The Crystal Child (42 page)

DeLeon shrugged off Isobe’s words.  “Do you think I would let Aaron leave simply to cool off the house?  I can stand the heat.”

“I too.  But not the earl.  Not Brother Theodosius.  They will not like so much heat.”

DeLeon stared at Isobe, stunned.  “You say the temperature is rising in the repository?  How can that be?”

“As I say, Peter, I have made an adjustment.  Very simple.  Turn off, turn on.  Whole house is now one system. One system, one control.”  He came up beside DeLeon to read the thermostat.  “Thirty-six degrees.  Helium at thirty-six degrees.  Perhaps okay.  But at forty degrees, perhaps not so.”

“Stop it now!” DeLeon cried, panic pouring into his voice.  “We need to talk.  Make this thing lower the heat.” He thrust the instrument into Isobe’s hand.  “Use it!”

Isobe took back the device.  “When Julia is through the front gate.”

Sylvana rose from her chair.  “No!  You don’t let them take the boy.”  She lurched toward Julia, but DeLeon caught her around the waist and wrestled her under control.  Suddenly, her voice descended into a pleading whisper.  To Julia she said, “Please.  He will be cared for.  He will be loved.  Like a saint from God he will be loved.  On my knees I will adore him.”  She buried her face in her hands and cried convulsively.

Julia stepped toward her and freed her from DeLeon’s hold.  “Aaron wouldn’t want that,” she whispered at Sylvana’s ear.  “He wouldn’t look back to see.  Come,” she said and led the weeping woman to Alex.  Carefully, she drew away a corner of the blanket from what Alex held in his arms.  She beckoned Sylvana to come see what was there.  DeLeon came quickly to Sylvana’s side, reaching her in time to steady her as her knees weakened.  The two of them stared wide-eyed at the object Alex was holding.  Sylvana, an expression of questioning horror on her face, looked to Julia.  Gently, Julia took the woman’s hand and lifted it to stroke the surface of the object.  Sylvana touched it lightly, then, when she saw the flickering lights inside, drew her hand back as if she had been burned.

“No, don’t be afraid,” Julia said.  “I believe he’s still inside.”

“But where … ” Sylvana started to ask.

“I don’t know,” Julia said.  “This may be his way out.  He has no place with us.  We age, we die.  He continues.”  Sylvana, weeping, her face twisted with confusion, slumped into a chair.

“You must leave it here,” DeLeon said, more begging than demanding.  “I will care for it.  I will have it studied.  I will …”  Under Julia’s steady and forbidding gaze, his voice drifted away.

“Not ‘it.’ 
Him
,” Julia said.  She folded the blanket back across the shining glass mask that had been Aaron’s face.

“Thirty-seven degrees,” Isobe said.  “You will call the car?”

Jarred, DeLeon stepped away and let Julia and Alex pass.  “Yes,” he said.

“Good,” Isobe said, pressing buttons on the thermostat.  “We wait.  Fifteen minutes.”

***

With Isobe beside her, Julia waited for Alex to return with the van.  She was holding Aaron now.   As if his substance were evaporating, he seemed lighter than when she had last held him.  She pressed him close at her breast as if he were a newborn.   Isobe leaned to peer inside the blanket.  “Still alive?” he asked, frowning doubtfully.

“Oh, yes.”

“You can tell?  How?”

“I know.”

Looking more closely, Isobe wagged his head.  “There is no sign of life.”

“I’m sure he’s still there.”

“You say ‘he.’  DeLeon says ‘it.’ ”

“
He
,” Julia said.

“‘It’ would seem more appropriate.”  Once again, as he had twice before that day, Isobe asked if she would not come with him.

She had acted too preoccupied to discuss the matter.  Now she answered. “I have no passport,” she reminded him.  “No papers of identification.  They have my fingerprints, my photo.  I’m a wanted person.  I have no way to leave the country — any country.  I’m forbidden to travel.”

“All can be arranged,” he assured her.  “I know many people.”

“And I can’t leave Aaron like this.”

“It seems Aaron has left you,” he said.

“Yes, perhaps.  But I feel entrusted with caring for him.  The one thing I’m sure of.”

“For how long?”

“A while.  Until I feel I’ve done all I can.”

“And then?”

After a pause, she let her answer sound like a promise.  “I’ll find some way to let you know.”

“And I will find some way to bring you to me.”  Behind them in the depths of the house, Sylvana could be heard wailing inconsolably.  She was mourning more than the loss of Aaron.  “She said she would kill herself,” Isobe said.  “You think so?”

“There’s still a lot of actress in her,” Julia answered.  “I’ve never known what to make of her.”

When Alex pulled up in his rental van, Isobe opened the door to the rear seat.  Julia settled herself, Aaron still in her arms.

“You are heading … ?”

“Into Sonoma, then south,” was all she would say.

“South.  So you will be somewhere between here and Tierra del Fuego.”

“A day or so to the south.”

“You have my phone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It will not work in many places.  The battery … but keep it.  It may be of use.”  He turned to Alex.  “You can manage these roads?” he asked, with more than a little doubt in his voice.

“Sure,” Alex answered as if he were challenging Isobe to contradict him.

“Please, you will make sure she is safe.  Not on her own.”

“What d’you think?”

“Sonoma is all desert.  Take more water than you think you need.”  Isobe took out his wallet and removed a wad of mixed currencies, American, Mexican, Japanese, French.   “All I have in cash,” he said.  “You will need more.”  Turning to Julia, he added,  “If you wait, I can have money sent.  A few days.”

“I have more,” Alex said.  “And I have plastic.”

Nodding assent, Isobe looked into the back seat to glance once more at the strange object Julia was clutching to her.  He reached to stroke the glassy surface.  “Good design,” he said.  “Like egg.  Like cocoon.  Good tensile strength.  But what will come out?”  Before Julia could think of what to answer, he leaned to kiss her.

“Look,” she said, glancing toward the front door of the house.  DeLeon stood there, impatience radiating from him.

“Ah, yes,” Isobe said.  “Heaven and hell.  We must be careful now.  Very dangerous.”

“Why dangerous?” Julia asked.

Isobe made a sharp, digging gesture into the ground.  “Thermal heat.  House is like cork in mountain.  Hold back too long, house is gone, mountain is gone.  Great power.”  He fished the thermostat from his pocket and checked it.  Holding at 40 degrees Celsius.  “But long way to go to boiling.”  He pressed a few keys.  “We cool house a little.  More heaven, less hell. Then wait until you are away safe.  Three hours, four hours.”

As he stepped back from the car, Alex, smiling, asked, “So what’s the code?”

Isobe laughed and showed him the readout. 
P-o-n-c-e.

***

Now that she was free of the house, driving toward the sea, Julia was surprised at how easy it had been.  When they reached the gate in Alex’s van they found it open, the guards, standing back, waved them on their way.  Once he was beyond the gate, Alex gunned the van, driving faster than the roads allowed.  With Tlaloc disappearing into the distance behind her, Julia realized that she had not really been a prisoner.  If she had been imprisoned at all, it was by circumstance.  It was Aaron that Sylvana and DeLeon wanted.  And now it was clear that he was beyond their reach.  Keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror, Alex headed for San Lazaro, then turned east on to better roads.  Three hours later, they were in Mexicali where they would spend the night.

That night in their room, Alex, seeking some way to ignore the bundled presence that was sharing Julia’s bed, studied maps, spreading them open across the floor.  The west coast of Mexico.  Vast blank yellow spaces with few towns and few roads.  “What’s this place we’re heading for?” he asked.

“San Cristobal de Sonora,” Julia answered.

“Why there?”

“There’s a bakery there,” Julia answered smiling.

“Oh.  A bakery.”

“And a friend.”

“San Cristobal de Sonora,” Alex said running his eye over the map.  “Well, I can’t find it.”

“Good,” she said.  “I hope no one can find it. Head for Guaymas. From there, we’ll ask the way.”

The man and the woman — young, timid, dressed in ill-fitting work clothes — led the little girl between them into the dark corner of the room.  The only light they found there came from two fat candles that stood to either side of a small woven basket.  The candles were barely bright enough to illuminate what the basket held, but after their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the woman could make out a faint glow — or believed she could.  In an instant she was on her knees, drawing the man down beside her.  Following the woman’s lead, he crossed himself, bowed his head, and began to murmur prayers.  The little girl, unsteady on her legs without her parents’ support, swayed uneasily where she stood.  She was not used to the braces, a cast-off pair poorly fitted to her legs.  But without them her emaciated legs could never have held her upright.

After a long interval of prayer, the mother, cautiously inching forward on her knees, stretched out her hand toward the makeshift altar and deposited a string of jewels among the flowers that surrounded the basket. Only glass beads, but all she had to offer.  Behind them at the door of the room, the old priest who had led them to the shrine, waited patiently for them to finish.  There were others waiting, but he never rushed those who came to the room.  Let them make the most of the occasion.  After all, these might be the ones, the simple people who would convince him that his church, his village had been blessed.

When the family was finally ready to withdraw, he made the sign of the cross over each of them and escorted them back into the sunlight.  Sending them across the street to the church for further prayer, he turned and surveyed the remaining supplicants.  There were three … four … five more groups, families, some that had been waiting for hours.  And there might be more coming before the shrine was closed at the end of the afternoon.  Would there be enough time for all these today?  Quickly the priest began to triage, moving the blind boy and the old woman in the wheelchair to the front of the queue.  The others, disappointed but uncomplaining, stepped back obediently.  They trusted his judgement, but showed their unhappiness.  A small man in a shiny suit inched forward timidly to explain that he and his family had driven all the way from Vera Cruz with no place to stay for the night.  The priest heard him out, politely promising to do the best he could.

It was like this every day now, at least a half-dozen pilgrims coming to visit the little room, to offer gifts, money, prayers.  The priest had done nothing to advertise the existence of a new shrine, but as if by some ethereal telegraphy, news of the healings at San Cristobal de Sonora had become known throughout the region.  He did not look forward to what would happen when the word spread further, as he was sure it would.  This was a tiny village unsuited to crowds larger than those that came on market days.  There were few accommodations and only meager transportation.  Already cars were carving deep ruts in the dirt road, people were sleeping on the beach, leaving their scraps behind.  It would get worse, the priest knew.  There was no way to deny those who came, no way to dissuade them from investing their faith in what might turn out to be a minor and meaningless spectacle.  Soon believers would be coming from every part of the country to see something that shone in the corner of a room at the rear of a
panadería.
   Some claimed they had seen a leaping flame in the basket, others that they had seen the Holy Mother’s face there.  How unlikely that was.  This was nothing native to the region, nothing that bespoke its faith.  Not that he could wholly dismiss this strange thing the American woman had brought them.  But was it worthy of a shrine?  Would it be sanctioned by the church?  Of course that did not matter.  The old priest had seen things like this before.  A vision or simply the rumor of a vision — and suddenly a shrine emerges as if by spontaneous combustion, a place crowded with flowers and simple offerings.  And then a story.

There was already a story here, in the priest’s village.

The Holy Mother had come to San Cristobal de Sonora to weep for the many sorrows of the people.  She had been brought by a woman from the north who was herself a wonder worker.  The Holy Mother had cried into the hands of the woman and her tears had turned to gleaming gems, a gift from heaven.   Come see the gems, believe the story, and who knows what miracles might follow?

***

All this — the shrine, the story, the reported healings — had happened in the nine months since Julia and Alex arrived, two weary travelers carrying a closely wrapped bundle. When they first turned into the dusty main street of the village, Alex groaned.  “This is it?” he asked, his voice echoing painful disappointment.  They had spent four days driving bad roads through the desert, sleeping in bug-infested, sweltering
posadas
that were no better than shacks.  But San Cristobal de Sonora was exactly what Julia had hoped to find, a remote, disorderly cluster of ramshackle houses surrounding an undistinguished church.  Reaching the village required a final five-mile drive over a rough, unmarked road.  Chickens roamed the streets, doing their best to dodge the feral cats.  Next to the church was a collection of shops that included the
panadería,
a tiny store not much larger than a big closet.  Customers had to line up to reach the counter.  And they did, faithfully every morning.

The town’s main commerce was the spinoff from a modest hotel that occupied a lovely, seldom-used stretch of beach, white sands and a wide arcing surf that lay hidden over a high ridge of dunes.  Only adventurous tourists making their way toward Guaymas and looking for out-of-the-way attractions stopped at the hotel.  For them, the beach behind San Cristobal de Sonora was one of the undiscovered beauties of the northwest coast.  In the summer and in the winter, the hotel was booked full with tourists, mainly Americans.  There were shops in the hotel — a souvenir counter, a snack bar, a liquor store, a mediocre dining room — but often guests walked into the town to find more authentic native wares.  Not that there was much: a pottery shop, some leather goods, several racks of serapes minded by silent, sullen women.  It was not worth climbing the dunes to walk the streets of San Cristobal a second time except to visit the
panadería
during the day and at night the cantina that stayed open late, offering live music by spirited if not very talented local musicians.  Between seasons, the hotel closed down and the town, lost in the broiling heat of the Sonoran desert, receded into obscurity like a cactus waiting for water.

Achula recognized Julia as soon as she entered the little bakery.  She greeted her prison companion explosively with a sharp cry, her hands clasped at her breast as if she had seen an angel descend from heaven.  She rushed to introduce her to her mother.  Julia was “the doctor,” the “wise lady,” the benefactor, she announced, her voice brimming with pride, as if Julia were not as much a jailbird as she was.  Yes, she had received the money Julia sent from San Lazaro — more money than she and her mother made in a full season of baking. The mother, when she understood who Julia was, seized her hand and kissed it.  The greeting was overdone; Julia had to fight down her embarrassment.  At the same time she was relieved to be welcomed with such honest affection and used her warm welcome for all it was worth.  She had no choice about that.  San Cristobal de Sonora was the only destination she had in view, the one refuge that might provide the secrecy she needed.

Alex was less certain.  “You plan to stay here? 
Here?
 How long?”

“Not long,” she assured him.  “Until Aaron is finished.”

She introduced Alex as her son.  He would be staying only a few days, she said.  He could stay in the hotel if it was open.  But it was off-season; the owners had closed up and gone away. He would have to stay with her in the one little room the family could spare, a sparsely furnished bedroom at the rear of the bakery.  Julia thanked them, then had Alex bring Aaron into the room before she let Achula know about him.  That day and through the night, she sat, cradling Aaron in her arms, watching closely.  From time to time, often hours apart, she was certain she detected faint traces of light within the form she held.  Alex saw nothing.  “You’re seeing things, Mom,” he told her.

“There, didn’t you see that?” she asked.  “There was a flicker.”

“You’re making it up,” Alex insisted. “It’s dead.  Get rid of it.”

She frowned at him and turned away.

Finally, on the third day, she asked Alex to bring Achula and her mother to the room.  There was a small lamp with a low-wattage bulb on a corner table.  With the curtains drawn, it was hardly enough to read by.  When the two women entered, she beckoned them to come closer, then unfolded the blanket and said, “This is my other son.” When she let them see what she held, the response took her by surprise.  As if at a signal, the women crossed themselves and folded their hands in prayer.  “No, no, please,” Julia blurted out. “It’s nothing like that.”

Nothing like what?
she wondered.  What the women saw in Julia’s lap was a small, transparent figurine shaped like a newborn.  After a moment Julia could almost laugh. 
She.
  The Blessed Virgin Julia.

***

Alex, reluctant to leave his mother behind in a strange town among strange people, lingered on in San Cristobal de Sonora for one week, then another, chafing at the heat, the isolation, and the boredom of the place.  Briefly for a few hours on Sunday mornings, the town came alive.  Several dozen people showed up for mass, many staying for a small street market that followed.  After that, especially during the off-season, the village sank back into near hibernation.  The church qualified San Cristobal as an important town in its vicinity, but nothing happened there that seemed important to Alex.  There was a small fishing fleet, a dozen or so old boats, that seemed to bring back very little at the end of the day.  Fishing had moved away to other towns with superior marinas. Now most of the townsfolk worked at hotels and restaurants in the nearby gringo enclaves or as farm labor.  Each morning, men and women piled into a few battered trucks to drive off; they returned in the late afternoon, made simple meals, and spent the evening in dimly-lit little shacks.  Most had television, but with meager and spotty reception.  In the night, there was starlight, moonlight, nothing more to be seen in any direction.  “I don’t see how you’re going to put up with this,” Alex groaned. “This might as well be a prison.” He tried to retrieve the words as soon as he said them.

She smiled forgiveness.  “I know something about prisons, my boy.  Believe me, this is a great deal better.  No bars, no rules.  The lights may not be bright, but nobody tells you when to turn them out.”  Over and again she insisted she would be safe with these people; she trusted them.  “Besides,” she laughed, “they think I’m the second coming of the Virgin Mary or something like that.”  She had little trouble talking Achula out of that idea.  But the girl’s mother still eyed Julia with an unsettling sense of awe — as did more and more townspeople.  As Julia might have expected, what the mother knew soon became common knowledge in the little village.  People had obviously heard of her strange child, the child that never left the tiny room behind the bakery, the child who shone like a glass icon.

“I can’t leave you here with a bunch of superstitious peons,” Alex argued. “You don’t even speak the language.”

“But they speak mine — a lot of them.  They treat me with respect.  That’s all I want.  Believe me, I feel safe.   Isn’t this the last place anybody would expect to find us?”  “Us” meant her and Aaron.

“How long will you stay?”

“Not long,” she answered, non-committaly.  “Let me finish what I have to do.  I’ll send for you.”

Reluctantly, Alex made ready for his journey home.  He left her with a long list of warnings, assuring her that he would return in another six months.  “Can you get in touch if you need me?” he asked.

More to assure him than herself, she showed him Isobe’s cell phone.  “That won’t work from here,” he told her. “The reception in this country sucks.  But if you get closer to one of the towns, you might get through.  The gringos can’t do without working cell phones.”  She promised him she would be cautious and in return asked one promise from him.  No, he assured her, he would tell no one where she was.  Not even Kevin Forrester.  “I’ll tell him you wouldn’t come back with me.  He won’t be happy about that.”

“You’ll be seeing him?”

“I should.  He’s paying for this trip.”

“When you see him, tell him I got his letter.  Tell him there’s a whole section in Plato about circles.  Tell him it’s the pattern of eternal nature.  And tell him … oh, I don’t know.  Tell him all is forgiven.”

Alex gave her a good-natured smile while he silently counted on his fingers. 
One-two-three
.  He paused, and then added
four
.  “What’s that all about?” Julia asked.

“I’m adding up all my mother’s male admirers.  For a lady on the run, she’s got quite a few boyfriends.  Including me.”

***

She was timing her life to the seasons, not the clock or calendar.  With Alex gone, her days soon lapsed into a simple routine.  She had expected to earn her way helping in the
panaderia
, but Achula would not hear of it.  Julia was the
curandera
.   She had better things to do.  The girl took her to the church and introduced her to the priest, a small, emaciated man with white locks and a stooped frame.  Father Martin.  A pleasant man who seemed deeply resigned to overseeing one of the poorest parishes in Mexico, he lit up when he was told that Julia was a doctor, especially when he heard Achula’s exaggerated account. The young woman made Julia out to be a miracle worker who had done everything short of raising the dead.

Father Martin could not make Julia more welcome.  Each day, for whatever time she could spare, Julia received patients in the sacristy of St. Lucia.  Broken bones, sore throats, infected cuts, endless numbers of sick babies.  She quickly became a one-woman clinic, the only professional medical help within miles, and for many the only care they could afford.  Some she could help, many she could not — except on those occasions when Father Martin managed, by means she never questioned, to bring her a small supply of anti-biotics or steroids.  She was at best a bare-foot doctor, often of no use at all except for propping up morale.