Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

“No?” Ban said. “Not when she knew, as we all know, that one day we must die anyway? Who would not have their death mean something?”

“But she’s not dead. She went alive into Mictlan.”

“Sí. But dead or alive when entering, no one returns from la Muerte’s realm.”

“Except for los Dias de Muertos, ” Bettina said.

Ban nodded. “When the spirits of the dead visit, not the spirits of the living.”

Now Bettina truly understood the bargain her abuela had made. When all the other dead returned to their graves and places of death, her abuela would not be able to join them, would not see how she was honored and remembered herself. Bettina would never see her again, alive or as a spirit.

“Papa thought she had come between rival spirits,” she said after a moment.

“It seems to me that she did.”

“I suppose. I never thought of los santos in such a way. As spirits, I mean.”

“The saints and martyrs… none of them are alive anymore. What else can they be?”

“Es verdad.”

Bettina sighed and shook her head. It made no sense.

“Los santos. The desert spirits,” she said. “What would any of them want with a newborn child?”

“Its purity. This is not a new thing. Yours papá’s ancestors used to offer virgins to the gods.”

Bettina had come to realize that her papá was much older than those ancient peoples all of them had considered to be his ancestors, but she made no mention of that now.

“Was the world ever sane?” she said.

“Do not be so hard on your abuela,” Ban said. “It could not have been for la brujería alone that she made this bargain.”

“What other reason was there?”

“The love she had for her newborn daughter. Would you have denied your mamá her chance at life?”

Bettina felt sick at the thought. “¡Midios! Of course not.”

The moon had risen while they spoke, transforming the surrounding desert into a magical landscape that Bettina only half noticed. In the moonlight, the distance between this world and la epoca del mito seemed nonexistent. The far-off cries of coyotes, the hooting of owls, the snuffling of javalenas down in the arroyo, mingled with the voices of the spiritworld. Saguaro aunts and uncles. The spirits of cholla and prickly pear, mesquite, and desert broom.

“I wonder why the fairy duster spoke to you and not to me,” she said. “I thought I had asked them all. Surely it would have known my need.”

Ban shrugged. “I respect the spirits,” he said, “but I don’t understand them.”

“Sí. Who truly does?”

“What will you do now?” Ban asked.

“Become the person who would best make Abuela proud,” she replied without hesitation. “I will learn all I can and become a good curandera. I will gather what power the spirits will allow me and use it to benefit whoever asks for my help.”

“Power is not something you want,” Ban told her.

She gave him a puzzled look. “¿Porqueno?”

“Because whenever one person has it, someone else doesn’t. There is only so much to go around. Power is an ugly thing, like a man hitting a woman or a child. You want to ask the spirits for luck.”

He used the word in a context Bettina wasn’t sure she understood.

“What do you mean by luck?” she asked.

“Unlike power, luck is sweet. Like a kiss, or a hug.”

Bettina gave a slow nod. She remembered Abuela often speaking of luck, but she had simply assumed her grandmother was referring to la brujería. Now she understood. Luck was a gift, a loan, something one held only to pass on.

“Who taught you that?” she asked. “Your spirit namesake?”

“No. It was Rupert.”

Bettina smiled. “We are lucky to have such wise papas.”

“Sí.”

They sat a while longer, absorbing the night and the quiet companionship they were able to share with each other. After a time, Bettina turned to look at Ban, studying his features in the moonlight.

“Did you ever want to make love to me?” she said.

She couldn’t believe she was asking him that. From Ban’s astonished expression, she supposed that he couldn’t either.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You are like a little sister to me. What makes you ask such a thing?”

“I... I was just wondering. I had the biggest crush on you for the longest time.”

“This was something you wanted? That we be… lovers?”

She nodded. “But not anymore.”

She could tell the conversation was making him uncomfortable, but she could sense he was flattered as well. And curious.

“What changed?” he asked.

She had to look away.

“I have only a hole in me where once I kept the ability to love,” she said. “I feel only emptiness inside.”

He put his arm around her shoulders, but it was a brother’s arm, to comfort her, nothing more.

“And your cadejos?” he asked.

“I am not so fond of dogs anymore,” she told him.

“You sent them away?”

“I didn’t have to. They know how I feel about spirit dogs now. They must be gone for I haven’t felt them stir since the night Abuela walked into the storm.”

She searched for them as she leaned against him, but there was nothing. No stirring deep inside her chest. No distant inner voices that were part child’s cry, part coyote yip. She didn’t miss them. The loss of her abuela overshadowed everything that had to do with feelings, everything warm and kind that might lie in her heart.

Ellie realized that she hadn’t really known what to expect when they finally drove into the rez. Not teepees, of course, or even log cabins, but she’d thought it would be more rustic, more indigenous, than what it was: basically a combination of an old suburban housing tract gone to decay, ramshackle unfinished buildings, and a trailer park. Except for a few fancier homes that stood out because of their obvious quality, it was all double-wides and bungalows and aluminum siding, where the walls weren’t simply uncovered Black Joe or Styrofoam board insulation.

“You’re getting a good view of the place,” Tommy said. “It almost looks pretty tonight.”

Really? Ellie thought. But she supposed he was right. The ice storm had lent its magical sheen to the scene, a cascade of shimmering sparkles highlighted by the pickup’s head-beams. Theirs was the only strong light. They’d passed downed power and phone lines a few miles back on the highway. With the power out, the only illumination coming from the buildings was the dim glow cast by candles, oil lamps, and fireplaces. While it looked romantic, the reality would be anything but. Especially if the temperature dropped and water pipes started to freeze and burst. When she mentioned this to her companions, Tommy told them about the young daughter of a friend of his who, during a power failure last year, said to her mother, “Mommy, let’s go home and watch TV by candlelight.”

Ellie and Hunter laughed with him—a little more than the joke was worth, but by this point, they needed all the laughs they could get. The dashboard clock read 4:35 A.M. All three of them were punchy from the tension of the long drive. The longer they were on the highway, the more treacherous the driving conditions had gotten. Ellie was surprised that they’d actually made it to the rez without running off the road.