Page 23 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

I stop. I’ve spoken of a core, and I feel like I’ve exposed mine to Ren. And, perhaps, to myself as well.

“Damn.” Ren speaks quietly. “I’d like to see them sometime. Your sketches.”

At that, he shifts and glances away, as though he’s embarrassed, when I’m the one who’s been blabbering about maritime settings and ancestral monsters.

“What about you?” I ask. “What do you want to major in, if we ever get to go to college?”

“Oh—uh, that’s not for me.” His voice drops so low, I almost can’t hear him.

“What isn’t for you?”

“College and all that.”

I’d be lying to say I’m not shocked. I’ve been conditioned by Mama—and everyone else in our community—to see college as an expectation, a duty, a great privilege. It’s one I’m happy to fulfill, knowing my parents have worked endless hours so I can get an education and have better opportunities than they do. But then, Ren and his family are different. Ren’s shoulder bunches ever so slightly against his shirt, making the fabric ripple. He seems to wait for my judgment.

“What’s your plan for the future, then, when we get out of here?” I’m genuinely curious. I attempt a joke. “A life of crime?” I’m startled when he visibly flinches and then immediately tries to hide it, his body bracing against the reflexive action. Guilt prickles me. I’m not sure why he’s reacting like this, but I know there’s a good reason. I try again. “It must be nice to have your future wide open.”

“It’s not so open,” he mutters. “Though…I’d…well, I plan to go to Santa Fe. After we’re out of here and after my sister and the baby are safe.”

“Santa Fe?” I’m fascinated. “Why?”

“Saw a postcard of it, once. Seems like a lot of open space. And I guess…I don’t know…it looked like freedom.”

Ren’s words are melancholic, somehow hopeful and sad at once. I don’t fully understand but I want to. In fact, I’ve never wanted to understand someone more. Staring at him, I need to take a breath. In his own way, Ren seems made from moonlight. It forms tiny coins inside his irises, reflecting off them. It dashes across his cheekbones and shines in his hair. I have the deep, instinctual need to move closer to him. His lips are near. If I just—

A whistle runs through the air.

The whistle from earlier.

I look around and so does Ren. It’s oddly loud, much louder than I would think humanly possible. It runs across the water, mixing with the creek’s babble and providing a counter-note, playing along with the desert’s tune, and then distinguishing itself from it.

“Someone must be over there.” Ren points at the bend in the stream.

“Let’s go see,” I respond. “We can stay behind the brush.”

“Yeah?” Ren watches my face with a hint of amusement. “Like a stalker?”

“No! Like a detective. Like Nancy Drew.”

“Well, lead the way, Miss Drew.”

Carefully, I slide off the rock. My deer heats up in my pocket. We stay close to the brush and carefully round the bend of the creek.

A figure stands by the water’s edge—it’s the man from earlier. He’s wearing the same blue kimono. Its threads glow with the same brilliance of the night sky, and his skin, shockingly, is luminous. It shines as though it contains its own light source. I stare, completely mesmerized.

“I’ve seen him before,” Ren breathes. “He was on the same bus as me from Santa Anita Racetrack. Does he…How old does he look to you?”

“How old?” I squint at the man, confused by the question. “It’s sort of hard to tell, now that I think about it. He doesn’t have any gray hair or wrinkles, so he can’t be that old. Why?”

“Because I think…I think only we see him that way. Everyone else sees an old man.”

“They do?” My mind reels. “How could that be possible?”

“Don’t know. I thought I was going crazy. You’re the only other person I know of who sees him how I do.”

The man walks to the edge of the creek. As he bends down, his reflection spreads across it, its bizarre incandescence illuminating the water all the way down to the smooth stones cobbling the bottom. It outlines the forms of small fish swimming by and bright green algae growing between the stones. Carefully, he runs his hands through his long hair, beguiled by his expression. Light cascades down the strands. His long locks settle on either side of his face, and he smiles.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs to his reflection. “Even like this, you are beautiful.” His voice cracks and he sniffs. I’ve heard countless people fighting, weeping, and shouting. But this man speaks differently. Melodramatic devastation tinges his tone, as though he’s playing the lead role in a Shakespeare tragedy. He frowns, touching his cheek. A small crack runs down the side of his face in the exact way hairline fractures appear on a porcelain cup before it shatters. I don’t recall seeing it before. My stomach turns at the sight.