Teresa of the New World

by Sharman Apt Russell

  For the first time, Teresa wondered . . . if this were such a bad thing. Did she wish to have been left behind with her tribe, dying later with her mother and aunts and baby sister? Would she choose now not to have met the Moor or Fray Tomás or the housekeeper? Or Horse or Pomo? Should her father have taken her with him to Spain? Or had Dorantes been right? Would the Inquisition have burned them as they burned so many others?

  And did any of that matter now? If her hard heart would not let her enter the earth, then she would leave that anger behind. She was her father’s daughter, practical and determined. She had not come this far to be stopped so easily.

  So easily, then, Teresa sank into the ground until the ground closed over her shoulders and rump and the backs of her legs, her leather skirt left behind, her yucca sandals and a strange twisted knot of dark-red stone, something for an Opata villager to puzzle over when he found her clothes and took them as a prize, something for someone many years later to look at and pick up and toss aside.

  Teresa reached out with her arms and parted the earth, kicking her legs as if swimming through the salty bay where she was born, until she glided into a bed of white and gray granite. Glittering pieces of quartz flashed like fireflies. By the light of this rock, she could see her hands flashing in front of her, too, as she propelled herself forward. Now she gave her heels another kick, swimming slightly upward and then straight ahead, parallel to the desert floor above. She knew that Pomo and Horse and Plague and the two Opata hunters had gone in this direction, for she could scent them, following their trail as a mountain lion might follow a deer through grass. She hunted the hunters, rippling under their feet.

  All around her, the earth seemed pleased, like a child who has convinced an adult to come play.

  18

  It was hard to keep track of time. Teresa swam through white granite with flashing crystals: quartz, mica, feldspar. Sometimes the air was tinged pink, and sometimes it darkened to light gray, but she could always see far enough ahead to feel comfortable, as though she were swimming through the water of a mostly clear pond. She had no fear of bumping into anything, for she glided through rocks of every size and texture. Nothing, really, was in her way.

  Above her on the desert floor, light exploded and shimmered over the dry land. There the hard rock would bruise her body, the cactus thorns make her bleed, the sun burn her exposed skin. In that distant difficult world, Horse plodded across the sand with Pomo slumped on his back and Plague by his side holding the end of a frayed rope. The two Opata hunters led the way. They walked carelessly. They felt important. Each step brought disaster closer to their village.

  When she concentrated, Teresa could hear those steps, the sound of horse hooves and sandaled feet reverberating through the earth. Once she found this small group, she kept pace with them, following behind and stopping when they stopped—which was not often. The Opatas were used to running all day. Teresa imagined how they had to force poor exhausted Horse, scolding in his ear, slapping his flank, only occasionally giving him sips of water from their cupped hands. She knew that Plague would stand aside then, pretending to busy himself with some other concern.

  She did not know any of this for a fact. She could not really see what the Opata hunters were doing. She did not know if Pomo looked better or worse. She wasn’t there when Horse stumbled or the boy cried out. She wondered if the shape-shifter Plague bothered even to leave fake footprints, or if he walked like a ghost and the hunters were too stupid to notice.

  The bed of granite curved in another direction, and Teresa moved now through hardened river sand, ripples of deposited brown, orange, and yellow. It was hard to keep track of time, but when Horse and the Opatas stopped moving and did not move again even as many minutes seemed to pass, Teresa guessed that it was night. They had been traveling all day. Now they slept.

  She did not feel the need to sleep. She explored a nearby field of red and purple rock. The rock barely remembered its fiery past, the day it shot molten from the center of the earth, flowing over trees and bushes and hissing into the shallow water of a broad lake. Eventually, the lake dried and rivers came from the north bringing sand and gravel, and those layers hardened, and now the rock drowsed under their weight, happy to be hidden again.

  Teresa examined herself, her arms and legs, five fingers on each hand, five toes on each foot. Her flesh seemed exactly the same to her. She could grasp her nose. She could tug her hair. Her skin was soft. What was different?

  For one thing, she had traveled all day without feeling hungry or thirsty or tired. Also, she noticed, her chest did not rise up and down with each breath. In fact, she was not breathing. She no longer needed air.

  I am feeding you, the earth whispered. The voice came from all around, top and bottom, every side, everywhere. You are drinking from me. Your food comes from me.

  I am no longer . . . human? Teresa asked.

  The earth had to think about this.

  You are human, the earth said finally, for I can feel you aging. I can feel your body changing in human time, not the time I know. Definitely, you are human. You could grow old here. You could die here. The earth sounded hopeful, as if this would be a good idea. I have so much to show you, the earth said.

  Yes, Teresa agreed, but only while they are sleeping.

  She followed the earth’s echoing call, here, here, here, across the field of red and purple rock to a limestone reef where she swam through the plants and animals of the sea, through curved shells, bony fish, and the long skeletons of monsters with pointed teeth and flippers and tails. She passed through the imprint of many-fingered kelp, and then through a forest of kelp taller than the tallest cactus, the tall plants seeming to sway rhythmically with the tide. She heard the drumming of waves in stone.

  Here, here, here! the earth cried with excitement, and now Teresa dove through the jaws of a predator for whom she would have been a bite and a snap. The creature’s power and menace still felt palpable, his thigh bones massive for the muscled strength with which he ran down his prey, his upper arms short with two claws on each hand for grabbing and seizing and tearing apart. Teresa got a glimpse of small gleaming eyes, still bright in the bones of his skull, and she shivered as she swam in and out of his ribs.

  Is this where he lived? she asked. Here with you?

  Oh, no, the earth answered. He lived with the others. And the earth told her about the fast-moving, egg-laying, gigantic creatures that had crashed through the vines and bushes and trees in the wet steamy jungle above, stalking each other, eating each other, whipping their enormous tails, mating ferociously, grazing in herds that stretched for leagues. They could make extraordinary sounds, hooting and whistling.

  They had tails and laid eggs? Teresa marveled. She thought of how lizards could move fast to dart under rocks and the roots of trees. In winter, they slowed down, hiding in their burrows.

  But no, the earth smiled, remembering. These animals never slowed down. They were always passionate. They had such strong emotions! I always wondered what they would do next.

  Teresa walked across a hardened lake bed. She had discovered that she could walk and run as well as swim. She could somersault and cartwheel. She could jump and leap and come to a stop. At the same time, she could also choose to sink into the very lake she was walking across, falling downward, drifting slowly or turning around headfirst and plummeting fast. She could stand, flap her arms like a bird, and fly up into a sky of stone. She could go wherever she wanted.

  One day, the earth continued its story, a change swept over the surface of the land. A wave passed through the hills and mountains. The ground shuddered, and the oceans roiled. After that, the giant creatures were gone. The earth rose up to cover some of them, like this one here, while the others broke apart into dust. Now in that steamy world, the small mammals that had lived under the giants’ feet grew bigger, more passionate themselves, more full of life until they roamed the grassland where the jungle had been.

  Teresa thought of t
he turtle shaking off its burden of people. The world did not end. But it changed.

  It is changing, the earth agreed.

  Teresa thought of Plague. The empty villages and the shape-shifters, slaves now, dying of disease, so many people dying, a wave of change sweeping over the landscape. Horse and Pomo.

  Pomo! Teresa thought. Although time seemed to pass in the usual way, it was hard to remember its passing, to remember or care about day or night on the surface above. Suddenly she wondered how many hours had gone by while she played, distracted, among the bones of monsters and forests of kelp. In the desert above, the bright sun might be high now, the morning come and gone—with Plague always hurrying the Opatas, anxious to reach their village.

  Quickly, she swam upward and then sideways, casting for the sound of footprints. At last, she heard them and listened more closely. Something was wrong. Someone was missing. The horse’s step was too light.

  Where was Pomo? Furious at herself, she backtracked, listening hard for the beating of a small boy’s heart, the pulse of blood in his feet where his feet touched the ground. When she heard that faint thump, thump, she felt further alarmed, for Pomo’s heartbeat was so weak. His heartbeat was like the end of a song, the last notes fading into silence.

  In a panic, she rose up—half out of the earth, half in the earth.

  On a stretch of white sand, Pomo lay on his side, barely breathing. He lay in the sun with no protection, no cotton shirt, no water or food, no one to take care of him. All along his naked body, Teresa could see the rash of sarampión, small red dots filling with pus. Soon they would crust and dry and fall away. She suspected that the boy’s fever had broken and the disease was no longer a threat to his life. Now it was the desert, the sun and heat, that would kill him. Quickly she spread her hands over the boy’s face, splaying her fingers to provide some shade. But she had nothing else to give, no way to help. It would not take long for the vultures to begin circling the sky.

  Why had they left him so unprotected? Teresa could only imagine the scene. Waking in the early light, lifting the unconscious boy onto the horse, the Opatas had finally seen the rash spread over the child’s skin. This boy was sick, not poisoned! The Christian witch had infected the boy! Oh, the hunters had heard of this illness, the fever burning and the rash spreading and all the children dying and many adults, too. Reasonably now, they did not want to bring a sick child into their village. That was no cause for celebration. Reasonably, they wanted to abandon Pomo here without further thought, without food or water—for that would be an act of mercy. The boy should die as quickly as possible. Reasonably, Plague did not object. Perhaps Plague had even encouraged this idea. The gift was given. Now the Opatas carried the gift in their bodies. Plague didn’t need Pomo anymore.

  Still half in the earth, Teresa looked about, straining to see something that would help the boy—a jojoba bush, a tall-limbed cactus. The air was so heavy, the ground was so hot, the sun was so bright.

  It was different in the earth. There she felt light, weightless, neither hot nor cold. Her hard heart had been left behind, and her new old heart beat just as well, just as strongly. There the light was dim and nourishing. The earth fed her and gave her its energy. The earth loved and protected her.

  Without thinking, Teresa reached out and took Pomo and pulled him to her chest. She felt the comfort of his body. Then she sank back into the rivers of stone.

  Pomo woke at the shock, and he was afraid. He wiggled against Teresa as she turned and kicked and propelled them downward with one arm. Holding him more firmly with both hands, she wasn’t sure at first how to move through the earth. Then she found herself pushing forward with the top of her head—a wrinkling of her brow, a determined thought. She pushed forward and glided. This was easier when she followed the veins of certain minerals running through the rock beds, as though these shining threads had already created movement. She pushed with the top of her head. She glided. She followed a streak of copper that chimed like the bells her father had once prized.

  But Pomo continued to kick and scream with more strength than Teresa would have imagined in a sick child. “Stop it!” she scolded, struggling to hold on to the thrashing boy. “It’s all right. You’re all right now!” She didn’t know if she spoke these words out loud or silently. In any case, Pomo ignored her, thinking himself in the grip of another dream, in the clutches of Plague. He twisted and turned, trying to escape, trying to bite her.

  He does not belong here, the earth said. Put him to sleep.

  That’s a good idea, Teresa replied as Pomo’s elbow punched her in the stomach. It was like holding a big slippery fish with teeth and nails. His skinny body bucked. His feet churned. How do I do that? Teresa asked, doubling over to catch Pomo before he fell.

  Just do it, the earth said. So she did.

  The boy’s body loosened. Teresa held him tight again and felt relieved and then anxious. She checked him quickly. Of course, he wasn’t breathing, and his eyes were closed, long lashes against the smooth cheek. But his face looked peaceful, and she felt the life, the warm blood flowing under his skin. She rested his body against her hip as she swam one-handed to a red rock slab rising up through lighter layers of sand. There she lay the boy down as though she were laying him on a bed in the Governor’s house—although in truth she had no idea of up or down anymore—and there she slowly took her hands away, glad to see he did not sink further into rock. His eyelids flickered. He drank from the earth. He fed from the earth.

  All the while, the disease would run its course. Although the fever was gone, the rash still had to heal, and the sores melt away. Meanwhile, Teresa only had to wait until Pomo got better and they could return to the surface and continue their journey.

  She wondered where they would go now that the wise woman was dead. Or had that been another trick? How could she believe anything Plague told her?

  And what about Horse? Plague and Horse and the Opatas were walking on now, closer to the Opata village. Teresa thought of how the hunters would return home triumphantly, how the women and children would rush forward to greet them. Everyone would be exclaiming. “Look, a horse!” “Look, here is an elder from another village!” “What good fortune!” “How lucky we are!” “Welcome, welcome!”

  Plague would smile charmingly. The villagers would kill Horse so that everyone could eat meat, and they would dance before a bonfire and drink yellow tea. Teresa imagined a young girl leaning against one of the hunter’s legs. “Have you brought me a gift?” the child asked. The Opata brought his face down to hers.

  Teresa straightened, decided, looked down at Pomo, and spoke to the earth: will you watch over him? Will you keep him safe?

  It has been a long time, the earth said, since someone like you has come to visit me.

  Does that mean yes? Teresa asked.

  The earth rippled with amusement.

  19

  Teresa rose up again toward the surface, the hot desert floor. Again she listened for the footsteps of the two Opata hunters, the hard hooves of the gelding. She glided back and forth underground, straining to hear and understand what she was hearing. There, yes. That was Horse. And there were the two hunters, walking faster now, for they had used up all their water and food and didn’t want to spend another night in the desert. They wanted to reach the village by dark.

  Teresa had to think about what to do. Under the Opatas’ quickening feet, she glided and hovered and plotted, not wanting to get too far ahead or too far behind. The hunters had to be in the exact right place. She had to do this exactly right.

  Finally they were where she wanted them to be—where two monstrous slabs of rock almost-rubbed against each other, where the almost-shuddering space ran just below the surface of the ground. Here in this gap, the two parts longed to touch and did not dare touch. The two parts created a tension, a pulling back and forth. What did these great slabs of rock want? What was pushing them away? What was pushing them together? Questions had gathered. The rocks almost-s
huddered with energy. They were almost-alive with energy. They shouted over and over in their great rock voice: What Should We Do?

  And Teresa put her mouth to the almost-shuddering slabs of rock and told them what to do. Move, she said.

  The rocks were still, as always, and then they moved. One slab buckled sideways. The other slab crushed against it, grinding in the opposite direction. The energy was released. The questions met, and the gap closed, sending a wave of excitement in every direction. For a second, the rocks were alive, a second of explosive joy, and then they were rock again.

  Teresa flew up to the surface, where everything had occurred in the best possible way—as much as she had dared to hope. In the earthquake, the two Opatas had been thrown to the ground. One was unconscious with a bloodied head. The other looked dazed, half-sitting. A crack had opened next to him, a jagged dividing line, the Opatas on one side and Plague and Horse on the other.

  Teresa came partly out of the earth, near where the hunters lay in shock and pain. Run, she told Horse. Can you run away?

  The gelding was badly frightened, and his front legs reared. Plague looked startled, too, barely holding on to the end of the rope. With satisfaction, Teresa saw Horse jerk so violently now that Plague lost control of him. The horse rose up again on his back legs, wheeling and turning. Run! Teresa shouted. Run, run! Her voice seemed to energize the animal further, and he galloped away for his very life. Every step weakened Plague’s power over him. With every step, the animal grew stronger, and his mind cleared.

  Meanwhile Teresa grabbed the hand of one unconscious Opata and the hand of the other dazed Opata and pulled at them as hard as she could. Determined, unstoppable, she dove back into the earth, dragging the two men behind her, willing the top of her head to propel her forward. She streaked down like a comet, using the weight of the two Opatas, adding them to the force and speed of her descent.