by Douglas Bell
“Wait!” Mojo called after him. “You forgot the heart. You wouldn’t want to leave without the heart!”
“You keep it,” Castillo said over his shoulder as he started down the path on the far side of the clearing. “If you can.”
“Hey! Wait a minute!”
Castillo disappeared into the trees.
Mojo watched him go, then craned his neck to the west. The broken cross of the old mission was just visible through a break in the forest. Rising beyond the mission was a heavily wooded hill. The sun was already below the hill. Its last light was caught in the tops of the highest pines and a few scattered clouds. The clouds glowed: red and purple and yellow and pink. It was a beautiful sunset, but Mojo would have enjoyed it more if it hadn’t been signaling his imminent death.
“I’m worried about Juanita,” Grandmother said. “I think she must be in some terrible danger.”
“It couldn’t be any more terrible than the danger we’re in.” Mojo twisted within his rope cocoon. “It’ll be dark soon, and the beast’ll be coming for the heart.”
“You lack faith, Joseph,” Grandmother said disapprovingly.
“I lack a knife too.” Mojo wrestled with the clothesline. He got nowhere.
“Our Lady will protect us from the hellhounds.”
“It’s not hellhounds. It’s a beast. One big, ugly mother of a beast. I’m not sure, but I think it may be a giant spider. Or something like a spider.”
“It makes no difference. The Lady will aid us against whatever the Great Deceiver sends.”
“I hope you’re right. But just in case you’re not, I wish you’d try to slip those ropes on your own.”
“There’s no need. She’ll come,” Grandmother said confidently.
A grey squirrel bounded out into the clearing. It ran scampering through the dead leaves over to Mojo’s tree. It paused at his feet, rose up on its hind legs, and sniffed the air.
Grandmother nodded. “See?”
“A squirrel?” Mojo scoffed. “You think a squirrel is gonna get us out of this?”
“Watch.”
The squirrel examined Mojo’s Nikes. Its nose twitched. It looked up. It studied him with black squirrel eyes.
Mojo studied the squirrel back, not at all certain exactly what the hell was going on.
Suddenly the squirrel leaped up onto Mojo’s leg and began climbing him. It climbed onto his stomach and then onto his chest. The squirrel climbed until its black button eyes were almost level with Mojo’s blue ones. It clung to the clothesline around Mojo’s shoulders and peered into Mojo’s eyes. It opened its mouth and hissed threateningly, displaying a large pair of buckteeth.
“Whoa!” Mojo gasped, pulling his chin back into his neck. He felt like a trussed-up turkey on Thanksgiving day.
Another squirrel ran into the clearing. It stopped and chattered angrily at the squirrel on Mojo’s chest. The squirrel on Mojo’s chest turned its head.
The second squirrel ran over to Grandmother and then up her. It stopped and turned and chattered at Mojo’s squirrel once more. The squirrel on Mojo’s chest moved down a short space and began gnawing on the tight coils of clothesline. Mojo could hear its teeth clicking.
“That’s it,” Mojo said with relief. “Chew the hell out of it.” He twisted his neck to the side once again. The colors were fading from the horizon.
* * *
By the time the squirrels had chewed through the clothesline and freed Mojo and Grandmother, twilight had descended. The sky was dark except for a pale grey line in the west. Underneath the pines, it was as dark as midnight.
“Let’s go.” Mojo stripped the last strands of clothesline from around his legs. “Give me your hand and I’ll lead.”
“We have to find the heart first.” Mojo could just make out Grandmother in the murky light, her dim outline.
“The heart? Are you crazy? That’s what attracts the beast. You told me so yourself. It might let us go if we leave the heart behind.”
“No. We can’t leave it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the Lady’s heart. Because we’ve been entrusted with it.”
“Well, let’s just dis-entrust ourselves! You don’t know what that thing’s like!”
As if to prove Mojo’s point, a long, horrible howl came from somewhere high above them. From up in the mountains. Mojo froze. The howl rose for a chilling moment, then ended abruptly. Cut off.
Mojo shivered. It was the beast, all right.
“Come on!” Mojo demanded urgently.
“There! I have it!” Grandmother moved towards him in the half-darkness. He could see the pale blue glow of the jar. A shadowy arm reached out towards him. Touched his.
“I’m ready now.”
“Then let’s vamos. But be careful of where you step. There’s lots of loose rock around here.”
Mojo led grandmother across the clearing. He could just make out the lighter shadows where the trail cut through the trees. He entered the trail.
The trail was even darker than the clearing. Mojo could hardly see his hands in front of his face. He felt his way down with the tips of his Nikes. The ground was a swamp of blackness.
They descended a steep pitch, then twisted along a narrow switchback, then descended again. The footing was unsure. They inched more than they walked. He was forced to stop a number of times and help Grandmother. It was very slow going.
“We might as well be blindfolded, trying to find our way down in this dark,” Mojo grumbled, groping down an incline. “At the rate we’re moving that thing’ll catch up with us before we get another hundred yards.”
“I will ask the Lady for help,” Grandmother said.
They hadn’t gone another ten steps when suddenly the light from the pickle jar increased in intensity. The blue glow flared and became a blue fire, illuminating the path in front of them.
“You see? The Lady is still with us, still protecting us.”
Mojo nodded. He certainly hoped so. He figured they needed all the protecting they could get and then some.
Mojo took Grandmother’s hand and helped her down a steep pitch. Her long dress caught in come brambles and he had to climb up to yank it loose. He slid back down beside her. They continued on.
A short time later, as they paused before a rock outcropping, the howling came again. It was definitely lower down the mountain this time. Closer. It had a hungry undertone.
Mojo decided to hell with the footing. He grabbed Grandmother and pulled her down the path.
They rushed around the outcropping and across a small clearing faintly lit by the last hint of dusk. They descended back into the trees.
The trail turned to the left, cutting across the face of the slope, and was level for a time. Mojo tried to jog but Grandmother stumbled almost immediately and he barely turned in time to catch her. He returned to a quick walk. He could feel the beast. He could feel it coming. He could feel it on his skin. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
The trail opened, then hooked back to the right, descended again. Mojo helped Grandmother over an exposed tree root. He slipped once, got back up. Grandmother slipped and he pulled her back up. The trail turned, turned back again. There was a faint glow at the bottom this time.
* * *
They emerged out of some brush at the foot of the trail and into the big meadow where the old dilapidated church stood. Dusk was almost gone. The church was no more than a hulking shadow in the half-light. Only its broken cross was clearly visible, silhouetted against the soft glow of the horizon. Mojo pulled Grandmother towards it, stumbling through waist-high weeds.
“Hurry! I’ve still got the car keys. If we can get it started before that thing gets down, we’ll have a chance!”
The beast bayed from somewhere above them. It was a long, rolling sound. Challenging. It passed over the meadow and echoed off the opposite hillside. It could have come from the clearing where they had been tied up. Mojo pulled Grandmother through the weeds
and up to the front of the church. The old woman was gasping for breath. Mojo looked frantically about, but the meadow was empty except for the weeds and the church and the failing light.
The Impala was gone.
“Damn! Those two creeps must have hot-wired it while they were waiting for Castillo. The cheap bastards! It wasn’t worth diddly! You’d think dopers would have enough money, they wouldn’t bother with twenty-year-old Chevys!” Mojo said with disgust. He kicked angrily at some weeds. A pungent stench rose up.
“What can we do?” Grandmother asked.
“I don’t know … Head for the blacktop, I guess. Hope a car comes along. I … Hey! Wait a minute! The church!” He turned eagerly around. “I almost forgot! It can’t enter consecrated ground! Come on!” Mojo grabbed Grandmother and dragged her towards the church door, his heart soaring.
The door was barred.
“What the—?!” Mojo stood helpless. He couldn’t believe it. There was a solid wall of new two-by-fours nailed over the door of the church. He would have needed an axe to get through them.
“This wasn’t here before!”
“There’s a sign.” Grandmother pointed.
Mojo peered closer. A sheet of heavy white paper had been nailed to the two-by-fours. There wasn’t enough light to read the fine print, but he could make out the heading well enough. It was printed in inch-high red block letters: “DO NOT ENTER!” and underneath that: “New Mexico State Historical Site.”
“Now, where the hell did—”
The beast roared. The sound came from just above and behind them. It was close. Not more than a hundred yards away. Close and deafening loud. Mojo judged the scream as lesser than a banshee’s and greater than a football coach’s.
“It’s here!” Mojo grabbed Grandmother’s hand. He didn’t hesitate. He turned towards the meadow, towards the stand of cottonwoods at the meadow’s far edge and the blacktop beyond. He ran.
Mojo, Grandmother in tow, ran stumbling over the soft, uneven ground of the meadow. Weeds clutched at their legs. Rocks and washouts threatened to break an ankle at every step. They were almost there, the dark line of trees tantalizingly close, when Mojo suddenly felt himself slowing, his legs laboring. It was as though he had stepped into a molasses swamp. His knees were pumping but he wasn’t going anywhere. He glanced back. The old woman had stopped running. She was floundering, dragging behind him like a sea anchor. He could hear her wheezing.
He yanked on her arm. “Faster! We’ve got to get out of the open!”
“I can’t!” Grandmother gasped. Then: “Leave me. Save yourself!” She jerked her hand free and stumbled to a halt.
Mojo turned back. “Come on! You can’t stop here!” He grabbed her arm again. “It’s only a little ways further!”
“N-no,” she gasped, shaking her head. Her breath sputtered, like a lawn mower trying to start. “I—I’m finished. If you try and take me with you, you’ll be finished too. Go on. It’s the heart it’s after. Leave me and the heart here.”
This about Mojo Birdsong: He had watched too many cable TV movies to even consider leaving Grandmother behind. Would Bogart have left her? Would John Wayne have left her? Rambo? Steven Spielberg?
“Come on,” Mojo put his arm around Grandmother. “I’ll help you.” He hoisted her onto his hip and began staggering towards the woods.
“No! Please! You must save yourself!”
“Just hang on. It’s only a little ways further.” Mojo panted, the inviting darkness of the woods looming just ahead.
“Please!”
“Just—a—few—more—feet.” Mojo’s arm was growing numb already. He could hardly feel his right hand. It was amazing how heavy even skinny people were.
“Just—couple—of—more…”
They staggered into the shadows beneath the cottonwoods.
Mojo set Grandmother down and turned. The moon rose over the dark mountains to the east. The meadow trembled as the moonlight rushed over it. The meadow was empty. There was nothing moving in its tall grass or against the church at its far edge or under the trees on the hillside beyond.
Mojo sagged against a tree. He rubbed his half-numb arm. The arm tingled as the blood returned. He watched anxiously but the meadow remained still and empty and bright with moonlight.
They were safe. For the moment.
* * *
A short time passed with Mojo waiting nervously for the thing to come bounding across the meadow after them. Then Grandmother whispered, “I … I think I can walk again. If we don’t go too fast.”
Mojo peered at her. She looked pale. Her face was drawn. He had forgotten how old she was. She didn’t look ready to walk. She didn’t look ready for anything more strenuous than a hospital bed.
“Rest a few minutes more,” he told her. “Rest, and then we’ll go.”
“No. We must go now,” she said. She touched him. Her hand was cold. “You lead.”
“You sure?”
“Just go slow.”
Mojo stepped off into the darkness. Grandmother followed.
After a time her breathing became regular.
* * *
They had been walking for only a short while when they crossed a broad path leading south. The path was dappled with shadows and moonlight. It was littered with old beer cans and broken bottles. Mojo turned onto it.
The path made several turns under the trees, then passed into an open area where it skirted a couple of crumbling adobe walls. It reentered the woods on the other side of the walls and passed close by a pile of old boards that smelled bad and probably had once held either an outhouse or a pigsty. The path turned and twisted several more times before it finally emerged out of the woods and onto a gravel clearing. The blacktop road was just beyond the clearing.
Mojo left Grandmother and dashed across the clearing and onto the blacktop. He stopped and looked eagerly in both directions, his head swinging from side to side, but there were no headlights coming. He looked up the valley, then down, then into the hills on either side. There were no house lights visible either. No sounds. There was nothing but darkness and silence up and down both sides of the road. There was no place to run.
Mojo walked slowly back to Grandmother. It was as disappointing as a drive-in rejection.
As Mojo and Grandmother stood huddled beside the road, unsure of what to do next, the beast roared once again. The sound was surprisingly distant.
“Hear that?” Mojo asked. “It’s still a long way behind us. But why’s that?” he puzzled. “I mean, that thing’s some kind of fast. It should have caught up by now.”
“Perhaps it can’t find us.”
Mojo thought about it. “No…” he said slowly. “I don’t think so. It knows where we are, all right…” Then angrily: “I get it! It’s running us! Playing with us! Well, I may be on the dinner menu tonight, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna provide the entertainment too! If it wants—”
A light flickered in the corner of Mojo’s eye.
Mojo was quick. He spun around. The light was coming from underneath a stand of cottonwoods a little farther up the road. The light had the distorted quality of something seen through glass. It took Mojo a couple of seconds to realize what it was: a match, a match flame shining through a car window.
The light winked out.
Mojo’s eyes flew open.
“A car!” Mojo whirled to Grandmother. “There’s a car up there!”
He turned and bounded up the road. “Follow me!” he called over his shoulder.
* * *
Not just a car but cars, a line of dark humps underneath the cottonwoods. It was too good to be true.
Mojo ran to the first car and jerked on the door handle. It was locked. He could hear music pounding. He could see the red glow of a radio dial.
Mojo beat on the window glass.
“Hey! Let me in! This is an emergency!”
There was a flash of naked flesh. A shriek. An angry curse.
Mojo slapped the roo
f. “Open up! Hurry! This is serious!”
He pounded on the window again.
Car doors were opening. He could hear voices. He looked up and saw interior lights blinking on up and down the line. One of the interior lights was a small crystal chandelier with red-flame light bulbs.
“Come on!” Mojo beat on the roof again.
Dark figures were emerging from the other cars. There was low muttering. Footsteps were coming towards him, crackling on gravel.
Suddenly the car door flew open, knocking Mojo aside. Before Mojo had time to recover, a man leaped out of the door and grabbed him by the throat. The man had a red bandanna tied around his forehead. He slung Mojo around and pinned him up against the side of the car.
“You want some shit, man? That it? You want some action? Well, you found it. I’m gonna give you some action, man. I’m gonna do you up good!” The voice was deep and menacing. The hand on Mojo’s throat tightened.
“No … I … just—” Mojo found it difficult to talk while being strangled. He struggled, trying to free himself, but the man had an iron grip.
“Bring that flashlight over here. I got a prowler, man. A fucking Peeping Tom.”
Mojo was having too much trouble trying to breathe to deny he was a Peeping Tom. He brought both hands up to his throat. He managed to wedge a couple of fingers in between his attacker’s hand and his Adam’s apple. He drew in a deep gasp of air.
“Right here, man. That’s it. Shine it over here.” Someone shone a flashlight into Mojo’s face. He blinked but then he could see. His attacker was a mean-looking kid. He had a dark, olive face with angry brown eyes and a thin nose. His hair was black and sleek and slicked back. He was wearing a T-shirt with “Los Lowriders Club, Bartolo, N.M.” emblazoned across it in red and green letters. His Levi’s were unzipped.
“Look! It’s an Anglo! An Anglo Peeping Tom!”
A ring of Hispanic faces was growing around the edges of the flashlight beam. None of them looked very friendly. Mojo didn’t see a knife, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
“You don’t understand,” Mojo wheezed. “I came to warn you. We’re in danger. All of us. If we don’t get out of here quick, we’re gonna have the life expectancy of a used microwave!” Mojo’s voice was too high. It was a combination of being half strangled and half terrorized at the same time.