by Gudrun Mouw
I quickly wiped the crumbs off my face with the back of my hand. Hans smiled as benignly as he could, but I could see the blood leaving his lips even as his smile stretched wide and his eyes careened around the room. That was the last time I was ever allowed to spend the night at a friend’s, a time during which he continued to maul me nearly every night.
* * *
In San Martin I sit on my new California bed covered with a fuzzy, pink spread. We have just finished eating, and my suitcases stand unpacked next to the beige desk my father selected for me. I know I was not as enthusiastic about the apartment, my room, the flowers or the food as my father wanted me to be. I don’t care anymore. I try to stay in a neutral zone as much as I can. I don’t want to make him angry, but I’ve learned over the years that his rages are often completely unpredictable. For now there is nothing I can do, but soon as I can I am determined to go out on my own.
On the way from the airport, I remember staring out of the car window at the unfamiliar landscape. Sunset suspended a pink hue over a hazy horizon. Straw-dry fields and dusty, olive-colored chaparral dismayed me. A deep sadness settled in and wouldn’t go away.
“Is it dry like this all the time?” my mother had asked as we drove past pale grasses along parched foothills.
“I hear it rains in the winter and then everything turns bright green,” my father replied.
“So very dry,” my mother repeated as though in mourning, and I agreed.
I am supposed to be unpacking. I make an effort, eventually, find my nightgown, change clothes, and contemplate my new room, hating the pink, beige, and brown, wishing I were far away. I miss Peter, his kindness and his friendship. The healing light of possibility seems out of reach.
If Peter were living here, maybe I would finally have the courage to talk to him, in a straightforward way, about what my father has been doing to me. Instead, there is no one. My mother looked so weak at dinner with one of her headaches. She went to bed early. I am worried that there is no lock on my bedroom door. I will have to be on the alert. Eventually I fall asleep and dream I am flying as a bird over a landscape very much like what we saw on the way from the airport. In my dream I see a man lying on a ledge. He is old and he looks at me. “Friede,” he says.
I ask, “Who are you?”
“I am Saqapaya, your friend.”
Friede
Victor, a tall, skinny, dark-haired boy from my English class at my new school, accompanies me home in an unusual way by staying on the other side of the street. We are both too shy to be friends, but I feel comforted by his apparent delicate nature. I notice, out of the corner of my eye, that he paces himself to match my speed. When I slow down, he slows down. I walk faster, and he also walks faster. Boldly I stop and look in his direction.
He also stops, glances down at the pavement, and adjusts his glasses. I start walking again, counting cracks in the pavement. What has come over me? I halt abruptly and stare across at Victor. At last he smiles and waves as if to say, don’t worry, you are not alone.
* * *
The next day Elizabeth Ashland, a robust girl with long limbs, runs up behind me after school. “Want to practice tennis? I need to work on my backhand. The old battle-axe doesn’t like my serve.” She sniffs as she talks about the physical education teacher neither one of us likes. We think she is too hard and mean. We head for the tennis courts. Around her neck Elizabeth wears a cross that glints in the sun. She prays and crosses herself before she begins, then pounds the ball hard.
Immediately I like her. A bit older, taller, and bigger-boned than I am, Elizabeth plays a vigorous game. She hits one ball after the other as if her life depends on it. Each yellow ball that appears on her side of the court is like an affront that she attacks with force.
After the game Elizabeth says suddenly. “My dad died two months ago and I don’t want to talk about it, so don’t ask me.” I think, I don’t want to talk about my father either.
I respect her request and don’t say anything. Elizabeth’s anger doesn’t bother me, nor that she won the game. I can relate to her, and she helps me see myself, potentially, as being more independent and aggressive. Also, I am glad to have a reason not to go home right after school.
I break the silence as we gather our tennis balls. “Why do you cross yourself at the beginning of the game?”
“A Catholic habit, I guess.” Elizabeth laughs. “It’s nothing really. Not since…” But she doesn’t continue.
I feel for my new friend, as though we’ve known each other from a long, long time ago. We share something we don’t even know how to talk about. Walking home, my exhaustion feels good. I don’t see Victor on the other side of the street and almost miss him.
The Phoenix
Saqapaya’s body lies on a ledge jutting out from a shallow cave in the side of the Pacific Coast Mountains, which would still be difficult to find more than a century later. His hair is untied and nearly as white as the high mountains in winter. I hear his last breaths. I heard him whisper well wishes to the future of his people and also to Friede, who would one day find this place to receive his message. His presence remains like an echo from the sandstone. I flap my wings. My prayers join his. Next to the old spirit traveler, within his reach, is a small flat stone on which a residue of milkweed sap had been mixed with red rock powder. A yucca fiber brush lies next to the stone. Saqapaya finished his last pictograph on the cave wall before he died.
I look at the images. I absorb the dark post of a cross piercing through the lines of a red creature that doesn’t quite resemble any animal I have ever seen. I tilt my head. The wind rises. Branches move, and I listen, carefully, to the mountain.
Until people of the world stop forcing their ways on others, who will understand? This picture tells the pain of a world where a broad path plows rigid corridors, where living beings are drained of their life force, including the First People, where a cross of violence does terrible things.
In the dark Saqapaya lies with his eyes closed; his body seems cold as the stone underneath. I blow my breath over him for a long time, then I leave my Phoenix body and fly away from the cave as Hawk. Calling, calling, to whom I don’t know. I fear the danger of getting stuck. Perhaps it is time for this cycle to end. Perhaps, somewhere, others need me.
Inside Hawk’s body I ride air, wide wings barely moving. I fly all night, circling the land and ancestors of this place, heart beating fast, searching for the First People to warn them of something. What is it? I look with sharp, hawk eyes that do not draw attention as I fly lower to investigate. There it is: soldiers shooting.
I swoop down between the soldiers and people, drawing the soldier’s bullets, calling more and more loudly and moving my wings wildly. Some women and children are able to make use of my distraction and run as fast as they can into thick chaparral, some remain standing, wounded, some fall, and some lie still and pale.
At the edge of the forest a wildfire heads up the mountain. Two mothers carrying their infants run away from soldiers towards the welcoming house of the sun, away from the disease-riddled walls of the Mission dormitory. As Hawk, I am furious. As Phoenix, I too have a vision: Saqapaya’s work will continue and his wisdom guides me as I transform into Crow, cawing loudly to help guide the mothers and their babies to a secret place I have seen close by. There is enough water, surrounded by stone, to protect them.
I circle towards the fire and my breath blows the fire away from the people. Later, with singed, crow wings, I arrive at the Mission but no longer recognize anyone. The people here are not the ones I remember. Fifteen men are locked in the prison inside a place not big enough for anyone to lie down. I call to them, but no one answers. I find toyon berries, pick up a branch of the fruit, and drop it through a small hole in the roof of the prison. No one notices. The sadness of the men is so thick that if I stay too long, the weight of their sadness will make it impossible for me to fly.
I make a dozen trips, flying here and there to find food. I bring ch
ia seeds and other things, but the men do not respond. I call and call; it does no good. Men stand, their eyes open in the despairing trance of the unjustly imprisoned.
A guard, watching right outside the prison door, laughs and speaks out loud to no one in particular. “Look at that crow. Mother Mary, what a racket.” He lifts his rifle, then changes his mind. “Hell, he’s too skinny to eat.”
I fly back up the mountain and return to Saqapaya lying in front of the cave. I stand very close, desperately giving him more and more of my breath, and the elder returns to life for a moment.
He opens his eyes just before sunset and looks at the picture on the cave wall one last time. He speaks. “Great Spirit. You are gracious. You have shown me our people will survive.” I fly to the boulder at his feet so that his eyes will rest on me.
Saqapaya sees me and says his final words. “I am glad, Phoenix, to know you will continue the work that needs to be done. Thank you.” That was what I needed to hear.
The sun races to the west. I follow and allow myself, for a time, to be devoured by the sun and the sun’s daughters.
Friede
My eighteenth birthday has come and gone. Secretly, I have been saving all the babysitting money I could and also sold some personal items. Now my new college roommate waits outside in her car packed with most of my possessions. I have one more final trip to make, just a handful of things and a note for my parents. My friend Elizabeth, who attends a college in another state, and I have been writing to each other frequently. She has brought a fresh perspective to my life. She is a great believer in action. Her favorite saying is, strike while the iron is hot. I have been greatly influenced by her wonderful American brashness.
I return to my parents’ apartment one last time. I open the door, step in, and halt. My mother lies on the couch in the living room; ice on her forehead is wrapped inside a small towel. Her eyes are closed. My father stands by the kitchen counter. They have returned home from work early.
“Where have you been? What is going on here?” My father’s pale lips press together. He stops slicing a dismembered chicken on the cutting board. His trembling hand holds the butcher knife midair.
“I need something from my room.” I’m not sure what else to say. I had planned to leave the note I had prepared. I hurry through the living room into my bedroom and pick up a small empty box from my desk and some old clothes hanging over the chair I had thought of leaving behind. I need to stop, I tell myself, gather my strength, and take deep breaths to fortify myself against the confrontation I had hoped to avoid. I remind myself to empty the pencil drawer, dump out the contents on my bed, grab pens, erasers, paper clips, and other miscellaneous items, throw them in the box, pick up the box and clothes and a pair of shoes I remember at the last minute, ready to leave the pink and beige bedroom without looking back. This is it. I remember Elizabeth’s words after I wrote her about my father. She had said, “Be strong. I know you have it in you.” Her comment had made me think of Peter saying “be brave,” which I had thought meant “endure,” but now I agree with Elizabeth. Strong action is what is required.
My father barks, “Where are you going? Not so fast.”
“I’m leaving,” I say as calmly as possible, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m moving in with a college friend. I’m 18 now. I can do what I want.” The knowledge that he has no legal hold over me gives me confidence. I can feel Elizabeth rooting me on. I feel her strong presence and I can almost hear her say “bravo!”
My father dashes around the counter towards the front door as if to block my exit. I rush ahead of him. Nothing is going to stop me now. He grabs me from behind, holds my wrist, and pulls hard. I twist away and face him, my back against the door. My father steps forward, raising his right arm, still gripping the long, broad knife.
I look into his eyes, and for the first time recognize fear trembling behind his rage and watch his swaggering confidence fade. I have seen hate before. I remember something deep in me about facing a dangerous man. I say, “Go ahead. I dare you.” Scorn gives authority to my words. I no longer hide my contempt, and my contempt is more potent than his knife.
“Hans!” my mother calls out from the sofa, “Stop!” He lifts the knife higher.
“If you leave now, don’t ever come back,” he threatens.
“Why would I want to come back?” I know I have the advantage, and push myself forward to gain just enough space to open the door behind me and squeeze through. I shut the door, emphatically.
Outside, in the dark, I inhale deeply. The air feels clean and good. I take the stairs one step at a time, noticing the pebbled surfaces, the open spaces between steps. I smell jasmine and savor a sweet, cool taste at the back of my throat.
I know he will not risk being seen by strangers in his rage, forcing his college-aged daughter back into the house. I am shaking, but I am shaking with relief as I climb into my roommate’s car.
Friede
Jill and I have been roommates for two years. I’m feeling more confident, it seems, day by day. I have always enjoyed school and studying new things; Jill jokes that I must have been doing it for more than this lifetime, because I seem to be naturally good at it. Right now Jill and I are sitting inside the San Martin State University Student Union with a fellow student, Karen Stark, who is in our philosophy class.
Jill wears an embroidered white peasant shirt over gauzy cotton pants printed in a multi-colored Indian pattern she calls, “The Tree of Life.” Jill has spent time in India and she practices yoga. “I’m interested in things beyond physics,” she says. She twirls a feather she had just picked up from the ground and sticks it in her mass of fluffy red curls.
I am wearing a green angora cardigan with the top buttons undone, revealing bare skin. Jill gave me the sweater. “This will look good on you. My mother bought it, hoping to make me look more collegiate. Don’t wear a bra, you’ve got the figure. We are living in the sixties, remember?” I am excited by my new life. I am fascinated by Jill’s vibrant energy.
Karen, older than us, rolls her eyes at me across the table. “Listen to Jill,” she teases.
“She ignites the world with enthusiasm,” I answer and tap my friend’s arm next to me gently.
“Actually, you two, I’m heartbroken right now,” Jill replies. “God, Shane! I’ve gotten used to him and thought we are going somewhere. Now he wants to move to Arizona for his graduate work.” She shakes her head vigorously and the sun shining on the back of her head makes her red hair look iridescent.
“Okay. You seem to want to go over this again,” Karen says wearily. “Look, Shane got a research job. Do you expect him to give it up?”
“Easy for you to talk, you’re already married and settled. I hoped Shane would ask me to join him eventually.”
“He’s nice enough, but he’s obviously not ready,” Karen answers, looking over the table as she sips the last of her nearly cold coffee. She leans back in her chair and stretches out her ankles covered by black tights under a navy wool skirt. Karen has an eight-year-old son; she married at twenty and doesn’t have patience for boyfriends, fashion, or other extraneous matters.
I am torn. Karen is steady, solid. Jill is effervescent and sometimes flighty. Still, it seems most of the girls our age are looking to have a steady relationship. I see Jill examining the last residue of tea at the bottom of the cup in her hand. Karen shifts in her chair, but she isn’t able to hide her irritation. I change the topic. “So, Karen, what would you like to talk about?”
Karen sits up. “I want Jill to explain what she means by metaphysics.” She raises her palms and tilts her head to the side. “I gather you’re not thinking of it as being merely a branch of philosophy, Jill.”
Jill flips one of her feathers. “Well, in other cultures, metaphysics includes the experience of transcendence.” She closes her eyes a moment, takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes again. “I believe Western thinking is too narrow, with too much compartmentalization.”
Karen looks puzzled. “Continue.”
“A yogi, for example, might say that names and forms vary, according to personality, type of practice, experience, and culture, but if you go deep enough the essential truth is the same.” Jill’s feather drops to the table, but she doesn’t notice. I pick it up and rotate the stem between my fingers. I love studying philosophy and think I understand what Jill is trying to say.
I feel something swirling inside like a vague memory. My lips tremble and I am overcome by sadness. As if in a lucid dream, I see a charred wall disappearing behind smoke. Moans come from an invisible source. A guard wearing a swastika armband pokes at dozens of bloodied bodies with his rifle. He shoots at whatever still moves.
A bird flies up from the wall to the adjacent building, watching from the rooftop as Ruth collapses among the dead below; her arm lies outstretched towards her friend with the crucifix. I push the visions away and unexpected words tumble out. I ask Jill, “Do you know of someone called Martin Buber, who expressed the idea that all religions are the same at their essence?”
Jill looks pleased. “You’ve read his work?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, but I have heard it somewhere.”
“All right, you two,” Karen says, “these are noble sentiments, but really, Jill, isn’t what you’re suggesting a kind of evasion?” Karen looks at me for support, but I disagree. She sees me shaking my head, but continues. “I think, Jill, you have trouble taking a stand—right or wrong, true or false, good or bad. To you everything seems relative with your ‘right on’ and ‘groovy.’ I imagine you gaze at a rose and think it can help you understand the cosmos.”