The Lightning Dreamer (13 page)

 

Her father gave me instructions, too.
He ordered me to ride all the way
to Havana to claim my prize,
enough gold to buy a house
and a business, in that rich city
where freed slaves flourish
like vines.

 

He told me to ride far away
and never return to this valley.
He imagined that wealth could cure
my lovesickness, but he's wrong.
They're all wrong, the greedy fools
who believe that an absence of love
can be purchased.

Sab's tale of rejection
by his childhood sweetheart
is so emotional that I feel
both anger and envy.

 

I long for love, yet Carlota
has sent her true love away.
Did she stop caring about Sab
merely because his skin is brown
or because his face is scarred?

 

But what do I know of loyalty?
All I've seen of love is the daydream
described in romantic novels.

 

What about reality? It's never
as simple as a fantasy. Is there
any way for Sab's tale of loss
to end
hopefully?

During my next visit
to the storyteller's hut,
I meet Carlota and her gallant
gentleman—she is lovely,
and he is so handsome
that I find myself imagining
I am the fortunate girl on his arm,
ready to travel with him to Paris
and Madrid, where we could visit
salons and I would have a chance
to meet Europe's great poets . . .

 

Swept away by fantasy,
I convince myself that any man
who is charming must also be honest
and courageous, a hero of justice
like Heredia.

I have planted a moonlight garden
for Carlota.

 

All the flowers bloom only
at night.

 

While she is lost
in sleep,
the fragrance of jasmine
and angel's trumpet
will blossom
and flow
up to her window
into her dreams,
helping her dream
of love.

I've been transformed
into a messenger. Sab has asked me
to carry heartfelt love notes.

 

In the first passionate letter,
he begs Carlota to wake up
and gaze at her moonlit garden
of night-blooming magic . . .
but her blunt reply is a series
of commands: Go. Flee. Never
try to visit me again. Send no more
flowery notes. Forget our friendship.
We were just children.
It was not love.

Instead of another doomed note,
this time I send a bracelet
woven
of my own hair,
to remind Carlota
how it felt
when our two small heads
touched
and all the rest
of this vast
spinning world
seemed so distant
and powerless.

My role as a messenger feels
oddly familiar. I am like Manuel,
a smuggler of words, as I sneak
back and forth, followed
by
Leal
—“Loyal”—a little dog
who chooses to regard me
as his friend, even though
he belongs to the storyteller.

 

Instead of answering Sab's woven plea,
Carlota confides in me, sharing anxieties.
Her father recently placed all his wealth
into a risky investment, and now he is
suddenly bankrupt and she is poor,
and the gentleman Carlota loves
turns out to be greedy.
As soon as he heard the news
of her family's misfortune,
he told her that he no longer
has any interest
in marrying her.

 

Foolish Carlota is unwilling
to forget him,
just as Sab is unable
to forget her.

 

Why did I ever imagine
that love
could be simple?

I envy my little horse.
He never despairs.
He does not care
if I feel sadness
or joy.

 

He carries me
without questions,
treating me
like his friend,
instead of a burden.

 

I envy the trees
that grow
at crossroads.
They are never
forced
to decide
which way
to go . . .

How could I ever
have pictured myself
in love with Carlota's
greedy gentleman?

 

There is nothing gentle
about a selfish passion
for money.

 

Sab is the only man
I have ever known
who shares my dreams
and my nature.

 

Sab is the only one
I can truly love
forever.

There is a vast cave
near the storyteller's hut—a huge,
mysterious chain of caverns
where her Ciboney Indian
ancestors
lived long ago.