Jemez Spring (24 page)

The creature opened its amber, unblinking eyes, but one bruised eyelid would not quite lift. A one-eyed turtle, it peered from its reptilian past to gaze into Sonny's eyes, its forlorn look seeming to say, my savior.

16

Pobrecita, the old man said.

Sonny looked closely at the tortoise.

It won't make it, out there.… He meant on the road where sooner or later crows would settle around it, curious at the find, a roadkill delicacy. The crows would proceed to peck at it, and smelling the blood they would go for the eyes until they completely blinded the creature. Then, taking their time, they would, in bits and pieces, extract the flesh.

Turtles don't die in a hurry, the old man said. Nebuchadnezzar the Babylonian king knew. He hired magicians to interpret his dream. But the old fart didn't tell his wizards his dream. Tell me what I dreamed, he said. They couldn't. So off with their heads. Can you beat that? Imagine. The shrink must know your dreams when you step into his office, or off with his head. But what the devil, we have no Daniels in our world.

Sonny wasn't paying attention to the Nebuchadnezzar story. He had to get to the mayor's office. He had to know what Raven was promising and where.

The one thing we haven't considered, he said, still holding the turtle, Dominic hired Raven.

Yes, the old man replied, but either way Raven will strike out on his own. You know, future wars will be fought over water, not oil. Sure, the GIs beat Saddam's ill-equipped army, and the first thing they took were the oil fields. But just wait till Turkey says it can build dams on the Euphrates. Then you'll see a real fight. Same on the Jordan, in Africa, and here on the Rio Grande. Wherever a river or an aquifer crosses borders, that equals war. Every nation has to feed its people. Corn, soy, and wheat need water.

What do we do with the turtle? Sonny asked. He couldn't leave it. Never leave a wounded animal on the road.

The old man was looking at the mountain. Musing. I read in
National Geography
—

Geographic
.

That's it. The ancient Chinese honored turtles. They placed bronze turtles at the entrances of their temples. Those who came to turn the prayer wheel or to light candles and incense for the ancestors paused to rub the front feet of the turtle for good luck. Over the centuries the bronze wore to a polished sheen. Millions of hands had touched the turtle.

Yeah, but now, Sonny said.

Maybe take it to the pueblo, the old man said lamely, for although he had recovered some of his strength, he didn't want to tell Sonny what to do.

Sonny nodded, but he knew he didn't have time. Raven's trail would grow cold.

Take it to the casino, Sonny suggested. He could drive up Tramway and drop the turtle off at the front door.

The old man laughed, a sneer. Damn it, Sonny, you drive up with that wounded creature and those white people the pueblo hires to run their business will kick you out faster than you can fart.

You never gambled?

Life is enough of a gamble, the old man answered. Why go looking for trouble? Besides, I heard about an elderly woman from Belen who met el diablo—

I heard the story, Sonny interrupted. Maybe the losers tell those stories. But he knew better. The people told stories. Soon a corrido about the woman would be sung. People would report a man in black sitting next to anxious housewives at the slot machines. He watched with burning eyes as would-be winners polished the buttons on the slots on machines that were not lucky turtles.

Sonny held the turtle up to the sky, toward the mountain so that the outline of the creature was the exact outline of the Sandia Mountain. A perfect fit. The mountain itself was a turtle facing north, a living creature, and those who understood turtle dialogue could hear its story.

The old man was in a storytelling mood. He told how long ago Father Sky came to lie on Mother Earth and the weight of Father Sky formed the soft depression that became the great valley of the Rio Grande. All forms of life came into being from that divine connubium. The begetting in the Bible paled before the life forms that sprouted from sperm clouds and earth meeting. Everything was born of that union: trees, grass, flowers, deer, raccoons, beavers, snakes, even the dragonflies and other common insects. But they could not grow because Father Sky continued to press on Mother Earth, continually fertilizing her and yet not allowing growing room for the life they engendered.

So the animals, whose desire was to sprout upward, sent a black bear to lift Father Sky. The bear pushed and grunted, but he wasn't strong enough. Then buffalo was sent, but he couldn't budge the sky. Even the mighty cottonwood tried, lifting its huge arms like a gymnast pumping iron, but even this Tree of Life could not lift the sky. Life was trapped in a claustrophobic atmosphere. Each cell wanted to grow upward on the chain of potential, but they were stifled by the weight of the sky.

Finally the meek turtle, a water creature, volunteered to lift the sky. The other animals laughed. Even the river trees, whose desire to grow exceeded everyone, chortled. How could a mere turtle lift the weight of Father Sky?

The little turtle lifted its small head and announced to Father Sky that in order for life to grow, he must move. Father Sky didn't move, and so the turtle in its knobby shell began to push. It pushed and pushed until slowly but surely, it lifted Father Sky.

Imagine the relief of the plants and animals! They could finally breathe! Every living organism, including the rocks, gasped for air. The turtle rose like a mountain, lifting Father Sky about a mile high. Now our valley people call that turtle Sandia Mountain. It's still holding up Father Sky and allowing all of us the space to breathe and grow.

Divine connubium, Sonny thought, a marriage made in heaven. Stories of the sacred marriage were older than Joseph's marriage to Mary. The sky god Zeus had come to visit good-looking mamasotas on earth, and Isis had lain on the dead body of Osiris. Life blossomed.

Sonny blinked. A second ticked by. The blinking of the eye created time, as did the ticking heart. Count the heartbeats for a minute. Multiply by sixty. Multiply by days, months, and years to arrive at the Source of the First Dream.

Is there such a thing as divine marriage? he wondered. That's what he wanted for himself and Rita.

I like that story, he said, looking up at the granite face of Sandia Mountain, the orienting feature of the valley.

I think it's an Egyptian myth, replied the old man. From the time of the pharaohs. They had their Nile, we have our Rio Grande, so we share stories. The Egyptians don't mind; as you know, most of the pharaohs are dead.

So mountains hold up the sky, Sonny mused, and if one is blown apart the sky will fall. The Chicken Little story has an ominous ring to it.

Mountains have many uses. I read that the Babylonians constructed zig-gu-rats. The Egyptians pyramids. Later those ideas came to our ancestors, the Olmecs, possibly from Chinese and Japanese boat people who landed on the coast of Peru long ago. They spread to the Vera Cruz. From there to other Mexican civilizations. Like Teotihuacan. Those magic mountains are all over, even as mounds in Illinois and Ohio.

If Raven blows up the Jemez, a gaping hole will appear on Mother Earth, a wound from which will seep the hidden waters. Blood of the mountain. A wounded turtle. And a large part of Father Sky will cave in, fall into the vacuum. Everything will be contaminated with radioactivity.

Sonny knew this wasn't science, but it was a way of relating to the natural order of the cosmos. Relate with the wisdom of story, not the microchip. Stories, legends, and myths are what connected the humans to the Eternal Mystery, connected one person to the other, because all shared the same history, the same First Mother, the same First Father.

I'll take the turtle to Rita, he said. In her garden it can eat the succulent herbs and flowers, ripe parsley and turnip greens, chile verde, verdolagas y quelites, bright tulips. Two Lips the turtle.

He tore a clump of wild alfalfa that grew by the side of the road and made a bed for the turtle in the back of the truck. He placed the grateful creature tenderly on the alfalfa. You're going home, he said, then jumped back in the truck and headed with urgency down 1-25, the fastest way to get to city hall.

Normally he would drive along Fourth Street, the most interesting street in the city with its sense of history still lingering along the route. Fourth Street was part of the original Route 66. It was once the Camino Real, which connected Nueva España with New Mexico.

Driving into Alburquerque on the interstate he was always struck by the city's continual, painful growth. Large subdivisions spread up the slope of the mountain, and businesses had sprouted along the interstate. Across the river lay the mushrooming Rio Rancho. As usual Sonny's sight, as troubled as it was now by his puffy eyelid, rested on the lava escarpment of the old volcanoes that dotted the West Mesa.

Hundreds of times, 432 by his own count, he had hiked around the volcanoes, looking for the Zia Stone. He knew the major petroglyphs by heart, could stand on the escarpment in the sun and the wind and hear the whisper of the old people who had etched messages from the spirit world on the faces of the dark boulders.

On the extinct volcanic cones the wind was constant. Its refrain played on dry grasses and chamisa. If one stood still, the mantra of the wind resonated to the gurgle of the hidden waters running beneath the ancient lava flow, pure water of ancient ages sizzling as it encountered the boiling magma far below. Somewhere on that lava bed a golden seal might reveal itself.

Affordable land on the West Mesa, he said. Good thing the politicians saved the Petroglyph National Monument.

They do things right—sometimes, the old man said. But if bulldozers cut roads through the lava flow they'll disturb the Zia Stone. A great tragedy if they bury it for another 432 million years. And that's just one day in the life of the eternal dream. One day of eternity.

The sun was past its zenith as Sonny turned on Martin Luther King Boulevard and drove into downtown, with its flashy new court buildings. Center of law, the logos law, that which is written, that which knew very little of Sonny's dream.

Laws were written to be applied equally. But Sonny knew a rich man can buy what a poor man can't.

Why here? the old man asked.

Fox will know what kind of deal they made with Raven.

He screeched to a stop in front of city hall, parking illegally, not heeding the traffic cops who signaled furiously and blew their whistles.

“You can't park there!” was the last threat he heard as he jumped out of the truck and dashed inside, past startled workers rushing out of the building. His boots echoed on the marble floor, and even amidst the confusion in the building, a few well-groomed secretaries turned to admire the tall and slim Sonny Baca.

In long, purposeful strides he made his way quickly to the mayor's office, past the startled city cops, past the secretaries' foyer, where one held up her hand and said, “Hey, you can't go in there!”

“Urgent business,” Sonny replied as he burst into the mayor's office. The room was full of embattled city officials and a film crew from CNN interviewing the mayor.

This is it, thought Sonny. Raven mentioned the movies.

“Sonny—” the startled Fox uttered as Sonny reached out and picked him up by the lapels.

“You made a deal with Raven!” Sonny shouted.

“What the hell do you think—” the mayor cried, his face flushing.

“What is it?” Sonny repeated, shoving his face into the mayor's.

“You're crazy!” Fox cried out as two cops grabbed Sonny and jerked him back, flinging him down to the floor where they pressed their knees into his back. They twisted his arms and handcuffed him.

“Is this what you're after? National spotlight?”

The startled film crew had turned their cameras on him and the cops, beaming the picture around the world.

“Damn you, Sonny! I've got the cell phones dead, a bomb on the Jemez, and you charge in here—”

The cops lifted Sonny to his feet. He looked into the Fox's eyes, and the gleam that was always a political plot, in spite of the ever-handy smile, told Sonny more than he needed to know. Raven was a shape shifter, and he had taken on the mayor's mask to play the game. Yes, ravens and foxes were cut from the same cloth, even the wily Odysseus knew this as he made his way home from Troy.

Okay, more than one could play the game.

“I just want to know what you gave him,” Sonny whispered.

“Get the cameras out of the room!” Fox waved at his startled aides, and they rushed to hustle the interviewer and camera crew out.

The room settled down and Fox glared at Sonny. “I ought to have them throw you in jail. You just screwed up the biggest interview of my life—”

“My life!” Sonny retorted; the image of himself dangling from the helicopter and the bullets whizzing flared up.

“Okay, okay. Settle down and we'll talk reason.”

Sonny glanced around him. He had surprised the politicos gathered in the office, frightened the good-looking secretary so her breath quickened. And for a moment he had startled the police guard. But now he was handcuffed. Best to talk.

“Who do they interview next, Raven?”

“I don't give a damn what happens to that madman,” Fox replied, straightening his red-chile-spotted tie. “If I didn't know you better I'd throw the book at you. I just don't need wild cowboys during a national emergency. The cell phones are down, and there's a nuclear device sitting on the Jemez. Gotta keep cool.”

“Working for Dominic is keeping cool,” Sonny taunted.

“I don't work for Dominic!” Fox shouted. “My concern is water for the city's future! Yes, Frank is buying up water rights, but I'm ahead of his game. I've secured enough water to keep the city afloat! Your grandchildren are going to thank me, Sonny. Not Dominic!”