Redemption's Warrior (6 page)

Juanita laughs at the comical face Christopher makes. “Well, okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She laughs again and then… “I went into the stall at the market place… I stumbled… I was unable to stop my fall…… I could feel the wind rushing past me. Afterwards I was not sure, did I faint? Did I fall asleep? Did I have a very weird dream?” Laughing again she says, “I really don’t know what happened that day.”

With a shaky sigh she continues, “I was transported or tumbled into a twilight world.” Waving her arms in the air as if they can convey the color she says, “purple and greens, and… and starlight!”

They share a penetrating look and Juanita flushes. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m telling this story!”

Christopher smiles, “You’re just getting to the good part. What happened next?”

“Well, you won’t believe it… all these animals started appearing.”

“Trust me. I see many animals.” Christopher says, “I believe it!”

“You see animals?” Pulling her hair into a new ponytail she smiles. Christopher smiles back, mesmerized. The swan peaks over Juanita’s shoulder.

She continues. “I was so surprised when a fox stuck its head out of a den that I screamed. The fox sat like a cat staring at me. I know it sounds crazy.”

Christopher reaches out to touch her arm. “Yesterday in the maintenance garage, I saw a Jaguar standing next to my boss Checo, and it’s not the first time. I mean this animal is formidable.”

Juanita cannot help the bubble of laughter. “The fox talked to me! She said, ‘you’re a pretty girl. I’ve seen your future. Do you have questions?’”

Juanita looks into Christopher’s eyes, “I could barely speak. I finally asked ‘why am I here?’

“The fox stared at me. After some time passed she said, ‘I don’t know. Why are you here? You’re the one who landed at my front door.’”

Juanita shakes her head, “That fox turned around and disappeared into her den. She was grumpy and put out with me!”

Juanita’s eyes are dreamy. “The fox popped out again and said, ‘have you decided?’ She was so strange. I wondered if I’d hit my head? Could this be a dream?

“‘Of course this is a dream’ snapped the fox.” Juanita looks at Christopher. “I hadn’t said a word. How could she read my mind?  The fox was furious. She stamped her paw and screamed at me. Did I want her to reveal my future? It would only cost me a few strands of my hair.

“Now the story gets even crazier. I became distracted from the fox’s offer by a white swan.”

“Wait,” Christopher interrupts, “did you say swan? I saw the swan. The swan was with you on your father’s boat and here again today.”

Juanita smiles, “Really?”

“Yep. The swan was looking over your shoulder just a minute ago.”

Juanita bows her head. “The swan approached me and walked a circle stopping in each cardinal direction. At each point, south, west, north and east, the swan stretched out her wings.”

She reaches slender arms stretched to their fullest demonstrating for Christopher the swan’s wings. When Christopher smiles Juanita’s heart thuds, she smiles back at him before continuing. “The swan whispered, ‘can I talk with you?’

“I said, ‘yes,’ because I felt relaxed and protected. I leaned forward and the swan said, ‘do not give the fox your hair. If you do then she can call on you to assist her increasing her power.’”

Lost in her story Juanita continues. “The fox rushed out of her den. Yelling at me she shouted, ‘Well, I never!’ She stomped around. Then she disappeared into her den.”

Juanita laughs remembering. “‘Ignore her,’ advised the swan.”

Grabbing Christopher’s arm she said, “The swan sat next to me. She told me, ‘I’ve waited to meet you for-ever-so-long.” Juanita swept up in her story is sitting up straight. Her eyes shine with laughter. “The swan leaned up against me and said, ‘our time is short today. I’ve called the medicine woman to come and guide you out of this underworld. It’s not safe for you to have arrived in this place, your first time, unguided.’

“Then she surrounded me in her wings. I fell asleep.”

Smiling she continues. “When I opened my eyes I was looking into the face of
La Currandera
.”

Christopher asks, “
La Currandera
is your teacher?”

Nodding Juanita explains, “I woke-up and found all my groceries spilled out of the net carrier, the dream of the swan and fox was as real to me as the groceries. I felt the warmth of the sun, the bright day and I asked
La Currandera
‘what happened?’”

“She told me, ‘we’ll have time for discussions later. Now I need to see your mother.’

“I took her home. Poor mama was so ill.
La Currandera
lit candles and smudged the air with sage and copal. She sang dusting my mother with her herbs and feathers. My mother’s face grew peaceful. For the first time in many months she rested.” Juanita looks up at Christopher and smiles sadly. “
La Currandera
came every day until my mother passed away.”

Christopher’s eyes never left Juanita’s face.
This is a sacred story, sharing her mother’s illness and her death. She told me about her first meeting with
La Currandera…

Christopher swallows hard not sure how to say what’s in his heart. “When you describe meeting your animal, the swan and your teacher I am excited for you.” Putting his hand on her arm Christopher says “And I’m sad for the loss of your mother.”

His unqualified acceptance brings tears slipping over her cheeks to shimmer in the air around them.

S
irens shatter morning routine and prisoners sneak glances at the guards. They don’t want to be caught pausing in their work. Even such a small infraction can lead to a whipping. No one returns from a beating whole and too many have suffered the tearing flesh and cut muscle. Even the mind will be injured by the whip. It obliterates safety scaring body and soul.

On
Islas Tres Marias
the island itself is the prison cell, the ocean the prison walls. Inmates traverse the island after work hours supervised by brutal guards who have all the fire power they need to kill everyone many times over. Get too close to a jeep or guard uninvited and they’ll shoot.

Today Checo’s crew is working maintenance within the small town housing guards and administrators. The town is a donut hole within the island prison surrounded by high security fencing and all the support staff and their shopping needs to live a typical mainland life.
But they’re not living a mainland life
, thinks Christopher.
In their own way they too are imprisoned on
Islas Tres Marias.

Siren still howling, Christopher wonders
what’s the emergency
? Fat Luis stands in his jeep listening to the radio. He shouts, “A sailboat infiltrated the perimeter.”

Christopher’s heart races with the possibility of escape. He prays
let this be an American ship.
He knows it’s not a fishing boat. The Mexican fishing community, with the threat of incarceration, respects the one mile boundary. It’s an invisible border following the curvature of island topography.

There has never been a moment Christopher accepted imprisonment. Leaving the work site with the excuse he needs a bathroom break he makes his way down a dirt street slipping past an exit. Security doors are designed to provide only a departure. They are not guarded with men. They are reinforced steel, automatically locking and monitored by surveillance cameras.

Christopher is in a race to beat
El Jefe
to the intruders. Once he’s passed the gate and hidden within in the trees he begins to run. He’s been waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confluence; the right time and circumstance dovetailing that will allow him to escape. He knows there is an expiration date on his life. He can’t wait around to find out the exact day. The siren is still wailing as Christopher runs. He is running for his life and freedom. He is running to his family. Their worry and grief are his burden interlaced within his mind and heart.

Already his throat is dry, eyes squinting in the tropical glare. On a sigh he races through a shaded part of the trail. Within the mottled light of trees and brush he sprints for the largest beach on the island. At each cross road of divergent trails he takes the southern track of packed dirt. Trees overhang. Brush and thorns reach out to scratch his arms and legs. Skirting salt pits, agave farms, sleeping quarters and kitchens Christopher does not want to be caught running the paths during work hours. Prisoners harvest agave on the northern parts of
Islas Tres Marias
. They have the largest sleeping quarters and eating stations. Paths connecting the groups are interspersed with hidden marijuana farms and outdoor kitchens brewing the agave pina for tequila.

Arriving at the coast he runs parallel to the south beach. He stays where brush interspersed with trees meet the tall grass and sand. Sunlight vibrant and strong in a cloudless sky beats down on him. The intensity of the tropical sun, in conjunction with intense exercise and no water is dangerous.

Already he’s feeling the effects of dehydration
. I’ll have to risk it. The stakes are freedom and my life
.
I’m in a race to find my way off this dungeon and keep those trespassers from getting killed.

Once aboard the launch
El Jefe
will be required by
Islas Tres Marias
topography to follow a long peninsula. Christopher navigates a more direct route running and crisscrossing jungle paths. Dirt foot paths no wider than two people across intersect with each other like deer trails leading from the administration city to inmates sleeping quarters, cafeterias, work sites and beaches. Feet pounding and breath rattling in his chest and ears Christopher stops. Hunching over, hands on knees, head drooping, he sucks in as much air as he can. He thinks
it’s a long shot I’ll make it to the beach before the launch
.

If he hugs the tree line parallel to the south beach he should continue to be out of sight. Christopher dodges boulders, digging deep for more speed. His breath is ragged. Blood roars in his ears. Pounding feet clang all the way to the top of his head
. Focus, freedom, focus…

Filtered through intense tropical glare, across sparkling white sand and diamond studded water, Christopher can see a twin mast sailboat. Sails stowed, a quarter mile up the beach. Intense glare off water gives him an instant headache. His foot catches on an exposed root. His power wrenches him forward, the root holding him back. The result slams his body, flat out, into the dirt. The air leaves his lungs with a “whoosh.” Spitting out dirt he lifts his head to see polished decks, gleaming metal. The boat gently rocking flying the stars and stripes,
Yes, American!
Christopher is a quarter mile to freedom.

He pushes himself to his feet. Squinting into the sun his eyes hurt. Moving thru the tall grasses edging the deep curvature of the beach he’s closer to the intruders but remains hidden. In the glare of sun on water he sees the guard’s launch round the cove
.
A sob threatens to rip free.
I’m too late
.

He’s too late to warn the intruders. Too late to swim out to their boat and hide unseen. Too late to find a way back to his family and friends worried sick about him. Moving closer still by crawling through the grass he hears voices. Two women rub suntan oil on their shoulders and backs.
Bikini’s!
Laughter carries toward him on the wind.

Four men wrestle with the skeleton of their pavilion. Already a canvas floor is held in place with four coolers, one at each corner. In the middle are cameras. Movie-sized cameras ready to be set at their proper angles.
What’s going on here?
Christopher shakes his head in confusion. The launch makes its way down the peninsula and the guards will be boots on the sand in just minutes.

Anxiety skitters across his skin and deep in his belly.
There must be a way to get these strangers off the island
. Most of all he wants to find a way onto their boat and home to Los Angeles and his family. Brilliant blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds makes his head spin. Dehydrated from the run, “What are my options? What options?” His thoughts are jumbled and repetitious, ideas slip past him. “How can I get them out of here?” Shaking his head increasingly confused the sun, too bright, slants into his eyes. Aching, his eyelids drop closed.
I’ll rest my eyes just one moment, to help me think. Think
.

The launch scraps against the sand in shallow waters.
El Jefe
jumps off. Christopher elbows his way deeper into the thorn brush. From this vantage point bodies appear to stretch like a carnival mirror. They grow to gigantic proportions. Christopher rolls his head in anguish.

Matched stride for stride, the first guard shadows one step behind
El Jefe
. A second guard mans the radio. Despite risking
El Jefe’s
wrath the air horn blasts his displeasure. The waves of sound ripple over Christopher. Filtered by the branches of the thorn bush Christopher watches the women under the canopy shrink, covering their exposed skin with crossed arms. Four men stand arms limp at their sides. Gone are the happy smiles and laughter. Two clacks are the sounds of
El Jefe’s
shotgun primed. Despite being a short man, he towers over the group. Priming his own shotgun
El Jefe’s
guard hollers, “Hands up!”

Leering at the women
El Jefe
barks his order. Tumbling over each other to comply they sort themselves out to march single file toward their rowboat. Abandoned on the beach the canopy, coolers, beach chairs…
tripods.
With the area cleared of bodies it looks like a stage.
Did they come to film a movie
?

El Jefe
stops and turns. Christopher cringes. He reads their mutual comprehension traversing
El Jefe’s
features. Firing one shot gun round, head down for the charge,
El Jefe
bellows, “Alto!”

The trespassers freeze. With the barrel of his shotgun
El Jefe
jabs the women. His gun is a scalpel slicing the women away from the group. He orders the men “Face down in your rowboat! Wait!”