Read Online Little Deadly Things by Harry Steinman - Free Book Online

Caribbean’s small waves.
    “Juricán will touch you,” the old woman said. “I do not know how. This is the meaning of the golden vine with the black strand. Juricán will come, not as a spirit, but in flesh and blood. You will have your own protector with his own knowledge and he will be tempted by Juricán. He may follow the hurricane or he may not. And a golden strand will grow from you as well, one that will know both Yocahu and Juricán.
    “But you must take the knowledge you found here to the doctors of your world. These plants will disappear and the knowledge of the bohique will be lost. You must bring Yocahu’s gifts to the doctors of your world.”
    Marta thought about Abuela’s words to her. A child teaching scientists about Yocahu? A battle with Juricán? It seemed farfetched.
    “Abuela, the doctors aren’t going to listen to me when I tell them about plants. And how am I going to fight a god?”
    “Hija, you know almost as much as any bohique. Yocahu has given you this knowledge and you learned it well. My heart sings to watch you grow.”
    “I can’t say that your prophesy makes me feel very optimistic,” said Marta. The sarcasm that ebbed over the summer crept back into her words. “Let’s see, I’ve got disease from my mother, a helpless father, and a battle with the God of Evil in my future. Is that it, Abuela?”
    “No, hija. There is one other thing,” the old woman said.
    “Oh, great,” Marta muttered and rolled her dark eyes.
    Abuela smiled. She reached behind her neck and her fingers worked for a moment to untie a knot in a leather cord. It was attached to a leather pouch she carried between her breasts, next to her own medicine bag. This one was older, tanned more deeply. A delicate image was burnt into the leather, a branch with twenty-four long, thin leaves. Marta recognized the leaves of the cojobana tree, giver of visions.
    “I was saving this for the right moment. I think that is now.” The old woman grinned.
    “This was my mother’s. Now it is yours. This is part of your legacy, too. Pain and healing dwell within you. Give each one its voice, but do not let one drown out the other. And do not let these voices drown out your own voice.” The old woman’s arms encircled Marta and hung the pouch around her neck.
    Marta hugged her grandmother and breathed in deeply. She closed her eyes and fixed the image of the twinned vines of her parents’ legacy. Her meditation shifted to the golden strand of her own life, and of the one to come. She visualized growth, impervious to the black filament. Her vision expanded to include the rich soil of El Yunque nurturing the roots of her vine. She felt powerful, connected. The spirit of the forest was substantiated within her. Then she walked away to the publico with grace and purpose and turned back once more.
    Abuela called out, “Hija. Your mother was always proud of you.”
    Then the old woman vanished into the forest.

       04
    ___________________________________________
    A BOY AND HIS DOG
    PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
APRIL 2022
    J im Ecco, age thirteen, and Ringer, age three. A boy and his dog. On the good days, Jim and Ringer visited the Pasadena library. Ringer waited at the entrance and ignored slinking cats, curious dogs, nervous passersby, restaurant aromas, and branch-borne squirrels, although that was difficult even for a Good Dog. On the better days, Jim could slip into the passages of the books he brought home on his dataslate or on paper, and his own world disappeared. On the bad days, Jim and Ringer curled up together and listened for the weight of Dad’s approaching footsteps.
    Ringer was a mutt, Heinz 57, as far from the show ring as a stevedore from a fashion runway. She was part terrier, brave and independent, part German Shepherd, protective. Her coarse undercoat resisted brushing and shed uncaring torrents of light brown hair. Jim’s mother vacuumed it from the sofa and the carpets. She cleaned hair in the kitchen