South of Elfrida by Holley Rubinsky

first.” We trundle, one at a time, through the darkness and emerge into a space, a horizontal fissure in the rock, like a clamshell open to the sky.
    The vastness of the plain below—stippled with dwarf trees and dusty green brush and the occasional ocotillo cactus—is so astonishing, I am speechless.
    Myrna says, “You are safe here. You can see everything.” She moves to one side and places her arms around a standing rock. The rock is odd because it’s about four feet tall, and looks as though it’s grey and white, a piece of granite—wrong time, wrong place.
    She gestures for my attention. “Notice the hollow at the top. This would be a grain-grinding rock. Years of grinding corn into meal. Makes me wonder if a woman lived here.” Now her mouth twitches. A glow seems to rise around her.
    For a minute I stare hard at my friend, her features shyly veiled between the curtains of dark hair, before I get it, but I want her to be the one to say it. “And?”
    She throws her head back with what I take to be some pride, as she displays her lovely throat and neck. She says, “Your dream suggests I was that woman, the woman who was not a wife. The woman who stayed for the warriors.”
    â€œAha.” I exhale the word as though I’ve triumphed. The lopsided grin on her face, a face that’s seen a lot of years and a lot of sun, brings words to my lips. I hear myself say, “The Victorian dreamer, the collector of, well, she says they’re priceless, the birds for her hats, thinks you’re in love. She told me to tell you that you’re in love.” I have no idea what I mean, but as soon as the words are out, they seem plausible.
    Myrna bows, pressing her hands palm to palm, and then she giggles—it’s uncommon and unsettling to hear Myrna giggle—and says coyly, “Am I?” Then she falls into what I can only think is a ceremonial rendering of what she feels based on what I’ve said. I watch like someone at a private performance, the performer herself self-conscious, aware that I’m watching. Myrna lowers her arms to her sides, drops her head, and stands perfectly still. The silence streams through my mind like stars pulsing in a desert night. The words don’t belong to me; what do I know about desert stars? She says, “Yes, I am in love. Don’t laugh. I’m in love with a person who lived in another life. When you love, you’re not alone. I am not alone.” I notice the tiny spot at her crown where she was hit by a rock when she was a child.
    I love the idea and want to follow her words all the way home. I, however, have no such feeling of being not alone; I feel like poorly made fabric about to unravel. My hands ache, miss sorting through textiles, intricately woven rugs, and cloth made almost entirely of beads, shells, and little pearls. I miss the markets, the bazaars, the noise and purposeful merriment of Malaysia.
    â€œI want to live in these mountains,” Myrna says. “I do not want to leave here.” When she has held a few seconds of silence, she crosses her ankles and folds her body down to sit on the ledge. She rubs her hands along her upper arms as though to stop the shivers.
    I sink into my own truth. What I want is not to sit on any ledge but stay as I am, hugging the wall. But if she’s out there, I will be too. I take courage and lower myself on all fours, creep to the ledge, sit carefully, not letting my legs hang over as Myrna’s are, and lean back on my arms. A hawk soars below us. “Redtail,” whispers Myrna.
    â€œHow do you know?” The hawk sinks and rises as it plays with a current. Leaves on trees shielding the cave from below rustle. I say, hesitantly, “I feel disoriented. It’s like we’re invisible.”
    â€œWe always have been. Welcome to earth.” Myrna sounds far away.
    A tremble of fear ripples in my belly. Images come fast and