Ballad & Dagger, page 27
I wrap myself around her, feel her breath match mine, and we lower ourselves onto the couch. She curls up against my chest and whispers, “Just hold me?”
“Of course,” I say.
She pulls my arm around her and slowly, slowly, runs her fingertips along my jawline and neck as we both slip off into sleep.
LAUGHTER LURES THE TWO OF us from this darkest part of the myrrh forest.
We move in a slow, fluid glide through the underbrush, stirring gently against the edges of leaves and sticks, sometimes merging with each other, other times far apart, just flickering shrouds in the mangrove shadows.
Emerge at the edge of the trees, where rocks descend in an embankment to a small tide pool.
There, two brown bodies splash, yell, release howls of long pent-up love and rage and then lie out in the grass, letting the sun kiss their flesh as their limbs and then torsos find each other, tangle, become one loving, sweating, cursing masterpiece.
Shy, we retreat at first, but our curiosity pulls us back and soon they sense us. One stands, his skin glistening with the smooth afternoon glow. He walks over to us and holds out a hand, a smile stretched across his beautiful face. The other human draws near, eyes wide, blinking through his disbelief.
Side by side they face us, and then both reach out.
They know.
They don’t have a language for us; we bear no names, not yet. But they know what we are, and they know what they can offer.
Between us, a tiny consultation.
We writhe with the knowledge of what this means.
We have been this for so long—centuries, in flesh-and-blood time.
We have not been flesh, held flesh, known the touching of bodies, in so long. And never with one another.
We have loved in so many ways, but never like this.
A new love.
A new language.
It calls us. Since we came to rest here, amid all this, it calls us.
Now, matching the two outstretched hands with long, trembling reaches of our own, we answer.
I wake up with the hunger of a hundred years inside me.
Chela’s awake, too, and by her face, I know she saw what I did, the dream was birthed between us somehow, and it still hangs there, filling the dark room with its steaming, aching presence.
I take her face in my hands as she slides up higher on me, and though the winter howls through the empty streets outside, this moment fills us with warmth, the feeling of so much loss healed, the sense of so long alone suddenly undone, and finally, finally, we fall fully into each other and release.
“There’s something different about you,” she says as we lie face-to-face on the couch, breathing each other’s breath, limbs a tangle.
“Is that your version of the thing guys usually say?” I make my voice all low and sleazy. “You’re not like other girls.”
She laughs, pulling herself closer to me, and it’s the best feeling, the only feeling—making her laugh, the touch of her skin on mine. But also, I know what she means. Deep down, the ice within me gathers and bristles, bracing for what’s coming next.
“No, Romeo. I mean, yes, guys say that to me plenty, but that’s not what I mean.”
“To be fair,” I say, drawing out the moment, only prolonging the inevitable, “they’re not wrong, in your case.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. That’s not the point.”
We get quiet, because she knows that there’s something to be said now, something I haven’t told anyone yet. Of course she can see it, even if she doesn’t fully know what it is.
“Earlier today, with your dad…” I say. “That’s not all that happened.”
I tell her each moment and how it felt: my rising fear when I laid my hands on Tantor Batalán, and then the relief at finally getting at least a fleeting glance of certainty about what had to be done. I tell her about Arco. That I killed him, and I couldn’t bring him back. I flinched when maybe I could’ve. And yes, I am changed from it, from all that and this whole week of slow-motion tragedy and silence.
When I’m done, I close my eyes because I know she’s putting the pieces together, and I know what’s coming next.
“Man, you’re better than me,” she says, and I have to laugh—that’s not what I was expecting. “I probably wouldn’t have even tried to save Arco. But it was my dad he knocked out,” she amends, “so it’s a little different.”
A moment passes, and then: “So, you can defeat death, Mateo.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know if it would work on you, Chela. I don’t…I don’t want to try. I hate it. I hate all of it.”
“I don’t know what other choice we have.”
I push myself up on my elbows; she rests her head on her arms, which are splayed over the back of the couch, maddeningly calm. “You could run. We could run. Leave and never look back. It sucks, but it’s better than—”
She shakes her head. “You know that’s not real for us. Well, I know it’s not real for me. Our families, our people—they’re part of who we are. We can’t just cut loose like that and, what, never see them again? Never talk to them? No. And anyway, you don’t think they’d be in the bull’s-eye the second we’re in the wind?”
My aunt already is in the bull’s-eye, somehow, but I keep that to myself. And anyway, everyone is, these days. “I don’t know….”
“But you did it already. You stole death from some rando in the street. I’m…me. Of course it’ll work.”
“There is no of course, Chela. We don’t even totally know what you are. Do you?”
For a second, she almost looks hurt, but then she relents. Shrugs. “I’m sure there’s a lot of names for it. Doesn’t really matter which you choose, does it? I’m not human, not exactly.”
“Your dad says you’re an angel,” I say, halfway smirking.
She slides her mouth to one side, eyes narrow. “Of course he does. He’s my dad.”
“I’m resisting saying something really cheesy right now, and I want credit.”
“That’s not the point,” she growls. “The point isn’t what some humans decided to call me or whatever.”
“Is it like in the dream? You saw that, right? The two guys? Is it possession?”
She shakes her head. “I saw it, but no. That was…temporary, whatever that was. This is…This is who I am. Okanla isn’t living in Chela’s body. Chela’s body is Okanla’s body. There isn’t a place where the human ends and the spirit begins. It’s one. I’m one. The only way I can describe it is…it’s like I…I traveled a long way, waited a long time to get to this moment, to come fully into flesh-and-blood existence in this body. The ceremony clinched it. I’m sure they were just going through the motions of the initiation ritual. But something they did lit up the deeper spirit within me. My dad told me about this notion the old hakhams had called ibur—the idea that an older being’s soul is embedded in a living person, and it’s there to help us live our destinies. I don’t know if it’s that— I don’t think there’s a place where Chela ends and Okanla begins, we’re just one. It was always true, and it became truer the night of the fete, when I took out Trucks. My awakening.” She pauses, eyes distant. “But either way, maybe I, we, that union or whatever it is, was just supposed to last for these sixteen years and that’s that.”
“No!” I say, throwing into it all the hardheadedness I can muster.
“It’s not up to you,” she says, putting her forehead against mine.
“Do you remember it?” I ask. “Your ceremony? The storm?”
“Just…No, not really. It’s like…the memory is behind a foggy glass door, and I can only kinda see it. I don’t really understand it.”
I lie back down. “Chela.”
“Hmm?”
“What if I can’t…?”
For a long time, we just lie there wrapped in each other, our breathing synchronized, our hearts beating as one.
IT’S STILL DARK OUT WHEN we rise and get ready.
I slip into Tía Lucia’s bedroom, find her at the edge of her bed, rubbing her eyes.
“You’re not coming. Get back into bed.”
“Ay, pero, Mateo…” she starts, but I can tell I’m going to win this one.
“Lie down,” I order, imperious, ridiculous. “I know you’ve made peace with it or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you can just go running into danger all reckless.”
He’s right, Aunt Miriam says, floating out of the shadows. Stay.
“Aunt Miriam, you’re on guard duty. Keep her here.”
I take Tía Lucia’s warm shoulders and ease her back down onto her pillow. She blinks up at me. Without makeup, she is like a whole other person; it’s such a rare sight. Her features seem laid out across her face in a different pattern, and she looks disarmed somehow. “Ten cuidado,” she says sternly. “Te quiero.”
“I will.” I kiss her forehead. “Te quiero, Tía.”
I rise, blow a kiss to Aunt Miriam. “Love you, Auntie.” Pat the lump nestled under the covers. “Later, Farts.”
The day breaks with a pale, crisp sunrise as we slide gingerly from backstreet to backstreet to Tolo’s. Chela has changed into all-black everything—ripped jeans and a leather jacket over a hoodie, properly goth for once. Her hair swirls down in ringlets from under a knit hat.
“I assume you’re going to tell me some plan that I’m going to hate, right?”
She smiles slyly without looking at me. “I figured we’d improvise.”
“Absolutely not! How are you so cavalier about this, Chela? It’s your life!”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a coping mechanism, Mateo, déjame en paz.”
I exhale a groan, and we tread a few steps in silence.
“But what I figure,” she says eventually, “is that I’ll take down enough of those bambarúto to even things out a bit, and then give myself up, since I’m the one they really want, anyway. When they kill me or whatever, you and the crew will come in like Pow! Shazam! and knock some heads. After that you revive me, and—boom!—everyone’s happy. The island will rise, the empire pirates can go about their merry way with their creature friends—the ones we let live, anyway—and we see what’s what with the new San Madrigal. You know?”
“You really think that’s how it’ll go down?”
She laughs grimly. “Not at all. I just don’t know any other way.”
We round the corner onto Fulton and stop.
The streets once again belong to us—for now, anyway. A huge crowd has gathered outside Tolo’s—way more people than were at our celebration last night. Santeros, Sefaradim, and pirates all stand at the ready in the intersection, bristling for action. I spot Tolo at the front, with Safiya at his side, and start to head that way.
“Wait,” Chela says, grabbing my arm and pulling me back. She looks up at me for a few moments, and I’m content to savor the moment. “This is where we split.”
“You’re not—”
“This is where we split. I just want to say”—she scrunches up her nose, lets out a low growl—“be careful, Mateo. I’m personally requesting that you make it out of this alive, please. Now that I’ve finally found you, it would really suck if you died.”
“I—”
“Shh. Just do as I ask. Everything goes more smoothly when that happens.”
“Bu—” She kisses me full on the lips, and then she’s gone.
Damn.
“¡Galeranos!” Tolo’s cannonade voice booms out, silencing everyone. Then a cheer rises. “¡Queridos amigos!” Another cheer. “¡A la lucha!”
And just like that, we’re on the move, winding down Fulton like a vast, unstoppable river, and I’m making my way through the crowd.
“You ready to heal, Healer?” Safiya asks as I fall into step beside her and Tolo.
“I am.” A week ago, I barely knew what that meant. Now it has become a part of me, awakened like a ghost limb that had been asleep all this time. And I can already feel the tendrils of whatever’s ahead pulling at me. Certainly, there will be blood. This time I know I won’t flinch, won’t shrink from it.
Within me, death writhes, expands, bristles.
A mass of bodies march behind us, faces tense, fists clenched. Ready.
Right now, I feel like we could do anything; the world is at our backs.
“I don’t like it,” Tolo grunts as we flow along the curve of the street toward the recording studio.
I look around, then up at him. “What’s wrong? The streets are empty.”
“Exactly.” He slows his pace, holds up a fist, and the river behind us grinds to a gradual halt.
“Big Moses has the club,” Safiya says. “You left him plenty of backup. Don’t get jittery on me now, Tolo.”
He shakes his huge head, squints at the studio. “Not jitters. Something’s wrong.” He glances to either side. “No resistance at all? None? Not bambarúto, not human, nothing? Uh-uh. Call Moses.”
“I already am,” Safiya snaps. “He’s not—”
Even standing a few feet away from the phone, I can hear the screaming.
“Back!” Tolo booms, already shoving his way through the crowd. “Back to the club!”
And then the street becomes a frantic dash of stomping feet, shoving bodies.
“We form up at the rear entrance!” Safiya is yelling.
A strange shimmering light unfolds out of thin air before me; no one else seems to notice.
“Jackaby, take your team through the tunnels,” Safiya continues. “Bakadon, take the front! Trajón, peel off! Peel off! Side streets! Go!”
And then the world slows, grows quiet, because the shimmering light has become a figure. Bodies rush past on either side, urgent to heed the call of war, but I stand perfectly still, taking in the spirit that writhes in the air above me. Tears stream down my face. The icicles within me tighten, then shatter.
Tía Lucia.
The apartment door’s been kicked in.
A thousand booming choruses of No! thunder through me.
This can’t be real. It must be a dream. A hallucination.
But it’s none of that.
The door’s been kicked in, the place is a disaster: our coffee table shattered, chairs overturned, the couch—the couch I was sleeping on with Chela just a few hours ago—shredded. It’s so quiet, when it should be filled with chatter and excitement, music. All I hear is a quiet splishing sound from somewhere farther in. And the place is too bright. They pulled down all the curtains and blinds, the day pours in like a headache. There’s nowhere to hide, no ignoring the devastation they’ve wreaked.
Also, there’s a body on the ground.
It’s definitely not Tía Lucia.
I hadn’t noticed it at first—the place is such a mess, and most of the man’s pale skin is buried under books and papers from a knocked-over shelf. But his boot is sticking out and, as I walk closer, there’s his face, eyes wide, mouth open. I don’t know who it is. A letter opener pokes out of his neck, and the floor around him is stained crimson all the way to the kitchen doorway, where Farts sits lapping it up.
She’s gone, Aunt Miriam wails from the corner. She’s barely there, just a flicker. They killed her. They took her.
“What…What happened?” I demand, my voice hoarse with tears.
Aunt Miriam shakes her head. They busted through the door, she sobs. Demanded she come with them. She said, “You’ll have to kill me,” and they said they would. So she stabbed one and the other hit her on the head with his club.…Dragged her out.
“Where is she?”
Doesn’t matter. It’s too late. She knew this was coming. It’s not her you have to find, Mateo. Do what you have to do. Miriam’s almost gone now. It really had been Tía Lucia keeping her here all this time. We love you, Mateo, both their voices say from the emptiness. We love you.
“I…” The rest comes out as a sob. I’m on the floor; broken glass digs into my knees. Glass from a picture frame. I look up. The altar is in shambles. They murdered her and destroyed her altar.
I crawl forward, choking on my own mucus and tears.
The picture of Galanika slid out of the frame when it shattered. Did they do this in his name, the name of my father spirit? It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s done. I still am who I am, and I’ll do what I have to do, but…I lift the picture with a trembling hand. Galanika stares at me with that cool glare, stern and unbothered, his back straight, shoulders wide.
I turn it around—maybe there’ll be an inscription on the back, or…I find a whole other picture.
Galanika, the same Galanika, but now a raging demon, carousing across a fiery landscape, mouth stretched wide. Death and destruction pour from his fingertips as entire nations race to escape his wrath.
Galanika.
I feel something poke my chest and pull the chai pendant out of my shirt. I’d forgotten about it—so much has happened since Rabbi Hidalgo gifted it to me.
The cemetery, betahayim. Beit Achayim. House of…That’s the word on my pendant: Life. The cemetery is a house of life.
The end moves within the beginning.
One thing creates the world.
I stand, brush broken glass off my jeans. Death churns within me, ready.
One thing destroys it.
I know what I have to do.
V.
Ocean crashes on these rocky shores,
Stains crumbling facades,
Sends that salty smell through white-curtained windows into wide-open rooms where lovers sleep.
Through the night we released these truths into our small world, each other:
Even when war is constant, peace lives in every moment.
Each of us is a tortoise; we carry our home, and our home carries us.
That sliver of moon across the skin of your back holds all the power of a thousand armies.
Tomorrow we awake and set fire to the world.
—The Adventurous Night, Zolman Armal
