Esperanza (8 page)

Ian raised his arm, indicating they heard him, but he and Tess kept inching closer until maybe eight yards separated them from the animals. “They’re beautiful,” Tess breathed. “Their eyes are huge.”

The sun broke through the fog, showering the alpacas and llamas in a soft, celestial light that tinged their fur a reddish gold. Spellbound, Ian wished he had a camera. Then the fog closed in again, rolling toward the animals on every side, thickening, rising. Something spooked them and they turned in unison, like dancers in some choreographed ballet, and tore off across the grass, headed for the far trees.

At the same moment, Nomad started barking fiercely, the fog rolled toward them faster and faster, every hair on Ian’s body stood on end. Nomad suddenly sprang at him, knocking him back.

“Hey, what the hell is wrong with you, Nomad?” Ian snapped.

The dog barked again and dashed off into the fog. “I think he wants us to follow him,” Tess said.

“Suits me. It’s eerie here. Let’s get back to the bus.”

The fog now surrounded them. Although Ian could hear Nomad’s barking, it echoed in the thick whiteness. Wind rustled through trees, but Ian realized it was a soft whispering, insidious, mocking. And then the whispers became voices, a strange, haunted chanting that sounded like,
Find the body, fuel the body, fill the body, be the body,
over and over again, louder and louder.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Do you hear that?”

Alarm filled her eyes. “It sounds like—”

Suddenly, a group of men emerged from the fog, six, eight, then ten. They wore dark shirts and trousers, with white wool blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Their eyes seemed to be all pupil, shiny black surfaces that reflected nothing. Some had long braids, others had short hair, some wore shoes, others were barefoot.

“
Campesinos
,” Tess whispered. “Peasants.” But where had they come from? Ian wondered.
“Buenos días.”

“Buenos días,”
one of them replied.

Ian nodded and looked away from them. He and Tess walked faster. Two more men appeared on either side of them and fell into step alongside them.

“Buenos días,”
Ian said again.

“De dónde vienen?”
the man on the right asked.

“What’s that mean?” Ian whispered to Tess.

“They’re asking where we’re from. This is seriously creepy, Ian.”

As the man repeated his question, Ian took Tess’s hand, gripping it tightly. He no longer heard the chanting and wondered if they had imagined it. He and Tess walked faster, the two men fell back. When Ian stole a look behind, he saw at least two dozen of them now, fanning out behind them in a half-moon, the men at either end closing in, tightening the semicircle. Then nothing registered except his certainty that he didn’t want these men to touch him. “Run,” he rasped.

They raced forward, he tripped over something on the ground, lost his balance and flew forward. Tess’s hand slipped away. He slammed into the ground, air rushed from his lungs, and Ian lay there, unable to breathe. Nothing in his body worked, except for his brain, and it shrieked,
Get up now, fast, run.
And, somehow, he did, lurching to his feet with the gracelessness of Frankenstein.

Only then could he suck air in through his clenched teeth. He raced
toward Tess’s vanishing shape in the fog, toward Nomad’s frantic barking, toward the roar of the bus’s engine, all these sounds concentrated in one area of the fog.

But the men surrounded him—and closed in on him. Ian feinted to the right, the left. They moved as he moved, as if they were connected to him, as if they were all part of the same wave, the same netting, the same huge piece of seaweed. He saw a tiny opening, dived, struck the ground, rolled, leaped up, and raced away from them. The bus roared into view and Tess swayed in the doorway, shouting at him, gesturing wildly. He loped toward her, toward the bus, the men pursuing him, nearly reaching him. Tess leaned out and grasped his hand and pulled him aboard, her strength as shocking as the fact that he had escaped at all.

The doors shut, he and Tess stumbled back against the seats. Manuel shouted,
“Hold on, amigos,”
and executed an erratic ninety-degree turn away from the group.

Tess fell into the nearest seat, her head cut off Ian’s line of sight. Then she shot to her feet and grabbed onto one of the bars above her head as Manuel swerved into another ninety-degree turn. The bus skidded back onto the dirt road, tires kicking up dust and stones, and raced ahead, engine roaring, and broke free of the fog.

Ian grabbed onto the armrests, Nomad sprawled against the floor, Manuel drove madly. When he finally spoke, he sounded angry. “You cannot leave the bus again. Not until we arrive at the hotel.”

“You haven’t told us shit,” Ian spat. “Neither of us remembers buying tickets to Esperanza. Neither of us has a clue what the hell we’re doing on this bus. There’s a dead man back at that bodega that no one seems too concerned about. Who the fuck
were
those men?”

“I cannot explain all the—”

“We need answers, Manuel,” said Tess.

“And if we don’t get them, we’re finding the fastest way out of this place,” Ian added. “So either you give us the answers, Manuel, or stop the goddamn bus so we can get off.”

The bus stopped and Manuel shot to his feet, marched over to Ian, and leaned in close, planting his hands on the armrests, effectively trapping Ian in his seat. “I do not have the answers.” He spoke quietly, a threatening edge in his voice. “I wish that I could make a list for you. One, two, three. But I cannot. I do know this. Those men were
brujos,
señor. In the recent history of my city, the
brujos
never have been so bold.
Never
. An assault on Señorita
Tess. You, surrounded by these men. It means you both are important to them. It means . . .” Manuel suddenly paused, blinked. All the anger seemed to hiss out of him. He stood up straight again, so that Ian was no longer trapped in his seat, and his arms dropped to his sides. Nomad growled softly and Manuel glanced at him, then back to Ian, at Tess. “The dog should stay with you. When he growls, when he barks, when he becomes agitated, it means the
brujos
are nearby.”

With that, Manuel started back to his seat, but Ian grabbed the hem of his jacket. “Hold on just a goddamn minute, Manuel.”

Manuel jerked free of Ian’s grasp, eyes burning with anger. “I have told you all that I know.”

“I don’t believe in witches, so what are these
brujos
?”

“They are
real,
my gringo friend, and it doesn’t matter what you believe. That dead man behind the bodega? The
brujos
were responsible for that. The mark on Tess’s arm, you being surrounded by them out there . . .
Real
. So if you cannot believe in
real,
then you have a very big problem.”

He spun and hurried toward the front of the bus. Moments later, they drove on.

Tension clung to the air like Velcro to cloth. No one spoke. Tess and Ian glanced at each other and he rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if to say he didn’t have any idea what had happened. Manuel drove with his shoulders hunched and tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Tess felt sorry for him and even more anxious to get to the city.

When they were free of the fog, she drank in the stunning landscape. Sheep and goats, cows and horses grazed in the rolling pastures and emerald fields on either side of the bus. Beyond the fields rose spectacular mountains and volcanic peaks that seemed to reach for the sky as if to embrace it. A few buildings appeared, wooden structures with tin roofs, like the Bodega del Cielo, that looked like they were held together with Super Glue and duct tape. An occasional old, rusted car bounced by, tires kicking up dust. But the road was used predominantly by peasants, hauling their goods in burro-drawn wooden wagons or carrying their wares on their heads and shoulders.

The road turned from dirt to cobblestone. More buildings cropped up, more cars appeared, most of them small and old—VWs, Renaults, Peugeots, and lots of motorbikes and scooters. But pedestrians and people on bicycles outnumbered cars.

As the city took shape around them, Tess’s first impression was of antiquity, evident in the bleached stone of the colonial buildings, the looming churches, the maze of narrow streets. Every few blocks, parks appeared, filled with monkey puzzle trees, pines, flocks of hummingbirds, and bustling outdoor markets. Wooden wagons brimmed with fresh fruits and vegetables, men and women hawked jewelry, art, woven hammocks.

As the street widened into four lanes and filled with traffic, restaurants, cafés, and businesses became more numerous. Sleek buildings of steel and concrete appeared. This city, like Quito, seemed to have two distinct sections to it—the old and the new. In between lay the residential area through which they now drove, homes and apartments rising from hilltops, tall, snow-covered peaks looming behind them, embracing the city, protecting and isolating it. And there, distant but approaching, a magnificent condor drifted on a current of air. Tess nudged Ian, pointed out the window. Despite the earlier weirdness, this certainly wasn’t a bad place to end up in accidentally.

The bus finally pulled up in front of Posada de Esperanza, a colonial-style building that appeared to lie at the border between the old and new parts of the city. Made of bleached stones and wood, with large bay windows, the inn’s single story was shaped like a half-moon. To either side of the double doors stood huge ceramic pots filled with blue and lavender flowers and emerald-green ferns that would cause her mother to swoon with admiration and envy.

As the doors opened, Nomad bounded off first and trotted over to the doorman, a handsome young man with high cheekbones and a winning smile. He greeted the Lab with a pat, a grin, and a treat that Nomad leaped into the air to catch. The dog’s lungs, Tess thought as she stepped down, were definitely made for this altitude.

“Welcome to the posada.” Manuel swept his arm grandly toward the building, then pointed at the plaque above the front door. “
Mi casa es su casa
. My house is your house.”

His eyes looked strangely smooth and bright. A sense of familiarity swept through Tess, as it had several times since she’d first seen Manuel. It puzzled her. It was as if he were an old friend whom she recognized intuitively, but not consciously. Yet, she was sure she’d never met him before.

“It is the most comfortable lodging in Esperanza,” Manuel added. “Excuse me, I will be right back.”

He headed toward the doorman and Tess stood in the inn’s shadow, the early morning chill nipping at her face and hands, her stomach cramping with hunger. She watched the activity on the street—a bus, two men speeding past on bikes, cars, kids in uniforms on their way to school. Ordinary life here didn’t seem all that different. Except for these
brujos.

Manuel and the doorman conversed like old friends and kept glancing toward her and Ian, then both of them came over. Introductions ensued. Juanito Cardenas looked to be in his late twenties and his facial features said he was part Quechua. He tugged nervously at the lower edge of his jacket, and didn’t seem to know whether to smile or frown.

“Juanito will speak to the clerk and make sure that you have comfortable rooms and everything else that you need,” Manuel said.

“You have no more luggage?” Juanito asked.

“Nope, this is it,” Tess replied.

“Never have I seen Americans travel with so little. It is a good thing, eh? It means that you are decisive, certain.”

Tess almost laughed. Decisive? Certain? No way.

“Right now, we’re just tired and hungry,” Ian said.

Juanito flashed his dimpled smile. “I understand.”

They entered the posada. The most unusual thing about it was that no one objected when Nomad tagged along. She couldn’t remember dogs being allowed in motels and inns in Quito. If anything, Quito was overrun with strays and, like most domestic animals in South America, they were treated like shit.

Ian apparently noticed this oddity, too, and asked, “Is Nomad allowed inside?”

“Everyone knows him,” Manuel replied, as if this explained it all.

In the lobby, leather couches and chairs were draped with Ecuadorian blankets, native art festooned the walls. The roaring fireplace reminded her of a ski lodge in Colorado, people sitting around and reading newspapers, sipping coffee. A black and white cat wound his way through their legs, purring loudly. He trotted up to Nomad, they touched noses, then the cat moved on and finally settled by the fireplace. In the bay window, an Amazonian parrot with flaming blue and scarlet wings moved back and forth along a massive perch, greeting everyone who passed.

“Buenos días, cómo está, bienvenidos.”
Now and then it emitted a wolf
whistle as some beautiful babe passed by. When Nomad sat in front of the perch, the parrot gazed down at the dog and greeted him in perfect English. “Hello, Nomad, welcome.” Then the bird squawked, picked up a piece of dried fruit from her bowl, tossed it, and Nomad caught it.

“Cómo te llamas?”
Tess asked the parrot.

The parrot looked her over, whistled softly.
“Me llamo Kali.”

“Wow, Kali, as in consort of Shiva?” Ian asked.