Here Where the Sunbeams Are Green

by Helen Phillips

  “Re-lax!” Mom says. She suddenly sounds like her old self. Smart and determined and concerned about us. And I’m flooded with relief. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I don’t know. In the jungle,” Roo says.

  “Where did she get it, Mad?” Mom says. Her voice is very stern.

  I shrug indifferently, as though I don’t know a thing about it. “In the jungle, I guess.” Mom stares at me for a few more seconds, but I keep my eyes flat and secret. Man, I’m doing such a good job. Usually I can’t hide anything from Mom. Usually I’d just start telling her everything. I guess I’ve been learning from Kyle and Roo.

  Mom gazes at the soft shimmering feather for a moment, and then the enormous Yoga Smile spreads across her face again.

  “Well,” she says, “okay.” And I’m immediately disappointed that she gave up so easily. If she weren’t all spacey now, she’d never let this kind of thing go. She has to know, or at least part of her has to know, that she’s holding a Lava Throat feather! She loves Dad, and Dad loves birds, and Dad taught her a lot about birds over the years. If only she hadn’t been yogafied. Then she’d keep asking us questions until we’d have to tell her what’s been going on. Part of me wishes she would ask and ask and ask, and then once she knew everything she could tell us exactly what to do.

  She bends down and crawls into bed beside Roo, handing the feather back to her.

  “It’s a very beautiful feather, Roo,” she says brightly.

  “I know,” Roo says, clutching the feather. “Hey, bedtime story, please?”

  But Mom’s bedtime stories just make me miss Dad’s bedtime stories. Dad’s are always long and complicated and wonderful. In comparison, Mom’s are pretty much disappointing. Dad can make up wild adventures and fairy tales, while Mom can only tell stories from real life.

  I tune out the story Mom tells Roo about her first trip to Latin America when she was seventeen and instead try to write a poem. But I’m having trouble writing anything tonight. It’s almost like there’s too much to put into a single poem. The color of the mud in the jungle, the way it felt to be walking there in the early-morning dark, the glowing mushrooms. Seeing Dad. I keep having trouble so what I end up doing is drawing the volcano in my journal, the perfect shape with a wisp of smoke coming out the top.

  Finally Mom leaves, and for maybe the first time ever since The Weirdness, I don’t feel a ping of sadness as she closes the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 14

  “You know the drill,” Roo says in the morning after Kyle’s knock wakes us.

  Yet another phrase from Dad. He loved to say that. You know the drill.

  We’re so focused (and, in my case, stressed out) this morning that neither of us comments on the crop of yellow flowers growing from Roo’s toes. But Kyle’s words about the fungus flowers keep playing through my head—a sign of being close to the goddess of the volcano, close to the goddess of the volcano, close to the goddess of the volcano—as Roo hops around the room, getting dressed, sticking the golden feather into her pocket.

  “You better be good today,” she warns me as we exit our room and step into the predawn darkness, where Kyle awaits us with his transparent bird net in hand. Man, why does Roo have to talk to me that way, as though I’m the little sister?

  Then again, it is true that I’m way more likely to get freaked out when we’re out there in the jungle trying to do something that’s probably impossible.

  By the time day breaks, we’ve veered off Invisible Path and have been walking for what feels like weeks. It’s even grayer and heavier than yesterday morning. Roo, a few feet ahead of me, keeps putting little skips of excitement into her step. I couldn’t skip right now if someone paid me. The thrilled feeling that struck me yesterday during La Lluvia has faded. The heaviness of the day makes it especially ominous to be heading into the depths of the jungle. I try to distract myself by paying attention to the flowers we pass—weird spiky-looking pink flowers I’ve never seen before (maybe the extra-humid weather is making them blossom?), and also those big orange flowers that appeared after La Lluvia yesterday, all wilted and dead now, faded carcasses on the jungle floor. I spot poisonous-looking flashes of bright red and yellow as bugs and frogs, and probably snakes too, move amid the trees. The jungle seems ferocious to me today, and with each step my sense of threat increases, until my heart feels like a continual whir of motion, no beats at all. Meanwhile, Roo keeps rushing perkily through the jungle behind Kyle as though she’s done this a million times before.

  Was it really only two days ago that we set out into the jungle to beg Dad not to capture and kill any LTVTs? Was it really only yesterday that we set out to offer him our help in capturing LTVTs? And here we are, and the gala is tomorrow, and we fly home on Sunday, and it feels like our entire future depends on us finding an LTVT, like, now.…

  “So,” I say, the first word any of us has said in a long time, “I know we need to capture it today”—Roo and Kyle have taken to calling the bird it, so I guess I better too—“but how exactly are we going to do that? Are we just going to, sort of, wander around the jungle?” I don’t mean to sound quite as negative as I do, but I can’t think of a more positive way to say it.

  Roo sighs with irritation at my questions. I can tell her exasperation is only a show, though. In truth she’s buzzing with so much energy that nothing could bother her.

  “Weren’t you listening?” she says. “We’re going to find it, easy-peasy.”

  Okay, sure, easy-peasy, finding a basically extinct bird in a crazy jungle, whatever, but what I want to discuss is methodology, as Dad would say. No matter how brilliant a bird-tracker you may be, it’s not as though this is a straightforward task. I wish I felt calm, logical, smart. I wish the day weren’t so gosh darn humid, filling my brain with fog. I wish I weren’t just gazing out into layers upon layers upon layers of jungle where hundreds of Lava Throats could hide without anyone having any idea. I think back to Kyle’s Polaroid, the bird ready to spring into life and fly out of the photograph. How will we ever find, much less catch, a pigeon-sized creature like that in all this chaos and vegetation?

  “Easy-peasy?” I repeat sarcastically. “Yeah, the way a Herculean labor is easy-peasy.” Herculean labor: another of Dad’s favorite phrases, and pretty impressive for a twelve-year-old to use if I do say so myself, though Kyle doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Remember what Dad always says about tracking!” Roo scolds me. “You have to notice the tiniest things in the world. You have to think like a bird.”

  “Oh,” I say, even more sarcastic. “Okay, great, perfect, that’s helpful, I’ll get right on that. Hello, I’m a bird, I need to eat, fly, poop, sleep.”

  I know I sound really dumb, and also rude, but hey, I’m kind of dehydrated. I wait for Roo and Kyle to respond to my little outburst, but they don’t say a word. They just keep pressing on, deeper into the jungle. And, blushing a bit, I follow.

  Once in a while one of them looks back sharply when I snap a twig or stumble over a log, but other than that, they pretty much ignore me. For some reason none of us has brought up the fact that they’d be way better off without me tagging along behind. But I guess they don’t want to be mean, and there’s sure as heck no way I’d ever be able to find my way back to the Selva Lodge alone.

  So I try to forget about Dad and LTVTs and all the things I’m worried about and instead just think about the jungle, the amazing colors of it, the hundreds of shades of green as you look deep into it. Also I think about Kyle, a few yards ahead of me, holding his transparent bird net out in front of him. Kyle and Roo keep their necks craned upward, and whenever a bird darts overhead they freeze and stare. I try to catch a glimpse too, but can I just say this is so hard? I mean, the bird is here and gone in less than half a second!

  “Was it an it?” Roo mouths to Kyle, or he mouths to her, and every time the answer is NO. No, no, no, no.

  So this is it, the search for the Lava-Throated Volcano trogon? Three kids wan
dering around the jungle in the general area where it might possibly be possible to spot the last living members of a species about to go extinct? Three kids playing make-believe? I’d laugh at us if I didn’t want to cry with hopelessness.

  Still, we keep on keeping on, same old same old, Roo and Kyle doing their thing while I bumble along behind. Finally, sometime in the middle of the day, after I’ve been starving for a long time but have bravely not complained, Kyle stops and pulls some food out of his backpack: black-corn tortillas, pineapple chunks, strangely shaped nuts that make me sad for a second because these are probably the unusual jungle nuts Dad wrote us about in one of his early, normal letters back in January.

  “¿Comida de tu abuela?” Roo asks.

  “Claro,” Kyle says.

  The witch’s food is the most satisfying food in the world. Even though there isn’t a lot, after eating it I feel very full and very strong. It’s actually kind of eerie how much that little bit of food does for me. My senses are more alert, my ears perked to the screeches and hoots and howls and trills of the jungle. Now that I’m truly listening, the jungle seems to overflow with the noise of demon creatures. But I’m with Roo and Kyle, and Roo and Kyle are with me, so I try to stay calm.

  By late afternoon, though, Kyle is in one of his don’t-you-dare-talk-to-me moods and Roo looks like she wants to kick somebody. Even though I was right all along about this being impossible, it’s not as though I’m enjoying my rightness. The jungle keeps getting darker and darker, La Lluvia’s warning sign. Kyle says something to Roo in Spanish and she turns around and starts leading us back downhill, back toward the Selva Lodge. So even Roo and Kyle are finally giving up after this stupid exhausting useless march. I can feel Kyle storming along behind me. I wonder if he’s thinking that my hair looks nice and dark and shiny, or that it looks dull and dark and dirty, even though I pretty much know he’s not thinking about my hair at all. I glance back at him, hoping that maybe he’ll be looking at me, but he’s staring at the high branches of the trees, his eyebrows wrinkled with Big Thoughts, and somehow I bet his Big Thoughts are also very dark thoughts, and a fresh layer of worry spreads over all the worry I’ve already got.

  As usual, everything is normal back at the Selva Lodge, parents standing up from lawn chairs and wiping sweat off their foreheads and yelling at their wrestling, squealing kids to get out of the pool because the rain is going to start any second now and besides, it’s siesta time. I’m surprised all over again to see people actually vacationing.

  The concrete courtyard quickly empties of tourists, and Kyle and Roo head straight for the kitchen of the Selva Café, so I follow.

  “Tengo sed,” Roo mumbles as she staggers in the door.

  “Yo también,” Kyle says.

  It’s a little lonely being the only one who doesn’t know what sed means. And I feel extra lonely when we discover that the witch isn’t in the kitchen, which is like something out of an impossible nightmare, because she’s always in the kitchen at this time of day. And it strikes me that I’m not so very scared of Señora V anymore. When I call her a witch I’m doing it out of habit, or even as a compliment. I mean, yes, I still think she’s powerful, I still bet she’s capable of doing some scary things, but I’m just not that scared of her. And I really wish she were here right now.

  Roo and Kyle and I plunk down into the red plastic chairs at the metal table and just sit there staring blankly and not talking. Kyle puts his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. My head feels fuzzy and heavy, and I bet theirs do too. Tired and mad and sad and tired. Hot, thirsty, hopeless. We’ve become so limp, so lame, and I realize that this must be us giving up for good. The gala is tomorrow and we’ve got nothing, nothing, nothing.

  I stare out the kitchen window and notice that the volcano is steaming and smoking even more than usual.

  “Can we get outta here?” Roo says to me, her voice rising with frustration. “If she’s not around I’d rather just take a nap or something.”

  “Sure.” I leap on Roo’s suggestion. I want to get out too. I never thought I’d feel this way, but I’m finding that the kitchen seems absolutely horrible without the witch, dull and doomed.

  Kyle doesn’t pay attention to us, his face still buried in his hands. Roo and I stand up to leave, but the exact second we reach the door, La Lluvia comes crashing down.

  And when we turn around, who should be there but the witch in her beautiful black lace veil, pouring something hot and red into three mugs on the metal table. I swear, it’s like she appeared out of nowhere!

  Kyle heaves a huge relieved sigh as he gazes up at his grandmother. It only takes me an instant to get up the courage to flop down into the chair right beside his, my ankle thumping against his ankle and then staying there, touching. I guess that’s the kind of friends we are. The kind of friends who let their ankles touch under the table while La Lluvia does its thing outside. I have to bite down on the grin that pops onto my lips.

  The witch pushes one of the mugs toward me. Frankly, the liquid in the mug looks more like blood than anything else. But here’s the strange thing, which hits me right then as I stare at that steaming, poisonous-looking liquid: Now I’m excited, not scared, to drink the witch’s drinks.

  I take a sip. And much to my surprise, it tastes like honey and chocolate, two of my favorite flavors.

  “Ooo!” Roo gasps. “Vanilla! And pink Skittles!” Vanilla and pink Skittles—two of Roo’s favorites. But it’s most definitely not vanilla and pink Skittles. It’s honey and chocolate!

  “No,” Kyle corrects, “it’s Dr Pepper but without the fizz, plus candy canes.”

  Well, okay, whatever. The witch smiles on us from behind her veil with a warmth that feels almost physical, like the way the sun feels on your arms, and suddenly I’m calmer than I’ve been all day.

  A few sips in, I notice what a pleasant smooth sound the rain is making all around us, so loud we can’t talk, but such a lovely sound that it softens my thoughts, and I’m really enjoying the warmth of Kyle’s ankle against my ankle. We’re just touching the tiniest of bits (like, he probably doesn’t even notice) but there’s this heat coming off his skin. And suddenly I’m thinking: Maybe it’s all going to be okay, maybe it’s all going to be fine, maybe it’s all going to work out very, very well. For a while I stare deep down into the red heart of my drink, and then when I finally look up, my vision feels somehow different—warmer, more glowing. Maybe someone flicked on a light, I’m not sure, I was kind of spaced out there, but anyway, when I look over at Roo and Kyle and the witch, they seem extraordinarily wonderful to me. Bright little fireball Roo, perking up to listen to whatever Spanish words the glorious good witch Señora Villalobos is murmuring into her ear while smart, solemn, radiant Kyle looks on. They all just look exceptionally beautiful! But not only beautiful. They look … larger than life. Like ancient gods or something. Kyle’s golden eyes seem to be creating their own light. My head and fingers and belly feel very airy. Sort of like they don’t weigh anything anymore. Almost as though I’m drifting toward the ceiling. It’s a splendid, splendid feeling. A floating, joyful feeling that erases my frustration. I can’t wait to try again, to go back into the jungle tomorrow and look for that bird. I stare at Kyle and Roo, wondering if they’re feeling the same thing I am. I want to ask them, but my vocal cords are as drippy as honey and I can’t speak. So instead, I just smile, huge and loving, the way Señora V smiles behind her veil, and Kyle is looking back at me with an expression that I think might be awe. Kyle looking at me with awe! Just the way I’m looking at him! I feel my heart straining inside me and hold out my mug for another serving of the hot red liquid, whatever it is.

  At that exact second, La Lluvia ends.

  “¿Qué pasa, abuelo?” Kyle says, turning to look at the side of the room, his concerned voice cutting through my dreaminess.

  It’s only then that I notice Señor V sitting on a stool in the corner of the kitchen. Wait, has he been here all along? How could I
have missed that? But what’s really odd is that his face doesn’t look serene. Señor V’s worried face is one of the most frightening things I’ve ever seen, because I’ve never seen his face not looking serene, and I can’t shake the feeling that if he’s worried, the rest of us better be really worried. Then it strikes me that, for all her veiled smiles and generous pouring, Señora V is distracted today too. She picks up her broom and paces around the kitchen, not sweeping but just wandering back and forth. As I watch her, the happy, hopeful feeling starts to drain away from me, and I feel sad, so sad.

  “El volcán,” Señor V says simply.

  We all turn to stare at it, and as we do, it releases a large burst of sickly greenish steam.

  Roo whispers what we’re all thinking: “Once the last bird dies, the volcano will blow.”

  The witch sits down with us at the table. Broom in one hand and pitcher in the other, she pours more red liquid into my mug, and then into Kyle’s, and then Roo’s.

  “Tomorrow,” she says, almost growling, no longer the gentle witch of a few minutes ago, “you must do what you set out to do.”

  “The day of the gala?” Kyle says. “There’s no way.”

  The witch slams her broom down on the metal table, making a tremendous noise, and I cringe. Maybe I was wrong not to be scared of her.

  “Drink!” she commands.

  It’s hard to tell who she’s talking to, so we all gulp from our mugs.

  “We would do it if we could,” she says, “but only you three can do it.” I get a little flutter in my stomach when she puts me in the same category as Roo and Kyle, even though I know she’s just being polite. “It requires youth,” the witch explains, “the pure conviction of youth.”

  She gazes up at the ceiling with shiny wet eyes like those of the lady saint on the wall calendar behind her. Then she stands, mutters “Arriba,” and shuffles toward the winding staircase in the back corner of the kitchen. Kyle and Roo and I get up and follow in silence.