Tortuga

A Novel

Rudolfo Anaya

Praise for the Writing of Rudolfo Anaya

“An extraordinary storyteller.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review

“One of the nation’s foremost Chicano literary artists.” —The Denver Post

“[Anaya’s work] is better called not the new multicultural writing, but the new American writing.” —Newsweek

“One of the best writers in the country.” —El Paso Times

“The godfather and guru of Chicano literature.” —Tony Hillerman, author of The Blessing Way

“Poet of the barrio … the most widely read Mexican-American.” —Newsweek

Alburquerque

Winner of PEN Center West Award for Fiction

“Alburquerque is a rich and tempestuous book, full of love and compassion, the complex and exciting skullduggery of politics, and the age-old quest for roots, identity, family … There is a marvelous tapestry of interwoven myth and magic that guides Anaya’s characters’ sensibilities, and is equally important in defining their feel of place. Above all, in this novel is a deep caring for land culture and for the spiritual well-being of people, environment, landscape.” —John Nichols, author of The Milagro Beanfield War: A Novel

“Alburquerque portrays a quest for knowledge.… [It] is a novel about many cultures intersecting at an urban, power- and politics-filled crossroads, represented by a powerful white businessman, whose mother just happens to be a Jew who has hidden her Jewishness … and a boy from the barrio who fathers a child raised in the barrio but who eventually goes on to a triumphant assertion of his cross-cultural self.” —World Literature Today

“Alburquerque fulfills two important functions: it restores the missing R to the name of the city, and it shows off Anaya’s powers as a novelist.” —National Public Radio

“Anaya is at his visionary best in creating magical realist moments that connect people with one another and the earth.” —The Review of Contemporary Fiction

“Anaya’s prowess shows through on every page.… Thumbs up.” —ABQ Arts

Tortuga

Winner of the American Book Award

“A compelling story of a young man who suffers and learns to make peace with who he is, Tortuga has that touch of magic, of fantastical characters, of dreams as real as sunlight, associated with the best of Chicano literature.” —Roundup Magazine

“Tortuga is one those rare works that speaks to the human condition across time and space, and it well-deserves to find a new generation of readers.” —Southwest BookViews

“A highly emotional tale of a young soul who turned from a turtle into a human all in the span of 200 pages.” —Reviewers of Young Adult Literature

My Land Sings

Winner of the Tomás Rivera Mexican American Children’s Book Award

“Rich in traditional Mexican and native American folklore. Every story spins its magic effectively.” —Booklist

“Haunting. Compelling twists will keep the pages turning.” —Publishers Weekly

“Anaya champions the reading of a good book or listening to a folktale as an opportunity to insert one’s own experiences into the story and, hence, to nurture the imagination. This appealing volume will add diversity to folklore collections.” —Booklist

“The wide variety of stories demonstrate a mature understanding of life’s trappings and dangers, but retain a healthy sense of humor about the human predicament.” —Kirkus Reviews

Serafina’s Stories

“[Serafina’s] stories are simple but vivid.… There is magic and mystery too.” —Los Angeles Times

“Anaya’s prose offers … purity. [Serafina’s Stories] will restore to all but the most jaded reader a necessary sense of wonder.” —National Public Radio

“Like Serafina, Anaya is a powerful storyteller whose cuentos and other writings are a balm for the soul.” —New Mexico Magazine

“It is not hard to predict that Serafina’s story will be hypnotic and entertain.… With Serafina’s Stories Anaya again reminds us of the importance of maintaining an oral tradition.” —San Antonio Express-News

“Rudolfo Anaya is both a wise man and a gifted storyteller. Serafina’s Stories [is] a series of engaging tales.” —Santa Fe New Mexican

“Anaya’s new book is a spellbinding account of a Native American woman who spins tales to enlighten the Spanish governor into setting her people free. Clearly conceived, Serafina’s Stories contains 12 folk tales that are as absorbing as the main plot.” —El Paso Times

Heart of Aztlan

“In Heart of Aztlan, a prose writer with the soul of poet, and a dedication to his calling that only the greatest artists ever sustain, is on an important track, the right one, the only one.” —La Confluencia

“[Heart of Aztlan gives] a vivid sense of Chicano life since World War II.” —World Literature Today

“Mixed with the Native American legends and Hispanic traditions of this wonderful book are the basic human motivations that touch all cultures. It is a rip-roaring good read.” —Cibola Beacon

Jalamanta

“A parable for our time … We are in deep need of simple truths, of rediscovering our ancient teachings, and Jalamanta may provide that opportunity.” —The Washington Post Book World

Zia Summer

“A compelling thriller … Though satisfying purely as a mystery, the novel sacrifices none of Anaya’s trademark spirituality—a connectedness to the earth and a deep-seated respect for the traditions of a people and a culture.… Read this multicultural novel for its rich language and full-bodied characters. Anaya is one of our greatest storytellers, and Zia Summer is muy caliente!” —Booklist

“[Anaya] continues to shine brightest with his trademark alchemy: blending Spanish, Mexican, and Indian cultures to evoke the distinctively fecund spiritual terrain of his part of the Southwest.” —Publishers Weekly

Rio Grande Fall

“This is a completely entertaining mystery novel, but Anaya offers two parallel lands of enchantment. One is temporal New Mexico; the other is Nuevo Mexicano, a land of santos, milagros, spirits, visions, and even brujas (witches).” —Booklist

Shaman Winter

“Be aware that if you only skate on the surface, you will miss the depth of the story. You have to dive head-first, literally, into the waves of poetic prose to catch a glimpse of the forces that keep our universe together.” —La Voz

“The fast-paced story line of Shaman Winter is fascinating and absolutely eerie as the master paints a vivid picture of the spirituality of another culture.” —Thrilling Detective

Jemez Spring

“Jemez Spring is meant to appeal to readers of conventional mystery novels, but there is nothing conventional about it.… It taps into primal and universal fears and longings but plays them out in a uniquely New Mexican setting. And the master tells his tales with worlds and images so rich and strange that it is almost as if he had invented a language of his own.” —Los Angeles Times

“Jemez Spring again blends the Spanish, Mexican, and Indian cultures that made the three earlier works in the series such good reads. Anaya is at his best when writing about the people of New Mexico, their traditions and their lives and how they clash with the influx of Anglos.” —San Antonio Express-News

“Anaya takes the reader beyond detective fiction.… His mysteries fall into the criminal and the spiritual, which makes them both inspiring and electrifying.” —St. Petersburg Times

“Unique and exciting … Readers thirsty for philosophy and the supernatural will devour this book.” —Daily Camera (Boulder)

“Anaya, godfather and guru of Chicano literature, proves he’s just as good in the murder mystery field.” —Tony Hillerman, author of The Blessing Way

Dedicated with love to my wife, Patricia.

She walks the path of the sun.

She sings the songs of the moon.

1

I awoke from a restless sleep. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was, then I heard Filomón and Clepo talking up front and I felt the wind sway the old ambulance. I tried to turn my body, but it was impossible. Upon waking it was always the same; I tried to move but the paralysis held me firmly in its grip.

I could turn my head and look out the small window. The cold winter rain was still falling. It had been only a gray drizzle when we left the hospital, but the farther south we went into the desert the sheets of icy rain became more intense. For a great part of the trip we had been surrounded by darkness. Only the flashes of lightning which tore through the sky illuminated the desolate landscape.

I had slept most of the way; the rain drumming against the ambulance and the rumble of the distant thunder lulled me to sleep. Now I blinked my eyes and remembered that we had left at daybreak, and Filomón had said that it would be mid-afternoon before we arrived at the new hospital.

Your new home, he had said.

Home. Up north, at home, it would be snowing, but here it was only the dark, dismal rain which swept across the wide desert and covered us with its darkness. I tried to turn again, but the paralysis compounded by the bone-chilling cold held me. I cursed silently.

“It’s never been this dark before,” I heard Clepo whisper.

“Don’t worry,” Filomón answered, “it’ll get better before it gets worse. You have to know the desert to know rain don’t last. It can be raining one minute and blowing dust devils the next. But the clouds are beginning to break, see, to the west.”

I turned my head and looked out the window. In the distance I could see the bare outline of a mountain range. Around us the desert was alkaline and white. Only the most tenacious shrubs and brittle grasses seemed to grow, clinging to the harsh land like tufts of mouldy hair. Overhead, the sun struggled to break through the clouds. To the east, a diffused, distorted rainbow stretched across the vast, gray sky.

I remembered the rainbows of my childhood, beautifully sculptured arches reaching from north to south, shafts of light so pure their harmony seemed to wed the sky and earth. My mother had taught me to look at rainbows, the mantle of the Blessed Virgin Mary she called them. When a summer thunderstorm passed she would take me out and we would stand in the thin drops which followed the storm. We would turn our faces up to the sky, and the large, glistening drops of rain would pelt our faces. She would open her mouth and hold out her tongue to receive the large, golden drops. She would stir the muddy ponds and pick up the little frogs which came with the rain. “They are like you,” she told me, “blessed by the rain, children of the water.” When I was hurt she would take me in her arms and sing.…

Sana, sana

colita de rana

Si no sanas hoy

sanarás mañana …

And her touch could drive away the worst of pains. But then the paralysis had come, and suddenly her prayers and her touch were not enough. Her face grew pale and thin, her eyes grew dark. “It is God’s will,” she had said.

“It’s clearing now,” Filomón said, “see, the sun is beginning to break through!”

“Yes, the sun!” Clepo shouted. He was Filomón’s assistant, a small impish man with hunched shoulders. I noticed he limped when they loaded me on the ambulance.

“I think I see the top of the mountain!” Filomón cried cheerfully.

I was fully awake. The last images of the dreams faded as the darkness of the rain moved over us and eastward. Only occasional peals of thunder rumbled across the sky. Beneath us the ambulance rocked like a ship. Memories of my life moved in and out of my troubled consciousness. My mother’s face appeared again and again. She had cried when they loaded me on the ambulance, but she knew it was necessary. The doctors there had helped as much as they could. Now, they insisted, they had to move me to this new hospital in the south where they specialized in taking care of crippled children. If there was any hope of regaining the use of my stiff limbs, it was there. So early in the morning they wheeled me on a gurney to the outpatient area, loaded me onto Filomón’s ambulance and the journey began.

“There!” Filomón shouted again, “There’s the mountain!”

I tried to turn my head to see, but I couldn’t. “What mountain?” I asked.

“Tortuga Mountain,” he said and looked back, “it’s right by the hospital. Don’t worry, I’ll stop so you can see it.” He sounded happy, revived, after the long, monotonous drive across the desert. I felt a sense of urgency as he pulled the ambulance onto the shoulder of the road. We bounced along until he found the right spot, then he stopped the ambulance and turned off the motor. He climbed over the seat to where I lay strapped on the small cot.

“Ah, Filo,” Clepo grumbled, “you’ve stopped here every time we bring a new kid. Don’t you ever get tired of showing them that damned mountain?”

“It’s always a new kid,” Filomón smiled as he loosened the straps that held me, “and each kid deserves to see the mountain from here. I want the boy to see it.”

Filomón was an old man with a deep wrinkled face and rough, calloused hands, but he moved like a younger man as he lifted me tenderly so I could look out the window and see the mountain.

“There it is,” he nodded, “that’s Tortuga.” His eyes sparkled as he looked at the volcanic mountain that loomed over the otherwise empty desert. It rose so magically into the gray sky that it seemed to hold the heavens and the earth together. It lay just east of the river valley, and the afternoon sun shining on it after the rain covered it with a sheen of silver.

“It’s a magic mountain,” Filomón whispered, and I felt his heart beating against me as he held me. “See!” he whispered, “See!” I tried to see beyond the volcanic slabs and granite boulders which formed the outline of a turtle, I tried to sense the steady rhythm of his pulse which seemed to be draining into the giant mountain, but I couldn’t. I was too tired, and my faith in magic had drained out the night the paralysis came and in the ensuing nights and days which I spent without movement on the hospital bed.

I shook my head.

“That’s okay,” he smiled, “it comes slowly sometimes. But now at least you know it’s there—” He seemed very tired. It had been a long trip for him too. He had had to keep the ambulance on course through one of the worst storms I could remember. But now we were almost there.

“Where’s the hospital?” I asked.

“It’s on this side of the river, you can’t see it from here. See the smoke rising in the valley? That’s Agua Bendita. It’s a small town, but people come from all over to bathe in the mineral waters from the springs which drain from the mountain—”

“It’s a town full of old arthritics,” Clepo giggled, “old people who think they can escape the pains of old age by dipping themselves in the mountain’s water, but they can’t run fast enough from death!” He slapped his thigh and laughed.

Filomón didn’t answer. He sat beside the cot and looked out the window into the desert. “Even as terrible as the storm was for us, it will be good for the plants in the spring. After a good, wet winter the desert blooms like a garden,” he nodded and rolled a cigarette. There was something about the way he spoke, the strength of his face, that reminded me of someone I had known—my grandfather perhaps, but I hadn’t thought of him in years.

“These old villages cling to the river like the beads of a rosary,” he continued, thinking aloud.

“Whoever crosses this desert has a lot of praying to do,” Clepo agreed, “it’s a journey of death.”

“No, a journey of life. Our forefathers have wandered up and down this river valley for a long, long time. First the Indians roamed up and down this river, then others came, but they all stopped here at this same place: the springs of Tortuga, the place of the healing water—”

He talked and smoked. The dull sun shone through the window and played on the swirling smoke. I was fully awake now, but I felt feverish, and I couldn’t help wondering what a strange day it had been to ride all this way with the old man and his assistant. I shivered, but not from the cold. The inside of the ambulance was now stifling. It glowed with white smoke and golden light which poured through the window. Filomón’s eyes shone.

“How long have you been bringing kids to the hospital?” I asked.

“As long as I can remember,” Filomón answered. “I bought this old hearse in a junk yard and I fixed it up like an ambulance. I’ve been transporting kids ever since.”

“We get thirty dollars a kid, dead or alive,” Clepo laughed. “And we get to hear a lot of interesting stories. We’ve taken every kind of diseased body there is to the hospital. Why, Filo and I could become doctors if we wanted to, couldn’t we Filo? But we don’t know anything about you. You slept most of the way.” He leaned over the seat and peered at me.

“He’s tired,” Filomón said.

“Yeah, but he’s awake now,” Clepo grinned. “So how did he get crippled? I know it ain’t polio, I know polio. And how come his left hand is bandaged, huh? There’s quite a story there, but he hasn’t said a word!”

He seemed put out that I had slept most of the way and had not told the story of my past. But since the paralysis the past didn’t matter. It was as if everything had died, except the dreams and the memories which kept haunting me. And even those were useless against the terrible weight which had fallen over me and which I cursed until I could curse no more.

“Do you take the kids back?” I asked.

“No, we don’t!” Clepo said, “That’s against the rules!”

“I picked you up,” Filomón reminded him.

“I was hitch-hiking,” Clepo said smartly, “somebody would have picked me up.”

“You were lost. I found you in the middle of a sandstorm, crying. Lucky for you I came along.”

“I wasn’t crying, I had sand in my eyes,” Clepo insisted.

Filomón smiled. “It doesn’t matter, you’ve been a good assistant.” That seemed to satisfy Clepo, he grunted and sat back down. Filomón drew close and looked at me. “We can’t take anybody back, that’s not our job. But when you get better you can make the trip back home by yourself. Just wait till spring, and you’ll be better. I know it looks bad now, but in the spring the river comes alive and the desert dresses like a young bride. The lizards come out to play in the warm sun, and even the mountain moves—” He touched my forehead with his fingers, then he leaned close to me and I felt his forehead touch mine, perhaps he was just leaning to retrieve one of the straps to tie me up again, but I felt his forehead brush mine, and I felt a relief from the paralysis which I hadn’t felt since it came. Then he tied the strap and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

“Filomón says you gotta keep your eyes on the mountain,” Clepo said to fill in the silence.

“Well, it’s helped us,” Filomón answered, “it’s been our faith in this wasteland … and it’s helped a lot of kids. There’s a strong power there.”

He started the ambulance and let it coast down the long slope of the hill into the valley. I knew he was still looking at the mountain, still feeling the strange power that resided there for him.

“The water from the mountain springs is holy,” he mused aloud, “long ago the place was used as a winter ceremonial ground by the Indians. They came to purify themselves by bathing in the warm waters … the waters of the turtle … Later, when the Spaniards came, they called the springs Los Ojos de la Tortuga, and when they discovered the waters could cure many illnesses they called the village Agua Bendita …”

“Who lives here?” I asked. We had entered the edge of the small town. Through the window I could see the tops of rundown gas stations, motels and cafes. There was a dilapidated movie house, a brownstone hotel, and many signs which creaked in the wind as they advertised the hot mineral baths.

“Mostly old people who come for the baths, people who work at the hospital, and a few of the old people who try to make a living from the small farms along the river—”

Filomón turned the ambulance and I caught a glimpse of a weathered sign that read Crippled Children and Orphans Hospital. The arrow pointed up the hill, so from the highway which ran through the small town we had to turn up the hill again towards the washed-out buildings which huddled together at the top. I struggled to turn to see more, instinctively, as I had so many times before, but it was useless, I couldn’t move. I could only turn my head and watch the mountain across the valley. An air of hopelessness brooded over the dull mountain as the remaining winter clouds huddled at its peak. It seemed lost and out of place in the immense desert which surrounded it, and I wondered what secret rested in its core. Whatever it was, it was something that made Filomón’s voice ring with hope and made his eyes sparkle even after the fatigue of the long journey.

“The doctors here can work miracles,” Filomón was saying, “they’ve got ways now of straightening out bones and sewing together nerves and flesh—”

“Yeah, but they didn’t fix my limp,” Clepo said. “And they sure as hell don’t believe in all this mumbo jumbo you’ve been giving the kid.”

“Don’t mind Clepo,” Filomón laughed, “he just likes to act tough, but deep down inside he knows—”

But what is there to know, I wondered, as the huge bulk of the mountain held me hynotized. The shape of the old volcano was obvious. Its hump curved down like a bow to a reptilian head. Huge, volcanic slabs of dark lava formed the massive plates of the shell. Near the bottom, jagged hills and the shadows of deep ravines created the illusion of webbed, leathery feet. Even the glaze of rain glistening on its back reminded me of the way the back of a snake or a toad will shine with oily rainbow colors. The more I gazed at it the more alive it grew, until I thought I was actually looking at a giant turtle which had paused to rest for the night. But where was its magic? Nothing seemed to grow on its sides; it was bare and dark and gloomy.

“Listen carefully and you’ll hear the underground river which flows from Tortuga,” Filomón was saying. “There are huge caverns beneath the mountain, and through them run powerful rivers, rivers of turtle pee. Yes, that old mountain is alive … a real sea turtle which wandered north when the oceans dried and became deserts. But it’s alive, just waiting for another earth change to come along and free it from its prison. And it will happen. The old people told the stories that everything comes in cycles, even time itself … so the oceans will return and cover everything as they once did. Then Tortuga will be free—”

“You’re crazy, Filo,” Clepo laughed.

“And is that its secret,” I asked bitterly, “to wait until the ocean returns? I don’t want to wait that long! I want to move, now!” I cursed and struggled against the paralysis which held me as tight as the earth held Filomón’s turtle.

“It takes time,” Filomón said.

“Yeah, time,” Clepo agreed.

“How much time?” I asked aloud, “How much time?” I agreed with Clepo, Filomón was crazy. The sea would never return. The earth was drying up and dying. Even the rain which pelted us during the trip fell hot and boiling on the empty desert. I had no faith left to believe his crazy story. Already the paralysis seemed to have gripped me forever.

“Here’s the hospital,” Filomón said. He had turned into a graveled driveway bordered by bare trees. I looked out the window and caught sight of the grey buildings. Winter-burned juniper bushes pressed against the wind-scoured hospital walls.

“It was a long trip,” Clepo stretched and yawned, then he added, “I’m glad I’m not at this damned place anymore. Gives me the shivers—”

“It’s always a long trip,” Filomón said as he turned the ambulance and backed it up to the door, “and just the beginning for him—” I knew he meant me.

Clepo jumped out and opened the door. The cold air made me shiver. Overhead the wind drove the thin, icy clouds towards the mountain.

“Looks like snow,” I heard someone say. “This the new kid?”

“It ain’t Goldilocks,” Clepo chattered. The voice belonged to the attendant who had brought a gurney. Together they slid out the cot and lifting me gently onto the gurney, covered me with a blanket, then pushed me through the open door and into the darkness of an enormous room.

“Filomón!” I called.

“Right here,” he answered.

“Are you going back now?”

“As soon as the doctor signs the papers—”

“As soon as they sign the papers we’re no longer responsible for you,” Clepo added.

“Where are we?” I asked. The size of the room, its gloom and staleness were disturbing. I turned my head and peered into the darkness. I saw people lining the walls of the room, mostly women. They were dressed in dark clothes. Some held small children in their arms. All seemed to be crippled. Some wore braces, some crutches, others sat quietly in wheelchairs. Above them, on the high walls, hung huge portraits of solemn-looking men.

“This is the receiving room,” Filomón explained. “Everybody that comes to the hospital gets admitted here. All the doctors’ offices are up here, behind them is the surgery ward. Don’t worry, as soon as the doctor checks you in you’ll get sent to a ward in the back.”

“How many wards are there?” I asked.

“Too many,” Clepo answered. “I’m going to buy a Coke,” he said and wandered off.

“It must be visiting day,” Filomón continued, “the parents who live close by can come and visit their children.” Then he added as if in warning, “Your folks are way up north, and it’s hard to make that long trip across the desert … don’t expect too many visits.”

“I know,” I nodded. How well I knew the poverty and misery which surrounded us and suffocated us and held us enslaved as the paralysis held me now. There would be no money, no way for my mother to come, and perhaps it would be better if she didn’t come. What could she do for me now, sit and look at me as the women who lined the walls sat and looked at their crippled children? No, that I didn’t want. Better to write her and tell her not to worry, or to send a message with Filomón and tell them that I understood how hard times were and that whatever happened to me here at the hospital it was better if I worked it out alone. Pity could not help me, and I had long ago lost the faith in my mother’s gods.

“Tell them not to come, if you see them,” I said to Filomón.

“I will,” he nodded. At the same time a young girl appeared by the side of the gurney and Filomón’s eyes lit up. “Ah, Ismelda,” he smiled. “What are you doing here?”

The girl smiled. “I’m helping the nurses bring the kids from the wards for their visits … it’s been a busy day, in spite of the cold. Is this the new boy?” she asked and looked at me. She had a warm smile. Her dark eyes and long hair set off the most beautiful oval face I had ever seen. She was about my age, maybe a little older, but dressed in the white uniform of a nurse’s aide.

“Yeah, we just brought him in,” Filomón nodded.

“Paralysis,” she murmured as she touched my forehead and brushed back my hair. Her touch sent a tingle running down my back and arms. Her eyes bore into mine with the same intensity I had felt in Filomón’s eyes. She rubbed my forehead gently and looked at Filomón.

“He busted his back,” Filomón said, and added, “he’s from up north.”

“I can tell that from his dark, curly hair,” she smiled. “And he’s thirsty.” She disappeared. How she knew I was thirsty I didn’t know, but I was. My throat felt parched and I felt a fever building up deep in my guts.

“What does she do here?” I asked Filomón.

“She lives with Josefa in the valley, just on the outskirts of the town. They both work here. They do beds, sweep floors, help in anyway they can—”

She returned and held a straw to my lips. I sucked greedily and felt the cold water wash down my throat. It was the first drink I had had all day and it instantly refreshed me.

“Good,” I said when I had finished, “tastes strong.”

“The water of the mountain is strong,” she nodded, “that’s because it’s full of good medicine.”

I didn’t know if it was the water which had refreshed me or her touch, but I felt better. When I looked from her to Filomón I had the strange feeling that they knew each other very well. They had greeted each other like old friends and the sense of ease that passed between them helped to dispel the dread which had filled me the moment I entered the room.

“I have to go,” she said and touched my hand. “Visiting hours are almost over and we have to return the kids to their rooms. But I’ll come and see you.” She squeezed my hand and I felt the pressure. Instinctively I squeezed back and felt my fingers respond, lock in hers for a moment, felt a surge of energy pass through our hands, then she was gone. Someone stuck a thermometer in my mouth before I could call her name.

“You’ll dream about that girl,” Filomón smiled, “she’s very strong … knows the mountain.”

Clepo reappeared. He had poured salted peanuts into his coke bottle and when he held it up to drink his red tongue reached into the bottle in search of the illusive, floating peanuts.

“Want some?” he asked me. I shook my head.

The nurse pulled out the thermometer, glanced at it and motioned for an orderly. “Get this kid over to Steel’s receiving room,” she snapped. “That’s it, Filomón,” she said as she signed the paper on his clipboard, then she walked away.

“Hey, you’re getting Steel for a doctor,” Filomón whispered, “he’s the best.”

“The kids like him,” Clepo nodded, “he used to be my doctor.”

The orderly began to push the gurney. Filomón stopped him for a moment, leaned over and whispered, “Remember, keep your eye on the mountain, that’s the secret. Watch this girl Ismelda, she and Josefa know a lot of strong medicine …” Then the orderly began to push the gurney again and I saw Filomón and Clepo wave goodbye.

“Wait till spring!” Filomón called, and Clepo repeated, “Yeah, wait till spring!”

Somewhere in the enormous room a harsh voice called, “Visiting hours are over!” The people rose and began to leave, some of the children cried. I turned my head to call to Filomón, because the dread of the hospital had returned and I didn’t want to be alone, but I couldn’t see him.

“See you in the spring!” I thought I heard him shout above the noise of departure, “Just wait till spring!” then the orderly pushed me out of the room and into a long quiet hall. He pushed the gurney into a brightly lighted room and left. The glare from the overhead lamp hurt my eyes, so I closed them and waited. In my mind I could see Filomón and Clepo waving goodbye. I tried to recall the desert we had crossed, but it was so wide and lifeless that I couldn’t remember its features. The sun seemed to burn it lifeless. Whirlwinds rose like snakes into the sky. Then the rain came and pounded us and made me sleep.

Now here I was, somewhere in the middle of that desert, but I really didn’t know where. My last contact with home had been Filomón and Clepo, now they were gone. But the girl, Ismelda was here. I could still feel her touch, and I could remember her face clearly.

A nurse interrupted my thoughts. She took my temperature again, felt the pulse at my wrist and asked me if I had had a bm. I laughed. It was such a crazy question. She smiled and went on to ask me other questions. She recorded the answers on a chart. When she was done she said the doctor would be in shortly and left. I closed my eyes again and lay listening to the sounds of the hospital.

I could hear the sound of kids yelling; sometimes they seemed to pass by outside. I listened very closely and thought I heard the sound of water gurgling far beneath the earth. I floated in and out of light sleep and dreamed of my mother, and she said that all was the will of God and could not be questioned … and then my father appeared, and he said that each man was forced to live by his destiny and there was no escaping it … and I was about to curse both views which sought in vain to explain my paralysis when someone touched my shoulder.

“Sleeping?” the doctor said. He held my wrist and felt my pulse. His eyes were slate blue, piercing. He smiled. “It was a long trip, wasn’t it?” I nodded. He placed his stethoscope to my chest and listened. “Any pain?”

“I think the bedsores on my ass and feet are burning again,” I said. The first week I was in the hospital they had kept me in traction and on my back so the bed had burned sores which bled into my buttocks and my heels. Now Steel looked at them and shook his head.

“Bad burns,” he said. “The trip didn’t help any. I’ll have the nurse clean them and put something on to relieve the burning and itch. He gave me a long examination, jabbing a pin up and down my arms, trying to find a live spot, asking me to try to move different muscles in my legs which seemed completely dead. When he finished he said, “We’re going to do some x-rays and have a look at the back—” and he gave instructions to the nurse and she and the orderly wheeled me into the x-ray room. They slid me onto the hard, shiny surface of the table, the technician straightened me out and from somewhere behind a screen told me to hold my breath. I looked up and saw the metallic shutter wink, felt something like a warm liquid pass through my bones, then the whirring sound died. The technician repeated the procedure, propping me on my side to get side views, and took over a dozen pictures. It was uncomfortable and painful The more he worked over me, the more I felt the fever returning inside my stomach. Finally I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the clicking and the buzzing of the machine and the “Hold your breath,” “Just one more” of the pale, thin technician. I thought of Filomón riding across the empty desert in his remodeled hearse, and I laughed bitterly to myself. Maybe I had really died and the whole idea of the hospital was just a dream to keep from facing that reality … and I suddenly thought about how much Filomón reminded me of my grandfather. He used to come riding across the wide plain in a mule-pulled wagon, the most beautiful cream-colored mules in the entire country … lashing the air with his whip … coming to visit us.…

“Just one more fuckin’ time!” the technician swore beneath his breath. Sweat poured from his forehead. “That Steel is a sonofabitch. If it’s not just right he’ll send it back—”

But Steel didn’t reject any of the x-rays. When they were dry and hanging on the illuminated glass he looked at each one carefully, made some notes, then he turned around.

“Okay,” he said, “looks good. How long were you in traction?” he asked.

I didn’t remember. I only remembered the long, agonizing nights, the suffocation, the heat, the sweat which wet the sheets, and how I tried not to sleep because I thought if I did I would die.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “they did a good job. You don’t need surgery. I think the best thing for you would be a nice sturdy body cast, from the belly button to the top of your head. That way we can start you on physical therapy as soon as possible. You need that if we’re going to try to save the legs. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Good. If there’s anything left in those legs I’m going to find it, and we’ll go as far as we can. But you’ve got to help. I don’t want you to give up.” His voice was firm, but it was sincere. He wanted to help. “You have to keep working at it all the time,” he said. He placed two fingers in my hand and said “Squeeze,” and I squeezed. “That hand is strong, so’s the arm—”

It was strange, but I couldn’t remember squeezing anything with my hand up to the time Ismelda held my hand. Now my body seemed to want to come alive. It was a new sensation, especially sharp because of the dread I had lived with since the night of the paralysis.

“I do want to walk,” I said eagerly. I did want to walk and run free again!

“Good,” he nodded, “then you and I are in business. Let’s get with it. First the barber. He’s going to cut your hair, shave it. It’ll be more comfortable and easier to work with when the cast goes around your head,” he explained as a short, pudgy man entered the room. “Okay, Cano, make him bald.”

“Yes sir,” Cano said and snapped open a cloth which he threw around me. “How you doin’, kid,” he smiled and began cutting. He talked continuously while he cut, and when he smiled his thin, penciled mustache turned up at the edges. “You got good hair, dark and wavy, the kind girls like,” he winked and rolled his eyes, ooh-la-la. “My poor mother, she used to say hair like this should be burned so the witches don’t get hold of it … they like to build nests in it. Just like a woman, huh, build a nest in your hair!” He roared with laughter and swept aside the hair he had cut. “My mother believed in witches … see?” he held up his hand. He had only four fingers. “She says I got this cause a curse was put on her when I was in her belly. Who knows. Dr. Steel, he wanted to make me a new finger, and I bet he could, these doctors can do anything nowadays, they’re getting too much power, like God, but I said, ‘No thanks, Doc, if I can clip hair with four fingers then I’m happy. Don’t go tampering with God’s ways’, I said to him …”

He finished cutting, lathered the top of my head with thick, warm soap, slapped his razor on a leather strap and began shaving.

“So how old are you, kid?” he asked.

“Sixteen,” I answered.

“You’re lucky, you still got lots of time in life. You’ll like it here. They got everything for you, a swimming pool, school, church, good food, TV, games, everything. For some of the kids it’s better than home … some don’t wanna leave after awhile …”

I felt cold as the razor shaved swathes across the top of my head.

“So what happened to you?” he asked as he wiped his razor on a cloth on my chest.

“Accident—”

“Ah, life is full of accidents. Too many kids get hurt nowadays. Polio, epilepsy, everything … sometimes I get sad when I see it all. Wonder why God would do a thing like that. One day I asked Filo. You came with Filo, right? Well, he’s a smart man. Must be over a hundred years old and still carting the kids around. Anyway, you know what he said? He said it’s just a waystation on the journey of life. I don’ know what he meant. Do you?”

I shook my head. He wiped my bald head with a wet cloth then dried it. “No, I don’ know what he meant. ‘This is like a station’, he said, so that means there are more. And here they sew you kids back together. They can take a piece of bone from the tail and put it in your arm. They can take bones broken in ten places and put them together with steel pins. They can make crooked feet straight. Kids you think are dead, they bring to life … damn, one of these days they are going to put a motor in you and make you walk whether you want to or not!” He laughed uneasily. His mood had grown serious. “So that’s it, kid,” he smiled and held up a hand mirror. I looked at my shiny bald head. My arched nose and dark eyes seemed more pronounced without the hair.

“Don’ worry,” he said, “it will grow back. Better than my finger, which never grew. You know, they say hair grows even on people who are dead—” He gathered up his tools and went out waving and saying, “Don’ worry, kid, it will grow back …”

I closed my eyes and thought, but if it grows equally on the dead and the living, how can one tell if he is alive or dead? And this Dr. Steel, I thought, the miracle worker according to Cano, what in the hell is he going to do with me? How in the hell is this cast going to help me walk? What do I have to find inside this broken body to make it move again? I strained and pushed my legs, but felt nothing. Damn, I cursed, damn!

Then I lay quietly and listened to the hospital sounds. I thought I heard a group of girls calling to each other. Clepo had said something about a girls’ ward. Somewhere someone strummed on a guitar and sang softly …

It’s been a blue, blue day

I feel like running away

I feel like running away from it all …

Dr. Steel reappeared with two other doctors. “These are the plasterers,” he said as he inspected my head. “Cano did a good job, not a scratch.” He ran his hand over my bald head.

“Looks as bald as the mountain,” one of them joked.

“Well, let’s give him a shell, then. You ready?” Dr. Steel asked. I nodded and they went to work. They worked quietly and efficiently. One of them mixed the gypsum with water and a smell of fresh, wet earth filled the room. Dr. Steel and the other man covered me with cotton bandages and a thick gauze. They wet the bandages in the mixture and covered me with them, winding the bandages around and around. The cast grew quickly, covering me from my hips to the top of my head with a hole left for my face and ears. I closed my eyes as the shell grew. With Dr. Steel directing the operation I felt in safe hands. He was a cold, methodical person, but he knew what he was doing. So I lost interest in the process and retreated into my thoughts, and there I saw the image of the mountain, imprisoned like me, until, as Filomón said, an earth change would come and free it. Did he mean that I would have to learn to be patient like the mountain, to sleep in my shell until the blood clotted and I was barely alive … just waiting for the spring …

“But why the spring?” I wondered aloud.

“Yeah, almost through,” the doctor answered.

The shell tightened around me, from my navel to the top of my head, with holes for my arms so I could drag myself around like Tortuga, when the sea swept over the desert again … white and pure as the plaster my mother’s saints were made of.… Outside the winter wind moaned and I wondered what time it was. Someone sang

Who’ca took’ca my soda cracker

Does your mama chew tobaccer …

“Damn kids,” the doctor laughed. He leaned back and lit a cigarette. They were done. Only Steel continued pulling and tugging at the cast, trying to get it perfect.

“Good enough to dry,” one of them said. They looked at Steel. Finally he nodded. “Yes, good enough to dry. It’s going to set straight as a ramrod.”

So I was safe, safe in my new shell, safe as the mountain, shouldering a new burden which was already tightening on me.

“You’ll feel it tighten a bit,” Steel said, “but that’s normal. We’ll give it a little while to dry and then we’ll x-ray to make sure it’s set straight. Then you’re on your way,” he patted my arm and they went out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Safe as hell, I thought. Safe in my new shell. Safe as the mountain. With the door shut the room grew hot and stifling. I drifted in and out of troubled sleep. Once I thought I heard someone open the door.

“Hey, there’s somebody in here.”

“One of Steel’s new ones … drying out, looks like.”

“Let’s use another room.”

“Whatever you say nurse …”

They went out and so did the lights. The dark grew more oppressive. The cast tightened like a vise around my chest, its sharp edges dug into my stomach. I called out a couple of times, but no one heard me. With the door shut I couldn’t hear any of the sounds in the hall, but if I lay very quietly I could hear the sound of water running somewhere. I listened to the rushing sound for a long time, then no longer able to hold my own water I wet the gurney mattress and the sheet that covered me. I cursed, tried to turn my head and discovered that I no longer had even that freedom. I cursed again and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t with the cast tightening in on me and the heat of the room suffocating me. The nurse had cleaned my bedsores and powdered them with something, but they were hurting again, burning and sending stabs of pain up my back. I was about to call again when I heard the door open, saw the shaft of light on the ceiling, then heard it close.

“Doctor!” I called out. “Nurse!” But there wasn’t anybody there. Someone had just looked in and I had missed my chance. Then I felt a presence in the room. Someone had come in and was standing by the door! I held my breath and listened and I heard someone moving very softly towards me.

“Who’s there?” I asked. There was no answer, but someone was in the room. “Who’s there?” I called again.

“I been watching you since you got here,” a voice answered.

“Who are you?”

“Never mind who I am! But I know who you are,” the voice answered. There was a threat in the sharp answer.

“Call the doctor,” I said.

“No!”

“Then I’ll call him myself—” I started to shout but a thin, withered hand clamped my mouth shut. I gagged at the rancid fishy smell on the hand. I spit and tried to shout but the dirty, scaly hand held tight.

“The doctors are all on a coffee break,” he taunted, “and by the time they get back it will be too late, turtle!” He laughed and drew closer and I could smell his bad breath and see his yellow eyes shining in the dark. “Don’t shout!” he hissed, “Don’t shout and I’ll let you loose—” Slowly he removed his dry, twisted hand from my mouth.

I gasped for air. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I heard you were here … you came today with Filomón. Did he tell you his crazy stories about the mountain?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered. He sounded crazy.

“Oh yes you do, Tortuga!” he snapped. “Don’t get smart with me! I saw Filomón bring you in! I know Cano cut your hair! Now they put you in this turtle shell, trying to make you like a turtle! So Filomón says everytime the mountain moves somebody in here moves! That’s his story. And he thinks you can beat the paralysis that keeps you on your back like an overturned turtle. Well, I think that’s a bunch of bullshit! You hear me, Tortuga? Bullshit! Go ahead! Try moving! Try it!” His voice rose, shrill and insane.

“You’re crazy,” I said.

“Crazy, huh,” he sneered. “See this hand?” He held up his withered hand for me to see. “It’s been drying up like this for a year, and nobody can do anything about it! I used to believe in Filomón’s crazy stories, but that didn’t do any good either!”

He was shouting and panting. His spittle fell on my face, and his eyes opened wide and glowed in the dim light.

“So you’re supposed to be the new Tortuga, huh! They gave you a large shell, just like the mountain, huh! Well I’m going to find out if Filomón’s story is true or not! Let’s see if you can move!”

He struck a match. The light flared in the dark and filled the air with the sharp smell of sulphur. In the light I could see his face, twisted and angry, and his withered hand which was brown and wrinkled.

“I’m going to find out if you’re Tortuga!” he shouted and brought the match close to my eyes.

“Tortuga!” I shouted, “You’re crazy!” I tried to turn my face from the hot flame but I couldn’t.

“Move!” he shouted. “Move, mountain! Come and cure my hand! Move, Tortuga!”

“No!” I cried. “I can’t!” I closed my eyes and smelled my singed eyelashes.

“Move, Tortuga!” he shouted insanely, “Move! Show us the secret!”

Just as the hot flame seared my eyes I heard the door open and somebody shouted, “Danny! What the hell are you doing in here!”

Lights flooded the room. The hot flame quickly disappeared.

“Nah-nothing,” the boy named Danny whimpered and drew away. I opened my eyes and saw him move around the gurney. “I was just visiting, Mike, I, I was just visiting with Tortuga—”

“The hell you were!” Mike shouted at him. “You’re up to no good again! Get the fuck outta here or I’ll break your goddamned arm!”

I heard Danny run out of the room, then the squeak of a wheelchair as Mike approached me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“You came just in time,” I answered. “I don’t know why he did it, but he was holding a match up to my face—”

“He’s crazy,” Mike swore, “he does crazy things. Once I lay the law on him he behaves pretty well—Hey, you’re the new kid the ward is talking about. Just got in with Filo, huh? I’m Mike. I heard Danny call you Tortuga, like the mountain, fits now that you got that body cast … you kinda look like a turtle, you know.” He tapped the cast. “They did a beautiful job on it, bet Steel did it.”

“Someone taking my name in vain,” Dr. Steel said as he entered the room.

“Hey, doc, how you doing? I was just talking to Tortuga here, praising your work …”

“Tortuga,” Dr. Steel murmured as he tapped the cast and felt its dryness, “so Mike’s given you a nickname already—”

“Fits, don’t it?” Mike smiled. “Besides, Danny beat me to the punch. Danny gave him the name.”

Dr. Steel smiled. “Yeah, Tortuga fits just right. How does the cast feel?”

“A little tight.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he nodded.

“Cuts around the stomach, shoulders—”

“That’s no problem. We trim that and tape it. Feel up to an x-ray?”

“Sure.”