“Tu eres mi alma. Tu eres mi sol.”

ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. . . .

Roy Temple was lost.

He had left Broken Land in a hurry following the tragic shootout at McKinney’s Saloon. He left both the money and the opium where they sat on the bar between Tenmen and McKinney, both men dead where they lay. Possession of the drugs and the cash is what had sparked the violence in the first place, but Roy quickly found that he no longer cared about either.

His wife was dead, and that was all that mattered.

Roy had tied Flora into the saddle of his horse, and together the three of them had walked out of town, and into the unforgiving desert. Acting on instinct alone, without conscious thought or action, he gradually pushed them south, towards the Dragoon Mountains. He had hunted the Dragoons as a child, and knew them well from the days and nights spent camping there with his old man. Roy walked the horse along the small mountain range for days, stopping only to rest and water the horse. Roy himself had no need for sleep, no need for food – he just kept walking, searching, with no idea what he was looking for.

But when he found it, he knew it right away. After seven straight days of walking along the high country, he found it. He had never been more sure of anything in his life – this was the spot where he would bury his wife. He reined the horse in to a stop and took a look around. They were standing on a small bluff, a rocky outcropping that jutted out over a rather wide wash that ran down to the San Pedro River below. The wash was dry at the moment, but Roy knew that the near daily summer monsoons would fill it soon enough with water racing down into the canyon. Flora’s favorite sound on this Earth was that of running water – she would love this spot. It was perfect.

Roy fashioned a crude marker from whittled mesquite branch and twine from his saddlebag, then used the butt of Dollar Bill’s silver-handled revolver to hammer the cross into the ground at the head of the grave. He paused then, unsure of what to do next. He knew that he should probably say some words, but had no idea which ones. Flora was always better at that sort of thing; he was certain that if it was her standing over his grave, she would know exactly what to say.

After some serious thought, Roy decided on a poem, one that he himself had composed. It had been written in the first year of their marriage, as Flora committed herself to teaching Roy just enough Spanish to get by. Roy proved himself to be a surprisingly quick learner, and in no time at all became much more than merely passable. As a surprise for Flora’s birthday that year, he had written her a poem, one that brought tears to her eyes. Tu eres mi alma, it began. Tu eres mi sol.

Roy had never forgotten them poem, and still knew all the words by heart. “Tu eres mi alma,” he began, standing over the freshly turned soil where his wife now lay. “Tu eres mi sol. . . .”

When he finished, Roy removed his hat and closed his eyes. He stood that way for a long time, efforting a prayer towards God, but none would come. He had never been particularly close with God, even if he did still believe. He only made the effort now because he figured that was what Flora would have wanted. He started, then restarted, his prayer several times, each one emptier than the last. Frustrated, he put his hat back on and opened his eyes. Three tiny hummingbirds now hovered over the simple headstone he had made. Go away, he thought bitterly towards the birds. There’s nothing for you here. But his heart warmed at the sight of them despite himself.

He watched the birds flutter a moment longer, then squatted down beside the grave. He kissed the fingertips of his left hand, then lightly touched the dirt above where he had laid Flora’s head. Startled by his movement, slow and gentle as it was, the hummingbirds did a wide circuit around his head, then disappeared into the scrub.

Roy watched the birds go as he stood up. He tugged the front brim of his hat down low, pulling it down low over his eyes. “Good bye, Little Flower,” he said softly, then turned and walked away.

Back on his horse, Roy rode. Instinctively, he rode south again, out of the Dragoons, down through the scrub, then back up into the Mule Mountains, just north of the Mexican border. He rode without concept of time; it could have been hours, or days. It could have been weeks. Like before, he didn’t sleep, didn’t eat; he only took water when his horse did.

He continued south, out of the Mules, towards the border town of Douglas. He passed through its dusty streets in the middle of an afternoon monsoon, the first rain he could recall since Flora had died. The folks of Douglas stood huddled, sheltered from the hard rain on Main Street’s covered porches, watching this haggard stranger ride slowly through their town, soaked through to the bone. Roy did not heed their stares. His mind was focused elsewhere, wondering if he had buried Flora too deep for her to hear this magnificent rain.

The storm moved on to the north; Roy kept moving to the south. He crossed over into Sonora just before sundown. He had lived his entire life in Arizona, but up until that point, had never traveled into Mexico. He kept the horse pointed south, into the darkening unknown.

Roy was wary of bandidos as he continued on; he had heard countless tales portraying Mexico as a lawless land where riding alone marked a traveler for certain death, or worse. Roy did not fear the bandits, or even the death they might bring; he was prepared for either. But he rode through the night without incident.

As dawn broke, Roy found himself at the bottom of a small canyon, staring at the ramshackle hut in front of him. He had stopped there a moment earlier, when a trio of hummingbirds buzzing around the hut’s front door had caught his eye. Although he knew it was crazy, he was certain that the three birds were the same ones from Flora’s grave.

A shadow fell across the open doorframe, sending the hummingbirds on a complete circuit around the hut. As they returned to the door, a giant of a man stepped out into the morning sun. The birds circled his head twice, then flew off into the canyon.

“Yes?” the man said, lifting his chin in Roy’s direction.

Roy responded automatically, his brain a puppet on a string. “I think I’m here to see you.”

The tall man nodded. “I see.”

Roy climbed down off of his horse and covered the few steps towards the man. As he got closer, the man seemed to grow even larger. He was pushing seven feet tall and at least three hundred pounds. He wore his straight dark hair long, well past his shoulders, and his broad, bare chest bore what seemed to Roy thousands of tiny scars. The lengths of his long arms were covered in dozens of small tattoos depicting birds – including several hummingbirds. “ Sabe La Bruja Azteca?” he asked.

Roy did not know of the witch, and told the giant as much. “I think I followed those hummingbirds.”

“In that case, I think you had better come inside.” The man turned to head back in, and motioned for Roy to follow.

Roy started in, then stopped in his tracks. Aside from the ones on his arms, El Brujo had one more tattoo. This one spanned his entire back, and took the appearance of a large, spiral-shaped feather encircled by a sphere of ancient markings.

What had stopped Roy was the fact that he had seen these markings before. Flora had hung a painting with the same circle in the kitchen of their home back in Broken Land. “An Aztec calendar,” she had called it when he asked. “To honor my ancestors.”

Seeing that tattoo, Roy now knew why he had come to this place. “You can help me speak with my wife one last time?” he called as the man disappeared inside.

El Brujo’s disembodied voice floated back from within the darkened hut. “Oh, Mr, Temple,” he said. “I can do better than that.”

*****

“I ain’t doing this for you.”

TODAY. . .

Roy was glad that he hadn’t told Graham that he was headed downtown to the National Air and Space Museum. The museum, with its spectacular collection of flying machines, had quickly become a favorite of the Temple family when they moved to DC from Texas a few years back. Roy and Graham (and sometimes Flora, although she much preferred Natural History) had spent countless hours among the huge crowds roaming the wide halls of the “Most-Visited Museum in the World”, learning something new every time.

Even though it had been ten years, it was still a rare occasion when Roy felt comfortable in the role of a father. But there in the museum, walking amongst the planes and rockets, pointing out things of interest to his son and watching his wide-eyed reactions of wonderment, Roy felt like a father. Because of that, if Graham had known that he was headed downtown this morning, he would have asked to skip school and tag along. And because of all that, Roy would have said yes, which he knew Flora would never allow. So he elected to just not say anything, and could not have felt worse if he had outright lied to the boy.

Besides, he reasoned with himself, this is a business call. Rudy had called him first thing in the morning, while Graham was showering for school. Roy found himself shocked that Rudy was even awake that early; clearly Roy had impressed upon the young man just how important it was that he speak to Juarez Hart as soon as possible. Rudy’s message from Juarez was direct and to the point: Air and Space. 11:00.

Juarez had definitely taken him up on his offer to meet on neutral ground. The National Mall area where the museum was located may as well have been in a completely different Washington, DC than the one where Juarez and Roy lived and worked. Every day, year round, busloads of schoolchildren and tourists walked along the wide expanses of grass, not one piece of trash in the streets, no graffiti tags anywhere. They felt just as safe as they would back in Indiana or Yokohama, the panhandlers outside the Smithsonian metro stop just a charming part of the big city flavor.

Roy saw more cops on the five minute walk from the Smithsonian station to the museum than he would see if he spent all afternoon in Juarez’ neighborhood. Those families of four from Des Moines rarely made it that far off The Mall. Roy wondered how safe they would feel in his neighborhood, much less Juarez’.

As was his custom, Roy arrived at the museum a few minutes early, and took a few minutes to wander the halls, to see if anything had changed since his last visit. For Roy, the Air & Space Museum had always stood as a testament to the human spirit and imagination. It took mankind from the dawn of time until 1903 to leave the ground and fly; but in just 66 years, men had flown all the way to the moon, landed there, and returned to Earth to talk about it. Roy couldn’t decide which was a larger achievement. The world was a much smaller place by 1969, of course, and the constant media coverage had certainly made the moon landing seem bigger. He hadn’t heard about the Wright Flyer until almost a week after the fact. He wondered what the big event of 2035 would be. A Mars landing, or even something beyond. Maybe he and Graham would be able to watch it together. Maybe Graham would be a part of it.

Whatever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see. . .

Roy made his way up the escalators to the second level of the museum. He stood for a moment at the mezzanine railing, overlooking the commercial aviation exhibit, then had a seat on a metal bench just to the right of the planetarium ticket booth. From this vantage point, he had a good look at everyone getting off the escalator – he’d be able to easily spot Juarez as he approached. He also had a good look at the F-104 Starfighter hanging overhead, which happened to be Graham’s favorite plane in the building. Long and sleek, Scott Crossfield had broken Mach-2 in 1954 flying that plane. “The Missile With a Man In It”, they called it. That was Graham’s favorite part. Roy felt a knot in his heart – maybe he should have brought the boy.

Roy glanced at his watch. 10:58. He had to admit, Juarez’ plan had been sound. By giving Roy such short notice on both time and location, he had assured that there would be no time to set up an ambush of any sort. If that’s what Roy had had in mind. Choosing a crowded, public place drastically reduced the chances of an altercation of any kind developing. Juarez had left little to chance; Roy could tell that the young man was going places.

At exactly 11:00, Juarez stepped off the escalator onto the second floor of the museum. He spotted Roy sitting on the bench immediately and made his way over. He was dressed in a very similar manner to the last time he and Roy had met: heavy work boots, baggy jeans, a plain black t-shirt straining at the seams to cover his arms and chest. The clean-shaven babyface beneath his black wavecap was the only hint at the teen’s true age.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Roy asked in way of greeting.

“DC Public Schools?” Juarez shook his head. “What am I gonna learn there?”

“My son seems to learn enough.”

“Yeah, across the Creek.”

It had only taken Roy a few weeks after moving to town to learn that Rock Creek was the unofficial dividing line between the working poor in the majority of Washington and the mostly upper class, mostly white neighborhoods in Northwest. He had nothing to say to that.

A white shirt-clad OPS officer walked past, stopping just long enough to admonish a group of school kids on a field trip for playing on the escalator. “How’d you get your piece past the metal detector?” Juarez asked, once he was certain the security officer was out of earshot.

“I haven’t carried a gun in a long time,” Roy said.

“I thought all you guys carried.”

“I thought all you guys did.”

Juarez’ eyes sparkled at Roy’s retort, and he sat down on the other end of the bench. The perforated metal of the seat groaned slightly. The kid was solidly built – Roy’s jaw could attest to that.

“So,” Juarez said. “What’s this all about?” Right to the point. Roy liked this kid more and more all the time.

“The first time we met, you mentioned the kids. Said you were protecting the neighborhood to protect the kids.”

“Yeah, so?”

Roy took a deep breath. Here goes. “You heard about my wife?”

Juarez looked down at his feet. “Yeah, Rudy said. Sorry to hear it.”

“Thanks,” Roy said, waiting for Juarez to look up. When he did, Roy continued. “See, the thing is, it looks like her accident was no accident.”

Juarez said nothing, but Roy could read the confusion in his eyes. “The cops think I killed her,” he continued.

“That’s ridiculous. You didn’t kill your own wife.”

“I’m glad you agree. But the thing is, I don’t know who caused that accident. I’ve got some pretty good ideas – but I plan to find out for sure by the end of today.”

“All right,” Juarez said, nodding. “Good. But what’s that got to do with me?”

Roy rubbed his jaw, thinking, working out exactly what he wanted to say. “They already went after my wife,” he said finally. “I’m afraid they’ll go after my son next. The problem is, if I do what I need to do today, I can’t be there to protect him.”

Juarez nodded slowly again, understanding. “You want me to protect your boy.”

“Just for today,” Roy said quickly. “Although, if something happens to me today, I’ll have to ask you to get him to Texas somehow. My wife’s family. I’ll leave instructions.”

“You planning on having something happen to you today while I’m babysitting?”

Roy shook his head firmly. “No, I’m not. But sometimes, things have a way of happening of their own accord, you know?” Roy shook his head again. “He’s an innocent in all this. Doesn’t deserve any of it.”

Juarez stood up, shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans. “I ain’t doing this for you.”

Roy followed suit, standing up to look Juarez directly in the eyes. “Thank you.”

“Maybe I should take him to Texas, anyway. The life you have, the things you do – you don’t deserve a son.”

Maybe not, Roy thought to himself. “Thank you,” he said again.

“Let me ask you this, though. Why me? All the people you know in this city, why’d you trust me with this?”

Roy rubbed his jaw again, smiling at Juarez. “Hell, kid,” he said. “There’s always someone faster.”

*****

“I can do better than that.”

ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. . .

El Brujo had been just about to sit down to breakfast when Roy happened by, so he played the good host and fixed Roy a plate, as well. They sat cross-legged on the desert hardpan floor of the hut and enjoyed a meal of chorizo and eggs, washed down by the blackest coffee Roy had ever tasted. He ate ravenously, like a man who had eaten nothing for weeks. Which, in fact, he hadn’t.

When Roy finished his third plate, El Brujo stood up to leave. The hut’s low ceiling forced the giant man to hunch over, his long hair swinging pendulously as he rose. “Going down to the wash to clean up these dishes,” he said. “You rest here a moment, and I’ll be right back.” Roy wanted to protest, but before he could even get the words to his lips, El Brujo had gathered up the plates and cookpot and was out the door.

Roy closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, the heat inside the small hut was stifling. The sun shone brightly directly overhead, visible through a rather large crack in the ceiling.

Roy worked at rubbing some of the numbness from his face. He felt like he had slept for days; he still felt like he could sleep for days more. He had had no idea how tired he truly was. He stood up, wobbly, a newborn calf, legs heavy with loose mud. He stumbled through the hut’s open door into the blinding sunlight outside.

El Brujo sat on a large rock across from the door, using a whetstone to sharpen an obsidian knife of considerable length. “You gonna carve me up while I sleep, eat me for supper?” Roy asked, pointing at the knife.

El Brujo smiled, then sheathed the knife in an old leather casing on his hip. “Just killing some time until you woke up,” he said. “From the looks of you in there, that was gonna be a while.”

Roy squinted, his eyes still adjusting to the bright midday sun. Something was missing, but he couldn’t quite – “Where’s my horse?”

El Brujo shook his head. “Not to worry. I showed him to the wash, and he’s having a drink. Be back soon.” Brujo’s eyes twinkled. “He said you’d be worried.”

“What?”

“Your horse. He said that if you woke up and he was gone, you would worry.” Brujo nodded once. “He was right.”

Roy’s head swam, mired in fatigue and confusion. “How did—”

“He told me,” Brujo said, matter-of-factly. “Told me some other things, too. Buried your wife up in Arizona? The Dragoons?”

What is happening here? “That’s right.”

“That’s a hard business, burying a wife. Many regrets, I’m sure.”

“A few. I just want to talk to her one more time.”

Brujo stood up, stretching his impressive frame to its full height. “I know. But as I told you this morning, Mr. Temple, I can do better than that.”

“Yeah, you said that already.” Roy said, nodding slowly. He would hear El Brujo out. “You talk to animals?”

“I listen, mostly,” Brujo said. “Not all animals, of course.”

“Of course,” Roy said, unable to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

“Surely, Mr. Temple, a man with a gun as fast as yours would not discount that certain men have certain. . . gifts.”

Even allowing that. . . “How do you know – “ Roy stopped mid-sentence, Brujo freezing his words with a knowing look. “I’ve never even—” Another look, this one with a touch of pity. Roy frowned. “Never mind,” he said quietly, looking down at his boots.

Brujo waited patiently for Roy to look back up. When Roy finally did, there was a familiar resolve to his face, one that Brujo seemed glad to see. Brujo smiled, then pointed a long finger overhead. “The sun,” he said, affecting an air of explanation. “Everything owes to the sun.”

“All right,” Roy said, urging El Brujo to go on.

“Food, water, life itself, death. . . all given by the sun. Men like myself, men like you, our gifts are of the sun. And as long as the sun travels across the sky each day, things continue on as they are.”

“Sure,” Roy said. The heat and fatigue worked together with his despair to leave him willing to believe anything at that point.

“But if the sun should fall. . . darkness would overwhelm all the world forever.”

Roy remembered that from his brief schooling, and said as much. “How could the sun fall?” he added.

Brujo chose to continue on, rather than answer Roy’s question directly. “Our job here, our purpose as men, is to provide nourishment for the sun. It’s as simple as that.”

“We feed it?” Roy asked. Brujo nodded. Roy frowned. “What, corn? Sausage?”

“Your lack of belief disappoints me, Mr. Temple. Our foods are much too coarse, too common, for the sun. The sun feeds on teyolia.”

“Teyolia.”

El Brujo nodded solemnly. “ Teyolia—the energy that is seated in the hearts and blood of men.”

“The hearts and blood of – What the hell does any of this have to do with my wife?”

Again, El Brujo ignored Roy’s question in favor of continuing on. “Teyolia was once provided to the sun with human sacrifice. Your missionaries saw to the end of that. Now, the sun finds nourishment in. . . other places.”

“Other places,” Roy said slowly, his frustration giving way to anger. “My wife.”

“Take yourself, for example,” Brujo said. “Given your. . . proficiency in your chosen line of work, you’ve provided more than your fair share. The sun provided you with a gift, and you have rewarded him handsomely.”

Roy thought back to those first rustlers in Nogales. . . Dollar Bill Wallach. . . Tenmen. . . everyone in between. Flora. His anger subsided, replaced by a numbing sorrow.

“The world can be a violent place,” El Brujo said. “And as long as the sun travels the sky, there will be a need for men like you, Roy.”

“The souls of the men I have killed. . .” Roy faltered, unsure of where he was going with this. “They hardly seem worthy.”

“Anger. Hatred. Fear. Greed. Huitzilpochtli finds nourishment in all of these.”

Roy stared at the long, black knife strapped to El Brujo’s waist. Maybe the knife was for him. “You can send me to see my wife?” Roy asked, pointing at the blade.

Brujo shook his head. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. The heavens are divided into many levels. The Eastern Paradise that warriors like yourself are destined for – you’ll not find your wife there.”

Roy showed El Brujo his palms and shrugged, exasperated. “Then I don’t understand.”

El Brujo took a step towards Roy, then reached out to put a large, oddly comforting hand on Roy’s shoulders. “I can bring your wife back here.”

Roy could feel his heart thumping in his ears. “How?”

Brujo smiled. “As I said before, the sun has granted men like us certain gifts. This is another of mine. I cannot defy death. . . but I can defy destiny.”

“How.” A statement, not a question.

“In the cycle of things, a life that ends too early bestows great benefits on the next. A beautiful woman who dies too young becomes even more so in the next life, if she is chosen to return. At the moment, your Flora’s teyolia is on its way to the Northern Paradise, a journey that will take four years and see her through many hardships. Until she reaches Mictlan, she is within my reach. I can bring her back – if that is what you want.”

Roy didn’t hesitate. “What do you want from me in return?”

“She won’t come back as she was. Rather, her teyolia will be reborn into the next available birth. Today, if you so desire. She will laugh and learn and cry and grow as any child will, and one day, if the sun so deems, you will meet again.”

“Will she know me?”

“No.”

“But I will know her.” Roy didn’t have to ask. He was sure of it. He was as certain as he had ever been of anything.

“Yes. And if the sun deems, you will be together again.” Roy was certain of that, too, no matter what the sun deemed.

“What do you want from me?” Roy asked again.

“Simply keep feeding the sun.”

Roy nodded. “The men that I kill—they’ll be bad men. All of them. Bad men who have done worse things.”

“That matters little. The dark side of the sun needs nourishment, too.”

“And no guns. I’m through with guns.”

“The instrument matters even less.”

An image of Flora, laughing in the kitchen of their small home, flashed across Roy’s mind. Tu eres mi alma. . . Tu eres mi sol. . .

“Do we have a deal, Mr. Temple?” El Brujo’s voice floated into Roy’s memory, snapping him out of his reverie. Roy took a long look at Brujo, his entire life with Flora rushing back to him, all of it at once. His knees felt weak.

“Do it,” Roy said.