was happening? They got me doubting myself and my memory. Mr. Dubois said it was the same for him: Wasn’t it Kaya he was shooting at? they asked. Didn’t you say she was the one who was wounded? Like that. When Mr. Dubois wouldn’t change his story, they started asking if we were planning a rescue attempt all along. Either you were aiding and abetting an enemy of W—, or you were hostages. Which is it? For a while I thought they might arrest Mr. Dubois, and I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. Mr. Henry and the people at the embassy sorted stuff out for us, but they were real angry, too, because we did the one thing they’d said not to do: go to the Ruby Lake. They said we’d caused “diplomatic difficulties,” and they told us not to talk to any media people.

  So that leaves two wrong stories about what happened at the Ruby Lake out there in the world. One: Kaya tricked me into thinking she was my friend and used me to escape from the Ruby Lake so she could keep on making trouble for the government of W—. Two: Me and Mr. Dubois tricked the State Security Service into taking us to the Ruby Lake so we could help Kaya escape and keep on making trouble for the government of W—.

  Even people who want to understand and believe our story get snagged on the details—like what Lt. Sana was up to. Small Bill asked about that after school (which I didn’t have to go to today, Dad said, on account of it only being my first full day back).

  “He really tried to shoot you? I don’t get it, though. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Dubois thinks the only reason he wanted me to go to the Ruby Lake was to keep Kaya from dying there and becoming a martyr. But it ain’t like he wanted to save her life or anything. He just wanted her dead his own way. So then when Mr. Dubois started promising that her side of the story would get heard and talking about human-rights groups and things, Lt. Sana just … Well, Mr. Dubois thinks he went kind of crazy-mad and was hoping to ma
ke it seem as if Kaya had committed an unforgivable crime, like, like jumping into the Ruby Lake and pulling me with her. Something that would make everyone hate her and her cause.

  “But then again, maybe the heat from the Ruby Lake just boiled away Lt. Sana’s brain juices, and he just wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe he really did think Kaya was going to jump and was trying to save me. That sure ain’t how it seemed to me, but maybe I was influenced by Kaya shouting out that he was going to shoot me. That’s what the State Security Service thinks.”

  “And now Kaya’s free. Even if you didn’t set out to rescue her, that’s what you ended up doing, huh. It’s like a Sabelle Morning story.”

  Which is why half the news stories say that’s what we did. And maybe that is what I really wanted, if I think about it honestly—but I didn’t plan none of it, and it definitely ain’t what Mr. Dubois planned. I wonder if any of the real life behind Sabelle Morning’s stories is this complicated.

  “You reckon her friends found her and patched her up?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure they did.”

  I’m going to just keep saying that and thinking that because I can’t bear thinking about the other possibility: that we flew away and she died there on the mountainside, by herself, away from everyone, even the Lady of the Ruby Lake.

  There’s a commotion coming from the kitchen. I can hear Dad and Tammy and Gran all talking at once—I think Ma just arrived, and it sounds like Uncle Near and Wade, too. I’ll write more later.

  October 28 (Em’s diary, second entry)

  Ma said I never cease to amaze her. She was smiling when she said it. She smiled her whole visit, leaning back against Dad’s chest, and Dad smiled pretty much the whole time, too, his hands on her shoulders, then sliding down her arms, then holding her hands in his. There was some kind of secret conversation in those touches, just between the two of them, even as they were talking with all the rest of us about Kaya and the Ruby Lake, and about what’s been happening here at home, and about Mr. Dubois’s idea for Jiminy, and finally about Ma’s job and the money she was earning.

  Ma said she was aiming to save enough to get tickets for all of us to go to visit Jiminy during the Christmas school break.

  “That includes you, Trace, if you want,” she said. At that point I thought they might start sparring like old times, because Dad didn’t say yes or no about going to see Jiminy. Instead he said it was all well and good, in a dry-land sort of way, to be making money and such, but when did Ma think she’d come home? The kitchen got very quiet then, everybody waiting on Ma’s answer. The palms of my hands started hurting, and I realized it was from my fingernails—I had my hands clenched that tight. Not open hands, not Mermaid’s Hands. Nervous Hands. Em’s Hands.

  What Ma said surprised all of us: “Ain’t red-winged blackbird the genealogy I got sung into? It’s a dry-land bird, even if it loves wet places. Like me. I got dry-land stuff to do. I want to go to college. I want—well lots of things. But you can’t keep a red-winged blackbird away from water, and nothing’ll keep me from flying out to visit you, if you’ll have me. I’ll fly right in at your window.”

  It’s the most Mermaid’s Hands-like thing she’s ever said. Now that she’s living away from home, she sounds more like she belongs here than she ever did before—what does that mean?

  And how did Dad answer? He said, “Well as you might recall, it gets a little chilly on the water in winter. Sometimes we gotta close the window. But if you fly in and find it closed, you just tap, and I’ll open it.”

  Nothing else! And then Ma left! Hugged and kissed us all, gave Dad an extra squeeze, then opened the kitchen door, stepped down onto the mudflats, and started walking back toward dry land.

  November 25 (Jiminy to Em)

  Dear Em,

  Its my first day at the Coastal Reef Restoration Project. They mainly just showed us around and explained what they want us to do. Lots of heavy lifting because they’re sinking these sections of concrete pipe into the sand underwater and then piling big net bags of oyster shells in there for other oysters to grow on. We’ll be doing a lot of that but also we’ll inventory which is when we go out and count all of each kind of bird or fish or other whatever we see, even types of grass and seaweed, anything. They asked me to show everybody how to look for nests and eggs and how you can tell one-year-old gulls from two-year-old ones, things like that.

  Its so good to be by the water. I didnt know how much I missed it. I been telling myself it didnt matter so much to me, the sea and all that, but now I’m here and it just feels right. And this work we’ll be doing is work a person can feel good about, too. It has a meaning, you know? For the sea and for people who make there lives with the sea, like us at Mermaids Hands. I’m going to send a letter to Mr. Dubois and say thank you for fixing me up with this, but can you tell him, too, when you see him? Tell him thank you from me.

  I know I’m in the right place because I already found something special. I gave it to my supervisor to send to you and Tammy. Its a giant bean seed, bigger than a babys fist, in the shape of a heart. A sea heart its called. Finding it was like getting a present from a secret admirer. You think someone under the waves has a thing for me?

  My supervisor said a jungle vine makes these seeds. He said it floated all the way from Costa Rica to here. Its hollow inside. You could put a message in it if you once opened it. Then you could close it back up with wax and set it afloat in the water again, like your message in a bottle. Sounds like you got your hands full with just the one pen pal you fished for though, huh. Anyway you and Tammy can keep it or pass it on to someone else who needs some sea love.

  Love,

  Jiminy

  November 29 (Em’s diary)

  Jiminy sent a letter and a package! The package had what I thought was a shiny, smooth, heart-shaped wooden box in it, but there was no way to open it. Then I read Jiminy’s letter. It’s a sea heart—a love token from the ocean. Seaheart. That’s what Mr. Ovey called me, before I went to W—. Jiminy said we could keep it or pass it on. At first Tammy had an idea to make a jewelry box out of it, but then all of a sudden she changed her mind and asked if I wanted maybe to send it to Kaya.

  I guess she knows Kaya hasn’t been out of my mind since I got home. I still don’t even know if Kaya’s alive or dead. Each day I can, I go to the library and use the computer to search on “Kayamanira” plus “W—”, but there hasn’t been anything new about her or the mountain people since the eruption at the Ruby Lake. Dad and Mr. Dubois say no news is good news, but what’s good about this empty blankness? I wish, I wish so hard, that I could just know how she is.

  December 2 (Ibrahim Bakar to Em)

  Dear Emlee Baptiste,

  My name is Ibrahim Bakar. I’m a student in the Arts and Sciences College at the University of Southern Mindanao in the Philippines. I have been traveling in W— this past month for a documentary I want to make on the separatist movement there. I got to meet some of the leaders of the movement, including Kayamanira Matarayi, and she asked me if I would send this note to you when I returned home. I promised her I would. You will find it enclosed.

  Yours respectfully,

  Ibrahim

  November 20 (Kaya to Em)

  My dear Em,

  I have been longing for a way of letting you know that I am alive and well and for a chance to thank you, with all my heart, for saving my life. Your courage and friendship make me most humble. These past weeks, your face has been always in my mind: whatever I do, whatever course of action I contemplate, I think of you, and I think, how would this seem to Em? How would I explain it to Em? You have become my conscience—half the world away.

  It’s strange now. Very busy, very confusing, very noisy. Very different from all those months alone, with only my own thoughts, and then the Lady, behind me and around me and in me. I don’t feel her presence now. Sometimes this makes me lonely, but there is too much to think about, too much to argue about, too much to fight for, to feel l
onely for long. Right now I’m trying to persuade my new colleagues that we should not remain in hiding here in the mountains, that we should move back to our towns and villages. They say it’s too dangerous, for us and for “civilians,” but I don’t want there to be such a division. We are not, should not be, separate from the people on whose behalf we seek to act.

  One of my school friends from childhood, who helped plan the festival that began all this, has gone over to the government’s side. This pains and angers me for more reasons than I can share in this letter, but I am hoping to make some good come of it. I want to try to meet with him. Whatever has motivated his collaboration with the government, there must still be, at his core, something of the boy I grew up with. If I can persuade my colleagues to trust him, and if he truly can act as a good-faith representative of the government, then maybe together we can find a road away from civil war and still secure rights for the mountain people. That would be an outcome I’d be proud to show you, an outcome worthy of your bravery. Do you still remember how to say “I’m so happy to see you”? I am determined to gain a chance to say those words to you, and to hear them from you, here in the mountains.

  Sending you all my love,

  Kaya

  Afterword

  Thank you for reading Pen Pal. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review, so other readers can find its message in a bottle. Visit the Pen Pal website for information on real-life floating villages, inspiring pen pals, messages in bottles, and a folktale from Mermaid’s Hands. You can find the author on

  Twitter, Tumblr and LiveJournal.