Savior

by Caplan, Anthony

  Did you bring me sacrifices and offerings,

  forty years in the desert?

  He knelt at the altar and prayed a wordless prayer.

  Seven—Evelio

  The rain stopped and they walked the road up the mountain following the traces of branches left by the old woman. There was no sign of any human habitation or presence besides the occasional green stick she had scattered on her way. The screech of howler monkeys echoed across the range. Neither of them spoke. Ricky hunched over like an old man, occasionally straightening his shoulders and standing tall as if sorting out the signals of the wind. Al had his hands in his pockets, deep in thought. Rainwater gurgled in the ditches and cut across the narrow rutted road. There were still a few hours of light.

  Foraging, Ricky pulled out a pack of gum from the backpack.

  Oh wow. Look at this. I forgot about this. You want some, Dad?

  Yeah, sure.

  Ricky shared a stick of gum. The sweetness of it sparked a surge of relief that almost reached to Al's tired feet.

  Dad. You want to turn around?

  A little more, Ricky.

  There's no sign of horses.

  No. Oh, but look at that.

  Ricky reacted with dismay to the sighting. Several piles of washed-out horse manure lay ahead of them on a bend of the road.

  Crap, he said.

  That’s good, Ricky. That's exactly right.

  Dad. I'm starving. Aren't you hungry?

  Push yourself harder, Ricky. Give it a little more effort.

  Okay, Dad. Whatever.

  You kids don't know what it means to struggle, Ricky. To fight to get ahead. We got to keep going to find this guy. You'll see.

  Al stopped at the bend and looked around. Ricky trudged on ahead up the road.

  Hold on, Ricky.

  What, I thought we were struggling to get ahead. Now I've got to wait?

  Let me think.

  From the spot where Al stood, he could look out to the southwest and see the coast in the distance. He imagined there were submarines somewhere in his line of vision. It was starting to get dark. Ricky would get over this unexpected bout of privation. But it was better to start back down. He knew Evelio was up there somewhere, but he doubted now that they would get lucky enough to find him on this road.

  As they stared out into the distance, the two of them standing side by side, Al had the sense that Mary was watching from above. He looked up at the clouds, the blues and purple shadows, the ridges and valleys. She was up there somewhere reaching out and touching him with her presence. He wished he could also share this with Ricky, but there were some things that were still best left unspoken. They both heard the car at the same time. It froze them, as if an intruder had broken in.

  It was coming from the road below, climbing up the switchbacks toward them.

  Ricky, let's get off the road.

  He and Ricky jogged. The pack on Ricky's back jiggled as he tried to get the straps around both shoulders. As they splashed through the water of the ditch, Al turned and saw the jeep bucking over the rocks. In the dusk it looked yellowish, not obviously a Policia Nacional vehicle. Two men were in the front seat, the one of them longhaired and youngish, the other an older man of indeterminate appearance. Ricky dove behind a boulder for cover. Al knew they'd been spotted and stopped above the ditch, eventually waving the jeep down as it came up the road beside him. It stopped, idling, and Al walked over.

  Evelio was in the passenger seat. The driver was a guy in his late twenties maybe, American. But there he was, riding shotgun, the same Evelio, rugged face, quick, flashing dark eyes, just older, cheeks more sunken, eyes more hollow.

  Hey, Ricky. Come on out. Here he is, shouted Al triumphantly.

  What's goin' on? asked the driver with a soft Southern drawl.

  We were looking for this man here. Hola, Evelio.

  Buenas tardes, said Evelio, a distant, unfocused smile playing across his face. Ricky came across the road.

  This is our son. He was ten years old the last time we saw you. He rode Tejas.

  Ricky smiled sheepishly.

  We found him, Ricky.

  Yeah.

  Well, well, said the driver. Y'all look like you might need a ride. Why don't you hop in the back and we'll go on up the mountain.

  Ricky and Al scrambled around to get inside, Al scampering like a young man.

  I can't believe this, Evelio. Do you remember the three of us? It was five years ago. You took us to the waterfall, said Al giddily.

  Possible I remember, said Evelio.

  It was hard to hear with the noise of the engine.

  They traveled up the mountain for perhaps a mile. The land around them was wooded, with steep ledges. Then the road leveled off and went through some fields, fenced off with barbed wire attached to coppiced trees. Two or three cows were grazing on the incline by the fence and dim shapes of horses could be seen in the distance. The jeep came to a stop in front of a small shack sided with rough sawn timber. A dog, the largest they'd seen in the country, barked and strained at his chain by the side of the house.

  Quieto, Lobo, said Evelio, going over to the dog and silencing him with his hand held out, palm flat to the ground over the dog's head.

  Is this your house, Evelio? asked Al.

  Yes, you are welcome.

  We're here, Ricky.

  The young American was opening the door of the shack, putting his shoulder against it to wedge it away from the frame.

  Y'all can come in as soon as I get the lights on, he said, once the door had cracked open.

  They could hear the sound of a generator going, and a light flickered on. Evelio smiled, his teeth glittering white in the almost dark. He motioned for Ricky and Al to go in.

  The light bulb was swinging from its cord stapled to the ridge beam. The generator was humming, a not unpleasant sound in the night up this far on the ridgeback of the central highlands. Against the far wall was a counter with a sink and a gas stove beside it. A small table sat in the middle of the floor and a cot against another wall. Shelves next to the cot held clothes and some boxes of odds and ends. Behind the door were a chainsaw, the generator, and a plastic jerry can of gasoline. It didn't look like the generator was vented, but the door stayed open, and the young American was opening another small window over the sink. Up this high there were probably no bugs at night.

  Evelio put on a kettle of water.

  You like coffee?

  Yes, please.

  Where are you from? asked the American.

  Florida. Listen, we came all this way not because we're crazy. I thought Evelio could help. But in town, you’re like a leper, Evelio. Last time I saw you, you gave my wife and me good advice. You said we needed to be prepared for hard times. You said it was everyone's responsibility to take care of themselves and not expect the government, any government, to be there for you.

  For true, said Evelio.

  His position probably hasn't changed much, said the American.

  What's your name? asked Al of the young man.

  Noah.

  I'm Al and this is my son Ricky.

  You mentioned the town. What town? asked Noah.

  Well, San Juan Grande. We were trying to locate Evelio. My wife loved him. She's dead now.

  I'm sorry for you, Mister Al, said Evelio.

  I'm not clear at all on what you expect out of Evelio.

  Ricky stepped forward out of the shadows.

  Look, we just spent a whole lot of time and my father's not being clear because, well, he's exhausted. This Evelio guy, I can't believe he's even real. And here we are. So just listen.

  Whoah. That was out of line, Ricky. He's only just trying to help.

  Caballeros. Un cafe, said Evelio, pouring out the black liquid through a sieve into four small plastic cups.

  The coffee tasted fine, not too bitter. Al looked around the table. Evelio had a weighty silence about him as if he knew something the others needed to know. Al de
cided to open up with his needs, damn the presence of Noah who was so protective and vigilant.

  Look, Evelio. The world is a crazy place. You and I know that.

  Yes.

  But what is the problem with that? It's always been a crazy place. Why do I feel like the changes are so threatening? Without my wife, I feel lost. Like maybe. . . I'm losing my mind. Do you know?

  You are not losing your mind, Mr. Al. There is a moment when the earth crack open. The Mayas knows what is that moment.

  So what are we supposed to do? I feel like the sheep are lost and the shepherd is asleep.

  Yes, and the wolves are circling, said Noah.

  What is that, the Santos Muertos phenomenon? asked Al.

  That is the most problem. This is my enemy, said Evelio.

  Al, what do you know about them? asked Noah.

  I was thinking it was mainly the overblown imagination of some lunatic, but lately Ricky and I have seen them everywhere we go. Who are they and what do they want?

  They are the enemies of humanity, and the incarnación of la maldad. Samael Chagnon. He is the jefe. He has given his heart to the devil para sacarle el poder. He will do every thing and nothing stop him, said Evelio.

  Who is this guy? Al turned to Noah for more information.

  Chagnon? He's a kind of a brilliant mind gone around the bend. MIT grad with advanced degrees in chemistry and neuroscience. From a landed Colombian family. Apparently got into mystical religion and spent years in the mountains of the Guajira peninsula in a cave attracting disciples, and then popped up in Michoacán in the nineties with a drug gang that rivaled the Zetas. Called themselves Los Santos Muertos. We don't really know exactly who they are yet. But they've got some crazy capabilities, which lead me to think they represent a fundamental threat.

  And who are you?

  I'm sorry. I'm ostensibly the regional coordinator with Birdlife International? Evelio contacted us back in May to help him out with a land dispute with the San Juan Grande Cloud Forest Reserve. Originally it seemed they wanted to sanction him for some of the conservation work he was doing.

  They want to kill me. They have been bought by the Santos Muertos. They have killed my good friend Wilfredo Montecinos.

  Montecinos? The nature poet?

  Yes. Guatemala's most beloved artista internacional, said Evelio.

  I've heard about him. He's missing, isn't he? Nobody knows what happened. They suspect foul play, said Al.

  They are everywhere, Evelio continued. They have bought the cruel and the estupid and killed or silenced the best. Mientras tanto, nature suffer in silence. The winds from the south are not coming. The bird have no nest for her children. The frog is disappearing. The tree of the cordillera is dying. El planeta está en peligro.

  Danger. I've heard that before. But why?

  A dead world is for their interest. They are the bringers of death, la Santa Muerte.

  So the question I have is what are their plans as far as global warming?

  They're all for it, you've got to presume. They certainly have no regard for wildlife. We've seen that in some of the clearcuts, said Noah.

  What are they clearing?

  Landing zones for their aircraft.

  Really?

  Yeah. Like supersonic stealth hovercraft, man.

  I see.

  Evelio hunched in his chair, in the light of the electric bulb, contemplative, hard to read.

  Al drank the rest of his coffee. It was time to get home to Florida. He felt he had done his duty by Mary's memory, coming up here and finding Evelio. But there was nothing tangible to be gained from staying any longer. It was a quixotic mission and it had been accomplished. As if reading his mind, Evelio stood and walked around the table and put his hand on Ricky's shoulder where he stood behind his father.

  You are a good rider. You had Tejas. I remember. Valiente para uno tan joven, he said. How you say, eh, brave boy.

  Ricky looked down at the floor, embarassed. Evelio looked over at Al.

  He is like you, but a father at the same time must know when is good for the boy must to be a man.

  Al creaked in the chair as he shifted his weight.

  Yes, but. . .

  Mr. Lyons, you and the kid have entered a war zone. This is not for the feeble minded. The LSM will follow you now wherever you go. I can't in good conscience let y'all leave tonight, said Noah, standing.

  That's okay. We just need to be at the airport in two days.

  It was pitch black. Evelio wandered out with some meat in a bag to take care of the dog. Noah had turned on the gas range and had taken a skillet out from underneath a shelf, and was cracking eggs into a plastic bowl. Ricky and Al sat at the table. There was a basket with some crusts of hard bread. The meat was frying with some onions on the skillet. The mixed smells rose and wafted through the cabin, and the sound of the sizzling meat, along with the smell, made it seem almost like a positive experience despite the sudden claustrophobia Al was feeling. Evelio came inside and closed the door.

  They ate together at the table, and Ricky and Al stared at each other in the silence. Al tried to gauge his son's mind in order to know himself what to think. The meat was hard to chew. It was beef, but a particularly hard and tough cut. Al guessed it might even have been an ox grown too old to haul a cart. There were no bugs, but there were bats that flew in and out the open window. He hoped Evelio would make another batch of coffee. Noah had unlocked a cabinet and was taking down some rifles. They were automatics, short, ugly Uzis, three of them lined up like sticks on the floor and boxes of nine-millimeter bullets next to them. Then he started loading clips with bullets, pushing them in one by one, until he had twenty or so in each clip. Then he went outside. Ricky and he were alone at the table.

  Dad, Ricky whispered. Let's go.

  Where?

  Out of here. Let's get back to the hotel tonight. It's stopped raining. I don't want to stay.

  Ricky wanted to go. That was his wake up call. There was something irrevocably right about Ricky's sense of danger. They needed to get away, to get back to the hotel. This was some kind of hell of another's making. He had needed that, Ricky funneling down and making the call, in order to wake up.

  Al stood up, scraping his chair against the concrete floor. Noah came back in and walked over.

  You want something to drink?

  Yeah, maybe some water.

  Sure. Just use the sink. The tap water's fine. There's a dug well. We had some of our staff come in and dig it. Some contractors from Mobile up here moonlighting.

  Okay.

  Al filled up a plastic glass with water.

  Ricky had his daypack in hand and was by the door, looking at Al anxiously in the dim light of the bulb. There was a moment's glance between them, and Al recognized a depth of understanding he'd never seen before, a darkness behind the pupil that indicated some perception alien to him.

  Yes. Ricky knows, he thought.

  He put the glass down on the table and walked to the door. A bat flew in between the cracked door and the frame, flitting past Ricky's head. They both ducked. Al fought the impulse to look back. They were outside in the darkness. A smudge of stars to the south marked the infinity they'd stumbled upon. Evelio and the dog were around the corner of the house by the shed. The dog growled and then whimpered as Evelio scolded it.

  Callate, Lobo.

  Ricky led the way across the yard. Al heard the aircraft at the same time as the lights went on above and all around them. Ricky started to run and Al followed, but there was no way to see in the blinding light. He stumbled and fell and heard the staccato blast of machine gun fire and then the explosion of rocket fire directed at the house. The blast singed his skin, and he huddled in a fetal position.

  Dad, come on.

  Ricky was dragging him to his feet. Behind Ricky he could see silhouetted figures approaching in the lights, the strange planes hovering about ten feet above them.

  Ricky, run! He pushed his son out of the wa
y and kicked at the running body coming at them. His instep made contact with the bone of the man's skull, and the man's body crumpled to the ground, inert.

  Dad! Ricky was calling him from the trail. He turned to follow the voice. About to run, he felt a crack on his head and his knees giving way. That was the last thing he felt.

  Eight—La Aurora

  Ricky had run through the dark down the mountain like a bat guided by an instinct for flight that was more like love than sonar. He thought of his mother as the pack bounced on his back and explosions rocked the night behind him. Fear flooded his mind, and a black cave opened in his chest that was his heart exploding. He tripped and fell headlong down a chasm, landing in a stream. There he crawled between the rocks and nursed his chin where he'd landed and had opened a bleeding gash on it. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to know. Up there, back at the mountain hut, he'd left his childhood behind.

  In a semi-conscious dream state, he saw his mother. She was dressed in a gown and smiled at him from behind a kitchen counter in the house in Florida. There were no more explosions. Nobody was coming after him.