Chapter 8

The last Saturday in September was overcast with sprinklings of rain, as if the sky couldn’t make up its mind as to whether or not relieve itself. The weather contrasted sharply with the temperament of the inhabitants of the orphanage. An electric mood of giddy excitement pervaded throughout the children as they packed the last of their things and made final preparations in the early morning mist. Today was the fateful day they all had awaited since Sophia’s announcement weeks earlier. The younger children practically buzzed and jumped with excitement. Even Andrea, always cold, couldn’t suppress her anticipation.

Jesus placed a book of poetry on top of his clothes, inside a beige canvas bag that Osito had supplied him for the trip. Sophia had given him the book a week prior. Flowers for Algernon was returned, completed, to Sophia’s personal collection. When Jesus closed the back cover of that book, he felt a great sense of accomplishment tainted by the sour disappointment of the loss of a dear friend. In many ways, the book knew him more intimately than his friends did. Jesus reflected himself into his mental map of the novel, treating it like a mirror in the same way Charlie treated his pet mouse like his closest companion.

Sophia locked the doors of the orphanage, and the group made their way towards the bus stop that would bring them north to the first stop of the journey. By the time they arrived, a thin layer of water droplets clung to every surface on their bags and clothes. The misty air was saturated with moisture, but even the pervasive dampness failed to dampen the travelers’ spirits as they loaded their bags and boarded the bus.

The travelers had a long trip ahead of them, and eventually the girls’ cheerful chattering and the boys’ discussion of the events that the coming days had in store for them dried up, and a sleepy silence of acceptance was the only thing to accompany the sound of the bus shuttling along a long, dusty highway.

The journey would take eleven hours to reach their first destination, a medium sized city at the base of the Baja Peninsula called San Mezzan. San Mezzan was an unscrupulous city filled with businessmen, travelers, and hustlers from all walks of life. Virtually anyone who wanted to enter the Baja Peninsula passed through the waypoint, probably stopping in its sprawling bus station. Osito was familiar with the area because of his time at Leai University. He had taken the very route they were currently traveling nearly a dozen times, roving between his family’s residence in Nueva Casa, through San Mezzan, and finally down the coast to the beautiful Baja Leai.

As soothing as the bumpy ride down the loathsome highway was, Jesus was too full of anticipation to doze off. Sleep eluded him, and most of his companions had either passed out or were in the process of doing so. He produced the book of poetry that he had stowed away hours earlier and began thumbing through its contents. Eventually, he selected a passage by an Author whose name he did not recognize, Christopher Nelson, What a blessed day On winter’s eve, Filled with Juniper berries And deciduous trees, Finally, so lost, So lost at last, Asleep on a hill In a snowy trance, When her sure smile And languid gaze Fell abreast of me In horror and amaze.

She took me in

And spit me out.

In a year’s time,

The snows come about

Once more.

The words were as haunting as they were melodic. He absorbed himself in their cadence and flow, silently mouthing the syllables, tasting their rhythm as the voice in his head read them aloud in smooth, clear diction. The phrases fell from the sky in flurries of snowflakes, coating the dead grass and rolling hills in a crystalline white sheen. Tall pine trees reached high into the sky like towers of life overlooking the silent, cold landscape. An occasional bird passed overhead, but the chirping sing-song sound of summer had given way to an eerie, empty silence under a grey sky. In a way, the silence was more than silence. The snow absorbed the ambient sounds of the forest, drinking up the wind whistling through the ancient pines, the sound of a lone animal foraging for food, and the faint cracking of an overladen branch in the distance.

It was a lone woman, striding on top of the snowy layer in great, wide netted snow boots that distributed the weight of her delicate frame over top the snow, who, while taking a brisk venture outside her tiny snowbound wintertime cottage, discovered a set of tracks through the otherwise unmarred surface, stretching far into the tree line and brush in either direction.

She followed them, an unknown force compelling her to track on and on at a fervent pace past her usual rounds, into a forested area, across a frozen creek, and into a great open field of gently rolling slopes. These were not the tracks of a rabbit, deer, or wintertime fox. Neither were they that of a bear, wildcat, or a wolf; they were the tracks of a man, lost somewhere in the great frozen expanse, miles from any sort of refuge save her cozy cottage.

Upon cresting the hill, the woman finally spotted the originator and ending point of the forlorn tracks, a huddled black-clad figure collapsed into a snow bank only twenty or thirty meters away. With urgency, she hurried over to investigate the prone man. He was handsome and rugged, a thick red beard jutting out from under a broad nose and hard features. He was fading in and out, hanging onto consciousness by his frostbitten fingertips.

Who are you? Where did you come from?

Jesus closed the book, holding the mysterious scene in his mind. In his head, he soared over the frozen winter landscape, through the rains of spring, and into the hot exuberance of summer.

She took me in …

Were they lovers? Friends? What was the outcome of their happenstance encounter?

… and spit me out …

So much left unsaid, Jesus’ mind rifled through the limitless possibilities, constructing and deconstructing narratives about the cryptic couplet. Across the snowy landscape and deep into the colorless horizon his thoughts floated, like a ship destined for harbor, finally arriving in the port of a deep, restful sleep.

He was jerked awake by the arrival into San Mezzan. The sun had fallen, and the others were collecting their things and disembarking the bus. He followed suit, and squeezed between the seats and onto the paved surface of a bus station, amongst rows of vehicles and hundreds of travelers. He stuck close to the group as Osito led them into a terminal to stand in line behind a short, dark couple of backpackers. They advanced in line until Sophia was able to purchase tickets for each of them, then they found an empty corner of the large, open building to wait until their bus arrived.

By the time it finally did, the travelers’ mood had evaporated into quiet resignation. The excitement and promise they had enjoyed that morning had faded, and the primary focus of their exhausted minds was their eventual arrival in the destination city of Baja Leai. For this leg of the journey, Jesus sat next to Osito, who rode in stoic silence. He was not a man to betray his thoughts, but Jesus often wondered what a man of so few words held in his mind.

“You went to Leai University?” Asked Jesus.

“A lifetime ago,” Osito answered, his stony features barely shifting in response to Jesus’ sudden inquiry.

“Before you joined the military?”

“Mmhmm,” Osito granted, and nodded in affirmation.

“What did you study there?” Jesus said.

“Marine biology and physics,” The answer raised more questions than it closed. Jesus waited for Osito to add more, but was met with silence. He decided to shift gears.

“Is that how you met Winston?”

Osito turned to look at Jesus, his eyebrows cocked and head tilted. This question had elicited a physical response. “It was. We both attended the university in the fifties. He was my roommate, a business student one year older than me.”

“And you guys stayed in contact after all these years?”

“Truly good and honest men are hard to come by in this life. There are a few over there,” Osito said, nodding towards Christian and Enrique, “A thousand acquaintances aren’t worth one real friend.”

Jesus contemplated this for a few moments, “That doesn’t explain why he keeps showing up and talking to me.”

Osito nodded and replied, “Winston brought you here to the orphanage when your mother died.

In many ways, he’s responsible for the man you have become today.”

“How did my mother die?” Jesus asked.

Osito’s face turned grave, “That’s not for me to say. That’s a conversation for you and Winston.”

“Okay, then one last thing,” Jesus said, “Sophia said that the trip wasn’t her fault. I have a feeling that Winston paid for it.”

For the first time on the journey, Osito cracked a genuine smile, “You’ve always been a bright kid.”

“What does he do for work to travel and pay for things like this?”

Osito’s smile grew in amusement, “Sometimes it’s best not to ask questions of what is given to us.

Winston is practically responsible for the orphanage. He’s a very cunning man,” With that, they abandoned the subject and rode in silence for the remainder of the trip, save some sparse, isolated remarks of passing landmarks.

When the group finally arrived at Layla’s hostel and boarding house, they were greeted by a surprisingly youthful and energetic woman in her early forties, wearing loose, flowing clothes and a long skirt. She was barefoot, and her face was attractive and angular with olive colored skin, long black locks, and sparkling green eyes.

“Welcome, travelers, welcome! I hope that your journey wasn’t too harsh on your spirits. I am Layla, and this is my boarding house. I am so excited to meet every one of you, and glad to see old friends,” She looked at Osito. He beamed happily in response, “Come on now, I’ve prepared a late dinner for after I’ve shown you to your quarters.”

The foyer of the enormous two story home was filled with tapestries, mosaics, and colored lights.

A water color painting of an Indian elephant draped in richly colored cloths hung above the door they passed through before ascending the stairs to be shown to their rooms. Jesus wondered about the nature of the eccentric Layla and what the colorful appearance of her home had to say about her.

The dinner was a beef stew seasoned heavily with garlic and paprika. The taste was unfamiliar to Jesus, but he ate readily without complaint, and retired to his provided quarters afterwards. That night he dreamt of juniper berries and snow foxes, of the mysterious fedora wearing American and the foxy house owner, and of the adventures that Baja Leai had in store for him. He could never guess at the unlikely events that would unfold for him at this place in the coming years.