The Argentina Rhodochrosite (26 page)

54

As they picked their way across
the landscape, Ainsley held onto the rancher’s corduroy jacket.

They had been riding for more than an hour. They’d splashed through shallow mountain creeks, the droplets of water backlit by the setting sun. They’d maneuvered around
calafate
bushes, whose sharp thorns had reached out and clawed at her jeans and boots.

Now they were moving through a sparse pine forest. Ainsley watched small basalt rocks skitter and roll under the horse’s shoes.

Marcelo hadn’t said a word. He was focused on the ride. Though he was skilled, Ainsley could sense that being in a saddle wasn’t one hundred percent natural to him, the way it was to the
gauchos
.

Finally she hazarded a conversation. “Where are we going exactly?”

“To a
puestero
,” he said.

“What is that?”

“A hermit who lives up above the tree line.”

“Is he a friend?”

“No, he is a hermit. He has no friends. I have only seen him from a distance, a hundred meters. That was three or four years ago. He might even be dead now.”

“You’re betting that the military doesn’t follow us out here,” she said.

“They won’t,” he said. “They can’t follow us without a horse, and nobody can get a horse trailer up that road. We’re safe as long as we stay out here.”

That was true. Ainsley softened a little, knowing that their lives weren’t entirely lost yet. But part of her wondered if the lunatic Englishman hadn’t imagined the telephone call, if nobody at all were coming up the road to find them. If that were true, they were all going on an unnecessary sleepover out in the bush.

“You love it up here in the summers,” said Ainsley.

“Yes, I do,” said the rancher. “We call spending the season here the
veranada
. Anyone who doesn’t love it must be dead inside. Unless the wind is blowing. Then it’s a different story. The Mapuche thought it was our punishment from the
cordillera
for humanity’s presence in the mountains.”

“Do you believe that?”

“On the worst days, yes. It can be unbelievable.”

Suddenly Marcelo pulled the horse up short. Dead ahead was a wide blue creek, swollen with the springtime snowmelt. Ainsley could feel its icy temperature even here, on the bank. And the current looked incredibly strong.

“Do we have to cross that?” she said.

“It’s only about fifteen meters wide,” he replied.

“Have you done this before?”

“No.” Marcelo thought. “But I think we can do it in less than thirty seconds.”

“I don’t know, my boots—”

Ignoring her, Marcelo spurred the horse forward. It trotted gamely into the river, and the water reached the horse’s chest. Ainsley gasped as the river water poured over the tops of her good boots, the ice-cold snowmelt filling the insides of her socks. Her feet instantly froze.

She closed her eyes and clung to Marcelo’s corduroy jacket. She could feel the water rise up to her knees, her thighs, her waist. She gasped, and her eyes flew open. Her lungs were starting to convulse.

Meanwhile, Marcelo was frantically trying to push the horse forward. The creature’s head was kicking up and down, its haunches straining against the swiftly moving current. This river was no joke. Here in the middle, its force was threatening to push them over.

Then she felt the force of the water grow gradually weaker. She relaxed her abdominal muscles. The water level began to drop, down to her knees, then feet, and a moment later the horse pulled them safely onto the shore on the other side of the river.

Marcelo let out a very uncharacteristic whoop. “Break time,” he said.

Ainsley swung off the horse and landed on the rocks. Her feet were frozen. She could barely feel the ground beneath her boots.

The rancher stamped around on the rocks, pulled a canteen from his saddle and drank from it. “That was good,” he said. “That was professional. It makes me think maybe I should keep at this. I mean, I would really miss those damn cows.” He smiled. “I’m happy out here.”

They both breathed in, the scented pine air filling their lungs. Marcelo looked pleased. Ainsley thought that he looked like a man who was exactly where he should be.

Then a distant crack echoed across the mountain. It came from the bowl.

“That didn’t sound natural,” said Ainsley.

“It wasn’t,” he said. “That was a rifle.”

“The
gauchos
?”

“No, they wouldn’t use it. I told them we needed silence.”

Another crack sounded. Then a third. Followed by a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh. Ainsley stopped counting as the volley of pops continued.

That definitely wasn’t the
gauchos
.

Ainsley didn’t know what to think. If that was the military, she didn’t know why they would be using that many shots.

Then the answer hit her.

She looked at Marcelo. His mouth had dropped open. Evidently the same conclusion had occurred to him.

“Is that…” Ainsley said.

He nodded.

The military was shooting his cows.

They stood there dumbly, unable to act, or even to move. Ainsley’s wet clothing suddenly felt heavier, the cold fabric even more oppressive.

The shooting went on for several minutes, well over a hundred shots fired, until at last the final crack echoed across the landscape. Then there was a terrible silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Marcelo didn’t respond. His jaw was set tightly against his skull. He simply climbed back up into the saddle. Ainsley took his hand, swung up behind him again, and held on as he pointed the horse further into the Andes.

55

At four thousand meters altitude the
horse carried its riders across the treeline, the height beyond which no more vegetation grows. Almost immediately the landscape changed. The birds disappeared, the trees disappeared, the ubiquitous
jarilla
brush disappeared.

Ainsley found herself in a field of bare gray rocks.

Despite the spring weather, piles of snow were still crammed into crevices and beneath boulders, all the nooks and crannies untouched by the new sunlight.

The horse picked its way carefully across the scree. The sound of rocks skittering across the slope followed behind them.

Marcelo hadn’t uttered a word since the long volley of rifle shots. Ainsley knew he was very upset.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“It’s not you,” he replied. “I’m cursed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not meant to have a productive life.”

“You,” she said, “will survive. You have to.”

His hand slapped his thigh. “Everything I do ends prematurely. The mine. The cows.”

“We don’t know that for sure yet.”

He harumphed. “Do you know who brought this upon me? That bastard who bought the Zorro rhodochrosites. Everything has gone wrong ever since.”

“Why?”

“None of the wholesalers would buy my stones after he visited. I had to sell the mine.”

“Was it a coincidence?”

“I don’t think so.” He sounded bitter. “I think someone scared them.”

“Jesus,” said Ainsley. She really felt bad for Marcelo. “It would be nice to know this asshole’s name.”

The rancher had tensed. “That arrogant bastard had everything planned out. He was getting ready to steal babies from the mothers of the disappeared, and then sell them.”

Ainsley sucked the inside of her cheek. “Can’t you remember anything else about him?”

“I’ve tried, but it’s been so long. Let me think.”

Marcelo lapsed into thoughtful silence while guiding the horse up a series of steep switchbacks. They didn’t speak for a long while. Ainsley inhaled deeply; it was a clean, cold smell. The emptiness of the primeval mountain wilderness.

“There it is,” he said. “The
puestero
.”

He pointed ahead. Ainsley didn’t see anything but a field of gray stones. Over it, the dome of blue sky.

“Where?” she said.

“There.”

She squinted and looked harder, following his pointed finger. A rock hut materialized out of the scene. It had four walls made of boulders on the bottom and meticulously stacked rocks above. There was even a rock roof. It blended beautifully into the landscape.

“Is that roof safe?”

“Absolutely. This hermit used to be a doctor. He gave it all up years ago to live here alone.” Marcelo tapped the side of his head. “He isn’t quite right in the brain.”

Ainsley didn’t say anything to that. There seemed to be many such people in Patagonia.

They dismounted the horse and approached the hut. She was surprised to see an actual door, a wooden piece that had been shaved and shaped to fit snugly into the opening of the rocks.

Marcelo knocked loudly on the wood. The sound immediately died into the air. Ainsley listened to the wind whistling. She could feel the skin on her face getting chapped. She pulled her coat more tightly around herself and wiggled her toes. Sensation was finally starting to return.

“He’s not here,” said Marcelo.

“Maybe he’s coming back?”

The rancher gazed around the landscape. Then his eyes landed upon something.

“No, he’s not.”

Marcelo walked over to a pile of rocks on the ground. From a distance, it looked indistinguishable from all the other random piles of gray basalt on this lunarlike landscape.

Then Ainsley saw the cross. It was crude, just two sticks roped together with twine.

Marcelo took his hat off and folded his hands. He looked at the grave and said nothing for a moment. Then he put his hat back on and turned back to Ainsley.

“Death is always sad.”

“Who could’ve buried him?”

Marcelo shrugged. “It’s a mystery. But you know, he lived the way that he wanted to.”

Ainsley chewed on that one for a while. Though embarking on forced sleepovers in remote Andean huts wasn’t her idea of a party, this playing at international gemstone travel had sparked something in her soul that nothing ever had before. The game was a high-wire act for sure, and not an easy lifestyle either. But she was intoxicated by her own life at last; she was living according to her own rules. Just the way this dead hermit had lived his life.

Marcelo went over to the hut and used his shoulder to push open the door. Ainsley followed him inside.

The single room had a dirt floor. There was a simple wooden table with a single stool. An old rusted hurricane lamp sat in a corner. Nearby, a green wool blanket was unrolled on the ground, which Ainsley guessed had served as the bed. A pile of weathered books was stacked neatly in one corner. They looked like they’d been read many times.

Then Ainsley saw the bag.

It was burlap and was resting on the ground. She looked inside. There were strips of dried meat tied together with a piece of twine. It looked like beef jerky. Underneath were two potatoes and a few carrots.

Ainsley rolled the potatoes in her hand. Something was odd about them. Then she realized what.

The skin of the potatoes was smooth. Unless this hermit had died in the last three days, there should be the telltale sprouts.

“These potatoes are new,” she said. “Look.”

Marcelo glanced at them. Then he froze.

“What is that sound?” he said.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Listen.”

Ainsley froze, concentrating on her audio senses. There it was. A rhythmic crunch, outside the hut, and it was growing louder.

“It sounds like footsteps,” she said.

Both she and Marcelo sprang out the door. They whirled twisted, scanning the field of scree.

“There,” said Marcelo.

He was pointing towards an approaching figure. It was dressed in brown rags. It carried a staff and walked with an odd sideways shuffle. A heavy hood covered its face.

“Who’s that?”

“The hermit,” said Marcelo.

Ainsley glanced at the crude memorial. “So who’s in the grave?”

“I don’t know,” said the rancher, embarrassed. “Maybe it was his dog. I told you I have never met this man before, only seen him at a distance.”

Marcelo whistled loudly. The hermit suddenly stopped walking. He didn’t lift his hood, but he was definitely listening.

“Friend,” said Marcelo, “we humbly ask to spend the night. I am Marcelo Carrazo.”

The hermit slowly looked up. Ainsley glimpsed long, stringy, grayish black hair tumbling out from beneath his hood. The hand gripping the staff, while gnarled, was delicate.

“Will you permit us?” asked Marcelo.

The hermit slowly reached up and drew back the hood, revealing its face. Ainsley drew back in horror. It was a haunted face, with sunken cheeks, piercing eyes, strange shape to the lips.

But then Ainsley noticed that the cheeks were delicate, the eyes had long lashes, and the lips were oddly small.

The creature cleared its throat, then slowly spoke a single word:

“
Bueno
.”

It was a high voice, without any lower register, any masculine timbre. It left Ainsley with no doubt whatsoever.

This hermit wasn’t a man at all.