Night Vision df-18

by Randy Wayne White

  Jesus! Jesus!

  There was no intrusive scholarship in the book. No third-party guessing about what the Maiden had thought or felt.

  That small book was pure, like the Maiden herself. Tula carried it everywhere and had read it so often that her own patterns of speech now naturally imitated the passionate rhythms of the girl who had been chosen by God.

  Tula knew that imitating the Maiden’s style of speaking caused some people to look at her strangely, but she took it as an affirmation of her devotion. The book had been a great comfort to Tula on the journey from the mountains to this modern land of cars and asphalt by the sea.

  Tula had memorized several favorite passages. There were many that applied to her own life:

  When I was thirteen, a voice from God came to help me govern myself. The first time I heard it, I was terrified. The voice came to me about noon; it was summer, and I was in my father’s garden. I had not fasted the day before. I heard the voice on my right. There was a great light all about.

  Soon afterward, I vowed to keep my virginity for as long as it should please God…

  Tula had not been in her father’s garden, of course, when the Maiden’s voice first came. Her father had been murdered by the revolucionarios as Tula, age eight, watched from the bushes. The memory of what she had seen, heard and smelled was so shocking-her father’s screams, the odor of petrol and flesh-that her brain had walled the memory away in a dark place.

  Little more than a year later, when Tula began to feel at home at the convent, the dark space in her soul had opened slowly to embrace the Maiden’s light.

  Another favorite line from the book was: I would rather die than to do what I know to be a sin.

  When Tula whispered those words, she could feel the meaning burn in her heart. She had whispered the phrase aloud many times, always sincerely, as an oath to God. The words were clean and unwavering, like the Maiden’s spirit. Tula could speak the phrase silently in the time it took her to inhale, then exhale, one long breath.

  I would rather die than to do…

  … what I know to be a sin.

  Tula longed for the same life of purity, for it was the Maiden’s writing that had first sent her into the trees to seek her own visions. The Maiden, Tula had read, had often sought God’s voice in a place called the Polled Wood, in France, where she had sat in the branches of a tree known as the Fairy Tree.

  Tula doubted if she would ever see France, but Florida had to be more like Orleans than the jungles of Quintana Roo.

  It was strange, now, to sit in a Florida banyan tree so far from home, watching the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. The Maiden’s visions, Tula remembered, were always accompanied by bright light, which caused the girl to concentrate even harder on what she was seeing.

  The lights pulsed blue and red, exploding off the clouds, then sparking downward, rainlike, through the leaves. The lights were brighter than any Tula had ever seen, lights so piercing, so rhythmic, that they invited the girl to stare until she felt her body loosen as her thoughts purified and became tunneled.

  Soon, Tula slipped into a world that was silent, all but for the Maiden’s voice-Jehanne, her childhood friends had called the young saint. Jehanne’s voice was so sure and clear, it was as if her moist lips touched Tula’s ear as she delivered a message.

  It was a message Tula had heard several times in the last week.

  You are sent by God to rally your people. The clothing of a boy is your armor. The amulets you wear are your shields…

  Fear not. I speak as a girl who knew nothing of riding and warfare until God took my hand. We drove the foreigners away because it was His will. He provided the way.

  You, too, are God’s instrument. You will gather your family in this foreign land, and free them from their greed. You will lead them home again, where they can live as a people, not slaves, because it is His will.

  Trust Him always. He will provide the way for you.

  Tula loved the solitude of trees. She loved the intimacy of this muscled branch that was contoured like a saddle between her legs. Once, as the saint’s voice paused in reflection, Tula found the nerve to whisper a question with a familiarity that she had never risked before.

  “Jehanne? Holy Maiden? I think of you as my loving sister. Is this wrong? I have to ask.”

  I am the God-light that lives within you, the Maiden’s voice replied. We are one. Like twins with a one soul.

  Sisters? Tula hazarded, thinking the word but not speaking it.

  Forever sisters, the Maiden replied. Even when you leave this life for the next.

  For more than two hours, Tula had sat motionless in the tree as the Maiden spoke to her, providing comfort and the governing voice of God. She was only vaguely aware when her patron, Tomlinson, walked beneath the tree, calling her name, followed by the large man with eyeglasses. Whose name, she had learned, was Dr. Ford.

  There was something unusual about her patron ’s friend, she realized vaguely, as the two hurried past. Something solid and safe about Dr. Ford… But the man was cold, too. His spirit filled Tula with an unsettling sensation, like an unfamiliar darkness that was beyond her experience.

  The girl didn’t allow her mind to linger on the subject, and she was not tempted to call out a reply because she was so deliciously safe. Her body and heart were encased by the Maiden. The Maiden’s lips never left her ear.

  Even when the flashing lights vanished from the tree canopy, Tula continued sitting because Jehanne continued to speak, whispering strong thoughts into Tula’s head.

  The Maiden’s words were so glory filled and righteous that Tula thought she might burst from the swelling energy that filled her body. It caused blood to pulse in her chest, and in her thighs, until her body trembled. It was a throbbing sensation so strong that she felt as if she might explode if the pressure within didn’t find release.

  You are sent to rally your people. You are sent by God…

  The first time Tula had heard those words was only seven days ago, her first night in Florida. She had been sitting on this same thick branch, new to the large banyan tree.

  Those words had been a revelation.

  Tula had come to El Norte to find her mother and family, yes. But in her heart she knew there was a greater cause for which God had chosen her. Why else would the Maiden risk guiding her to El Norte, the direction of death?

  On that night one week ago, Tula had been so moved by the revelation that, as she returned to her trailer, she had stopped to address adults who, every evening, collected around a fire to drink beer and laugh.

  It offended Tula the way the adults were behaving because she feared her mother had behaved similarly after she had abandoned her own family. Even so, the girl had stood silently, feeling the heat of fire light on her face, listening and watching.

  Gradually, Tula became angry. The Maiden had ordered her soldiers and pages not to drink alcohol or to sin with loose women and dice. She had counseled her followers to pray every day, and to never swear.

  These adults weren’t soldiers, but they were all members of the same mountain people. They were Maya, they were Indigena, like her. And Tula knew it was wrong for them to be living drunken, modern lives so removed from the families they had left behind in the cloud forests.

  Tula stepped closer to the fire. She cleared her throat and waited for the adults to notice her. Soon, as voices around her went silent, Tula let the French Maiden guide her Mayan words.

  “If your children could see you now,” the girl asked in a strong voice, “what would they think? What would your wives and husbands think? I am speaking of the families you left behind in the mountains. Your real families. Do you think they are consorting with drunken neighbors, lusting after money and flesh? No. They are asleep in their palapas. Their hearts are broken and lonely from missing you.”

  Tula was surprised by her own confidence, but more surprised by the angry reaction of the adults. Men sat in a moody silence for a moment, then
began to jeer and wave her away as if Tula’s opinion meant nothing. The women were indignant, then furious. They swore at her in Spanish, calling her a stupid boy who had sex with animals. And the matron of the group-a squat, loud woman-picked up a stick and threatened to thrash Tula unless she ran away.

  Tula had stood her ground, looking into the woman’s eyes as she approached. Tula was unafraid, for, in that instant, she experienced something strange. She sensed the Maiden melding into her body, bringing with her a heart so strong that Tula felt a profound and joyous confidence that she had never before experienced.

  “Sisters?” she had asked the Maiden.

  Yes. Even when you leave this life for the next.

  Tula had doubted the promise at first but now she knew they were Jehanne’s own true words.

  As the matron drew near, Tula had smiled, saying softly, “Strike me if you wish, but I will only turn the other cheek. First, though, tell me why you are so angry. Do you hate me for what I said? Or do you hate me because what I said is true?’

  The matron had sworn at her and swung the stick in warning but then stepped back because Tula did not flinch. Still smiling, Tula had said to the woman, “Do you remember the goodness of God that you felt as a child? He is still there, in your heart. Why do you fight Him so?”

  That stopped the matron, and she listened more closely as Tula told her, “You came to El Norte because you love your family. God knows that. It is the same with everyone here, is it not? Only you know how painful it is to be a mother or father who cannot afford food for their children’s table.

  “But do you also understand how hurtful it is to lose your mother in exchange for a bundle of pesos sent weekly from the United States? Children need their parents more than money or food-that’s why I’m here. I have come to lead my family home.”

  Then Tula had asked the woman, “Who did you leave behind? A son? A daughter?”

  The woman’s expression transitioned from anger to uncertainty. “What business is that of yours, stupid child?”

  Tula was aware of the Maiden inside her, exploring the woman’s thoughts, but the Maiden did not share what she was learning.

  “You left behind a husband and children,” Tula guessed, feeling her own way. “You planned to return, but here you are. How many years has it been?”

  It took a full minute before the matron spoke, but she finally did. “Two children,” the woman replied, sounding weary now and a little unnerved. “Our first child, she died, so there were three, not two.”

  The woman looked at the group as she added, “I must stop saying that I have only two children. My third child, her name was Alexandra, but only for nine days. She is with God now. I should have told you this.”

  Tula had glanced at the man with whom the woman had been sitting and knew he wasn’t her husband. The woman was an adulteress, but Tula did not say it. For some reason, she felt kindly toward the woman despite the woman’s sins and respected her sadness.

  Instead, Tula said, “You are a good women, I feel that is true. It has been several years since you have seen your family, yet you have not abandoned them. I know I’m right, I can see God’s own goodness in your eyes. You are a devoted mother. How many times a month do you send money?”

  The woman replied, “Every week, I cash my check at the Winn-Dixie, then pay cash to the Western Union clerk at the cigarette counter. At Christmas, I send three checks. In four years, I have never missed a week. Even though my husband has taken another woman, I still send the money.”

  As an aside to the adults the woman added, “I’ve heard that my children now call this new woman mother. It is something I have been ashamed to share. I don’t know why I am telling you now.”

  When Tula reached to place her hand on the matron’s shoulder, the woman shrugged the hand away, getting angry again-angry not at Tula but because she was so close to tears.

  “Leave me alone,” the woman said. “We are adults, we’ve worked hard all day in the fields. Now we are relaxing, what business is this of yours? Go play with your little penga instead of harassing good men and women.”

  “Maybe you know my family,” Tula had pressed. “My mother’s name is Zabillet. Here, people call her Mary. My brother’s name is Pacaw, but sometimes Pablo. He left home six months ago. I have two aunts and an uncle in Florida, too, but I don’t know where.”

  The woman seemed to be paying attention as Tula added, “My mother came to El Norte four years ago, when I was only eight. Like you, she sent money every week. There is a phone booth outside the tienda in our village, and every Sunday night I was there, waiting, when she called. Two months ago, though, my mother stopped calling. And the number to her cell phone no longer works.”

  “It’s because of the coyotes and the field bosses,” a man sitting nearby explained. “They control us by controlling our telephones. Everyone knows that, unless you’re stupid. You must be stupid. Why does that surprise you?”

  Tula replied, “It doesn’t surprise me. Not now. Not since I’ve learned how the Mexican coyotes cheat us. They charge us pesos to come to El Norte. Then they charge us dollars to provide us with work and a place to sleep, and a telephone that they can disable at any time. But when my mother stopped calling, I knew something was wrong.”

  Sounding impatient, another man said, “We were enjoying ourselves before you interrupted. Now you stand here, asking rude questions. Our Indigena sisters and brothers arrive in Florida every day, but we don’t ask their names. We mind our own business. If you have lost your mother, go to Indiantown and ask the Indigena there. Or go to Immokalee. It is only an hour’s drive in a truck.

  “If your mother is in Florida,” the man continued, “the Maya of Immokalee and Indiantown will know-there are many thousands of us in those villages. Now, please get out of my sight. I did not work all day in the sun to have my beer interrupted by a disrespectful child who criticizes his elders.”

  Immokalee.

  Tula had heard of the town, of course. It was one of the last places her mother had lived prior to her disappearance. Tula had heard of Indiantown, too. Everyone in Guatemala knew of these villages because they were the largest Mayan settlements in Florida. In these places, Tula had heard, the Indigena sang the old songs and spoke the ancient language, not the bastard tongue of the Mexicans.

  Tula said to the man, “I appreciate your advice, but you are wrong about me being disrespectful. I said what I said, but the words are not mine. You do not understand who I am. Look at me closely, perhaps you will.”

  “The nerve of this mericon!” one of the men chided. “He is a dirty little faggot. See how he poses and struts, as if he is more important than his elders?”

  “Doubt me if you wish,” Tula said in a firm voice, “but I will not listen to your profanities. Look at me. Don’t just use your eyes, use your heart also. I have been sent here by my patron saint. I am unworthy, just a stupid child. But I am also an instrument of God. So be careful how you speak to me.”

  There! She had finally said aloud what she had never had the courage, or conviction, to share with anyone. Tula was afraid for a moment how the people would react.

  She could feel the adults looking at her, their faces suspended above the fire as brown as wooden masks worn at festival time in the Mayan mountains. As the men and women stared, Tula felt her body transforming as she stood erect, chin angled, and she wondered if the adults would correctly perceive the changes that were taking place within her.

  It was something that Sister Lionza had been teaching Tula at the monastery, the art of projecting thoughts-the first hint that the nun was preparing her for membership in the Culta de Shimono.

  Thoughts are energy. Our thoughts are sparks from God’s eyes. Devote your thoughts to an image. Picture that image with all your heart. Soon others will see, with their eyes, the image that lives in your mind.

  In Tula’s mind, as she posed by the fire, she envisioned a precise picture of herself the way she yearned to look. Her
jeans and ragged shirt were armor molded to her body by firelight. The amulet and medallion that she clutched were now a glittering shield.

  Yes, Tula decided. The adults saw that her body had been transformed. A few of them, anyway. It was in their eyes, both respect and wonder. She felt sure enough to say, “I’m only a child from the mountains, but I have been transformed by my patron saint. Don’t be uneasy, don’t be afraid of my strange dress. The Maiden speaks to me and she speaks through me. She provides me words for you that I believe are words from God.”

  Voices around the fire muttered, asking about the Maiden-what did the name mean?-while Tula continued speaking.

  “The Maiden has told me that this land will never be our home. Our home is in the cloud forests of the mountains. It is in the jungles where our ancestors built pyramids that rivaled the greatness of Egypt. She has told us to think back and remember our home. And the love we have for it. It is true that we do not have shiny red pickup trucks in our yards. Or televisions with large screens. But what good is a red truck when it cannot drive you to your family?”

  Tula sensed emotion in the people her words touched just as she could also hear the whispered grumblings of those who did not see or believe-men mostly, but also a few women who got to their feet, speaking insults and a few whispered profanities.

  The matron, however, was not among them. She had stared at Tula with glistening eyes.

  “You speak to God?” the woman asked. “How do we know you are not lying?”

  Jehanne had been asked this same question many times by her inquisitors, so Tula used the Maiden’s own words to answer.

  “I do not speak to God. He speaks to me. Any other way would be improper. Who am I? I am a poor, stupid child. The voices that direct me come from Him. I believe this truly in my own heart. I am his instrument; only a messenger instructed by the words of my patron saint, the Maiden.”

  The woman, near tears, replied, “I don’t know why I believe you, but I do. It must be true, for you looked into my heart and told me what I was feeling. I miss my children. I miss my village, and the cooking fires and the odors of my girlhood. What did you say to us about God being in us as children? I can’t remember your exact words-”