Chapter 13: The Slaves Freed
Que los esclavos sean libres
y que los recuerdos latentes se perpetúen
de acuerdo con el arquetipo.
That the bondsmen may be free,
and that the latent memories may perpetuate
in accordance with the archetype.
3:27 pm Thursday, May 18, 1984 (PDT)
Grants Pass, Oregon
Rachel wiped away the remaining tears and composed herself. She climbed out of her sedan and stormed across the parking lot of St. Anne’s toward the side entrance. She entered and went down the hall to Mr. Frederick’s classroom, where she had just seen Jessica fooling around with Mr. Fredericks. She tried peering through the window in the doorway, but the curtains had been drawn. She looked around. The halls were empty, silent. Her attention went to one of the doors down the hall that read ‘Photography’ above it. It was unlocked. She went in. The room was a mess of film, lenses, chemicals, and other equipment. She noticed a Polaroid camera sitting on a desk. She opened it up – it had film. She returned to Mr. Fredericks’s classroom and, very quietly, tried to open the door. It was locked. She looked around. A red fire extinguisher was mounted on the wall opposite her. She pulled it from its rungs and smashed it through the window of Mr. Fredericks’s door. She quickly swatted the curtain aside and snapped off two Polaroids of Jessica dismounting Mr. Fredericks. Jessica screamed. Mr. Fredericks’s started toward the door, zipping up his jeans. Rachel dropped the camera and bolted for the parking lot with the two Polaroid photos. When she was almost back to her sedan she felt Mr. Fredericks’s grip on her arm. He tore the photos from her hand.
“What were you going to do with these?” he asked, threateningly.
A hand came out of nowhere and snatched the photos from his hand. It was Benny. Deezer, Lucas and Paul stood behind him. Mr. Fredericks looked stupefied. Benny looked at the photos and gave the teacher a smirk before handing them to Rachel.
“Hi,” he said to her. “I’m Benny.”
“Rachel,” she said. She gave a slight smile, at first, and then looked at him with intrigue.
As Benny looked at her, images of a strange memory of being with her in a desert canyon flashed before his eyes. He knew her. He’d driven with her somewhere in a… in a Volkswagen bus?
Rachel returned his gaze. She too remembered him. It was like a strange kind of déjà vu involving a cataclysm in the woods, and an earth-shaking electric guitar. She asked, “Do I… know you?”
He went up to her and kissed her.
She kissed him back. They embraced and kissed, and the air around them was electric.
Mr. Fredericks scurried off when he saw the Channel Seven News crew.
* * *
7:39 pm Lunes, Mayo 15, 1954 (CDT)
Rascar Pablo, Jalisco
Carlos awoke on the arid turf of the Jalisco wasteland with sand in his mouth. His head ached and pounded with the scorching sun beating down on him.
“Ay… cabrón,” he wheezed, barely able to open his eyes. Using his hand against the glare, he tried looking at his surroundings. He found his canteen hanging by its leather thong from a mezcal not fifty feet away. It was empty. He found his guitar leaning up against the ribcage of a horse that had long since expired. He started toward the two distant mountains between which Rascar Pablo was seated. He walked, picking the strings of his guitar, singing, “La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no puedo cambiar…”
After walking about a mile in the scorching heat he could walk no further. He pulled the one remaining button from his pocket, examined it, and considered wetting his dry mouth with it. Then he heard someone calling his name. He looked toward the mountains, saw a woman in a white dress running toward him.
“Caaaaaarlooooos,” she called.
He knew the voice. She drew nearer and he could see her face. It was his sister, Rocío. She was free. He threw the button to the ground, exploded off on his heels, ran to her and embraced her. “Rocío!” he cried.
She took him by his hand and they walked together back into the village. The sound of music heightened as they neared Las Estrellas, and they made out the crowd building up about the bonfire. A file of warriors approached the gathering, and the leader held a spear with a severed head resting on its tip. The massive underbite and cleft lip were unmistakably those of Maximilian – the Katatonian king. She took him up to where three warriors stood facing the fire. “Papá,” she called.
Their father and two brothers, Juan and Tomás, turned and faced them. They were battle worn, their garments rent, covered in blood and dust.
“Mi hija,” cried their father. He put his arms around Rocío. After a few moments, he freed one of his hands and offered it to Carlos. “Mi hijo.”
Carlos took his hand and his father pulled him into the embrace. Some of the elders began singing, and dancing erupted about the fire. Carlos looked up and watched the other families be reunited with their sons and daughters.
“Hola, Carlos,” came the voice of a woman.
Carlos turned and regarded her. She was exceeding beautiful and wore tight, heavily beaded buckskin. “Hola, chica.” He beamed, taking in her irresistibly – yet oddly familiar – feminine shape.
“I think this belongs to you.” She held out her hand and revealed the bat perched thereon. It flashed with bright neon pink and blue and launched itself into a playful flutter about the two.
