Harry Steinman - Little Deadly Things

Marta walked and considered her grandmother’s words. Would she be crushed by her pain and her loneliness? She had no real friends. Other children ran and played but she was slow and lumbered. Her mother had the patience to walk with her, but her mother was gone. Maybe she was just an ant. But the tiny ant was powerful.

As Marta considered bibijagua, she felt a small change inside herself. It was as if the tumblers of a lock within her began to move. Their movement was fractional, but the distance they travelled was unimportant. It was their alignment that would let her grow despite her disability. Without realizing it, Marta determined that she would survive. She would find a way to thrive.

The old woman continued. “Here is the almacigo tree. You can use it to cure a stomach ache or diarrhea. And see this one that grows right next to it? This is the tartago, also for your stomach. Here is the cojobana tree. Her seeds will give you a vision to see the future.”

They passed through the forest, returning as the shadows lengthened. While her grandmother prepared supper, Marta fell into a pain-free sleep, her first deep slumber in months.

The hours and days and weeks passed for Marta. The soles of her feet toughened and so did her will to survive. Her skin had bronzed and radiated health. Marta was an apt pupil, hungry for knowledge. She learned the names of the flowers and trees and birds and animals and insects. She learned what leaves might cure a headache or fever and which ones might still a child’s crying. She watched intently as Abuela prepared breakfast and dinner. Soon, Marta prepared the meals, then the medicines. She was becoming a bohique.

As the pain in her legs diminished, she stood straighter and walked with confidence despite her awkward gait. Her neck looked too slender to support her head but Marta held her upper body erect, perhaps to compensate for her limp. She tossed her raven hair and it danced on her shoulders. Soon she would brush it to a luster and experiment with style, but for now she treated it with a child’s abandon.

As the pigment in her skin deepened under the equatorial sun, her teeth shone all the whiter. A beautiful smile escaped the custody of a once-perpetual frown. Marta radiated delight and unrestrained curiosity as she learned the lore of her people.

The days shortened just a little as the tropical sun moved to what passes for autumn so close to the equator. The temperature remained constant. Most of the season’s changes were subtle but Marta saw them. As the summer waned, Marta’s stay with Abuela drew to a close.

“Abuela, I don’t want to leave.”

“But children must go to school,” Abuela said. “And you will have a special school.”

Marta had been chosen to attend a charter school in East Los Angeles. Students from around the world would join Marta in an experimental school program created by the Hidden Scholar Foundation. It sought children who had two things in common: poverty and brilliance.

“When will I see you again, Abuela?” the girl said, choking back tears as she packed for the long flight home.

“You may come and visit anytime but you can see me whenever you look at the trees or the sky. I walk with Yocahu and so do you,” the old woman said.

Marta embraced her grandmother and hugged her fiercely. “I love you so much, Abuela. Thank you for teaching me.”

“You’re welcome, child. Remember what you learned. Remember bibijagua, the ant.”

“I promise I will. Abuela, before I have to go, please tell me one thing. When you married Mom and Dad, they had a vision. What did it mean?”

Abuela took Marta’s hands in her own. The carro publico was waiting to take her to the airport but Marta would be the first passenger and the driver was in no hurry. Marta could still hear the coquí frogs and the rhythmic whisper of the Caribbean’s small waves.

“Juricán will touch you,” the old woman said. “I do not know how. This is the meaning of the golden vine with the black strand. Juricán will come, not as a spirit, but in flesh and blood. You will have your own protector with his own knowledge and he will be tempted by Juricán. He may follow the hurricane or he may not. And a golden strand will grow from you as well, one that will know both Yocahu and Juricán.

“But you must take the knowledge you found here to the doctors of your world. These plants will disappear and the knowledge of the bohique will be lost. You must bring Yocahu’s gifts to the doctors of your world.”

Marta thought about Abuela’s words to her. A child teaching scientists about Yocahu? A battle with Juricán? It seemed farfetched.

“Abuela, the doctors aren’t going to listen to me when I tell them about plants. And how am I going to fight a god?”

“Hija, you know almost as much as any bohique. Yocahu has given you this knowledge and you learned it well. My heart sings to watch you grow.”

“I can’t say that your prophesy makes me feel very optimistic,” said Marta. The sarcasm that ebbed over the summer crept back into her words. “Let’s see, I’ve got disease from my mother, a helpless father, and a battle with the God of Evil in my future. Is that it, Abuela?”

“No, hija. There is one other thing,” the old woman said.

“Oh, great,” Marta muttered and rolled her dark eyes.

Abuela smiled. She reached behind her neck and her fingers worked for a moment to untie a knot in a leather cord. It was attached to a leather pouch she carried between her breasts, next to her own medicine bag. This one was older, tanned more deeply. A delicate image was burnt into the leather, a branch with twenty-four long, thin leaves. Marta recognized the leaves of the cojobana tree, giver of visions.

“I was saving this for the right moment. I think that is now.” The old woman grinned.

“This was my mother’s. Now it is yours. This is part of your legacy, too. Pain and healing dwell within you. Give each one its voice, but do not let one drown out the other. And do not let these voices drown out your own voice.” The old woman’s arms encircled Marta and hung the pouch around her neck.

Marta hugged her grandmother and breathed in deeply. She closed her eyes and fixed the image of the twinned vines of her parents’ legacy. Her meditation shifted to the golden strand of her own life, and of the one to come. She visualized growth, impervious to the black filament. Her vision expanded to include the rich soil of El Yunque nurturing the roots of her vine. She felt powerful, connected. The spirit of the forest was substantiated within her. Then she walked away to the publico with grace and purpose and turned back once more.

Abuela called out, “Hija. Your mother was always proud of you.”

Then the old woman vanished into the forest.

PASADENA, CALIFORNIA

APRIL 2022

Jim Ecco, age thirteen, and Ringer, age three. A boy and his dog. On the good days, Jim and Ringer visited the Pasadena library. Ringer waited at the entrance and ignored slinking cats, curious dogs, nervous passersby, restaurant aromas, and branch-borne squirrels, although that was difficult even for a Good Dog. On the better days, Jim could slip into the passages of the books he brought home on his dataslate or on paper, and his own world disappeared. On the bad days, Jim and Ringer curled up together and listened for the weight of Dad’s approaching footsteps.

Ringer was a mutt, Heinz 57, as far from the show ring as a stevedore from a fashion runway. She was part terrier, brave and independent, part German Shepherd, protective. Her coarse undercoat resisted brushing and shed uncaring torrents of light brown hair. Jim’s mother vacuumed it from the sofa and the carpets. She cleaned hair in the kitchen and the family room and especially from Dad’s chair.