Page 27 of The Salt-Black Tree
The divinity grinned and pointed left. Warm wind poured through open windows, the wonderful sound of freedom just like her childhood bicycle’s windrush in Nat’s ears, and somehow the roads had jumbled themselves together because the next thing Nat knew they were on Highway 101 and heading north at a steady pace.
It was good. In fact, it was flat-outgreat, and the fact that the car had been a rusting hulk just a few hours ago was beside the point.
It was almost possible to believe this was how her life had always been, one beautiful miracle after another, a steady succession of wonders. But somewhere behind her were the blind, wriggling veil-draped shadows and their icy hunger, not to mention a dark-haired man with a razor-sharp smile who was bound to be very, very angry indeed.
Even further behind there was New York held immobile in snow and ice and her mother lying on a bed in the Laurelgrove, waiting for Nat to obediently bring a blood-tinged diamond and Spring’s arcana home.
And then what?
Baby took the curves easily, humming with joy; her engine-sound throbbed up Nat’s arms and filled her with an uncharacteristic sensation. Light, and almost… happy? Was that it? Oldies throbbed through the speakers, and each one called up good memories—dancing with Leo while the Beatles sang, Mom humming along with the ancient Bakelite radio while soup bubbled on the stove, Nat’s earbuds in and a suitable song playing while she rode a bus in summer or braved the subway, riding herbike in the park as someone’s boombox granted everyone a few bars of rock ’n’ roll, the best music in the world.
A good rock beat made you feel more steady, more solid, morethere. Even normal people could feel like a divinity when the drums throbbed, the bass popped, and a catchy tune forced fingers to snap and feet to tap.
Marisol pointed, and Nat saw the turnoff a moment later. Tires crunched on washboard-rutted gravel, but the ride was eerily smooth. It was good, Nat decided, to have a car of her own.
If this other divinity wasn’t going to suddenly take it away, that was. Like Maria going through Nat’s bedroom while her daughter was at school—you do not need these, you are grown up too big, stop your whining.
The gravel road climbed, switchbacking hard, up a tawny hill crowded with wind-tortured trees. At the crest, it widened into an attempt at a parking lot or just a turnaround, and at the other end of a dusty, pebble-strewn space was a plain white adobe church with red roof tiles, its squat tower holding a rusty bell. The cross above the bell was blackened from lightning or some other fire, and the heavy wooden doors above a flight of worn stone steps were ajar.
Baby came to a neat stop in a cloud of dust the color of cornmeal; her engine died with a final growl that said she’d be more than happy to start again whenever necessary. The ensuing quiet was full of the ocean’s mutter married to the wind, a low dry-brushing drone.
“There are powerful places everywhere,” Marisol said softly. “You’ll feel them when you need them. Baby’s got a good nose too, she’ll sniff out all sorts of helpful things. You’ve probably already noticed you don’t really need sleep now, or a few other mortal things—though sometimes it’s nice to pretend, isn’t it? Let’s go inside.”
“It’s a church.” Nat wasn’t sure if it was an objection orjust stating the obvious. “Mom—Mariasent me to Catholic school.”
“Of course she did.” Marisol’s lip curled for a moment; the pink gloss never seemed to need reapplication. “They’re good at guilt, and suppression. I suppose she’d’ve chosen something Baptist down south, or a charter school up north. Anything to keep you from blooming before the right time.”
If you knew all this, why did you let her do it?“The right time?” Nat made herself let go of the wheel; there was no ignition switch, and no key. It wasn’t necessary.
But it was a little weird.
“Not to put too fine a point on it, a baby’s just a mouthful.” Marisol’s nose wrinkled, and for once she wasn’t smiling and sunny. Her nose was a little sharper, her mouth thinner; the heat inside the car turned dry and oven-hot for a moment, a parched wind stirring Nat’s hair. “She needed you at precisely the right stage of development. Just on the verge of coming into your power, but not strong enough to… well, to fight her off.”
That makes sense.Nat shivered despite the golden warmth and reached hurriedly for the door handle.
The mission church was empty except for a few dusty wooden pews ranked in the approximation of solemn rows. The altar was deserted, but a hole high up let in a column of thick soupy sunlight. It was too bright for an otherwise windowless structure, and the air was hushed, expectant, full of ghostly incense and half-heard chanting. Ocean wind brushed across the broken tower, making the bell creak on its mounting; eventually it would fall, crashing through masonry and wood to thud onto the dais.
The fine hairs all over Nat rose. She let out a soft wondering sigh, pausing right next to an ancient, bone-dry stone font set on cracked pavers.
“See?” Marisol was hushed, too. Though the older divinity’s glow dimmed the reality of her still shone through, the sunbehind a thin lens of white cloud. Nat’s hands, paler, still gave off a faint gleam. “Belief lingers. It’s pleasant, and necessary for some of us. But not you, and not me.”
I got that.“Is there a Jesus, then?”
“Oh, there’s about fifty of them.” Marisol shook her head, pacing down the nave. Her hair moved like a living thing, rippling to the tender tanned hollows behind her knees. “Every time there’s a schism, a new one hives off. I don’t know how they stand it.” Her wedges made hushed sounds; she continually moved as if dancing. What would it be like, to be that graceful?
Hiving off? Sounds gross.Dima had said that too, about Baba. Was it like Jay’s husk birthing a slim woman in green?
Nat followed in Marisol’s wake, hitching her backpack higher and quashing the nervous urge to cross herself. Her peacoat, flannel button-up, and thermal undershirt were neatly folded on Baby’s backseat; it was warm enough for just jeans and a pink cotton T-shirt. Nobody would break into a divinity’s car, especially to steal a few clothes, but she was still uneasy.
“I was like you once,” Summer continued, taking a hard right and gesturing at the front row of pews. Dust puffed away on a sudden warm breeze; she sank down, arranging her candy-striped skirt with quick habitual movements. “I remember my mother. She came with invaders, but that wasn’t her fault. She taught me what I was, how to control it. It was… like breathing, or learning how to swim. I can’t imagine how confused you must be.”
Nat settled on the pew next to her, cradling the backpack. “Can I ask how… what happened? Did she…”
“She faded. It was very gradual, like a mortal aging. Then Winter came for her—not your Baba,shecame much later, but the Lady of the South, Coatlicue Invierna. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, next to Mamacita.” Marisol’s right hand rubbed at the thin gold bangles on her opposite wrist, a softthoughtful touch. Her mouth wobbled briefly, dark eyes shining-full. “I cried a lot that year. The maize rotted in the fields; Centeotl was annoyed but there wasn’t anything to be done, you know? Grief takes her own time. Just like the rest of us.”
Nat touched the other woman’s warm, bare shoulder with tentative fingertips. All the polish had worn off her nails, a faint pinkish shine taking its place. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, you’re a kind child, indeed.” Marisol sniffed, heavily, and wiped at her soft tanned cheek, her own peach-colored nail varnish gleaming solemnly. “I’m telling this so you understand, little Nat. Maria could have chosen something different. She didn’t.”
