Phoenix in the Ashes

PHOENIX IN THE ASHES

The sun’s blind, burning face pushed upward past the scarred rim of the river canyon; brands of light seared Hoffmann’s closed eyelids. He stirred, and sighed. The tem­perature rose with the sun; flies and red ants took the day shift from the mosquitoes.

Hoffmann kicked free of the blankets and sat up. He brushed flies from his face, sand from his watch crystal. “Six a.m. ...” Something stung his foot. “God damn!” He crushed an ant, felt the familiar throbbing begin to spread up his foot; he was allergic to ants. There was no antidote—it meant half a day’s nagging pain and nausea. He put on his pants, hobbled down to the river to splash his head and shoulders with the still-cool waters of dawn. The river moved sluggishly past him, only two hundred kilometers from the Gulf; the water was silted to the color of coffee with too much cream. But Colorado meant “the color red.” He won­dered whether it had been different, in the past, or whether, somewhere upstream, the river still ran red. . . . “Someday we’ll get to find out, Hoffmann.” He stood up, dripping, noticed a piece of scrap metal half-buried in the sand. He squatted down again, dug with his fingers. “Steel . . . talk about the middle of nowhere! Yeah. Looks good. . . .” He went back up the bank.

He gathered brush for a fire, cooked rehydrated eggs and bacon. A final bat surrendered to the day, chirping shrilly overhead on its erratic return to the shadowed caves on the far canyon wall. Sparrows rustled in the dusty trees behind him. He tossed out stale bread, watched the birds drop down to peck and wrestle; the sun’s heat burned away the wetness on his back, faded the ends of his dark, shaggy hair. He studied the roll of USGS map reproductions again, laboriously trans­lating from the English. “Huh! Los Angeles basin! San Pe­dro; nice bay…wonder what it looks like now? Probably like a crater, Cristovāo: navy yards, at Long Beach.” He pronounced it “Lona Becha.” “Well, we’ll know by night­fall, anyhow ...” He laughed suddenly, mocking. “They say talking to yourself means you’re crazy, Hoffmann. Hell, no—only if you answer yourself.”

He forced his swollen foot into a hiking boot, pulled on his wrinkled shirt and drooping leather hat, and threw his bedroll into the cockpit behind the ‘copter’s single seat. The bulge of oversized fuel tanks made the ‘copter look pregnant: He called it the Careless Love. He brushed the blazing metal of the door. “Don’t short on me again, machine—they didn’t build you to give me trouble. Get me to the basin, one more day, then I’ll check the wiring; promise…” His eyes found the starry heavens in the Brasilian flag on the door. He looked past the ship at the smoothly rising gravel of the slope, toward the barren, tortured peaks, basalt black or the yellow-gray of weathered bone. He remembered pictures of the moon; pictured himself there, the first man to walk another world since before the Holocaust; the first man in two hun­dred and fifty years. ... He smiled.

As he climbed into the cockpit, he struck his aching foot on the door frame. “Mother of God!” He dropped into the pilot’s seat, grimacing. “This day can only get better.” He started the engine. The ‘copter rose into the sky in a swirling storm of sand.

Amanda sipped tea, watched sun sparks move on the water of the bay through the unshuttered window of her sister’s house. She set down her beaker, returned to brushing the dark, silken hair of Alicia, her niece. Red highlights flickered between her dye-stained fingers like light on the water, a mahogany echo of the auburn strands that escaped around the edges of her own head-covering. Alicia twisted on her lap; sudden impatience showed on the small snub-nosed face. “Ow! Aunt Amanda, tell us another story, please?” She tugged at the laces of Amanda’s leather bodice, untying them.

Amanda shook her head. “No, Alicia, I can’t think of any more stories; I’ve already told you three. Take Dog outside, you and Mano can make him chase sticks.” She slid the little girl down, steadied small, bare feet on the floor, and retied the laces of her vest. Dog whined under the table as the children pulled at the scruff of his neck. He raised a bristled yellow face, his jaws snapped shut over a yawn with a clack of meeting teeth. He scratched, and sighed, and obeyed. She heard his toenails clicking on the floor tiles, and then happy laughter in the courtyard: sounds she seldom heard.

Her sister returned from the fire, moving slowly because of the clubfoot invisible beneath her long dress. She propped her crutch against the table and sat down again in the high-backed chair. “Are you sure it’s all right for them to play with Dog, Amanda? After all, he was…well—”

Amanda smiled. He was a snarling, starving mongrel when she had hurled rocks at him for stealing eggs and broken his leg. And then, in remorse, she had thrown out food to him, and given him shelter. When he stood on his hind legs he was as tall as she was; his mustard-brown hide was netted with battle scars, his flopping ears were torn. He would attack any man who gave her trouble, and that was why she kept him…But he slept peacefully at her feet through the long, empty hours, and rested his ugly head against her knee as she sat at her loom; and whomever she loved, he loved . . . and that was also why she kept him. “It’s all right, Teresa. I’m sure.”

Her sister nodded, turning her cup on the plate. Rainbows revolved in the beaker’s opalescent glaze. Teresa put her hands to her bulging stomach suddenly. “Ah! I’m kicked night and day. The little devil ... I have bruises, would you believe it?” She sighed.

Amanda laughed sympathetically, covered her envy, be­cause Teresa tried to cover her pride.

“How do you ever think of those stories you tell the children?” Teresa pressed on, too brightly; Amanda felt her own smile pinch. “All those wondrous cities and strange sights, balloons big enough to carry men in a basket…hon­estly, Amanda! Sometimes I think José enjoys them more than the children…You’re so good with children…” Amanda watched the brightness break apart. “Oh, Amanda, why didn’t you obey Father! You’d have children too, and a husband—”

“Let’s not bring that up, little sister. Let’s not spoil the afternoon—” Amanda studied the dark wood of the tabletop; the fine lace of the cloth Teresa had made by hand caught on her calloused fingers. To have the money, to have the time…“I made my choice; I’ve learned to live with it.” Even if it was wrong. She looked away abruptly, out the window at the sea.

“I know. But you’re wasting away ... it breaks my heart to see you.” Teresa’s brown eyes rested on Amanda’s hands and were suddenly too bright again with brimming tears. “You were always so thin.”

But once there was a man who had called her beautiful; and when he touched her—Amanda felt her cheeks redden with shame. “By the Word, Teresa; it’s been eight years! I’m not wasting away.” Teresa jerked slightly at her oath. Embar­rassed, she picked up her beaker.

“I’m sorry. I’m very…moody, these days.”

“No…Teresa ... I don’t know what I would ever have done without you and José. You’ve been so kind, so generous to me. I never would have managed.” No resentment moved in her.

“It was only justice.” Old indignation flickered on Tere­sa’s face. “After all, Father gave me your dowry as well as mine; it wasn’t fair. I wish you’d let us do more—”

“I’ve taken enough already. Truly. It was more than I deserved that Father lets me have the cottage. And that José lets you give away his possessions like you do. He’s a kind man.”

Teresa patted her stomach, smiled again. “He treats me very well. I don’t know why I deserve it.”

“I do.” Amanda smiled with her, without pain. The wind carried the sound of bells from the temple tower in Sanpedro town.

“The evening bells; José should be coming home…now.” Teresa reached for her crutch, pushed herself up from the chair. Amanda rose, pulling up her veil as she heard a commotion in the courtyard, shrill delighted voices and a barking dog. José came in through the hall, dark and smiling, a child trailing on each arm. Amanda dropped her eyes, as Teresa did, peeked upward to see José gently raise his wife’s chin with a fingertip. Longing pierced her; she pressed her own rough hands against the lavender weave of her shapeless dress.

“My husband ...”

“My wife. And Amanda: it’s good to see you, wife’s sister.”

She raised her eyes, looked down again, made awkward as she always was by the warm concern in his eyes. “José. Thank you.”

Two more figures entered, crowding the small room. Aman­da’s breath caught on anger as she recognized her other sister, Estella, with her husband Houardo.

“José, why didn’t you tell me we’re having more guests!” Teresa pulled at her veil, flustered.

“I thought since Amanda would be here, Wife, there’d be plenty to eat for two more.” José beamed at his unsubtle inspiration.

“Yes, there will be, José,” Amanda said, meeting his gaze directly, made reckless by resentment. “I can’t stay. I have too much…work ... to do.” She glanced away, at Estella. She could only see the eyes, scornful, beautiful and coal-black, above the fine cloth of Estella’s veil. Memory filled in the face, pale, moonlike, flawless; the body, soft, sensually cushioned, with none of the sharp, bony angles of her own. Estella was two years older, but looked two years younger now. Houardo’s hand was on Estella’s shoulder, possessively, as always, a touch that stirred no longing in her. Teresa had said that Houardo beat his wife, without cause, in fits of jealousy.

But if there was no longing, there was also no sympathy in her now, as she endured their stares. Estella had loved not well, but wisely, marrying the son of the town’s wealthiest merchant; a thing which she never let her disinherited sister forget. Amanda noticed that the rich cloth of Estella’s dress was the muddy rose color of imitation, not the pure, fragile lavender-blue that only her own dye could produce. She smiled, safe behind her veil. “I have to finish a piece of cloth, if I’m to get it to market.”

“Amanda ...” Teresa started forward, leaning on José’s shoulder.

“Good-bye, Alicia, Manolito ...” She slipped out through the hallway, into the fading heat of the desert afternoon. Dog joined her as she left the shaded courtyard, licked at her hands and her bare, dusty feet. She stroked his bony back. Dog would not share a room with Houardo.

Amanda followed the palm-lined road that led to her fa­ther’s fields, her toes bunching in the warm dirt; trying to outdistance her own futile resentment. She slowed at last, breathing hard, a cramp burning her side from the long rise of the road. She looked back over the bay, saw ships, like toys, moving under the wind. And they go away, forever…“He will come back!”

Dog barked, his tail waving.

She looked down, her shoulders drooped as she reached to pat his head. “And what would he find, if he did…?” Her calloused hands knotted, loosened. They go away forever. But the futility, the bitterness, the sorrow and the dreams never left her, never gave her rest. Still looking down, she saw a wrinkled, thumb-sized lump in the dirt; she crouched to pick it up, seeing more scattered across the road in the reaching shadows. Dates hung in bulging clusters below the green frond-crests, in the trees above her head. The crop was turning, the earliest to ripen were already falling along the road. She picked them from the dirt eagerly, filling the pockets she had sewn into the seams of her dress.

As the track wound through the last of the fields before the pasture, she saw her father standing in the road. She stopped; he was not alone, but with three other men. Other merchants, she supposed, come to dicker about the shipment of his grain…She saw that one wore the inlaid ornamental chain of the mayor: he had come to designate the tribute to be sent to the fortress in the hills of Palos Verdes. Her heart lurched; the men of the mayor sometimes took women, as well, for trib­ute. But they had seen her; she could not turn back now. She moved toward them again, walking on hot coals.

The agent of the mayor turned back to the fields, disinter­ested, as she drew closer. She felt the other men’s eyes on her, vaguely curious, and on her father’s broad, unyielding back. He had not looked at her; would not look at her, or speak, ever again. She kept her eyes carefully downcast, seeing only the edge of his long vest, the rich earth-red of his longer robe beneath it, his sandaled feet. I have only two daughters, he had said. She did not exist, he would not speak to her, and so she could never speak to him again. Her feet made no sound in the road; the men began to talk of wheat as she passed them.

Suddenly they fell silent again. Amanda raised her head, looking out across the fields toward the river. A high, throb­bing sound in the air; she frowned, searched her memory, but no recognition came. One of the men muttered something. She saw him point, saw a dark spot on the sky, a bird’s form, growing larger and larger, until it was no longer a bird form or the form of anything she knew. The noise grew with it, until she imagined that the air itself broke against her ear­drums like the sea. She covered them with her hands, frozen inside her terror, as the monster swept over the green leaf-wall of the olive orchards. The workers in the field began to break and run, their shining scythes falling in the wheat, their shouts lost in monstrous thunder…that ceased, abruptly, leaving a shattered silence.

The monster plummeted toward the half-mown wheat, keen­ing a death song. At the last moment a tearing cough came from it, it jerked upward, its wings a blur . . . and smashed down again into the field, with the grinding crunch of a ship gutted on the rocks. Fingers of sudden flame probed the crumpled corpse, pale smoke spiraled. In the eternity of a heartbeat, she realized that the broken thing was not alive, that it was a ship that flew, like the balloon-ships in the south. And then she saw a new movement, saw the flames give birth to a human form. The man fell, fire eating his arm, crawled, ran desperately. Behind him the flames spread over the ship, the stink of burning reached her, and a cracking noise. The machine exploded, split by God’s lightning, im­paling on her eyes the image of the running man struck down by a mighty, formless hand. Blinded and deafened, she top­pled in the road, while the sky rained blazing debris. “Mercy…have mercy on us, sweet Angel…!” Dog began to howl.

One of the merchants came to take her arms, helped her to her feet. She blinked at his stunned face, lost to her behind splotches of dark brilliance as he let her go.

“Are—are you all right, maid?”

She could barely hear him. She nodded, hearing other voices fogged by her deafness.

“Angel, Son of God—” Her father turned away as she looked toward him. “Did you ... it, Julio? An accursed thing…down by God in my own field! My wheat field; why did this—miracle happen in my field?” He shook his head, to clear his eyes, or his regret. The others shook their heads with him, murmuring things she couldn’t hear. The mayor’s man stood at the edge of the irrigation ditch, his face gray with shock.

Amanda looked out across the field again at the smoking ruins of the machine spread over the flattened wheat. There were no field-workers at all that she could see now, only the sprawled form of the man struck down by God. Her hands wadded the cloth at her stomach as a sound pierced the fog of her ears, and the man in the field lifted his head. She saw only redness—her blindness, or blood.

“…help…”

She shut her eyes.

“Look! Listen—” The mayor’s man pointed. “He’s still alive, in the field. We’ll have to kill him.”

“No!” her father said. “You’ll make my field barren if you shed blood.” He shriveled slightly as the other turned back coldly toward him. “He’ll die anyway. Let God punish him as He sees fit. Let him die slowly; he’s a sorcerer, he deserves to suffer for it.”

Amanda’s fingers twisted on her dress, sweat tickled her ribs. The stranger’s head fell forward, his hands moved, clutching at the golden, broken grass.

“... help me ... for Christ’s sake…help me…”

“Listen! He’s calling on devils,” one of the merchants said. “If you go into the field, he might lay a curse on you.”

“God will punish him.”

“The metal thing—”

“…ayuda ...”

“Don’t go near it! God only knows what demons are still left inside it…”

“... please ...”

Amanda heard a sob, choked back her own sob of anguish. Father, he sees us! Please, help him— She turned imploringly, but no one looked at her.

“... that such a thing happened here. We must consult the Prophet’s Book ...” Their voices droned on, the cries from the field grew weaker, broken by hopeless silences.

“... pelo armo de Deus, please ...”

Amanda started toward the ditch. She heard an oath, looked back at the startled faces of the men, froze as she saw her father’s face. Will you humiliate me again, Amanda, before the mayor and God? She stopped, stepped back into the road, her head down.

The merchant who had helped her up came toward her, said kindly, “This is no place for you, maid; there is evil here, these things are too strong for a woman’s mind. Go home.”

She faltered; she glanced again at her father, signaled to Dog and turned away down the road.

Amanda entered the cool, shuttered darkness of her cot­tage. She slammed the bottom half of the door, leaned against the lime-washed adobe of the wall, feeling the bricks erode under her fingers, tiny flecks of clay. In the yard Dog harried chickens, barking. “Dog, stop it!” He stopped, silence fell around the fading clutter of the chickens. She heard a gull’s cry, as it wheeled above the river, heard in it the cry of the man in her father’s field. It isn’t right—

But it wasn’t right for her to feel this way: It was a sin to meddle with magic, to harness the power of demons. It was unnatural. The Book of the Prophet Angel taught that these things must be denied, they had been damned by God. And surely she had seen the stranger struck down, before her eyes, by God’s wrath. Surely—

She moved away from the door, pulled down her veil, unfastened the ties of her stiff, constricting bodice. The damp folds of her worn dress beneath it fell free. She sighed in relief, stretching. The weaving must be finished tonight, or she would never have the cloth dyed by market day…

He woke in darkness, retched with the blinding pain in his head. The matted wheat was sodden with blood under his cheek. Weakness settled his stomach; he lay without moving, shivering in the warm air, staring at his own groping hand. There was one memory, like a beacon on a black sea of pain: They would not help him…His eyes closed, the wheat between his fingers became the stuff of dreams, became the endless, rippling grass of the Pampas:

He was fifteen, living on his uncle’s ranch in the Argentine province. His cousins had gotten him drunk on the nameless liquor that the ranch hands sucked out of hollow gourds. He had bragged, and they had saddled the half-wild mare who was the color of blood…And she had reared and thrown herself over on top of him, spraining his back.

He lay in the crumpled grass, every breath searing in his chest; stared at his uncle’s black, gleaming boots, like bars against the endless freedom of the sky. “Help me, Uncle Josef—’’

Get up, Cristovāo.

“I can’t; it hurts too much, please help me.”

Help yourself, Cristovāo. You must learn to be strong, like my sons. You must be independent. Get up.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

Get up. The boot lifted his shoulder: he cried out.

“I can’t!”

Get up, Cristovāo. You can do anything you have to do.

“Please help me.”

Get up.

“Please ...”

Get up. Get up—!

Amanda rose from her stool, began to work the finished piece of cloth free from the loom at last. The candles flick­ered, her shadow danced with her on the wall. The weaving soothed her in the quiet hours of the evening, patterned her thoughts with its peaceful rhythm. Often she sang, with no one but Dog to hear, and the crickets in the yard for a chorus.

She folded the cloth carefully, kept the edge from sweeping the floor…and noticed that the crickets were silent. She stood still, listening, heard an unidentifiable noise in the yard. Dog stirred where he lay sleeping, growled softly. He climbed to his feet, went to the door and snuffled at the crack. Another small sound, closer to the cottage. Dog’s hackles rose, her skin prickled. A coyote or wildcat out of the desert, hunting ... a drunken herder or field hand, who knew she lived alone—

Something struck the door, struck it again. Dog began to bark, drowning her cry of surprise. “Dog, be quiet! Who’s there? What do you want?” No answer came. “Go away then! Leave me alone or I’ll set my dog on you!”

She heard a fumbling, a scratching, slide along the wood, and a sound that might have been human. She moved toward the door stiffly, caught in a sudden, terrifying prescience. Her hand shook as she unlatched the top of the door, pulled it open—“No!” Her hands covered her unveiled face, denying the nightmare that was the face before her.

The man from her father’s field clung to the lower door with blistered, blackened hands. A gash opened the side of his head, slashed his cheek, oozing sluggish red; his eyes showed white in a death mask of crusted blood and filth.

“Sweet Angel!” Amanda whispered, stumbled back, hands still covering her face. “I can’t help you! Go away, go away—” Dog crouched, his muscles coiled.

“Please ...” Tears spilled down the stranger’s face, runneling the crusted mask. She wondered if he even saw her. “Please.”

She dropped a hand to Dog’s neck, rubbed it, felt his crouching tension ease. She unlatched the bottom door and pulled it open.

The stranger stumbled forward into the room. Amanda caught the bruising burden of his weight, led him to her pallet and let him slip down her arms onto the blanket that covered the straw. He lay weeping mindlessly, like a child, “Obrigado, obrigado ...” Dog nosed his tangled legs.

She poured water into a bowl from the olla by the door, crossed the room again and took up the newly woven cloth from the loom’s stool. He’ll die anyway— She hesitated, look­ing back; then biting her lip, she began to tear the cloth into strips.

He sank through twisting corridors of smoke, lost in the endless halls of dream, where every convolution turned him back into the past and there was no future. He opened the doors of his life, and passed through. . . .

He opened the door to the crowded outer office, pushed his way through the confusion of milling recruits around the counter. He felt his blood pressure rise with every jarring contact, at every sight of an army uniform. He broke through, almost ran down the hall to Mario Coelho’s office.

“Where the hell is Hoffmann?”

He slowed, hearing his name, and the voice of Esteban Vaca from the Corps of Engineers.

“Relax,” Coelho said. “If he’s half an hour late, he’s early; you know that. I think he makes a point of it.”

“Mother of God; I just don’t understand why you put up with it!”

“You know why I put up with it. He’s the best damned prospector I’ve ever seen; he knows more about metals than half the chemists in Brasil. He’s uncanny at ferreting out deposits ...” Coelho’s chair squeaked.

“How much of an instinct does he need to find the Los Angeles basin? I suppose only some crazy fool who talks to himself in a crowd would even want to go look for it.”

Laughter.

“You’d talk to yourself, too,” Coelho said, “if you spent most of your life in the middle of nowhere. ...”

“And besides, I know I’ll never talk behind my back.” Hoffmann grinned as he entered the room, saw Coelho’s thick neck redden with embarrassment. “So, you want me to scout the Los Angeles basin.” He straddled a chair, resting his arms on the hard back. “That’s news. I thought we didn’t have the fossil-fuel resources to mine clear up in the North­west Territory. Or did we take over Venezuela while I was asleep?” The Los Angeles basin…He felt a sudden eagerness, the sense of freedom and fulfillment that only prospecting brought into his life.

“We didn’t; but they estimate it won’t take us much longer. If that’s so, the Corps of Engineers is thinking of reopening the Panama Canal: If it’s feasible we’ve solved the transporta­tion problem. And the coast’s inhabited—which gives us a local pool of gook labor, to do the dirty work in the ruins.” Vaca smiled.

“You stink, Vaca,” Hoffmann mumbled. Vaca looked up sharply.

“Come on, Hoffmann.” Coelho tapped his fountain pen wearily on the blotter. “Nobody makes you work for us. All we need from you is a report on whether the Los Angeles basin is worth our while.”

Hoffmann shrugged unapologetically, felt them assessing his rumpled civilian clothes, the battered hat jammed down over his shaggy hair, his muddy desert boots. Even Coelho, who ought to be used to it, and to him, by now. Hoffmann said absently, “I use you, you use me…”

They looked at him.

“All right, I do want the job. I’m ready whenever you are. What background stuff can you…” He watched as Coelho’s face dissolved into the milky white globe of a street lamp; got up, staring as Vaca’s face became the face of his uncle. The desk was a spreading, formless darkness, a gaping mouth to swallow him. Ragged teeth tore into his flesh as he fell through the doorway of another dream. . . .

Amanda started out of a nodding dream at the stranger’s cry. The candle before her on the bare wooden table was half burned away, like the night beyond the door. She got up from her stool, stumbling over Dog at her feet, and went to kneel again beside the pallet. She had stripped off the bloody rags of the stranger’s clothing and bathed him, picked metal from his torn flesh, bound his wounds and burns with the healing pith of aloe vera leaves broken from the serrated bush in the yard. And she had prayed, as she worked, that he would die, and God would take away the torment of his suffering from them both. . . .

But he did not die, and he lay now huddled between her blankets, shivering and sweating, his face on fire under her hand. She wiped it again with cool water, saw fresh blood on the white linen that swathed his head. He mumbled words that she almost understood, altered strangely. She whispered reassurance, tried to still his restless motion. His blistered hand closed spasmodically on her dress, jerking her down. “Mae, I’m cold…s-so cold, mae ...” She struggled as his other hand trapped her wrist, and she heard the threadbare cloth begin to tear. “... cold ...”

She went limp on the straw beside him to save her dress, shuddered as he pressed against her. “No—” She felt the fever heat even through her clothing; but there were no more blankets to keep him warm. “Angel, Son of God, forgive me…” She put her arms around him and let him find the comfort of her own warmth. He sighed, and quieted, touching her in his delirium as a child seeks its mother, as a husband seeks his wife. Amanda heard the steeple bells sound mid­night in the town below, remembered them on too many nights, when she lay alone with sleepless sorrow. Slowly her rigidness softened; her hair slipped free of its cloth as she moved her head, and spread across her shoulders. Memory caressed her with a stranger’s unknowing hands, and Amanda began to weep. . . .

Diego Montoya was a merchant, dealing with the captains of the ships that sailed the long coast to the southern lands. He had no sons but only the burden of three daughters who must be dowried for marriage. But he was a wealthy man, by the standards of Sanpedro, and he had determined that his daughters would marry well…and so recover his losses in giving them away. His eldest daughter, Estella, was a beauty, and he had managed to match her to the wealthiest heir in town. And then he had begun to negotiate a match for his second daughter, awkward, reed-thin Amanda.

He had protected his daughters, like the valuable property they were, particularly keeping them from the sailors with whom he dealt and whom he knew too well. Again and again he impressed on his daughters the need for chasteness and obedience, the Prophet’s warnings about the sins against natu­ral law that damned the souls of the footloose sailors and their women.

But Amanda had drawn water from the well in the court­yard, and the handsome, black-haired boy drank as he waited while his captain spoke with her father inside. He was differ­ent from the sailors she had seen, somehow in her heart she felt he was not like any man she had ever seen—and he looked at her over the cup’s edge in a way no man ever had, hesitantly, with pleasure. She stole glances at him, at his bare brown arms, his rough gray tunic, the laces of his sandals hugging his calves. He wore golden plugs stretching his earlobes.

“Thank you, maid.” He set down the cup, caught at her with his eyes as she began to turn away. “Are you”—he seemed to be trying to think of something to say—“are you the daughter of this house?” He looked embarrassed, as if he’d hoped it would be something more profound.

“The second daughter.” Knowing that she should not, she stayed and answered him.

“What’s your name? I’m Miguel,” he acknowledged his effrontery with a bob of his head. “I—I think you are very fair.’’

She blushed, looking down again, twisting the soft laces of her bodice. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“I know . . .”

“My—name is Amanda.”

Her father saw them together by the well as he came to the doorway and ordered her sharply into the house.

But the next afternoon she slipped away, to meet Miguel on the path that wound along the river, and every afternoon, through the week that his ship was in port. Miguel answered questions her heart had never known how to ask, that had nothing to do with the limits of the world she knew. He was eighteen, hardly older than she was, but he had left his home in the far south years before, longing to see what lay beyond the headlands of the harbor. He told her tales of the peoples of the south and their strange cities, strange customs, strange beasts. He told her of men who flew, suspended beneath great bags of air; who crossed mountains higher than the shimmer­ing peaks she could see at the desert’s limits, to visit the southern lands. He said that they came from a land where there were wonders even he could not imagine, boasted that someday he would find a way to steal aboard one of the airships and explore all the new wonders that hid behind the mountain wall.

Amanda found herself dreaming with him; dreaming that she would be with him forever, share in his adventure, have his love, and his children…For she had always been afraid of the things that passed between a man and wife, things a maiden hardly dared to whisper about. But lying on the warm riverbank, he had unfastened her veil to kiss her lips, freed her hair from its covering, sighing in wonder and calling it flame. And his fingers had touched her breast through the cloth of her gown, and started another flame, inside her. That night she had gone to the temple, heavy with guilt, and prayed to God for guidance. But the next afternoon, she let him touch her again…and only the impossibly knotted cord that pinioned her cotton drawers kept her a maiden, at last.

And then, suddenly, the week they had shared was gone, and they clung together in the shadowed heat of the olive grove. “How can I leave without you, Amanda? Come with me—” His fingers lifted tendrils of her hair.

“Stay here, with me, Miguel! Let me speak to Father, he’ll let us marry—”

“I can’t. I can’t stay in one place, there are too many places I still haven’t seen. Come away with me, let me share them with you…You want to see them, too; I see them in your eyes! I’ll buy you strings of opals, to match the fire in your hair…sky-blue butterfly wings that shine with their own light…We’ll cross the mountain wall in a balloon. Come away with me, Amanda!” He caught her hands, kissed her hungrily, drawing her toward the road.

The temple bells began to sound for evening prayer in the village. She pulled free, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t— the Prophet forbids it!” Afraid of God’s wrath, and her father’s, afraid of the shame it would bring on her family, and to her…afraid that none of those things mattered enough to keep her from his arms, she ran, sobbing, back through the trees.

“Amanda ... I love you! I’ll come back; wait for me! Please wait for me-—’’

Amanda woke up, aching with stiffness and remembered grief, to the sound of the morning bells. She gasped as she focused on the stranger’s naked side lying against her own; stilled her urge to leap away, as memory stilled her terror. His head rested on her shoulder, pillowed on her spreading hair; the stains on the bandage were dark now, but his face still burned with fever. He lay quietly, his ribs barely rising, falling. With infinite care she drew her numbed arm from beneath him, covered him again and stood up. Dog scratched at the door; she let him out into the dawn, let in the pungent, sage-scented air to cleanse the smell of sickness. She noticed a line of dark stains across the hard dirt floor, tracing the stranger’s path from door to bed. Oh God, why must you send me this new trial?

The stranger lived, on the edge of death, through the long day; and that night again she held him in her arms, startled from her sleep by the ghosts of his haunted fever dreams. Names of people, cities and objects, words in a meaningless tongue, filled her own unquiet rest with strange, unnatural dreams. And yet, time and again he spoke the names of places she knew: Losangeles, Palos Verdes, her own Sanpedro.

The dreams clung to him like death’s shroud while two days passed, and three, and four. Amanda carried water from the river, heated it, washed bandages and dressed his wounds. She bathed his parched body, forced liquids down his throat. He was damned, but in his willfulness and sinful pride he struggled for his own destiny, defying the powers of nature and God. She shared in his defiance of fate, afraid to stop and question why.

At last a night came when he slept in her arms breathing quietly and deeply, unharrowed by dreams; and, touching his face in the morning, she knew that he had won. She cried again, as she had cried on the first night.

Late in the afternoon the stranger woke: Amanda looked up from her loom to find him staring silently at her face. She pulled up her veil self-consciously, wondered how long she had been sitting revealed to him, and went to kneel down at his side. He tried to speak, a raw noise caught in his throat; she gave him water and he drank, gratefully.

“Where…where am I?” The words were thick, like his swollen tongue.

“You are in my house.” Habitually she answered what a man asked, and no more.

His hand moved under the blanket, discovering his naked­ness. He looked back at her, confused. “Have I been…were we—? I mean, are you a—” She flushed, stiffening upright. “I’m sorry ... I can’t seem to remember, my head—” He lifted his hand with an effort; his fingers grew rigid as they brushed the thick, swathing bandages. He stared at his hand, also bandaged. “Meu Deus ... an accident? Was I in an accident?” He looked away, taking in the small, windowless room, the streaming dusty light that struck her loom from the open door. “Where is this place?”

“This is the village of Sanpedro.” She hesitated. “You fell from the sky, into my father’s field. God…God struck you down. You nearly died.”

“I did?” He sighed suddenly, closing the eye not covered by bandage. “I can believe it.” He was quiet for a long time; she thought he had fallen asleep. She started to get up; his eye opened. “Wait! Wait…don’t go—”

She kneeled down again, feeling the tension in his voice.

“Who are you?”

“Amanda. Amanda Montoya.”

“Who am I?”

She blinked, shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either ...” His hand pressed his head again, the words faded. “Christ ... I don’t remember any­thing. Not anything—” He broke off. “Except…except ... the field: people, standing in a road, looking at me ... but they wouldn’t help me. They saw me, they knew, but they wouldn’t help me.” He trembled. “God…they wouldn’t help me…” And he slept.

“I know the name San Pedro…” he said stubbornly between sips of broth as she fed him. She had killed a chicken while he slept, and made soup to give him strength. “‘I saw it, somewhere ... the Los Angeles basin? Does that mean anything?” He looked up at her, hopeful, swallowed another mouthful of soup. His eye was as gray as sorrow in the candlelight, and fear lurked in it.

“Yes. It’s the desert, all around us, to the north, to the mountains— We only go into it for metals.”

“Metals!” He pushed up onto his elbows, spilling soup, sank back with a groan. “Metals—” His hand reached for something, found it gone. She wiped soup from his half-grown beard and his chest. “Damn it,” he whispered, “it will come back. It will. When I’m stronger I’ll go to the—the place where it happened, and I’ll remember.”

“Yes,” Amanda said softly, thinking he expected an an­swer. “Yes, I’m sure you will.”

The gray eye glanced at her, surprised; she realized that he had not been speaking to her. She offered him more soup; he shook his head carefully. “Why do you cover your face— Amanda? You didn’t before ... or your hair; I remember, your hair is red.”

“You weren’t supposed to see it!” She wondered, morti­fied, what else he remembered. “The prophet Angel teaches us that it isn’t modest for a woman to show herself to a man who is not her husband.”

He smiled stiffly with one side of his mouth. “I’m sleeping in your bed, but you won’t let me look at your face…Who is this ‘Angel’?”

She felt irritation prick her at the tone of his voice. “No wonder you practice sorcery, if you’ve never received his Word. Angel is the son of God, who led our people here from the south. He revealed that the only true and righteous life is one within the pattern of nature, the life all creatures were meant to live. To do sorcery, to try to put yourself in the place of God, from false pride, is to bring down ruin—as you were shown. That’s why my father and the other men wouldn’t help you. It was God’s punishment.”

His expression doubted her, changed. “You were there—”

“Yes.” She looked down.

He took a deep breath, held it. “But—when I came down to your door, you helped me. Why? Weren’t you afraid of God’s punishment, too?”

She smiled. “There’s little more that God could do to me, or I to God. ...” She got up and moved away, gave the last of the soup to Dog where he lay under the table, her own hunger forgotten.

“Amanda?”

She straightened up, looked back at the stranger.

“When I’m well—”

“Then you must leave.” She rubbed her arms inside the loose sleeves of her dress. “Or people will call me a harlot.” And they call me too many things already.

“But what if I can’t—” He didn’t finish it.

She went back to her loom. When she looked up again, he was sleeping.

Days passed; the swollen redness slowly went out of his wounds, the sight of his blistered arm no longer turned her stomach. But still he sometimes dropped off to sleep in the middle of a sentence, to wake minutes or hours later, out of a mumbling, delirious dream; a dream that he could never remember. He pressed her angrily, almost desperately, for the details of his dreams, old ones and new, swearing at her once because she couldn’t write them down.

“Women are not taught to write,” she had snapped. “Women are taught to serve their husbands, and—and their fathers. Only men have a need to write.”

“What kind of garbage is that?” He struggled to sit up, propping his back against the cool wall. “You need to write, so you can tell me what I say! This place is the damnedest, most backward piece of real estate in the entire Northwest Territory!” He frowned, analyzing. “In what’s left of it—”

She glared at him. “Then it’s a pity you’ll have to stay here. Perhaps that’s God’s final punishment to you.” She dared many things, in her speech with this stranger, that she would never have dared with a man of her own village or one strong enough to strike her.

He looked up sullenly. “What makes you think I’ll stay in San Pedro?”

“Because your flying ship is broken. You’ll never get back to wherever you came from, across the desert and the moun­tain, without it.”

He was silent; she saw tension drawing the muscles of his hollowed cheek. “I see,” he said finally. “What…what happens to ‘sorcerers’ in San Pedro?”

“Anything.” She hardened her voice, and her heart. “They’re outcasts. They can pray for forgiveness, and do penance at the temple, if someone will sponsor them. But you’re an outsider. You have no family, and no money; no one will protect you. If you offend people, they will stone you. If not, they’ll ignore you; you’ll have to beg to live. Some walk out into the desert, and never come back—” The silent, burning mirror of light; the scented, fevered wind; the shimmering, unattainable peaks of Sangabriel. ... It had drawn her away, as she gathered brush, more than once; but never far enough.

The stranger sat, stricken, his uncovered eye expressionless with the confusion of his emotions. Almost defiantly he said, “What if I won’t leave here?”

“Then Dog will tear your throat out.”

He slid down the wall onto the straw, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, and turned his back on her. That night she lay sleepless on her own new pallet of straw, hearing the hard, bitter voices of the midnight bells.

The next morning she knelt at her metate, watching the sun rise over the distant peaks as she ground the grain she had gleaned from her father’s fields. Dog lay stretched on the cool dirt, tongue lolling, looking half-dead in his eye-rolling ec­stasy. She smiled, glanced up as he raised his head and barked once, inquiringly.

The stranger stood in the doorway of the cottage, wearing his torn, close-fitting pants and nothing else. The pants hung precariously around his hips; his ribs showed. He sat down abruptly against the house, sighed in satisfaction, smiled at her. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

She looked down, watching the motion of the smooth granite mano beneath her palms, made ashamed at the sight of him and by the memory of her cruelty.

But if he was angry, or afraid, he showed no sign, only stretched his scarred limbs gingerly in the soothing heat of the early sun. He watched her form the flat, gritty loaves of unleavened bread. “Can I help?”

“No,” she said, startled. “No, enjoy the sun. You—you need to go slowly, to recover your strength. Besides, this is woman’s work.” She chided, mildly.

“It doesn’t look too complicated. I expect I could learn.”

“Why should you want to?” She wondered if the blow on the head had driven him mad, as well. ‘“It’s unnatural for a man to want to do women’s work. Don’t you remember anything?”

“I don’t remember that. But then,” he shrugged, “I don’t think I was ever an Angelino, either. I only thought—maybe I could help out with some of the work around here. You never seem to rest…You’d have more time for your hobby.” His voice was oddly cajoling.

“Hobby?” She struck her flint against the bar of steel, saw sparks catch in the tinder-dry brush beneath the oven. “What hobby?”

“Your weaving.” He scratched his bandaged head, smiling cheerfully. “Mother of God, this itches.” He scratched too hard, winced.

She turned to stare at him, at the linen that bound his head, in stunned disbelief. “It’s not my hobby! It’s how I stay alive: by weaving cloth. It took me two months to finish the piece I tore into rags, to bind your wounds!”

His hand froze against his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that—people wove cloth by hand…” He looked down at his pants. “Let me make it up to you, Amanda. Let me work while you weave; it doesn’t matter if it’s women’s work. I’m just grateful to have my life.”

Smoke blew into Amanda’s eyes, brought stinging tears. She wiped them away and didn’t answer.

But she let him help her with the endless, wearying tasks that wove the pattern of her life, so that she could weave cloth, instead. At first he was too weak to do more than toss the sparse handful of grain to the sparse handful of scrawny chickens, hunt for their occasional eggs, sit on a stool in the sun tending her cooking pot. He ate ravenously, never quite seeming to realize how little there was, and she was glad that it was the autumn harvest, when the little was more than usual. And she was glad that he would soon be gone…

But as his strength returned he began to do more, though he still collapsed into dreaming trances sometimes while he worked. He mumbled to himself, too, as though he really were a little mad, as he fetched water up the long slope from the river, walked out across the brown pastures to the desert’s edge, bringing back brush and deadwood to chop up for her fire. She was afraid to send him to town, or even into her father’s fields to glean—for his own sake, or hers, she didn’t know. But, of his own accord, he began to fish from the riverbank: He gutted and scaled his glassy-eyed catches, spit­ted them over the fire for her dinner; and as the days passed she began to feel a trace of softness cushioning the sharp edges of her bones. She watched the stranger’s own emaci­ated body fill out, saw, unwillingly, that he had a strong and graceful build. She cut a slit in one of her blankets to make him a poncho; to protect him from the hot sun, to protect herself from the shameful embers the sight of him began to stir within her.

At last, as though he had postponed it as long as he dared, the stranger asked her to take him to the place where he had fallen to earth. She led him back through the rustling shadows along the palm-lined track, to the field where his machine lay in pieces in the amber sea of grain. He stopped in the road, stared, his face burning with hope ... but he only shook his head and crossed the irrigation ditch, dry now, into the field. He began to search through the grasses, forgetting her, hunt­ing for his past as Dog hunted for squirrels.

She followed him, strangely excited, afraid to interfere, and heard his sudden exclamation. “What is it?” She came hesitantly to his side, tugging at her snagged skirts.

“I don’t know…” He kneeled down by a flat piece of metal, warped at one end. She saw a rectangle of green paint, a yellow diamond inside it, a blue circle filled with stars. A band of white, with lettering, arced across the sky. “But that,” he pointed at the rectangle, “is the Brasilian flag!”

“What’s Brasil?”

“A place. A country.”

“Where? Beyond the mountains? Is it like the mayor’s domain?”

“I don’t know.” He frowned. “That’s all I can remember. But the words Ordem e Progresso: that means ‘order and progress’ ... I think it does. Brasilian must be the other language I speak—for whatever good that does me.” He got up.

Dog came bounding to them, something large and brown flopping in his jaws. Amanda grimaced, “Dog! Don’t bring your carcasses to me—!”

“No, wait, it’s not an animal. Come here, Dog! Bring it here, good boy ...” The stranger held out his hand; Dog came to him obediently, tail beating. Amanda wondered if Dog knew a fellow outcast by instinct, or why he gave this one other person his trust. “It looks like a hat—” The stranger pried it loose from Dog’s massive jaws, pounded his back in appreciation. Dog smiled, panting. “Could it be from around here?”

She shook her head.

He turned it in his hands: “It must be mine,” and he looked inside. His breath caught. “‘Cristovao Hoffman,’” he said quietly. “Cristovao…I’m Cristovao Hoffmann!”

“Do you remember—?”

“No.” His mouth pulled down. “No, I don’t remember! Hell, for all I know Cristovao Hoffmann’s the man who made that hat!” He looked back at her, defeated, set the hat on top of his bandages; it fell off. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll be Cristovao Hoffmann; it doesn’t feel so bad. I have to be somebody. Christ, maybe I made the hat.” He started away across the field to the main wreckage, the mutilated skeleton of the flying ship. She picked up his hat, began to strip wheat from the stalks to fill it up.

When she reached the charred hulk of the flying ship, she found him lying senseless in the grass.

The clouds closed around him like soft wings as he reached the wreck, stealing him away from the dream world of his waking reality, back into the reality of his dreams. He chose a door: The clouds parted, and he was flying. . . .

Hoffmann followed the frayed brown-green ribbon of the river out of the mountains, looking down on the sun’s anvil pocked with skeletal shrubs: the desert that stretched to the sea. “If anybody’s crazy enough to live here now, they’ve got to be sane enough to stay by the water…” On every side, for as far as he could see, a faint rectangular gridwork patterned the desolation. He caught occasional flickers of blinding whiteness, the sun mirrored on metal and glass. This was the Los Angeles basin: hundreds of square miles of accessible aluminum, steel and iron…copper, tungsten, rare earth elements ... all the riches of a benevolent nature, waiting for discovery and recognition. Waiting for him. Wait­ing for him…His skin itched with desire; tomorrow he would begin to explore.

But with the desperate scarcity of one thing—fossil fuels—no one would ever make use of his discovered bounty, unless there was an available pool of local labor to do what ma­chines could not. He knew small primitive villages and colo­nies stretched northward up the coast from the South American continent, cut off from all but the most fragmentary dirigible contact with the Brasilian Hegemony: Today he would search for those. If there was an available subsistence agriculture the specialists could upgrade, then the local population, and even imported laborers, could be put to work mining the treacher­ous, possibly radioactive ruins. The people would have more food, better medical care—and lose their freedom of choice, and their lives, in grueling servitude to the government. It had been the way of governments since the first city-state, and though it troubled Hoffmann somewhat that he had a part in it now, he seldom thought about why. Prospecting was the one thing that gave any real meaning to his life, that evoked any real emotion in him: He endured his fellow men to the extent that they made it possible for him to live the way he did; beyond that, he chose to live without them.

He began to see the form of San Pedro Bay, promising for shipping. From the air, the land was visibly patterned by ruins beneath the amorphous sandpiled pavement of desert. The bay was more deeply incut than he remembered on the maps, with a scalloped rim. “‘Like a crater, Cristovao…’” he repeated. “Jesus, what a beautiful harbor!” He could see signs of habitation now, a small mud-brick town, bright sails in the harbor, fields and pasturage along the river. He used his binoculars, thought he detected other signs of habitation farther along the northwestward curve of the coast; pleased, he dropped lower, buzzing the fields. “Some irrigation, prim­itive ... bet they don’t rotate their crops. ...” Tiny figures huddled, staring up at him, or fled the ‘copter’s shadow in terror. They were as nonessential to him as the rest of human­ity, less real than the shining, lifeless wilderness of the desert.

And then, abruptly, the umbilical of vibrating roar that gave him life within his glass-and-metal womb was cut. Faint cries of fear and disbelief reached him through the windshield glass, echoed in his mind, as he began to fall. . . .

The stranger jerked awake, sitting up from Amanda’s lap in the shade of the broken ship. His breath came hard; he rubbed his sweating face. “Mae do Deus…” He looked back at her, at the shadowing hull above them. “It happened again?”

She nodded.

“I was falling…that was falling, the—the Careless Love. The electrical system was…was…Damn it! Damn it! It’s in there, my whole life! But every time I reach for it, it slips between my fingers…like mercury…”

“Maybe if you didn’t try, it would come. Maybe you try too hard.” She wondered what good it would do him to know, but knew that even she would need to know.

“How am I supposed to stop trying?” He covered the frustration in his voice. “Did I—say anything?”

“You said, ‘Cristoval.’” The name wasn’t quite the same, when he pronounced it. “You said, ‘Craters.’ And that we didn’t…turn our crops around.” She made circling motions with her hand.

“‘Rotate your crops,” he said absently. “Alternate them, from field to field, season to season, to let the fields rest. It’s good for the soil…” He stopped. “Maybe I was some sind of advisor. Maybe I could teach your father better farming methods—”

A small, sharp laugh escaped her. “I don’t think he’d listen to you. Not after he watched you struck down by God.”

He grimaced, got up, staring at the burned-out wreck. He leaned down to pick up a handful of charred papers. “Maps. They’re in English…but I can’t read it anymore.” He bunched them in his hand, didn’t drop them, looking south across the bay. “It’s a good harbor. And that’s impor­tant…”

“Yes, it is.” She answered, knowing now that he didn’t need an answer.

“Where do the ships go from here?”

“Mostly south, for a long way. In the southern lands there are airships that fly with balloons, not sorcery, and cross the mountains to a strange land.” Her heart constricted.

“There are?” he said, suddenly excited. “If I could find a ship in port, to take me—”

“Not unless you could pay for it.”

“How much?”

“More than nothing, which is all you have. And all I have.”

“How am I supposed to get the money? I can’t do any­thing!” His hand struck the blackened frame. “Tamates! I can’t do anything…it’s never going to come back. Let’s go.” He started abruptly back toward the road.

When they returned to the cottage, he took the leather hat and stood before the broken mirror on the wall. He began to unwrap the bandages that covered his head. As he pulled the final clinging strips away from his skin, she saw his hands drop, nerveless, to his sides; the streamer of bandage fluttered down. She saw his face in the mirror: the half-healed scar that gaped along his cheek and scalp, the stunned revulsion in his eyes.

“Cristoval.” she whispered, “it was worse, before. It will be much better, in time. Much better…” She met his eyes in the mirror, eyes as gray as sorrow.

He looked away; went to the door, and out, wordlessly.

She sat weaving, waiting, through the hot autumn after­noon, but he did not return. She watched the cloth grow as she passed the shuttle back, and back again, through the taut threads; thinking how much it had grown, in so short a time, because the stranger had come into her life. She went down to the river, but he was not there; she bathed, and washed her hair. Suppertime came, and passed. Dog sat in the doorway, whining into the twilight. Hungry for broiled fish, she drank water and ate dry bread…He would fell the dead orange tree, he had said, before it fell on her house ... he would build her a palmleaf canopy in the yard to shade her while she cooked. A fence of adobe bricks ... a henhouse ... a shower ... a real bed. A life for a life…

She blew out the candle, lay down on her pallet of straw and in the darkness remembered the feel of his body against her, the touch of his hands. He had gone out into the desert; he would walk toward the unreachable mountains, trying to go home. And he would lie down at last and die, alone, and the buzzards would pick his bones. She heard the tolling of the midnight bells: Pitiless and unforgiving, they mocked her, and named her. Amanda, Amanda. . . .

“Amanda?” The door rattled; Dog leaped to his feet, barking joyfully. “Amanda? Will you let me in?”

She ran to the door, wrapped in her blanket, her hair streaming. She unbolted it, threw it open; the light of the full moon struck her face. Cristoval’s shadowed eyes looked long on her, in silence. At last he stepped forward, into the house. She lit a candle as he bolted the door, brought him bread and a pitcher of water. He drank deeply, sighed. She sat across from him at the table, covering her face with a corner of her blanket, but feeling no embarrassment. She didn’t ask where he had been, he didn’t tell her; he kept his face slightly averted, hiding his scar.

“Amanda—” He finished the bread, drank again. “Tell me why you’re not married.”

She started. “What, now?”

“Yes, now. Please.”

“I have no dowry,” she said simply, hoping he would understand that much and let it go. “No man would take me.”

An unreadable expression crossed his face. “But your father must be a wealthy man, he owns all these fields—why does he treat you like this; why do you live in this hovel?”

She reddened. “He’s very generous to let me live here! I defied him, and he disowned me. He didn’t have to give me anything; I would have been like you. But he lets me stay in this cottage, and glean in his fields. I suppose he would have been ashamed to watch his daughter become a beggar or a whore.”

“Why did you disobey him? What did you do?”

“I wouldn’t marry the man chosen for me. He was a good man; but I thought—I thought I was in love…” She tasted bitterness, remembering the red-haired girl she had once been: who sat with her embroidery for hours at the window, gazing out over the bay, who wept with unconsolable loss, for her heart had been stolen, and she had not had the strength to follow it; who found that the staid ritual of life in Sanpedro was suffocating her, and her dreams were dying. He said he would come back…and she had believed him, and vowed that she would wait for him.

But her father had known none of that, thinking only that his spindly, homely daughter longed to marry any man; that it was high time to get her a husband, to make order out of her girlish maiden’s fancies. And when he had told her of the match, she had run sobbing from the room and sworn that she would never marry. Her father raged, her mother scolded, her sisters wept and pleaded. But she sat as still and unreachable as her aged grandmother, who rocked endlessly by the fire, blind with cataracts, and deaf: who had had hair of flame, like her own, once, in youth…

And at last her father had given her an ultimatum, and in her childish vanity she had spurned the marriage, and he had disowned her. He had given her dowry to Teresa, ungainly of body but fair of heart, and for Teresa he had chosen well—a man who desired her for her soul, and not for her riches.

“And so I came to live here, and learned what it is to be poor. My vanity starved to death, long ago. But by then it was too late.” She glanced down at the rough hand holding the blanket edge. “There is no end to my sin, no end to my punishment, now.” Her hand slid down, taking the blanket with it; Cristoval looked at her strangely. She pulled it back up, defensive. “I am still a virgin; my marriage sheets would not dishonor my husband. But I don’t have a maiden’s soul ...” She felt her words fading. “In my mind, lying alone at night, I have sinned, and sinned. ...” She reddened again, remembering her thoughts this night. “Sweet Angel; I’m so tired!” Her voice shook. “I would gladly have married, a hundred times over, by now! But what man would have me now?”

She heard Cristoval draw a long breath. “I would have you. Amanda…will you marry me?”

Her blush deepened with anger. “You! Do you think I don’t know why you’re asking me? I may be just a woman, but I’m not such a fool that I can’t see what you’ve been trying to do to me. You’ve smiled, and wheedled, and tried to make me depend on you, so that when you were well I wouldn’t make you leave. And so you’d even marry me, to save yourself?”

“Well, what the hell’s wrong with that?” His scarred hand knotted on the table. “You just told me you’d marry any­body, to save yourself from the hardship, and the loneliness. Why is it wrong for me to want the same thing? I don’t want to die a friendless beggar in this self-righteous hell, either! I’m not asking you to love me—I don’t love you. I want to marry you to save myself, because there’s no other way I can; that’s all. If you accept, take me out of your own need. I’ll be a good husband to you. I’ll carry my share of the weight. Together, maybe we could even make a decent life for our­selves.” He glanced down, turned his face squarely to her in the light. “God knows I’m not much to look at, now, Amanda. But…but in the dark—”

She studied his face, her eyes catching only once on the scar, used to it from dressing his wound. Apart from it his face was pleasant, almost handsome now with familiarity, under the short, sun-faded hair. He was no more than thirty, perhaps no older than herself: He was strong and, behind the strangeness of his peculiar habits, somehow gentle. She did not think he would beat her. And— “And I’m not…much to look at, either, now; I know.” She sighed. “Love is not a right to demand in marriage. Love is a reward. Yes, then, Cristoval; I will be your wife. Tomorrow we will go to see my father.” Her shoulders sagged; pulling the blanket close around her, she rose and went to her bed.

Cristoval followed her with his eyes before he blew out the candle. She heard him lie down on his own pallet, heard his voice in the darkness: “Thank you.”

They walked slowly along the road to town, silently. Amanda listened to the creaking gulls and the twittering waking spar­rows. This is my wedding day, she thought, surprised. Will I be different tomorrow, if we’re wed? Will he? She glanced at Cristoval, his face turned away toward the sea. He didn’t touch her but walked as though he were entirely alone, brooding. Everything will be different. I’ve lived alone for so long. . . .

“Amanda,” he said suddenly, startling her. “Do we have to go to your father?” Her breath caught; she saw that they were passing the field where his ruined ship lay. “I mean, isn’t there—a priest, or somebody, who could just marry us quietly, instead?”

She saw the unhealed wound that still lay behind his eyes, felt her own fear drain out of her. “Each man is his own priest, with the Prophet’s Book to guide him. My father must give us his blessing, or we will be living in sin, and no better off than we were alone. We’ll go to my sister first, she can speak to Father for me; and, I hope, make him listen—”

He sighed, nodded. “‘Casamento e mortalha, no céu se talha…’”

“What?” She looked up at him.

He shrugged. “‘Marriages and shrouds are made in heaven.’”

José came to the door of his house; surprise showed on his face, and then incredulity. “Amanda!”

“José. This is ... this is my bethrothed. Cristoval…Hoffmann.” She struggled with the word.

“By the Book…Teresa! Amanda’s here. And”—he laughed—“by the Prophet Angel, she’s brought a man with her!”

Teresa, José, and the laughing children went ahead of her as they reached her father’s courtyard at last; Cristoval walked grimly beside her. Her heart fluttered like bird wings under the wedding vest, beaded with pearls, that Teresa had given her to cover her faded dress. Cristoval wore one of Jose’s robes, a vest and head-covering, in place of his poncho and his flopping hat. He could pass for a townsman; but she knew that it would not fool her father. The sun’s heat made her suddenly giddy.

The heavy door of the house swung open, and Diego Montoya came out into the yard. His broad, jowled face widened with a smile at the sight of his grandchildren; they danced around him, chanting, “Aunt Amanda’s getting married!”

Her father’s obsidian eyes flickered up, seeing her in her wedding vest, seeing the scarred stranger beside her. “Te­resa, what’s the meaning of this?” Behind him her mother came to the door, and her sister Estella.

Teresa hung on her husband’s shoulder, his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Father, Amanda has asked me to speak to you for her. This man would take her for his wife, even though she hasn’t any dowry. Please, Father, she begs your forgiveness for the past; she asks you to give her in marriage, so that she may live as a dutiful wife, and—and make amends for the grief that her willfulness has caused you.”

Her father stared at Cristoval, the words lost in the rising fury of his realization. “Amanda!” He spoke directly to her for the first time in eight years; she dropped her eyes, despair­ing. “What new mockery is this?” He came toward them; his hand closed on the cloth of Cristoval’s head-covering. He jerked it off, revealing the ragged wound and the short, sun-faded hair. Her father threw the cloth to the ground, disgusted, moved away again. “Why do you shame me this way?” He turned back, his voice agonized. “How have I offended God, that such a creature was born a child of mine? How can you come here, and tell me you would marry this—” He gestured, his hand constricted into a fist.

“Father!” Teresa said, appalled, not understanding. The children hung on her skirts, eyes wide.

“By the Son of God, I won’t stand for it! No more; no more humiliation, Amanda!” He reached down, caught up a stone. He lifted his hand.

Amanda cried out, cringing. Cristoval pressed against her, his body as rigid as metal.

José moved forward, caught his father-in-law’s arm. “Fa­ther, no!” He pulled the hand down, his arm straining; Montoya glared at him. “Forgive me, Father. But I won’t let you do such a thing before the children.” He shook his head. “What’s this man done to make you hate him?”

Amanda’s father looked at the stone. “He’s the sorcerer whose machine fell into my field. He is despised by God; it was God’s will that he should die; no man would raise a hand to help him. But my—daughter,” the word cut her, she flinched, “would defy natural law, defy God, again, to help him. And now she asks to marry him. Marry him! God should strike them both dead!”

“Perhaps He’s punished them enough,” José said quietly. “Even a sorcerer can repent and be forgiven.”

Cristoval put his arm around Amanda. “Sir—” She heard a tremor in his voice, very faint. “God—God has stripped the evil thoughts from my mind; I can’t remember anything of what I was.” He touched his head. “I only want to marry your daughter, and live quietly; nothing more.”

“Nothing?” Montoya said sourly.

“I don’t demand a dowry. In fact, I’ll give you a ... a bride payment for her, instead.”

Amanda’s eyes widened; she saw every face turn to stare at her, at Cristoval.

“What kind of a payment?” The merchant pressed forward into her father’s eyes.

“You use metals, don’t you? Aluminum? Steel? I’ll give you my ship in the field, what’s left of it.”

“It’s accursed; it’s full of demons.”

“You have rituals to purify metals. If the ship was your own to make into…natural objects, the curse could be lifted. ...”

The merchant weighed and considered.

“There must be at least half a ton of usable scrap metals left there. Maybe more.”

“Oh, please, Father!” Teresa burst out. “Think of the honor it does you. No one has ever made such an offer, for anyone’s daughter!” Amanda saw tears wetting her mother’s veil, felt the look of astonished envy in Estella’s dark and perfect eyes. She suddenly saw that one of the eyes was not perfect, swollen by a black-and-purple bruise. Amanda looked away.

“Half a ton…?” her father was saying. He drew himself up. “The mayor’s men came here looking for you, you know. In case you were still alive.”

“No,” Cristoval said. “I didn’t know.” His hand tight­ened on Amanda’s shoulder. “Why? What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Her father shrugged. “Your body was gone from the field. I told them God had taken it away to hell— what else could I say? I thought you were dead. So did they; they seemed relieved.” A smile struggled in the folds of his face. “The mayor has halved my field tribute this harvest, because of the miracle.” He dropped the stone, sighed. “Half a ton. It must surely be God’s will in the matter…All right, Amanda, I will see you wed. But that is all. We’ll go to the temple now. And then I will call a gathering, to bless the machine.”

Amanda knelt by Cristoval before the altar in the silent temple while her father pronounced the words above them, and her family looked on. There would be no ritual, no feasting, no celebration. It was nothing like her dreams…But the dreams go away forever. She remembered how long it had been since she had prayed in the temple; it had been too far to walk into town, to be met by stares and whispered scorn. She gazed without emotion at the rainbow of light that broke across the dusty tiles, below the altar window fused from colored shards of glass.

And then she followed her husband home, walking two paces behind him, eyes downcast.

He caught fish for their wedding supper while she finished the new piece of cloth on her loom, trying to recall the habits of a dutiful wife. Silent, patient, obedient ... she had not been any of those, to her stranger-husband, until now. She must please him, now, and learn to make the best of it.

But as the evening passed she felt his irritation at her awkward deference, and, not understanding, she tried harder; felt her tension grow, and her resentment.

“Damn it, Amanda, what’s the matter with you!”

She looked up at him meekly. “Forgive me, my husband. Have I displeased you?”

“Yes.” He frowned from his seat at the table. “What the hell is this silent treatment? And why wouldn’t you walk beside me today?” His hand covered his cheek, unconsciously. “Are you that ashamed to be married to me?”

“No!” Tears of exasperation blurred her eyes. “No. You’ve honored me greatly, in the eyes of my family. But it’s proper for a woman to defer to a man, in speech, in actions ... in all things.”

“Even if he’s wrong?”

“Yes.” Her hands clenched on the cloth of her dress. “But, of course, a man is never wrong.”

“Mother of God, Amanda—you don’t believe that?” He looked at her. “I’m a man. Up until now I’ve made plenty of mistakes, and you haven’t been afraid to let me know about them.”

“I—I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve lived alone for so long…but I’ll change. I want to be a good wife to you.” A tear burned her cheek, caught on her veil.

“You can be; just stay the way you were. Do what you want, talk when you feel like it. Don’t hang on me! I haven’t got the patience for it. I—I think I’ve lived alone for a long time, too, Amanda, and I don’t want to have to change my habits; I don’t expect you to change yours. We’re sharing space in time, that’s all. Let’s do it as painlessly as possible.”

“If that is what you wish, my husband ...”

“Amanda!” His anger slapped her. “None of this ‘my husband,’ ‘my wife.’ It’s just Cristovao, and Amanda. And in the future, walk with me, not behind me; I felt like I owned a servant, a slave…” He rubbed his head, staring into space.

“But it’s the custom; every wife follows her husband.” She felt a terrible relief begin to loosen her knotted muscles.

“Not your sister Teresa.”

“She’s crippled. José has to help her walk.”

“She does fine on a crutch. I don’t think that’s why he does it at all. I think it’s because he wants her there.”

Amanda wiped her eyes, startled, amazed. “But—but, you and I, people would…laugh at us.”

“So what? After a while they won’t even notice us any­more.” He stood up, came toward her; her heart beat faster. “And the veil—”

She jerked away from him, appalled. “Would you humili­ate me so, before every man in town—?”

“No.” He caught her arm. “No, Amanda. But in our home you can let me see your face, can’t you? You are my wife, now.” He drew her veil down gently, pulled the cloth from her hair. Her hair came undone, spilled loose over her shoulders; he filled his hands with it. “Like spun copper…spun gold…like flame. ...” She stood very still. His hands found the laces of her leather vest, untied them; his voice was husky. “I…just want you to know that, in town today, you were the most beautiful woman I saw.”

Like flame…She heard nothing more. On her wedding night she lay at last with her husband, and dreamed that the man who made love to her was someone else.

The days passed, and the weeks, and the months; Sanpedro entered the gentle season of winter. Amanda did as her husband wished by doing as she always did, self-consciously at first, but easily and gratefully again, in time, as she came to realize how much her independence had grown to be a part of her, a source of pride and integrity, a defense against the indignities of life.

As he had promised, Cristoval worked hard, sharing the endless tasks of her daily existence and freeing her to make the cloth that was their only item of trade for the village market. He walked with her, too, for miles along the sea’s shining edge, on the days when she gathered the tiny fluted shells she used to make lavender dye. He questioned her about her discovery; she told him how she had boiled them in salty water, desperate with hunger; how the tiny sea snails had been inedible, but how, because they turned the water purple, she had never been as hungry again. Cristoval had looked out across the bay, where Dog plunged beside them, shattering the foam. “You’ll never be hungry again, Amanda; we’ll never be hungry, if I can help it.”

Farther along the beach they had come on a dead fish mired in a clot of greasy black scum. Cristoval squatted down beside it, took some on his fingers and sniffed it, fascinated.

“It’s the sea filth, that fouls the water’s surface and can kill fish and birds.’’ She waved Dog back. “It happens farther up the coast, too; at Santabarbara.”

Cristoval wiped his fingers on the sand. “Does it?” His voice was wondering. “But that’s good! It’s oil, Amanda; don’t you know what that means? It means they can establish a major outpost here, they can put in wells…they can mine metals with—with gook labor. ...”

“Who can?” she asked, frightened.

He stopped, staring at her strangely. He touched her arm for a moment, as though to reassure her, or reassure himself of her reality. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Nobody, I hope.”

Late in the winter he had gone to her father and asked permission to till a part of the grassy pastureland adjoining the wheat fields in return for half the crop. Amanda had protested unhappily, saying they could glean enough to get by on and that it was too much extra work. But he had said it would be an investment in the future and worth it a hundred­fold: “You were right in what you told me once, Amanda. With a man like your father, you don’t tell him things. You show him…”

And when the wheat grew up past her knees, past her waist, almost up to her breasts, she had begun to understand the method in the madness of tilling fresh ground. And the method had not escaped the merchant’s eye of her father, either, for he began to ask Cristoval questions, rewarding them with a cow and, in time, even asking them into his home.

Amanda had blossomed with the spring, the ache of hunger forgotten, and the aching weariness that had aged her before her time. She would never be plump and comely like her sisters, but she took a secret pleasure in the new soft curves that she discovered in the broken mirror on the wall. Cristoval fished and worked their field; she wove and tended the green sprouts in the garden patch; the work was still unending, but now it filled her with hope and pride instead of hopeless despair. At night she no longer lay sleepless hearing the midnight bells, but fell into dreams quickly and easily. And if in her dreams she sometimes found a face that she reached for with longing and could never forget, she knew that her regret was nothing to her husband’s in his longing for the things he might never remember. He was a thoughtful and satisfying lover; he brought peace and fulfillment to her body, if not her soul.

The sudden fits of haunted sleep that took him through the locked doors of his mind to walk in his forgotten past grew more and more infrequent; though his hair grew in pure white along the seam of the scar. As the dreams faded, his interest in them seemed almost to fade as well. He no longer grew angry because she couldn’t describe their details to him, and the projects and problems of his new life left him little strength or time for seeking after the old one.

But as he stopped pressing to remember, more and more bits and fragments of his life began to rise unbidden to the surface of his mind. A rare animation would take him, and carry her with him, when he remembered a place he had traveled to see and described to her the brief, bright flashes of its terrifying wonder: A forest of tree and shrub that grew so densely that he had hacked his way through it with a hatchet, to find a gleaming mound of shattered glass, stitched with vine, embroidered by fragile blossoms in the colors of dawn…A ruined city filled with bones, on a treeless plain beneath a sullen, metallic sky; a wind so bitterly cold that the rain froze into stinging pellets…The shadow of a man long dead, imprisoned by some ancient sorcery forever in the surface of a building wall…

He rarely mentioned people or memories of his own land, only the memories of searching the strange and alien ruins of the “Northern Hemisphere.” He never seemed to wonder whether someone was searching for him, or waiting for him, or mourning for him. She wondered whether he chose not to tell her of a wife or lover or friends, or whether there was truly no one he wanted to remember. For, at first, he had seldom spoken to her at all about things that didn’t directly concern her. Instead he would mumble to himself, answering himself, oblivious. She discovered gradually that it was not because he believed that, being a woman, she would have nothing to say; but rather because he lived, somehow, com­pletely within himself—as though two men lived together in one, behind his eyes: Perhaps, she thought, there were two men; the old one, and the new.

But his solitary conversations aggravated her, as her own traditional behavior had aggravated him. She had learned not to be silent, and so she began to answer him, stubbornly, chipping at the shell of his isolation. And after a time, as though, like herself, he had had to learn that he could, he began to talk to her instead; became a companion for her lonely days, and not just a silent presence in her house.

Spring passed into summer, blistering summer moved again into fall. Amanda let herself be carried by the flow of unnum­bered days, thoughtlessly, unquestioningly. At last one day she left the marketplace in the heat of noon, climbing slowly past the shuttered houses along the curving street. The sea breeze was strong, tangy with salt and the tartness of sea­weed, sweeping her skirts ahead of her. She was poorer by one piece of cloth, richer by a basket of fruits and cheese, a razor and a new pair of leather sandals for Cristoval, a bangle of copper and colored stones: She looked down at her wrist, bare for so many years; touched the bracelet, feeling as light-footed as a girl with joy. Brightness danced along it like sunlight across the sea; she kept her eyes on it and forgot the hot, weary journey home to the cottage.

She looked up only once, stopping in the shadow of the date palms to gaze out at the field where Cristoval’s airship had lain. There was no sign now that it had ever existed; the freshly turned earth lay waiting for the winter crop. She smiled briefly and went on her way.

She opened the gate in the new-made fence, her eyes searching the yard for Cristoval…heard voices from be­hind the cottage, strangers’ voices. She walked quietly through the shadow beside the house, looked out again into bright­ness, shielding her eyes. She saw Cristoval sitting on the milking stool beside the spotted cow, listening to two men she had never seen before. Dog lay warily beside him.

“... report to the Brasilian government on the feasibility of mining the Los Angeles basin. But you never came back, and so we came looking ...”

Amanda dropped her basket. Her hand rose to her mouth; she bit her knuckles to keep from crying out.

“... the fossil-fuel situation is too critical, we can’t afford to clean out the canal now. The Venezuelan war’s reached a stalemate; we’ll have to stop all further plans for expansion of our mining operations, unless someone like you can discover an independent source of oil or coal—” The speaker looked at Cristoval hopefully.

Cristoval shrugged, his face polite and expressionless, his hand covering his scar. “How did you—find me, here?”

“The ‘miracle’ of your crash filtered down the coast. We didn’t know if we’d find you alive or dead, or not at all. But we had to come and see; you’re that important, Hoffmann.”

He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t know why ...”

“Because you’re the best damned prospector in Brasil—”

“It doesn’t matter, for Christ’s sake,” the second man said. “You know you don’t belong here, Hoffmann. Let us get you out of this dirty, godforsaken hole. There are doctors in Brasil who can treat your problem; you’ll remember every­thing, in time. At least you’ll be back in civilization again, living like a human being, and not like a dog.” He glanced down, his disgust showing.

Cristoval stood up slowly.

Amanda shut her eyes; Cristoval’s face patterned on her eyelids. And in her mind she saw him clearly for the first time: her husband; the strange and gentle stranger who had come to her door, accursed, hopeless, and changed her own accursed, hopeless life forever. She pressed back against the warm wall, not breathing.

“No. I’m sorry.” Cristoval shook his head. “I’m not going with you.”

“Diablo!” the first man said. “Why not? Coelho didn’t risk coming six thousand kilometers on a sailing ship, dressed like a peon, for you to turn him down!”

“He didn’t come for me at all. He came for the ... government.”

“We need you, Hoffmann. We can force you to go with us—”

Dog growled where he lay, the hair on his back ridging.

“I don’t think so.” Cristoval smiled faintly. “I don’t know what you want of me; I don’t think I ever will. I don’t even know what oil looks like anymore. I might as well be dead, for all the good I’d be to you. I’m content here; let’s just leave it at that.”

“Hoffmann.” The second man looked at him with pity and dismay. “Can’t you feel what you’re giving up? If you could only know what your old life meant to you: Can’t you re­member, don’t you know the discoveries you’ve made; the things you must have seen; the knowledge that’s still locked inside your mind…how important you were to your people?”

Cristoval kept his smile. “I only know how important I am, to someone, now—and someone is to me.”

The second man looked puzzled. He produced something from inside his sleeveless coat. “You’re right; you might as well be dead. Take this, then; in case you ever…remember, and want a way out. It’s a distress beacon; they’ll pick it up in El Paso. We’ll try to send someone to you.”

“All right.” Cristoval took the dark, hand-sized box.

“Sejafeliz, Hoffmann. Adeus.”

“Good-bye.”

The two men turned, started back across the yard toward her. Amanda picked up her basket, stood stiffly, with dignity, as they noticed her and, staring, passed on by.

“Hoffmann’s?” the first man said, incredulous.

“Sera possivel—!” the second man murmured, looking at her, shaking his head. “Deus dá ofrio conforme a roupa. ...”

When they were gone from the yard, she ran to Cristoval, clung to him, wordless. The strange box jabbed her back as he put his arms around her.

“Amanda! What’s the matter?”

“Oh, my husband.” She sighed, against his robe. “Who— who were those men?” She glanced up, watching his face.

“Nobody…nobody important.” He smiled; but the old sorrow showed in his eyes, like a colorless flame. He pried himself loose from her gently, looked down at the hard, almost featureless box still clutched in his hand. He threw it away over the fence. “Nobody who’ll ever hurt you now. My prospecting days are over. ...” He sighed, put his arm around her again, drew her close; he reached down to scratch Dog’s leathery ears. “But you know, Amanda, in time, if we ever have any money, we could take a ship along the coast, see the south. Maybe we’d even find those balloon airships of yours.” He laughed. “But we won’t take a ride in one! Would you like that?”

She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. “Yes, my husband; I’d like that very much.”

“Amanda ...” he said, surprised, wonderingly. “My wife. My wife.”

AFTERWORD-

PHOENIX IN THE ASHES

This story was described by one reviewer as “a Southern California love story with a difference.”

I often get the inspiration for a story from a song. This story was inspired by two different songs, one by Judy Collins, called “Albatross,” and the other an old folk song called “Take Me Out of Pity.” The former is a haunting love song that I’d always imagined taking place in a kind of Arthur Rackham fantasy world; but a friend of mine envisioned it as happening in New En­gland, and there is a line in it about “a Spanish friend of the family.” The other song, also known as “The Old Maid’s Lament,” is a traditional song with a much more pragmatic outlook. Somehow the two songs and all the disparate images fused in my mind, and with further input from my first husband, Vernor, as I was trying to plot a story around them, the novelette ended up taking place in Southern California after a nuclear war. (Two potential alternate scenarios involved a woman in colo­nial times becoming involved with a humanoid alien stranded on Earth, or a war between populations of a double planet system. I still wonder sometimes what the story would have turned into if I’d followed either of those ideas through; they may yet mutate into something else and turn up in some future story I write.)

Originally I’d intended to call the story “Take Me Out of Pity,” which I saw as having a nice double meaning, in the context. But my editor asked me to reconsider, saying that if some critic happened to dislike the story, calling it “Take Me Out of Pity” was like “putting your head on the block and handing someone the ax.” I changed the title. (I seem to have a knack for picking arcane titles. I originally wanted to call my novel The Snow Queen “Carbuncle,” after the city in which most of the action takes place. I liked the ambience of a word that meant either “jewel” or “fester” —the city being both—but unfortunately people who only know the mean­ing “fester” seem to far outnumber the ones who know both meanings. I got very mixed reactions when I told people what I was calling the book ... some nods and smiles, a lot of blanching. I was finally convinced, by another editor, not to call my novel Fester. Now, quite frankly, even I can’t imagine why I ever wanted to.)