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Darkness of the God (Children of the Panther: Part Two)

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by Amber Hayward

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Darkness of the God (Children of the Panther: Part Two) Amber Hayward Keja, September 12, Capilla de Chacal, Mexico The drought had lasted two years and so the campsite, called Hermosa Playa or Beautiful Lakeside, looked out over a parched chalky depression that once, according to the motel and campsite manager, had been Lago Verde. But it didn’t matter, they weren’t there for the scenery. Keja, working from a small bucket of water, finished washing her side of the family’s re-fitted school bus. Mitch, her big brother, had finished his side nearly half an hour ago but she took longer, being shorter and needing to stand on a ladder to reach all the way up. The water evaporated as soon as she wiped it on, but it did the job. No longer covered with yellow dust, the deep blue paint job looked nearly as beautiful as when it was first done. The airbrushed designs glowed — stars and moons and imaginary planets, some of them with rings, the landscape with pyramids and Jesus, walking across the desert, his light blue robes billowing out behind him, with a magic eye gazing calmly from the cloud-filled sky above. Best of all was the bright golden sphinx which blazed across the front of the bus, with the words "Psychic Advisor," printed in reverse lettering so people driving in front of them could read it clearly in their rearview mirror. Keja never complained about having to wash the front of the bus, with all the ground-in bugs, while Mitch got off lightly with the back. All the back had on it was a silly-looking hand, the one thing that her father’s assistant, Valentin, had allowed Papa to paint. She much preferred the Sphinx. Keja poured her soapy water out on the dry dirt next to their campsite, hoping Mr. Clean wouldn’t prove harmful to the small cacti struggling to grow there. She’d heard a vehicle pull in next to theirs while she was working on the other side and now, having a chance to check it out, she was pleased to see that — unlike all the other campers at the Hermosa Playa — these people had children. A ragged little girl, very unhappy looking, jounced a small baby while two older men set up a tent beside the beat-up dust-colored van. It was some kind of military tent, thick canvas painted with camouflage colors. Another man, dark-skinned and oddly passive, stood near the tent while two women and several more children waited inside the van, barely visible through the half-open sliding door. She could tell it was hot in there, sweat shone on their faces, but perhaps it wasn’t as hot as being outside under the Mexican sun nearly at its noonday height. Keja stood in a small patch of shade cast by an awning over the kitchen window of her family’s bus and wondered how so many people could travel in one small almost-windowless vehicle. Everyone in the campsite was watching. The old people in the motor homes on the other side of the lane were peering out their windshields while the manager of the motel stood on his vine-shaded terrace and stared. They’d even attracted the group of Mexican children who’d appeared earlier, as if by magic out of the baking landscape. Her father had chased them away, telling them in his excellent Spanish that they would get no handouts. Normally he’d give them candy or fruit, since he loved children and the good will never hurt their business. But they had nothing to spare. Hearing the bus door slam, she went around to see who’d come out. It was Papa, dressed in black with a red sash and a big cowboy hat. "Hippies," he sneered, nodding in the direction of their new neighbors. Her uncle, sitting at a picnic table with his guitar, said, "Yeah." He was dressed much as her father was but he didn’t look as good because his stomach hung over his belt and hid the shiny silver buckle. His motor home was parked next to their bus, backed into the site so that their doors faced each other and the awnings touched, providing the two families with a sheltered common space for eating and socializing. "We should see if they want us to knock those dents out of that van, maybe put on some paint," Uncle Sandor said, but Papa replied, "They can’t afford it." She wanted to watch the people some more, maybe talk to the little girl, but her father called, "Let’s go," and she had to climb into Valentin’s truck with everyone else and drive into Capilla de Chacal, the nearby town, to put up posters for their cine ambulante, their travelling show of cowboy movies.

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