But now on the canyon trail Gerard has been limping, unmistakably. He is one of the older hikers though he is still “fit”—impressively.

  You see that Gerard is wearing a short-sleeved white shirt which you believe you recognize, and hiking shorts, and on his head a familiar beige cap . . . You’d packed these articles of clothing, you think, but possibly not. Or, what is more likely, these articles of clothing were left behind in the Cancer Center when Gerard was transferred to a rehabilitation clinic where (vaguely you recall) his record was lost in a computer crash . . .

  Your heart seizes: Why does Gerard not seem to see you?

  Why does he keep so rigidly turned from you, refusing to acknowledge you?

  (Though certainly he is aware of you. He has glanced at you repeatedly, you have not noticed. Between Gerard and Kwer-vo there is some sort of understanding.)

  Gerard will be your bridegroom here, is that it? And you have been brought here to be his bride?

  Unlike the civil ceremony in Cambridge, Mass., performed by a clerk, with only a few relatives as witnesses, this ceremony will be a sacred ritual in a place of unearthly beauty and strangeness.

  Yet, you hesitate to approach Gerard who continues to stand alone, his back to you. Clearly now you can see that he is awaiting you. He is awaiting something. He is the only hiker who has not been prowling about the ruins taking pictures; he is not (evidently) carrying a camera. (But you have packed Gerard’s camera! Carefully as the ashes have been packed, wrapped in clothing.)

  Strange, to be stricken with shyness. Or perhaps it is fear. You stand rooted to the spot about thirty feet from Gerard, as hikers continue to swarm about the site like ants, occasionally obscuring your view of your husband . . .

  Above, on a promontory overlooking the site, but a few feet back from the edge so that he can’t be easily seen by the hikers, Kwer-vo is squatting on his heels smoking a cigarette in swift drags. He has turned his head slantwise, as an animal might do when it eats quickly.

  You are shocked to see anyone smoking in the canyon, and particularly the Indian guide; you are sure you’d seen signs forbidding smoking here. For weeks there has been a fire hazard warning in Santa Tierra and vicinity.

  Ishtikini takes many forms. Ishtikini is not what he seems.

  When you think of Ishtikini, think again.

  HIKERS ARE CLIMBING BACK TO the trail. An arduous climb, much longer than it had appeared to be when they’d clambered down.

  Kwer-vo is beckoning to them, to you. Hurry!

  He has decided to turn back, it seems. Not to continue after all. For there is likely to be rain, possibly heavy rain. A flash flood in the canyon.

  Kwer-vo admits, the weather report was mistaken. He is grim, yet cheerful: “As we say in my language—Thsussa pia. ‘Sorry-sorry.’”

  Is this authentic? Kiwaan speech? Or is the (Indian) guide with the brash red headband mocking his anxious (White) listeners?

  The first drops of rain are falling—heavy, languid. Eagerly the hikers turn back toward the trailhead.

  However, Gerard is not turning back with the others. Defiantly Gerard continues along the trail without a backward glance.

  This too is shocking to you. But you have no choice, you must follow Gerard, at a distance of about thirty feet.

  Kwer-vo calls after you in a voice registering alarm: “Wait! Ma’am! There’s danger of heavy rain, I am advising all the hikers to return to the lodge . . .”

  But Kwer-vo’s alarm doesn’t sound very sincere. As his apology for the erroneous weather report seemed similarly flat, bemused.

  You understand: the Indian guide is giving you and Gerard permission to move on, apart from the others. You are singled out for a special destiny, you and Gerard.

  You will have Kwer-vo’s blessing, daring to separate yourself from the other, inconsequential hikers.

  And so, you ignore Kwer-vo calling after you. Follow Gerard along the trail, hoping to catch up with him. At the juncture with the sacrificial site the trail has widened to about five feet though it looks as if it will soon narrow again in a jumble of boulders and mesquite.

  Shyly now you call to him—“Hello? Gerard? It’s Michaela. I’m behind you . . .”

  Shy, excited. Trembling with love of the man, and fear of him.

  “Gerard? I—I’m behind you . . . Let me catch up with you.”

  But Gerard doesn’t seem to hear. Though surely he must hear a voice calling his name . . .

  He doesn’t slow his pace so that you can catch up with him, however. It will be your task to overtake him.

  Because he is leading me to the crossing-over place.

  Because I must follow him, unquestioning.

  Recalling Gerard’s anger when you’d taken too long to bring the car around to the front of the hospital. His rage, incredulity when you’d first spent the night in his hospital room, he’d tried to remove the catheter from his penis and you dared to try to stop him . . .

  But Gerard appears to be much calmer now. He is straight-backed, determined. He must have heard you calling to him for he is acknowledging you, lifting a hand in greeting, though without turning his head more than partway.

  You can see him, you can recognize him, in profile. But he does not turn to meet your gaze.

  He would like to. But he cannot.

  You must trust him. Trust is love.

  There is the commandment, not to turn around. Not to address the loved one. You must not expect Gerard to treat you like a child. Trust.

  Ominous thunder. A sound of collapse, many miles away. Still, the darkest rain clouds are not (yet) overhead.

  Rain in discrete drops like plump purple grapes. Though there are raindrops there is nothing (yet) like raining.

  As the trail narrows and becomes difficult again Gerard keeps a remarkably steady pace. You don’t recall your affable husband hiking with such urgency in the past. You are panting, trying to keep pace with him. Where once the two of you often hiked side by side when the trail was wide enough now Gerard forges ahead.

  Recalling with a twinge of loss how you’d often held hands, walking together. Along the Charles River. In museums, on city streets. Usually you were the one to clasp Gerard’s hand in your own, and Gerard would then squeeze your hand in turn.

  Though Gerard rarely initiated holding your hand, yet he responded warmly when you held his.

  My dear husband. My darling.

  Why won’t you wait for me . . .

  Your eyes are still watering from the sun, that has caused them to ache. Though now, the harsh bright sunshine is softening as clouds are blown in overhead, a kind of scrim or mist will soon obscure the sun.

  “Gerard? Please wait for me . . .”

  You are not begging. Perhaps you are pleading, making a case as a wife might plead with a husband, not unreasonably. But Gerard continues to walk/limp at a swift pace. His back is straight, adamant. His head is held high. You would think that this hiker is familiar with the somewhat treacherous trail, he must have hiked it previously.

  Slip-sliding downhill. A trail is most treacherous in a steep descent.

  Beside you, scarified canyon walls, of the hue of burnt blood.

  Odors of stony earth, mesquite. On the canyon walls are curious striations like ancient hieroglyphics, scribblings in a mad hand.

  Raindrops plump as grapes begin to lose their discrete shape. No longer raindrops now, just rain.

  Sheets of rain. Pelting rain.

  Desperately you call for Gerard to wait for you. You are panicked, that you will slip on wet rocks, fall and injure yourself. But you cannot see where Gerard has gone, the glimmer of white, his shirt, has vanished . . .

  Offer yourself to Ishtikini. Then, Gerard will forgive you.

  You are aware: if rain continues to fall so heavily, within minutes the steep narrow canyon will fill with rushing water.

  You’d been warned. How many times warned. Signs on the trail, signs in the Canyon Lodge. You’d seen, yet did not see.

  Already your shoes are soaked with rain. Your clothes are soaked, your hat, hair.

  Wanting to protest, Gerard has never been so cruel to you in life. Never has he left you behind on a trail. Never has he ignored your cries, pleas.

  Yet you stumble along the trail, ever downhill. Almost, you wonder if you have taken a wrong fork in the trail, confused by rain.

  If you have lost Gerard forever.

  So long you have been yearning for your husband, now you will join him. Unless he eludes you, even now.

  Darling love you so much.

  Follow me, trust me.

  Give me your hand darling. Hurry!

  But you seem to be lost. You can’t reach Gerard, can’t seize his hand, he is somewhere ahead of you, you are panting, exhausted. You who’d prided yourself on being a fit person, in excellent condition for your age, a runner, a serious walker, what vanity!

  No way to avoid boulders blocking the trail, you must crawl over them.

  Legs bleeding from myriad scratches. Lungs aching, face wet with tears lost in rain.

  You have been hearing it behind you, not wanting to acknowledge what you are hearing: rushing water.

  It is not believable to you, that Gerard would abandon you to the canyon. To the Scavenger God. For isn’t there a sacred bond between you, wife and husband, annihilated together in the crossing-over?

  In the distance, a glimpse of white. Gerard’s white shirt so far away, you despair.

  Calling—“Gerard! Gerard! Wait for me . . .”

  You have to realize, you can’t follow Gerard in a straight course. Must return to the previous fork in the trail, and take the fork you’d not taken, at the point at which you’d made your (near-fatal) error. If only it isn’t too late, there is time yet to remedy the mistake.

  A bitter fact: though you see your husband in front of you through sheets of rain yet you can’t go directly to him, to make your claim. This is the bitter fact.

  It is perplexing to you, that Gerard continues to hike with such urgency, even in the rain. Even though he knows (must know) that you are following him. His limp doesn’t interfere with his stride but seems to be accelerating it. To compensate for the limp he moves with more agility. He is stiff-backed, unyielding. Recall how in bed that night in January, perhaps it was the night everything began, the unraveling, the stumbling, the desperate plea Breathe!—he’d feigned sleep when you’d wanted so badly to hold him for he’d wished for the oblivion of sleep more than the love of a wife at that moment in your lives.

  Wanting to protest—But I love you so much.

  No life without you.

  Still you persist in believing that if you can only catch up with Gerard and force him to look you full in the face, he will acknowledge you as you are begging him to acknowledge you. The words will be torn from him—Michaela! Of course, I love you too.

  You must make Gerard understand, you have repudiated the world for him. You had wanted to donate precious bone marrow to him, the closest approximation to the soul. And now, the crossing-over time. You are prepared to surrender.

  But sheets of rain are blinding you. Your hair, your clothes are soaked. You are shivering, your teeth are chattering, this is such folly. And where is Gerard?

  You have been running, stumbling in the rain. Always a mistake to run on a rocky trail yet you are running and in the rain you fall, fall hard. You have turned your ankle, you are whimpering with pain.

  In terror you hear rushing water behind you. Not the beating of pulses in your head but dark water rushing between nightmare canyon walls.

  “Gerard! Wait! It’s me—your wife . . .”

  Your screamed words are arrows, you’ve struck the man.

  Arrows in his (fleeing) back.

  It isn’t clear, will not be clear if in the exigency of the moment Gerard is aware of you or if he has simply heard your voice, a voice, a voice of such anguish and yearning he cannot any longer deny it, and so in that instant weakness overtakes him like a net, abruptly he pauses in his flight to turn, to turn to you, at last to see you, revealing the precise face of your husband exactly as you remember him, an expression of despair, yet of love, that sucks away your breath in the instant before the rushing water overtakes you from behind and you are gone.

  BUT THERE IS NO GERARD, there is no guide. There is no one.

  Alone you are choking, panting, swallowing water. Filthy water rising to your thighs, belly, chest. Churning water, knocking you off-balance. You slip, you clutch at nothing, you fall. Trying with all of your remaining strength to lift yourself out of the crazed-rushing water. Within minutes it has risen by five feet, you have gambled and lost. You are a foolish gringa, you will die in this remote place. Close by, the Rio de Piedras is rising also, by inches, feet. Heavy rainfall, bursting from the sky. You have grown faint, exhausted. Your limbs are leaden with fatigue. You are losing consciousness. You are losing the bright scintillant thread of yourself. The life that has been you since your birth, you are losing, that life is dimming, flickering, suffocating, drowning. Try to lift yourself with herculean effort, every molecule in your being straining to live but—your strength is not enough.

  And then, unbelievably, you are on your feet—another time, on your feet—even as your feet are swept away beneath you; even as you clutch at a rock to hoist yourself erect. For nothing matters except that you can breathe—Breathe! Even as a wicked rush of water pummels you like a mauling lover, throws you against rocks. Your skull is cracked like an eggshell. Your brain floods with black blood from burst arteries. Your last cry is strangled, inaudible—Help! Help me, Gerard!—but there is no one.

  In this instant annihilated. Gone.

  60

  The Departure

  Awaiting the taxi that will take her to the Albuquerque airport for her 11:00 A.M. flight to Boston Michaela has read more than once a terse column of newsprint on the front page of the Santa Tierra Post.

  Suitcases (packed, locked, labeled) waiting in the driveway. Michaela waiting on the front stoop of the house on Vista Drive.

  Yes, seven pounds of cremains have been packed in an urn. Gerard’s manuscript, notes. In one of the zippered pockets, the (yet unread) letter from Simon Khraw.

  Faint with relief. Laughing with relief. Breathing deeply as she has rarely allowed herself to breathe in Santa Tierra, now the grief-vise seems to have vanished entirely.

  Bruises at her rib cage will heal, in time. Those (inexplicable) scratches on the insides of her forearms, thin strips of scab soon to wither away, drop off.

  Michaela is grateful to be leaving the house on Vista Drive that has been a petri dish of simmering nightmare memories. So grateful!

  Though the sky is clear as washed glass, transparent and nothing behind it—not a thing. A smell of lavender envelopes her, sickly-sweet as ether. From out of the ravine behind the house cries of wild parrots which (she supposes) she will miss back home in Cambridge.

  Stupid suitcases. Why bother bringing them.

  The rented house, property of the Santa Tierra Institute for Advanced Research, is shuttered, locked! Michaela will never again set foot in the house. What relief to step out of the house at last, put the keys in an envelope left in the mailbox for Iris Esdras.

  (Innocently she’d misled Iris Esdras. Telling her that she, Michaela, was not leaving for the airport until 11:00 A.M. and so if Iris wished to drop by, as she’d several times said, she might come at 10:30 A.M., and Michaela would like very much to see her and say goodbye . . . )

  Inside the house, in their “secure” places, one of them unceremoniously draped with a towel, the demon-gods left behind.

  No more. Never again.

  Gone!

  Michaela has been sipping coffee out of a mug. Black coffee, a solace. Michaela has been scanning the Santa Tierra Post, daily delivered to the house but which she’d ignored during the several months of residing here.

  Appalled to discover in the lower left corner of the front page, a brief article headlined:

  UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN DIES IN FLASH FLOOD, COLD SPRING CANYON

  Arriba County rescue workers discovered the body of an unidentified woman hiker in Cold Spring Canyon yesterday afternoon, a casualty of a flash flood following yesterday’s record-breaking torrential downpour.

  The unidentified woman has been described by the Arriba County medical examiner as Caucasian, with medium-brown hair, in her mid-thirties, weighing approximately one hundred five pounds, height five feet seven. No wallet or ID was found on her person. Most of her clothing had been torn from her in the flash flood and has not been recovered.

  Water was found in the woman’s lungs but her death was believed to have been caused primarily by extreme trauma to the skull as well as blood loss from multiple lacerations.

  Park employees informed rescue workers that the woman had continued on the trail after hikers had been instructed to return to the trailhead. Soon after this, the trail was closed. Park employees searched for the woman hiker without success until they were forced to turn back because of flooding.

  No vehicle belonging to the unidentified woman has been located so far at Canyon Lodge.

  Flash floods washed out sections of several Arriba County roads and shut down several miles on Rt. 25 for much of yesterday. Nine persons have been hospitalized following flooding-related accidents but the only fatality reported so far has been the unidentified woman hiker in Cold Spring Canyon.

  The Arriba County sheriff requests that if anyone has information leading to the identity of the storm victim they should please call 505-493-2201.

  Michaela reads, rereads this article. She is appalled, chilled.

  It seems to her particularly sad, the woman is unidentified. No ID, no wallet. Clothing torn from her.

  Her family must be missing her. Someone must be missing her.

  A terrible death in rushing water, between pitiless canyon walls.

  Quickly Michaela folds up the Santa Tierra Post, puts it aside. Never will she read the Santa Tierra Post again.