Savior (23 page)

Have a good one, said Talbert.

Yeah, you too, Billy. Stay cool.

Guajiro and Ruben were
at the door. Talbert came up to me as I walked over to the door.

Hey.
Good luck, bud.

What's that mean?

Only that whatever happens, happens for a good reason.

Talbert stared at me expressionlessly, as Guajiro looked at us both and then gave me a perfunctory wave with the rifle to hurry. I looked back at Talbert one last time quizzically. His smile was sickly, and he looked away with unfocus
ed eyes. This was not good. I got back to the cell and quickly dumped the clay in the bucket, as I had been doing for the past several weeks. I pissed on top of the clay and threw in some toilet paper. I paced back and forth between the wall and the bed in bare feet on the cold, wet cement. The buzzing of the light was interfering with my efforts to focus. So I stood on the bed and inserted a piece of toilet paper in between the bulb and the metal tab to turn it off.

I was working on images of the boat rides we used to take with Herb Spencer down the Intracoastal Waterway and out into open water through the Sebastian Inlet. He was a guy with a fifteen-foot
whaler and a granddaughter about Ricky's age, who lived in New Jersey. He was always trying to hook Ricky up with his granddaughter. She only came and visited once a year, though, since her mother had divorced Herb's son. He used to give us rides in the boat on weekends when Ricky was much younger, maybe about ten. I tried to picture the details of the boat, the way the fiberglass was delaminated around the mounts for the outboard, and how the gasoline cans, rusty and smelly, sloshed around in the lazaret behind the wheel mount. Herb liked to kick up the speed once out in open water and run us out quite a distance. He would shout when he'd spotted the vaguest, dim outline of Grand Bahama out on the horizon. And then he'd turn and run us back to Port St. Lucie. We'd stop and have dinner at a beach shack restaurant he liked there. It was mainly the spray of water and the dapples of light that I remembered. The variety of blues in the water and the sky. I was going over these in my mind, sifting and making distinctions between them. I'd always wanted to go diving out along the Grand Bahama, but I never had. That was one more thing Ricky and I had intended to do together someday.

Suddenly the door came open again and Guajiro was standing by the bedside in the dark swearing in Spanish. I recognized his voice and saw the outline of his body before the door
swung shut. The thud of the rifle butt sounded as it hit the mattress beside me. I yelled at him and rolled off the bed as the door opened again. Lucas came in. They messed with the bulb, both of them standing on the bed, and I took my chance and stood up.

What is going on here Lucas? I asked.

Que huevon eres, viejo.
This is where you get fucked, you son of a
puta
.

They both jumped off the bed at the same time and went after me with the rifle butts. I went into a fetal ball, instinctively, covering my head and vital organs. I thought they would beat me to death and resigned myself to the pain. Deep down inside, away from the shooting forks of fire in my bones and muscles, a small hope rose that I would die quickly and the ordeal would end.

I did black out. The assault on my body receded. There was a long interlude that I do not remember. When I came to my senses, I was in a darkened room, a different room, closer to the surface, I could tell by the smell of musky, wet, moldy earth. When I tried to move, I couldn't. It hurt too much to even lift my arm. There was fluid. It might have been blood. There was no way to tell what it was since I couldn't move. I was lying on what felt like a ledge of rock, but at least I was alive. This time, though, that did not give me any reason for hope. The beating had taken me to the point where I could not even hope that being alive was a good sign. It was like the new place and the new smells and the wet, cold earth were a hinge that could open up to a new order in me, the heart cured of hope just as Chagnon had predicted.

It might as well have been Saturn as the prisoner camp of the
Santos Muertos
. I must have blacked out again. Much, much later, maybe days later, the first positive thought that came to mind were the words Mary had used to answer me that last day together in the hospital. I could hear her voice in my mind.

I am already a part of you. And of everyone you love, which means I am going out to the four corners of the world. Remember me, Al, wherever you are. And I'm taking you with me. You have no choice. You are my prisoners, Al. You and Ricky.

I hadn't thought of those words practically since the day she'd died, and they came to me like a salvation at a pretty bad time. She was a fearless soul, and I'd never appreciated just how important that had been and continued to be. And the second thought I had just after that was that the sound I was hearing was not a train overhead or the
Caballo de la Noche
but running water. There was a stream, an underground river running through this black space. And if there was running water, there was a chance I could find a way out to the light, the sweet holy light of reality once again.

My eyes adjusted
and I could see pinpricks of light in the ceiling. Though almost microscopic in size, in the darkness they took on an eerily outsized scale. I spent a long time watching the pinpricks grow and recede, like the breath of a giant that had failed to devour me but would find me and finish me off now if I moved too fast. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten for some time. The water running over the rocks was cold, almost freezing. At some point it did freeze over, a skim of ice going over the ledge. I had to crack it to get at the moisture for my parched lips and throat. Then I heard screeching, skittering, and high-pitched screams of anguish and thumping sounds nearby. I rolled away from the noise. I came to a wall and pressed my body up against it as the noise grew louder, waves of running feet, sharp claws near my head. I covered my face and rolled into a ball again. There were sharp, piercing bites. They were biting me on the neck and back in waves. Thousands of rats were descending into the cave from some hole in the wall I couldn't see, hovering on the edge of consciousness. The biting stopped but they were still somewhere nearby. I could hear them scurrying. Then I was dreaming.

In the dream I was on a playing field where two teams lined up against each other. They were all rats, and they lined up and ran at each other
. One of the rats was a quarterback, and he could scramble and dodge tackles and the other rats cleared a way for him through the lines of opposing rats. Then it was silent except for the screeching of gulls on a deserted beach. A boat arrived, a small sailing vessel, a sort of reed vessel of the ancient people that had populated the far-flung southern isles. The boat was carrying a tall man and his sailing crew. They ran it up on the sand, and I had to sit up and look. The tall man walked over to me. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't tell if it was Tor Heyerdahl or Jesus, so I played in the sand with my fingers, running the sand through them. He asked me about my wounds and then he asked me to stand, and I tried to stand. I couldn't. I promised him that I would stand someday. But he was gone, walking out of sight with his crewmates. Maybe the waves swallowed him. I wanted the waves to wash me away.

The rest of the time I became one of the rats. I was the biggest, most feared of the rats. I hunted the others. When I could, I snatched one away from the nest and killed it. The blood running down my throat was a succulent and rich reward, the sacrifice offered up by my subjects. It made me strong. I could see the others, horrified, with their big teeth like big, silly children, grinning at me. What did they expect? I had to live. I didn't know why. I vaguely remembered a man and a promise, but it no longer held me to silly notions of loyalty and kinship. I had no allegiances. I was just the biggest rat there ever was. There was no night or day anymore, just one long endless reign of the largest rat that ever lived.

I forgot my name. I no longer slept. I didn't even think about dying anymore. When I did think about it, I thought that I would never die. There was just this endless, featureless expanse of the moment. A moment without beginning or end, and I was suspended in time. I had ceased to exist inside the form that had once sustained me, and, like a cancer cell, had morphed into some greedy, ever-expanding life form. My heart was frozen. Nobody would ever come to finish me or save me. The world had stopped and I had stepped off the edge.

I never did stand.

But I was the ruler of this underworld and I went along to the farthest corners, exploring on all fours. I found a crack and squeezed through to the other side. It was a cavern, with a fire raging, bubbling up like molten lava from a pit that lit the walls in crimson. There were three birds perched on a rock, different shades of red, and a serpent that disengaged from the rocks, uncoiling its fat belly, and came towards me. It opened its mouth as if to swallow me, but I picked up a sword that was lying on the ground and stuck it in its mouth, and it backed away. But not before I could see the dream images on its breath, women writhing naked and men spilling each other’s blood. There were fires and wintry scenes of wind-swept oceans flooding the lands and dead men riding the waves on the backs of sea serpents. These were the devils that had been let loose by the flood. Then the serpent stopped breathing and sank back into the stones, camouflaged and resting. The waters receded and only the fire pit was left in the middle of the cavern. Despite the fire, it was cold, bone chillingly cold. There was only one way out. I stepped into the fire and fell through it into the next world.

I was in the desert. It was a high, wind-blown place. There was someone with me that I could barely see. The wind blew sand in my eyes
. It was almost impossible to make my way. We could barely see each other. It was Ricky, and he was strong enough to help me over some of the hills and through the toughest, driest stretches. In the distance we could dimly see a black castle; and from the ramparts of the castle, a man was watching us. But for every mile we traversed, we seemed to lose two or three. The castle never got any closer. It was soon apparent that we would never reach it. But we had no choice except to keep trying. Then a voice whispered in my ear, telling me to tie up Ricky with a rope. I did that. I found a rope coiled in a kit bag that I had slung off my shoulder. I turned around, but the voice belonged to nobody that I could see. The wind was blowing harder. I was supposed to carry Ricky to a nearby hill. The voice would show me the way. This was the only way to reach the castle. I did as I was told. Despite his strength, Ricky put up no resistance. It was the only time I saw his face. The cheekbones were sharp, angular, and fragile. He was so thin. He could never play football like that. He was easy to carry. In the nighttime, against the wind, the sand blowing in a whirlwind around me in the desert, I found my way to the spot, guided by an angel beating its wings behind me, like a hand on my shoulder. At the top of the hill was a rock with a strange inscription I could not read. It was a sign. This was the rock that had been set up from the beginning. I laid my son down on the rock and he looked at me, awakening from some dream he was having. I told him that there was no choice. This was the way forward. He smiled at me and in that way, by smiling, said he could bear the pain. There was a knife in my hand. I didn't know how it had gotten there. My knees were trembling. I turned around and the rock was gone. Ricky was gone also. I turned around again and the angel was there with a sword above me, hovering in the air. He dropped, folding me in his wings.

The angel was carrying me. We were flying so fast, the stars were falling together, collapsing inward, and time was running back, rewinding. We were making for a tunnel that had been bored in the dark. I could hear the angel's wings scrape the edges of the tunnel, and he cried out in great pain, his voice ringing like a cracked bell. We fell, spinning, and I had a tough time holding on. I almost blacked out, but the angel knew what he was doing. Just before we crashed, he straightened out and spread his wings and we stabilized, gliding over the vast, interminable water. Land was coming up out of the water, and I could see the forests and
running rivers and flying birds and other living things. There were only two people, ant-like figures running around and pointing at us, but others were coming soon to settle and build in this new world. And then, beyond the water, there was a cage of bones with snakes writhing in the bones and piles of trashed books that nobody wanted. Vast quantities of books littered the ground with their pages torn out and dispersed in the wind. The snakes were hungry and looking for the people, who were scattered, hiding among the books, behind the ancient letters, in fear for their lives. Then the angel gave a couple more big pulls of the wings to get us over the mountains and we were falling again, spinning into a whirlpool of star fire.

Her hand wiped my scalp where I had fallen and gouged myself. I was awake, lying on the ground. I was aware of being cold, hungry and naked. I looked into her face. She was an old woman. I wanted to sleep and dream, but now I couldn't. The old woman stood and went to the fireside and returned with a threadbare piece of cloth.

Here. This used to be his.

I sat up and wrapped myself with the old shirt. Blue LED lights lined the wall giving an eerie cast to the room. The fire flared blue also, giving off a gassy smell. I asked the old woman where we were.

They call this the
Cenote Sagrado
, the waiting room. They’re just waiting for the time to sacrifice. Talbert's hiding. Nobody knows where he is.