Redemption's Warrior (8 page)

Juanita watches him. Still trying to pull her hair out of her face, a question lingers in her eyes.

He shakes his head. “Tell me again. What does ‘the first and last lesson of redemption’ mean to
La Currandera
? What does it mean to you?”

Squeezing his hand with understanding she says, “
La Currandera
teaches the first lesson is you, everyone, is alone. We are each accountable, responsible, to every circumstance and situation we find ourselves.” She winces. “I know that must sound harsh. You did not plant drugs in your car…” Her voice drifts away.

Christopher sits up straighter. “You’re speaking truth Juanita. In my eagerness to prove myself, pride motivated me to drive into Mexico alone. It was foolish. I was unprepared for problems. I thought I could fight my way out of trouble. I’ve learned there are many faces of trouble martial arts cannot solve.” He gives her a quirky smile. “Okay the first lesson of redemption; I am responsible for my life.”

Juanita takes a deep breath. She too is captured in the endless horizon. “I’ve spent the last several years in the bedroom off
La Currandera’s
kitchen living the first lesson of redemption. Christopher, only I can translate
La Currandera’s
teachings into a personal wisdom. My engagement in the process is the difference between borrowed knowledge and wisdom that is vital, alive. This is the first lesson of redemption as I understand it.”

Juanita nods thoughtfully eyes still focused on the horizon in middle space. “The last lesson of redemption, hmmm. How can I explain? We are each part of, connected within, the landscape of life. In our ignorance we think in flat, two dimensions of reality. I’m referring to an inconceivable whole. The last lesson of redemption refers to us each as part of and responsible for the well-being of others.”

Chewing on the end of her ponytail, Juanita pauses. Christopher can sense her effort as she gathers her thoughts to describe something larger than words. “You’ve heard the saying ‘damage we do to the strand in the web damages the entire web?’“

Christopher nods. Juanita pulls out her ponytail. For a brief moment her hair flies free. Sparkles shimmer, her swan peaks over her shoulder. Christopher feels… tight. He longs to run his hands through her shiny hair. The sound of her words pulls him back from his reverie. As Juanita reties her hair into its ponytail his heart speeds up and his mouth goes dry.

“Let me start again. When you live accountability, when you dedicate yourself, thoughts and behaviors to a positive dream,” in Juanita’s pause Christopher counts her inhales; one inhale–two. “Life will gift you, provide aid.
La Currandera
calls them ‘serendipitous moments.’ We’ve talked around this before.”

“You’re talking about Beneficence?”

Juanita nods. “If we live in beneficence, beneficence will live in us. Does that make sense? Could this also be the last lesson of redemption? A global accountability to wellness and each other, acts of power and beauty?”

“You think beneficence and redemption are related?”

“Confusing,” Juanita sighs, “Yes. Beginning my apprenticeship with
La Currandera
she asked me, ‘Do you believe in Beneficence?’ Of course I said ‘yes.’ But she shrugged off my easy answer. She took hold of my shoulders and gave me a shake.” Juanita shrugs her shoulders her body remembering the shake from her teacher. “‘Can you fathom a goodness requiring you to create acts of power and truth that resonate out into the world? Goodness so powerful, living in your acts, creating waves of intention where the impossible becomes possible?’“ Juanita sighs remembering, “Honestly Christopher I had no idea what to say to
La Currandera
. She seemed to be asking me for a life-long commitment. I barely understood what she was talking about.”

Looking at Christopher she asks, “Do you follow?”

He nods, looking at her as if his life depended on her. Shouldering the burden Juanita said, “
La Currandera
made tea and sat me down at the kitchen table. She said, ‘Can you understand Beneficence as a morphological field created by truths, acts of power and beauty, the alignment of positive goals and behaviors?’ I drank tea and when I nodded she continued. ‘These acts of power and beauty magnetize beneficial circumstances.’“

Christopher sits up straighter. “Master Jojo said the same thing about the mastery of martial arts. He said mastery creates a morphological field.”

Juanita burst into laughter at the look on Christopher’s face. “A long answer to your questions about redemption.”

“
La Currandera
and Master Jojo sound like a scientists.”

Juanita nods her head solemnly. “Yes. Most healers I’ve encountered, excluding fakes, do speak with clarity. Theirs is not borrowed knowledge. They live healing traditions passionately, with curiosity, with love and purpose. They test a tradition to see if it’s true. In the process knowledge translates to wisdom.”

Sharing a look, sharing silent communication, they laugh. They are happy in each other’s company. Amidst the desolation of
Islas Tres Marias
they have found joy in each other. Christopher longs to hold her hand.

As months flow by they begin planning a future. They share words of encouragement. Christopher knows Juanita does not have the heart for crewing her father’s boat. Her father’s slow to replace her. If the Captain unintentionally hires crew with loose lips at a bar while shooting tequila… It could expose and ruin his entire operation.

Christopher reassures her. “You’ll soon finish crewing for your father. You’ll be a healer! As soon as I’m free of
La Luna
I will join you.”

Seeing her frown he rubs a hand down her arm. “Have faith Juanita. You’re my beautiful golden girl. I can’t wait to build a life with you.”

“Christopher, tell me about your family.” Juanita begs.

“Okay, okay,” he laughs. “The best word to describe my family, noisy. Dad comes from a big, Catholic, construction, family. He owns a cement truck. Developers use his truck a lot because he’s disciplined with time management. Construction schedules run around the concrete pour.

“My Mom’s not Catholic.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “This causes loud arguments. My Mom is Jewish.”

Juanita cocks her head looking at him through her left eye. She can see the aura surrounding Christopher. The edges black with grief, the center his family life, Juanita takes a sharp breath. “Oh! They taught you to chip away at obstacles until your dreams are within reach.”

Christopher nods. “Yes. My mom taught me. Do you know the term
mitzvah
?”

Juanita shakes her head. Eye to eye with Christopher she pulls on her hair. He has learned pulling on her hair means code for upset. He takes her hand. “What?”

Her mouth pulled down in an upside down smile she asks, “Do you think they’ll like me?”

Christopher’s face lights up like Christmas morning. “Juanita! You and my mom live life by the same code. You just use different names. A
mitzvah
is a good deed given freely and makes life beautiful for others. Mom devotes her life to
mitzvahs
; for family, friends, neighbors, or strangers. Like you, she devotes herself to kindness and creating beauty.

“She also taught me
Shabbat
, Friday evening, is a meal and a time of celebration. We set aside worries. Focus on our gratitude’s.”

Juanita sighs blissfully. Her eyes are soft and dreamy. “Oh, how wonderful. Your mother taught you to balance work and gratitude, love, and family.”

Although she lives with
La Currandera
and loves her teacher it has been years since Juanita has felt tended heart and spirit. She longs to belong to a family again. Drawn to Christopher she sees in him a person of strength and integrity. She hopes, she believes, together they will build a wonderful, intergenerational family, to share with his established family. Throughout the day she drops into reverie picturing their future. She falls asleep, replaying their conversations. She is filled with the deep powerful presence of Christopher’s love.

L
eon Vargas and his son Miguel head west at sunset in their thirty foot fishing boat, the
Caballito de Mar.
For five generations their ancestors have lived in the fishing village
; Barras de Playta
just north of
Mazatlan.
A simple life, when they’re not at sea they tend to their boat and fishing equipment. Devoted to a god and family, Sundays are a day of church and family gatherings.

Every few days they motor to their hereditary fishing spot one mile off
Islas Tres Marias
. They drink hot coffee and eat
pan dulce
.  At sunrise they set their poles and fly jigs and begin to troll. On board is enough diesel fuel for a full day assault. Dry ice and canvas will protect the catch. Deep in the locker, frozen with ice, their cargo will be safe for the all night trip back to Mazatlan and then home. A good catch will be ten tuna that weigh anywhere from fifty to one- hundred-fifty pounds. A successful haul will also include several dozen Dorado. Father and son each prime shotguns to ward off tiburon. Leon nods to Miguel cleaning his gun, “A Vargas does not share his catch with sharks.”

Shotguns also provide protection. Fishermen fear an escapee prisoner from Islas Tres Marias pirating their vessel. Losing control of their fishing vessel jeopardizes their lives and livelihoods. Never once have the Vargas men seen a prisoner from
Islas Tres Marias
. All fishermen have been warned aid given an escapee will result in their own imprisonment. Most fishermen will shoot to avoid losing control of their boat.

• • •

Every day of his captivity a fire consumes Christopher. Each memory activated of his former life, the duplicity framing him with drugs and stealing his treasured car, beatings and illegal imprisonment; his outrage, singes nerves and muscle. Fury pours through him, triggering a cascade of bio-chemical reactions. In the rush of neurological and muscular response the combustion transforms, metabolizing his nature with its ferocity. Leaving him breathless, it’s more than his mind can assimilate. Oppressive and disjointed, anger ferments an indigestible bitterness. He struggles to remind himself,
how will I escape trapped in my own negativity?

While his spirit struggles, his body does maintenance and repair work throughout the island prison. At each location he asks after Daniel. The prison grapevine has no news of Daniel’s whereabouts. After work hours he cares for his egg farm. At twilight practicing martial arts, sometimes in the sandy beach and other nights on the dirt trails, his focus is building strength. And always he strives to fly under the guard’s radar.

• • •

Late one Saturday morning standing at the supply shed going over inventory with Checo they turn to see ominous clouds rush in concealing the sun. Trees rustle. The boom of thunder rumbles beneath Christopher’s feet. A splatter of raindrops makes small puffs of dust. Closer now the BAH… BOOM of thunder dovetails with the flash of lightening.

Christopher runs toward his chicken coop and garden shouting, “Hang on girls. I’m on my way!
”  I cannot lose my money makers
.

Clouds dark as night rumble, rain pours a torrential flood. Dirt paths instantly erode transforming into streams. It is a symphony of rain and howling wind. Lightning illuminates the rusty silver of his barbeque and chicken coop. The chickens are safe. Christopher hunches under banana trees while the storm spills across
Islas Tres Marias
. Trees bend in the wind. A crack followed by an explosion signals the nearby coconut tree split in two. Tree remnants fly by carried off in wind and rain. Lit by lightening the jungle flashes florescent hues of green and gold, colliding in the boom of thunder.

Every island dweller waits for a hurricane to rip across the land. As a force of nature the hurricane is a great equalizer. All the island’s inhabitants share the anxiety of waiting. Should a hurricane blow the island to pieces they will all be hunting for a safe place to wait the storm out. In this way waiting lives in the back of each man’s mind; guard and inmate alike. Christopher wants nothing more than to escape
Islas Tres Marias
before a hurricane strikes.

As quickly as this storm hits it dissipates. Clean air lays cool against his skin. Clouds part, the sun shines. A rainbow bends over the island. Christopher sighs with relief. Not the monster storm hovering in the back of each man’s mind. Today the storm’s drops of water glitter like diamonds.

• • •

Saturday afternoon turned mild by morning’s downpour, Checo and Christopher are summoned to town.  A bad feeling surges through Christopher’s gut as they walk through the town past the guard’s dormitories to their garage. At the bay entrance
El Jefe
waits holding his whip. Christopher schools his face into a neutral mask. The air around
El Jefe
is inky like jagged obsidian blades.

Memories of Daniel’s ruined torso and the women’s bodies streaming blood; these images are burned, seared into his memory along with his strange waking vision. Christopher suppresses a shudder.
That whip has broken countless threads of human skin and muscle
.

In the corner covered in cobwebs stands the generator supplying electricity to the guard’s quarters. The equipment’s silence announces the problem. Taking his time cleaning off the generator one layer of dirt at a time Christopher finds the fuel filter clogged. He looks at Checo, “Do we have a replacement part?”

Pacing a small square of pavement, shaking his head, Checo adds, “We are in trouble. It’ll take a week to get the replacement.” In the deeper shadow of the garage the Jaguar paces, its spots illuminated and shiny. In the gloom Checo looks dangerous and wild. Christopher blinks and the cat disappears. “What?” Checo demands.

“Nothing,” Christopher drops his head. Clanging through his tool box he looks up with a grin. “I think I can clean the filter. For the future………”

Before he can finish a cough sounds from the corner.
An uncontrollable cough, dark eyes circled like a mask.