The Crystal Child, page 44
Thirty
The man and the woman — young, timid, dressed in ill-fitting work clothes — led the little girl between them into the dark corner of the room. The only light they found there came from two fat candles that stood to either side of a small woven basket. The candles were barely bright enough to illuminate what the basket held, but after their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the woman could make out a faint glow — or believed she could. In an instant she was on her knees, drawing the man down beside her. Following the woman’s lead, he crossed himself, bowed his head, and began to murmur prayers. The little girl, unsteady on her legs without her parents’ support, swayed uneasily where she stood. She was not used to the braces, a cast-off pair poorly fitted to her legs. But without them her emaciated legs could never have held her upright.
After a long interval of prayer, the mother, cautiously inching forward on her knees, stretched out her hand toward the makeshift altar and deposited a string of jewels among the flowers that surrounded the basket. Only glass beads, but all she had to offer. Behind them at the door of the room, the old priest who had led them to the shrine, waited patiently for them to finish. There were others waiting, but he never rushed those who came to the room. Let them make the most of the occasion. After all, these might be the ones, the simple people who would convince him that his church, his village had been blessed.
When the family was finally ready to withdraw, he made the sign of the cross over each of them and escorted them back into the sunlight. Sending them across the street to the church for further prayer, he turned and surveyed the remaining supplicants. There were three … four … five more groups, families, some that had been waiting for hours. And there might be more coming before the shrine was closed at the end of the afternoon. Would there be enough time for all these today? Quickly the priest began to triage, moving the blind boy and the old woman in the wheelchair to the front of the queue. The others, disappointed but uncomplaining, stepped back obediently. They trusted his judgement, but showed their unhappiness. A small man in a shiny suit inched forward timidly to explain that he and his family had driven all the way from Vera Cruz with no place to stay for the night. The priest heard him out, politely promising to do the best he could.
It was like this every day now, at least a half-dozen pilgrims coming to visit the little room, to offer gifts, money, prayers. The priest had done nothing to advertise the existence of a new shrine, but as if by some ethereal telegraphy, news of the healings at San Cristobal de Sonora had become known throughout the region. He did not look forward to what would happen when the word spread further, as he was sure it would. This was a tiny village unsuited to crowds larger than those that came on market days. There were few accommodations and only meager transportation. Already cars were carving deep ruts in the dirt road, people were sleeping on the beach, leaving their scraps behind. It would get worse, the priest knew. There was no way to deny those who came, no way to dissuade them from investing their faith in what might turn out to be a minor and meaningless spectacle. Soon believers would be coming from every part of the country to see something that shone in the corner of a room at the rear of a panadería. Some claimed they had seen a leaping flame in the basket, others that they had seen the Holy Mother’s face there. How unlikely that was. This was nothing native to the region, nothing that bespoke its faith. Not that he could wholly dismiss this strange thing the American woman had brought them. But was it worthy of a shrine? Would it be sanctioned by the church? Of course that did not matter. The old priest had seen things like this before. A vision or simply the rumor of a vision — and suddenly a shrine emerges as if by spontaneous combustion, a place crowded with flowers and simple offerings. And then a story.
There was already a story here, in the priest’s village.
The Holy Mother had come to San Cristobal de Sonora to weep for the many sorrows of the people. She had been brought by a woman from the north who was herself a wonder worker. The Holy Mother had cried into the hands of the woman and her tears had turned to gleaming gems, a gift from heaven. Come see the gems, believe the story, and who knows what miracles might follow?
***
All this — the shrine, the story, the reported healings — had happened in the nine months since Julia and Alex arrived, two weary travelers carrying a closely wrapped bundle. When they first turned into the dusty main street of the village, Alex groaned. “This is it?” he asked, his voice echoing painful disappointment. They had spent four days driving bad roads through the desert, sleeping in bug-infested, sweltering posadas that were no better than shacks. But San Cristobal de Sonora was exactly what Julia had hoped to find, a remote, disorderly cluster of ramshackle houses surrounding an undistinguished church. Reaching the village required a final five-mile drive over a rough, unmarked road. Chickens roamed the streets, doing their best to dodge the feral cats. Next to the church was a collection of shops that included the panadería, a tiny store not much larger than a big closet. Customers had to line up to reach the counter. And they did, faithfully every morning.
The town’s main commerce was the spinoff from a modest hotel that occupied a lovely, seldom-used stretch of beach, white sands and a wide arcing surf that lay hidden over a high ridge of dunes. Only adventurous tourists making their way toward Guaymas and looking for out-of-the-way attractions stopped at the hotel. For them, the beach behind San Cristobal de Sonora was one of the undiscovered beauties of the northwest coast. In the summer and in the winter, the hotel was booked full with tourists, mainly Americans. There were shops in the hotel — a souvenir counter, a snack bar, a liquor store, a mediocre dining room — but often guests walked into the town to find more authentic native wares. Not that there was much: a pottery shop, some leather goods, several racks of serapes minded by silent, sullen women. It was not worth climbing the dunes to walk the streets of San Cristobal a second time except to visit the panadería during the day and at night the cantina that stayed open late, offering live music by spirited if not very talented local musicians. Between seasons, the hotel closed down and the town, lost in the broiling heat of the Sonoran desert, receded into obscurity like a cactus waiting for water.
Achula recognized Julia as soon as she entered the little bakery. She greeted her prison companion explosively with a sharp cry, her hands clasped at her breast as if she had seen an angel descend from heaven. She rushed to introduce her to her mother. Julia was “the doctor,” the “wise lady,” the benefactor, she announced, her voice brimming with pride, as if Julia were not as much a jailbird as she was. Yes, she had received the money Julia sent from San Lazaro — more money than she and her mother made in a full season of baking. The mother, when she understood who Julia was, seized her hand and kissed it. The greeting was overdone; Julia had to fight down her embarrassment. At the same time she was relieved to be welcomed with such honest affection and used her warm welcome for all it was worth. She had no choice about that. San Cristobal de Sonora was the only destination she had in view, the one refuge that might provide the secrecy she needed.
Alex was less certain. “You plan to stay here? Here? How long?”
“Not long,” she assured him. “Until Aaron is finished.”
She introduced Alex as her son. He would be staying only a few days, she said. He could stay in the hotel if it was open. But it was off-season; the owners had closed up and gone away. He would have to stay with her in the one little room the family could spare, a sparsely furnished bedroom at the rear of the bakery. Julia thanked them, then had Alex bring Aaron into the room before she let Achula know about him. That day and through the night, she sat, cradling Aaron in her arms, watching closely. From time to time, often hours apart, she was certain she detected faint traces of light within the form she held. Alex saw nothing. “You’re seeing things, Mom,” he told her.
“There, didn’t you see that?” she asked. “There was a flicker.”
“You’re making it up,” Alex insisted. “It’s dead. Get rid of it.”
She frowned at him and turned away.
Finally, on the third day, she asked Alex to bring Achula and her mother to the room. There was a small lamp with a low-wattage bulb on a corner table. With the curtains drawn, it was hardly enough to read by. When the two women entered, she beckoned them to come closer, then unfolded the blanket and said, “This is my other son.” When she let them see what she held, the response took her by surprise. As if at a signal, the women crossed themselves and folded their hands in prayer. “No, no, please,” Julia blurted out. “It’s nothing like that.”
Nothing like what? she wondered. What the women saw in Julia’s lap was a small, transparent figurine shaped like a newborn. After a moment Julia could almost laugh. She. The Blessed Virgin Julia.
***
Alex, reluctant to leave his mother behind in a strange town among strange people, lingered on in San Cristobal de Sonora for one week, then another, chafing at the heat, the isolation, and the boredom of the place. Briefly for a few hours on Sunday mornings, the town came alive. Several dozen people showed up for mass, many staying for a small street market that followed. After that, especially during the off-season, the village sank back into near hibernation. The church qualified San Cristobal as an important town in its vicinity, but nothing happened there that seemed important to Alex. There was a small fishing fleet, a dozen or so old boats, that seemed to bring back very little at the end of the day. Fishing had moved away to other towns with superior marinas. Now most of the townsfolk worked at hotels and restaurants in the nearby gringo enclaves or as farm labor. Each morning, men and women piled into a few battered trucks to drive off; they returned in the late afternoon, made simple meals, and spent the evening in dimly-lit little shacks. Most had television, but with meager and spotty reception. In the night, there was starlight, moonlight, nothing more to be seen in any direction. “I don’t see how you’re going to put up with this,” Alex groaned. “This might as well be a prison.” He tried to retrieve the words as soon as he said them.
She smiled forgiveness. “I know something about prisons, my boy. Believe me, this is a great deal better. No bars, no rules. The lights may not be bright, but nobody tells you when to turn them out.” Over and again she insisted she would be safe with these people; she trusted them. “Besides,” she laughed, “they think I’m the second coming of the Virgin Mary or something like that.” She had little trouble talking Achula out of that idea. But the girl’s mother still eyed Julia with an unsettling sense of awe — as did more and more townspeople. As Julia might have expected, what the mother knew soon became common knowledge in the little village. People had obviously heard of her strange child, the child that never left the tiny room behind the bakery, the child who shone like a glass icon.
“I can’t leave you here with a bunch of superstitious peons,” Alex argued. “You don’t even speak the language.”
“But they speak mine — a lot of them. They treat me with respect. That’s all I want. Believe me, I feel safe. Isn’t this the last place anybody would expect to find us?” “Us” meant her and Aaron.
“How long will you stay?”
“Not long,” she answered, non-committaly. “Let me finish what I have to do. I’ll send for you.”
Reluctantly, Alex made ready for his journey home. He left her with a long list of warnings, assuring her that he would return in another six months. “Can you get in touch if you need me?” he asked.
More to assure him than herself, she showed him Isobe’s cell phone. “That won’t work from here,” he told her. “The reception in this country sucks. But if you get closer to one of the towns, you might get through. The gringos can’t do without working cell phones.” She promised him she would be cautious and in return asked one promise from him. No, he assured her, he would tell no one where she was. Not even Kevin Forrester. “I’ll tell him you wouldn’t come back with me. He won’t be happy about that.”
“You’ll be seeing him?”
“I should. He’s paying for this trip.”
“When you see him, tell him I got his letter. Tell him there’s a whole section in Plato about circles. Tell him it’s the pattern of eternal nature. And tell him … oh, I don’t know. Tell him all is forgiven.”
Alex gave her a good-natured smile while he silently counted on his fingers. One-two-three. He paused, and then added four. “What’s that all about?” Julia asked.
“I’m adding up all my mother’s male admirers. For a lady on the run, she’s got quite a few boyfriends. Including me.”
***
She was timing her life to the seasons, not the clock or calendar. With Alex gone, her days soon lapsed into a simple routine. She had expected to earn her way helping in the panaderia, but Achula would not hear of it. Julia was the curandera. She had better things to do. The girl took her to the church and introduced her to the priest, a small, emaciated man with white locks and a stooped frame. Father Martin. A pleasant man who seemed deeply resigned to overseeing one of the poorest parishes in Mexico, he lit up when he was told that Julia was a doctor, especially when he heard Achula’s exaggerated account. The young woman made Julia out to be a miracle worker who had done everything short of raising the dead.
Father Martin could not make Julia more welcome. Each day, for whatever time she could spare, Julia received patients in the sacristy of St. Lucia. Broken bones, sore throats, infected cuts, endless numbers of sick babies. She quickly became a one-woman clinic, the only professional medical help within miles, and for many the only care they could afford. Some she could help, many she could not — except on those occasions when Father Martin managed, by means she never questioned, to bring her a small supply of anti-biotics or steroids. She was at best a bare-foot doctor, often of no use at all except for propping up morale.
She allowed herself to spend less and less time each day monitoring Aaron’s metamorphosis. The last time she had been able to discern any trace of light inside the crystalline shell was at the end of her second month in San Cristobal de Sonora. Then it went dark, she was sure it was dark, not a glimmer of light within. Even when she kept it beside her through the night, she could see nothing. And then the shell itself began to lose its human form, smoothing, developing fissures, flaking away. Finally, over several days, it fell away into a scattering of tiny, crystalline fragments. Neither Achula nor her mother were troubled by these transformations. They accepted what they saw as some inexplicable wonder. It was Achula’s mother who first used the word “tears” to describe the odd shape of the bits and pieces. She was right; the little crystals did look like teardrops. A sign of pity. Soon after that Achula brought the first supplicant, a cousin whose child was sick. The young woman — even younger than Achula — begged for help. Not that she needed much. Her little boy was down with a minor respiratory infection that would have cleared up on its own. As Julia had assured her, the illness quickly subsided after the mother’s visit. But did that not prove the power of the Holy Mother’s tears?
After that, pilgrims came in a steady stream, seldom fewer than three or four groups a day if the weather allowed. At first the piety Julia saw being practiced at the little shrine was profoundly distasteful to her, the worst kind of superstition. She saw parents wailing in prayer over the bodies of deformed children, the lame and the blind groveling on their knees, women clutching rosaries and muttering fervent prayers. She saw people piling their valuables atop the table where she had nested the stones in a small woven basket. Lines of penitents stood in the blazing sun or in the cold wind, willing to wait for hours. This was that other medicine, the kind that begins on the far side of despair. Eventually, a rickety arcade was built to shield them from the weather, but it provided little shelter. Soon after that the stones were moved with great ceremony from Julia’s bedroom to a small shed that had been rigged up behind the bakery.
Did Achula believe in these things, Julia wondered. She had come to rely on the girl for support and help. She was one of the few villagers who had seen the greater world to the north. She had been to school; along with Father Martin, she was the most educated person in the community. But both lived in the firm grip of a simple faith. Achula knew Julia’s feelings; she often made excuses for her people, but she did not question what they did. Julia had come upon her more than once kneeling in prayer at the shrine. At last, Julia grew resigned. Who was she to voice skepticism? The stones cured more people than she could with her medicines; a placebo effect, of course. In any case, she did not have to worry that the little shrine might become something greater. The gringos would take care of that. In another few years this deserted coast would be swamped with condos and spas. Monied foreigners would soon have the beach, the harbor, the little village.
Each day Julia spent a meditative interval studying the woven basket. And at last she was sure she had done all that could be expected. It was time for her to leave. As for the crystals, she had spent a good deal of time deciding what to do with them when the time came for her departure. Cast them into the sea — that had been her first thought. Rent one of the small fishing boats in the harbor, take them as far out to sea as the boat would travel, throw them into the blue Pacific. But by the time she was ready to pack and leave, she realized that the stones had taken on a life of their own. Worship had grown up around them, lore had come to surround them. They were the merciful virgin’s tears. People spoke of this place as La Capilla de las Lagrimas de la Madre. People came from ever greater distances to offer prayers, to leave donations, to fast and wail and plead for forgiveness. There were claims that the lagrimas had healed diseases, restored the use of lame limbs, granted wishes. To her dismay, Julia had seen people, the crippled and the blind and the wounded of heart, kneeling before the shrine, weeping, and rising up not healed, but consoled. The crystals were no longer hers. They were the centerpiece of an improvised santuario. Would Aaron object? She thought not. He was far beyond the faith and folly of this world, a trajectory, she imagined, that had outdistanced the farthest stars. Yet, oddly, the aura of reverence that now enveloped the little mound of bright stones preserved something of his uncanny presence. For all she knew, the shrines and sacred places of the world had all started like this. Other Aarons, other miracles. Little windows opening into that place where time stopped. So she left the shining stones in their place.
