Keys of Babylon by Robert Minhinnick Page B

what our leader commanded. And that leader was Juan who the Indians or the ghosts or the jaguares would never catch.
    We had this silly dream, the two of us. We would live in LA and take the train to Union Station every day. I’d become a teacher and Juan an engineer. And one day, coming home together, talking so much, we get on the wrong train. And we end up in Hollywood, and as we’re walking across Sunset to Vine, we see Raquel Welch and Martin Sheen just ahead. And Raquel drops this envelope she’s carrying – the script for Bandolero ! Or something like that. And Juan picks it up, and yes, we’ve saved the day. So they take us for cocktails to the Brown Derby. And they think we’re so cool that they want to stay in touch.
    It was Juan drove us on. He had maps. He seemed to know the way. But how could that be? We came from the same little town, far away. We studied English together. There were eight of us. Then there were seven. One of the other men just disappeared. I didn’t even know his name. Then there were six.
    You know, there are legends about the heat. It’s hot now, here at the Sunset. But nothing like the Altar. They said this boy, from Guadalajara, got lost in the gran desierto once. He was trying to make the crossing. He said there was no space for him in his city. Even in his own home, no space. So many children. He was desperate. They said that to keep cool he pushed his head into the sand. That his brains boiled.
    I’ve heard people laugh at that story. But those people have never been in the Altar. Maybe our companions who vanished turned back. They were good people, honest people. They believed in God. We used to hear them praying in the darkness. They shared their water with us. One of them carried the water in a calfskin on his shoulder. Walking behind him I used to watch that water on his back, as if there was an animal writhing there. How soon it became just an empty sack.
    Maria touches Larry’s brow.
    Time to go in, senor. They’re making supper. No garlic. No chilli. And no steaks for you. Sorry. But yeah, Larry, we could have died. Nearly did too. My tongue was fat in my cheek. It felt like a stone. Juan used to cut cactus open and we’d hold our mouths against the wet insides. Suck the shreds.
    Then it all gets misty. Like it used to up in Flagstaff in the rains. The mists right down over the trees. But misty in my mind, Larry. We were in the organ pipes, you know, real cactus country. Trees of knives we used to call them. They were razor sharp. Twice as high as Juan. Maybe we strayed into the Barry Goldwater Airforce Base. We could see the military in the distance. And at night we heard their dogs. Juan had the maps and by then it was just the three of us again. Juanita in the blanket, too. Me in the middle of course. Juanita was crying and Juan tried to comfort her. He gave her extra water, his water, while I kept a little black stone in my mouth. Sucking on a piece of volcano. A little hummingbird is what he called Juanita. That’s when I knew.
    At the end, Larry, they were chasing us. Getting close. We crossed a highway in the evening and there was a white pickup, bouncing over the rocks. First up a dirt road. Then where there was no road. It had a floodlight mounted on the top and I watched that light swing everywhere. A lighthouse in the desert.
    And I thought, why are they trying so hard to stop us? Like we are really bad people. But we’re not bad people. We’ll work. We’ll go to Yuma and spray pesticides in the polytunnels so people can have lettuce. Those crazy Americans who want lettuce in the desert? We’ll do that for them. We’ll scrub their filthy toilets in the Tucson Arena. We’ll bring the trays of nachos and Monterey Jack to their seats. Just so Americans don’t have to do it. But please tell me why are they trying so hard to stop us?
    I looked at that beam sweeping the rocks. I could smell the