The Ends of the Earth

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The Ends of the Earth Page 46

by Lucius Shepard


  “What’s that?”

  “You know…jazz, ballet.”

  He didn’t know, and she tried to explain.

  “Why you wanna do that?” he asked. “What’s the point?”

  “To make something beautiful.”

  For no reason he could figure, he laughed.

  Irritated, she said, “I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

  “I understand all right!” he snapped, and let his gaze range the length of her body. “I understand beauty just fine.”

  She flushed and lowered her eyes. “So what do you wanna be?”

  He had an answer, but the truth of it was all tangled up in words, hidden in snarls of black thready sentences that he would never get to come out straight. The answer wasn’t a thing or a job or anything like that, but a way to be. He was angry at being unable to express himself, and out of anger, he said, “I ain’t rich like you, I ain’t got no choice.”

  “Of course you do,” she said.

  “Don’t gimme that shit! What you know ’bout it?”

  “I know you don’t have to stay in the Crust. I know if you left, you might find you had other options.”

  He was about to snap at her again, but a thin droning sound caught his attention. He scanned the horizon.

  “What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Airplane comin’ low. Smugglers, maybe.”

  He spotted it, then. Silver speck glinting to the south, resolving into a twin-engine job. No more than a couple of hundred feet high. The rear door was open, showing blackly against the silver finish, and as the plane drew near, something fell from the door. Something with arms and legs that pinwheeled crazily down to land spread-eagled on the hardpan about fifty yards away, looking like an X marking buried treasure.

  “Oh, Jesus!” the gringa said. “It was a man, wasn’t it?”

  “Could be a woman.”

  The plane banked toward the east and soon was lost to sight.

  “Maybe he’s still alive,” she said. “Maybe we should go look.”

  “You go,” he said. “You wanna see blood and bone, you go look.”

  She peered at the unmoving figure, her face grim, registering shock. “He might be alive.”

  “What if he is?” Chapo said. “You wanna pick him up, take him to the hospital? Nearest one’s back in the Crust.”

  The figure seemed to be blackening and dissolving in the heat haze. The gringa continued to peer a few moments longer, then settled back into the shade, her lips thinned.

  They didn’t talk much after that.

  The last of sunset left a red seam of fire along the western horizon, as if north had become west, and the Crust was now ahead of them. The second night was like the first, except the moon was brighter and the gringa didn’t bother to smile. She rode with her head down, picking at frays in her jeans, and Chapo knew she was thinking about the dead man. He thought she might start a conversation about him, and he was glad when she kept quiet. What was there to say? That they should have checked him out? Shit! She should thank her stars it hadn’t been her. The man’s death had given Chapo a lucky feeling. Two nights without being spotted, and the desert had taken someone else instead of them. The signs were favorable. He realized he hadn’t been concerned thus far with whether or not they would reach Huayacuatla. The concept of survival had not been part of his plan; he had simply been acting upon some mysterious inner directive. But now he wanted to make it. Now he had hope.

  They didn’t arrive at the second hiding place until dawn: another rock, an immense red mushroom cap a hundred feet high. The hardpan had been eroded under its eastern edge, leaving a deep overhang. Chapo drove the jeep beneath the overhang, and worked feverishly at camouflage, finishing just as the fireball cleared the horizon. He poked around in the flaky detritus and stirred up a scorpion. Crushed it with his heel. They made a meal of beans and tortillas behind the jeep, and washed the food down with canteen water. The gringa dabbed water onto her face. In the pink glow she looked tired but more beautiful than she had the previous day, her features finer, as if a layer of drab insulation had been worn away. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and sat looking out into the new morning.

  Chapo couldn’t decide whether to sleep or do an upper. He was tired, but if he waited until afternoon to sleep, he’d be fresh for the night drive. He took a pill from his shirt pocket, rolled it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Hello!” somebody shouted.

  Chapo jumped up, knocking his head on the overhang with such force that he went back down to one knee. He grabbed his automatic and peeked from behind the jeep. Standing about thirty feet away was a wrinkled old Indian man wearing a straw hat and a grimy shirt and trousers of white cotton. When he spotted Chapo, he spread his arms and called out, “Welcome to my house!”

  “Who is it?” the gringa asked, leaning over Chapo’s shoulder.

  “Stay back!” He pushed her to the side and moved out into the sun.

  “Welcome!” the old man repeated. “My name is Don Augustín. And you?”

  “Chapo.”

  “And the gringa…How is she called?”

  “Anise,” answered the gringa from Chapo’s rear.

  He spun around. “I told you to stay back!”

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Don Augustín with a chuckle. “I won’t hurt you.”

  He was standing slightly forward and dead-center of a pair of large branching cacti; they looked like two weird, pale green soldiers flanking him. Beyond him, emptiness spread to the horizon. Chapo thought again about brujos.

  “Won’t you come into my house?” Don Augustín asked. “It’s been years since I’ve had visitors.”

  “Where is it?” asked the gringa.

  “My house? Behind you.” Don Augustín gestured at the rock. “It’s cool inside, and there’s water. You can wash and rest for your journey.”

  Chapo leveled the gun at him. “How you know we’re on a journey?”

  “Oh!” Don Augustín arched an eyebrow, and his wrinkles shifted into lines of good humor. “You’ve come to see me, then? I’m honored.”

  “We’ll stay here,” said Chapo.

  “I want to wash,” said the gringa defiantly. Before Chapo could stop her, she went a few steps toward the old man. “I don’t understand about your house.”

  “The rock’s hollow,” said Don Augustín. “Oh, you’ll like it, Señorita Anise. It’s beautiful…Not so beautiful as you, of course.” He delivered a gallant bow and gestured toward the far side of the rock. “If you will follow me…”

  “No,” said Chapo.

  Don Augustín came a couple of paces closer. “If I wanted to harm you would I have made so open an approach? No, I would have waited until you were asleep and”—he made a series of wild hacking motions—“chopped you into bits. I am a man of peace, Señor. When you enter my house, you also enter my place of worship, and I permit no violence there. And if it is magic you fear, the only magic here is the magic of this rock.”

  “Are you a brujo?” Chapo asked.

  “That’s not an easy question to answer.” Don Augustín tipped back his hat and scratched his head; despite his apparent age, his hair was jet black. “Perhaps I am, and perhaps I’m not. But if I am, I have never sought the wisdom—it has simply been visited upon me, and I have no real use for it.”

  Chapo was inclined to believe him, but he distrusted this inclination and gave no reply.

  “Please, Chapo.” The gringa put her hand on his arm. “He’s not going to hurt us.”

  “Listen to her, Chapo,” said Don Augustín. “She has the wisdom of innocence, and because this place is innocent, here she must be your guide.”

  From these words Chapo had the idea that the old man knew everything about them, and if that were the case, if he had that much power, there was no point in being cautious. “All right,” he said. “But careful, man. No tricks.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Don Augustín, and
grinned. “Such a big gun! I’d never risk myself against it.” And beckoning them to follow, he hustled off around the rock.

  Sheltered beneath an overhang on the western side of the rock was a narrow entrance that led downward into blackness. Chapo held the gun on Don Augustín and let the gringa explore the opening. After a second she called back, “Come on! It is beautiful!”

  “I told you,” said Don Augustín with a wink.

  Chapo forced him to take the lead, keeping a tight grasp on his shirt, and they entered together. Cool air washed over him, and in the moment before his eyes adjusted to the dimness he was overcome with fear; he had a sense of having intruded upon some inhuman presence, and he flung his arm around Don Augustín’s neck in a choke hold. But an instant later, though that sense of alienness did not diminish, he felt secure and at peace. Gradually the interior of the rock melted up from the dark. Four kerosene lanterns were set high on the walls at what Chapo took to be the cardinal points, and in their glow he saw that the center of the hollow—which was quite large, maybe seventy across and forty feet high—was occupied by a sunken pool. The water captured a sheen of the lantern light and seemed to be radiating a golden energy. Kneeling beside it, her head turned toward them, the gringa resembled a magical creature surprised in the act of drinking.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said, and Chapo could only nod.

  Ranged along the walls were stacks of books, bulging grain sacks, bundles of kindling, a pallet, and what appeared to be an altar on which rested a glowing cube. Chapo crossed the hollow to the altar and saw that the cube contained a silver rose. From moment to moment, the rose would become opaque and then solidify; it floated in brilliant eddies of its own light and was revolving slowly.

  “A hologram,” said the gringa, coming up beside Chapo.

  “Ah,” said Don Augustín. “So that’s what it was.”

  “Was?” said the gringa.

  “Everything changes into its ideal here,” replied Don Augustín. “That’s why I stay.” He laughed. “You should have seen me before I came. I was a truly despicable sort.”

  The gringa pointed at the rose. “And what is it becoming?”

  Don Augustín shook his head. “Who can say? I will watch and learn. But it is already a very important something.” He took the gringa by the shoulders and guided her a few steps toward the pool. “You must wash, Señorita Anise.”

  “But…” The gringa seemed flustered.

  “You are concerned by lack of privacy?”

  “I…yes…”

  “We will marvel at your beauty…nothing more.” Don Augustín gave her a gentle push forward, then took Chapo by the arm, led him to a pair of wicker chairs set at one end of the pallet, and urged him to sit. “Would you like some whiskey?” he asked. From behind his chair he withdrew a dusty bottle and two glasses, and poured them each half full.

  Chapo could not keep his eyes from straying to the gringa. Poised on the brink of the pool, naked to the waist, her nipples showing lavender against the milky skin of her breasts.

  “The feminine form,” said Don Augustín, raising his glass. “Even in its most unlovely incarnation, a miracle to behold.”

  Chapo drank, shut his eyes against the fire burning his throat, and heard a splash. He was disappointed not to have seen the rest of the gringa.

  Don Augustín smiled. “Why don’t you call her by name?”

  Certain now that he was in the company of a brujo, Chapo didn’t bother to ask how the old man had known this. “I don’t like it.”

  “It strikes you as artificial?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And yet it suits her, does it not? Contemplate the meaning of the word, Chapo. A clear intoxicating liquid with a complex and tart flavor. You really should use her name. I have faith you soon will.”

  Before Chapo could speak, the old man produced a vial from his pocket and held it up to catch the light. Within was a quantity of brown powder. “Perhaps you’d care to try some?” Don Augustín asked.

  Chapo grew suspicious. “I ain’t takin’ your drugs, man. You think I’m stupid?”

  “Try it, Chapo, and you will receive strengthening insights.” Don Augustín opened the vial and spilled a little into Chapo’s glass. “Once this was a powerful drug that wrenched the soul and left the body aching for days on end. But here it has become perfected, and before Anise returns, you will also have returned. And you will understand much that now you do not…though you may not realize it.”

  Chapo felt no compulsion to drink, and yet he did: what the old man had said seemed not coercive but reasonable. He experienced a brief anxiety and a sensation of vertigo. Then he was back to normal. Standing on the verge of an underground lake in a vast cavern, its ceiling thronged with stars. Awaiting the arrival of a golden boat that would bear him to the other side. The boat drew up to shore, rowed by men with muscular torsos and the heads of eagles. Chapo boarded and sat among them as they propelled him along in long gliding strokes. Their speech was like music, and though he didn’t recognize the separate words, he understood their meaning. They were counseling him to steadfastness, to resist wrong turnings, to moral wisdom. At last the boat reached the far side, and Chapo walked out into a world of such brilliance that every shape appeared to be shifting, alternately becoming larger and smaller. It was as if he were walking through a forest of living crystals that grew and changed in a rain of light. It was so bright that he could not see the companion who had met him at the landing, nor the king whose judgment he must endure.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” said Don Augustín.

  Chapo blinked to see the rough rock walls, the wicker chairs, the dimly lit pool beside which Anise was standing, doing the buttons of her blouse. “What was that place, man?” he asked.

  “Making decisions is difficult even for the informed.” Don Augustín removed his straw hat and ran a hand through his young man’s hair. “And of course you won’t think of this during the crucial moment. Just remember, Chapo. There’s no such thing as happiness. Only fools like the Americans pursue it. To use strength wisely—that’s the only happiness you can know.”

  Anise came walking up. She inclined her head and squeezed a few last drops of water from a cable of her long blond hair. Her skin shone. She looked brand new. “I had the oddest dream just now,” she said. “I mean I was awake, but I could have sworn it was a dream.”

  The three of them sat beneath the altar of the silver rose and ate a meal of stew and tortillas that Don Augustín had prepared over a small fire; the smoke from the fire was drawn toward the roof of the cave as if by a draft, but Chapo could see no smoke hole. Don Augustín told them stories of his days selling blankets at a roadside stall north of Oaxaca. How he had cheated the gringos. How he had met a magician who had been transformed into a donkey. How once he had become so drunk on pulque that he had crossed over into the world of drunkards, where sidewalks sometimes ran along the sides of walls and the metal of lampposts was often pliant, where reflections were doubled and shadows were prone to turn into an inky liquid and drain off downhill. Finally he made them a bed of empty grain sacks and advised them to rest. They lay close together, almost touching, gazing up at the hypnotic revolutions of the silver rose, bathed in its eerie light, and soon were fast asleep.

  The glow of sunset was shining through the cave mouth when they waked. Don Augustín was nowhere to be seen, but as they headed outside they discovered two objects lying just inside the entrance and knew without having to be told that these were his gifts. For Chapo there was a knife with a blood-red handle, and for Anise there was a blouse embroidered with a silver rose. Without the least sign of self-consciousness, she shrugged out of the one Chapo had bought and put the new one on. Only after she had done buttoning it did she display embarrassment. To make her feel at ease, Chapo pretended not to have noticed. They walked around to the white jeep, climbed in, and drove west toward a horizon brushed with streaks of slate and mauve, where the evening
star was now ascending.

  They reached the final hiding place several hours before dawn. It was the largest of the three rocks, resembling a miniature mountain chain with separate peaks and slopes, and it faced onto the first of a range of brown hills dotted with organ-pipe cactus. Centuries of wind had carved a deep bay into the rock, and they drove the jeep all the way in and covered it with mesquite. Then they climbed to the top of the lowest peak and lay down in a shallow depression from which they could see for miles in every direction. To the east, south, and north all was still. Under the full moon, the desert was a milky white plain flecked by a thousand shadows. But to the west among the hills there showed an intermittent green glow. Watching it flicker and vanish made the back of Chapo’s neck prickle.

  Anise edged closer to him. “What could it be?”

  “That’s where we gonna get gas.”

  “The village?” She looked horrified.

  “San Juan de la Fiebra. They a buncha crazy fuckers. Some gringo come a few years back and give ’em Stateside drugs. All kinda extreme shit. And he preached this weird religion…like it’s got Jesus, but other gods, too. You gotta watch your ass ’round there.”

  She stared out at the hills, her eyes narrowing as if focusing in on something he couldn’t see. “We’ll be all right,” she said flatly. “Ever since we met Don Augustín, I’ve known that.”

  Chapo grunted. “You can’t trust how brujos make you feel.”

  “It’s hard to believe that’s what he was.”

  “What else?”

  She thought about it. “I don’t know.”

  Pale clouds were drifting across the stars in the west, and Chapo wondered if the clouds were above the sea. He lay flat on his stomach, watching them cruise.

  “What are you gonna do after we get to Huayacuatla, Chapo?”

  “Head on back, probably.”

  She didn’t say anything, but after a couple of seconds she ran her hand along the back of his neck. The touch made him shiver. He didn’t look up.

  “Chapo?” She whispered it, her voice burred.

  He had to look at her, then. She was smiling just enough to show a sliver of teeth as white as the desert, and the centers of her all-colored eyes were pricked with moonlight, and her golden hair was outlined in stars. He felt he was falling up toward her.

 

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