Sonny raised an eyebrow.
“Of course. All goddesses need acolytes, votaries who become the priests of their religion.”
“And what is her religion?”
“The goddess has but one religion, and that is one of procreation. But before the messy job of giving birth to men, there is the pleasure of sex. La Llorona takes boys to her grotto to initiate them into the art of love. You see, when it comes to the art of love, men are brutes. Oh, not men like you.” She reached to touch his hand. “Most men. You are one of the few la Llorona would choose to initiate.”
“Why?” Sonny asked, playing along.
“You are special,” she replied. “You are the kind of man la Llorona takes to her love bower. You enjoy the pleasure of sex, you enjoy women. Most important, you respect the power in women. And what is that power? It’s the energy of passion, the lust that is the energy of creation. To enter the woman is to know this.”
Sonny smiled. He thought of Rita, the woman he loved and the immense satisfaction he received from her love. He thought of the power and secrets of Lorenza, the curandera who had guided him into the world of spirits. Of his mother, who after his father died had become strong and raised him and his brother. Women warriors.
“Yes, you admire and understand women,” Tamara continued. “You know we are the mystery, the key to the universe. You seek that in women, and they respond. They are willing to share their secrets with you. I am willing to share my secrets.”
She sipped her wine and looked at Sonny, her green eyes glittering with the soft light of the fireplace.
She had offered herself once before. Got him as far as the bedroom door. In the middle of the room sat the large round bed covered with silk sheets. A white-veiled canopy over it. It was the tent of a desert princess, a woman who knew the art of seduction. Soft sheepskins rich with lanolin and the furry skins of white goats lay on the floor, sensual and soft to the touch of bare feet.
A kiva fireplace decorated one corner. Tonight that fireplace probably had a fire in it, cedar logs burning, popping, emitting their sweet fragrance.
From the round bed radiated the four lines of gold tiles. The Zia sun symbol. One path led to the fireplace; the opposite tiles led to the altar, a dry piñon tree with polished branches reaching up to the high ceiling supported by old, weathered pine vigas. The branches of the piñon were decorated with small Ojos de Dios, simple adornments of colored wool in diamond shapes.
Next to the piñon lay thin cottonwood branches for making the Ojos.
“A good way to enter visions,” Tamara had explained. “These decorations the natives call the eye of God are really the eye of Ra, the sun god. As I weave, I chant and enter the eye of Ra. I enter the realm of the sun, and the visions come. You, too, can journey into the ancient realms of the sun king. Let me take you on a journey.”
Sonny had hesitated. The journey meant going to bed with Tamara.
The eye of God saw everything, or so he had been taught by his mother. His mother had tried to make a good Catholic out of him. The diagonal design of the ojo was a mandala, a labyrinth that led to the center, the eye of God. For Tamara the sun god was the Egyptian Ra.
“I take pleasure in you, and you in me, and in those moments of ecstasy, we enter the past lives of our youth.”
She promised him a vision of eternity, eternal youth wrapped up in the orgasms of her flesh. That’s why she sought a view into her past lives. Did the desire for illumination, like the hombre dorado’s desire for eternal youth, lead one into a Faustian deal, selling one’s soul in order to live forever?
The third line from Tamara’s bed of love radiated to a stained-glass window on the south wall. During the winter solstice when the southern sun was low in the horizon, the window would be alive with color. The thick, stained pieces of glass created another mandala, another variation of the Ojo de Dios, or the Zia sun. In the center of the four-leafed design nestled the round, golden sun.
The fourth line led through an open door to the large sunken tub where, Sonny guessed, the preparations for the lovemaking began.
She drew closer to Sonny. “Why so deep in thought?”
“I was thinking of your interpretation of la Llorona.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” He had to agree that it did. Why couldn’t la Llorona be a facet of the Earth Goddess, and her need be one of procreation? For that she needed the males she sought along dark alleys, along country acequias, under bridges spanning arroyos and muddy streams.
“Raven came to see me,” he said.
“I should have warned you,” she said, and reached out and touched the bruise on his forehead. “But you must have known he would return.”
“To get me?”
“You must understand that the Raven who has returned is not the Raven we knew.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s hurt. Not just physically, but his soul is not well. He is mad with revenge.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Raven cannot harm you. As long as you wear the Zia medallion, he cannot harm you.” She drew closer and kissed him softly. The warmth and pressure of her body aroused him. He pulled back.
“I told you many times, you are one of us. You are an old soul who has lived many lives,” she whispered, touching his cheek, her fingers like fire. “You have as much power as Raven, if only you could see within.”
Sonny took the medallion from around his neck and handed it to her. “I don’t need it to take care of Raven.”
“Oh, but you do,” she said tersely, pushing the offered medallion away from her. “Don’t you understand? You stand in Raven’s way.”
“What do you mean?” Sonny asked. “The cops are looking for him, I’m not.”
“He’s not afraid of the police. They can’t stop him—” She stopped short and wrung her hands. “Raven is extremely dangerous. When you interrupted his plot on the summer solstice, you ruined a cycle of time. He recognized you as an old enemy.”
“Old enemy?” Sonny asked.
“Oh, Sonny, if you could only see, only believe that we are old souls, struggling through the cycles of time, caught in an eternal battle from which there is no rest. If you understood this, you would understand my love. I will do anything for you.”
Her voice rang with emotion, and with what, Sonny understood, was a true expression of her love.
“I love you,” she said. “I really do. And I will do anything in my power to keep you safe. But I cannot enter Raven’s world.”
“The world of spirits,” Sonny said.
She nodded. “But you will. In the meantime the medallion is your only protection.”
She took the medal and placed it around his neck. Sonny knew something had gone wrong between her and Raven. He was out to get her, too.
“He threatened you?”
“He called. You see, I, too, stand in his way.”
Sonny didn’t know whether to believe her or not. This summer they had been cohorts, now Raven was a threatening madman.
“If you know where he is, tell me.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. He moves around, calls from different places. Sometimes he mocks me. I am afraid of him.”
Sonny raised an eyebrow. The Zia queen afraid of Raven?
“You find it hard to believe, I know. I’m supposed to be the psychic, the strange woman who reads the past and the future, and you think I had something to do with Gloria’s death. Ah, well, what matters now is that I want to help you.”
She leaned to kiss him.
“I want you,” she whispered in his ear, her voice soft, compelling, her aroma sweet.
The energy he had felt from Lorenza’s cure was gone. His head throbbed. Raven had nearly killed him, and Raven would strike again. He could cure his illness by stepping into the bath for the tired warrior, by letting Tamara minister to his lethargy. He could return to the arms of la Llorona, that childhood creature that often haunt
ed his path when he ran home late at night. He could be the new Raven.
Why not? he thought. Perhaps Tamara was the answer, a way to get his juices flowing again, to find the energy that had left him the day he saw Gloria’s dead body stretched on the bed.
“It would be so easy,” he said.
“Yes.” Tamara nodded, fingering the medallion on his chest. “I understand the man you are and what you need.”
Sonny pulled himself away.
“Why?” she questioned.
“Maybe I’m old-fashioned.” He shrugged.
“Or afraid,” she suggested, rising.
He smiled. She really knew what he was thinking. Yes, he had admitted to himself, perhaps he was afraid. If he entered the tent of the desert love goddess, he might not want to leave. Tamara was a siren, a lovely woman who no doubt knew how to please men. He would become an acolyte of la Llorona, answering her cry for love whenever she called.
“Do the boys la Llorona takes to her home by the river ever return home?” he asked.
She smiled. “Once you give your soul to the goddess of love there is no need to return. The men she calls to her are completely satisfied. You would be satisfied here. I promise you that. I truly care for you.”
“And I have some people I have to take care of,” Sonny said. “Thanks for the wine.”
“This is the second time you’ve said no, Sonny. If I doubted myself, I would wonder what I’m doing wrong. But I know you too well. The time isn’t right for us. So I will wait.” She smiled her enigmatic smile, took his arm, and walked him to the door.
“Remember, wear the medallion. It protects you from Raven. He is extremely dangerous.”
“I know that,” Sonny replied. “But I don’t think he’s got much of a chance. Sooner or later the cops will find him. Where can he hide?”
Tamara shook her head sadly. “He is not of this world,” she whispered, and Sonny wondered if he had heard her correctly as the night breeze whirled through the trees, and the leaves moaned to the caress.
“Buenas noches,” she said. “Return when you’re ready. My door is always open to you.”
Sonny walked to his truck. In the east Sunbringer shone. Venus. The star of love, the planet of the ancient goddess. Tamara sat up late at night and sipped wine, and her meditation on Venus had called Sonny to her.
He thought he heard someone call his name. A rustle in the wind. La Llorona. His grandmother had told him it was la Llorona’s husband who had murdered the children, to drive her mad.
For Tamara, la Llorona was a love goddess, a Circe calling wanderers to her island.
He could have stayed, explored the possibilities, surely found some release from the weight of Gloria’s ghost. But no, he had things to do. Promises to keep. And he had Rita.
Sonny, I’m proud of you, he said to himself, smiling, as he got into his truck and drove home.
10
Sonny awoke very late the following day. His head hurt and his face was bruised, but not as badly as he had anticipated. His stomach growled; he was hungry. He got up, put the coffee on, and looked across the way to don Eliseo’s place. Sunday afternoon and the October sun shone bright and warm.
The old man sat in his chair. Concha and don Toto sat nearby. On the grill sat the coffeepot. Even from here Sonny could smell the fragrant aroma. They were frying eggs with potatoes and chorizo, warming the red chile con carne, cooking tortillas on the comal.
Don Eliseo was probably telling them how he had saved Sonny’s life last night. His old shotgun was propped against the cottonwood tree. The two compas listened attentively. They were good friends, and he would never forgive himself if one of them got hurt because of him. Yet don Eliseo had faced Raven and his crony with only one barrel loaded. Damn!
Sonny sipped the hot coffee and felt better. He swallowed a couple of aspirin and leaned back to let the pain clear. He pushed the button on his message machine. Rita’s voice reminded him he had promised to take her to the South Valley Autumn Festival that afternoon. She wanted to go, and she wanted to know where he was last night. His mother was also on the tape. Max had driven her home from the hospital. Not to worry; she was feeling great.
Finally Howard’s message. He was taking his daughter to the balloon fiesta and later to the Museum of Natural History in Old Town. Did Sonny and Rita want to join them? Nothing new on the Veronica murder. The police were as anxious as anyone to believe the Fiora story, he added.
Sonny dialed his mother. “Hi, Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t get there last—”
“Sonny, mi’jo, how are you? Don’t apologize. You knew Max was coming for me.”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. I know you’re busy. The woman’s murder, I heard. I hope you don’t get mixed up.”
“Pues, you know—”
“I was afraid of that. Ay, Dios, since you were little, I could feel something pulling you into danger. Why? Is it the Baca blood? Like your bisabuelo? Maybe if you married, settled down—”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes. You’re thirty, almost thirty-one. Hijo, I want to plan a party.”
“Yeah, that would be great. Have you heard from Mando?”
“He came to see me. Dios mío, but he has no sense. Now it’s a new girlfriend. His ‘lady,’ he called her. Bunny. She used to work at one of those clubs I won’t mention. And she paints herself up like a—well, you know. But nice. What can I say, your brother likes flashy women. And he’s got a new car lot.”
“I heard,” Sonny said.
“But he tries, and I love him. I love you both.”
“Listen, I promised Rita to take her to the fiesta. Do you want to come? Can you?”
“No, thank you, hijo. I have to stay quiet for a few days. Max is coming over, and we’re going to string a ristra. He found some wonderful red chile in Belén. I think that’s enough excitement.”
She laughed. She was feeling well, she liked Max, and the two would spend a quiet day together. Sonny, too, smiled, but he felt a loss. He wanted to do more for his mother, visit her more often, but the life he led got in the way.
“Listen, jefa, if there’s anything I can do …”
“Just take care of yourself,” she replied. “These people you follow can be dangerous. I worry about you.”
“I’ll be careful. You, too.”
“Que Dios te bendiga.”
“Gracias,” he replied.
“Bye. Take care. Bring Rita over when you can.”
“I will. Bye.”
Sonny finished his fourth cup of coffee and headed for the shower. He stopped at the mirror. The dark around his eye sockets surprised him. He looked older, worried.
How quickly the worm turns, he thought. Or as Shakespeare would say, swift-footed Time carries an empty wallet.
He shivered, stepped into the shower, and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it, and he stood for a long time, thinking about Raven, knowing he had come to kill. After the very hot shower, he rinsed in cold water, trying to reclaim his body from the aches.
While he dressed, Sonny thought of the little girl sleeping peacefully in Diego and Marta’s tent. Cristina. He hadn’t met her, but she haunted his thoughts. What kind of chance did a kid like that have? On this Sunday morning, all over the city, parents had gotten up to take their kids to church, or the balloon fiesta, or to soccer practice, or a football game, or just for a drive to buy red chile ristras and apples in the valley. Autumn was the most pleasant season in the Río Grande valley, the most mellow and bewitching in New Mexico.
But what did Cristina awaken to? A tent in the river bosque as home, and another day spent at the river camp. Perhaps a walk to a shelter where they received meager supplies of food and clothes.
It wasn’t right, he thought, as he stepped outside. Too many kids like Cristina needed help. The first thing he had to do was get Diego’s family out of the river bottom. Hide them. Raven knew they had witnessed the murder. Even if they moved their c
amp, they could still be in danger.
“Sonny, mi amor!” Concha called. “Come and eat with us.”
“Can’t,” Sonny replied. “I slept late and I promised to take Rita to the South Valley fiesta. Want to go?”
“We have our own fiesta here,” don Eliseo answered. “But come by later and have some coffee.”
“You still need workers to clean your place?” Sonny asked. “I’ve got some friends that need a place to stay.”
“Bring them,” don Eliseo said. “I’ve plenty of room.”
“Gracias.” Sonny waved and got into his truck.
He had taken Diego aside last night and told him he thought they should leave the river camp.
“But where do we go?” Diego had asked.
The words were still ringing in Sonny’s mind when he drove up to Rita’s home. The last bloom of roses was luxuriant on the bushes around her porch. The trees were still green, but a few began to show a tinge of soft gold.
A magnificent row of marigolds lined one wall, thick and luxurious, a commotion of tall cosmos lined the other. There had been no hard frost yet, so the plants thrived in their last burst of energy.
“Poetry,” Sonny thought, “flowers are poetry.” Like the words he sometimes desired to utter when he made love to Rita. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, to speak like a poet, but the words escaped him.
In the backyard Rita’s small garden was loaded with the last produce of summer. The herbal garden was ready to be picked and dried. Rita worked hard at her restaurant, but she always had time for gardening.
“The earth mother prepares for sleep,” she told Sonny. “Time of harvest.”
“Time to eat piñon and tell stories,” don Eliseo would say.
Sonny paused to enjoy the brilliance of the flowers. I’m a lucky man, he thought, to have Rita’s love. She was very sure of her inner strength, and when Sonny came to her, she shared that inner resource with him. She accepted, took him in, opened her arms, and he entered to be renewed.
I gotta marry her, he thought, and wondered if the contract of marriage would affect the love between them. A lot of people his age lived a few years together before tying the knot. But nowadays marriages didn’t seem to last.