I checked into the Hotel Captain Henry—a ramshackle wooden building, painted pink, with a rust-scabbed roof and an electric pole lashed to its second-story balcony—and slept until nightfall. Then I set out to investigate a lead provided by the hotel’s owner: he had told me of a man in his nineties, Fred Welcomes, who lived on the road to Flowers Bay and might have knowledge of Christmas. I had not gone more than a half-mile when I came upon a little graveyard confined by a fence of corroded ironwork and overgrown with weeds from which the tops of the tombstones bulged like toadstools. Many of the stones dated from the turn of the century, and realizing that the man I was soon to interview had been a contemporary of these long-dead people, I had a sense of foreboding, of standing on the verge of a supernatural threshold. Dozens of times in the years to follow, I was to have similar apprehensions, a notion that everything I did was governed by unfathomable forces; but never was it stronger than on that night. The wind was driving glowing clouds across the moon, intermittently allowing it to shine through, causing the landscape to pulse dark to bright with the rhythm of a failing circuit, and I could feel ghosts blowing about me, hear windy voices whispering words of warning.
Welcomes’s shanty sat amid a banana grove, its orange-lit windows flickering like spirits in a dark water. As I drew near, its rickety shape appeared to assemble the way details are filled in during a dream, acquiring a roof and door and pilings whenever I noticed that it seemed to lack such, until at last it stood complete, looking every bit as dilapidated as I supposed its owner to be. I hesitated before approaching, startled by a banging shutter. Glints of moonlit silver coursed along the warp of the tin roof, and the plastic curtains twitched like the eyelids of a sleeping cat. At last I climbed the steps, knocked, and a decrepit voice responded, asking who was there. I introduced myself, explained that I was interested in Lee Christmas, and—after a considerable pause—was invited to enter.
The old man was sitting in a room lit by a kerosene lantern, and on first glance he seemed a giant; even after I had more realistically estimated his height to be about six-five, his massive hands and the great width of his shoulders supported the idea that he was larger than anyone had a right to be. It may be that this impression was due to the fact that I had expected him to be shriveled with age; but though his coal-black skin was seamed and wrinkled, he was still well-muscled: I would have guessed him to be a hale man in his early seventies. He wore a white cotton shirt, gray trousers, and a baseball cap from which the emblem had been ripped. His face was solemn and long-jawed, all its features so prominent that it looked to be a mask carved of black bone; his eyes were clouded over with milky smears, and from his lack of reaction to my movements, I came to realize he was blind.
“Well, boy,” he said, apparently having gauged my youth from the timbre of my voice. “What fah you want to know ’bout Lee Christmas? You want to be a warrior?”
I switched on my pocket tape recorder and glanced around. The furniture—two chairs and a table—was rough-hewn; the bed was a pallet with some clothes folded atop it. An outdated calendar hung from the door, and mounted on the wall opposite Welcomes was a small cross of black coral: in the orange flux of the lantern light, it looked like a complex incision in the boards.
I told him about my book, and when I had done he said, “I ’spect I can help you some. I were wit’ Lee from the Battle of La Ceiba till the peace at Comayagua, and fah a while after dat.”
He began to ramble on in a direction that did not interest me, and I cut in, saying, “I’ve heard there was no love lost between the islanders and the Spanish. Why did they join Bonilla’s revolution?”
“Dat were Lee’s doin’,” he said. “He promise dat dis Bonilla goin’ to give us our freedom, and so he have no trouble raisin’ a company. And he tell us that we ain’t goin’ to have no difficulty wit’ de Sponnish, ’cause dey can’t shoot straight.” He gave an amused grunt. “Nowadays dey better at shootin’, lemme tell you. But in de backtime de men of de island were by far de superior marksmen, and Lee figure if he have us wit’ him, den he be able to defeat the garrison at La Ceiba. Dat were a tall order. De leader of de garrison, General Carrillo, were a man wit’ magic powers. He ride a white mule and carry a golden sword, and it were said no bullet can bring him down. Many of de boys were leery, but Lee gather us on the dock and make us a speech. ‘Boys,’ he say, ‘you done break your mothers’ hearts, but you no be breakin’ mine. We goin’ to come down on de Sponnish like buzzards on a sick steer, and when we through, dey goin’ to be showin’ to de bone.’ And by de time he finish, we everyone of us was spittin’ fire.”
As evidenced by this recall of a speech made seventy-five years before, Welcomes’s memory was phenomenal, and the longer he spoke, the more fluent and vital his narrative became. Everything I had learned about Christmas—his age (twenty-seven in 1902), his short stature, his background—all that was knitted into a whole cloth, and I began to see him as he must have been: an ignorant, cocky man whose courage stemmed from a belief that his life had been ruined and so he might as well throw what remained of it away on this joke of a revolution. And yet he had not been without hope of redemption. Like many of his countrymen, he adhered to the notion that through the application of American know-how, the inferior peoples of Central America could be brought forward into a Star-Spangled future and civilized; I believe he nurtured the hope that he could play a part in this process.
When Welcomes reached a stopping point, I took the opportunity to ask if he knew what had motivated Christmas to enter the service of United Fruit. He mulled the question over a second or two and finally answered with a single word: “Aymara.”
So, Aymara, it was then I first heard your name.
Perhaps it is passionate experience that colors my memory, but I recall now that the word had the sound of a charm the old man had pronounced, one that caused the wind to gust hard against the shanty, keening in the cracks, fluttering the pages of the calendar on the door as if it, too, were a creature playing with time. But it was only a name, that of a woman whom Christmas and Welcomes had met while on a hunting trip to Olancho in 1904; specifically, a trip to the site of the ruined city of Olancho Viejo, a place founded by the Spanish in 1589 and destroyed by a mysterious explosion not fifty years thereafter. Since that day, Welcomes said, the vegetation there had grown stunted and malformed, and all manner of evil legend had attached to the area, the most notable being that a beautiful woman had been seen walking in the flames that swept over the valley. Though the city had not been rebuilt, this apparition had continued to be sighted by travelers and Indians, always in the vicinity of a cave that had been blasted into the top of one of the surrounding hills by the explosion. Christmas and Welcomes had arrived at this very hilltop during a furious storm and…Well, I will let the old man’s words (edited for the sake of readability) describe what happened, for it is his story, not mine, that lies at the core of these complex events.
That wind can blow, Lord, that wind can blow! Howlin’, rippin’ branches off the trees, and drivin’ slants of gray rain. Seem like it ’bout to blow everything back to the beginnin’ and start all over with creation. Me and Lee was leadin’ the horses along the rim of the valley, lookin’ for shelter and fearin’ for our lives, ’cause the footin’ treacherous and the drop severe. And then I spot the cave. Not for a second did I think this the cave whereof the legend speak, but when I pass through the entrance, that legend come back to me. The walls, y’see, they smooth as glass, and there were atremble in the air like you’d get from a machine runnin’ close by…’cept there ain’t no sound. The horses took to snortin’ and balkin’, and Lee pressed hisself flat against the wall and pointed his pistol at the dark. His hair were drippin’ wet, plastered to his brow, and his eyes was big and starin’. “Fred,” he says, “this here ain’t no natural place.”
“You no have to be tellin’ me,” I say, and I reckon the shiver in my voice were plain, ’cause he grins and say, “What’s the matter, Fr
ed? Ain’t you got no sand?” That were Lee’s way, you understand—another man’s fear always be the tonic for his own.
Just then I spy a light growin’ deeper in the cave. A white light, and brighter than any star. Before I could point it out to Lee, that light shooted from the dark and pass right through me with a flash of cold. Then come another light, and another yet. Each one colder and brighter than the one previous, and comin’ faster and faster, till it ’pears the cave brightly lit and the lights they flickerin’ a little. It were so damn cold that the rainwater have froze in my hair, and I were half-blinded on top of that, but I could have swore I seen somethin’ inside the light. And when the cold begin to heaten up, the light to dwindle, I made out the shape of a woman…just her shape at first, then her particulars. Slim and black-haired, she were. More than pretty, with both Spanish and Indian breedin’ showin’ in her face. And she wearin’ a garment such as I never seen before, but what in later years I come to recognize as a jumpsuit. There were blood on her mouth and a fearful expression on her face. The light gathered ’round her in a cloud and dwindle further, fadin’ and shrinkin’, and right when it ’bout to fade away complete, she take a step toward us and slump to the ground.
For a moment the cave were pitch-dark, with only the wind and the vexed sounds of the horses, but directly I hear a clatter and a spark flares and I see that Lee have got one of the lanterns goin’. He kneel beside the woman and make to touch her, and I tell him, “Man, I wouldn’t be doin’ that. She some kinda duppy.”
“Horseshit!” he say. “Ain’t no such thing.”
“You just seen her come a-whirlin’ outta nowhere,” I say. “That’s the duppy way.”
’Bout then the woman give out with a moan, and her eyelids they flutter open. When she spot Lee bendin’ to her, the muscles in her face start strainin’ and she try to speak, but all that come out were this creaky noise. Finally she muster her strength and say, “Lee…Lee Christmas?” Like she ain’t quite sure he’s who she thinks.
Lee ’pears dumbstruck by the fact she know his name and he can’t say nothin’. He glance up to me, bewildered.
“It is you,” she say. “Thank God…thank God.” And she reach out to him, clawin’ at his hand. Lee flinched some, and I expected him to go a-whirlin’ off with her into white light. But nothin’ happen.
“Who are you?” Lee asks, and the question seem to amuse her, ’cause she laugh, and the laugh turn into a fit of coughin’ that bring up more blood to her lips. “Aymara,” she say after the fit pass. “My name is Aymara.” Her eyes look to go blank for a second or two, and then she clutch at Lee’s hand, desperate-like, and say, “You have to listen to me! You have to!”
Lee look a little desperate himself. I can tell he at sea with this whole business. But he say, “Go easy, now. I’ll listen.” And that calm her some. She lie back, breathin’ deep, eyes closed, and Lee’s starin’ at her, fixated. Suddenly he give himself a shake and say, “We got to get you some doctorin’,” and try to lift her. But she fend him off. “Naw,” she say. “Can’t no doctor help me. I’m dyin’.” She open her eyes wide as if she just realize this fact. “Listen,” she say. “You know where I come from?” And Lee say, No, but he’s been a-wonderin’. “The future,” she tell him. “Almost a hundred years from now. And I come all that way to see you, Lee Christmas.”
Wellsir, me and Lee exchange looks, and it’s clear to me that he thinks whatever happened to this here lady done ’fected her brain.
“You don’t believe me!” she say in a panic. “You got to!” And she hold up her wrist and show Lee her watch. “See that? You ain’t got watches like that in 1904!” I peer close and see that this watch ain’t got no hands, just numbers made up of dots that flicker and change as they toll off the seconds. But it don’t convince me of nothin’—I figure it’s just some foreign thing. She must can tell we still don’t believe her, ’cause she pull out a coupla other items to make her case. I know what them items was now—a ballpoint pen and a calculator—but at the time they was new to me. I still ain’t convinced. Her bein’ from the future were a hard truth to swallow, no matter the manner of her arrival in the cave. She start gettin’ desperate again, beggin’ Lee to believe her, and then her features they firm up and she say, “If I ain’t from the future, then how come I know you been talkin’ to United Fruit ’bout doin’ some soldierin’ for ’em.”
This were the first I hear ’bout Lee and United Fruit, and I were surprised, ’cause Lee didn’t have no use for them people. “How the hell you know that?” he asks, and she say, “I told you how. It’s in the history books. And that ain’t all I know.” She take to reelin’ off a list of names that weren’t familiar to me, but—from the dumbstruck expression on Lee’s face—must have meant plenty to him. I recall she mention Jacob Wettstein and Andrew Colby and Machine Gun Guy Maloney, who were to become Lee’s second-in-command. And then she reel off another list, this one of battles and dates. When she finish, she clutch his hand again. “You gotta ’cept their offer, Lee. If you don’t, the world gonna suffer for it.”
I could tell Lee have found reason to believe from what she said, but that the idea of workin’ with United Fruit didn’t set well with him. “Couldn’t nothin’ good come of that,” he say. “Them boys at the fruit company ain’t got much in mind but fillin’ their pockets.”
“It’s true,” she say. “The company they villains, but sometimes you gotta do the wrong thing for to ’chieve the right result. And that’s what you gotta do. ’Less you help ’em, ’less America takes charge down here, the world’s gonna wind up in a war that might just be the end of it.”
I know this strike a chord in Lee, what with him always carryin’ on ’bout good ol’ American ingenuity bein’ the salvation of the world. But he don’t say nothin’.
“You gotta trust me,” she say. “Everything depends ’pon you trustin’ me and doin’ what I say. I come all this way, knowin’ I were bound to die of it, just to tell you this, to make sure you’d do what’s necessary. You think I’d do that to tell you a lie?”
“Naw,” he says. “I s’pose not.” But I can see he still havin’ his doubts.
She sigh and look worried and then she start explainin’ to us that the machine what brought her have gone haywire and set her swayin’ back and forth through time like a pendulum. Back to the days of the Conquistador and into the future an equal ways. She tell us ’bout watchin’ the valley explode and the old city crumblin’ and finally she say, “I only have a glimpse of the future, of what’s ahead of my time, and I won’t lie, it were too quick for me to have much sense of it. But I have a feelin’ from it, a feelin’ of peace and beauty…like a perfume the world’s givin’ off. When I ’cepted this duty, I thought it were just to make sure things wouldn’t work out worse than they has, but now I know somethin’ glorious is goin’ to come, somethin’ you never would ’spect to come of all the bloodshed and terror of history.”
It were the ’spression on her face at that moment—like she’s still havin’ that feelin’ of peace—that’s what put my doubts to rest. It weren’t nothin’ she coulda faked. Lee he seemed moved by it, but maybe he’s stuck with thinkin’ that she’s addled, ’cause he say, “If you from the future, you tell me some more ’bout my life.”
A shudder pass through her, and for a second I think we gonna lose her then and there. But she gather herself and say, “You gonna marry a woman named Anna and have two daughters, one by her and one by another woman.”
Not many knew Lee were in love with Anna Towers, the daughter of an indigo grower in Trujillo, and even less knew ’bout his illegitimate daughter. Far as I concerned, this sealed the matter, but Aymara didn’t understand the weight of what she’d said and kept goin’.
“You gonna die of a fever in Puerto Cortés,” she says, “in the year…”
“No!” Lee held up his hand. “I don’t wanna hear that.”
“Then you believe me.”
“Yes,” he s
ay. “I do.”
For a while there weren’t no sound ’cept the keenin’ of the wind from the cave mouth. Lee were downcast, studyin’ the backs of his hands like he were readin’ there some sorry truth, and Aymara were glum herself, like she were sad he did believe her. “Will you do it?” she asks.
Lee give a shrug. “Do I got a choice?”
“Maybe not,” she tell him. “Maybe this how it have to be. One of the men who…who help send me here, he claim the course of time can’t be changed. But I couldn’t take the chance he were wrong.” She wince and swallow hard. “Will you do it?”
“Hell,” he say after mullin’ it over. “Guess I ain’t got no better thing to do. Might as well go soldierin’ awhile.”
She search his face to see if he lyin’…’least that’s how it look to me. “Swear to it,” she say, takin’ his hand. “Swear you’ll do it.”
“All right,” he say. “I swear. Now you rest easy.”
He try doctorin’ her some, wettin’ down her brow and such, but nothin’ come of it. Somethin’ ’bout the manner of travel, she say, have tore up her insides, and there’s no fixin’ ’em. It ’pear to me she just been hangin’ on to drag that vow outta Lee, and now he done it, she let go and start slippin’ away. Once she make a rally, and she tell us more ’bout her journey, sayin’ the strange feelin’s that sweep over her come close to drivin’ her mad. I think Lee’s doubtin’ her again, ’cause he ask another question or two ’bout the future. But it seem she answer to his satisfaction. Toward the end she take to talkin’ crazy to someone who ain’t there, callin’ him Darlin’ and sayin’ how she sorry. Then she grab hold of Lee and beg him not to go back on his word.
The Ends of the Earth Page 30