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  Not soon enough she will be back in the little room off the kitchen at the home of La Currendera. Since her mother’s death she lives and apprentices to the local healer. Her childhood home is now darkened by her father’s drunken binges.

  Juanita ties the bow and stern lines to the dock. Jose carefully counts out the money due to each puta. Too young to be called woman they trudge toward the bus stop with weary steps, already tired of the world and its demands.

  Jose loves his daughter, yet he lives the life of a reckless bachelor, late nights, crazy parties, morning hangovers. After his wife’s passing Jose numbed his grief with alcohol and woman. Countless days and nights of drinking has become all he knows. A world twisted by grief, and soothed with distilled agave.

  He cannot bear to reach out to his daughter. It could shatter him.

  Last week Juanita came to him. Pale, twisting her fingers, she said, “Papa may I have Mama’s gold cross? I feel so lonely. If I could wear Mama’s cross it would help me feel closer to her and to you.”

  At the time he was annoyed. Glaring at her, his head hammering with the beat of his heart, the effect of his morning tequila had already faded. The pounding headache, cottonmouth and nausea fuel his words. He’d spoken more sharply than intended. He cringes remembering.

  “No. It would not be proper for you to wear your mother’s cross. The cross belongs to me. How can you be lonely when you live with La Currandera?”

  His coldness takes Juanita’s breath away.

  She can remember years when her father’s eyes sparkled like the sun over the ocean. Now his eyes are tinged with yellow. His voice burned dry by tequila, is a parched crackle. The years vibrant with happiness are a forgotten memory.

  Juanita tries once more to reach across her loneliness. “Papa,” she says “When I’m with you it feels like you are not here. Your spirit has gone wandering since Mama died. I do not see happiness in your eyes. I miss you. Come back to me Papa. I need you.”

  For Jose, buried in the ghosts of the past stained golden by tequila, his thoughts are murky and wet. He can only shake his head and ask, “How are your studies with La Currandera? When will you be able to charge for your services?”

  Before she can answer he shakes his head doubtfully, “Will any man want you?” Still wagging his head he asks “Will they want you, after you are called La Currandera? Who will want to marry the apprentice to the healer?”

  For the first time in their conversation Jose lifts his eyes to Juanita’s face. He says, “A strange world you’ve chosen.”

  Juanita wants to shout, “You talk about my strange world? Your world revolves around prostitution. You poison yourself with tequila. What would Mama say if she could see you now?”

  Instead she turns away. Her father’s question lingers, “Will any man want you?”

  • • •

  At La Currandera’s Juanita learns her belly is filled with miles of sensors. They are her antennae to truth. Her teacher explains, “The belly is the home of wisdom. In the gut lives your truth. To live an authentic life you must unite your mind and heart with your belly.”

  She smiles at Juanita’s confusion. Shifting the conversation she says, “What are your dreams? What acts will pull your dreams from the invisible into visible reality?” She smiles and runs a warm hand across Juanita’s shoulders. She says, “My teacher had a saying. ‘If your dreams will not grow corn in everyday life then find a new dream.’ A quaint way of saying; when you marry dreams and acts, if they are not productive in the world, if they do not benefit you and others, you must re-evaluate your priorities and goals.”

  Juanita is completely confused. They started talking about the belly, wisdom, connecting the belly with mind and heart. In the blink of an eye they are talking about dreams. She shakes her head. “How can you tell if your dreams are worthwhile?”

  La Currandera shrugs. “What does it matter?”

  Juanita’s eyes widen in distress. “Didn’t you just say dreams must grow corn?”

  Stirring the pot on the stove La Currandera quietly chants a prayer. Finished she claps her hands. Looking at Juanita she inquires, “Have you finished chores?”

  Juanita giggles. “Since I have come to live with you people ask me what you teach. They think my time filled with visions and magic. I tell them ‘no’ I clean the floor and find ways to make life run smoothly.”

  “Yes,” La Currandera continues to stir the pot of herbs and water that will become a tonic for vitality. She says, “True power is your ability to create goodness, beauty in your life and for others. Go forward with faith in a greater goodness, Juanita. Dreams, acts, faith in goodness these are the words of power that will sculpt your life. In this way all dreams are variations of the one dream of wellness and beauty.”

  Walking in the gardens Juanita repeats to herself, “Words of power: with words of power I shape my dreams.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I dream of a life shared with a loving husband and children. I dream of becoming a healer. My acts, that match my dreams, will form my future.”

  Beyond the flower garden where La Currandera sits with visitors Juanita stands among the vegetables and herbs. Food as medicine filled with healing power. Pulling weeds from soil wet with the afternoon rain, she plants in her mind and heart, the one dream with infinite variations of beauty.

  A small pile of weeds grows by her side. Juanita shifts her weight. Facing a new direction she continues pulling and shaking. The dirt flies free from the roots. She tosses the weed to the pile.

  La Currandera does not approve of her father’s demand Juanita crew his boat weekends. She cannot come between Juanita and her father’s authority. Instead she teaches Juanita to cloak herself in prayers and power. Each time Juanita prepares to leave La Currandera she takes her on the journey to gather her power animal for added protection.

  Tugging on a weed Juanita says “I rest in a greater good. My acts are the seeds of my dream. The seeds sprout. The Great Spirit decides the color of each flower. What does La Currandera call it? A greater good, united with the Great Spirit, known as Beneficence.”

  Later Juanita finishes the chores of the day. She sighs, “Beneficence. I love the word, Beneficence.” Humming while mopping La Currendera’s kitchen floor, the words play over and over; dreams, acts, faith in Beneficence.

  As she works her words of power become a magical elixir. They flow down her throat, coating the miles of intestinal sensors. They soothe and strengthen her. She will no longer be defined by her father’s rejection or her mother’s death. She chants, dreams, acts, Faith in Beneficence.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ISLAS TRES MARIAS

  Awakening in the van Christopher’s head throbs. With each rattling breath he feels jagged edges of broken ribs grinding. Where am I? Where is my car? The questions circle over and over in a never ending loop. He has no idea how long he floats in this world of confusion and pain unable to hold onto reality. When the van bounces, jarring his injuries, pain drags his awareness into the rusty compartment separated from the drivers section by a metal wall. He breathes shallowly to minimize the pain. How did I get here? Where is my car?

  The van bounces to a stop at a gas station. The driver helps Christopher to a toilet. Blood mixes in his urine. Slowly opening the bathroom door, through swollen eyes he watches the driver purchase two sodas. If he could breathe he’d make a dash for it. He swallows his frustration. Instead of handing the bottle that could be broken into a weapon the man maneuvers the glass to the side of Christopher’s swollen mouth. He tips the liquid down Christopher’s throat. The orange pop fizzes. Christopher greedily drinks. Back in the van, as his eyes adjust he makes out the shadow of a man huddled in the corner. They sit in silence, evaluating each other in the darkness. Christopher says, “Habla English?

  “Yes amigo,” the voice heavy with weariness, “My name is Daniel.” He coughs. “You are better now. You do not keep asking for your car.”

  “Where are we going Daniel?”


  “They say only the worst go to La Luna,” Daniel whispers. “But I know better. What did you do?”

  “What do you mean? We’re going to, La Luna, the moon?”

  “La Luna is the name inmates have given to the federal prison Islas Tres Marias. But we might as well be going to the moon. I escaped for a few days. No one has ever really escaped to find freedom from Islas Tres Marias.” Jangling his cuffs Daniel continues, “What did you do mi amigo? An American sent to La Luna, has never happened before. You’ll be the only gringo on the island.”

  Christopher releases a shaky breath, “Did you say island?”

  “Yes, Islas Tres Marias is fifty or sixty miles southwest of Mazatlan.” Once again Daniel coughs. Christopher wants to do something, anything to quiet this racking cough. When he can, Daniel explains, “My cough comes from childhood. Worse with the beating… You have not answered my question. What did you do? What brings you to a Mexican Federal Prison?”

  The question echoes thru him. Christopher feels wave after wave of burning indignation. Rage floods his body sweeping him into fury. Outrage scalds a swollen and bruised throat. “My car was stolen, by the police!

  “I’m falsely accused of drugs! Set up by the Tuck and Roll… skunk… I’ve been badly beaten… Someone needs to go to prison but it’s not me.”

  In a voice rough with compassion Daniel says “I understand amigo.”

  When Daniel’s cough quiets he confesses he shot a federal officer. “A man using his badge to molest my sister… he was beyond the law.” Daniel’s cuffs jangle when he waves his hands in the air. “Our confrontation ended in a struggle. His gun discharged twice.” Daniel is carried away in coughing. Bent over he tries to swallow. He cannot stop. He can’t breathe, and then mercifully the struggle passes.

  Sitting upright Daniel continues, “The first bullet flew through pillows my sister had stacked on a leather bench. It traveled through the bathroom wall, exploding the ceramic bowl. That hombre carried a powerful gun, a Governor.

  “The second bullet ripped through the cop. Guts spilled across the carpeted floor. My self-defense pleas were thrown out.”

  In a quiet voice he explains, “Murder of a federal officer carries a mandatory life sentence.”

  Daniel continues. Reaching for Christopher’s hand he says, “Remember no place or status can keep you safe on La Luna.” Daniel’s arm falls away. Christopher’s head leans against the truck panel. Eyes closed he falls into a restless sleep. Lost, irate, terrified, confused in his mind’s eye he sees Master Jojo. Sitting at attention, “You have everything you need to master each day Christopher.”

  He curls tightly, arms casting his broken ribs, rolling to his side he pulls himself into the fetal position. He reviews events beginning with his drive across the border. He keeps each breath shallow to master the pain. He feels his parent’s terror. “You have everything you need to master each day, each challenge.”

  When the van grinds to a stop at a dock in La Paz Christopher guesses the time around midnight. A flood light hangs on a tall light post encircled by hundreds of bugs and swiftly darting bats. From the boat a rough voice commands, “Do your business off the dock. We are many hours to Mazatlan and our stop for supplies. My guard will shoot you if you try to run or swim away.”

  Hours later, huddled in a corner of the boat, Christopher agonizes over the fear his parents are suffering. The burden too much to bear he shuffles over to Daniel, “Please, tell me more about the island.”

  Daniel moves to accommodate his bruises. He nods. “Okay amigo. Sixty miles southwest off the coast of Mexico, in the center of Hurricane Alley, are four small islands known as The Three Marias. First they were a hideout for pirates because the islands have artesian springs.”

  “How did the islands become a prison?” asks Christopher.

  “A deposit of salt discovered. Also discovered; an abundance of the agave plant used in producing Tequila. The government wanted cheap labor to harvest both salt and agave. The prison was set up in the 1930’s.”

  Daniel coughs. Christopher can see the bruises of finger prints around his throat. They fall silent. He has fallen asleep when Daniel speaks again. Jerking awake, every bit of information is vital. “There are gangs who harvest the agave, others the salt, another gang does repair and maintenance. A leader will come and meet you.

  “I’ll be whipped or worse…”

  Daniel’s voice falls away, his mind absorbed in the punishments awaiting him. Black circles under his eyes speak to Christopher of a raccoon. A raccoon chews off his own foot for freedom.

  Just past dawn they chug into the Mazatlan harbor. The skipper parks next to a yacht King’s Run, San Diego, California. A woman lounges on the deck. Christopher guesses her age in her fifties. Trim and toned wearing a one piece bathing suit and matching sarong tied at her waist. Christopher inhales sharply. Is this an opportunity for help? The Captain and boat hands climb the dock to organize several pallets of supplies.

  Christopher seizes the moment. Half yell, half whisper he calls, “Hey lady! I’m a United States citizen. I’m kidnapped, held hostage.” She doesn’t move. He cannot discern if she heard him. He calls out more loudly, “My name; Christopher Marcos.” Still no expression crosses her features. Christopher’s anxiety soars. His heart pounds, he’s running out of time. Boat hands have started loading supplies. “Call Rabbi Foxx the Wilshire Temple in Beverly Hills,” enunciating each word carefully he continues, “tell him to look for Christopher Marcos on Islas Tres Marias!”

  Christopher is panting with the effort to yell without being overheard or exacerbating his injuries. Without glancing in his direction the woman pulls up her towel and leaves the deck for the stateroom. He looks at Daniel. “I think she heard me. I told her to call my mother’s rabbi.”

  Daniel remains unseeing during their Mazatlan stop for supplies. He stares to the far horizon. Christopher worries. After a bout of coughing Daniel motions Christopher closer. He says, “Prisoners walk freely around the island. Don’t be fooled. The ocean provides the bars of this prison. A little town where administration lives encircled by high security fencing and guard towers. The towers are armed with machine guns and assault rifles. Surveillance cameras record entrances and exits. Guards in jeeps and on foot carry pistols and rifles. Few inmates are allowed past the gates.”

  Daniels eyes close. His head drops. Christopher hopes he rests. In a burst of panic, he stares to make sure Daniel’s chest rises and falls. Christopher’s body slumps, chin to chest. His mouth twists. How will his family begin to search for him? Will they discover his car made a border crossing? And police will say he took a trip: Nothing to investigate. The Tijuana cops made no arrest. No paper trail of his transfer to Islas Tres Marias exists.

  How many stories has he recently heard of young American men trapped in the Mexican penal system? The State Department makes only weak attempts to inquire. One man, a decorated veteran, was brought home when Fox News pulled strings behind the scenes and encouraged viewers to cancel their travel plans in Mexico. A potential crisis of their tourist economy at stake the veteran was released immediately.

  Christopher happened to see an interview after the man returned home. One look at his face told the story of a broken man. He shivers at the memory, a decorated American veteran broken by Mexico’s prison.

  What’s the difference in Christopher’s circumstance? That man kept chained to his bunk, beaten by other prisoners, did have a paper trail of his arrest. Family or friends could locate him. Lost in these endless thoughts Christopher floats, a downward spiral into hopelessness. Within the never ending horizon of the sea, time falls away. In this eternity Christopher is shattered.

  The sun is high in the sky when dolphins break the surface, executing pirouettes. Even the crew shouts. Weaving in and out of the water, double flips in the air, the show continues for several minutes. Christopher listens to squeaks and grunts amidst their play. Their vibrancy, athleticism and gleaming health jolts C
hristopher free of despair. He’s completely absorbed in the unexpected wonder. In that moment he makes a decision to search out and look for life’s wonders. Watching the dolphins has provided him with a map. His first step for freedom he must to regain his health and athleticism. Within vibrancy and health he will pursue escape.

  Leaning over the railing Christopher finds himself gazing into the eye of a Humpback whale. Grasping the railing he tunnels, falling, deeply into the mystery held within the whale’s eye. Crazy, he’s certain the whale understands his predicament. The giant surfaces spouting a spray of water and leaping forward. Taking a cleansing breath, Christopher feels liberated. It’s some kind of inexplicable spiritual magic. In this instant he knows, wherever beauty lives, so can I. These wild creatures are a sign. They are a reminder of many freedoms.

  Resolving to keep faith with the indecipherable bond that connects him with these animals he can hear Master Jojo’s voice echo the corridors of his mind, “If you live in faith, through the bad times, you’ll come out of the difficulties better than before. Practice, Christopher, is the key, in good times and bad.”

  “I’ll live in faith.”

  Hard to imagine he can come out of this circumstance better than before but he pledges to stay true and keep faith with the goodness he saw reflected in the play of the dolphins. He’ll trust in goodness to guide him. He has only one goal: reclaiming his freedom.

  A second whale joins the first. Christopher intuitively knows they are mates. With a final flip of their enormous flukes they wave, Hasta Luego, diving deep.

  Christopher’s vow shudders through him. He will remember: Just as whales can be hidden from sight in the depths of the sea; purpose, goodness, love can be concealed beneath the turmoil on life’s surface.