run.”
“Can we at least talk to him? See what he wants?”
“Forget it.” Anthea turns toward Rigo. “Come on. We’re leaving.” She stomps off to get Josué.
The agent offers Rigo the ampoule, like it’s a business card. “If you change your mind—”
Rigo shakes his head—“If you bother her again, we’ll contact the police”—then hurries to catch up with Anthea. When he glances over his shoulder, the dude is gone, disappeared back into whatever hole he crawled out of.
“Let’s go see the Angel Tree,” Anthea says, suddenly. “I haven’t been there in years, not since I was a kid.” She seems anxious to put the conversation with the ICLU agent behind her. Clear her mental palate, and recapture the carefree mood of the first part of the evening.
Josué doesn’t bother to protest, evidence that even his level of tolerance has hit a wall. Overstimulation is great to a point, but it can be exhausting. While they pod a few kilometers into the coastal foothills, Anthea tells them the story.
Nearly a century earlier, just before the turn of the millennium, an angel appeared to a man splitting fire-wood. The apparition hovered mysteriously for a short time, bestowing a cryptic Mona Lisa smile, and then vanished. As soon as she was gone, the man had the urge to split another log. When he did, the wood inside bore the image of the angel and the man was cured of terminal cancer. Word of the miracle quickly spread, and in no time the split log, now part of a table constructed by the man to preserve the image, had been turned into a religious shrine. For years, sick people have been making pilgrimages to the Angel in the Tree to partake of her healing benediction.
“Creepy,” Josué says.
The pod drops them off at a narrow footpath that leads into a small park. They trudge through a copse of umbrella palms. It’s dark under the UV-reflective canopy, and they stumble on rocks and coiled roots. They pass by a children’s play area—with its ground-cover of black foam rubber beneath swings, slides and jungle gyms—and then a couple of baseball diamonds and soccer fields. The fresh odor of grass hangs in the air.
“These mountains used to be covered with redwood trees,” Rigo says. “A forest of them.”
“Did they really have red wood?” Josué asks.
“Like blood,” Rigo exaggerates. “Plus, they could grow to over a hundred meters tall and six meters in diameter.”
“What happened to them?”
“They died off in the ecocaust, like most of the native plants. Redwoods drank fog to survive. That’s how they got most of their water. But after a while it got too dry for them. There used to be oak trees here, too. And madrone and manzanita. About the only thing that survived were the eucalyptus trees and old-style palm trees.”
“How come?”
“They weren’t native to this area. They came from desert climates to start with. Places like Africa and Australia.”
Funny how transplants survive when natives can’t, Rigo thinks. How indigenous species almost always get outcompeted by foreign invaders. It’s the same with people, he thinks. No different.
Pretty soon they come across the shrine. It’s encircled by a low fence and rough-hewn benches arranged like pews. Hardcopy photos hang on the fence, printouts of loved ones who are either sick or dying. Several tables along the fence display flower vases and votive candles. The vases sprout artificial roses, lilies, violets. Waxy tears runnel the candles, clot in solid puddles on the tabletop. An outside church, roofed by a vaulted ceiling of leaves. Rigo half expected to encounter a healing service in progress, but the place is tranquil. Josué races up to the table, eschewing quiet reverence in favor of unbridled religious fervor that is the result of too much sugar. Anthea follows more slowly, as if approaching an altar or holy monument. She could be visiting Easter Island or Stonehenge.
After a few seconds Josué announces, “I
“Can we at least talk to him? See what he wants?”
“Forget it.” Anthea turns toward Rigo. “Come on. We’re leaving.” She stomps off to get Josué.
The agent offers Rigo the ampoule, like it’s a business card. “If you change your mind—”
Rigo shakes his head—“If you bother her again, we’ll contact the police”—then hurries to catch up with Anthea. When he glances over his shoulder, the dude is gone, disappeared back into whatever hole he crawled out of.
“Let’s go see the Angel Tree,” Anthea says, suddenly. “I haven’t been there in years, not since I was a kid.” She seems anxious to put the conversation with the ICLU agent behind her. Clear her mental palate, and recapture the carefree mood of the first part of the evening.
Josué doesn’t bother to protest, evidence that even his level of tolerance has hit a wall. Overstimulation is great to a point, but it can be exhausting. While they pod a few kilometers into the coastal foothills, Anthea tells them the story.
Nearly a century earlier, just before the turn of the millennium, an angel appeared to a man splitting fire-wood. The apparition hovered mysteriously for a short time, bestowing a cryptic Mona Lisa smile, and then vanished. As soon as she was gone, the man had the urge to split another log. When he did, the wood inside bore the image of the angel and the man was cured of terminal cancer. Word of the miracle quickly spread, and in no time the split log, now part of a table constructed by the man to preserve the image, had been turned into a religious shrine. For years, sick people have been making pilgrimages to the Angel in the Tree to partake of her healing benediction.
“Creepy,” Josué says.
The pod drops them off at a narrow footpath that leads into a small park. They trudge through a copse of umbrella palms. It’s dark under the UV-reflective canopy, and they stumble on rocks and coiled roots. They pass by a children’s play area—with its ground-cover of black foam rubber beneath swings, slides and jungle gyms—and then a couple of baseball diamonds and soccer fields. The fresh odor of grass hangs in the air.
“These mountains used to be covered with redwood trees,” Rigo says. “A forest of them.”
“Did they really have red wood?” Josué asks.
“Like blood,” Rigo exaggerates. “Plus, they could grow to over a hundred meters tall and six meters in diameter.”
“What happened to them?”
“They died off in the ecocaust, like most of the native plants. Redwoods drank fog to survive. That’s how they got most of their water. But after a while it got too dry for them. There used to be oak trees here, too. And madrone and manzanita. About the only thing that survived were the eucalyptus trees and old-style palm trees.”
“How come?”
“They weren’t native to this area. They came from desert climates to start with. Places like Africa and Australia.”
Funny how transplants survive when natives can’t, Rigo thinks. How indigenous species almost always get outcompeted by foreign invaders. It’s the same with people, he thinks. No different.
Pretty soon they come across the shrine. It’s encircled by a low fence and rough-hewn benches arranged like pews. Hardcopy photos hang on the fence, printouts of loved ones who are either sick or dying. Several tables along the fence display flower vases and votive candles. The vases sprout artificial roses, lilies, violets. Waxy tears runnel the candles, clot in solid puddles on the tabletop. An outside church, roofed by a vaulted ceiling of leaves. Rigo half expected to encounter a healing service in progress, but the place is tranquil. Josué races up to the table, eschewing quiet reverence in favor of unbridled religious fervor that is the result of too much sugar. Anthea follows more slowly, as if approaching an altar or holy monument. She could be visiting Easter Island or Stonehenge.
After a few seconds Josué announces, “I
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