sftd

It was Jonathan's turn to plan our birthday outing. We'd been celebrating together since middle school. Everybody else also celebrated. Except they called it Halloween. We were never invited. When Jon showed up in seventh grade it seemed inevitable we would become friends. I was a clique of one on the periphery of many groups but not actually in any of them. I was the loner who was never alone. Jon was the brilliant gadfly: the class clown. It was fate that we became close friends. We were the best friends that did not hang around together. Our Venn circles were large and the overlaps small, but we could always count on each other. When we got together, it was magic.

If I were to say I knew how it would end that would imply the ending was down to fate. After the fact, we assume the scorpion will sting the frog and both will drown. But what if the scorpion did not do it? It would not be much of a story if the frog and scorpion crossed the river, the scorpion thanked the frog and they then go their separate ways. There is no dead parrot sketch if the shopkeeper agrees the parrot is dead. I knew, and if you've been paying attention you know, that it was going to be what it was going to be. If it had not been Jonathan, it would have been someone else. I am, after all, what I am.

#

Jon liked ghost stories. In high school we checked out nearby haunted sites. Sometimes we got lucky and something happened that might have been a haunting. A more likely explanation would be the weed or booze. There were plenty of places in and around Albuquerque for hauntings. There are plenty of haunted places everywhere. Except in Evanston, Illinois for some reason. Go figure.

Our biggest scare was when we were caught by concerned neighbors when we tried to get into the asylum. We also got caught eating Bobby Darnell's doughnuts at the Kimo. For the record, an irate stage manager is far less frightening than concerned neighbors.

The most important fact about ghosts is that where there are people, there are ghosts. Ghosts that exist without people around are like La Llorona. If no one hears, does she weep? Children see monsters in the closet, not because they believe them to be there, but because they are there. Turning on the lights and learning not to see monsters does not kill the monsters. The monsters remain. Those who retain the sight of a child grow up to became artists, geniuses, lunatics, or some combination of the three.

#

Our first tangible experience was at the Castle. The Castle is technically not in Albuquerque, it's in the South Valley. But the Post Office calls it Albuquerque and who am I to argue? The Castle is technically not a castle either. People just called it that. And who are you to argue? It started as your basic South Valley owner-built adobe home, but like Topsy, it just grew. A lot can be said about the contributions of beer and boredom to human progress, but that is a different story. By the mid-nineties it looked like a castle designed by Peter Max assembled by chemically inspired oompa loompas using soft serve ice-cream. Less charitable folk said it came out the nether end of Smaug after consuming a horde of orcs.

By the time we arrived at the Castle, it had been empty a half-dozen years. There were plenty of urban legends and ghost fodder. Maybe we would hear the screams of Luis Garcia who was walled up in the southwest tower like Fortunato. He was not there, but why should facts get in the way of a good ghost story? Luis was sure he had shut off the main circuit before working on the dryer outlet.

He had not.

Dewey Maestas took a header off the upper balcony when he bent over a railing that was there, secured by nails, that were not.

Chuck Collins bled out when he stepped through the roof and nicked an artery as he passed through. A cell call to 911 might have saved his life had they been available in the 50s. When Mr. Ruiz died the family moved out and were unable to unload the property.

The Castle became a party house. As a party house, it saw its fair share of ODs but only a few violent deaths not directly related to its construction. Most of those were the usual property or 'respect' arguments involving drugs, money and/or women. The most visible, in that it made the papers, was related to a botched drug deal. “That was the hit-and-run involving Tony Apodaca. Although it was reported as a hit-and-run, it was not. It was more of a hit, back over, run over, rinse and repeat sort of thing. It was after that incident that the house was boarded up and a security fence put around the property.

Jon decided that with that much history, there must be something to the stories of lights and noise on nights when the house was “empty”. I could have told him the main energy there was older. Since that energy was a fertile medium for the latter whistles and bells the nickname Christine would have been more accurate than the Castle. The energy in that part of the 505 was older than the dirt used to make the adobes. I knew what the energy was, not to mention the how and why. I could have told Jon.

But I did not.

When we arrived on the evening of October 31st it was still a party house, just a BYOB and sneak-in type. Fortunately for us, that also meant it was not a place for Halloween parties. I grabbed a couple of backpacks from the car and tossed one to Jon.

"I brought some supplies. In case we last that long," I said putting a flashlight under my chin while grinning like a lunatic.

Like the TSA at ABQ International, the security fence was just for show. Its public function was optical, not functional. The primary function of the temporary chain link was the transfer of tax dollars to the city manager's cousin. We followed a well-worn path to the gap in the fence. The house was completely boarded up but it was easy enough to locate the 'door' and turn the nail holding the plywood in place. Our flashlights revealed an interior that looked like an abandoned homeless camp complete with a scattering of snack wrappers, empty pizza boxes, mostly empty beer and liquor bottles and a lot of Lota Burger bags and cups. We were in a kitchen. It had a table, a half dozen assorted chairs and torn playing cards.

"Looks like it's poker in the back."

"Do you always need to be so obviously crude?"

No, but I like it. You know I could give Carlin a run for his money."

"Maybe in a footrace. I still think you would still lose."

"Now who's the funny man?"

We put our packs down in the main room along with my portable TV/VCR.

"Looks like the fireplace still works. Should we light up?"

It was Jon's idea. I feigned surprise and delight that there were a dozen or so logs tossed to the side of the fireplace along with some kindling. I had a lighter and the detritus of previous visitors meant starting a fire would not be a problem.

I suggested we take a look around.,

Our biggest fear was the prospect of falling through floors or being struck by falling bits of stucco. After an hour exploring the house, we returned to the main living room.

I got the fire going while Jon went through the backpacks and set up the TV/VCR. Like many adobe fireplaces, this one was in the corner. Jon gingerly moved a stained mattress to the left of the fireplace and put the TV to the right. He put our two camp chairs near the fire facing the TV and unpacked the snacks. He found the vodka in the bottom of one of the packs.

"Wanted to guarantee there'd be spirits tonight?"

"Something like that."

We roasted hot dogs and made s'mores in the fire while watching 'Fire Walk with Me'. As the credits were rolling I poked the fire and added another chunk of wood. Jon put on another tape. I pulled a canister from my jacket and sprinkled a circle of salt around our chairs. Jon stared.

"Seriously, dude?"

"I want us to be safe from any ghosties that show up at midnight."

The vodka that came out his nose had to sting. I settled back in my chair as Marion Crane slipped out of the office. It was about midnight when a log shifted on the fire causing us to look that way. The glow from the fireplace changed. It was subtle but clear. The flames began to move with purpose. As we watched those images became clear. These were black and orange instead of black and white. I glanced a question at Jon.

He nodded.

So far, so good.

We could hear the sounds of birds but it was mostly quiet. It was the quiet of the New Mexico wilderness. Unlike your eastern forests, there is a silence in the southwest that is almost eerie. Without realizing it our chairs disappeared, as well as the walls and we were standing. We began to rise above a mountain valley until we could see for miles in all directions. The air was solid beneath our feet as if we were standing on a pane of glass. To the south west there was the faint trace of a broad river. It felt like it was southwest. There was no way to know. The place felt familiar as well as unknown. To the north was a mesa near the river with what looked like a pueblo surrounded by fields.

Jon spoke, "I don't recognize those. They're obviously not Taos, Bandolier, or Chaco."

More importantly, it was not an abandoned ruin. As we closed in it was clear this was a vision of a pre-modern settlement: no jeans, no cowboy hats.

Jonathan smiled.

#

The pueblo was alive and the black and orange had become full color. It was not like Dorothy opening the door to OZ. We had not noticed the transition. The view was a Kodak moment. It was a late summer evening and the village was alive with activity. There was conversation, laughter and children playing. Jon almost sighed as he muttered 'wonderful' softly to himself. Slowly the people began to fade out until just the structures remained. We started to slide backward. Or maybe the earth moved forward. The landscape became a blur and the sensation of movement quickened until we were plopped back in our chairs staring at a normal fire in a misshapen adobe fireplace. Just then, Mother's chair turned around on the TV. We both flinched. We looked at each other. We looked at the fire. We looked at the TV.

"Wow."

"You can say that again."

"Wow."

"Give a rest 'George'."

"Man, I would love to have been living back then."

"Even without s'mores?"

"I wouldn't know what I was missing. Literally. I would not know of their existence. So, Yeah. I mean yes. There would be trade-offs, of course, but for me, I think the balance would be for then rather than now.

"Even with the shorter life expectancy?"

"That's a quality versus quantity argument, shithead. Personally, I'd prefer a glass of Coke over a two-liter Shasta Cola any day. And not everybody dies at seventy-two now. That's just the average. Make it past five any time, anywhere and you're likely to get your three score and ten. Look it up. It's in the Bible."

It was my turn to gag.

"Seriously? You would rather have lived then and there rather than here and now?"

"Yes."

"That is not just the booze talking is it?"

Jon held up a bottle.

"I don't know. What do you say Mr. Daniels?"

It was vodka, but I did not think it necessary to correct him.

Jon stared at the bottle.

"You didn't doctor the vodka did you?"

I shook my head.

"Or the fire?"

I shook my head again.

"Did you see what I saw?"

"Give a rest 'George', it is not even Thanksgiving yet."

"You know what I mean. The old pueblo? With people? Possibly pre-conquest?"

"Yep."

"What do you think it means?"

I knew, but I would not say. Having people there might have been a bit over the top, but I did not think so.

"I think it means we saw what we came to see and do not need to spend the night."

Jon agreed and we packed out. Fear had nothing to do with our decision. The choice of a bed over a bedroll was like Coke versus Shasta.

After graduation, Jon went to UNM. I told him I was headed to NYC and pre-law at Columbia. Of course, we got together over our first Christmas break. Over beers in a sports bar on Juan Tabo just off Central, we swapped stories about freshman year and danced around our last Halloween together. I suggested we check out Old Town for any Christmas ghosties.

"You're relentless, asshole. But, okay, it's not like we are operating on a strict timetable."

I was, but it wasn't strict. I always play it by feel. October a year ago had been a proof of concept run. That told me Jon could see what I needed him to see.

We parked at the Safeway across the street on the west side of Old Town. As we went through a narrow passage to the main plaza, the moon went behind a cloud. Jon began to hum the theme to "The Twilight Zone."

"Why not X-Files? That would be better."

"You're right, but there's just one problem."

"What is that?"

"I can't do it."

We made our way to a bench facing the church. As it was not Christmas Eve, the luminaria were not lit. I pulled out a votive candle along with a lighter.

"What is it with you and setting things on fire?"

"What can I say? I like to burn things."

With the flame at our feet, we waited.

And waited.

Then we waited a little bit longer.

"Is that St. Jude on the candle?"

"No. It is Mary. Why do you ask?"

"This seems like a lost cause to me."

"You are still not Carlin."

"And you aren't Catholic."

"The church is."

We waited. The clouds moved on and the moon came out just as a slight breeze put out the candle. At that point, the two sacks closest to us and flanking the path to the church lit up. It was not electric light or the pseudo flickering of fake candles. It was candlelight. The luminaria lit up in sequence up the path to the church and continued along the rooftop outlining the church.

Jon was focused on the march of the luminaria until I touched his arm and pointed to what could only be described as a bride.

She could not have been anything else. She was dressed in a blue gown that seemed to glow as she slowly walked toward the church from the corner of the plaza. When she reached the doors of the church they were open...of course they were open. They should be closed until Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve they would be opened to welcome, well, you know who. But they were open now because they needed to be open. The bride stood for a moment on the threshold. She jerked up. Her legs kicked, then stopped. Something wet began to drip down her dress and the body spun around slowly to reveal a corpse.

Jon started to say something, but a raven flew down and perched on the bride's left shoulder. It paused and fixed one eye on us to make sure we were watching. It then turned back to the bride, scanning her face rearing back as if to strike. Jon tensed in anticipation of the blow that never happened.

The bird turned to glare at us and hopped down to her elbow. It started pecking at her wrist. Its movements were delicate and precise, not the vicious pecking of a raptor digging into a meal. Eventually, it became clear it was not pecking her wrist. It was pecking at something on her wrist. After a minute or so, the bird finished its task and took flight going up and toward the west. It then wheeled south and headed directly toward us. As it passed over the votive it dropped its souvenir. When, whatever it was, landed everything blinked out for a millisecond. Jon would later swear he had heard a click. The luminaria were again dark while the street lights and votive were lit. The church doors were as they should be--closed.

"Wow."

"You really need to expand your vocabulary, Jon. Jon?"

"Huh?" He was looking down at the candle. "What the...?"

It was impossible. Not improbable. Impossible. Jon reached down and slowly picked up the string coiled around the candle. It was just a piece of cord with about a dozen knots.

"It's a knotted cord."

"No shit Sherlock."

"No. I mean it's a Knotted Cord."

"You say that like it means something."

"It does."

I waited. "Enlighten me then."

I knew what it meant. I wanted him to say it out loud. I needed him to be invested in the story. I needed the frog to believe that being a ferry for a scorpion was not such a crazy idea after all.

"They don't teach this in school. Or if they did I didn't pay attention. As far as APS is concerned pre-Anglo New Mexico is just Coronado and some Indians. The Pueblo Revolt and Reconquest are footnotes if they get mentioned at all."

I stood up and grabbed the candle. "It is getting a bit cold. You can tell me on the way home."

"My 'Lita told me about the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. She was one-eighth Tewa"

"Fahr does not sound Navajo or Spanish."

"Tewa, not Navajo.” Jon corrected me. “Fahr was my mom's second husband and the father who raised me. I would have been Martinez. Not that that matters. 'Lita was my mom's grandmother. She told me knotted cords were used as a countdown to the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. One knot was undone each day so all the pueblos would rise up against the Spanish simultaneously.

Some Hopi and Zuni in the west were involved. Runners took them to the various pueblos. The Isleta Pueblo declined to join. According to 'Lita a great grandfather of mine stole the knotted cord and was going to take it to the Spanish, either to warn them or join the revolt. The reason varied depending on the amount of stupid juice she had had. My however many great-granddad never returned. She didn't know if he succeeded or not in whatever it was he planned. In any event, the plot was discovered by the Spanish in Santa Fe but Po'Pay bumped it a day earlier. The Spanish were driven out temporarily. They came back in 1690 something.

When we got to the car I tapped him on the shoulder. "You're it." Jon raised an eyebrow. I winked. "You get to pick where we go next time."

#

After stopping at El Modela to pick up his family's order of New Year's tamales Jon continued down Second.

"She didn't want to marry the dude."

He did not have to tell me who 'she' was.

"Her name varies slightly, depending on the source. Dona Maria is most likely but also rather obvious. Her family names are all over the place. She fell in love with an Indio and didn't want to marry Don Chavez."

"Of course not."

"So the usual arranged marriage, forbidden true love, suicide, yada, yada, yada."

"Alas poor Maria. I knew her Jon."

"A rose by any other name would have as many thorns."

"Enough," I said. I assume you have a destination in mind. The hovel where the unnamed lover slit his wrists perhaps?"

I could feel Jon's eyes rolling.

We crossed the Rio Grande on Rio Bravo and headed south on Isleta toward Las Padillas.

"I trust we're not looking for Mike," I asked?

"Mike, who?"

"Ehrmentraut."

"Who?"

"Nevermind," I said. I had forgotten it would be another twenty years before Walter White kills Mike.

"What we are looking for is something older than Old Town," Jon stated.

We eventually parked in a wooded area well south of the city. Jon tossed a canteen in my direction as he shouldered a backpack.

"Make yourself useful. The river changes all the time through here even now. God only knows exactly where we're going and when we'll get there. Thus the provisions."

"You have no idea where we are going, do you?"

Jon shrugged. "At least we have martinis." He held up his canteen. "These will definitely be shaken, not stirred. And Southern Comfort." He held up the backpack."

"Anything less potent?"

"Of course. Twinkies, Cheetos, jerky, trail mix, and, since we're sort of camping out, stuff for s'mores."

"What is it with you and s'mores?"

We wandered about vaguely for about an hour until we found an impromptu fire pit. We got a fire going and the s'mores started about the time the canteens were empty. The sun had dropped below the horizon sometime earlier. Just as I bit down on my first s'more Jon pointed to the east.

A couple was standing near the river, now approximately twenty-five feet farther away than it had been when we first arrived. It was obviously a clandestine meeting, but not a romantic encounter. He was obviously from a pueblo while she clearly was not. It was an animated discussion.

He showed her a knotted cord and pointed north. After a few more words were exchanged and tears shed, she nodded. They had been dangerously close before. Now it did become a romantic encounter. It was brief.

A group of young Spaniards arrived. They were not amused. This encounter was also brief and afterwards, the only people alive were Spanish. The Indio was dumped in the river; the woman dragged off toward the bosque. As they disappeared into the trees she turned her head and looked directly at us. It was the bride, clutching a knotted cord in one fist.

"I don't know what I expected, but that was...."

"You were expecting something? Here?"

"Yeah. Sort of. I'm not sure how to explain it. Last week I got a feeling about the river south of Barelas. I wasn't sure how far. I could sense there was something or someone somewhere in this general direction. Almost like it was calling to me. I could see the spot clearly in my head. As we drove down here I let my mind focus on the feeling. It was like I was following a homing beacon. Once we got out of the car I could see where we needed to go in my peripheral vision but not when I looked in a particular direction. When we got to this clear patch it just felt right. It was the same feeling I had last year on that bench in Old Town. I could feel something or someone was on the edge. The edge of what I don't know. But I could feel it there, waiting."

"You knew something was here?"

"No. It was just a feeling."

I had my frog. Now all I had to do was convince him to cross the river. The years passed. I said I was getting my law degree at UW in Seattle while Jon went for his 'more of the same' and 'piled higher and deeper' in history at UNC. We could not always go ghost hunting on October thirty-first, but we never missed a year at Christmas in the 505.

#

One year I took him to see the Duke of Alburquerque tapestry. It is impressive. That is to say, it is big. There is some residual energy in it, but nothing to write home about.

"What do you think?" I said.

"It's big."

"Very observant Nimrod. Get any 'feelings?'"

"Now that you mention it..." He made a show of scratching his ass.

"I take it you do not think much of the Duke."

"Let me see...."

I waited.

"Nope."

"Not impressed by the Dukes?"

"Nope, not one. Some toady named the city to curry favor. Since the only Duke that paid any attention to the city was the eighteenth who showed up for a photo op when this thing was donated, I don't think they care much for us."

"No ghosties here I guess."

"Yeah, let's..." He stopped and stared.

"Let us what?"

"Did you see that?" He pointed to the upper left corner of the Tapestry.

"See what?"

"That's a big assed rug."

"Give it a rest George."

Over dinner at Garcia's on Central, I casually asked what he thought of the book I had recommended.

"It's okay. I'm not much into romance novels although she is a decent enough writer. I did finish the thing."

"Romance?"

"Yeah, romance. You take out the time travel and the awkward 'Connecticut Yankee in King's Arthur's Court' misunderstandings and it's a period romance."

"You did not like it?"

"Nope. And I did not like the other two in the series either. And I do plan on not liking the fourth after I read it."

"You almost had me there, George."

"I do like the idea of trying to change the past. The obvious problem is that if time travel is possible we would never know. If someone went into the past and changed it, it would just be the history we know. The alternate timeline would be one that never happens."

"What if both continued to exist," I asked?

"Theoretically possible. But again, none of the different realities would be aware of the other. It would be a distinction without a difference. For all you know I could be the evil Jon from a parallel universe sent here to terminate the guy who's destined to find a way between the worlds."

"Hold on, Jon. How did we get to parallel universes from time travel? I recall you wanted to go back and live in the pueblo we saw at the Castle."

"Yeah, but not like Jamie and Claire trying to stop Culloden. Since it happened, it was going to happen. I would just like to live then. Maybe find out if this cord," he pulled out the knotted cord, "is really from 1680 and if I'm related to the dude. Or Maria.

"What does your 'Lita think?"

"Don't know. Don't have a Ouiji board."

"Sorry, I forgot." I hadn't, but I wanted to get him ready to cross the river.

"Maybe we'll find our Craigh na Dun someday," he said.

Yes, I thought, we will.

#

It was in the summer of our thirty-third year when Jon called to let me know he had a place picked out for our birthday. He said we would need to allow three days for the field trip. That was not unusual. We had ventured outside Albuquerque in the past. He did not say where we were going, but since I knew, it did not matter.

Jon was excited at finding the pueblo from that night in the Castle. It is not like it was hidden from those who could see. It was further off the modern beaten paths than those that lead to the ruins of Bandelier and Chaco. Jon wondered aloud why it even existed.

"We may not find out in my life time. The lack of research funding means that when they were built and by whom will remain speculation for some time."

Since only people like Jon could see it, it also meant that a funding request would be more than problematic. This pueblo was a side of reality not visible to just anybody. The gunslinger would call this area a thinny. I call it a door to home.

We spent the next day exploring the buildings. As there were no trails or guard rails built by the Civilian Conservation Corps, Jon had brought various ropes, anchors and safety gear. Fortunately, there were plenty of spaces to explore that did not require much in the way of real danger.

We climbed to the top of the tallest building, about three stories What we found everywhere were empty rooms filled with dust. Lots of rooms and lots of dust. Jon remarked on the lack of any signs of modern exploration. I pointed out that we were two hours by car and one on foot out of Las Vegas, New Mexico. It was not an easy day trip.

It was a basic pueblo with obvious living, defense and storage rooms. The only unusual feature was a six-foot tall two-foot deep alcove in the back of the largest room in the middle of the tallest building. By the time we found it, it was late afternoon. Jon suggested, wisely, that we start down so we could set up a camp outside the pueblo before it got too dark.

We drank a toast to our find before dinner. We had outgrown the desire for large quantities of alcohol. It was well after dark when we, and by we, I mean Jon, noticed the light.

His mouth was open and the last s'more was positioned for destruction when he froze. There was a light at the door of the large room at the top. That light pulsed with different colors. The pulsing itself was not regular like a strobe. The colors and brightness seemed modulated. Then, like people flicking their bics at a rock concert, lights were appearing at the eastern edge of the pueblo. There were hundreds at least, maybe thousands. The lights seemed to follow and respond to the one at the top. After a few minutes, the light at the top stopped flickering and retreated into the room. All we could see was a warm and steady glow in the doorway.

The other lights began a procession through the pueblo. As they passed each doorway another light would emerge and join the procession headed toward the larger light. A mist started rise out of the ground. When the first lights made it to the top there was still a multitude waiting.

"Come on," Jon said and took off for the pueblo. As we got closer we could see that people were holding the lights. Our flashlights were almost useless in the dense fog that now shrouded the entire village, slowing our progress. When we got to the room we saw the niche glowing and people filing into it. As people entered the niche the glow seemed to grow brighter. When the room was empty we stepped up and looked through a short passage into a lush mountain meadow.

Jon started through. I touched his arm.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please, come with me." He took my hand. "This is our way to the other side."

"Thanks for the invitation. But are you sure you want to go?" I pointed back toward the alcove.

His eyes widened as I collected his soul and tipped him into the flames.

* * *

I called 911 since the body was still breathing after his fall from the upper room. I followed the EMTs to the hospital. As they worked on him in surgery I wandered about and found myself beside a happy father looking at the newborns. He was a nice-looking man waving at a little girl and calling her Rowan.

When Jon died on the operating table the little girl awoke with a violent start and the look of concern on the father's face was priceless. I waved my little feet and hands back at him. "Hello, Father. Pleased to meet you. Can you guess my name?" The man next to him seemed utterly confused.