Jemez Spring (22 page)

Sonny looked at Raven. There he sat, as handsome and full of temptation as ever, a guy that could win over the heart of any woman with one of his dark, devastating Pedro Infante glances, and win the hearts of men with his visions of freedom. A chaos he called freedom.

You're back, Sonny managed.

I was never gone, Raven replied, that thin smile that was half sneer on his lips. And why not? He had the upper hand—cupped in one hand was the Zia medallion, the Medal of the Sun, which he so coveted, willing to break all the commandments of Moses to wear it on his chest. Now his mojo power.

The other hand held Sonny's dreamcatcher, the weapon don Eliseo had forged and blessed. Raven feared the dreamcatcher, for if it struck him at just the right angle he, like a bad dream, would disappear through the hole in the middle. But bad dreams return, as Raven just said, surfacing from the unconscious, for, as everyone knows, mythic imagery is universal, it lives in that elusive state of being called the psyche. There's more if one is willing to believe. What if the memory of those primal images is ingrained in every cell in the body, from spleen to liver to toenails?

The devil works in history. Yes, one can't get away with claiming only the angels toil, one has to claim the whole caboodle. The whole enchilada, Chicanos would say. You eat bean burritos and you're going to get some gas. You dream and you get Blake's angels—and his demons.

The mind is not a house of neat rooms, rather it flows like a stream from primal memory, like a river seeking its home in the brilliant sea, its currents thick with the hidden waters of the primeval jungle, as well as the holy waters of Eden's four rivers. Dream images surface into the light of waking, there where the expert shaman works to interpret the signs and convert the symbols into useful myth or story, so—any shrink will explain—the dreamer might better know himself.

But there's a rub. Every dreamer is a storyteller, and so from those bubbling images a story is composed, and even the most expert shaman cannot distinguish between the true image, if there is such a thing, and the story composed by the dreamer from the dream's images. So who's in charge? Is life simply story piled on story?

Who's in charge? Who's on third? don Eliseo would say. What's on second?

Sonny knew the ambiguity of dreams. So did Raven.

The medallion, which Raven swung like a hypnotist's pendulum, caught intimations of the dim light in the room, gathering it into one bright center, then exploding in a rainbow of possibilities.

But where, oh where, was the source of the light? Sonny's swirling mind was as dark as a web spun by Arachne.

No, you can't get rid of me that easy, Raven intoned. What would the world be like if there were no shadows? Get it? I am your shadow.

Tell him to get behind you, the old man whispered, and Sonny breathed a sigh of relief. The old man, the only trump card he held, was still around.

You solipsist sonofabitch!

The curse was not strong enough; in fact, Raven ate it up. A compliment.

Abaddon! Sonny shouted, trying a new tactic, knowing if this didn't get Raven's goat he was in deep trouble, for curses only come in threes.

It worked. Raven cringed. Sonny had never called him one of Satan's minions. The name was like a slap in the face, an insult, for Raven considered himself Sonny's equal. If there is such a thing as metempsychosis, if the soul passes from form to form, from one generation to the next, then Sonny and Raven were twins from an ancient time, coming down through the eons, battling each other for ascendancy, now one having the upper hand, now the other, and just when civilization thought it had seen the light a spontaneous massacre of innocents or a world war erupted. Or a Holocaust with its indescribable horror descended on the world.

This everyone knew, but Sonny had never called him a cohort of El Diablo.

Sonny, Raven said softly, recovering from the insult. You disappoint me. I am not the Satan of the world, I am not the anti-Christ.

He paused and looked Sonny in the eye. Do you still not get it? I am the shadow that lives within the hidden self. You need me as I need you. Without me there is nothing to reveal of the myth you once knew by heart, and without the original story you will never know yourself. That's what it's all about, Sonny, knowing yourself. Without struggle there is no life, and without the existential tension within the psyche, there are no signs to light the way.

Sonny shivered. He knew the psyche was a bottomless pit, a wide, dark lake. Voices spoke across the waters. Images appeared.

Raven continued. The masses are born, live, and work in darkness. They die while sleepwalking. The masters who command are no better off. They amass gold coins and power. To what end? With all that baggage they can't get through the eye of a needle. But you, Sonny, you could be different. If only you opened your eyes.

Sonny looked to the old man for advice, but he turned away, a tired, sagging look on his face.

I don't feel too good, he said. Try something else. Get him to talk about the bomb on the mountain.

The old man wasn't going to be much help. His time was crumbling down on him; perhaps his vision was already on the next karmic road, a new dream.

Devil or terrorist, it's all the same, Sonny said. He knew Raven would talk for a while, but sooner or later he would strike with his sharp beak-like scimitar. Death was close by.

Raven shook his head in disbelief.

You think me a common terrorist? Is that it? Maybe I will blow up the Jemez. Just to teach you a lesson. Destroy the Los Alamos labs! Blow it up and have your government blame Al Qaeda, blame Osama Bin Laden, blame anyone. It's much easier to blame the immigrants, the Commies, terrorists! But the real enemy is within! It's the beginning of the end.

Sonny tugged at his ropes. He wanted to get free and choke the life out of Raven, make him return the child of Rita's dream.

You're seething with anger, Sonny. That's no good.

Sonny relaxed and rested his burned wrists. Yes, the strong emotion he felt wouldn't solve his predicament. He was dealing with a trickster, an entity that had the power to drive him mad and bring down the seven seals. He had to think, to be cautious like a coyote, to plot his way, but in such a dismal state, where was there to go?

You tried to kill me.

Raven shook his head. Me? No, no, Sonny. When I cut a heart in two it stays cut.

Then who?

You should know, Sonny. The government thinks you know too much. If you find out who really killed the governor a lot of very important people will go to jail. Yes, we were waiting for you, but so were others. Could it have been my friend Augie? He blames you for things falling apart. Or could it have been the man they call Bear? He thinks you're interested in his woman. That kind uses guns; I work in subtle ways.

Sonny laughed. Bullshit! You call the bomb subtle?

Raven shrugged. You have a point. Sometimes the only way to win the hearts of weaklings is to create panic. Panic leads to fear, and with enough fear I can lead your good people back to the Dark Ages. Isn't it appropriate that the last World War start here, in the mountain where the first atomic bomb was developed, in the state where at Trinity Site it was exploded?

You want complete control?

Yes.

Let him talk, the old man advised. Talking is the first step toward tripping yourself. It's what he means behind the words you have to listen to.

I have what I want, Raven said. The Zia medallion. Now I am its keeper. And I have your dreamcatcher, which is worthless. I'll use it as a hula hoop and pass back and forth from one dream to the other.

He tossed the dreamcatcher aside, and the sylph came forth from under the wet cottonwood leaves to retrieve it, her once silken, airy gown now covered with nature's wet ooze. She looked at it, sighed, then placed it on the table with the tarot cards.

What he wants is your soul, the old man warned.

Ah yes, Raven said. Let's cut to the quick. It is your soul I seek. You were taught by your mentor, and by all those modern psychologists who still search after the philosopher's stone. They preach they can cure unsettled minds. Turn dross metal into gold. They preach I must come to you. Assholes! Don't they know, it is you who must come to me? That, in a nutshell, is what I want. You, begging for sanity, at my feet. And we're almost there.

No! Sonny cried.

Oh yes! You're sitting in a darkness that holds you immobile. You can't think straight. Those who set out to help you only led you deeper into despair. The potter warned you. What she predicts is never believed!

I believe in myself, you sonofabitch! Sonny shouted in anger. I went into your dark dream, fought you there, and sent you to hell!

Not before I killed the old man! Raven retorted, rising to his feet. The dreamcatcher worked for the moment. But relief from me is never permanent!

I'll make it permanent! Untie me and I'll show you!

Raven jumped forward and slapped him hard. Shut up!

The sylph let out a faint gasp.

Afraid?

You're in my net! Why should I be afraid?

Sonny relaxed and smiled even though the slap bruised the side of his face. Raven had taken the bait. Roadkill.

Ropes can't hold me, Raven. I'm coming after you. I want my child!

You have no power left, he said, dangling the Zia medallion in Sonny's face.

Sonny smiled, spat out blood, heard the sylph's soft
oooooh
.

The old man—

Damn the old man! He's useless! See him cowering in the shadows! He's useless!

Sonny nodded. Perhaps. But there is another way.

Raven cocked his head, as ravens are wont to do when they sense danger during mealtime, or out of curiosity.

Sonny knew he had taken the bait, poisoned with the coyote's spittle.

What way?

The soul you took from Rita's womb is a spirit of light. As is the soul of every child. You hold my child prisoner, and that's your mistake.

I don't understand, Raven replied, nervously.

The light of my child shines in your darkness. It calls to me. It will guide me.

No! Raven shouted. What's mine is mine! You're misguided. You have no way to enter my circle! He paused, then said, I should be wary, but I'm not. You spoke of trumps. It's time you see mine.

He turned and pulled away the black cloth that covered the seat, revealing a large black boulder.

Iron pyrite, Sonny guessed, fool's gold. Indeed, the stone shimmered with specks of false gold and a blue aura, ecumenical beyond belief.

The Zia Stone! Raven announced proudly. It's mine!

Sonny shook his head. If this were true then Raven held a full hand. The most prized possession!

It can't be.

It is. Look! See the signs. Written in hieroglyphic Hittite, it made its way from Anatolia to Atlantis to Aztlán. See the relationship? A, A, A. In Anatolia this extinct language was first written in cuneiform. Remember the wet clay tablets your sixth-grade teacher made you scribble on? Cuneiform. A secret language from the past.

Bullshit, the old man muttered. Don't listen to him, Sonny.

You doubt? Raven said. Look closely. This stone was taken from Anatolia, across the Nile where it was engraved by the priests of Ra who knew the end of their world was coming. There in the port of Alexandria they placed it in a ship bound for Atlantis. There it sat for a millennium, in the middle of the central plaza, the agora. But Atlantis, too, was doomed. That is the history of civilizations. They are born, rise, die. Before the ocean washed over that ancient civilization the priests shipped the stone west toward the setting sun, past the Pillars of Hercules, to the land of the Olmecs. The priests of Africa visited the Olmec shore. There your ancestors found the stone and brought it to Aztlán, your Chicano homeland, Sonny. It's all there. The sad truth is, now it's mine.

Don't believe a word! the old man warned.

But it made sense, Sonny thought, falling for the oldest trick in the book, the theories of those who said the secrets of life had been revealed only to those civilizations from across the sea, never to the natives of the Americas.

Don't listen, Sonny! the old man shouted. You know better! The stone was carved here in Aztlán, the homeland of the Aztecs, earth of the Anasazi, place of origin for so many of our tribes. It's your story, Sonny. Indio y Español, y todos los demás. Your blood flows from this place, as sure as the springs of the mountain feed the rivers. The Zia Stone was carved by your ancestors.

Sonny struggled to contain his thoughts. The vertigo began to clear. Damn Raven! He could confuse anyone. And why not? That was the power of the unconscious energy that wove its tapestries from a memory so old its warp and woof were the aquatic moss of primeval oceans.

In the darkness a coyote howled. Along the bosque a family of coyotes moved. Their call reminded Sonny that often the best medicine was to laugh at Raven. As a coyote laughs at night when the moon is full and shining through open windows on the moist, glistening flesh of sleeping virgins.

Sonny laughed. A loud howl that scattered the dark shadows.

Why do you laugh? asked Raven.

Because you expect me to believe that story. You forget, our people didn't inscribe wedges in clay. No cuneiform, Raven. And the stone you sit on, it's plain fool's gold.

Damn you! Raven exclaimed, stepping forward and drawing his sword.

What if I cut you loose from your dream? You will never awaken, never know again the world you once knew!

Won't do any good, Sonny replied. I'm coming for you. Wherever you are. You can't hide from me!

You're too late! Raven cursed. You missed the tide! Fox tried to warn you. Give up the dreaming dog.

I give you eternal struggle, Sonny countered. To the bitter end!

No! It ends today! Raven shouted, raising the curved blade, the shining scimitar that could slice a man in two.