The Lightning Queen

by Laura Resau

  Grandfather sat in an exhausted heap beside Uncle, holding a limp, damp bundle of ruda leaves.

  “Everything all right?” I asked, more concerned for Grandfather than Uncle. Grandfather was usually asleep by this time of night. It took energy to perform a limpia, more than he now had.

  Grandfather nodded weakly. “Teo, will you sit with your uncle while he drinks the tea?”

  I was not enthused about being alone with Uncle in his soul-shaken state. Patients could react in all kinds of strange and unexpected ways after a limpia—from sobbing to laughing to beating the ground. But Grandfather needed my help. And I remembered what he’d said about finding strength to help those you hate. Those you think you hate. With a sigh, I said, “All right.”

  After bidding Grandfather good night, I sat on his now empty chair. Spark, Thunder, and Flash curled up by my feet.

  In the flickering candlelight, I watched Uncle sip his tea and wondered when I could leave to go to sleep.

  My eyelids were just fluttering shut when he spoke, in slow, soft words.

  “I left this village for the city three years ago, Nephew. I planned to work in construction, make money for a house, a big one, and a big piece of land.” He flung out his arms in a gesture of hugeness, splashing his tea. “I was going to come back here in a big, fancy car. I was going to find a beautiful wife.”

  He paused, looking at his feet, which were now bare. He’d taken off his pointy shoes for the limpia, leaving them in the opposite corner, out of place in the earthen-walled, dirt-floored room.

  “But you want to know a secret, Nephew?”

  “What?”

  “People there taunted my goat-hide sandals, said my feet were like animal claws.” He flexed his toes, spotted with oozing blisters. “They called me a backward indio, said I spoke Spanish like a fool. They cheated me out of my wages on construction jobs. When I complained, no one listened.”

  As he spoke, he stroked Spark’s velvet ears, the first time he’d given my animals any affection. The calming powers of her ears were working their magic on Uncle, tapping into his own tender spots.

  He leaned in closer and whispered, “I rooted through trash cans for food. I sat on the ground begging. Then I crawled back with my tail between my legs. Worst of all, I’ve treated my family the way I was treated.”

  Uncle reached down and picked up my skunk. He held Flash in the air, pointed the bushy tail at his own, tear-streaked face. “Go ahead,” he said. “Spray me, I deserve it.”

  Flash thought Uncle was playing. He squirmed out of his grasp, climbed onto his shoulder, and nibbled at his collar.

  “Why won’t he spray me?” Uncle said miserably.

  “He likes you now,” I observed.

  Uncle gave a quiet laugh, then ran his hand over Flash’s white stripe. “When I came back, I was ashamed I had nothing, nothing at all to offer a wife or anyone else. Then I saw that beautiful teacher with her fancy car, and I thought, Maybe it’s not too late. But I needed to offer her something, so I took my sister’s earrings.” He buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t think she’d notice.”

  Silence for a few moments. I had no idea what to say, so I tried to think of what Grandfather would say. “Do you want to change, Uncle?”

  He paused, stared at the ceiling as Flash nestled into his neck. “Yes.”

  Again, I channeled Grandfather. I’d seen him with so many patients, it was easy to imagine his responses and questions. “Will you work hard at it?”

  Uncle looked me in the eyes. “Yes.”

  “Then I will help you. Every day I will give you limpias and teas, and you must follow my instructions.”

  It felt strange hearing myself talk to Uncle this way, but it was how Grandfather spoke with all his patients, firmly, asking them questions, making sure they felt committed.

  After bidding Uncle good night, I walked across the courtyard toward my room. Spark and Thunder wobbled sleepily behind me, while Flash, most lively at night, darted in spirals around my feet. Inside, my mother sat in the corner, the lantern casting eerie shadows over her face. She cradled her earrings in her hands.

  I swallowed. “Are you all right, Mother?”

  She rocked with her earrings. I wished she would touch me with such tenderness, gaze at my face the way she gazed into the lifeless silver and gold.

  Kneeling at her side, I kissed her cheek. “I can help you, Mother. If you want to get better. Do you?”

  No answer.

  I put Flash into her lap, hoping he might make her laugh the way he did for Uncle.

  But she only shrugged off the skunk.

  I put her hand on Spark’s magic ears, but she quickly moved it back to the cold metal.

  Still on my knees, I begged, “Please, please, Mother. Let me help you.”

  Silence. I scooped Flash from the ground and gathered Spark and Thunder close and felt their warm, pulsing bodies, all feathers and fur and devotion.

  I hoped they would be enough.

  Buenos días, Teo, my friend for life!” Esma’s voice rang out across the courtyard, competing with the roosters’ morning crows. And a moment later, she came into view on the path, waving and loping along, swinging a red bucket.

  “Esma?” I sputtered. I’d been washing my face at the cistern, and now water dripped from my chin. I’d slept badly last night, knowing she’d be leaving today, Saturday. Now my grogginess vanished. I was suddenly alert and wide-eyed, as if a shooting star had just plopped in front of me.

  “How did you get away?” A bewildered grin took over my face. “And where are the kids?”

  “Back at camp. I’m free!” She spun in a joyful circle, and then grew serious. “I only have an hour before my caravan leaves. Let’s go to the river.” She tugged at my arm. “Come on!”

  I wiped my face on my shirt, then grabbed some tortillas and salt and lime for breakfast. And we headed into el monte, with my animals following. Thunder whistled and huffed, annoyed that I’d interrupted her own washing routine in the irrigation ditch, but Flash scurried happily along, always up for adventure. And Spark ambled sweetly behind us, munching on weeds and shrubs.

  As we walked, I couldn’t help staring at Esma, memorizing every last wild lock of hair poking out from beneath her scarf, every shell woven into her braids. “How did you manage this, Esma?” I asked, breathless. “More creative storytelling?”

  “Actually, no!” Her eyes lit up. “I woke up before dawn to someone hitting my head. I opened my eyes and there was my grandmother’s nose looming over me. She whispered, ‘Squash head, go out and fill this bucket with berries.’

  “ ‘But what about the toddlers and packing up?’ I asked.

  “She tugged my braid. ‘I’ll handle it,’ she said. ‘You go.’

  “ ‘But I’ve never even found berries before,’ I said.

  “ ‘Of course you haven’t, squash head. Maybe you can find a local to show you some.’

  “Again, she hit my head and stared at me, like we had a secret.”

  Gratitude toward the Mistress of Destiny filled me. “Your grandmother wanted you to find me,” I said slowly. “She wanted us to be together. She wants to help our fortune come true.”

  When we reached the boulder beneath the tree, Thunder resumed her preening and fluffing in the river, while the other animals curled up with us.

  Esma sang a tune beneath her breath as we squeezed lime and sprinkled salt on the tortillas. The melody of water was her instrument, and her voice mingled with its currents, as though her song came from a hidden spring inside the earth.

  After we ate the tortillas, Esma brushed the salt from her hands and said, “Let’s write our names in the dirt.”

  “I have something better,” I said, and pulled out the fresh pencil and notebook that Maestra María had given me, which I’d stuck in the sack with the food. “This is for you.”

  Esma held the gifts like precious jewels, and then opened the first pages, beaming.

  “I
wrote the alphabet for you, see?” I pointed. “And some words with pictures beside them. The rest of the pages you can fill up yourself with practice.”

  “Thank you, Teo. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  She put the notebook and pencil in her deep dress pocket and pulled out the business card. “I’ll have to hide these well. If any of my people knew I was learning to read …”

  “What?” I asked. “What would happen?”

  “Many years ago, before I was born, there was a Romani girl, back in Eastern Europe, the land my ancestors traveled. Her name was Papusza. Doll. She was a singer and poet, and she wanted to learn to read.”

  Esma stood up and began spinning. She didn’t sit still much. Inside her whirled the force of storms, which she had to let out. Still swirling slowly, she said, “So Papusza gave food to gadjé villagers in exchange for reading lessons and books. Then her family caught her. Beat her. Destroyed her books.”

  Esma paused in her spinning and gazed grimly at the horizon.

  My muscles tensed. “So what did she do?”

  “She kept at it anyway!” Esma said, head high. “She wrote her poetry and sang her songs, and then, one day, a famous poet, a gadjo, discovered her talent.”

  My heart flew. “So it was a happy ending.”

  Esma shook her head. Her hand reached out for Spark’s ear, and she rubbed it gently. “When Papusza entered the gadjé world, our people rejected her, declared her unclean. Marime. And the gadjé took advantage of her, used her songs for their purposes. Her sorrow was so deep, she lost her mind. Now she doesn’t sing or write poetry. She’s alone and abandoned, forgotten by the gadjé and scorned by my people.”

  Now Esma was rubbing both of Spark’s ears, one with each hand. Then she sank down beside me and pulled out the notebook and pencil and business card, staring at them.

  I shivered in the morning light. I wanted to grab back the notebook and pencil if they would lead Esma down the same path as Papusza. “Are you sure you want to do this, Esma?”

  “I’ll find a way to make my ending happy.”

  “But is that possible?”

  “Anything is possible, Teo.” She paused. “And I know that even if … even if I have to say good-bye forever to my people, you will be my friend. My loyal friend until the end of our long lives. And that makes me brave.”

  I reached out and tugged her braid. And then her other. “I’ll always be here for you, squash head.” Lightly, I tapped her temple.

  Her face softened. “When I leave, I’ll never see my grandmother again. So it will be up to you to remind me of her. How she taps my head and tugs my braid. How she calls me squash head.”

  “Sure,” I said, my heart thudding, not from fear now but from the opposite. “Just don’t make me start chewing on a pipe.”

  She laughed and leaned in to tap the brim of my hat. “Thanks, squash head.” She gave me a sad smile, leaned in farther, and said softly, “There’s more, Teo.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “What?”

  “Remember how we were camped with other caravans for a time? And I saved everyone from the fire?”

  I nodded and swallowed.

  “Well, it caught the attention of a horrible, old, ugly, widowed man. And he decided he wants to marry me, even with my lightning-struck hand and leg. My father made a deal with him.”

  My mouth grew parched. I struggled for words. “A-a deal?”

  “The geezer said he’ll pay a bride-price for me. He wants to marry me next year.”

  Black stars filled the edges of my vision, moving in. “Will you do it?”

  “Of course not, squash head! That man would suck the lightning right out of me. I’ll leave long before that happens.” She jutted out her chin, but her voice wavered, just a little. “I will be a famous singer.”

  “Esma,” I breathed. Our faces were close. “How can I save you?”

  “Just by being here,” she whispered. “Being you. My loyal friend for eternity.”

  “I promise,” I said. “I always will be.” I moved my face even closer, till our noses were nearly touching, and then I didn’t know what to do next, so I whispered, “Let’s scream.”

  She smiled and stood up. “Let’s scream.”

  And so we spun and screeched and spun. Thunder let out a disapproving whistle, and Spark just sat there, puzzled in her blindness, and Flash ran excited circles around us. The creatures and Esma soon became a patchwork blur as I grew dizzier and dizzier.

  Finally, breathless and hoarse, we collapsed on the ground. “You know,” I admitted, “sometimes I come out here and scream alone.”

  She smiled. “Scaring off the stream spirits?”

  “They’re long gone.”

  She tilted her head at me. “Why do you scream, then?”

  I looked at the sky. “My mother. It’s like she’s already gone. A ghost. I’ve offered to heal her, but she’s refused.”

  Esma was rebraiding her hair, and she paused to say, “Maybe you can only put the spark of life back inside someone who wants it.”

  “I wish she wanted it.” I hesitated. “And my grandfather …” I forced myself to continue. “I don’t know how much longer he’ll be here.” I shared my deepest fear. “I’ll be alone, Esma.”

  She adjusted her scarf, then quietly said, “You’re stronger than you think, Teo.”

  It was an echo of her grandmother’s fortune to me—the false fortune. Or maybe not so false after all. “But, Esma, you have lightning in your blood. You have powers. I’m just a regular boy.”

  She finished knotting her scarf at her nape. Then, matter-of-factly, she said, “Teo, I wasn’t struck by lightning.”

  A wave of something crushed me. Something sickening and heavy. Betrayal. “You lied to me?” I sputtered.

  “Creative storytelling,” she said sheepishly.

  It was one thing to do creative storytelling with others. Not with her supposed best friend for life. I’d shown her the deepest, most hidden pieces of me—about Lucita and my mother and father—while she’d been lying? I’d even told her the burning-drowning words. Why had I trusted her?

  Suddenly I was steaming with humiliation. Without a word, I stood up and walked away. My animals made scuffling sounds as they followed me. At least they were loyal friends.

  “Teo, wait!” Esma called out.

  I didn’t turn around. But I noticed my legs slowing, just a little, as her lopsided, running footsteps grew closer.

  She gripped my arm with her good hand. “Let me explain.”

  Her fingers dug into my flesh, as though she’d hang on forever if need be. Still, I could probably tear my arm away if I pulled hard enough.

  I didn’t. I didn’t because even though her lightning was a lie, it was there. It was there and it was zipping through her fingertips into my arm, through my blood, swirling and blazing in my chest.

  Gritting my teeth, I stopped beside a boulder and turned to face her. “So how did you get lame?” I asked, knowing she hated that word.

  With a sigh, she released her grip. She tapped her leg, held up her twisted hand. “Polio.”

  The word struck a deep fear, this disease everyone dreaded. My rage shifted to something else. “Then why … ,” I began.

  “I couldn’t bear to be weak, Teo. I couldn’t bear people calling me ‘the Lame Girl.’ ”

  I swallowed hard, wishing I could take back the word. This was Esma showing me her own deepest, most hidden spots—me, of all the people in the world. It was a gift for me alone, her friend for life.

  “I made myself into the Queen of Lightning,” she continued, fingering the coins at her neck. “And you know, after all this time talking about lightning in my blood, I’ve started believing it. I’ve started feeling it.”

  “Me, too,” I admitted. She could work magic. One moment, I’d felt hurt and angry. The next, honored that she’d confided in me. And now, inspired, as though anything were possible, if I believed it enough.r />
  She climbed onto the rock, raised her arms. “If you believe you’re weak, you’ll be weak. You’re cursing yourself. Yet if you believe you’re strong, you’ll be strong. Give yourself a fortune and make it come true.”

  Her words lodged inside me, the way the lightning had. It didn’t matter that lightning hadn’t actually struck her. It was there, illuminating everything she did, and now it had flowed into the currents of my own blood.

  In the distance, thunder rolled, a rumble through my bones.

  We looked to the horizon, where strange, yellowish clouds had gathered. And suddenly, Esma said, “Oh, no! I’m such a squash head. It’s been an hour, hasn’t it? I have to get back to my camp.”

  She held up the empty bucket. “Any chance we’ll find berries on the way?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. And then, with a smile, I climbed up beside her on the rock, spread my arms, and said, “Here is your fortune, my queen: In your bucket, very soon, there will appear berries!”

  Esma’s bucket was still empty as we approached her camp, bustling with people packing to leave. I slowed, breathing in the smoke and spice of their morning tea, not ready to say good-bye.

  But instead of stopping, Esma suddenly yanked on my arm and pulled me in a wide arc around the cluster of wagons. She ducked behind a bush and, in an urgent whisper, said, “I have to say good-bye to your grandfather.”

  “But your people—they’re about to leave.”

  “This is important!” she insisted, and took off running toward my house.

  Soon we’d reached the courtyard, where Grandfather was sipping chamomile tea, slumped in a chair. He straightened up and brightened when Esma came over. “Buenos días, Queen. Have a seat and some tea!”

  “I only have a minute,” Esma said, pulling up a chair. “I want to thank you. For helping Teo and me. For the Romani Business Appreciation Event. For everything.”

  “Thank you, Queen,” he said tenderly.