Owl Dance Read online

  Through the course of the service, Fatemeh sat in rapt attention. Occasionally she would lean over and ask Ramon what was being said or the meaning of some prayer. He was embarrassed to admit he didn’t know all the Latin being spoken. She frowned. “Bahá’u’lláh teaches us to investigate the scriptures ourselves, so we know what they say.”

  Ramon put his fingers to his lips to indicate she shouldn’t speak so loudly, but silently he thought there was wisdom in her words. When time came for the Eucharist, Ramon stood, but indicated Fatemeh should remain seated. He knew some churches didn’t approve of communion with non-Christians.

  After Mass was complete, the priest strode to the rear of the sanctuary and the congregation began to file out. The apothecary crossed the aisle and glared at Fatemeh. “I’m surprised to see you here. I noticed you didn’t partake of the Eucharist.”

  Fatemeh opened her mouth to respond, but the sound of the priest clearing his throat cut through the murmur of the crowd. Ramon, Fatemeh and the apothecary all turned. “Mr. Candelaria,” said the priest. “All are welcome in God’s house. You know that.”

  “Yes, Father Duran.” The apothecary nodded toward the priest and then departed, but not before casting one more sidelong glance at Fatemeh.

  << >>

  As spring progressed into summer, Ramon and Fatemeh became more settled in the Castillos’ boarding house. Ramon’s job kept him at the ranch for long hours. In the meantime, Fatemeh learned Mr. Castillo suffered from arthritis. Standing and working around the house for long hours was extremely painful to him. Fatemeh went to her wagon and mixed some herbs into a poultice he could rub on his joints at night. Within a few weeks, he felt better and began spreading the word about her skills as a curandera. He also gave them an improved rate on their rooms.

  One night, Fatemeh finished dinner at the Castillos’ boarding house and looked up with a sigh. Ramon was not back from work at the ranch. Looking over to the calendar, she saw it was nearly the end of October. Hardly able to believe so much time had passed, she patted her lips with a napkin. She stood and took her plates to the kitchen, and then went upstairs. The sun had set about a half hour before and shadows filled her room. Fatemeh lit two lamps, then sat down and pulled off her shoes. She looked forward to the next chapter of the novel she’d purchased two days before—From the Earth to the Moon by Jules Verne. Just as she picked up the book, there was a knock at the door. Thinking it was Ramon, she put the book down and said, “Come in.”

  Instead of Ramon, a short woman wearing a hooded cloak stepped through the door. “I am sorry to intrude,” said the woman. “Are you Fatemeh Karimi?”

  “I am.” Fatemeh stood and gestured for the woman to take the room’s other chair.

  The woman pushed back the hood of her cloak. Black hair framed pale skin. “My name is Mercedes Rodriguez,” she said. “I have heard you are a curandera.”

  Fatemeh inclined her head. “What can I do to help?”

  The woman sat and looked at her hands. “I don’t really know where to begin. I have not been well for many years. I am very sensitive to sunlight and sometimes I suffer serious stomach pain.” She lowered her voice, almost as though she was afraid to continue. “There are times I can’t think straight and I start to feel very anxious. When I’ve gone to doctors or the apothecary, they treat me like I’m some kind of monster. I just want something to help.”

  “Why do they think you’re a monster?” Fatemeh’s brow creased.

  “They say I have a problem with the blood.” Mercedes looked up into Fatemeh’s eyes. “They say I’m like a vampire.”

  Fatemeh took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She knew all too well what it was like to be misunderstood. She retrieved a jar from the large carpetbag beside the bed, and then pulled out three more jars and a small cloth pouch. She poured leaves and flower petals from three of the jars into the pouch. “When you start to feel anxious, make a tea from this mixture.” Opening the fourth jar, she counted out five leaves. “These are coca leaves from South America. Chew on one when the pain becomes too much to bear. However, it may increase your sense of anxiety, so have some of the tea ready.”

  “Thank you, Miss Karimi.” Mercedes left a coin on the table next to Fatemeh’s book.

  “Come back if you have any more problems, or if these don’t help.” Fatemeh handed the leaves and the cloth bag to Mercedes.

  “Mercy smiles upon you,” she said. She pulled the cloak’s hood up over her head. Fatemeh opened the door for Mercedes and watched as she walked down the hall. Sighing, she wondered how scientific men such as doctors and apothecaries could believe in vampires. She closed the door and went back to the bed to repack the carpetbag.

  << >>

  The next morning, a man named Luther Duncan, wearing a bowler hat and pinstripe suit, eyed the wanted posters tacked to a wooden board outside the Mesilla Town Marshal’s office. A reporter for the Mesilla News, Duncan was always on the lookout for a good story. He already had a great one lined up. A friend back in Washington, D.C. wired to tell him the Russian military attaché was traveling to California and would pass through Mesilla on the train in a few days’ time. Duncan planned to be on hand to interview the foreign dignitary. However, there were issues of the paper to fill before the general’s arrival.

  One of the wanted posters caught Duncan’s eye. It showed a man with a round but stern face and owlish glasses named Ramon Morales. According to the poster, Morales was wanted for assaulting the Bishop of Socorro and for abandoning his duly elected job as Socorro County Sheriff. Duncan inclined his head and studied the picture. He took out a pad of paper and a pencil and jotted down some notes.

  One of the deputies stepped out of the building. “Can I help you, Mr. Duncan?”

  Duncan nodded thoughtfully. “What can you tell me about this Ramon Morales?”

  “Don’t know much,” said the deputy. “We just got the wanted poster today. Apparently he tried to burn down the San Miguel Church in Socorro and when he didn’t succeed he ran away with his girlfriend.”

  “Really!” Duncan lifted his eyebrows. “Any idea where he went?”

  The deputy shook his head. “No idea, but we’re keeping an eye out for him. He might well come through here. Lots of work at the ranches, so he might try to blend in.”

  “Either that, or he might come this way for the train. He might be long gone.”

  “That’s always possible,” agreed the deputy.

  “Thank you for your time.” Duncan made a few more notes, then folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. The deputy tipped his hat and continued on his way. Duncan looked at the picture of Ramon Morales one more time and then decided it was time visit his friend Warren Shedd, who owned the San Augustin Ranch.

  << >>

  Fatemeh awoke to the aroma of baking bread. She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs. She found Ramon in the dining room of the Castillos’ boarding house, already eating breakfast. “Where were you last night?” she asked, hands on her hips. “I was worried.”

  “You were?” Ramon quickly blinked back a look of surprise and smiled. “Sorry, we had a long day. When we were finished, the rest of the boys asked if I would go to the saloon with them.”

  “You know I don’t like saloons.” Fatemeh sat down at the table.

  Ramon nodded and took a bite of his bacon. “That’s why I didn’t come back here first.”

  Fatemeh scowled at him as Mrs. Castillo stepped into the room, carrying a bunch of flowers. “Ah, Fatemeh dear, I see you’re awake. I’ll get you some breakfast straight away.” She placed the flowers into a vase and carefully arranged them.

  “Thank you,” said Fatemeh. “By the way, the bread you’re baking smells wonderful.”

  “Gracias. It’s pan de muerto. I’m making it for supper.” With that, Mrs. Castillo turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Fatemeh was beginning to pick up a little Spanish. “Did I understand her right? Pan de muerto?”


  “You did.” Ramon pushed his glasses up on his nose. “It means bread of the dead.”

  Fatemeh’s eyes widened. “She’s kidding, right?”

  Ramon shook his head. “Not at all. It’s Diá de los Muertos—The Day of the Dead. People go out to the cemetery and set up altars to their loved ones, sing songs, and play games. We didn’t celebrate it much up in Socorro, but I’ve heard it’s a big to-do down here in Mesilla.” Ramon pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. “Tell you what, after I’m finished with work today, I’ll meet you back here for supper, then I’ll take you out to the cemetery so you can see.”

  Fatemeh smiled just as Mrs. Castillo returned carrying a breakfast plate. “I’d like that. It sounds interesting.”

  “In the meantime,” said Mrs. Castillo, “I’ll show you the altar I’m building for my mother and father.” She set the plate down in front of Fatemeh.

  Ramon wiped his lips with a napkin. He reached out and gently squeezed Fatemeh’s hand, then left for work.

  << >>

  Luther Duncan eased into a chair at the Palacio Saloon and ordered dinner. He was saddle sore from riding much of the day. After seeing the wanted poster, he rode out to Warren Shedd’s ranch, only to learn the rancher was working out on the range. He climbed back on his horse and finally found Shedd an hour later. Unfortunately he wasn’t much help. Shedd couldn’t remember hiring anyone named Ramon Morales. “You might ask Thomas Bull, though. I heard he hired some new ranch hands back in the spring.” With that, Duncan rode back to town.

  Duncan had better luck when he returned to Mesilla. “Yes, I did hire a man named Morales,” said Thomas Bull.

  “Did Mr. Morales come from Socorro?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

  “Did he have a round face and little round spectacles?”

  Bull nodded thoughtfully. “I believe he did.” The rancher leaned forward. “Is Morales in some kind of trouble, Mr. Duncan?”

  “I hate to say too much until I get all the facts, but it sounds like he might have an interesting story to tell.”

  Bull didn’t know where Morales lived, but sent him to speak to the ranch foreman. With a sigh, Duncan returned to his horse and rode out to Bull’s ranch. He found the foreman and learned that Ramon Morales lived at the Castillos’ boarding house.

  Luther Duncan ate quickly and drank a beer, hoping the alcohol would alleviate some of the pain in his backside. He looked out the window and sighed. It was getting dark and he wasn’t sure he would be able to learn anything more about Ramon Morales before morning. Still, he thought it was worth taking a walk over to the Castillos’ boarding house, just in case.

  The boarding house was only four blocks from the saloon. Duncan leaned against a tree across the street and lit a cigar. One of the upstairs lamps went out and a short time later, a man and a woman stepped out. Even in the waning light, Duncan saw the woman had black hair and olive skin. However, she didn’t appear to be of Mexican descent like her companion. The man seemed to have a difficult time taking his eyes from the woman, as though he was under her spell. Duncan grinned around the cigar when he saw the man had little round glasses. He decided to follow them.

  Ramon Morales and his companion walked down the road, toward the cemetery at the edge of town. Gentle guitar music wafted through the air as someone played a familiar ballad. Duncan nodded to himself, realizing it was Diá de los Muertos. There would be a handful of people at the cemetery. He could blend in and observe the couple without being too obvious.

  Morales and his companion only took a few steps past the cemetery gates. They stopped and Morales spoke to the woman and pointed to the altars set up at some of the nearby graves. She knelt down and took a closer look at one.

  Realizing he could not follow them in without being seen, Duncan cut to the left and climbed over the rock wall. He nearly fell over a cloaked woman kneeling at an ancient grave marker. The woman stood suddenly. “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “Pardon me.” Duncan stood and dusted himself off. “I’m sorry to intrude.” He looked down at the grave marker. It was worn rock with words run together in Spanish and a date sometime in the 1500s. The name on the marker was Reynaldo Rodriguez. The reporter realized the woman must be Mercedes Rodriguez, who was said to have been from a very old family. There were even rumors Mercedes was some kind of vampire. The reporter wanted to interview her, but this wasn’t the time. He tipped his hat and moved over to a nearby pine tree.

  << >>

  One group of nanites from the swarm called Legion followed the river called the Rio Grande north. The other group followed the river south. Both swarms cataloged flora, fauna and geology as they traveled. Many of the forms were compelling, but none were quite as interesting as the intelligent beings called humans.

  Each of the nanite swarms discovered human population centers around the same time. Both population centers had the usual infrastructure intelligent beings set up for themselves—dwellings, places to obtain food, educational facilities and ritual centers of various sorts. However, as the swarms exchanged information, Legion realized the focus of each population center was somewhat different. The swarm in the north observed humans digging into the planet, extracting rocks and minerals for industrial purposes. Meanwhile, the southern swarm saw humans engaged primarily in agriculture. The focus of each population center seemed logical given the geological and climatic conditions in the respective areas.

  In addition to their agricultural activities, a number of humans in the south seemed to be preparing for a ritual. Many were gathering items together. They seemed to be creating altars of some kind. At first, Legion assumed they were getting ready for a mass tribute to some agricultural deity. However, each altar was different. They contained representations of other humans along with items that seemed of little or no consequence. Legion searched many millennia of databanks accumulated on millions of worlds and determined the humans must be engaged in some kind of ancestor worship. Although he had observed primitives doing the same before, something seemed different about the ceremony these humans were preparing. If Legion understood human emotions from his contact with Alberto Mendez, then these humans were happy, not sad as many intelligent beings are when thinking about members of their own species who had already died. He found this fascinating.

  The alien swarm observed one particular human in the southern population center. He moved from place to place asking questions and recording his observations on a primitive recording device. Legion realized contact with such an inquisitive human could provide unique insights into the humans of the south and the interesting ritual they were preparing. Legion entered the human’s mind.

  << >>

  Fatemeh sniffed the marigolds adorning one of the altars and ran her fingers along a flute that belonged to a man named Amarante de la O. She stood up from the altar. “This Day of the Dead is a very lovely tradition,” she said with a sigh. She looked around. “Do you have any idea who that man was, who was following us?”

  “What man?” asked Ramon.

  Someone screamed nearby. The soft guitar rhythms stopped. Ramon, Fatemeh and several other people at the cemetery ran over to investigate. They found a man on the ground, clutching his head. “I hear voices…hundreds of voices,” groaned the man.

  “It’s that reporter, Luther Duncan,” said the man holding the guitar.

  Duncan muttered strange phrases. “Contact established…Ritual referred to as Day of the Dead…Human of note: Alexander Gorloff…” The pitch of his voice rose and fell. It sounded as though Duncan were speaking in several different voices.

  “What’s he saying?” Ramon leaned down so he could hear better.

  Someone pulled Ramon away. “Stay back! That man’s possessed.” Ramon turned and saw the apothecary, Mr. Candelaria. Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead, despite the chill air.

  “What?” Fatemeh looked at the apothecary and blinked, then looked down at Duncan. “He’s having a seiz
ure of some kind. Maybe I can help him.”

  “You can’t,” growled Candelaria. “She’s to blame.” He pointed at Mercedes Rodriguez, who stood nearby, toying with a ring on her finger and glancing around, as though looking for a means of escape.

  Ramon felt the tension escalating. It reminded him of being in a barroom just before a brawl broke out. Subconsciously he let his hand drift toward his hip, where a gun rode when he was on the range, but he had taken it off before coming to the cemetery. Realizing he had no recourse to a weapon he swallowed and mentally cast about for the right words to defuse the situation before it got out of hand.

  “See if you can get her out of here.” Fatemeh’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’ll try to help this man.”

  Ramon nodded. Casually as possible, he moved over, next to Mercedes Rodriguez. “I think I should escort you home before this crowd gets any ideas.”

  “I think they already have some ideas, and I don’t really like them.” There was a tremor in Mercedes’s voice.

  Together, Ramon and Mercedes moved toward the cemetery’s gate. The apothecary and two other men stepped into their path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m walking this lady home.” Ramon’s voice held more authority and confidence than he felt. “She doesn’t look well.”

  “I would like her to answer for what she’s done.” Candelaria glared at Mercedes.

  “Done?” Ramon looked at the reporter on the ground. “That man is sick and he needs help. He’s only getting sicker while you’re standing in my way. I suggest you go help my friend get him inside. Once he’s there, call a doctor. Maybe you have something in your shop that will help.”

  “He needs an exorcism. We need to get Father Duran,” said Candelaria.

  “Then maybe you should go get him instead of standing in my way,” said Ramon through gritted teeth.