Dead Awake: The Last Crossing (9 page)

I found that my Spanish had
improved dramatically, or had been much better, than I thought to
start with. Noelia, too, had experienced an increased ability to
speak to me in Spanish, which she had scarcely learned as a child
in school, but had since forgotten it since her family only spoke
Guarani at home.

Time passed by too quickly
but we were happy. Neither of us spent a wasted moment. Nothing, in
this new relationship, was difficult to overcome. We did not have
to work at it very hard. We just enjoyed each other; therefore we
did not have the little upsets that one so often has with a mate.
Nothing in our characters was unrewarding, dull, or insulting to
one another. Nothing was too much to handle. It was the sort of
thing I’d been missing all these years! If only things had been a
little different, I could have asked this girl to marry me right
then, and lived happily ever after. That is how I wanted it to
be... and perhaps things would become different soon, I thought. I
sure longed for that... We both did.

During this early time of
our courtship, I would sometimes find other notes, or poems,
attached to my door. They came regularly, almost predictably, but I
hardly had any mind to pay much attention to them; except, of
course, to thank them for how eloquently they put into words the
emotions and events I was living through. I would often find a poem
placed on my door on the day when a major event happened; so I
learned to predict when I’d most likely find one. My forecasts were
so accurate that I almost became accustomed or dependent sometimes,
to finding those happy poems.

Still, as happy as I was,
there was an uneasy place left in my mind for nostalgia. Not that I
missed home so much, to me the island was home now. But it was as
if I had already gone back to the States and was missing Natial.
Never before had I experienced a sense of nostalgia before it
happened. It was as if I was having a premonition of the feeling
itself. Even spending all my time with Noelia didn’t cure this
dread of having to go back. The weight of it remained up until one
night when she took me to the top of some hill where we sat
together, under a tree, speaking of devotion and things that ease
the soul.

Our conversation made my
heart feel light, and my bad feelings went away. There, on top of
that hill, we pledged our eternal love for one another, saying that
our devotions would endure all tests-until the end of time. We
spoke of how we’d watch the stars, under that same sky, for the
rest of forever and never be apart from one another. That was our
promise to each other.

In recollection, I recognize
the size of it. Indeed my love for her was genuine and eternal. If
only there could really be a way to be together for the rest of
time... Ah what a thought! Noelia was the answer that I’d been
looking for all these years. She was what I had longed for, to fill
my empty void and comfort me. We had to be united!

* * *

Thus it went until one night
when I decided to take a walk alone. I’m not sure why I didn’t
spend that evening with Noelia, since being apart from her seemed
almost inconceivable. I made my way from the village and rested on
a little log near a road of sand. There were maybe three or four
palm trees and a tiny house at an arrow’s distance. The stars that
came out were twinkling on me, as if they were telling me to watch
for something – and then it came, a majestic flight of some unknown
comet on wings.

It was a bird, but of fire.
I could see its beak and feathers as it flew overhead. I could not
help but see it, for if I had not looked up, the noise of its
flight would have pulled my attention anyway.

The bird had come from the
east, soaring as high as the most prominent mountain, but so unique
in its features that I could still see them clearly from the
ground. To describe the bird, I could only say that if fire was
used as ink, then fire had painted a bird. So indescribable and
unique was this creature that I could scarcely convince myself that
I wasn’t just imagining it, but actually seeing it before my very
eyes. It was as if lightning itself had cracked its whip when it
approached, for as fast as it had come, the winds of light had
taken it from sight.

It had come and gone so
quickly that there was no sure way of knowing exactly what it was
I’d seen, except that it was real and alive, a bird of pure fire –
alive, and not screaming from pain. If I could not explain it, then
what I had just seen could be nothing less than a phoenix, and that
simply could not be; not even if my eyes had told me so. A more
nerving explanation would have to be that a weather phenomenon had
just occurred, and that I had happened to be an eyewitness to it.
If that was the case, that poor bird had caught the luck of being
struck by several lightning bolts at the same time; but I could not
believe that for the bird had not appeared to be damaged as it flew
beyond the reach of my sight.

While still caught in the
mystery, the question was resolved as the bird reappeared out of
the far horizon. This time it flew with its entire splendor in a
most majestic dance. This second appearance lasted much longer than
the first.

It hovered above me, to let
me soak in its splendor – tarrying in the same spot, then left as
before. It was as if it were trying to defy my unbelief and impose
itself as a new faith in my soul’s cradle. It was an image that
could not be withstood, and now that it had given me more time to
scrutinize it, it became forever detailed as an effigy,
inescapable, to go back to again and again in future dreams and
nightmares.

Time seemed to go slower as
I gazed upon the spectacle, but in reality the whole ordeal only
lasted about four seconds. During those few seconds I saw the most
astonishing manifestation as the bird’s wings became fire, roaring
like streams of thundering echoes, and cracking like the frost that
splits the air in the early winter morning. It was as if fire and
ice came from within its wings in a paradoxical
confrontation.

I have never seen such
colors, or such a spectacle of light, produced by anything that
could be called a natural weather pattern. Further, I don’t think I
have ever been able to see a bird’s features with such detail, even
with a pair of binoculars. Thus it was impossible for me to escape
the evidence that affirmed the existence of something paranormal. I
know it was real, for it looked down on me, and the stare it gave
made my bones feel as if they had been scraped with iron shavings.
It’s eyes were the glow of red oven coals. They moved with life
upon me and tore through my back, unraveling the stitches of doubt
that were neatly sown. But it wasn’t horrible. How could it be? It
had the face of a cherub – it was not frightening, but rather
stirring, as if to startle a dead man from his deathbed.

I was surprised to find just
one feather as an aftermath, since such a revolution of plumage
could have easily left the poor bird bald. No, not one other clue,
though I looked on for at least an hour more before continuing my
walk.

I came to a bar and went in
to take another rest. It was delightful that the people there did
not laugh at me, for I told them the entire story. Instead, they
took my story seriously and listened intently to every word I
spoke. This was not like the States. No not at all. And when I
showed them the feather, they were amazed and called me “the
fortunate one”.

“
El pajaro de
fuego,
” one man said, “Everyone knows what dis feather comes
from and what it bring to the one dat hold it.”

“
So you do believe me?” I
asked.

“
Of course, mister... The
legend says dat it name is the firebird or Phoenix, and that it
roars trough da skies like tunder, and lite. It comes down from “El
Tupa oti” in da skies-where it lives. El Tupa, when he is mad so he
sends da bir to kill a demon. Den da pajaro flies, but if you can
see him you can see the place of his home... And even better if you
get one of his feaders it will bring you good luck or stop a curs
from a devil. So dis feader you got, ah yes, no one ever has a
feader for a long time.” The man then looked at the feather, which
was being passed around for all to see, and gave it venerable
homage. He was as the poor man watching the coat he cannot buy. So
I took back the feather, now at the hands of a lady, and presented
it to him.

“
Then this is a gift for
you, for such a fine story, because I already have found much good
luck on your very fine island with some very good poems that bless
me.”

“
No sir, I can not take it.
Not in a thousand years could you hope to get anoder feader like it
again. And I have not earned it myself.”

“
But you have! It was a
very fine story, and I do not need more luck for I am also in love.
What better luck can there be than this?” The bar was moved with
romance and I felt as if I were in Italy, where all is love and
where nothing is more important than love.

“
Then this I will take from
you, for you are right, and then tonight is my lucky night.” The
storyteller snatched the feather and away he went, back to the
night to celebrate his good fortune.

The rest of the time I sat
there as the people in the bar watched me; and all were astonished
at my greatness and generosity. No one thought it stupidity, on my
part, to have given up such a find, nor thought me an unlearned
fool for what I was forsaking; for all imagined I was some great
man that had received much and probably had greater things, than
this feather, in my possession.

Perhaps that feather could
have helped me after all . . .

I left that bar and headed
off back to my room, as it was now fairly late. As I approached my
room, I could have almost guessed what awaited me. Another note was
hanging there for me, making it the eighth I’d received thus
far.

PHOENIX

Bird in the sky

Watching the night
fade

With your glory wings of
stormy fire

Tearing into
flight

Turning in the
air

Fading under
beauty

To hear the covered
night

Wrapped within a watchful
eye

Nothing under heaven
sees

No one above earth will
know

But path of hollow
streak

Burns through me

Heart of bitter
hope

Bird in the sky gone
by

Watching the night now
still

CHAPTER 6

Fight

I spent the next two days at
Noelia’s. During this time my mind began to get anxious about
returning to the States. Even though I didn’t admit it consciously,
there were those little spells of grumpy behavior that could only
be blamed on my unwillingness to return. I was hoping that my
constant ill temper would not scare her off.

In reality, up to that
point, we had not been able to communicate too well, even though
I’d become more agile with Spanish, and she remembered most of what
she had learned as a child. But that still didn’t help me to be
able to impart the feelings of my heart. What we had had before,
when I couldn’t even say a word to her, had felt more pure. I
remember those times of silence. Our eyes would just fix and I
would somehow sink into her soul, and she into mine. The feelings
in my heart were more easily shared through my eyes than through my
words, and that was the type of communication I needed.

We still shared everything
about ourselves, and had our thoughts shared in common with one
another, but sometimes the words we used got in the way. This
happened so much that eventually our words would be the cause for
our demise. If we never had to speak, then the things I said would
never have caused all those things to happen. She would never have
grown mad at me and we would never have broken apart.

We did not see eye to eye
when it came to the subject of my obligation to return to the
States. How would I be able to stay with her and also keep my job
and responsibilities? She said she could never be alone again – but
I couldn’t mess up my life because of it. What she wanted was
impossible, and I had to do the responsible thing. So how was I
supposed to deal with the problem when it came? Would she go with
me, to the States, if that was the solution? Of course she would,
she’d have to; there could be no other way.

* * *

The time of fear came soon
enough, for already the thought had come to her. Within a few days
Noelia approached me with the awful crisis, and it was time to face
what was coming. It was obvious that she had been thinking about it
for quite some time, when she came to me with her question. It was
a plain and simple question, which she had prepared with two
emotional responses.

The first was simply relief,
that her fears would not come true. The second was an outpouring of
anger and concern. And when the question wasn’t answered in the way
she thought was the right way, there came a rapid fire of other
interrogations that questioned my sincerity for her. Was I leading
her along all this time, with no intent of holding on to her? What
of the promise that was made?

Though I told her how wrong
she was, that all I had said was true, that I meant to keep my
promise, and that I did love her, still she did not believe me. It
was worse when the tears came. She was soaked with them, and I
couldn’t stop her. They came as tears come from a child full of
despair and agony. They came as tears of rushing-feelings that come
to a woman who is told that her husband has just died in a war. How
do you stop a torrent of such immense passion? I could not... and
though I tried, it only got worse. Fear struck me deep: the fear of
a magic that is lost, or beginning to go.