[ Index ]
Mary swore. It was rare, but today, alone on that isolated small road, engine dead, and the cold of the November evening seeping in the car, she indulged herself. It had been a stupid idea to take the shortcut: keeping on the main road wouldn’t have been much longer and would have guarantied a passing car within an hour or two.
But then, moving to this god forsaken place, deep in the New Mexico desert, had been a bad idea in the first place. Sure, her husband was making better money here and he seemed to really like his work at the Missile Range, but she missed her beloved North-Dakota. It was already 1957, she was already 25 and felt she was wasting her time here. Actually, melting it away was more like it: she hated the heat, the sweat and the harsh sun. And now this! She kicked a tire. A Chevy Nomad, bought brand new last year and already falling apart.
She calmed down and considered her options. The hamlet of Bent, where she had turn to take the shortcut, was too far north now. But Kearney, the small town at mid-way between Tularosa and Alamogordo should be only a few miles away. Nobody would take this road for a long time, maybe several days: she had to walk.
She went back in the car and turned off the radio, cutting off Buddy Holly at the middle of his declaration to Peggy Sue. She took her purse, the flashlight her husband always kept in the gloves compartment, slammed the door and started walking south.
On her left, the jagged ridges of the Sacramento Mountains were fading in the rapidly vanishing light. On the west, a low ominous band of brown clouds was gathering.
Mary had walked for more than half an hour when she saw a flickering light ahead. She now remembered vaguely a small cabin and several sheep from last time she had used this road several months ago.
As she walk faster toward the light something in the air changed. The sudden silence made Mary look around and she saw the moving billows darker than night rolling toward her. Within seconds, the silent was reaped apart by the rasping sound of stone against stone and the sandstorm struck.
The lashes of the wind, loaded with sand and dust engulfed her. They penetrated her eyes, mouth and cloths, grinding her skin and suffocating her. She called and tried to run straight to the house, but the wind was too strong and she had to fall on her knees and roll in a ball. She stayed like this for some time, trying to breath. This was worst than a Dakota blizzard.
She had lost track of time when she suddenly heard something above the grating sound of the storm: Someone was calling. She made an effort to look around but couldn’t keep her eyes open. She yelled, trying to cover her mouth at the same time. Abruptly, a form stood over her. Hands pulled her up and put a blanket around her shoulder.
They reached the cabin a few minutes after. Once the wooden door was closed she was able to open her eyes. An old Indian was looking at her with a faint smile.
“Bad time to be outside.”
“Yes. Thanks you for getting me out of that.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
“The wind won’t last.”
His ancient voice had the same musical lilt as the Mescalero Apaches she had heard in the shops of Alamogordo. He handed her a small jug of water and a rag.
“For the eyes.” he explained.
While Mary was washing her painful eyes, the man walked toward a small cradle in a corner and started speaking smoothly.
Mary stepped closer and saw a small baby wrapped in blankets. He didn’t look to good and started crying.
“Nantan, my grand-son.” explained the old man. “He’s sick.”
Mary’s nurse training kicked in. She examined the baby. He was hot with fever. She had a few aspirin pills in her purse: they might help.
Under the watchful eyes of his grand-father, she fought all evening to keep the little boy’s fever down. It was past midnight when she sat near the cradle and felt asleep, listening to the wind.
Mary woke up several hours after. She immediately checked Nantan: he was sleeping peacefully and the fever had disappeared.
“Thank you.” said the grand-father. “The fever’s gone with the wind.”
Only then, she noticed the silence.
They walk outside. The sandstorm had vanished. It had washed the sky, leaving behind a crisp and dark velvet, sparkling with stars. Mary and the old Indian contemplated the awesome show in a companionable silence.
“Look: One of the Shinny People.” said suddenly the old man.
Mary saw the bright light he was pointing out. It was moving slowly high above the horizon. It wasn’t blinking like a plane. It was more like a star, but too bright and moving; and it was too slow for a shooting star. Then she remembered her husband talking with a friend last evening. If the sky was clear that night, they would be able to see it. The Russians were calling it Sputnik and this time it was carrying a dog. Mary wondered if Laika was looking at them right now.
She smiled: This was a good night. She was only 25; she had a fine husband; and now she was making new friends. Maybe leaving here would not be so bad after all.
Boulder, fall 2001
By Yves Savourel, All rights reserved.