Life in the Shadows

Chapter One

The Hidden Stairwell
A kind of quiet severity crept through the house like a nurse on death watch, it dared not make a sound lest the spirits of heaven or hell should hear it and wake fitfully. There was nothing. He sat there, on the moth eaten sofa, muscles tensed for whatever doom lurked in the stairwell. It had been hours since the troopers had first stumbled into his dark abode. He had heard their heavy boots in the lower rooms. Then the sound of glass crashing to the floor filled his ears like a thousand tiny bells ringing for his funeral. He wasn’t even sure if people still had funerals. They probably just piled the dead in mass graves or on a pile with thousands of other nameless faces and set fire to the whole reeking mess, sending human ashes and the smell of burning flesh wafting on the tropical breezes. However, those few rich men who ruled from enormous mansions probably had spectacular funerals resembling the banquets of old.
For a few hours the sound of splintering wood and other hints of destruction were audible from below. Then he could hear the horrifying shrieks of people in the streets, a dozen shots were fired in unison, and all the sounds died away suddenly. He waited for the deafening whistle of the bombs or the smell of smoke. But they were becoming lax. A couple years earlier they killed all the conservatives they could get a hold of. It was a world-wide massacre, decimating one half of the world’s population. Things had slowed down and now they simply searched out all suspected rebels and shot them in some deserted, rat-infested ally and discretely disposed of their bodies. Then they proceeded to raze city after city and rebuild them as garish monuments commemorating a new society of hidden wealth. Hidden, because very few men had ever laid eyes on it. Their complex, shining, modern buildings tried to destroy all obvious evidence that the past existed and that it was just as beautiful as their curving and concaved skyscrapers. Now nothing of it existed.
But for now he was still sitting on his couch in the attic of an old building in the Cuban barrio of Miami. He had found a hidden stairwell in the deceptively thick wall of an old Cuban restaurant. It had probably been an old rebel hideout, and since it hadn’t been destroyed he guessed that it must have been effective. Thinking about the rebels relaxed him somewhat. It gave him hope that somewhere there may still be people who prayed, had families, and were fighting to replace that which had been beautiful in the world. His mind drifted past the moist, tropical air about him, the sound of the sullied beaches outside, and the smell of death. The dusty floorboards and worn down sofa faded out like the paints in a watercolor which drip off the paper slowly until a dirty gold mess formed on the floor at your feet. He dove blissfully into the gold paint and swam in the Caribbean with the sun shining on his face. A gull flew lazily over and cast a shadow over his eyes.

Chapter 2

The Frog and the Ladies
First conscious thought, white, defined as a light. Softens into shapes, fuzzy without distinction. Then lines become harsh and constricting. Shivers. Grips her arms tight in her thin fingers. A sharp, thrilling sensation shoots up her arm to her brain. Releases her arms and turns her head. The images move and change. A white room with trees, willows, and the ceiling is a window revealing the night sky. The light is derived from the moon, a rock which reflects the light of the sun. Sun? Underfoot…grass green and soft to bare feet, all bare. Twenty faces all the same some coming out of…water, red water. There is mist. The lake is surrounded by rocks and water flows over them into the pool, waterfall. Twenty faces, now more, all the same…reflection in the water says same as hers.
“Your name is Laura,” the frog by the pool croaks. They all turn to the frog, “You are the perfect woman.”
They all smile a cool, unfeeling smile. Then a woman like them but older enters wearing a white lab coat.
“Come this way,” she drones and they file out. Laura waits until the end of the line reaches her. There are red marks on her arms. Then she hears the deep croaking voice of the frog by her feet.
“But you are not,” and he dove into the water without another word.
Later that night they were dressed, pure white dresses, and their obsidian black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. They slept. There were long halls with pristine white walls and little glass doors three by three feet in dimension, lined the walls from the floor to the glass ceiling above which projected the pale moon and her envious children. The doors reached back into the wall six feet to make a vault which resembled the drawers in a morgue where the dead are laid out. Of these “rooms”, the empty ones had a light on in them so that you could see all the way back into the cell; the dark ones were already occupied. These accommodations were intended to mimic actual modern day “homes”.
The girls began to file into different “rooms” and slept in the cramped space. Laura found that she would have liked to curl up and tuck her knees underneath her chin, but she could not, so she must learn to adapt. There was a room across the hall that was still empty, and she could not block out the intruding light. Now there were bruises forming on her arms. They were painful to the touch. Each little spot turned a regal purple, a color that had not met her eyes yet in her young life. She lay there in the tantalizing semi-darkness and examined the tiny little things which had the power to administer pain so effectively. She was learning. Even in her sleep she was learning. Every little sensation and occurrence was cognitively new. She was an adult with the intelligence of an infant. It was an amazing experiment, learning the things a child learns, but with perfect consciousness. It was amazing. They had advanced her mind’s learning curve so greatly that by a year she would know what it took normal men and women twenty years to learn, all the horrors and painful truths they regrettably knew. She had only just been born and yet she was already contemplating the function of her existence, or at least the makeup of her body.
It came to her that she was alive. She was living at that exact moment, but she also realized that the woman in the lab coat was herself in a much advanced form. What happens as life continues over time? And if life can start can it end, and where does this take you?
These questions only helped to prolong her restlessness. While her neighbors slept, her inept mind attempted to solve the riddles of life which were still far from being answered by even the greatest scholars. Of course, there were no scholars or philosophers, only scientists and mathematicians. As long as technology progressed, machines would eventually take over all need for higher thinking. These machines would never understand Socrates or be able to tell us what Descartes meant by “I think therefore I am.” But who really cared anymore if a machine or any one else could understand this? And there was no way for Laura to be aware of this absence of knowledge and surplus of information, but it was apparent that she would never be a great mathematician, would never become an expert at unraveling the sweet mysteries of the world, and would never excel in this society where those skills alone were praised. However, had she lived in the ancient world—as everything before the twenty first century was called—she probably would have been of decent intellect, but in this world that sort of thing was not only useless but dangerous. People were threatened by any opposition to their way of thought.
Eventually sleep overcame her, but not for long. There was a noise outside which reminded her of the feeling of the bright light and cold water of her birth. She heard voices and instinctively opened the glass door to look around. The lights of the newly vacated rooms illuminated the hall. The sky was still velvety black except for a grayish belt towards the east. All the girls climbed precariously from their rooms using a complicated series of bars and ladders built into the wall. They all filed into the immense bathrooms. Here they bathed and upon exiting a new clean dress lay on a bench by the shower door. They redressed and arranged themselves in the mirror.
Laura realized that hers was not the only face in the room. There were other faces. They were all older. Some were extremely tall, so much so that they had to bend over to see themselves in the mirror. Others were short, but none were so short that they had to use a stepping stool. They were all different degrees of beautiful. Some had thick noses and others thick waists. But Laura, well, Laura was the new envy of the dressing room. She had a kind of cold perfection about her. Her grey blue eyes and strikingly dark hair created the look of some untouchable medieval queen from the story books. She was the perfect woman, every single one of them.

Chapter Three

Coming and Going
Somehow the days seemed longer after the raid. He spent his time trying to enjoy himself and make the most of his meager life. He had spent much of his life in hiding, and he now realize that they can bomb you just as quickly as they can search you out. He even snuck down to the beach, and was horribly startled to see the once magnificent Caribbean now transformed into an enormous oil slick. Dead fish and animals were rotting in the radio active muck. This was something the civilians would never be allowed to see. As far as they knew the world was perfect and pristine--a well-oiled, stainless steel machine.
In this notion he trained his body to work with precision and strength. He was now muscular and lean leaving behind the months of inactivity and neglect. He would have been quite the Casanova in a normal society. He was stereo typically tall, dark, and handsome. He was like artwork lost in the fire of some ancient wood building. He was a Cuban boy who had once been part of an enormous Cuban family in Havana. The Revolution followed them to Miami when they fled. Now things were even more desperate than they had been back then. As a boy he had cried frequently over his family’s plight, their poverty, and the constant threat of persecution. Even when they arrived in the United States when he was a little older he had cried, but after his parents were killed he had not shed a tear. He focused only on surviving and had abandoned religion the way a man drowning removes his shoes to make him more buoyant, even if he knows they’ll be necessary when he reaches dry land.
Food was scarce and he resorted to buying his things on the colonists’ Black Market system housed mainly in the inner reaches of the city. It was dangerous to expose himself thus, but he needed the food. It was rumored that the troopers ran the Black Market and in a slow method of entrapment they would follow and kill all those who attended. This deterred him somewhat, but a few days of nagging hunger convinced him that the swift death of martyrdom was preferable to the slow passing of cowardice, so he strode confidently into the deep, unknown territories of recognized and tangible rebellion. He would return home and sit on his sofa and eat the meager repast he had acquired for himself. Then he would sleep. He had attained a livable situation of pleasure and self improvement which quickly evolved into a monotonous cycle of boredom and fear speckled with intense bravado. He knew of others who lived in the city, but did not try to communicate with them. He was in no way interested in preserving the ways of the old world. It was dead and now he just had to find a way of living in the new world without losing himself.
The days became greyer and the tropical spirit was draining from the land. He was never sure whether this was because of his own knowledge of the deadening of the world, or something more superficial like bad weather. The last theory was supported more strongly as it rained horribly that night. The rain and wind howled and battered against the walls of the building with tremendous force. He loved this, this attack on his security. He prayed that this mild tantrum the skies were throwing would progress into a full blown hurricane, so that he could abandon himself to the intense emotions and unbelievable high that comes from being tossed into a torrent which you cannot control. He wanted to spin and spin. His mind slowly flowed back to a club in the Barrio, he passed its ruins occasionally when he dared to venture from the safe confines of his hide-out. He reviewed some of the more complicated steps and spun feverishly about the low-ceilinged attic. He imagined getting caught up in the winds of a hurricane and abandoning fear. Then he watched the land passing and swirling below him. He flew up the Mississippi until he reached the Great Lakes and was flung out over the cold, icy wastelands of Canada and the North Pole. Then he smacked his forehead painfully on one of the rafters. Collapsing onto the mattress in the corner, he wrapped himself in an old blanket and passed out.
He slept for several hours. Dreams played out in his brain. They were all infused with the shrieking wind and staccato drumming of the rain on the roof. Like a lullaby it rocked him into an even deeper sleep where the thoughts of the imagination are replaced for the bitter sweet revival of suppressed memories. He saw his mother beautifully outlined against the Caribbean sky, her stomach protruding somewhat awkwardly. The ground below him swayed precariously and his father swept him up. They stood on the boat. The two of them cried as Cuba slipped over the horizon and Miami made itself known on the opposite side. The sky became a bitter monster laughing at them and mimicking their tears. They had lost everything and they would soon realize that they had lost it for no great gain, but who could have known this at that time?
He remembered sitting with his baby brother in their apartment when the troopers crashed down the door. He saw them grab his parents and push them down. They snatched his brother away, and it seemed that almost as soon as they grabbed him he transformed into a lifeless rag doll. His mother shrieked and sobbed violently with a passionately forlorn love. He heard his father bellowing at him to run. Suddenly he was flying out the window. The world dropped away and he soared up towards the stars. He waited on the moon until he heard them calling him back. Now he remembered falling down the staircase outside the apartment as the resounding echoes of gun shots chased him through the next few years.
He was detached from society both politically, and even his own lineage denied his ever having existed for fear of persecution. He spent all his time dancing and trying to make just enough money to get by. He realized that as long as the music was loud it drowned out the sound of the gun which ended his parents’ lives and his in turn. Eventually he turned up the volume so loud he was able to erase his life and all the pain that came with it. He built walls which only the abused and tortured heart knows how to build. Over the next couple years he patched the walls, added improvements, and made them a few feet taller and thicker. You cannot love a wall. Many girls cried at his hands and the false promises he made them. If he could not love them how could they love him? What he didn’t realize was that many of them did love him, though if he had known he either wouldn’t have believed it or would he wouldn’t have done anything different. But in his solitary confinement protection was not necessary and his walls were crumbling from neglect. New confusions of emotions were daily sweeping into his tormented soul.
He felt like a trapped animal pacing its cage and clawing at the bars. In a bizarre agitation he gnashed his teeth and seethed inwardly trying to escape what was happening to him. Boredom had sunk its teeth into his soul and he felt he would go thoroughly insane if something did not happen soon. He became so desperate that he felt there would be relief if he simply were to run out into the open, but the sweet fragrance of freedom kept him at bay.

Chapter Four

Pretty Flowers
Laura began her schooling that day. She learned about math, science, and anatomy. She was intelligent, but her math scores were far bellow those of her peers. She was inferior to the other girls, but when she spoke to them about the things which perplexed her new mind like life or the stars, she found that what she said fell on deaf ears. Her mind would have excelled at philosophy and when her teachers lectured about different subjects she could argue and debate far beyond their own intellectual capabilities. It thrilled and motivated her and she wished to dive deep into these important questions which swarmed through her brain like angry bees. She wanted to ponder the unanswerable questions and connect with humanity by becoming more aware of the meaning of the lives they lead and where they came from. She was quashed.
They saw her and how her mind worked, how it could pose a kind of danger to the precious stability of their society. She was called into the placement office and was deemed of inferior intelligence. They batted her future profession between themselves for some time. Where could they place her that she would not be a threat to society? She could not understand why this kind of thinking was dangerous to them. They told her to remain in her room until she was called forth again. There she lay and conjectured as to why she should not be allowed to talk with her peers or continue her education. Was it possible that this censorship was the question for which she yearned. Her heart thrilled at the thought. It was something so strangely sweet and intoxicating. It was dangerous. The full importance of this did not register with her at the moment she was blind to so many things still that it would be impossible for her to understand it or anything else fully. In many senses she was still a child. She did not understand the world and why things worked the way they did, but somehow she came to the conclusion that her thoughts could change something. Surely they had changed her and the way people reacted towards her, but she did not understand what further effects such thoughts could cause.
She suddenly felt like the air had been stripped from her lungs and she scratched the close tight walls of the cell until her fingers were raw and red. She pushed at the door, but it wouldn’t open. Her heart raced and she thrashed about banging her head on the ceiling and bruising every part of her. She cried and gasped desperately for air. The room began to spin and tumble and the walls undulated slowly. Finally she forced the door open and fell painfully to the floor where the whole world went dark. When she awoke, the sky was striped by brilliant colors and streaked by the harmless, white clouds which would soon transform into angry black demons tearing apart the land. She stumbled deliriously down the hall. Finally, finding herself in the garden, she fell into the dark water of her birth. She was dizzy and an intense emptiness seamed to drain all her strength. She floated on her back and cried for a few minutes until she felt dry and could cry no more. She pulled herself up onto the land and dangled her feet in the water. She could not understand why the way she came into being seemed so wrong. Just to spring out of the water and feel life rush into your lungs seemed so perverse. She stared at the water. Nothing was visible beyond the surface, as the colors in the sky still played upon it. It was beautiful, truly beautiful, the way the sky could change from the softest blue to these radiant shades of fire and passion. The empty feeling subsided and gave way to a general gaiety which presented itself in nervous giggling. She began to hum, a nameless tune with no import or meaning. She laughed at herself. She stared up at the ceiling and watched the colors fade into a deep, velvety night. There was no moon and everything was ensconced in darkness like a great blanket wrapping itself around her senses.
The deep darkness of the sky bored into her and she directed her gaze back onto the water. A strange ethereal light sprang uneasily from the depths of the pool like the warm reddish glow at the heart of a dying ember. Her gaze intensified as she began to make out figures in the water, faces small and grotesque, arms, and spider-like legs. Her breathing quickened and she swooned momentarily. Scrambling away from the pool she clung to a tree. She crouched there clinging to the rough bark lest something should emerge from the pool. Then a deep, rasping voice spoke out from the opposite side of the pool.
“Her name is Rachel.”
Laura was able to catch sight of the froggy headmaster just before he sprang back into the lake to care for his offspring. She wept for sheer hysteria and fear, but also for something of the great sorrow of this tragedy she could understand. She called out and pleaded with some higher power she could not see. She could not understand this world and so she prayed that sanity might flow back into it, though all she knew of it was what she learned from books and had experienced in between the white walls and the sky.
She heard harried voices in the hall. Suddenly the grip of four icy, vice-like hands wrenched her from her retreat. Her body shook and convulsed violently. She sobbed and girls watched her with horror as they proceeded towards their cells for another nights sleep in their plastic caskets. The two women dragged her mercilessly to a room on the other side of the school. She cried and her body seized up to assume a fetal position while her arms were being dislocated by those who simply meant to preserve the world they valued so highly.
Finally they reached the end of what felt like ten miles of linoleum hallway. They entered a white room with a large steel desk. A large black seat was placed behind this and a very small white chair squatted before it. Laura was shoved into the small white one and one of the two women assumed the large black one while the other stood at attention beside her.
“She is a danger surely,” mussed the first.
“Yes, did you see the way the girls responded to her?” added the other obviously of lower rank as she remained standing.
“Of course I did. We expected this. There is always one in every batch—“ she was interrupted as this phrasing induced a new torrent of sobs and animal quivering. The woman paused only momentarily then continued with, “what do you propose we do?”
“We could always—“
“Execute her, yes,” interrupted the heartlessly dominant of the two. At this suggestion Laura quit her crying and looked up in horror, suddenly all too aware of what was happening. Execution was the first thing they had learned about in their classes. Kill all those who disrupt order. The two women were intrigued by this reaction.
For a moment the girl could find no words then there were too many, “Please! Please, NO! I can change! I can be anyone. ANYTHING! Just not this, anything but this. Oh, God no…” she sobbed, then realized the err of her words, “NO! NO! I didn’t mean that!”
Despite her pleas and desperate protestations the look of ghastly contentment did not leave their callous features. Her fate was sealed. She was lead back to her cell and the rain began to fall.
She slept and tossed from one crazed nightmare to another. They were all strange , bizarre and flashed through her head like lightning. She saw the grotesque pond; all the girls screaming and drowning under the water. Then there were lines of people All their faces were the same, and they stood before the great iron door holding back the eternal fire, the furnace which not only seared the body, but scorched the soul. The music of the storm played in her head the entire night. The low moaning of the wind was the solemn soundtrack echoing hatefully in her dreams. Despair invaded her head and was followed closely by sorrow then hate. She hated this world and the way in which she came into it. Her whole body heaved with the emotion which overtook every muscle and motivation within her. She was consumed by it.
She fought vigorously against the walls of the cell. She thrashed about and pounded the door. She pushed her toes against the back wall and tore at the door. It gave and she toppled down upon the tiles. She would not die, and she was solely and painfully aware of this reality, that she could not give up the life she had only just begun to live. She could not remember any exit in this jail, but finding no other link to the outside she climbed the ladder to the top cell and touched the glass. The sky was oily black and she was surprised that no one had noticed the awful noises she must have made. Was the negligent slumber of her likenesses so deep that the voice of hell could not breech the misty clouds of their dreams?
She pushed on the glass with every ounce of God given strength she had. Finally the pane gave way and slid down splintering on the ground in the dark. It rang in her ears like the sound of the Liberty Bell in the soldiers’ ears as they destroyed the tyrant king hanging over them. She pulled herself through the hole, and praying that the ground be close at hand, let herself drop. Pain shot through her hands and feet as she caught herself on the shards of glass.
Tears welled up in her eyes and blood pooled in her palms as she stumbled away Every step was agony as tiny fragments were thrust deeper into the tender flesh of her feet and toes. She winced, but took the pain as a steady sign that she was still alive. Some how pain is the most substantial proof that the body and mind have not slipped into either sleep or death. She relied on this now and ran. Eventually the soft, springy grass ended and gave way to harsh gravel which clawed at the tender soles of her feet like sand paper. She continued on waving her hands vaguely in front of her. The gravel sloped up gently at first then turned into a steep precipice.
She scrambled up the slope until it leveled out suddenly and she tripped upon something in her path. She fell forward and caught herself but not before her shins scraped up against something hard and metallic before her. She cried out and gasped for air. She breathed in, forcing down sobs as she struggled to regain her footing and continue on. She walked on slowly feeling out the ground with her toes. She slid down the opposite side and the pebbles got caught in the cuts in her hands and heels. She was a bloody mess.
The sun was rising in the east. In the grey light she was able to make out shapes in the near distance, they were tall rectangular structures. She ran towards them. They were the remnants of the city where Santiago made his home, but, of course, there was no way she could know this. She continued on and the stars began to fade out one at a time and the grey shapes before her gradually got larger. She had to make her way down a path between enormous mounds of rubble. Her heart quickened its pace in the wake of such disaster and she could feel her body becoming a similar ruin.
Finally, she found herself inside the remains of the city. Some of the buildings were intact while others were partially destroyed. Sunlight streaked in between the stores, apartment buildings, and restaurants of the forgotten glory and life of the city. There was a sound behind her from the direction of the school and she quickened her pace. More than a little afraid, she darted into an old restaurant. Like the hunted animal trying to conceal itself from the hunter, she crouched behind an overturned table. There she hid until the loud noises passed through the city. Falling back against the wall she breathed in a heavy sigh.
“Well, you can’t be a very important person or they would have looked a little harder,” came a deep voice from the velvety shadow of the other side of the room. It was like nothing she had ever heard before. It was filled with power and force yet gentle and soft, “but still...I’m gonna have to ask you to leave. You are a danger to me here. I mean, I can’t have troopers sneaking around this place anymore than they already are.”
He stepped into the light, and smiling he walked out into the cool morning light. His skin was dark life café con leche and tight against his muscles. His hair was cut short and his honey brown eyes sparkled brightly in the darkness. He was a spectacular man and not a bad first impressing or representative of the male population. She was awestruck and watched wide eyed as he stepped out and strode across the street. Sadly her later encounters with men would not hold up to this standard.

Chapter Five

First Sight
Like a fugitive she had ran in. He watched her dirty and bleeding, hunched over behind the table. She was frightening yet shockingly beautiful. Furtive and savage, she evoked a kind of guilty curiosity, and so he watched her closer. She shivered and tears ran unheeded down her face. He pitied her, but soon realized her fear and the reason he could not help her. The helicopters buzzed down the streets like a deadly swarm of bees searching for that which had disturbed the hive. And here was the missing drone in his midst. He shuddered at the doom she had brought with her and held tight, tense until the buzzing died off in the distance. He watched her, unsure that they had left completely. Then her muscles relaxed and she fell backwards in a valiant display like a Gladiator fighting for his life and suddenly realizing he is the only living man in the Coliseum. He wanted to say something, but he did not want to give her another reason for alarm.
Finally he spoke up and her icy cool eyes stared out through her disheveled black hair, though they fixated on nothing in particular. She just stared blankly into the shadows, confused and lost, wondering if this was, in fact, the end of her line. He stepped out into the light the open door way cast across the floor, though his face remained masked in shadow. He watched as her eyes widened and a sharp gasp escaped from her lips. Her reaction amused him and he continued his cool, mysterious train of thought. He noticed how every movement gave her a new alien thrill, and he loved it. Smiling he recorded the look of awe on her face and walked out nonchalantly.
The day was grey. He knew that they had merely transgressed into the eye of the storm and that the calm of the tempest would crack shortly. He did not have much time, but he strolled on. He kept going up the empty street and then down an alley. They air was silent, still, and tense as a race horse in the gate. He only had a few minutes so he hurried back. When he arrived at the restaurant the girl was gone, but she had left small stains on the floor where her bloody hands and feet had met the cement. He smiled to himself and made his was up the staircase into his room The second he shut and locked the door there was a crack of thunder and once again rain and wind beat mercilessly against the row of buildings. He hoped that this girl had found a safe place to wait our the storm, because other wise he wasn’t sure how she would weather the hurricane. He felt the same pity for her as for a stray dog wandering the streets looking for food.
Suddenly it hit him that he had forgotten to shut the restaurant door and water was probably flowing freely into the down stairs. He stood above the trap door, hesitant. Was it worth the risk to go down there? Finally he gave up the idea, hoped for the best, and climbed between the sheets of the old spring mattress. He pulled the heavy blanket around his shoulders and slept. All night the forlorn sobs and cries of the storm haunted his frame. He shuddered at the terrifying blasts of wind throwing themselves against the thankfully sound walls of the old restaurant. Trembling, he stared into the darkness with the grave fear that there lurked death smirking malevolently and laughing ironically, like a child who knows a secret and boasts it loudly. Still…this was a secret he had no wish to know and suddenly he was endowed with an urgent need to survive, to live just a little longer until all his life had run dry. He had not finished, and he was certain that something would happen, and life would be worth it again.
He strode to the other side of the room with the blanket wrapped about him and following in a long heavy train like the robes of the kings of old. He made a fire in the cast iron stove that had been left by the previous occupants of his little hideout. It warmed the room surprisingly quickly and sent shadows dancing across the walls. It gave him a safe, secure feeling, as if for a moment he had stepped back into the old world. He could almost see his family sitting on the couch. His little brother was scooting around the floor and trying to pull himself up to a standing position, but invariably ended up falling back down onto his soft little rear. His parents would laugh and he cried bitterly.
Wiping his eyes he forced himself to focus on the twirling shadows on the walls. Singing old Salsa songs in his head, he was able to pull himself back to the clubs where he danced with pretty girls and he and his friends would compete to see who was the best dancer. He remembered one girl who had competed in the Latin Ballroom Championship. She had come in third, and was very happy about it. Regardless if she had won or lost, every boy clamored to dance with her and some how Santiago had ended up with her slender hand in his and they danced and spun about for hours. They were doubtlessly the best couple in the club. The lights were reflected off their ecstatic smiles as they whirled around with poise and perfection. She was beautiful and he loved her that night. They didn’t leave until the club had emptied out and the band packed up. They smiled and she squeezed his hand affectionately. As they walked outside he noticed that the sky was imperceptibly lighter towards the east, but the stars still shone with all the ferocity for which they are famous.
“I would have won that competition if you’d been my partner,” she said with a heavy Cuban accent. He smiled and pulled her to him, but she spun away and stuttered something to the effect that she had to leave and floated off into the quickly fading night. He decided that he would go to every club every night until he found her. A girl like her can barely go a few hours without dancing, and he was sure that he would catch her eventually. He probably would have if the city had not been bombed, and she along with thousands of other suspected Cuban “rebels” had not been killed the next day. He was dead certain that she was the love of his life simply because she had been killed the day after he had met her, as was his luck. For certain people love is salvation, for others it is the ultimate condemning curse. He was one of the latter, and he was confident in this theory.
But this night was different; something told him that love was not looking to bash his face into the ground. This new girl had awoken a feeling that maybe love was waiting for him and that he would have a second go at life.
He was suddenly hit by exhaustion as if by a powerful blow and headed back to his bed, when he felt a tug at the back of his pant leg. He turned and saw his baby brother at his foot smiling into his big brother’s face. The world was suddenly black and even the deafening wails of the storm went mute as he collapsed into the cloud of cotton sheets.
When he woke the storm had passed. The world was quiet other than the sound of a parrot squawking rudely on the roof. He opened the only window he dared have. It was wrought with heavy wood and tin so as to keep the hurricanes out. It was more like a hole in the wall. He had made it when the power to the city was cut and he needed light in his cave-like upper room. The window hole overlooked the small, dirty back alley. Only a sliver of the sky was visible from that vantage point, but it supplied sufficient light.
He undid the locks that held it tight and lifted it. There was knotted bit of rope like a very small noosed which he looped over a hook on the window so that it hung securely from the ceiling and could be shut quickly. A mouse scurried out of the window sill where it had hidden from the storm and darted across the warm wood floor of the apartment. It hid under the stove where the fire had died down. The red glowing embers faded rapidly into black and grey dust. Now what seemed to be expensive rubies would become the dust of death in an hour. Santiago turned away from the depressing scene in the black, cold furnace, and stared out the window and watched the gulls returning to their homes. It was like some mass precession of heavenly beings all white and feathery soaring through the ghostlike clouds drifting in the endless blue sky. The world had become a large desolate place and the angels had abandoned the earth for the peaceful perfection of the ethereal sky. His heart beat with the steady flapping of the gulls’ wings and he flew above the city with them, above the world with its problems and troubles. He left it all behind and an empty cold set in, because as he left behind the new world he also discarded the old, his family, his friends, and the girl from the club. They were gone now, every single one of them. The world was suddenly empty and dark, because he was not a part of it any more. He was a being of the sky forbidden to place his feet on solid ground ever again.
“See that?” he said pointing his finger at the advancing gulls, “That is freedom.” He said this to no one in particular, perhaps to the little grey mouse under the stove, that poor little earth bound mouse who clings to it with all care to never let any meager crumb escape his little paws, for on this is what his life depended. Only a few little scraps, a sip of water, and a gasping life breath were the things this rat had to look for in life. It had no freedom, and no power to change its position in life. A better, higher world was closed to it no matter how much he desired it in his tiny little heart, at least until death steals it pattering rhythm.
The speculation as to the sad life of a little, lowly rat did not help to alleviate Santiago’s depression. He felt lost, cut adrift and floating in the empty expanse of sea between where he stood and his homeland. He didn’t know if it was alive and bustling, or it had been lain to waste. Even if it had be could not travel there. It was dangerous to venture too close to the radioactive, oil-streaked sea which he could hear from the window if he concentrate and cut out all the other noises of the ghostly city.
That was it, and he needed to know. Once the Caribbean was beautiful and so clear that you could nearly see to its bottom in open water. It was the most amazing colors, sapphire blue, emerald green. It was mystifying the way they shifted and changed.
He remembered that once when he was very little his father was a fishing guide for rich Americans coming to Cuba. His father thought that it was about time for Santiago to learn to fish like his father and grandfather. They sat in the boat in open water. The sun sparkled off the tops of the deep blue swells. He sat in a chair at the back of the boat while his father helped the rich men in the front. Suddenly there was a tug on the line and Santiago grabbed the pole.
“Its probably just–“ mumbled Abuelo just as the fish gave a strong steady tug. Santiago would have gone flying into the blue had his grandfather not caught him up at the last second. His father came running around to the back of the boat. He reeled it in, but it pulled back, then they saw it. It was a fish of monstrous size all blue and black and purple. Santiago was awestruck by the power and beauty of the grand creature fighting for freedom in the treacherous sea. He watched the struggle between that monster of the deep and his father. He prayed that the line might snap. His pounding heart soared and sank with every advance and retreat. Finally the battle ended and the great scaly beast lay motionless on the deck of the boat. Santiago watched in horror. This creature, so bravely and purely free, had died at his father’s hand yet it had been him, Santiago, whose hook had snatched him up from the waters. He looked towards his father in disbelief, hoping that he would recognize what they had done. The last thing Santiago heard before he hid below deck was...
“Es grande. Los ricos will buy it for a good price,” explained his father to his Abuelo in the tight confidence of those who stand on the precipice of a great luxury. Santiago could never truly respect his father after that. To kill or tame something so free and unbridled must be the greatest sin of all.

Chapter Six

Beauty and Death
They had found her. She would have never gone looking for them, of this she was certain. It was some time after the storm. She had thought that she would never experience anything more horrible than the storm, but she did not know that in some small amount of time she would be proven wrong. A girl with paint and colors on her face, and strange clothes like the gaudy plumage of a storm battered parrot pulled her into an ally way. She kept saying that Laura was perfect and repeated a man’s name over and over again. When Laura met him she was struck by the ugly face and bent body before her. There was a strange, greedy look in his eye like he desired something she did not have and yet knew that he possessed everything he saw. It frightened her and she shivered involuntarily. They taught her what to do and occasionally he gave her what he called “private lessons”. She had no idea what was going on, but she became very familiar with the boss’ look and saw it in the eyes of many other men in the weeks to come. After every session she wept bitterly and felt a little bit of herself crumbling away. A month had passed. They told her that she would soon stop feeling so bad about it and that it would become no more than routine business. She did what she was intended to and never shirked her responsibilities or rebelled against her superiors which consisted of any and every man who walked in through the beaten, red door. Overall they were good to her. They gave her a home, food, and a wage, though she was not aware of just how small her pay was. As far as she knew there was nothing wrong with her occupation, other than the stinging emptiness building up inside her. In the mornings when there were no customers, she cried and shrieked at the top of her lungs. The agony and pain was almost too much to bear. She feared she might die, but as she felt herself crumbling away with every session, she felt something steely and cold growing inside her. When the fiery rage against her employers or customers flared up in her breast she merely crept close to the iron replacing her heart and let it cool the fire inside. The fiercely, deep blue of her eyes subsided to a dull grey. She even noticed that her customers enjoyed her less and there was not so great a demand for her services any more, and the other girls began to receive more work. She decided that this new division of labor was much better than what was going on before when she hardly slept and the demons were her only companions. She saw their dark withered bodies creeping around her room or down the stairs just behind her like they were even ashamed to be seen beside one so dark as herself. The world around her grew darker until the dark, impish creatures nearly enveloped all that she saw and felt.
She was totally numb. Everything had lost importance or meaning. She no longer cared for life and often wished that she had remained in the school and been sentenced to death. A death by firing squad seemed to be a wonderful dream compared to the horrible dull, aching agony of a life she now lead. However, as the walls became thicker and stronger, this manner of life became more bearable. She didn’t think. It was dangerous to think. If you thought about what was happening to you and how they hurt you then the dam would break and the floods would be let loose. She came to resemble the other girls in the old building in the city. She often stood in the doorway with them to draw in potential customers. Even a few…troopers they were called…came to stay. They tipped well and one of the other girls said that it was because no one was supposed to know that they stepped down to that level like other men. Apparently this kind of work was illegal, but the politicians and leaders just looked the other way. It kept balance. It kept normal people from getting too emotional and passionate. It left everything in one shape, one very easy, manageable state and eradicated something so violent and volatile as love. Of course one of the other girls had told her this. Laura had learned a lot from these women.
She occasionally wondered if the boy from her first night of freedom ever went to see girls like her. She desperately hoped that he did not. She felt that it would be too horrible for such a beautiful being to be involved in such revolting dealings. She still threw up after some of the men left, and despite the humidity she was irrepressibly cold.

Chapter Seven

Snow in Havana
The chill of his heart overcame him and the gloom which possessed his soul was almost more than he could bear. He walked aimlessly through the city. He cared not whither he should be spotted by the troopers or awake some lurid spirit lurking in the shadows of an ally he traversed. It was not a sickness or that he had been struck so deeply by grief, but rather he was bored. His only companions were the ghosts of a long dead world and a sad little mouse hiding somewhere in his room. He clung desperately to every memory and replayed them in his mind like a child in a movie theater watching the same picture over and over again.
He wandered up a street. His eyes lazily following a can he kicked before him. When he looked up his heart froze and panic settled into every pore and muscle of his body. Before him stood the infamous trooper clad in black, his eyes read and blood shot. Santiago waited, tense, positioned for the chance to run and the single shot which would end his dismal existence. It would inevitably pierce his soul so that despite whatever conviction he might have, it would be so deflated it would sink heavily into the black depths of Hell. But the trooper only nodded and stepped through an old red door in the ally. Santiago was floored, absolutely shocked, for just as his heart seemed it would burst. Every bone in him rattled as if the demons were not ready to relinquish the prize they had almost won.
After a long moment’s hesitation he proceeded through the mysterious door in the grey cement wall. The room beyond was dusty and dimly lit with wing backed chairs, exquisite couches, and elaborately carved tables. Everything was navy blue, burgundy, and tarnished gold. It was all damaged, moth-eaten, and covered in a thick layer of dust making it seam as if it hadn’t been touched by a human hand in a thousand years.
He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and flinched slightly. Turning, he half expected to see Satan himself standing behind him, but he only beheld an ugly cripple of a man.
“Ten dollars before you get to go upstairs,” the man drawled. Suddenly it hit him. He saw the gaunt specters now in full perspective. They stood with haughty audacity and watched him, waiting to see if he would stay. His mind could not keep up with the movements of his body and he did not understand until he was half way up the staircase. He was aghast, stunned. The place was spindly, intricate, and falling apart. The banister of the stair had the look of icicles dripping slowly while the frozen air swirled slowly around them, the dust was like minuscule snowflakes.
He reached out and grasped the cold, hard door knob with its elaborate engravings. He thought that his hand might stick to the icy layer on the brass bulb, but he was able to push the door open and release the thing. The room was dark other than an old light which cast a weak glow across the bed. His heart sank momentarily at the figure he saw there. He probably would not have recognized her through the layered veil of makeup had she not haunted his mind for the past few days. She did not look so different now reclined on the bed as she had he day he found her crouched behind the table. There was the same frightened look in her eyes, yet there was something horrifyingly empty in those once blue now grey orbs. They looked something like the Arctic Oceans, the water once warm sapphire now frozen iron. She sat up and dressed quickly glancing back at him. He could not speak and felt as if he were choking. The smell of sulfur filled his nose and turning he could see the demon’s fiery eyes. He stumbled back into the passage and ran from the strange place of ice and fire. The sun scorched his eyes and he pressed his hand to his forehead to assuage the pounding behind his skull.
He walked out through the street. His body warmed under the sun and his heart began to beat at a more measured pace relieving the sounding drums. The door creaked open behind him and he heard the patter of bare feet advancing across the street. Her hair was wet and a drop of black make up dripped down her cheek from the corner of her eye. She had tried so hard to erase the marks the place left on her, but they were evident even under her skin without the paint. The fear, the pain, and the inextricable scars blazed red as fire upon her soul. He could see it in the depths of her eyes where her soul shimmered and rippled like a strange silver sea.
She was a broken dove fluttering and trying to stay aloft in the violent winds of a storm. She floundered in the air and tried with all her might to seem to be the proud creature she claimed she was. She looked him square in the eye as if to deny all the things he saw there. It was painful to watch, to suddenly understand the horror of such a life. He turned away and left her. He walked hurriedly, trying to seem unimpressed, cold. He did not care what she did with her life, but then why did it hurt him so why did he feel so betrayed by this person he had no even known? He found it pitiful that despite the brevity of their discourse, he probably knew this girl better than any one else in the world. He had witnessed the blatant disclosure of her emotions. He had seen her when death was biting at her ankles. And yet he had turned his back on her.
In a sudden panicked convulsion he whipped around, intending to run back and retrieve her from the mouth of hell. But there he saw the strange specter standing like a lonesome ghost on the street corner watching him. She had less pride than he thought. Hope flickered across her face and she started forward excitedly. Here was a new door more promising and safe than the last. She thought that somehow she could very possibly find this man to be her leverage into a true and real life, as a denizen of the world. She saw her new niche and walked on beside Santiago with the assurance of a baby’s first steps. He never turned his glance towards her. He kept his eyes focused on the ground before him and marched undeterred towards the old restaurant. He hoped that the storm would find peace in that ancient harbor. But he felt her eyes on his. He felt her wavering glance flickering back and forth wide-eyed and excited. He was her ticket to freedom, individuality, and security. She prayed that he might be able to provide what she needed, that he might be a firm rock for her to stand on and live. He felt his feet faltering beneath him. The anxiety of knowing that he would fall, but that he would bring this girl down with him, struck him with horrific severity.
He tried to muster his strength, but he only felt overwhelmingly tired with the effort. He was alone in the fight to keep himself and this girl afloat, and now began to wish that he had not acknowledged that she stood there before him. She had the presence of a chain-bound ghost so heavy and dreary but with the face of a beggar child whose calloused, outstretched hands forever wait but only ever grasp air. Finally he glanced to the side and saw her dust grey eyes fixed on his own. She knew nothing. She was yet a child thrown precariously into a poisonous adult world, and here she was, drowning in it. He saw the pain more definitely in her eyes now and he placed his hand sympathetically on her shoulder.
In myth, the human touch has a certain healing power which can slightly assuage pain, but in this the pain is merely transferred from one body to another. With this kindly gesture Santiago suddenly felt his heart sink a little lower. She smiled a weak awkward smile and tried to show empathy and appreciation for the kind charity this stranger was presenting to her. He was a stranger, but still, she knew him. She knew him better than she knew any other person in the world. Her own soul was a mystery to her no matter what access she had to it, and the other girls she had known were not people, but merely bodies. This boy before her was entirely and imperfectly human, in the way all humans are, and this fact alone made him her dearest companion in the world. The sheer joy of being in the presence of a full bodied spirit was so uplifting to her sinking soul that she felt almost as if life were part of her again. She feared so deeply that she had lost her soul the way the other girls had, but now this boy beside her, whose name she still did not know, was showing her that maybe she till had a hand in the game.
The corners of his lips curved for a moment, but his countenance darkened. Finally the restaurant came into view and his pace hastened. They entered and he ushered he into the upper room. Glancing back for a second at the hand prints on the floor, he strode up behind her. When he came up she was standing by the open window. The sun shone off her tangled hair and the wind spun it about playfully. The wind was cool despite the heat, and he was thankful for it, because he was hungry and it was hell trying to cook in the humidity. He put a pot on and started to make arroz amarillo. As long as you didn’t get caught, it was not difficult to get food in the black market. Dried rice was almost always available, and there was a strange surplus of saffron which had once been the gold of spices. The outsiders such as himself and the “colonists” were the only ones who still shared a knowledge of food other than the wealthy politicians and a few older people of the world who still secretly harbored such memories. The younger generations of people, the troopers, the workers, all knew nothing beyond what their highly privileged leaders allowed them to comprehend. Santiago now mixed a pinch of the exotic spice into the rice and it almost instantly turned a vibrant yellow. He looked over at the girl, and realized that the sky had begun to change colors.
“You can sit down,” his voice startled him in the impenetrable silence. The girl obediently sat on the large collapsing sofa. Th added more saffron to the rice and an intoxicating aroma began to fill the room. He could her the girl drinking in the rich sent. He smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Laura,” her voice was smooth and deep like chocolate, “what’s yours?”
“Santiago,” he replied. She tried to repeat it like he did, but every time the accent became an embarrassing jumble, “Santi. It’s easier.” with a proud smile she said the shorter one and sank back luxuriantly into the couch. She was beautiful and he could not help but notice the elegant curve of her body as she reclined against the back of the sagging couch. He directed his attention back to the rice, and tasted it. It was thick already, but he let it sit a few moments longer. He looked forward to having a decent meal after days of a nonexistent appetite, and it would be fun to have a companion for this repast rather than dining on his own. He took his bowl downstairs to clean it, and searched the cabinets for a second bowl for his gust. When he came upon the landing he arrived to find her hovering over the pot of rice.
“It’s amazing!” Her eyes were wide and excited as she looked upon him. He grinned. It gave him a weird sense of righteousness to help this creature, and he had to keep reminding himself that she was hardly human. She was a pet, and if she had a soul she probably threw it away in that place.
“It’s arroz amarillo.”
“What?”
“Yellow rice, a Spanish meal.”
A cloud passed over her face and she frowned, defeated. He explained to her what a country was, and how they spoke different languages and so on, as he served dinner. She was thoroughly entertained by the foreign tongue, and insisted on hearing him speak. She learned quickly and eagerly. When she ate she felt like life was being poured back into her. Her fervor was amazing, and Santiago watched the expressions passing across her face with contentment.
“It’s amazing!”
“Thank you, I’m happy you like it.”
She stared at him for a few minutes. Her gaze made him uncomfortable , and he tried to keep his attention on the food before him.
“Would you like some more?” He asked to avoid the silence.
“Sure...are you Spanish?”
“No, I’m Cuban,” noticing her confusion he continued, “It’s a small island of the coast here.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s beautiful like an – that’s dumb. It was beautiful. I liked it there.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Same reason everyone else did.”
“What was that?”
After a pause he shook his head answering dumbly, “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a bad reason.”
“It was a good reason at the time, but now it doesn’t matter.”
She didn’t understand this explanation.
“It’s your home, isn’t it”
“It was.”
“Is this your home now?”
“No.”
“Then where is it?”
“I don’t know. Where’s yours?” he asked sarcastically.
“I’ve never had one.”
“Then I guess we’re in the same boat.”
“Right,” she sighed, “I guess I could make this my home, since its not yours.”
“But it is mine.”
“No its not, you just said so.”
“But–I...I live here.”
“Then I’ll live here too if you don’t mind.”
“Fine,” he prayed that the interrogation was over. All the talk about having a home was drastically tiring to the soul which struggled with it. She couldn’t understand.
“Then it is your home.”
His insides screamed at the dreadful reincarnation of the topic, “Sure.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” he was tired and exasperated. He felt like he was talking to a twelve-year-old, but she was growing up quickly.
“Where are you from?” he asked her before an equally painful subject like friends or family could surface.
“They called it the Institute. I came out of a lake or something. We all did.”
She said it with such complacency, but he felt the world would simply implode with the weight of the horror pressing down upon it. She was subhuman, a pet, nothing more–but she had worked at that–No! It was horribly, grotesque. She was a robot, heartless, soulless, nothing. She saw the shadow pass over his face.
“What’s wrong”
“Nothing,” he cooed in a deceptively soothing voice. He gave up. She felt it, and knew that if she were to stretch out her hands she would touch the cold hard wall between them. Her eyes pleaded with him, but he felt nothing, or simply ignored her so she would think he hadn’t.
“Are you finished?”
“No!” she had the look of a pouting child.
“Do you want some more?”
“I’ll get it,” she was mad at him. How could he just abandon her like that?
“Go ahead.”
She did and sat decisively before him and ate each bite with determination and severity. She got himself some more and ate with her.
“You’re hungry.”
“Not really.
“Well, you’re eating a lot.”
Suddenly it hit her that they might need this food, that it was something to be stored, guarded, and respected.
“Is it okay?” she asked apologetically.
“Yeah, it’s fine. We have plenty.”
The “we” gave her hope that perhaps she was not being kicked out, and might be considered more than a transitory guest. She smiled weakly.
“Okay.”
He smiled and nodded his head. Silence followed, not awkwardly, but in the knowledge that there were certain things which required their undisturbed attention and also that there was nothing they could talk about as equals at that point. She stared at him and studied his features, the shadow and light that passed over them. She enjoyed his face all dark and tanned, but there was something deep beneath the artistic beauty which tantalized her mind. She longed to learn of the churning ocean hiding beneath his skin, and she wanted more than anything else to find the ocean beneath her own if it were there at all.
He stared into his bowl of rice, pushed the grains about bossily, and never once met her gaze. He was disturbed buy this person here before him; he was frightened for her poor soul-less heart which beat without rhythm. He saw that it was essential that he build up his walls lest she flow through to him and consume him completely. She was strikingly dangerous to the precarious stability he maintained.

Chapter Eight

Seven Eggs
He looked up and caught her glance. Her eyes were heavy and she felt as if a Herculean effort were necessary to open the tired orbs. Santiago directed her to the couch and gave her a blanket. She slept almost immediately. It was one of those deep dark slumbers void of mysticism or romance. Not a single vision or ghost haunted her mind. She was free of disturbance. The best sleep ever is when even the subconscious slumbers and total rest and sleep are achieved. Every muscle relaxes and the body stretches out relieving all tension and stress. She found herself fully ensconced in the dark folds of the night sky starless, the moon hiding her face behind a mourning veil. So sumptuous was her slumber that she neither noticed the sunlight in the window in the morning, nor the moon of the second night. She was lost completely, but toward the end of her epic slumber she began to slip into the world of dreams and a strange universe began to float about in her mind. Santiago noticed her twitch and hope revived that she would, in fact, wake up. He had wondered if you could sleep so deeply that you would die, the perfect sleep. She was beautiful when she slept. Her dark hair framed her lovely fair face, a masterpiece sculpted by the great artist. If he blurred his eyes she looked more like an oil painting than a real living person. Finally, she stirred and opened her icy grey eyes for a moment. Rubbing her face gingerly she mumbled something from the gap between consciousness and dreams.
“What was that?” he whispered.
“I was under water.”
“You were dreaming.”
“Oh...”
“You were drowning?”
“No...well–I was breathing. Then I got scared and couldn’t anymore.”
“And you woke up?”
“Yeah...but slowly, like I was swimming to the surface. What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh,” she stretched and massaged her eyes again.
“You hungry?”
“Yes,” her eyes widened and she stared up at him. He made eggs. Now eggs, on the other hand, were a rare commodity, but while she had slept he had walked. He had gone to the building where the colonists engaged in their illegal dealings. It was the unofficial home of all black market affairs in Miami. Upon his way he came across a little old man with a chicken and seven eggs. He bought the eggs leaving one and continued on with them in his bag. He came to the market where he bought other things, some hard to find, and others piled to the ceiling. There were about five or six people working there and a couple dozen shopping around . It was the “colony” as they called it. They were a free community living in the folds of a world of bondage. He had refused their offer to him, and was now an outsider, and depending on their mood, a traitor. He was excommunicated and his entrance was like a black cloud descending on the merry gathering there. He was the strange recluse seen by society as a freak and a threat to their little civilization. Of course, they probably feared that he would turn them in and their whole little underground world. He felt their blazing eyes burning through the back of his skull, the whole place was fiery and dark with the hate and fear they felt for him. He was some sort of horrible legend which personified all that had gone wrong with world and scared little children into being good Catholics. He was like the boogey man, all dark and menacing. Mothers snatched their children to themselves and whispered frightening admonitions in their burning, little ears. It was never a truly bearable feeling entering the market and knowing he was either being charged far too much out of contempt, or too little out of fear. Their voices would roar with strange, false, exaggerated stories about voodoo and evil anathemas. He took his time, his sweet, long time, as if too prove to them and to himself that it did not matter how they treated him. They were cruel. They made a note as to which things he had touched and probably would not eat them until they had been cleansed by their priest. When he finished he made his way back to the restaurant, and put away his purchases then went upstairs to see if Laura had woken up.
They ate breakfast, and Santiago explained to her what had happened in the world, and what things had been like in the old world. He thought he might take her to the market and introduce her to the colonists, but then a strange pang of fear and anxiety struck him. He could not quite place the sensation. Maybe he was afraid she would be hurt by them…or worse, they could be kind, inviting and take her from him. He was so afraid to be alone again. She wanted to know everything about the old world and what had happened in the revolution. Even this little child could see why their secluded life was heaven compared to the turmoil and devastation of the outside world. She rejoiced in her new life, the freedom of it all. She could be who she wanted up there in the attic. That was all.
“What did you do before the revolution?”
“I went to school…my parents took care of me. We had a huge family!”
This confused her, so he explained families and how they worked.
“What did you do after the revolution?”
“I danced. My family was killed by the troopers, so I danced to forget.”
“That’s…” she trailed off, lost in thought. Her face became dark and pensive. A most horrible question floated to the top of Santiago’s mind, and before he saw it there his tongue had retrieved it.
“Why did you become a prostitute?”
She looked shocked, like she might cry, but she simply sat up straight, looked him square in the face, set her jaw, and breathed in deep, “They found me and said they would take care of me. I guess I just didn’t have a choice, or didn’t think I had one.”
“But why’d you do it?”
“It’s not that bad. I mean what’s the problem? Really…” she breathed in and blinked a little.
“You knew it…didn’t you. You knew from the first time, and no one had to tell you…did they?”
“I don’t know what you mean…” she got up and let up the window. She stared out at the bird. He had the freedom to fly to any haven they dare choose, a freedom that she in her ramshackle paradise was refused. She saw him flying there, endowed with true freedom. How is it that these creatures deemed of less intelligence had a greater sense of freedom, and right and wrong than humans have? She let only one tear fall. He knew he had hurt her, but she had been hurt before that, and he was doing nothing more than she had been used to. She was deeply scarred, and nothing would ever change that, nothing. She stood there for some time, and eventually Santiago took the dishes down stairs to wash them. When he came back up she was still before the window, but she was sitting in it, for the wall was pretty thick and made for a decent window seat. Her back was turned to him. She had the look of a spectacular bird perched for flight, but she was fully aware that her wings were clipped...but who said she wouldn’t try any way. She was bleeding inside. He had simply taken the bandage off the wound which she had been so successful in hiding. She had not noticed the gash since she had come here, and now there it was blazing before her. It burned with all the seering pain as the day it was rendered, though now she had learned to grit her teeth and fight through it. She felt that as long as she ignored it, it would be as if it had never been there at all. There, there was her solution, so simple.
She swung herself down from the window and a warm breeze brushed up against her back. Santiago sat on the mattress with his back against the wall, and a book between each large, strong hand. He studied the worn volume with deep attention, but was not completely withdrawn from reality, and was aware that she had come back. He knew that he was not in the clear. The repercussions of this abuse would be felt now if not soon after.
“The pay wasn’t that bad…” she paused to see if he was listening, and judging by his white knuckles and increased attention towards the text on the page, he was.
“Did you bring any of it with you? I’m kinda running out of stuff to sell at the market,” he saw that her pride was hurt, but she merely puffed herself up more and more like a flustered pigeon trying to make itself look intimidating.
“No…” she tried not to sound defeated by this, but it was more than obvious that she had lost the battle. She curled up on the couch and pretended to be asleep. She felt cold. New battle wounds opened and she bled out. She was not a strong person no matter how hard she tried to be. She could try to harden herself to her situation, but she could not find the means to build walls around herself the way he did. She crumpled and cried into the blanket. She was silent, but her shoulders shook ever so slightly. All the pain flowed out through her tears. She was broken, and she saw this with horrific clarity like she had been plucked from her body and she could see herself there falling to pieces. The cold swept in around her, and she felt so alone, abandoned by the only one in the world who could come close to her. Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder and she buried her face deeper in the cushions and covered her head with the blanket, but he rolled her over gently and pulled the quilt from her face. Taking a tissue he wiped the tears from her cheeks like a mother dries the tears of a child who has scraped a knee. She was no more than a child, though she had the look of a woman. And he was no more than a boy, though he had the look of a man. He sat at the end of the couch until she finished crying. She yawned delicately and slept only forgetting her pain momentarily.
It is truly strange how a relieving cry immediately sifts you into a sweet quiescence, not the heavy dark thing, but a light sleep like laying on a warm beach listening to the waves rolling lazily upon the beach. They both slept there on the couch, and if someone had studied Santiago’s cheek they would have found a nearly invisible line where a single tear had slipped down his cheek before landing upon the text of a page of Hemingway.

Chapter Nine

A Change of Persona
There was a recognized time of healing and penitence between them. This meant silence, eating little, and quite a bit of crying on Laura’s part. If Santiago did any crying it was only at night or when Laura had passed out on the couch after a particularly long cry. Often times it ashamed her to even look upon him, but other times she insisted that he hold her or just sit by her. Her moods swung back and forth hazardously, but his were held by a fixed gloom, and he rarely strayed from his current emotional state unless Laura’s hysterics managed to pull him out for a moment and pull a strained laugh from his chest. She would dance about the room like she was crazed, then brake down into sobs on the floor. He hated to see her like that, and would try to lift her onto the sofa, but she would often shy away and huddle sobbing in a corner, other times she would collapse into his arms and not let him leave until she had fallen asleep. He found that any way he could help her helped him deal with his own problems, and every tear she shed he shared in. It was a bizarre healing experience, but it served its purpose in a way, not to say that each of them left free of regret, guilt, or sorrow, but they were a little closer to the small emotional train wrecks most people harbor.
One morning they sat at a late breakfast, both of them eating ravenously. They ate the first normal meal they had shared since the outburst. They talked about everything they had been thinking about the past week or so that they had shared in insanity and torture. They each spilled forth all the horrors which lurked in the darkest corners of their souls. He told her about the dancing girl, Cuba, his family, and his baby brother. She confessed all the horrible details of her residence in the ancient brothel. They had come to the conclusion that they had retraced every agonizing step of that journey, and drank in the sweet silence of the Caribbean. Suddenly Laura looked up from her empty plate and stared serenely into Santiago’s eyes. It was the first time he had really looked her in the eye, and now he felt he could do nothing else for he was astounded by the transformation he had found there. The grey steel of her eyes warmed into the tantalizing blue which seemed an exact mirror of the sea he had once adored.
“Santi…please, I am not who I was—no, no let me finish—I have changed, I no longer want the name they gave me. I have the name of a dozen exactly like me, but I know that I am very different. Please…give me another name!” She cried out in all earnest, like if her request were not met she would surly die. He studied her face, and searched all he knew of her.
“Linda,” he said with all confidence, and a strange velvety bond found its way around them. Like a pet he claimed possession over her, and though it can not be know how she reacted entirely to this sudden transformation, she subjected to it willingly. She gave up all defenses and left her bodily and spiritual security entirely in his hands. In exhaustion she surrendered everything and subsided to the wonderfully dangerous luxury of leaving her entire well being in the life of another. She was his, and that soothed her, the way a man on a raft can be lulled peacefully to sleep by the waves, but only so long as he doesn’t know that there are sharks circling below him. She saw no danger in this decision and did not expect any, nor would she have cared if she had known, because she just felt as if the entire world had been lifted from her. She wished she could just die she was so exquisitely peaceful.
And Santiago, noticing this change, was frightened by one thing, and one thing in particular, he was certain that he could easily take upon this challenge to protect her, but he wasn’t so sure that he could remain detached. Surly she was beautiful, and he had been able to see her as no more than a piece of art, but she was becoming a person with a heart and a soul to him. He kept reminding himself that something like her, a product of sheer genetics, could hardly contain a heart beyond muscle, blood, and tissue, let alone a soul. But was it possible that the Good Lord had blessed this single individual with the only thing that separates them from the animals. Were people dropping down to the level of animals, because of the way they were born? Was she human by Christian standards, or merely an exotic bird of the symbolic sky. His mind circled and dove wildly trying to understand the philosophy of this new position hoping it would shed some light on the pros and cons of this decision. Her voice snapped him back to reality.
“Linda…its pretty,” she sighed contentedly. He tried to withhold the loving, gentle smile he bestowed on her. She realized that something in him had changed dramatically, but she could not touch it or recognize what was going on. She just felt an overwhelming sense of security, like a naive hope that the sharks below would never touch her.
“Tired?” he laughed playfully.
“Yes, always.”
“Well, its not like we run on any kind of schedule or like we need to be anywhere, so if you want you can sleep.”
“No...what were you reading?”
“Huh…when—oh…that was Hemingway. Wanna read it?”
“Yeah. What else do you have?”
“Umm…Marti is good. Oh! But that’s in Spanish. When you learn Spanish you can read it.”
“Where am I—oh you’re gonna teach—thank you.”
“Welcome…” he stared into his plate, and absent mindedly scratched designs into the remnants left there. He yawned, and got up to get her the book. Things seemed to move so slowly, and he could not seem to get himself to move across the room any faster than a snail’s pace. He felt excruciatingly tired. He would not let himself look at her when he handed her the book. Her hand touched his ever so lightly that you would not have felt it your nerves had not been on fire like his were at the moment. He felt as if every inch of him was on fire and tiny pins were being stuck all over his body. He went to the mattress and pretended to sleep. Propping himself up on the pillows so he could see her on the sofa, he peeped out from under his eyelashes to see her reclined there completely enveloped in the fragrance and lullaby of Spain written in Hemingway’s words. She read of wonderful feasts, love that could not be had, the country side, and the thrill of a bullfight. She was enraptured by the words, so different from anything she had read in the school. Santiago was enraptured in turn by the spectacular creature so close at hand, and yet so far beyond his reach, that it might have been completely impossible for her to ever feel anything for him.
He prayed for her soul, basically that she might have one. He pleaded with the Lord that she might be more than an anatomical robot. It was the first time he had prayed in a long time and it felt good to pray for another person rather than for his own selfish needs, if what he asked was not selfish. The window was open and a soft breeze floated in, trailing the voices of the gulls drifting in the air above the city. He played a song by Celia Cruz in his mind and hummed it quite loudly. There was a noise in the ally, and he was suddenly struck by a fear which made his heart pound violently against his ribs. There were voices, loud, boastful voices, like those of the troopers. He crept over to the window and peeked out slowly. Sure enough there were six troopers smoking in the ally below. The stringent smell of cheap cigarettes wafted up on the breeze and constricted the lungs like the hand of death. Quickly he reached up and slowly lowered the hatch into place so that the window was not visible from outside, but just as it was settling into its place it let out what seemed to be the loudest squealing screech he had ever heard. One of the troopers noticed and brought the noise to the attention of his partners. Linda looked up from the book.
“What—“
“Shhh!”
“What happened?” she whispered, “Who was that?”
“Troopers,” he said tip toeing to where she sat.
“Will they kill us?”
“Only if they find us.”
Her eyes flew open in shocked disbelief and horror, “I don’t want to–“
“I know. I know. Its okay. They won’t find us. The stairs are hidden, and they’ve never found this place before.”
“You mean they’ve been here before?”
“You think I was the one who messed up the downstairs like that? No, they did. Apparently this used to be a rebel hide out. They never found it, but I guess they did find the guys who lived up here.”
“Wow...” she was truly excited by it. He smiled at her childish enthusiasm, and knew that the second they were on the run she would be longing after the boring upper room.
“You’re a rebel, I guess. You ran away didn’t you?” he mused.
“Yeah…but they didn’t look for me for very long.”
“Aaaah…they didn’t—“ a table crashed in the lower room, “That’s them. We have to be quiet. He crept over to the door over the stair well and pressed his ear against the crack so that he could hear the troopers’ voices.




“What’re—“ Santiago raised his hand to silence her.
Footsteps receding across the room. No noise followed.




The voices died down and their footsteps could be heard crossing the room and making their way up the street. Santiago still did not move for some time. He had heard of them playing this kind of trick on people before. They pretended to leave, then just as soon as someone comes out to see if they are safe, and what kind of damage had been done, the troopers jump out and ambush the unsuspecting refugee. Then they drag them out to the street and place a warm, hard bullet in their brain.
It was a horrible fate, but dozens fell to it daily. Some of them were rebels, colonists, refugees, and people like himself. But others were citizens, good working people of society. Maybe they said something they weren’t meant to, or maybe they just simply weren’t the kind of person they wanted in their society any more, like old clothes being thrown out and exchanged for something newer, and more attractive. People became obsolete like machines did, and much of the skill that was once required of a person to make society function and run along smoothly was done by machines. It was a horrible world, where all things old and beautiful were useless, and ugly, where things of nature were seen as no more than a means of survival, or a nuisance. There were those whose entire lives centered around finding what things were truly necessary for human survival, and what things they could hunt into extinction so that they could make room for the rapidly expanding human population. It no longer took nine months to give life to a human, but just a few days of genetic planning and accelerated generation. She was a child of this world, but he was the son of the old world, and he would cling to it with all the might of those who are refused life but take it daily. She was bound to him not just by the fact that her identity was imbedded so deeply within him, but that he was the very life giving breath which sustained her. She could not survive without his hand to guide and hold her.
His panic against taking her to the market suddenly dissolved. They could not snatch her away any more than they could extract his very heart from his breast. He scoffed at them. He would take her now and parade her before them, as a banner displaying his strength. Except, he was tired, and desired to sleep or sit about and read, anyway who knew where the troopers had snuck off too. He decided against it, and instead strolled lazily over to the mattress and plopped himself down casually.
“So what do you think of Hemingway”
“Oh! It’s amazing! I feel as if I’ve been to all these places now!”
“Yeah, he’s an amazing writer.”
“Have you been to these places” she looked up greedily, “have you seen the bulls like these”
“No, I’ve ever been there, but I have seen the bulls.”
“As horrible and grand as these”
“Maybe not as big, but definitely just as horrible.”
“Wow...” her eyes searched the text abstractedly, “and when you danced, did you dance like these?”
“No it’s a very different kind of dance.”
“How?”
“Well, that’s very...staccato...like this,” and he tapped his foot on the floor, “ and what I dance is more fluid.”
“Like water?”
“Sure, like water.”
“Can you show me?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s a partner dance, not the kinda thing you can do on your own.”
“Well then, teach me how.”
“Maybe later.”
She pursued her reading and followed the romantic and daring lives of the writer and the dashing young bullfighter, “I’d like to meet a bullfighter. Are they all as nice as this one”
“No, they become vain and fat.”
“Funny,” she giggled, “that a fat man should be vain.”
“Well, see, they don’t really realize that they are fat. Its as if they’ve never looked in the mirror since the last day they were young, killed the bull and got the girl.”
She laughed at his joke, “Is it true?”
“Possibly.”
She laughed again, “And do they always kill the bull?”
“Not always, some times it’s the other way around.”
“Really! That’s horrible!” her eyes were wide, terrified.
“Its okay. It’s what they chose...I guess.”
“To die? I can hardly believe that!”
“Why not? Fame, fortune, glory. It’s what drives people. And what greater glory is there than dieing in the face of danger?”
“It just sounds ridiculous. Does anybody even know who these people are anymore?”
“Some do.”
“Now?”
“I doubt it.”
“See.”
“I guess you’re right.”
She continued to read, and he continued to watch the prose-induced emotions which flitted across her face. She was beautiful. Tomorrow he would take her to the market and flaunt his parrot in front of all those sour faced pigeons. She would cower and hide so that they would have no substantial reason to hate her, but that deadly broth would boil ever stronger for this exact reason, they had no reason. There was no point or justification for their hate, for their prejudice. She had done nothing to them. She was no traitor, on the contrary, she had supported their cause and represented them more strongly than any of their greatest members ever had. But still, she was not born of tradition, and she would make an easy emblem of the evil in the world. She was the living essence of the demon that had swooped down and devoured their perfect Puritan way of thinking. Her beauty was the personification of the sin which now possessed all things of the new world.
“Would you like to come with me to the market tomorrow?” He couldn’t stop the words. He couldn’t stop the hate that swam beneath the surface of his love for her.
“Sure…” she answered skeptically, “They must have some beautiful stuff there.”
“It’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to the old world.”
“Hmm…” she stared off blankly into space contemplating what danger this new experience might hold. She feared the obstacles she would face, and wondered if the mark of the new world was still ablaze on her forehead. Was it still so obvious that she was born by…more “modern” means?
“Will they like me?”
“Huh?”
“Will they like me?”
“Are you nervous?”
“No…Do they like you?” There was concern deep in her eyes and even his slight hesitation spoke volumes, “Why not?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he got up and walked to the other end of the room.
“Why not?” there was a hint of desperation dangling from her voice.
“It’s really nothing. It’s just…I didn’t join their little group.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t like them. Anyway it’s safer to be alone.”
“But you’re not alone.”
“Well, two people is much easier to manage then twenty.”
“Twenty? Really, there’s only twenty of them?”
“No. There’s more than twenty. There’s a lot more than twenty. It just sounded—I don’t know. It’s just what I said. That’s all.”
“You could have—“
“It really doesn’t matter.”
“Right,” she looked dejected and sad, but he did not notice. He was pacing along the farther end of the room. Strange thoughts sailed unheeded through his mind. Like a caged animal he walked the line of the bars with the intent to find a hole. He was ruthless, cunning. His muscles flexed and stretched powerfully like some great cat stalking its prey. He was dangerous and she did not approach him in this awful state. A chill passed under his feat and a dark curtain passed around his shoulders and enclosed him completely in its dusky folds. She could see the red beady eyes and the smoke on their lips which curled up around the pearly white fangs. Their wings beat furiously in the smoke and occasionally she could make out a gleaming talon or bony wing with the thin fiber stretched across like a drum. She could not know the battle he was fighting, but she could see he was losing. There was nothing she could do to help him in this struggles which most certainly involved her in some way, and in which her well being hung in the balance.
“You okay?” she stammered. He did not answer, he did not even hear her. He was lost in deliberation and hell beckoned to him with brimstone-studded arms. She prayed that he may come out the victor so that she would not fall at his side. She snuggled deeper into the couch and buried herself in the beauty of the Spanish country side hidden within the pages of the book so far away and secluded form the dark world she inhabited, but she could not erase the image of the shining red eyes from her mind. She looked up to check on her inmate. He had left. She was alone. Panic stricken, she rushed about the room looking in obscure places for her missing friend. Recklessly she threw open the window and stared down the ally in vain. Then charging down the stairs she ran through the restaurant and rushed out into the street. There, a few blocks down, she saw him walking aimlessly. His arms hung limp at his sides and he wavered slightly like a flame in the breeze. A couple times she feared he might fall. Then just before her, a few troopers stepped out from around a building. They spoke and laughed amongst themselves. She was able to slip back into the restaurant just before they caught sight of her, but her friend was not so luck. Should they turn around, he would surely be killed.
Once they had passed the door she bolted out after Santiago. He had shrunk down in the distance, but the closer she got the more impressive his contour became. She crashed upon him like a wave upon the sand, and taking his shoulders she turned him towards her. He looked down into her eyes, but there was a dark cloud within them.
“Santi…Santi, please there’re troopers out!”
“I know…I know, sorry…” his head waved lazily from side to side, and he closed his eyes tight.
“Come on…Can we get in through the ally?”
“Yeah…” he led her down the narrow passage to a battered door in the back of the restaurant. She helped him up the stairs, taking his weight upon herself. Laying him on the mattresses she realized that he had passed out. She locked up the room and sat watching him from the couch. She sat there into the night, and finally sleep overtook her fear of the demons floating about the room.
Linda woke to a cold hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Santiago staring kindly into her face. A gentle smile played across his lips as he walked away. There was something painfully cold and grating about his manner and the way he moved.
“You must be hungry.”
“Yeah…” she was slightly shocked by the transformation, and could barely cling to hope.
“Let’s take a walk to the market. You can see the colonists, and you’ll get why I don’t live with them.”
“Okay…” she followed him at a distance and watched him bound down the stairs. He smiled up at her and insisted on walking close at her side in a deceptively playful gesture. She was more frightened by his new demeanor than the distress and agony which had been his constant sentiment since they first met. Suddenly he stopped be side her and his gaze fixed with icy severity upon the lonely grey edifice at the end of the road.
“That it?”
“Yeah,” he looked down and forced a smile. It did not warm her face like it was intended to. There was something cold and fearful in his look and she shuddered under its beam. He started foreword; the spry fluidity of his gate was replaced with an icy stutter. He turned towards her to cast an awkward grin in her direction, but it missed its mark. They came to the door and he pushed it forward hesitantly. They entered a dim room where people were milling about examining the different products before them. Slowly she could feel their fiery glances turning towards her. The second Santiago met the colonists’ eyes he knew the treachery he had committed. He had held the lamb protectively at his side and now he placed her before the gun. She trembled as the women cut her down and the men ate her up. He pulled her close to his side and glancing down caught her dismal face. She stared listlessly at her toes and tried to ignore the hate and lust tearing at her, when suddenly a big, brawny man stepped out before them and would not let them pass.
“We all know who she is…don’t we, boys?”
A couple men responded feebly. The big man laced his fingers through his belt loops and leaning back he looked her over like a man appraising a used car. Another slighter man came and stood beside the big man. He was completely dwarfed in the shadow of that human monument.
“We don’t want your kind here any mo—“
“No, no, pastor…”interrupted the big man, “We can make an exception for this young lady can’t we, boys?” He reflected his question back to an invisible and inaudible gang of men who probably would have spoken up boisterously if they had existed.
“I think that’s alright. She’ll be coming with me,” interjected Santiago. He stood up straight so that he almost came eye to eye with the mountain. Pulling Linda closer to him he started around the man and the feeble pastor, who sensing trouble had slunk back into the growing audience surrounding them.
“So you’re keeping her for yourself. That’s called selfishness…isn’t it, pastor?” scoffed the big man pulling Linda violently by the arm. She was flung to the cracked concrete floor and a fast fist flew into the shadowy face of the mountain. Suddenly there were shrieks from the crowd and a volley of arms and boots flew viciously through the air and bodies plunged and dove trying desperately to catch a chunk of the unseen enemy. Somewhere in the fracas Santiago found Linda and pulled her from the mob. They dashed past shrieking women and children. They heard the mob turn to face them as they raced out the door into the blinding light of the Caribbean day. They half stumbled, half ran back to their little haven. The colonists never followed them. They fought that day not against each other so much as they fought against the injustice and hurt which had shaped their existences.

Chapter Ten

Healing
Santiago turned to the girl fighting back the tears. She nursed her arm gingerly. There was a cut by her eye and a small line of blood ran from her disheveled hair and clung to her skin with the sweat which ran into her eyes. He dampened a rag and taking her hand he cleaned the many cuts on her arms and felt her wrist to make sure it wasn’t broken. She sniffed and wiped the tears furiously from her cheeks, all the time smearing blood across her face. He cleaned the cuts and felt about her head to find from where the blood ensued. He insisted that she let him wash her hair and the wound. It was not bad, but it worried him still.
“Let me see you,” she demanded with forced stability.
“No…its okay. I’ve got it.”
“No, really, you might miss something.”
He was badly bruised a there was a long cut across his shoulder.
“Someone had a knife?” she asked as she tried to clean it despite his protests. Every touch felt like needles, not because of any injury, but because here, despite his intentions, she had cared for him.
“I guess…” he answered. He looked up and caught her icy blue eyes in his. She was spectacular, and he realized just how low he had stepped to cause harm to such a marvelous creature. It could be safely said that he truly loved her despite his conflicting sentiments, but it could not be known whether she was capable of feeling the same, or if she just lacked education at this point. She smiled sincerely, but it lacked all passion, and his heart sank painfully. He knew that there was one thing he could provide for her. He could build her a life, take her somewhere beautiful and safe, somewhere where no one would know her, her past, or him. The only place he could think of was Cuba. It was his only hope, and at any rate it could not be any worse than the hell hole that had been his home for the past fifteen years. He longed for the palms and the sun. He smiled up at her.
“What?” she sounded amused. She like the happy optimistic look he gave her now, that ecstatic and hopeful smile now displayed.
“It’s all going to be alright!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll fix everything. Don’t worry!”
“I’m not…”
He got up and flew from the room. He still had not put on his shirt. She sat there watching the door, all the while clutching the bloody scrap of cloth between her small hands. Santiago still knew a man with a boat who lived just outside the city. His plan could work and this little glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel was enough to set him running.
He finally came upon the little man, still living in his shack under the wharf, the old motor boat moored out in the water. He was a slightly rotund Cuban man with a thick accent and a greasy guayabera. There was motor oil on his hands and as he walked out across the sand to greet his friend he wiped his hands on his torn jeans.
“Hola, hombre, how are you? You’re bleeding.”
“I know!” laughed Antonio, “Pipo, can you get me and a friend to Cuba?”
“It’s all business with you, huh? Amigo?”
“Amiga.”
“Ay! Que bueno!”
“Can you?”
“Sure. For a friend always!” and he slapped Santiago affectionately on the back, “Where to?”
“Anywhere. Somewhere safe.”
“In Cuba? All safe.”
“Really? Why?”
“ Quien sabe?”
“Wow. So you can do it?”
“Claro que si! Cuando?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Sure. Hasta luego, hombre.”
After his friend kissed him on the cheek, Santiago sprinted happily back to the room above the restaurant. Upon arriving he found Linda sitting watching the trap door with the same stupefied expression as when he left her.
“Wha’d you do?”
“We’re leaving! We’re gonna get out of here!”
“Huh?”
“We’re gonna go to Cuba.”
“Why?”
“It’s safer there. Its better.”
She just watched him, her mouth gaping and her eyes darting chaotically about the room. She ran her hand through her dark hair.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He raced about the room, frantically trying to get things together. Suddenly he dashed everything to the floor. The books lay neglected, a sad reminder of what had been destroyed in the flames of the new world. She jumped startled.
“Just food. Food and water. We’re not gonna take anything else.”
“Okay…”
“Get the bottles. Fill them with water.”
She crept down into the restaurant and found about a dozen glass bottles. Filling them she shook her head and laughed into the sink. The frenetic energy which had possessed her friend was now sinking rapidly into her skin. She trembled and shook, dropping a bottle. It shattered on the floor. She didn’t bother to pick it up and cut her foot on a small splinter. Leaving the bottles downstairs, she rushed up to the attic where she found Santiago packing food for the trip. There was a vaguely distressed look on his face.
“What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.”
They finished everything and tried to sleep. She could not. She felt restless and feverish. Her hands shook and her mind raced. What would it be like? How would they get there? It lay in a black, violated sea and something about this sounded horribly ghastly, like death in a soup. She shuddered at the thought of the horrors that lurked out in the water, but the paradise described at the end of it was more splendid than anything she had ever dreamt of. She rolled over and watched Santiago to see if he were awake. She couldn’t tell so she called out softly. He did not answer. He had heard her, but he did not want her to know that he was feeling uneasy about the trip. He did not want her to know that he knew that it could be dangerous and that their survival was, in fact, in jeopardy. He wondered now if he was once again drawing her towards harm. All kinds of doubt and insecurity boiled in his mind. He tried to force himself to sleep. He counted numbers, but every time he reached seven his mind would skip on to some strange, agitated topic. Finally, he was able to pursue the numbers and upon reaching 490 he dozed off and tossed fitfully in the sheets. It was one of those nights where you wake and feel as if you have been exercising all night long.

Chapter Eleven

Black as Sin
They woke that morning and ate a small bit of bread Santiago had left out, then they gathered their things and headed out into the dull grey morning. The moon was still visible above their heads, but the sky had lightened from the velvety black it had been a few minutes earlier. The air was warm though it gave a precedence of being crisp and cool. There was a steady whistling sound above them. Linda barely noticed it, but Santiago sped her on with fervent agitation. As the whistling became more distinct in the still early morning he grasped her hand and pulled her to a dead run. For a second the noise grew to a deafening quality, and the air compacted in a forceful BANG which shook the ground and sent them careening into the cement. Rocks and dust pelted them and clouded the air with a dense fog. Santiago dragged her on. She flew at his side. They were like two birds before the gun. Another earth shattering bang jolted them painfully and they ran on as shrapnel and stone rained down around them. Glancing back, Santiago quickly surveyed the bleeding scars, the flames, and the shrill, shrieking bombs. He could hear the sudden alarm of the colonists now audible from the heart of the city.
They sprinted on. Between the deafening bombs, the blunt slurp of the sea became more and more distinct among the sounds of suffering. You could hear the moans of the dieing and injured, the shrieks of mothers, and the wailing voices of small children. Finally, their feet met sand and the sounds ceased except for the low echoing howls of the bombs. Pipo sat in the boat with the motor running and a plank stretching out to the beach.
“Hurry! Take care you don’t touch the water!”
The second they stepped foot in the boat Pipo sped off not even taking the time to pull up the plank which slapped down on the thick, oily surface of the water. They were silent as they hurried off through the thick black sludge. In the distance, against the dark horizon, rockets and fire exploded with amazing ferocity. Their sparks and flames reflected dramatically on the black sea. Santiago was deeply saddened by the transformation of the Caribbean jewel into a thick black muck harboring only death and disease.
After they had continued on for a while, the city and the lights descended below the horizon and the sun began to make its ascent up the eastern arch of the sky. Below the deck there was an engine room and sleeping quarters with two bunks. They stored their provisions below as it was a good deal cooler than outside in the sun. Pipo began explaining to Santiago and Linda how to drive the boat so that they could take shifts.
“We will not run the motor by day. All we will do is try to not get off track. You two will do this.”
“How do we tell if we’re going in the right direction?”
“You can’t. All you can do is try to keep going straight.”
“Then how will you do it?”
“I can tell by the stars.”
They would only use the motor at night for two reasons: one, to preserve their precious fuel, and two, to keep the motor from overheating during the day. It was hot, and even the breeze provided little comfort from the humidity. Their agitation only seemed to increase the temperature of the air around them. When they were not on shift they studied the sky for planes or slept. If they saw a plane all they could do was pray that they were not spotted in return. Their eyes were constantly fixed upon the blue expanse, studying it and clinging to hope.
“Have you seen a plane?” asked Linda.
“No have you?”
“No, but Pipo said he saw one. Way off in the east.”
“Yeah, he told me that, too.”
“What would they do if they saw us?”
He shrugged. He did know, but he didn’t wish to share it. He didn’t want to scare her. Here he had delivered her from one fate into another. But who knew what would happen? The pilot might even think that they were merely one of the wrecks which were famed to float about the seas like ghost ships manned by their ghastly crews.
One night they came upon such a ship. Pipo called them out to see it. They pulled themselves up on deck, yawning and straining their eyes to see in the pitch darkness around them. But there, looming about a hundred feet off the starboard side was an old fishing boat. Pipo directed their tiny vessel next to the large one so they could see the horrid thing more clearly. It was rusty and holes had been eaten into it by the rain and the toxic water. Decay and muck clung to its sides and its deck was covered in a thick film of sludge. As they came around the rear they saw six corpses. Four lay upon the deck and one sat in a chair, his head resting on the control panel. The last sat at his captain’s feet where he had followed him blindly to his own death. Their bones were visible through their rotted, decaying flesh and tattered clothes. Linda became sick and threw up over board, just the stench alone was enough to induce this reaction, but the sheer horror of the thing could stop even the coldest heart. She made her way below deck and wrapped herself in a blanket like a shield to ward off the spirits of the unrest dead. When Pipo had got them back on course and Santiago was sure that Linda could not hear them, he confronted Pipo.
“Why’d you show her that?”
“I think that every person should see the effects of this war.”
“Fine, but did you see what it did to her? She can’t handle it.”
“Should be able to—“
“Why?”
“She’s just as much an effect of this war as they are,” he said sweeping his hand in the direction of the wreck.
“How’d you tell?”
“Any one can tell, chico.”
Santiago sat on one of the benches beside the steering wheel and stared up at the glistening, pure stars. No hand had touched them except God, and in this waste land they were the only beautiful thing left. All the beauty in the world had been wiped out and replaced with man-made, mass-produced monstrosities, even Linda was one of these. At one point Santiago had hoped that perhaps the sea would look the same at night now as it had in another time, but now he realized he was wrong. The sea moved and churned slowly without rhythm, pulse, or purpose.
“You should go to sleep. I’ll need you in the morning,” said Pipo in Spanish. There was some sort of apology in these words and Santiago smiled forgivingly before dropping down into the belly of the ship. The motor hummed soporifically and Santiago was soon fast asleep. Linda, however, lay awake in the darkness. The ghastly, sunken faces of the dead peered in at her through the shapeless night. She pulled the blankets about her shoulders. Their hollow eyes still shone unblinking before her. She longed for light to drive away the spirits. Santiago was sleeping, but selfishly she shook his shoulder. He moaned quietly and a chill ran up her back.
“Hmmm...”
“Sorry.”
“No, no...its okay. You scared?”
“That was horrible!”
“I know. I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have shown you that.”
“I heard you guys talking.”
“Oh...”
“Thanks...anyway.”
“Yeah well he–“
“He’s right you know.”
“Huh?”
“I’m just like one of them.”
“No. You’re different. You wouldn’t be here with us if you were like them.”
She heard him sit up in the dark and stretch lazily.
“There’s something dramatically different about you. I don’t know what it is or how it happened, but it did. It makes you different from everyone, form them and from us.”
“Oh...”
“I’m sorry–“
”No ...you’re right...I guess...It’s okay as long as I’m not one of them...right?”
“Yeah...you felling better?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good...do you still see them?”
“Yeah, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but they aren’t real. It’s just your imagination.”
“Uh...yeah...The more I try to ignore it or tell myself they aren’t there...the closer they get.”
He got up and sat next to her on the small bed. They sat there in this manner for some time. Eventually she sighed and sunk against his side. Her breathing became steady. She slept. Laying her down, Santiago returned to his bead. He could still feel her against his arm and the touch of her skin lingered on his hands. There was something painfully different about her than other girls. Even the simple physical and biological aspects of her being were dramatically different. He knew what Pipo meant by what he said. She was visibly different from other people. He shuddered at the thought of this alien being so close to his heart. She was splendid in her majestic beauty, and he watched her, hoping that another ghostly face might wake her so that he could sit by her and comfort her again. He felt the desire to comfort her, but at the same time he realized the deep necessity to push her away.
He pushed his hand out into the dark and let it hover there, quivering. Like a frail bird fighting the wind, it hung there. He did not know for what he was searching for or what he hoped to encounter there in the dark, but he found nothing but an ethereal chill which slithered icily down his arm. Withdrawing his arm, he shivered beneath blankets.
Suddenly the steady, even progress of the little boat was interrupted. There was a thud and the boat heaved upwards and tipped slightly. Santiago rushed onto the deck and heard Linda scrambling, confused, below. Arriving there he found Pipo picking himself up off the floor, a look of horror and surprise stamped on his face. They both shot their gaze about the surface of the water, searching for the offender, but it was still dark. The boat lurched again and Linda came tumbling out onto the deck. Santiago caught her and pulled her to her feet.
For some time they stood there, waiting for another attack. They could see the strange ghosts around them and fear gripped them all equally. Linda snatched at Santiago’s shirt and staring blankly before her, would not let him move. There was a thud against the helm of the boat, but it did not jerk up that time. Nothing happened for a while, at least until the sky began fading to grey and shapes became visible in the inky black water. They were no more than strange bulges under the thick surface of the water. There were several of them which would appear undulating beneath the surface.
They stood there watching the oily mob and clung to the ship lest it be thrown forward again like a spooked horse. Linda gripped Santiago’s shirt harder. Her knuckles were white and her other hand was busy searching for something to stable her just as another thud sounded from the deep and the boat hopped forward. They fell into the bottom of the boat. Pipo struggled to realign the craft on its course by what was left of the stars in the deep grey sky.
“God! What are they?” shrieked Linda, her voice shaking tremulously. She sat back in the bottom of the boat and tried desperately to ignore the light taps and reverberating echoes from below her feet. Santiago and Pipo stared fixatedly at the water and the black bulges which never broke the surface. Occasionally another one of these creatures sent the boat skipping across the water, but they had essentially been left to a relative peace when a low moan broke through the grimy surface. It rang low and grating, and seemed to penetrate the ear and affect the mind directly. Clasping their hands over their ears they managed to muffle the deafening wail. Daylight broke, commanding a broad scope of the shapeless sea. Only the rising and receding hills of these beasts broke the monotonous, bleak spectacle. The boat was rocked again. Then looking out to the west all was still and the advancing fleet had receded into the east. Santiago took Linda by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.
“They’re gone.”
“I guess they are,” she glanced about and sighed.
“Breakfast?”
“Yeah...”
Santiago slipped below deck and came back up with some bread. He found Pipo gripping the wheel desperately and Linda sitting on the bench and staring dazedly at her feet.
“Pipo, you okay? I can take the wheel.”
“Yeah...we’re desperately off course now.”
They spoke in Spanish so as not to alarm Linda.
“How bad?”
He shrugged.
“We can fix it tonight, right?”
“Oh yeah, but do we have enough…” he paused to check the gauges.
“Fuel?”
“Yeah...food, water, everything.”
“What are you talking about?” cut in Linda anxiously, “God! I hate it when you talk in Spanish. I can’t understand a thing.”
She scowled up at them and crossed her arms as if the warm, sweltering air was suddenly icy cold. Her eyes were cold and bitter. She sensed that something had gone wrong and that it was infinitely worse than the unknown creatures below the surface. She knew they meant to protect her, but she still felt the gesture like a slap in the face.
“Are we gonna die...or what?” she intended to sound tough and disinterested, but her voice cracked and she trembled slightly.
“No, no...I’m sorry. It’s just that we might be pretty badly off course.”
“I can’t say what will happen,” added Pipo. His accent made him sound even more awkward and unsure than he usually did. She nodded her head and dejectedly peered off towards the horizon. She shifted in her seat and peered up at them apologetically.
“We’ll be okay, right?”
“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” reassured Santiago sitting beside her.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Pipo in Spanish winking mischievously at Santiago who glared back. He knew that Pipo did not approve any more than he himself liked the whole situation, but Pipo did not mind entertainment at the expense of others. Santiago leaned back lazily against the side of the boat. He closed his eyes and allowed the sun to sift gently over his face. He noticed the bizarre silence which surrounded them. There were no gulls. They were truly alone out there, drifting listlessly through the water.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Hmm?” he snapped awake and met her soft blue eyes. She hugged her knees to herself, but no matter how hard she tried to withdraw, she found her toes constantly at his hip. Even that little impact was enough to send a shock down her spine. He was beautiful, and with his arms crossed she could make out every trimmed line of his body. She could not reason with this feeling inside her. The churning and fluttering deep in her stomach was something she had never felt in all the time she was with him. He was no longer some ideal creation or a good friend, but now every aspect of his being pulled on hers.
“Linda?”
“Right...umm...no I just thought that maybe you were asleep.”
“No, no...just thinking.”
“About?”
He shook his head. She felt it, but she would never understand.
“I’m glad its over.”
“Over,” he laughed, “hardly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we sill have to get there. We will get there, but it might take a little longer.”
“How much longer?”
He shrugged.
“But Miami isn’t that far from it, it is?”
“No, but this sludge makes it a pretty far way to go.”
“Um...remember the ghost ship?”
“Yeah...”
“What happened to them?”
“They got sick.”
“From what?”
“You spend a year on this water and you’d be sick too.”
She wasn’t sure if this was a joke, and so decided not to laugh.
“What are we gonna do when we get there?”
“Find a place to live I guess.”
“Is it safe?”
“According to Pipo, yeah.”
“That’s good.”
“Mhmm.”
“So what’s it look like?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“Sick of answering my questions?”
“Huh? Oh! No...not at all.”
“Right. Any way...I guess Pipo’ll live with us.”
“Maybe.”
“I like him.”
“He’s a great guy.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Oh...forever.”
“When you came to the city?”
“No. I had been living there for some time. This was of course after everything else.”
“Right.”
“I went to the beach, to see what was left of it. And I saw the boat slipping over the water. He tied it to a pillar of the warf then he jumped from the boat to the sand. For a fat man, he can jump pretty far.”
She smiled awkwardly.
“So I went up and talked to him. He was really nice. He used to sail between Havana and Miami every couple of months taking things to market.”
“He doesn’t anymore?”
“Well, there isn’t a Miami to sail to anymore,” he smiled cynically. She nodded her head and smiled a little less awkwardly this time. She had not cared much for Miami. It was too close to the institution, and she had never really become attached to it. She figured this was because of the fact that she had very few good memories linked with the place. But Santiago had lived there for so long and so much of him was connected to that city. She could not understand why he would forsake the memory so blatantly. Her emotions were so muddled up it would have been exceedingly difficult for her to try to examine the complex sentiments of this boy so far beyond her.
“What is it?”
“Huh? Oh...nothing.”
“Hey, chica. Its my turn to ask questions now.”
“Why don’t you like Miami? I mean you lived there for such a long time. How can you not be attached to it?”
“Oh...you don’t want to answer questions so you’re deflecting.”
“No, now why don’t you like it?”
“Well...its not my home–“
“And Cuba is?”
“Maybe.”
“What else?”
“My family was killed there. So that might be a reason.”
“Oh...I’m so sorry,” attempting sympathy she placed her hand on his shoulder, but he swivelled around in his seat to face her. He kept opening his mouth to ask her something, but nothing came out. No words would suffice to beak that interminable silence. Then Pipo’s snoring broke through and sent them both into muffled snickers. She smiled and shaking her head ran her hand through her dark hair. The bright airy light of daybreak now slowly warmed into the brazen, gilded light which painted everything in the lightest layer of dewy gold. Even the modest swells glistened under its influence. Their peaks shone with the gaudy jewelry of a prima donna while its depths shimmered with the shy adornments of a small child. The sky was the only thing unaffected by the sun’s haughty display. It retained its gauzy blue satin dress and did not exchange it for the silver beads it was offered. Santiago stared out over the sea and tried to paint it emerald green. They continued to drift on and he kept his gaze on the water’s surface. The steady, smooth line of the horizon wrapped itself around them, but then Santiago noticed something strange south west of them. It was a small irregularity in the steady black band. They had already crossed what was left of the Florida Keys, with their skeletal highways broken and looming out of the water with forewarning. They were not meant to see anything else before Cuba, and there it was. There was most distinctly a break in the horizon right before them.
“Linda! Look there. The island.”
“Is it Cuba?”
“I think so.”
“Pipo! Pipo,” she threw the hatch open and stuck her head in through the gaping hole to wake their overweight little friend. He came groaning up to the deck and shading his eyes he peered in the direction of his companion’s pointed fingers. There it was, merely a blip on the radar screen, it disrupted the still, smooth line only slightly. Pipo fell to his knees, and clasping his hands, he turned his face towards the heavens and began proclaiming thanks with all praise and joy. Crazed smiles struck their faces. Then a calm settled on them and they viewed it with reverence.
“It’s beautiful...I mean, its only a speck, but wow.”
They all nodded.
“I was wondering if I’d ever see it.”
They all nodded again. Occasionally one of them would sigh contentedly, then everything would relapse into silence. Finally, Santiago broke the spell by running to the ignition, intending to start the boat for the hill before them.
“No! We need to save fuel,” cried Pipo as he batted Santiago’s hand away from the key, “any way the current is taking us straight for it.”
“Pero, we don’t have much food.”
“We don’t have much fuel either.”
“I need to learn Spanish,” interjected Linda, but she didn’t let it bother her too deeply, “I heard something about food. What’s wrong with the food?”
“Your ‘novio’ thinks we don’t have enough food left for the rest of the trip,” smiled Pipo mischievously.
“What does ‘novio’ mean?”
“It means–“
”Nothing, Linda, it’s just another word for friend.”
“A very different kind of friend,” said Pipo with a sly smile.
Santiago shot a warning glance at his friend, “Linda, could you watch the boat, make sure we don’t get going the wrong way. I’m gonna sleep a little then I’ll come up and take over.”
“Sure.”
Santiago and Pipo stepped down into the cabin and shut the door behind them.
“Why do you say those things?”
“Oh! Come on. I see how you look at her. And you treat her like some fragile little thing that can’t handle the facts of life. We all suffer. Why shouldn’t she?”
“Like what?”
“Death. We may die. There’s a chance, and some day we will.”
“But she’s young.”
“As old as you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Aaaa...I see what’s the real problem.”
“It’s nothing, Pipo. I need to sleep.”
“You know that’s not why you came down here. Now stop avoiding what’s bothering you.”
“It’s nothing...”
“You can’t avoid it forever.”
“Sure I can.”
“So you admit that it’s there?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s a start. So are you gonna hide your feelings forever, and just live in celibacy by her side, or will you ignore the issue completely and go ahead with it anyway?”
“Its just wrong.”
“I know.”
Pipo got into bed and immediately began to snore. Santiago sat there in the dark for some time. He felt completely numb all down one side. He put his head in his hands and sat there. He felt so vile, like he had broken every social and Biblical commandment in one fell swoop. The dark was comforting, and something inside him urged him to simply leave “it” in the dark, where no one could see it.
You see the dark is much more powerful than people think. Sin is darkness and only in the dark can you cast off sin and guilt, but not in a sanctified, holy, and pure way. A deal with the devil under the veil of darkness is the only way to go about such thins. Now he, like every one else, knew this. He had known it since he was a little boy and had asked his grandmother why she hung chicken feet on the foot of her bed. She said it kept the devil away at night. So here he was in the darkness, and he made a deal. So when he walked back onto the deck all things had a light airy feeling about them, and he felt purely giddy his soul was so light. He and Linda chatted for hours about nothing, and all the while Cuba marched upon hem, but slowly.
That night Pipo guided the ship by the stars. That night was exactly like the other, except for two main differences. Pipo could still hear the churning of the propeller in the water; but there was a murmur of hushed voices beneath his feet, and above him was the occasional squawking of gulls. The voices worried him, but the gull simply reinstated that his part in this conflict would be over shortly. He embraced this reality with all his might and prayed that things would run smoothly, and that they could make it to the harbor safely. Then he said a special prayer for Santiago. He begged that the boy be given common sense enough to realize what he was doing, at least for one night more so that he could be free of the knowledge of such deeds. Panic struck him as the voices subsided and gave the floor completely to the gulls who now spoke out quite bombastically from above. Pipo threw the hatch open and rushed into the cabin only to find the two children fast asleep in their respective bunks.
His heart still racing, Pipo returned to the deck. Cuba was far off still, but they would undoubtedly make it by morning, where his job would end and he could be rid of the mindless boy and his friend. He did not care a cent about what they did or didn’t do. He just didn’t want to hear a word of it.

Chapter Twelve

The Old World
The stars began to fade and a grey streak was visible on the horizon, only broken by the island rising before them. Morning crept upon them without a single change in the steady cadence of the sleepers’ breath. Grey sea gulls swooped and squawked above the boat, casting vague sifting shadows on the surface of the water, like the foot prints of ghosts retreating from the rising sun.
Pipo opened the hatch, the boy and girl were still asleep. He didn’t shut it. He would let the Caribbean sun slip in to wake them itself. Now in the dim light he could make out the ruins of the city and its once grand harbor. The jungle now crept in slowly, covering everything and laying a thin layer of vines over the buildings. They would have to find the colony. It was somewhere in...that valley there. He could make it out now. They would have to establish themselves there some how, but Santiago hated the idea of joining a colony. Maybe he was right by not joining in Miami, it wasn’t safe there, but this was safe. This was very safe, and if he really did care about Linda like he said he did, he would join the colony despite his strange deterrence from any kind of community. He was painfully hard headed with all his strange political beliefs and moral opinions which stood upon little if any basis.
Finally the sun peeked its shining crown above the sullen black horizon and its rays began their race around the world. They displayed the devastation and beauty of the gem-like island in sharp contrast and dramatic profile. The shadows were long and deep like gashes in the hills. The buildings resembled corpses decayed and crumbling. Their hollow eyes stared out at the harbor reflecting eternity in their dark, empty gaze.
Pipo shuddered at the ghastly sight before him. These shattered memories of the old world always struck him with deep seated horror. It was a constant reminder of what he had lost, what the world had lost, all the art and literature, destroyed, his family gone. He shoved down his feelings and focused on finding a good place to hide the boat for easy access. Then it struck him. He would never use this boat again. He would never leave this place. It was the last thing in the world that wasn’t over run with troopers. It was forgotten. He pushed the boat in full. The roar of the motor woke the sleeping couple and they jumped from the cabin so as to escape the booming voice of the motor. Rubbing their eyes they looked about themselves and took in the dramatic spectacle wrapping its green arms around them.
“Its beautiful...” gasped Linda, “we’re gonna live here?”
“Yeah...” Santiago’s response came mingled with an exhale of the warm humid air. However, amazement was soon exchanged for fear as they realized that the boat was approaching the beach at a speed that would have been dangerous even in open water.
“Pipo...Pipo?”
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you gonna slow down?”
“No.”
The boat struck the sand with tremendous force sending a spray of white powder before them, and digging a deep scar behind them. They were thrown to the floor.
“Why’d you do that!?”
“We’re never leaving, Santiago.”
“But why that?”
“Just get off the boat.”
Santiago helped Linda to her feet and rubbing their bruises they leaped down onto the light powdery sand. Pipo followed lugubriously and as they made their way toward the skeletal city he looked back upon the ship broken in the sand. The black water began to seep into the scar. It lifted the broken corps and carried it slowly out into the harbor where it drifted slowly with the tide. The young couple carried on and twittered back and forth like parrots. Pipo smiled at them.
The white sand fluttered about their feet and gave the effect of mist. The palm trees swayed lightly overhead although no breeze touched their skin. They carried their things and trekked out towards the city. Stones and broken glass littered the street. The trio had to skip about to try and avoid cutting their feet on the debris that littered their path. The sun reached the summit of the sky and the immense city was bathed in a sultry heat which drove them into a nearby bar. They found broken bottles and glasses strewn about. There was a single bottle of rum under the sink. It was old and its flavor had progressed far beyond its original intent. The cool, dim shade of the splintered room revived them. Linda, unaccustomed to the effects of alcohol, sat on a stool gripping the copper edge of the bar. She stared blankly at Santiago and tried in vain to still the chaotically spinning room. The two men talked in hushed tones. Important life altering decisions floated through the dusty sun-streaked air just beyond her reach. They waited in that room until the line of shade had progressed a few feet up the walls of the farther buildings then they headed out into the street. Linda followed sluggishly behind, dragging her feet and tracing a line in the dust on the walls with her fingertips.
“Maybe Rum wasn’t the best idea for her,” said Santiago turning back towards his friend.
“Probably not, but its all there was. She’ll be fine.”
They kept moving forward through the city. Towards night they began to find traces of the advancing jungle on the tall stone and plaster walls of the buildings. A couple street lamps flickered on and cast an eerie, shattered light on the street. They stepped into an old hotel and sought out rooms where they could spend the night. It was the first time Catalina had slept in a real bed, and despite the dirty, stiff sheets, she had never felt so voluptuously comfortable. They slept without moving and few dreams fluttered through their minds.
Towards the wee hours of the morning Pipo woke and slipped silently from his bed. He waited a few moments to make sure that the others didn’t wake. He quickly got his things together and stepped off towards the door. He felt deeply sorry for leaving his friend, but he could not bring himself to walk with them through their sin. He stood there for some time with his hand on the cold, steel door knob, waiting for one of them to wake up and catch him. He tried so hard to convince himself that the mischievous voice in his head urging him forward was right.
When neither of them woke, Pipo opened the door with little regard for its squeaky hinges. He carried his things over his shoulder and ambled slowly through the hall, down the stairs, and into the battered lobby. His presence woke the dust-winged bats which floated and circled the room before resettling on the coffee tables and counters of the old lobby. The glass wall gave a dim foggy view of the dark street just as one of the surviving lamps flickered off, allowing the shadows to rush back onto the sidewalk. Pipo walked slowly and deliberately down the street. The black, creeping vines wound themselves around everything like gnarled, bony hands greedily clawing at the remains of this Caribbean gem. Finally Pipo reached the edge of the city. The jungle reared up ferociously before him, but without noticing he stepped into the thick of it and found the hidden trail leading to the colony.
The stout, old man plodded on for about a mile, pushing snake-like creepers out of his way. Occasionally he would come across a crumbling stone wall which would betray the original edge of the vast city. He kept on. Finally, once the sun had made its dramatic appearance and the bugs had begun their humming symphony, Pipo stepped off the path and laid himself in a clearing. He craved sleep, and did not care if he should ever wake. The darkness of his treachery seeped into the clearing and enfolded him in deep slumber, but he was not entirely alone. Santiago and Linda had started out soon after Pipo. Noticing where the jungle got thicker, Santiago instructed Linda to sit on a stump while he checked things out. Santiago wove his way through the trees. Suddenly the monotony of the insects’ song was broken by a low rasping which echoed from a dense wall of creepers. Spreading the lacy vines he spotted his friend through a screen of foliage and ferns.
“So you thought you could run out on us, father?” laughed Santiago shoving his friend with the tip of his toe.
“That’s sacrilegious. Don’t make jokes,” answered Pipo from the outskirts of a dream.
“So you thinkin’ of helping us find this place, or what?”
Pipo looked upon his friend sheepishly. With tears in his eyes, he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and shook it lightly. They found Linda fidgeting fretfully on the decadent old log.
“Hey, Cat, look who it is!”
“Pipo?” she cried and jumped up to embrace the old man.
“Hola, nina.”
She smiled at him and then turned back to Santiago.
“Is it safe?”
“Very.”
“Then we should keep moving.”
“Yeah.”
“Will we get there before it gets dark?”
Santiago shrugged and turned the question back on Pipo.
“So, we probably won’t even arrive tomorrow.”
“So it’s a long way?”
“Yeah.”
They headed off through the murky heat of the tropical day. At one point it rained fat drops of stinging water. Everything was painted a translucent green and the sound of insects, frogs, and plopping rain created a musical harmony to which the travelers timed their pace. It was a beautiful world which preserved all the intricate beauty of the ancients now obliterated by the dull, rounded, modern world. Then they would arrive at some breath-taking scene Pipo would insist that they kneel and pray as if in the presence of some altar bearing the likenesses of the Madonna and her holy infant, the baby Jesus, beneath the vaulted, Gothic ceiling of one of the great Spanish Cathedrals. Linda, quite confused, interrogated Pipo endlessly about what it was he was doing, and to whom he spoke. Pipo tried to reiterate some of the sermons and masses he had heard as a boy. To the best of his ability he recounted a number of verses and the Lord’s prayer.
“Santiago...why don’t you pray?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh come on! You must. It’s fun.”
“Its just, it hasn’t done me much good.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like its done Pipo much good either, but he still does it.”
“Doesn’t that seem kinda pointless to you?”
“No. He says that we don’t always get what we want.”
“Why not?”
“Because, God has better ideas than we do.”
“Mhmm.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t know.”
They wiggled through some vines and other dense plant life.
“Did Cuba always look like this?”
“No. Its really wild now.”
“Yeah...” they squirmed underneath a large, fallen tree, “God, I can’t imagine living here.”
“Well, we’re gonna, and if you’re gonna be Catholic...” he pushed aside a branch, “you can’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”
“What?”
“Don’t say ‘God’ unless you’re talking to Him.”
“Oh...but you do.”
“Well, I’m not Catholic.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Pipo said that once you’re a Christian you’re always a Christian. God doesn’t leave you.”
“Well, that’s what Pipo says. My life hasn’t supported that theory very well.”
“Sure it has.”
“No, it hasn’t. Do you want me to go through this again with you?”
“No.”
Santiago went ahead to talk with Pipo.
“Why do you teach her all that stuff?” he asked in muffled Spanish.
“Why?”
“Because, she’s being horribly obnoxious.”
“Well, I just thought, you know, if she has a soul then we should save it.”
“And if she doesn’t, then you’ve wasted your time.”
“I know.”
There was silence between them for a while.
“You really don’t want us to be together, huh?”
“It gives me much fear,” he answered in Spanish.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Linda came picking her way through the dense ferns to catch up with the two men walking some ways ahead of her.
“Its getting dark,” she said, warning them that shelter would soon be necessary.
“Yeah, Pipo, where should we go?”
“Mmm...There’s a clearing over here.”
“Will we be safe?”
“Sure.”
“There aren’t animals?”
“Of course there are.”
“Well...they won’t hurt us if we don’t hurt them,” Pipo stated doubtfully.
They stepped into the clearing and began to arrange their things. They climbed up into the thick, green mattress of foliage. It was soft and luxurious, surrounded by a nearly impenetrable wall of massive tress which provided a high, emerald ceiling which rustled and swayed in the breeze.
“The colonists keep this.”
“What?”
“The colonists keep this clear for travelers,” added Pipo.
“Colonists?”
“Yes, Santi, colonists.”
“I’m not living with colonists.”
“Santi, really,” cried Linda.
“These people aren’t like those others. I didn’t join that colony either, but I love these people. They’re different,” explained Pipo.
“Really–“
”No, Laura--Linda!”
She stared gaping up at him.
“I’m sorry! I really am. I think you’re right, Pipo.”
“Linda...please, no.”
“No, Santi. I want to join them. I will still be your friend, but I want to be part of the colony.”
Santiago noticed the obnoxiously pleased look Pipo was trying, with little success, to hide. It infuriated Santi far beyond what he had felt in a long time.
“You’re right, Linda,” he said in a forced, apologetic voice, “the colonists aren’t all bad,” and with this Santi glanced victoriously in Pipo’s direction.
“My God, Santi,” exclaimed Pipo in Spanish, “does pride really have all the power in your life?”
“No.”
“Ay, que lio!”
“God– I’m sorry– stop talking in Spanish.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”
Their eyes fell to the dead, decaying leaves underfoot, and somehow in that moment they all dropped to the same level, and for the first time all their sentiments were lain bare, their apologies were deeply felt, and past transgression were forgiven. They looked each other in the face as if seeing each other for the first time. Darkness descended on the room and wrapped them in the warm, thick blanket of Cuban summer time. They nestled themselves into the soft, springy mattress.
“Good night,” said Linda in all her innocence.
“Night,” answered Pipo with a fatherly tone.
“G’ night,” whispered Santiago. He reached his hand out and just barely touched her shoulder. She rolled over and placed her hand lightly over his. They waited until Pipo had begun snoring to talk.
“Why do you have to do this, Santi?”
“Do what?’
“Be so difficult? Why can’t you just accept that some people aren’t as bad as all the ones you’ve known so far? I’m sorry if I let you down and I know that Pipo didn’t mean anything by it.”
The silence between them screamed out. Linda squeezed his hand, “I am sorry,” she whispered softly and rolled over away from him. Santiago lied on his back and stared up at the leaves vaguely lighted by the moon drifting lazily overhead. He absorbed all the noises of the night. Every squeak and flutter hit him with amazing force and sank, into his skin. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he became suddenly and painfully aware of harried and distressed voices buzzing through the air around him like angry bees. As he became conscious of what had happened the terror of it hit him full force. A boar had eaten the rest of their food. They had nothing.

Chapter Thirteen

Sweet Revenge
Leaving the fragmented and scattered bits of food and provisions they scurried from the room, chasing the offender. They dove through the curtain of vines into the narrow passage leading them through the thick-bodied trees. The trio leapt and bounded through the dim morning light fluttering down to land momentarily on their shoulders. They pushed branches from their faces and shot forward. Somewhere farther down that path the little creature had scuttled away from Pipo’s badly guided attacks. Little hoof marks were visible in the soil and every step they took brought them a little closer to their goal.
Suddenly Santi stopped and spreading his arms wide like wings he held his friends behind him, but was all together ineffectual. They all went tumbling noisily to the ground. Around a bend in the trail they discovered the little critter snacking peacefully. Ill advice assured him that his anxiety was better focused on a semi-menacing-looking bug reclined on an especially tasty looking shoot of grass. The three hunters crept forward, and hiding behind a large fern they watched the wild pig nose aside the little bug and munch away at his breakfast. Santiago began to count down on his fingers. Linda caught in a sudden panic let out a little cry. Santi and Pipo dove from their hiding place just as the little animal shot like a squealing brown bullet into the dense jungle.
“You let him get away!”
“Dios mio!”
“That was our breakfast!”
“Ay, que lio!”
“Just what a girl would do!”
“Sorry—“
“Oh, really?”
“Well, I wasn’t about to let you kill him!”
“It was a pig for Chris-sake!”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain!”
“I’m no—any way—now we don’t have food.”
“There’s plenty of fruit around here.”
“Great! Pipo you hear that? According to the humanitarian we’re gonna eat fruit for the next three—“
“Two.”
“Two days.”
“We’ll live.”
“Good God!”
“Yes, He is.”
“A little early for you to be a preacher don’t ya think, Linda?”
“You’re being ridiculous, Santi. Let’s just go okay?”
The travelers started grudgingly back up the trail which had been gradually embracing the hill, but now it reared up fully, and they found themselves winding up a labyrinth of boulders and jagged rocks as they climbed into the mountains. However, the jungle never quit and its flying buttresses and intricate, latticed arches still shifted in the light breeze overhead. It became cooler, and sometimes there was a hint of mist snaking between the feet of the column-like trees, however, it was still hot, and they never lost the feeling of being constantly wet. They did not speak much during the rest of the trip unless some kind of joint effort was very obviously necessary in order to continue on toward civilization. Pipo continuously tried to force them into a conversation, but he never received more than a monosyllabic answer. They had only just wiped the slate clean that night, but already they were building things up between them. Like they were made up of such completely different stuff, they could never mesh.
The birds overhead sang and bounced about in the trees. There were strange birds and parrots Linda had never seen before. Her eyes darted from branch to branch, following their scattered paths. She was fascinated by their intricate and melodious tunes as much as she was enthralled by their bright plumage. She soon forgot all her resentment, not towards Santiago, but towards his stubbornness, and lost herself in the world of sight and sound spinning dizzily around her. She felt as if she were discovering things for the fist time, and every new sensation and experience opened new realms of understanding in her little, child mind. She matured with the flowers which bloomed each morning after the long, warm night, and she could feel herself flying up to the canopy where the birds were. She loved this island, this Cuba, but Santiago had placed every last hope he had in the world on this place being as it once was, but it was strange now. It was not the Cuba he had known as a little boy. This placed was wild, feral. None of the splendor and beauty existed any more for him. Now more than ever Santi felt cut adrift. The world, every aspect of it was foreign to him.
Daylight progressed as they made their way around the base of the mountain. Violet, red, and green hues began to streak the sky in a spectacular light show. Pipo had hoped they would reach the colony before nightfall, but they still had to make their decent into the shallow valley. By more worldly standards the rocks they had climbed over were merely hills, but to the three travelers, weary and lost, these jagged hills and mountains were as high and steep as the great Andes.
They made a meager repast of fruit and the entire time they ate Santiago grumbled about how they could be eating roast pork. They found a place to sleep, and considering the fact that they had no more provisions or anything else of value, they never once thought to keep shifts or a guard. They lied down to sleep and the billowy fabric of the jungle tossed about overhead. All their worries passed above them in the shifting shadows of the ever thinning forest. Occasionally, the moon would spread the leaves apart slightly and peak a curious eye in at the new-comers. The stars danced and a plane moved steadily through the sky. Every so often an animal would issue a wary cry in the dark. Then silence would once again descend on the jungle. Jungle silence is different from normal silence. It is woven from the constant melody of tiny bugs humming and the slight trembling of the breeze. This shapeless tune is given a beat by the low, constant croaking of a frog. The jungle is quietly alive, and like a person sleeping, it too has a pulse. By morning it takes a deep breath where everything is suddenly still and then it exhales and every tiny creature jumps to action and the jungle is reawaken. The travelers stirred with the dark yet quickly lightening forest around them. They stretched and rose. The softly powdered dapples of light swayed and twitched lightly on the mat. Their eyes took in the soft dewy scene around them. The gnawing hunger in their bellies was momentarily replaced by the magnificent display of life and brilliance unfolding sleepily before them. The soft murmuring cascade of sights and sounds swirled around them like the tide of a fast moving stream. Eventually the protests and agonizing pleas of their stomachs took precedence over the marvelous exhibit of nature. They sought a meal for themselves and once again set out, minus the encumbrances of provisions. They made their way with slow, respectful steps through natural beauty, towards the settlement which awaited them. They walked with the precision of mourners in a funeral, contemplating every step they took towards the place of death. Their own silence was slowly suffocated by the building momentum harnessed within the green of the jungle. They began the descent into the valley. The trees spread out and became more slender and delicate than the stout beasts which had lined the trail behind them. They walked on through the grasses and were suddenly faced with an impenetrable wall of tall, yellowed shoots. Pipo breathed in the sweet fragrance and stared up at the massive stalks stretching their bony fingers towards the sky.
“What are they?” asked Linda.
“Sugar cane. In years past the island was covered with plantations.”
“Wow.” This exclamation was barely audible and transgressed from her lips as a sigh. She stared up the dark green stalks until they transcended into the airy, blue sky. One of them bowed eastward over their heads and stretched his hands out towards the gold, brazen sun which made its slow, arching journey across the sky. The travelers continued south around the overgrown remains of the once prosperous plantation. They often had to struggle over ravaged trunks of cane which laid prostrate in their path, and at one point they came across the sagging corpse of a once stately plantation house. It had a wrap-around porch which had caved in at several points. There was a lonely wicker rocking chair which sat forlornly under the bowed eves of the house. The abandoned chair swayed lightly in the gentle breeze which pushed at it lightly. It was a wonder that this thing remained regardless of the wars and storms which had ripped through this place. Its eternal motion alluded eerily to the unrest spirits which roamed the world trying to right the injustices which had buried them. Linda shivered at a chill tough upon her bare shoulder.
They continued around the thick stalks of sugar cane which barred their progress. Only their mutual animosity held them from speaking, no breathtaking splendor was there to make an excuse for their present silence. Pride is the only vice which can sustain such heavy and burdensome sentiments towards another person, and now it was only Santiago’s pride which maintained the burning ill will he felt towards his companions. He could find no real reason for feeling so towards them, but somewhere in his dark thoughts there was a thorn which irked him immensely. He watcher her slight, slender figure. It was far from sumptuous, voluptuous, or sensuous, the adjectives which are usually attributed to a desirable woman, but she looked like she would be better suited for light, flowing gowns and a pair of wings than the blue jeans and tank top she now wore. Her fair skin was beginning to take on a gilded sheen and he watched as her long dark hair swayed slowly over her thin shoulders. She looked as if a light squall would send her floating off through space and plop her delicately in some vast, remote land far from him.
Linda turned away from Pipo who she had been following studiously and glanced back at her friend and enemy. She caught his honey brown eyes locked on her and was startled. She was struck by the picturesque view behind her, and both creatures froze giving the other a chance to take in the absurdity of that instance. He was strangely dramatic. He could have been standing beside the walls of Jericho, or if a massive pearl had been wedged somewhere in the great green stalks he could have been the modern disciple now dead and awaiting judgment. She was amused by these speculations. She studied his dark skin and broad muscular shoulders before leaping back over the shattered obstacles to catch up with their guide. Santiago wanted so desperately to say something and make amends. He wanted to eradicate the crippling pride within him, but before he could, the crystal silence shattered around him and he sprang out over the decaying bits of sugar cane to catch up with his party. They sun now reached the pinnacle of its climb and the tall, neglected shoots raised their heads. As the wind stirred each wavering stalk they sang out in praise and revelation.
Now the trio stepped out from the shadow of the cane, and Pipo raising his hand motioned them forward cautiously across the grassy slope descending slowly towards a shallow brook surrounded by royal palms which drank greedily of its sweet water. Pipo directed their gaze to a shadowy figure slouching between two curving palms so that no one besides the hawk and the hunted would know he was there. Pipo spread his hands out in the air above and beside his head and the two children followed his example and walked slowly down the gentle slope until they stood just a few yards from the trees. Linda could clearly see the man with his beard and mustache, both in grave desire of repair. He now lowered the automatic rifle he kept cradled, cocked at his shoulder. Pipo advanced into the shade and the two men whispered confidentialities between each other. They then motioned for Santi and Linda to follow them into the dark passages beneath the outstretched palm leaves. With some amusement the two men noticed that Santi and Linda still assumed the sign of surrender. They laughed and assured the frightened children that it was okay to put their hands down. Light sifted lazily though the palm fronds. Where it was blocked by foliage it cast a green hue on its subjects whether it be the coquettish, gossiping brook or the faces of the two denied lovers who passed beneath its influence.
They walked abreast of each other, but neither dared mutter a word. They were both wrapped in similar fear. They wished, longed for the safety of their former solitude and isolation, but now they were to be immersed in a society nestled in the protective walls of the hills and to dismiss the frivolous argument between them. They were to enter into the horrifying company of the people who despised her kind so greatly. She was so very different from all other people, and he, like so many others, realized this with painful surety. She was molded of different clay, and this was not going to make it any easier for these people to accept her into their tiny, secluded world. She looked on with apprehension as they dove farther into the forest. Suddenly stout little structures of stone, clay, and wood were visible between the dense palms. Their guide exchanged further gestures and explanations with a second guard who stood at the edge of the village. He waved them past and they moved forward into the hive which would be their new home.
It was a strange conglomeration of sturdy huts and houses built from whatever was available, but made so that they would be able to withstand even the fiercest of hurricanes. They were built on the gentlest of slopes to assure that their village would not suffer the flooding which these hurricanes promised to provide. Despite this precaution, all the homes were raised slightly and the doors all faced downhill. Furthermore, to protect against planes or troopers from spotting the settlement, numerous palms were dispersed between the buildings to create a kind leafy dome over the huts. People bustled about from one building to another visiting friends and families or simply going about business. They assumed that the larger buildings were of more importance. There were three such buildings. The first of them was the school building where the children were now taking lessons from an older, blonde Cuban woman. The second was a church. Santiago felt as if a hand had clenched down on his heart when he heard this news. This restrictive feeling was only increased at seeing Linda’s eager countenance at this intimation. The last one was their town hall which handled nearly every decision made in the city, which is where they were now quickly ushered by their guide. He was a young man of about Santiago’s age. They looked alike, though he lacked some of the robust mystery and allure which worked itself into Santiago’s clean features. He was jovial and found Pipo, undaunted as Pipo was by the aspect of this new life, to be a wonderful companion.
They stepped into the single, large, dark room of the town hall. There was a long table behind which sat six elderly men. Their white beards blended into their pure white robes and framed their dark skin and eyes like frosty wreaths. Despite the threatening judges, the three travelers could not forget the vengeful hunger tearing them apart. The judges called the three strangers forward, and speaking in Spanish, began to interrogate them.
“There are only three of you?”
“Yes—“ answered Santi and Pipo in unison. Pipo instructed Santiago to be quiet, and that he would speak for the three of them.
“Si, solo tres.”
“Where are you from?”
“Miami.”
“Why did you leave?”
“It was bombe.”
“Why did you come here?”
“We need a safe home.”
“How did you know this was here?”
“I have done work with this city in the past.”
“And them?”
“I brought them.”
“Your relationship with them?”
“He,” indicating Santiago, “is an old friend, and she is…” Pipo was not sure how to answer so that it would be most profitable to them, so he gave into his deepest fears and answered, “his wife.”
Santiago’s eyes shot p to his friend’s grieved face with shock and confusion. Was this the approval and consent he had been waiting for? The interrogation continued.
“Where do you expect to say?”
“If you cannot provide housing, we can surely provide our own.”
“No. We have a system. There are a few vacant homes. You may pick one, but you must build another in return, as well as pay off all other debts to the community.”
“Claro que si.”
“Well, then…good day.”
Their guide lead them away through the dark shadows and back into the playful sun streaks shooting from between the leaves overhead.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, Linda, we’ll talk when we got to our home.”
“We have a home?”
“Apparently.”
“Of what do you speak?” asked their guide.
“You don’t speak English?”
“Only a little. I take classes at the school when I don’t have to work.”
“Oh,” replied Santiago.
“She is your wife, true?”
“Yes,” responded Santiago hesitantly.
“Oh…”
Santiago could not help but notice an irksome hint of disappointed in the young man’s voice. He found himself infinitely thankful for his feigned possession of the girl.
“So do you like it here?”
“Very much,” smiled the boy.
“Good. We do not know what to expect, and I admit that we have some uneasiness towards the whole idea.”
“Santiago,” whispered Linda pulling on his arm, “can’t he speak English?”
“No. Why?”
“I don’t like not being able to understand anyone.”
“You will learn Spanish soon enough,” he smiled back reassuringly.
“She does not speak Spanish?”
“No.”
“Well, she will have to learn.”
“Yeah, it is the truth.”
“What is her name—my God—I have not asked your name—I am very sorry. What is it?”
“Santiago.”
“Hola, Santi. I am Pedro.”
“Mucho gusto.”
“Igualmente.”
“And her name…”
“Linda.”
“Hola, Linda.”
“Huh? Santi, what did he say?”
“Hello.”
“Oh—Hi…”
“Hola.”
They smiled kindly at each other, but the brevity was not enough to satisfy Santiago. He thanked the Lord with great fervor that they could not speak the same language, or he would surely be lost.
They continued on through the streets down towards the newer homes. They looked to be made of sounder material and of better design than the ones they had just left and of this Pipo was quite thankful. They finally arrived at the few homes which had not received tenants at that point.
“Two bedrooms?” inquired Pedro not without a little remorse in his voice.
“It is good,” said Pipo indicating the one closest to the other homes.
They went in. It had low, irregular ceilings which did not permit Santi to stand up straight in certain areas. This gave both him and Linda a certain feeling of home, but Pipo could not help complaining slightly about the condition of the place and exclaiming that the home they built would be much finer. It was unfurnished, but had warm, smooth, wood floor boards and Pedro told them that they could buy bedding, chairs, and other necessities in the town market which was situated in a long, narrow clearing bordered by the huts on one side and by the stream on the other. Their house had four rooms: a central living room, tow bedrooms which stemmed off from it, and a small bathroom consisting of crude plumbing, a low counter with a basin set into it, and a bucket for water. They were informed upon asking, that there were no keys or locks. There was no crime in their fragile community.
Pedro then guided them to the market place where they acquired the necessary items. With Pedro’s help they returned to their home, which thanks be to providence, was down hill from the market place. They had bought two largish mattresses, bedding, a table, and three chairs. Linda was quite perplexed by their only buying two mattresses. She was asked to be quiet and told that it would be best to save her questions for when they returned to their home. When they had arranged their belongings in the house, Pedro bowed, and smiling at Linda, left them to settle in. They then began the task of explaining their situation to the girl.
“So what happened back there?”
“They asked some questions about us. We had to lie about you two,” muttered Pipo. Santiago could feel the storm building up on the horizon. He could not anticipate its intensity and this uncertainty gave him a deep and condemning fear. His breath became labored and shallow as he watched the old man’s face.
“What do you mean?”
“We would not want them to know what you are,” (what not who), “and they would probably disapprove of you ‘relationship’ anyway. Questions would be asked, people would gossip.”
“What do you mean?”
She felt it.
“I told them that you two are married.”
“What!?”
Santiago could not discern from where her astonishment stemmed. Had the storm broken? Was this it? He watched her innocent and tender mind trying desperately to grasp at what this could mean for her. Then he felt the old man’s burning gaze upon him.
“Pipo!” he exclaimed, “You said it, not me. So you can only be angry with yourself.”
“Do not think that I approve. Do not for even one second assume that you have been allotted such an honor.”
“I would not. I assure you that I do not. And what honor can there be in it if it is offered so disdainfully. Anyway you approved of it before.”
“When?”
“At the beach.”
“I didn’t know what she was.”
“What am I?” she did not say these words with accusation on her lips, but rather with fear and dread.
“You are not like us. You are more one of them than one of us.”
“Then let me be happy with someone who doesn’t know this.’
“Like Pedro?” asked Santiago indignantly.
“Maybe Pedro.”
“And lie to him, allow him to assume that you are a normal girl of heart, mind, body, and soul.”
“Who says that I’m not?”
“You were bred specifically to eliminate such qualities.”
There was silence for a moment, then prompted by a parrot perched high in one of the palms she continued, “But I am different.”
“Yes, you’re a fluke. You’re an individual apart from your sisters, but you cannot be one of us either.”
“But what is it that makes me different?”
“You were—“
“Yes, I know that, but why am I so different from them?”
“I don’t know.”
“’Maybe it’s that I am not so different from you.”
“Maybe, mi hija,” sighed Pipo. He looked her way affectionately, and somewhere inside him he did hope that she was not so horribly condemned and that maybe the things he had taught her during their flight had not fallen on deaf ears. She was bright and grew daily. This apparently was not the intention of her creators, and maybe this was proof that she was of his creator and not theirs. He prayed silently that the Lord had had a hand in the molding of this life, and that she was not so empty as the world had intended her to be. She was precious in his eyes and she began to assume the aspect of his own sweet little daughter. He could barely remember his family now and their faces swirled in the watery mess of his memories. She smiled at the unaccustomed affection now granted her. She was happy that he should see her as more than one of the creatures of the jungle.
He left her and went to his new room, shutting the door behind him. Santiago stood before her, bathed in the awkward silence which ensconced them now. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other…then back again. Opening his mouth as if to speak, he raised his hand listlessly and retreated to his own room, leaving Linda alone. She glanced out the window. A couple houses extended beyond their won, but beyond there the grassy hill sloped gently down into the bosom of the hills. If she were to follow this natural path, she would certainly find herself upon the white sandy beaches, staring across the vast black expanse which had once been the beautiful swells and undulations of the Caribbean. She could step into it and in a matter of moments she would forget the world completely, and perhaps before she died, she would find the ocean not so very changed beneath its dark coat. Down, below the surface, she may find the majestic whales and fearsome sharks which once populated its unfathomable depths.
The warm, dusty air hung thick which moisture. Linda sunk down to the wood slat boards. She hugger her knees to herself, and for the first time since her escape, she recalled the institution. She saw the place and every moment she spent there from her birth up until her blind race for freedom. She felt all the emptiness of her past and it poured into her with painful clarity and definition like she was swallowing glass. With no past she had no future. Nothing existed for her beyond her birth. She was the daughter of a series of tests, trial and error. But somehow this bleak existence did not darken the world for her. The sun sailed through the window with such resilience and power that Linda could not neglect its influence nor persist in her depression. She saw no reason to retire for the night. There were still a couple hours left in the son’s descent, and she decided that she would use it in getting to know her home.
She sprang from her tilted little corner of the room and darted from the shadows of their tiny abode into the brilliant sunlight of the day. The birds made sporadic patterns through the sky. Their perpetual, intricate dances mesmerized her as she made her way up the hill towards the town. She did not feel her gloom drip away completely until she had left the outskirts of the town and had immersed herself in the company of her neighbors. Her heart soared at every glance and smile she received, and even the curious staring of some of the less civil citizens made her feel she was part of something. She wanted to know them. She started talking to a few people, but they merely shook their heads and muttered something she did not understand. The loud boastful song of their language filled her ears, and she felt that there must be some magic behind it to be able to understand these bewitching utterances. She tried to catch words and pin them to some object of mutual understanding, but it was all in vain. She struck up a tentative string of dialogue with one elderly man, but after a few hesitating sentences his command of the English language ended and he could only pat her arm and make some apology while his head swayed lugubriously from side to side as if it were not firmly attached to his neck. She smiled at him and waving, walked on down the street. Smiling, she said a sweet, curt hello to every person she passed. They began to regard her with a cool sideways glance and continued on their ways, or turned blatantly and gawked at her for a few moments before following the path they had previously set for their feet to pursue for the moment. She was utterly alone in that sea of people, but she was far too overwhelmed to notice this little fact or anything else. She continued slowly through the town for some time like this as each wave of people and confused conversation washed over her with its breathless wake. She felt herself gasping for air with every hello she whispered, each a little quieter than the one preceding it. Her eyes darted from one face to another and tried to stop them from blending together, but she could not help it as the paint began to fade together at the edges and all the colors began to bleed into one another.
Her brain took a sickening spin and before she knew what had happened she found herself sitting in the cool shade of a palm. The light danced across her hands in sprightly little forms and contours. Glancing up, a spasm of pain shot through her forehead, and her face paled slightly. Before her sat a woman a few years older than herself. Her blonde hair was pulled loosely from her tanned face, and she smiled sympathetically at Linda.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah…” suddenly Linda’s mind snapped to with amazing clarity. She wanted to throw her arms around this woman in her insane relief, but all she could manage was a muted inquiry, “you can speak English?”
“Yes, but are you okay?”
“Yeah…who are you?”
“I’m Raquel, the school teacher. You’re the new girl, married to Pipo’s friend, right?”
“Yeah…who told you that?”
“Pedro.”
“Pedro?”
“Tall, dark, handsome,” laughed the older woman.
“Right, right. I know Pedro. Are you his wife?”
“No! He’s far too young for me. Are you sure you feel okay?”
“Yeah…yeah.”
“Where do you live?”
Linda waved her hand down hill slightly.
“Okay. We’ll go in that direction.”
The teacher tried to help her to her feet, but Linda collapsed onto the soft carpet of grass and slumped against the palm. She rubbed her eyes and tried to make the world stop spinning so quickly.
“This isn’t gonna work,” sighed the girl, “I’ll go get Pedro. Just wait here…” she paused awkwardly then started out towards the creek and followed it up to the look out point where her friend was. He was sitting, throwing stones into the creek. His dark, amiable face focused intently on the ripples forming only for a moment before they were erased by the bubbling flow of water. The girl called out to him and he rose to meet her.
“Hola, profe.”
“Hola, Pedro.”
“What is it?”
“I just met your friend, the new girl.”
“Yeah, Linda. What about her?”
“She’s very nice. She got sick and passed out in the street. I need your help carrying her back home.”
“Okay. Where is she?”
“Just this way a little ways.”
They headed down through the palms to where Linda sat rubbing her forehead and striving to still the turbulent waters swirling around her.
“Hola, chica,” he smiled into her pale face, “you do not look very well.”
She simply returned his gaze, but not without a theme of confusion and perplexity. He picked her up and carried her in his arms through the outskirts of the town until they reached the lonely little building where she lived. She liked the feel of his body against hers, and regretted their arriving at the hut so soon.
“Here you are, chica,” he said, putting her down gently. Then turning to the other girl continued, “I do not know how much her marido would like to see me carrying her, so why do you not help her enter.”
“Claro que si.”
The girl took her place beside Linda and knocked on the door. Santiago came and looked from one face of the party gathered outside his door to the other in confusion, before he realized that Linda was quite sick. He ran out to her and lifted her into the house and to their bedroom. Pipo came out, not wanting to miss anything that could be of interest.
“ Que paso?” he asked the two at the door.
“She is sick,” piped up Pedro. Pipo did not regard this boy with much congeniality, seeing as he already had and most surely would continue to cause trouble in their little family.
“I see that. Con permiso, who are you?” he asked turning to the blonde woman beside him.
“I am Raquel, the teacher.”
“Oh…” he sighed, bored, “well, good bye. We will take care of her. Thank you.”
They started out the door hesitantly, taken aback by his audacity. He did not care for their feelings, and at this point he just hoped that he could get them out before Santiago’s insecurity could fire up and once again push that which he cared so deeply for to such frailty. Pipo swiveled about to where Santiago had the girl tightly tucked into the new bed. It was impossible to know if she was asleep or had passed out again. She looked peaceful, a picture of quiet serenity that did not exist on this world or any other. She breathed deeply and did not stir. Santiago and Pipo’s conversation was now neither angry nor harried. It did not contain the passion and fire that had racked their earlier discussions. Santiago’s face was grave and still. He felt for this girl and was deeply affected that she would be thus afflicted at his own hand. He now saw that if her heart could be won, it would not be by his deep, brooding spirit, but a livelier, more amiable one. She was too light and sprightly to be interested in the darkness of his character. In a way he resented her. He resented that she could not grow up, could not mature. The horrors and abuses she had suffered in her short life time had done nothing to alter her ego and make her more suitable to his character. He loved her, how she was like a drink of cool water for him. Perhaps, she saw him as a brother. This he could stand. Any measure of fondness was preferable to the distaste and animosity he suspected her to harbor for him. He could kindly step down from husband to friend if such a transition were necessary, and it became exceedingly more apparent that such an alteration in their relationship would prove necessary.
Then a question sprang forth in his head. He turned it over in his mind as he watched her sleep in the quickly waning light streaming through the window. His countenance was hard, but the light breeze tousled his hair as if beckoning him to release his painful burden. He remained firm as steel. He now realized that as far as this community was concerned, they were married, and he did not know what the repercussions might be for going back on this proclamation. He loved her. He adored her truly, deeply, more than she could ever comprehend or even feel. She may be infatuated with Pedro, but never in love. However, if she could ever love anyone truly it would not be him, but certainly Pedro. In this he was right. Pedro did not know her to be so different from any of the other girls he knew, and because of this he may never notice any thing lacking in her being. It was so blatantly displayed before him now. He shuddered at the defeat, but knew not how to surrender. When morning came he would speak with Pipo and if she were better he would inform her of their plan to gain her freedom.
Santiago expected all hope to drain from him, and to be left a mournful shell of apathy festering in the humid air. But his was not the effect. Instead, he felt that by releasing her he could display himself in a better, more generous light with less shadows. He prayed that she would see him not as her captor, but as her liberator, the thing which could guide her through her turbulent existence. He adored her, he worshiped every aspect of her being like the plant hidden in darkness worships the sun blazing brilliantly in the sky. She was his idol, not the vengeful God she and these people clung to with vain assurance. They spoke of His mercy and His providence. He would guide their steps and lead them down the safe path. And this was the reason they were down trodden, persecuted, killed, tortured. Death is their sweet ambrosia, torture a fine wine, and martyrdom the ideal end. Any sane person would see that a God that allowed this is no God to be followed.
The night was closing in. The crickets began their melancholy symphony, and the lightning bugs performed their illuminated ballet. He leaned against the windowsill, and with the thick shutters pushed out before him he could command a limited view of their performance. It was as if the stars now in one enchanted moment had been given life, and had descended upon the world to grace it with their twinkling splendor. The thick, warm breeze which shifted their dance momentarily tossed his dark hair. The light of the bugs was reflected in his dark, velvety eyes. Every element of the night complimented his being with a dark majesty. Here in the deep night he was more at home than in the garish light of day. He felt the sympathies of a similar soul in the bright, round disk of the moon alone in the black sky. He found comfort in the ignorant frivolities of her boisterous children. He felt that he could, in a minute, accept their invitations and ascend blissfully into their glittering ballroom. He could join in their spinning fracas of laugher and pattering feet on ebony floors, but a strange melancholy tied him to the earth. Its inextricable grip held him to the ground and impeded his heavenly flight. He shivered despite the luxuriously thick, warm air which wound itself around him like a fine blanket. He was overtaken by the need to sleep, to close his eyes and shut out the painful bliss which skipped and bounced just beyond his reach.
He staggered about, unsure of where he would sleep. His head bobbed lazily on his shoulders as he paced around the room. Finally, walking to the other room and shutting the door to Linda’s room behind him, he pushed his back against the wall and let himself slide down to the dusty floor where he stretched himself out against the awkward angle where the wall met the warped floor boards. He lied there in the ethereal light of the moon for only a few minutes before darkness enveloped him in its swarthy folds.

Chapter Fourteen

Release
The echoing squawk of a parrot shattered the silence of the bleak morning. A shadow had passed ominously over the sky, and a dark swirling mass formed above the treetops. Its turbulent undulations and strange rumbling laugh chilled the souls of all those whose eyes searched the sky for a glimpse of reassuring blue. Santi woke to the noise of the parrot and his roommates. They gathered inside the doorway and watched the storm brewing and bubbling above their heads. Then averting their eyes from the heavens, they leveled their gazes to meet the water’s edge somewhere beyond the trees. Suddenly, the wind picked up and whipped the heads of the palms about in the air. The door and the storm shutters banged noisily against the stone walls of the building. The trio retreated into the harboring confines of their asylum and with some forced they pulled the windows and door shut. They continued to tremble in their frames, but nonetheless were protected against the blasts of wind and the driving rain soon audible as it pelted the roof of the house. Linda shook and rubbed her arms. She stared abstractedly at the sealed window.
“When will it end?”
“It could be a couple hours or a couple days,” answered Pipo. He studied the closed door before them. They brought out their blankets and sat themselves at their crudely built tale. Santiago fixed a small repast and placed it before his friends. They ate heartily of what little food they had, then sat in silence for a while as they attempted to gauge the storm.
“Is it bad?”
“Not too bad.”
Silence.
“How long do you think it’ll last?”
“A day…maybe.”
Silence. A crack of thunder.
Linda sat quaking in her blanket. Her heart drummed loudly as it threw itself against her ribs.
“Linda…”
She looked up and met Santiago’s gaze.
“Linda, we need to talk.”
Confusion clouded her features.
“No we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Linda, please all you have to do is listen.”
“No.”
“Linda!”
“Fine.”
“I think…it’s not such a good idea that we keep going on saying that we’re married.”
“What are you saying?”
“I mean…you’re right.”
Her eyebrows arched and it seemed that her eyes doubled in size.
“You could lead a normal life with a person who didn’t see any reason why you shouldn’t.”
“What?” she gasped quietly.
“I mean…you should be free.”
“Thank you!” She rushed forward and hugged him tightly to herself, “Thank you. Thank you so much. Oh my God! Sorry.”
This was the greatest blow of all. This sisterly affection now closed the book entirely on all hopes he may have had of making her his. She was so far from him now. In her mind she had already flown into the arms of the beautiful Pedro. She was his now, and now amount of passion rested in her heart for Santiago. Despite his earlier proclamations, he did not want to be her friend, he wanted her completely. Her mind was now freely ensconced in the eyes and body of that man who she adored so dearly, yet had never really spoken to.
Pipo stood, motioned to Santiago to follow him, stepped into the next room, and shut the door.
“What are you doing?” he asked skeptically.
“I don’t think it’s fair.”
“Well, of course it’s not fair. But I don’t think that that’s your only motivation for doing this.”
“It is.”
“I do not believe you.”
“I give up. That’s all.”
“I still don’t trust you.”
“Well, you do not have to, but I still need your help.”
“Bueno. I do not know what you are doing, but it is still good.”
Pipo clapped his hand on his friend’s back and they returned to the room where Linda sat beaming despite the storm raging outside. She was happy, indescribably happy. Somewhere in her mind she truly believed that the next day would bring about her wedding. She did not doubt her future happiness, and the certainty of perfection. Her mind raced around the many strange images of marriage and love that she had witnessed in the books she had read. If she wanted advice, Santiago would not give it. He could have nothing more to do with what would happen in this fantasy where he was no more that a smoky shadow buried in the vast dunes of sleep.
“So how will we do this?”
Santiago shrugged his shoulders and left. Stepping onto the bedroom he sat on the edge of the bed where Linda had slept only an hour earlier. The sheets and blankets were in disarray, and the pillow lay askew with one corner drooping dejectedly over the side of the lumpy mattress.
In the other room Linda and Pipo pursued the subject with religious fervor. Each argued as to what would be done about their situation, and how to expose the truth. Neither paid much attention to their friend, and after several minutes forgot that he had ever been involved. Their voices were occasionally drowned out by the cracks and wailings of the storm outside, and vital bits of conversation were very possibly lost in these violent instances. Pipo was excited to cut this girl, this tumor, from his friend. Linda was thrilled at her future prospects of love and adoration. Pipo cared little if her feelings and actions were based on foolish desires; all her cared for at that moment was that this boy, whom he valued as a son, could be cured of the sin and idolatry which had racked his life these months. He no longer saw Linda as a daughter. He no longer valued her spirit, but only hoped that this spirit would not break Santiago’s. The deception of the poor boy Pedro into marrying a person who was very possibly devoid of feeling or soul, made little effect on his own conscience.
After all was decided, Pipo explained to Santiago that they would buy a second mattress, but that for now Santiago would sleep in his room and use the extra blankets. Santiago wished to hear no more beyond these simple facts. Santiago informed Pipo that he would have no part in these proceedings other than to give his consent. She was so far beyond him, beyond his grasp, that there was nothing he could do now to try to retrieve he, if he had ever had her in the beginning.
Now, entering the room, he saw her, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling ravenously. She was completely engrossed in the world now spread before her. All he saw was the difference between the darkness of the day and the exquisite creature shining with a silvery light, obliterating the shadows. She seemed a light unto herself. No God could ever guide and no demon ever tempt this ethereal creature which embraced the world, which she was so estranged from. In this instant Santiago made a desperate plea that God should deliver him, not from life, or death, or suffering, but from her, from this strange and horrific being now glowing like a lamp in the shadows. He was suddenly disgusted with himself, that he should love such a monster, a thing of the world which had murdered all he truly held dear. Yet there was something so obsessively stunning about her appearance and manner. Her voice had the quality of a bell and the pure note of an angel. Maybe she was not so distantly estranged from the heavenly father, but, in fact, descended straight from his winged lineage. Perhaps she was a cherub which had toppled from her cloud upon high. Slowly, these thoughts ran through his mind, and he began to dismiss the topic completely. As the storm reached its climax and began to diminish, revealing the rising moon, he began to forget this bewitching woman who had been the center of his life for so long.
Now his eyes which had been studying her face so intently, turned their focus onto the plump, old man who sat across from her. Pipo’s eyes were turned sympathetically and piteously upon his friend. Pipo knew some of the pain of young, misguided love, and he wished that he was not in the position where it was necessary to inflict such pain. He saw the shadows which engulfed this child, and the pain which crept behind his eyes. Pipo also prayed that this boy may be guarded and protected from that haunting spirit.
Sensing the end of the storm, Santiago stepped out into the cool, damp night. The stars flickered overhead, and the moon had slipped a black shawl around her shoulders. Santiago left Pipo to watch over the beautiful ghost, the nymph in disguise. He made his way down the path which trailed off as it reached the town’s limits. There was a commotion higher up on the gently sloping hill. People were calling out to invisible horses who had disappeared somewhere into the tumultuous storm and had not returned. They were now lost to the freedom born in their natural revolution, exciting their nerves and speeding them to flight beyond captivity and purpose. Santiago plodded forward with the downward slope of the grassy hill in the direction which the horses had followed to freedom. Occasionally he came across a hoof print in the slopping mud. At these he made sure to step through their traces and conceal them beneath the sole of his own foot. He continued along like this through the thick mud until he reached the swollen brook which could now boast the title of stream. Here he caught a glimpse of a great black creature dashing into the jungle which climbed up the sides of the mountains to his left. The stream carrying its varied debris no longer interested him, and he quickly pursued the path of this mysterious animal. He heard frantic whinnies broken by the massive trunks of trees and strained into fragmented shards by the spindle-like fingers of ferns. He pursued them unnoticed. Leaping from one boulder to another, and scrambling over fallen giants he made his way through the death and debris of the jungle. The ringing cries of iron shoes scraping against stone were the only signs of his goal for some time. They focused more on the obstacles before them than their own alarm. Santiago scrambled after them in the darkness of the night. Its velvety and growing warmth wrapped itself around him with much the same texture of the moss under his hands.
He came to a dense thicket where the scanty light of the moon was completely cut off by the interwoven branches overhead. Under this natural roof he found areas of moss and foliage which seemed to be dry, though it was impossible for a body soaked to the core to be able to decipher if this was true. The idea of abandoning the search never occurred to him, and stretching forth his hand he felt out the lay of the land before him, but he was met with a hairy, squealing creature which dashed off into a rustling bush and left him to his shock. His heart raced as fear curled up against his back and let out a low, malicious hiss. He crawled off through the thick trees, relying wholly on the touch of his fingers on the strange indiscernible surfaces which they met.
Finally he was doused in the light of the moon which had by now reached the center of the great black hall. Here Santiago sat at the top of a stony, jagged ridge devoid of plants or life. He had trekked on through the forest for some time, and could only guess at the general direction and location of the village. Below him, in a small valley scooped out of the stone, a weak neighing echoed hollowly off the walls of rock. He skidded down into the depths of the jungle gathered tightly there. Here, nestled in the bosom of the mountains, the small herd had found refuge. Some nuzzled against each other, and burying their faces in the soft, moist hides of their companions, were able to forget the horrors of the day before. Others reared up, splitting the air with their iron hooves. The whites of their eyes shone out distinctly in the dark as they pawed and tossed their heads nervously. In the center of the stone bowl there was a glassy pond of rain water collected through the storm. Its mirror-like surface was broken only by the slow graceful sips taken by the horses. Their manes and tails hung limp and thick against their muscular, glistening necks. He admired them. They were beautiful, perfect, and totally unaware of anything beyond survival. They were not even conscious of their sweetly gained freedom. They quickly formed a simple hierarchy, where one old stallion took the care of the others upon his shoulders. At this turbulent time when the effects of fear were only just wearing off and their liberty was still a novelty, no one refuted his rule over them, but it was quite possible that his authority would soon be overthrown for a younger, more vigorous leader. However, for the time being, power was his, and he took it upon himself to quiet the screaming colts, who inevitably spooked at some new terror the second he quitted their side. He made his rounds, and Santiago watched each intercourse with humorous interest.
Finally as they settled into sleep, Santiago found a soft bed of moss and instantly drifted into a deep sleep, interrupted only by images of horses stampeding over a big blue ocean. The night slipped away overhead, and a large portion of the morning did the same as Santiago and his companions slept peacefully and unmolested. Santiago could have slept far into the next night, but somewhere around noon he was wakened by warm breath on his face. A young colt stared inquisitively at this stranger, but when Santiago did not move the colt moved away in search of other entertainment. Upon observing that things were not entirely altered since the night before, Santiago slipped back into a dark slumber, regardless of the sun sparkling on the quickly disappearing water droplets hanging from the leaves. The silver ribbons of light reflected off the surface of the pool waved and shifted prettily on the ceiling of palms fronds, creepers, and wide-spread leaves. The day continued like this as the sun played little tricks on the shadows as it sailed from one side of the sky to the other and forced the shades to run and hide on the other side of the trees.
Santiago did not wake again until the sun had dipped into west and scattered pink and orange splashes of color across the sky. He rubbed his eyes and found a mare chomping peacefully at the edge of his bed. He reached out his hand and touched her forehead. She closed her eyes with a look of the perfect peace for which people strive, but have failed to achieve ever after infancy. Her sides bulged out strangely and she walked with a labored gait, betraying the existence of something growing within her. Santiago leaned against a tree and rubbed her neck softly. All through the night she remained there, next to him, and munched contentedly at the tiny flowers which lay scattered across the sides of the little valley. He liked her greatly, and did not want her to leave him alone. It is truly amazing how the maternal instinct is the only concrete thing that can bridge the species gap, and it bound herself tightly to him and him tightly to her. She was Maria. All the next day she kept a close eye on him as he meandered through the forest exploring every aspect of their little domain. He searched out the source of every silvery song falling from the trees, and the low creaking bellows of the dark toad. His mind detached itself almost entirely from the constraints of society and its impossible dreams. The transitory passion he felt for Linda melted from his soul like wax warmed by a flame. Her face only floated momentarily in his mind when he slept, and in those moments she came as a ghost which entraps the eye, but repels the mind. She became no more than a phantom, a figment of his imagination, as unreal as a childhood spook, now only a decrepit shadow in the archives of the mind. Things became wholly new to him, and here in the lilac shadows of the forest, he became aware of a presence beyond his own being or those of his neighbors. He felt it close to him, bearing down on him like a heavy weight. He called to this weight and it lifted him. In nature’s quiet lullaby he prayed to the God he had ran from, and like the prodigal son he came crawling back, begging for forgiveness, from the merciful God who had been leaning over him the entire time, just waiting for him to turn around.
In every thing the spirit and majesty which had been leached from the world began to flow back in. The shadow which had veiled his face now gave way, revealing the gentle strength of his features in contrast to the coarse severity which he donned upon waking. His eyes dropped their velvet shades and shone through with the luster of deep honey. In the temple built by the trees he found the Lord’s healing, and began the journey back to the childish innocence of His path.
For some days he continued on like this, recovering from the torture of so many years of oppression, and now he, like the horses, had found his freedom on the wings of the storm. Finally, the horses began their journey towards the far reaches of the island where they could distance themselves from the reaches of human hands. Santiago said a brief farewell to Maria whose child would soon replace him, and he started back up the rock wall, and reaching the top for the first time since his delirious trek in the dead of night, he took in the lay of the land. Vast greenery and natural, unadulterated beauty continued in all directions until it ended abruptly and the monstrous expanse of black, glistening sea reached the new world’s indigo horizon. Santiago pitied the lamentable state of the world, but refusing to take its problems on his own shoulders, he continued on into the forest. Its shadows fell upon him and draped them selves across his shoulders, but he shook them off just as easily. He exuded a peace and joy beyond his understanding. It was something so completely different from what he had come to expect from life. It was not happiness where everything makes the soul giddy, but it was the joy of a profound peace and security that life was completely out of his hands. The tall pillars of trees made a spectacle somewhat similar to the great cathedrals of the old world. His soul sang out as he walked along through that gem left untouched by the filth of the rest of the world. He wanted to see Pipo, for he knew that he was probably very worried as his friend had not returned for a fortnight. However, his friends’ worry could not extinguish the irrepressible smile on his face, nor the fire burning with him. The scenery began to change as he descended back into the valley. Everything began to shrink and become more tightly knit. Sweating and panting he pulled himself from nets of creepers, masses of entangled branches, and other dried debris from the storm.
Finally Santiago found himself standing at the edge of the stream which was gradually receding to its previous banks. Working his way up the bank, he found himself on the grassy hill. For the first time, he noticed the crops and fields hidden beneath the broad leaves of royal palms on the opposite bank of the river. Here the men worked laboriously. They pushed wagons and hastily collected their provisions. Staring up at the hill he noticed a familiar figure stooped over a low-lying plant. It was Pipo. Santiago ran across the river where it was exceptionally wide and shallow. He raced up the hill and panting threw his arms around his friend. At first Santiago was frightened by the intensity of the exhaustion and distress on his friends face, then wild expressions shot through the old man’s eyes and he gripped the boy to him in a tight embrace.
“My God, Chico! Where have you been?”
“Wandering around.”
“And for wandering you gave us such a fright?”
“Sorry.”
“No, no. It is okay. I am just so happy that you have returned. My God.”
“How are things going here? Are you okay?”
“We must continue to work to pay our debts, then we can choose not to work if we want…I guess. I’m not really sure how their system works. But we will see, true?”
“Claro que si! So is Linda still a single woman?”
“Yes…”
“It’s okay! I’ve done a lot of thinking out there in the forest. Its not right.”
Pipo shook his head gravely and hugged the child back to him.
“I had so much fear.”
“I am sorry, but it was good. I learned a lot.”
Pipo watched his protégé skeptically then patting him on the shoulder, he turned back to his work.
“So is she as good as married to this Pedro kid?”
“No, remember she can not speak Spanish.”
“Right.”
“But he does spend a lot of time with her. They talk very strangely to each other. I don’t understand why it is so funny when they say such crude things to each other,” said Pipo stealing a glance at his friend to see how he reacted. The boy seemed unchanged. No shock or concern registered in his countenance, but that strange indelible peace resided in every feature.
“I think I’ll go see her.”
“Are you sure that that’s a good idea?”
“I wouldn’t have come back if I weren’t ready.”
“What ever you say,” Pipo sighed. He wanted so desperately to believe that Santi had changed, but for his own sake he needed to stand guard and make sure things didn’t fall apart as they were liable to do. Santiago ambled through the streets of the town, winding in and out of the light dripping from the branches of the palms. Then, following the stream, he picked his way up the hill. The palms swayed lightly overhead, and the water was cool and refreshing on his feet. He could hear excited chatter somewhere a ways a head. It had that dull hollow sound of noises carried lightly in the current of the air, but without any force or spirit of their own. He kept walking, knowing that they were still beyond him a ways. Suddenly he caught sight of the young couple sitting on a long flat rock which protruded into the water. They were letting the crystal liquid wash smoothly over their feet. They laughed awkwardly. There was a certain hint that the novelty of not being able to understand each other was quickly wearing off. Santiago did not care. He realized that concern for his well being was not so much on their minds as it had been on Pipo’s. He called out cheerfully.
“Hola, amigos!”
“Santiago!” shrieked Linda in obvious surprise and shock. She sprang from the rock and rushed to him throwing her arms around his neck.
“Hey there.”
“Oh my God! Ah, sorry. I though you were dead! Oh wow! This is amazing! I’m so happy you’re back! Oh, I was absolutely certain that you were dead! Ah!” She bounced around excitedly then threw herself upon him again.
“Just curious, Linda,” Santiago whispered, “Who does he think I am?”
“Oh, you’re my bother now,” she laughed, “Can you imagine that? Husband to brother. How incredibly strange!”
“Hola, Pedro,” said Santiago waving his hand.
“Hola! They were really worried about you.”
Santiago smiled politely.
“Where did you go?” she demanded.
“I was looking for the horses,” he answered then repeated it in Spanish.
“Oh,” said Linda not without a little confusion.
“And did you find them?” asked Pedro.
“No. Pues, how do you like my little sister? She’s a pretty thing isn’t she?”
“Claro que si,” answered Pedro and his eyes turned affectionately to the little girl with shade dappling her face. At this response Santiago became certain of a mutual affection between the two however shallow, but for Linda’s sake he prayed that it remain shallow. His lingering doubts and fears now ebbed slowly away with every minute he spent in conversation with them. She was a very different girl than he had known and he was a very different man since he had left. There in the forest he became aware of the last tether between them being painlessly severed. They now drifted farther and farther away, headed for opposite horizons. But this boy Pedro, who was not much younger than Santiago, had the countenance of a boy whom life has treated in such a way as to preserve his childish ignorance with amazing clarity. Their characters were vastly different. They talked for a long time, and Santiago was able to observe the strange intercourse the two lovers exchanged in the other’s broken language. After several minutes’ conversation, Santiago and Linda left. Pedro had to stand sentry there beside the stream where they had met him only a couple weeks earlier, while Santi and Linda resolved to go help Pipo in the fields. When they were out of earshot Santi began his little inquiries as to what changes had passed in what seemed to be the eternity that he had been away.
“So do you like him?”
“I do. He’s really sweet,” she looked up to see if this had hurt him. She was aware that he had once had feelings for her, though she had no idea how strong.
“I’m glad.”
“But I need to learn Spanish.”
“I saw,” he laughed boisterously.
“Yeah, well, it was funny at first, but now I really do want to get to know him, and its impossible if I can’t talk to him.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s true,” replied Santiago sarcastically.
“No, really,” she laughed in her turn, “I don’t know what he’s trying to say half the time!”
“But you have to be careful.”
“I know. I know…but I do really hate keeping secrets from him.”
Santiago smiled down at her with brotherly affection. They walked the rest of the way to the field in silence, not awkwardly, but with a certain comfort in each other’s presence. Pipo watched them come. He also noticed this certain pleasantry that perhaps things had finally settled into place. His nerves were greatly calmed by this, and he was further relieved that his work load would now be taken up by his younger companions. He gave them cursory instructions then, with much gratitude and parental affection, he lumbered down the hill with labored breath. He turned back to take in the view of them working separately, but making sure to consult each other civilly and kindly when the occasion arose that conversation would be appropriate. This passionless discourse was the greatest reassurance of Santiago’s self-assured claims. Pipo prayed that the little girl would quickly learn the language so that her place beside Pedro would be secured. It seemed his reasons for prayer never ceased.
Pipo continued down the hill. When he reached the little stream he sat down to watch its babbling course. The light sifting through the palms played little tricks on his eyes as it danced across the silvery, undulating surface. There was the shrill squawk of a bird overhead as it spread its wings and sprang into the sky with a swift flurry of gaudy plumage. Pipo was entranced by the mystery which surrounded his friend’s disappearance, and something in him gravely desired to know exactly what had happened out there in the forest, but Santiago was not one to reveal much about himself, especially something so sacred as this. But, no matter how hard Pipo tried to dissuade his curiosity, he could not help but wonder and speculate as to what had happened during those dark days of uncertainty. With one last backwards glance Pipo crossed the stream at the little ford, and made his way towards the house. There inside, things were much the same when they had arrived. The rooms were sparsely furnished, and lacked any form of decoration. The only difference was a crude bed of palm fronds and an extra blanket in Pipo’s room.
The light made a golden box on the mattress, and Pipo watched the light move sluggishly towards the wall. He sat himself on a chair in the corner, and stared blankly at the flat, empty box of light. He was angry with Santiago. He hated the way that boy could come waltzing back thinking that everyone should be happy for him, that he had caused no pain or anxiety by running away. What was he thinking, leaving everyone like that, and without the slightest notice, too? He hated the irrational mind of youth, and the guiltless heart of ignorance. But slowly the hate resolved itself into gratitude and a love for the poor, misguided boy slaving away under the roof of palms. He also loved the sad, lost girl. She would never know life, because she could never truly be a part of it. She was strange and separate from them in all ways, and perhaps it was this very thing that made her irresistible to those around her, she could never be stung or scarred by the world like the rest of them. She was exquisite in a bizarre unearthly way. She was the embodiment of man’s desire to explore the unknown and pioneer new and ultimately fatal fields.
Linda worked quietly and unobtrusively, but all eyes seemed irrepressibly drawn in her direction. She and Santiago filled several cartfuls of vegetables and carried them to the market, where they settled accounts with the board of elders. With disappointment they realized that their labor was not highly valued, and that it could take weeks of straight labor to pay their debts, as long as they did not eat and bought nothing.
The sky turned to a smokey blue in the east, and a light dappling of stars began to shine out above the treetops. They had worked all day in the scorching, pounding heat. The oppressive humidity confused the horizon between sweat and air. They hacked away at the earth under the brutal sun, his fiery whips lashing their backs. Santiago had gone to work in the seemingly abandoned sugar cane field higher up the hill. His hands were torn and blistered. His arms and legs ached from the grueling effort. He and Linda now sat on the edge of the stream and washed their abused hands and feet in the lukewarm water. Santiago struggled to pull little shards of cane from the cuts in his hands. Linda averted her eyes from the sickeningly grotesque display. She was tired and weak. Her spirits were dampened by the low value of their labor. She dreaded the many months which would be required to come out of their current debts to the community. She prayed that Pedro would come and whisk her off before Santiago stated his assumption that she would be joining him and Pipo for dinner, but before long Santiago called her off and they headed for the small building they now called home. She was angry with Santiago, she was certain that he was jealous, and did not want her to see Pedro that night. But could it be Pedro who was at fault? Suddenly her heart sank and her panic left her suffocating. Her impending happiness slipped away in the bleary fog of lost dreams. She felt abused and misled. There was no doubting that Pedro had gotten sick of the futile effort to communicate, and would leave her for a bronze idol of Cuban perfection. She hated her own lack of intelligence. She despised her childish mind and immature fancies. Everything about her own character revolted her endlessly.
“Why didn’t he come?” she cried piteously.
“Who?”
“Pedro!”
“He probably got caught up at the border.”
She was silent for a minute, carefully weighing the probability of this statement, then throwing it away violently continued, “Maybe I should go look for him.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“And why not?”
“Because, you’re tired. He’s tired.”
“So?”
“Things might not go well. You’re tired and irritable, I’m sure he is, too.”
“Pedro could never be those things.”
“Oh, I’m sure he could.”
“Well, I think I’ll go look for him.”
“Linda, I’m warning you. Just come to dinner, go to bed, and you can see him in the morning.”
“Why not now?”
“He won’t want to see you now–“
“What?”
“He won’t want to see anyone.”
“Why not?”
“He’s tired. Please, Linda, just come and eat. If he comes looking for you, then fine, but until then just leave it alone.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. Then she opened it, thought out what she would say and responded, “Okay. Do you like him?”
“Who?”
“Pedro.”
“He’s nice. He’s kinda childish, you know? He’s really innocent. Like nothing really bad’s ever happened to him.”
“Mhmm.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. I just wanted to see if you were okay that I like him.”
“I am. Do you really like him?”
“Yeah, of course...I mean...I think so.”
“Does he like you?”
“Yes. Well, I think he loves me. Why?”
“You’re upset about something.”
“Oh! No, no, no, no, no,” she forced a small giggle, “I’m just really tired.”
“You sure?”
“Well, yeah. I mean I’ve been slaving away all day!”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Huh?”
“Not, are you sure you’re tired, but are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah! I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re upset.”
They continued on, and the first thing that greeted them at the door to the hut was the intoxicating odor of freshly cooked food. Santiago’s mouth watered at the recognition of an old Cuban dish he had not tasted for what seemed centuries. As they entered the room, each thinking only of the gnawing pain in the pits of their stomachs, they were suddenly confronted by a beautiful, golden, steaming pot of arroz con pollo. Its sweet fragrance filled every corner of the hut and seeped out through every crevice as it overwhelmed the small confines of the building. There was something nostalgic and homey to the delicious thing. It took him back to the times before the war, before things of culture and ethnicity were wiped from the planet in one sweeping, destructive pass.
As they ate, and indulged in the luscious savor of the meal, Santiago suddenly realized his true fault. In his haste to rid himself of all the things which had destroyed what he loved, he had unknowingly destroyed all the art, literature, everything that truly tied him to the old world. This place was merely a transitory tie to the things which had made his old life so dear, and the ancient world so diverse. Now he was a survivor in a world where he was not welcome, and a citizen of a nation that ceased to exist. He sat staring into the saffron rice and its glow transformed into the incandescent light of the sun, and the white ceramic plate was the satiny, pure space where the sky shrank from his magnificent power. He was the supreme ruler of the world now. There was no God to these people in this new world. They had even gone so far in their anarchism as to diminish the presence of a soul in the bodies of its people. Linda was the daughter of that demented and distorted society, with its liberal, progressive views, but she had escaped from them and made herself strange so as to achieve a substitute identity to mimic individualism. This is why she was neither a part of the old world nor the new. This new world erased individualism and separated itself entirely from order and government, all the while being controlled by an unseen, stony force slowly crushing its people as they strove on in ignorant, unfeeling bliss. They were so blind and deaf they did not see the very whip cracking over their heads which they had fought so violently to destroy. Now the whip had been replaced by an invisible cat of nine tails. Its glass and steel teeth bit into their backs and stole away their lives in its cracked and jagged claws. Santiago had destroyed the only real barrier he had between that world and the old one which he clung to with such vigor. What he did not notice then was that the cliff to which had he clung, to save himself from the jagged rocks and the black water below, had disappeared entirely. It had crumbled to its own destruction in the murky depths of the dark sea of corruption and sin. In these days it was truly virtuous to murder your neighbor in the name of patriotism, kill a child for the sake of choice, rape a girl under the banner of love, and destroy for the singular joy of destruction. How could he know that he and all those around them were quickly plummeting to their deaths on the serrated edges of the rocks below? The voice of the air as they fell through it was not their own defiant stand against injustice, but the death toll of their defeat. Were they the last remaining? It was impossible to say, but it was also quite certain, that they were not the only ones falling. Santiago, in sudden desperation and repentance at his own weakness, clasped his hands and lifted his soul up to the Lord he worshiped. For a brief moment, as he sat in communion with the Holy Spirit estranged from the world, he was suspended in air, but as he finished with Amen, the sound of air whizzing past his ears met him once again.
Pipo smiled kindly at him. He had probably noticed Santiago’s hands humbly folded in prayer, and hoped beyond his own wisdom that this was a sign of his friends return to the Lord. But he said nothing. They talked about things of little importance, and others of far greater value. Pipo gave Linda a small lecture on one of the many Bible verses stored in his ancient memory.
“‘O Lord, how many are my foes! How many rise up against me! Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver him.” But you are a shield around me, O Lord; you bestow glory on me and lift up my head.’ Psalm 3:1-4,” he recited proudly watching the slight distress on his daughter’s face and the pensive glow on his son’s. Santiago had silently absorbed this lesson, and now actively pursued the subject which troubled them presently. They talked of their current financial situation, and how, apparently, they had fallen into ownership of one of the most expensive homes on the island, and now they had to pay for it. They had to build another house, and relieve their other debts under this thin roof of palm fronds stretched like a blanket over the entire town and the fields on the opposite bank.
“It will take a long time,” sighed Pipo in a wavering, haggard voice.
“I worked by a man today who has lived her for seven years, and is still working off his debts to the community, and the man beyond him who has lived here for six years is still trying to pay off debts,” laughed Linda like the true gossip she was turning out to be. Something of the pure, sacred beauty of her being was falling away like the grand plumage of a bird molting to reveal the grey, old feathers beneath. She had lost everything that had once attracted him to her as she melded with the world she had once sought to distance herself from. She was not the immensely entrancing creature he had once resigned himself to love. Now his mind turned back to the girl from the club, the dancer. He was not certain that he had loved that girl, but he was certain that he was nearer to loving her than this girl who had so violently over taken his mind. He had not been in love with Linda, he had not even been infatuated with her, maybe spellbound was closer to the word which could describe his feeling towards her—
“So, Santi?”
“Huh?”
“Of what do you think?”
“No Spanish,” interjected Linda.
“Huh? Oh, nothing, just how we can get out of this debt before seven years.”
“Does it really matter if it takes us ten months or ten years to clear ourselves?”
“Maybe not, but at the same time it might.”
“What do you mean?”
“This place is strange. Who knows what their policy is.”
“He’s right. There’s just something that’s not completely right about it.”
“Bout what?”
“About this place.”
“What about it?” she demanded.

Chapter Fifteen

Fear
Their plates were empty, and darkness was descending slowly upon the room. The lamp cast a ghostly glow over their faces. They could just barely make out the doorways to the rooms beyond them.
“Santi,” whispered Pipo.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the windows.”
The lazy breeze drifting in the windows was suddenly extinguished as Santiago shut the windows and set the small, sturdy hooks at each of them, and the massive latch at the door. Holding the lamp in his hand, he abandoned Pipo and Linda in the dark so that he could shut the windows in each of the bedrooms. Once everything was tightly shut up and there was no chance of being overheard by any over zealous patriots they talked.
“Why’d you do that?” cried out Linda piteously, “You’re making me scared.”
“We just don’t want any one getting mad at us.”
“Why would they get mad?”
“We’ve both just lived through a lot of fear and treachery. So you learn not to trust any one.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t worry too much about it. Why don’t you go to sleep, darling.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Of course you are. Let’s put you to bed.”
A deluge of darkness swept over Santiago as they made their way from the room. A low light flickered in the next room. Then it bobbed away from the room, and Pipo shut the door. He listened for Linda to drift securely off to sleep. Then he motioned Santiago into their own room. They sat for a second in the weak light as they strained their ears to search out any treacherous step or breath beyond the confines of their own confidence.
“Pipo,” cut in Santiago breaking the silence, “what were you going to say?”
“What? Oh, do you remember when you came home, I said I thought you were dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see anything weird about that?”
“Well, I though you knew that I had left.”
“I did, and I never expected you for dead, until a couple days after you had gone missing.”
“Why?”
“I heard some people talking. I had come back from work. They probably thought there was no one else on the street, but I came to a corner and heard them just beyond me. There was a woman’s voice, somewhat older sounding, very maternal. Then the man’s voice was that of one of the elders. The woman was pleading with him, and he continued to deny any acknowledgment of what she was talking about. I wanted to hear more, but they started to move towards me so I ducked into the doorway of the building I was standing by. Who knows whose house I had taken for refuge, but it served just as well.”
“What was she talking about?”
“Her daughter.”
“What!” Santiago gasped, clutching his mouth. They both stared expectantly towards the door. Somehow they both knew that their fates whether for life or death waited just out that door, “God, we can’t go through this again,” whether this was a prayer or a desperate exclamation was impossible to decipher.
They each slipped into their beds. Pipo’s crackled obstinately as he curled up under the blankets. Santiago’s bed of palm fronds rustled quietly under his weight. He would have felt luxuriously comfortable on that makeshift bed that night after a long day’s work and a good meal, but death seemed once more to be the imminent agenda for the day to come. He felt his spirits transported painfully back to the days of suspicion and mistrust, only now it was not his enemy he feared, but his ally. Darkness closed in on his mind, heart, and soul, and before he knew he had fallen, he was deep in sleep. It was a dark sleep filled with dreams devoid of interruption.
When he woke, the room was bathed in a dusty twilight. A thin, wavering string of light shone on the opposite wall of the room. Santiago raised himself on his pillow and turned to face the window. He saw that the window had been jarred slightly open. His heart raced, and he stumbled into the main room where he found Pipo preparing a small meal.
“What happened to the window?”
“I don’t know.”
“Someone tried to open it!”
Pipo simply looked up through pained eyes.
“God, did they hear us?”
“I have no idea.”
“What will we do?”
His friend shrugged gravely.
“Oh God,” he sighed. Sitting at the table he felt that despair and the utter certainty of death could be seated just opposite him. His heart beat with a desperate ferocity, “Where’s Linda?”
“Where do you think?”
“With Pedro? Do you think she’ll tell him anything him?”
“Does she know any better?”
“No.”
“Do you think it matters if she does tell?”
“If they’ve already heard, then no.”
“Exactly.”
“What should we do?”
“Lay low.”
“Stay here? What time is it?”
“Yes, and it’s about two.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think it’s better that we go to work like there’s nothing wrong.”
“I’d rather they didn’t see us at all, forgot about us.”
Santiago did not particularly want to go to work in the fields, and did not fight his friend very valiantly, any way he had become used to house arrest. They sat down and ate with the sweet fervor of the convict sentenced and waiting. The guillotine stood just beyond the door of their cell, its steel blade suspended in the woodwork of its frame. There was the brick-red rusty color of dried blood upon the blade, and the wood was dyed a deep crimson. A basket was placed before it. Who knew its contents? Only two, the executioner and the condemned who would not remember them for long. But this was all far too old-fashioned and far too French. They would do it the Cuban way. A nice firing squad would be assembled, gun in hand, before the red spotted wall and the dark stained earth. The victims would stand there, as martyrs for a cause they no longer remembered, and their minds would grasp at honor as their mouths screamed for mercy. Surely this was their fate.
Sometime that night after they had all been consumed by sleep, Linda was awoken by a rap at her window. Her heart pounded loudly at its cage as she went to open the thick wood shutters. Before her floated the beautiful face of Pedro bathed in moonlight. He smiled and held his hand out to her, to help her through the opening. She came to him, and reaching for the ground, she fell into his arms. He smiled down at her with sweet adoration, and taking her hand, he led her away into the dark. She glanced back at the darkness behind her, and there, at the far corner of the house she saw the glimmer of an eye and a shadow disappearing beyond the wall. Her heart jumped for fear, and she clung desperately to Pedro’s arm.
“What is wrong?”
“I–nothing,” she gasped peeking over her shoulder. The darkness seemed alive and crawling with demons and all other dark spirits and creatures. Her skin crawled, and the soft rustling of foliage was the prowling step of the great predator. They worked on through the darkness, passing the wavering shadows of buildings and the slender specters that by day were merely palms. They walked on until the low murmuring voices of the brook could be heard at their side. They were followed by this ghostly parade as they wove their way through the vast field of pillars until they reached Pedro’s look out. Here they lay on the ground leaning against a tree. Pedro took Cat in his arms. She shook. He could feel her heart beating tremulously.
“You have fear of the dark?”
She felt herself suffocating as if gnarled hands were clenched painfully at her throat. The dark spirits were closing in on her. Her fear escalated as the unseen made its horrible march upon her. She buried her face in Pedro’s shoulder and her pulled her tighter to himself. Time strolled slowly past in the darkness, unseen. With a shudder and a sob Linda finally fell into a thick, velvety sleep wrought with white, masked faces, mutilated bodies, and deafening screams. In her dreams the daemonic pursuit continued and the click of claws against stone sounded out against the beating of her heart. Pedro held the shaking creature in his arms. He felt nervous and awkward. He did not understand her feelings. He did not understand her fear. How could he? He did not know her. He could not comprehend her individuality or his own. This was not because she was so dark and deep, but that she was so far beyond the bounds of normality or even humanity that she would always be cloaked in mystery before his eyes. His mind did not travel much deeper than they physical, than the skin. The whole world was no more an exquisite sculpture to him than the most divine painting is beautiful to a blind man. She would always pose a certain ambiguity to him, and he would be a pane of clean glass to her.
Now his arm became sore as the numbness wore off, and he was overjoyed by the gradual fading of the satiny black night into a supple gray. He touched her lightly and her eyelashes fluttered to shake off sleep as a bird flutters his wings to shake off water. She glanced around and saw the retreating shadows and the shrinking monsters of the night. She looked around and with a delicate, girlish yawn she dispelled of the remainders of her slumber.
Everything was bathed in a silvery light, which with the warming of the sun, was quickly melted into a warm honey lit glow. They sat leaning against the tree in silence for sometime. She bobbed slowly on his chest as he breathed. She did not feel him there. He was far behind her though their skin touched and she could hear him whispering softly. She was engulfed in a world so very distant from where they now sat. He held her close to him, but felt the icy hollowness of the embrace, and every time he tried to reach out to her, he felt her slip farther beyond his grasp. She had descended deep into some unknown world where mysterious wonders and ghastly horrors swam about her head in the deep seas of the place she alone inhabited. He felt all this as more of an abstraction of her spirit making her so much more beautiful, complex, and unique though he did not know that she was, in fact, so essentially different from the person he esteemed her to be. She was a creature very different and distinct from any human woman, yet he saw this as a strange intangible beauty he could not understand.
“Its strange to think that this is the world I once loved,” he whispered.
“I know…” her voice was an inaudible sigh mingling with the warm breeze winding and slithering silently about them. She was a part of that earth and the very grass upon which they sat. Her eyes hung heavy with the mist and fog which seemed to surround them. There was no mist, and yet a silver veil dropped before their eyes, concealing the golden, lustrous world beyond them. They were entirely cut off from the reality of the objects about them. They gradually became completely enveloped in the silvery dream-like state which now engulfed them. Laboriously, she pulled a deep breath of air into her throat, and forced it down into her lungs. She was no longer a girl beneath a tree, but a slender grey bird sailing through the endless expanse of empty air, or a fish darting and careening through the dark abyss of crushing water. Pedro could feel her slipping slowly into this dream. The smoke swallowed the entire sky, the sun, and the palms. Pedro became indistinguishable from the tortuous waves and swells of the ever crashing breakers of smoke which rolled continuously over her body. She saw and thought of nothing beyond those grey, curling fingers. Her eyes and throat burned, and tears fell upon her cheeks. She fell into the shallow water of the brook, hitting its dark surface with a splendid tinkling of a hundred tiny bells as a thousand shards of glass crashed upon a silver tray.
With this her eyes shot open and she could make out the horrid, acrid smell of death upon the thick burning wind. She shook Pedro to consciousness and in panic they ran, stumbling down the hill towards where the smoke was darkest, the stench more revolting, and to where the sky was torn and shot with fire. They ran towards the village. Black creatures and figures wavered and fell as they ran past. They found themselves drenched in the sound of the wailing and desperate pleas and cries of the dead and dying. Three columns of flame leapt into the dark ceiling of smoke, and a dark mob of shrouded onlookers stood behind the victims in solemn example. Pedro grasped her hand and pulled her away from the view of the dark mob. Making their way around, they came upon a large group of mourners and martyrs. Men and women in their white work shirts and jeans now striped and blotted by soot kneeled before the three crucifixes burning violently. Tears streaked down their faces making tiny trails along their ashen cheeks. They screamed out and called to the bodies hanging from the black crosses. They were mangled and scorched, but Linda could just barely make out the kind face of the teacher who had rescued her from the sea of unknown faces upon her arrival. Linda called out in agony and stretching her hands out to her, she fell to her knees. Pedro stood breathless before the final destruction of liberty. Tears dripped silently down his bronzed cheeks and built pure, glistening roads in the ashes of his beloved dream. Here before him were all those who had clung to this place as the last and ultimate hope in a world of oppression and fear. Beyond them was the ultimate death of the ideal which had survived against the odds for so long. But it was too long, and it was so terribly inevitable that all things without sturdy basis must also fall into the dark, oily grave dug for them.
Like animals, the people screeched and wailed with hopelessness, finding themselves cornered. Only then did they notice the small wall built up before the three crosses. It was the kneeling bodies of the condemned who now awaited the terrible fate which faced them all if they did not conform to the new world and its grave. And in these down cast faces Linda found two to whom she held a deep attachment, and to them she now expressed a more violent and passionate appeal of love and loss. Her heart bled openly for those she loved who now, as soldiers, were prisoners of that deadly war which they had survived for so long, only to die in a final stand against the unjust governments which had persecuted them since the beginning of time. They stood now as the Israelites before the Egyptians, the Messiah before His people, the Hebrews before the Inquisition, and the Jews before the Nazi reign, and now in a final battle they would be wiped from the earth, completely leaving only those partial to the Godless, lawless, hopeless world of the modern era. Among these strong and faithful martyrs was a priest, a mother, a father, an old man, a child, a wife holding a baby to her breast, and her husband beside her. With the flames and smoke whipping around them they raised a final prayer to heaven above, to the God whom they loved, and to the pure white dove. The Lord smiled lovingly upon their faith, and whispered a secret into their hearts that soon they would find themselves in the soothing, cool embrace of His arms. With a heavenly choir they would soon be welcomed through the pearly gates as victorious soldiers returning home from battle.

Chapter Sixteen

The Plunge
The fire now roared, blazing in a final fury where its utter destruction and rage seemed prepared to scorch the entire island. Just as it reached its height, the rain, summoned by the tears of the angels sitting upon the lawns below, fell in healing torrents which quenched the flames. The crosses and their burdens stood like the angels of death before the people who knelt before them. The dark shrouded mob rose, and dragging its train of victims, it made its way across the market place to some dark pit where they could retrieve their prey and not fear any hasty escape. As this procession passed the white clothed onlookers now rose respectfully to their feet and saluted the banners of their unavoidable demise. They allowed the rain to wash the ashes from their faces and did not quit the resting place of their dead. Here they mourned their loved ones and a long dead cause. Here in hard, cold rain they saw reason, truth, and freedom dismantled. Somewhere across those seven seas, a world which had once known the immense upheaval of global revolution, now felt the last strain of dissension falling away. There was no government, not pact to sign, no treaty. There wasn’t even a way of initiating the last rebellious state into this global union which had incinerated all that existed before its creation. Other than these people and their stolen artifacts, there was no record that a more splendid world had ever existed. Some died and some were murdered, but all continued on in their dumb, peaceful bliss. Fear and Ignorance became the ultimate rulers, and as king and queen they reigned supreme over all the people laboring selflessly, working endlessly beneath their burning rays. This was the Utopian society of which so many had dreamed. They had conjured up images of a free world absent of pain, absent of discrimination, absent of thought, opinion, religion, art, and individualism. They would become one and this “one” would rule with a mighty fist. This was the scaffold to which mankind was headed, to which they plunged with increasing rapidity. And beneath this immense, towering “one”, which came crashing down on them, these remains of sanity found themselves running before the dark shadow in hopes that they might evade the collision.
Towards the end of all things there is a certain clarity where you realize that you’ve failed and exactly why. You see the road as it led you winding to the edge of the plank with a sword at your back and below you see the sharks thrashing about in the water. And here staring upon the mark of their ruin, the people of the old world saw their lives coming to a screeching halt. The eternity of death stretched out before them with a sickening definition. They could feel the cord being severed as the world continued spinning through space regardless of them and their feeble stand against its brutal force. The anarchy of this nation tore at itself, ripping the final cancerous cells of righteousness from its body with its own bony hands. Somewhere in the hole of a jail, their brothers and friends sat shivering as the reaper himself laid his icy blade against their cheeks. They would be the second cleansing step towards ultimate purification of loyalty in this new world completion with the last surrender of this tiny island. These people were the last reminders of an ancient army. And now the only thing to ponder was how to pass their final moments: as prisoners, as martyrs, or as the newly converted?
Linda stretched her hand out to Pedro, who failed to take it, so she laid it gently upon his arm. He could not feel her there, but instead stared open mouthed, gaping at the horrific scene before him. Fear shook his every tendon, and he could not pull himself to accept such a fate as the one which befell his comrades before him. His head whipped around searching desperately for the black robed men.
“Where did they go?”
“Who?” asked a man beside him in a dull, dead voice.
“Them—the elders!”
“Those are not the elders any more. They are the enemy and its hijos.”
“Where are they?” he cried in frustration. The man pointed listlessly towards the building which had served as their gallery and library. There a thin trail of smoke was issuing from the door. Then a red glaring light shone from its depths. Pedro ran to this beacon, this signal of a possibility of escape. A line of ants tall and menacing with gnashing teeth marched from the crumbling building, and before them Pedro fell on his knees.
“No…don’t,” gasped Linda as she ran after him. She grabbed him and tried to pull him away in the middle of his plea, but one of the dark creatures threw her from him. She watched from the shadows of a building as her momentary love betrayed all those he cared for, and the very cause which had brought him here.
“—please, I did not see. The truth…its all here with you in that,” he pointed to the three crosses then raised his face to them to see if they approved, “and you. Now I see. Please, do not take my past ignorance as any kind of…sign. I always did see something wrong with this kind of life…and…and that of the old world,” his Spanish was at once halting and wreaked with nervous excitement then he would flowing rapidly almost touching upon sincerity, “this is the new freedom, and only they,” he swept his hand towards the disappointed crowd behind him, “could not understand it…I’m…I’m ready now…to begin…new life—my new life with you,” here his speech became incoherent and garbled. Tears rushed down his face, and his body shook uncontrollably he beseeched them for some kind of recognition.
They said nothing, and almost with disgust, they pushed him aside, though he was their perfect patriot, a coward ruled by intimidation. Then they directed their attention towards Linda, “Put her with the others,” muttered the leader to one of his subordinates. With this they dragged her screeching into the darkness as Pedro stared shamefully at the ashes on the ground.
Linda could feel her heart pounding deep within her chest. She screamed out and clawed at her captors with the ferocity of a wild cat. She was trapped, cornered, captured. This was it, her last resistance. She wrenched herself free, and did not run, but instead she turned on her captors and attacked them, clawing viciously at them and biting whatever met her mouth. She tore and wrenched at their throats, the enemy, and fought, the last battle of the war which had been waged slowly over many years. She strove valiantly, but finally with a club to the head she sank to the ground, and was dragged like garbage to the cell where the others sat. There was a profound darkness about her and she could barely distinguish the difference between the nightmarish dreams of her unconscious mind from the horror-filled thoughts of her waking one. She felt about in the dark, and upon touching something soft and cold she recoiled in fear with a slight hiss of breath.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
“Linda!” came a familiar voice from the darkness.
“Santiago! Oh, thank God! Where are you?” She stretched out her hands and turning to the source of the voice she was met by a cold, clammy hand on her face. She shivered slightly and taking his hand in hers she allowed him to lead her to the solidity of the wall. She sat between him and another man who she soon realized was Pipo. The old man wept bitterly for the world now lost and for his children who would suffer for the sins of society. He took her free hand and chaffed it lovingly in his own. They sat in silence, the darkness filling all their senses with the inevitable. Everyone shared the stench of death and fear. They were no higher than animals through their fear, but they would not back down. They were at bay, but would not give up their position. Everything was set for their deaths and they knew it. Cold set in on the dark, damp room despite the hot climate and the shared body heat. Something closed its grip tightly upon them which told of a most present end.
They sat there like that for what seemed days. When the door to the cell was finally opened they realized that an elderly man among them had died with his head leaning peacefully on his son’s shoulder. Seeing this peace, this divine surrender, their nerves were soothed and now as they were lead to their own deaths they found something sweet and kind in the release they would find. They were paraded before the remaining men and women who had not yet been sentenced. There were those in the crowd who wept openly for those before them, but the majority now spat through their fear of one day being a member of a similar spectacle. Suddenly the martyr became the criminal in the eyes of the people when faced with such a choice. The rebels continued on before their audience, fearing no evil which stood before them. They were lead to the long wall along side the church. The priest began to utter a prayer, and his fellow prisoners joined in the solemn recitation. As one voice they lifted up their prayer to the Lord which now awaited their return to His arms. They did not fear the ever ready bullet, but instead awaited their arrival as it would bring them closer to that which they adored.
As they stood before the wall, they heard the rifles being cocked. Their voices gained strength. And as the last of their free brothers cried out in prayer, the darkness of the day closed in. There was a sound of trumpets. The deafening blast of the guns growled momentarily. Then all was still.