Nadir (A Novel: 01-03)

Chapters 01-03

01. The sky pressed down upon his eyes. Stars, like shards of glass, were strewn across an endless darkness. A shooting star streaked by, then another. The sky, he imagined, was a vast, cosmic wallpaper. Tall grass glistened with dew. A soft breeze rustled the oak leaves. The night hummed, sounding like a distant rattlesnake. He flexed his toes, stretched his legs. He sensed the earth beneath his hands, felt its breath. Ants crawled along his arms with a determined purpose. He recalled reading somewhere that ants do not sleep. The night was indifferent to silence. Grasshoppers, crickets, coquíes—a deafening orchestration. His body felt dense, heavy. He must have fallen here, he mused, but speculation was always fraught with uncertainty. Perhaps he was cast down, discarded. Maybe the sky itself spat him out. His aching back suggested as much. If something could happen, it would. He tried to summon a memory, but his mind remained blank. He could have been mugged, beaten, and left here, for when he attempted to stand, his left leg seared with pain. It bled fire.

Lightheaded, he collapsed back to the earth. Was he dying? Perhaps he was already dead, for he had no memories. His leg was shot, blood spurting like a vermilion worm. He wanted to scream for help, but he was too weak, too purposeless. He was not inclined to fight for life. No struggle against the dying light. Dying was an art, and he, too, excelled at it.

He heard whispers in the greenery, footsteps brushing through the grass.

Hello? Is anybody there? I need help…

No response, but the sound drew nearer. Was it a dog? No, two different creatures, moving in tandem through the grass. A tall, bearded man and a child found him embedded in the grass.

Help, he pleaded.

The man and the boy remained silent, just looking at him.

I’m dying, he said.

No, you just want to die, the man replied.

The child gazed at him with serene, garden-like eyes. His big brown eyes fixed on him, a language trying to reach him. His curls twisted perfectly, like a salon sculpture. He was a beautiful child. He thought he knew him, but… no… where had he seen him before?

These were the only clear recollections he had now. One sees something and describes it. That is how the past works, how memories work. They happen; you remember; you recount them. All he had was the present perfect.

He looked at the child again. His face was round like the moon, glowing like a neon stick.

Are those butterfly wings? he asked, noticing the slow flutter of silky appendages behind the boy’s back.

Words failed him. He thought angel wings were feathered, but these were not. The boy was no angel.

The man helped him up, his arm around him. He was barefoot and wore a tunic, his arms adorned with luminous tattoos that he briefly envied. He had a bracelet or watch and carried a small leather bag, like a purse.

Let's walk to the oak tree, the man told him.

The child hurried ahead, reaching the tree before them. The man and he walked together, like conjoined fates. The tree marked the field's boundary. Beyond, a steep slope, with lights moving at the bottom.

They’re coming up and they’re going down, the man said. Which way would you go?

Me?

Yes. You.

He weighed his options, making calculations in his head.

The way down is always the easiest, he told the man. Isn’t that what my father used to say? Anyway, I don’t want to go.

Don’t want to go home? the man asked.

I don’t know… I’m hurt… and I don’t know what home is.

You’re not ready, yet.

Ready for what?

To stay here.

The man touched his chest. He started to fall back.

02. He woke up in a strange bed. How did he get here? It felt soft and fluffy, like a cloud, though he had never been to clouds. His leg felt stiff and heavier than the other. His thigh was bandaged with rags that smelled of moonshine.

We didn’t have gin or vodka, so Moonlight used whiskey, an old woman said from near a stove burning full flame. She didn’t even turn to look at him.

Moonlight? Who’s Moonlight?

My daughter. La Luna. You’ll meet her when she returns. She went to gather roots and herbs to prepare a poultice.

Poultice?

That leg of yours, mijo. It looks like a Martian’s leg.

What do you mean?

It’s green. Can’t you see it yourself? I doesn’t smell good either.

How do you know Martians are green?

Oh, that’s my job, mijo. I’m old. I’m supposed to know things, to have seen things. Anyway, don’t move. Moonlight will be here soon, and you’re in no condition to walk. Estás en tu casa.

En casa?

Home is a concept that encompasses a multitude of dimensions, ranging from the physical to the psychological and emotional. At its most basic level, home is a physical structure, a place of shelter where one resides. However, the significance of home extends far beyond its materiality. By antonomasia, the shoe fits. Philosophically, home represents a space of belonging and identity, and he was not even close to embracing anything as his or as him. Home swallows personal history, its accumulation capital, the sum of individual and collective memories. The idea of home is often imbued with feelings of safety, comfort, and sanctuary. It is a locus of all that makes you. And he felt so unmade. Broken.

He looked at the ceiling and noticed the house was gable roofed. It smelled of pine wood and jasmine. The floors were wooden, raised on stilts to protect against flooding and to allow air circulation. Walls made of wooden planks, unpainted or whitewashed, he wasn’t sure. He used to live in a concrete house.

Wait.

That’s a memory! How did he know he used to live in a concrete house if he didn’t remember anything else?

Adorned with lace and cotton curtains, windows were large and with wooden shutters, yes; designed to let in air and light, the cold breeze of the night danced its way in.

From here, he could see a wooden sofa and chairs, handmade, covered with woven cushions. A central table displayed a lace tablecloth, with a vase of fresh flowers adding a touch of color and life. On a plate, mandarin oranges and guayabas completed the still life.

In the kitchen, the old woman continued her work, her back to him. He noticed she hadn’t looked at him. She talked as if she just knew things, knew him. She worked on a charcoal stove, near an open eave to let out smoke.

The dim lighting came from a source at the base of the walls, casting a warm, dim glow that softened the atmosphere. Everything seemed so old and rustic, but the lights and the sounds of the surrounding environment—tree frogs, crickets, and the distant rhythm of the ocean or a nearby river—created a soothing backdrop. Outside, a veranda with rocking chairs extended the living space. Through the window, he could see the sky perfectly pierced by the symmetry of stars. It was almost as if they were painted, or serialized, like bulbs on a Christmas tree.

He didn’t know. Those were images that came to him. A form of memory. As if he remembered, but he didn’t remember that he remembered.

From the bed he lay upon, a utopian ideal rose, yet felt like a site of confinement. This was a home. He didn’t belong here.

03. A woman entered, a basket of herbs and roots in her hands. Her name was light, her presence a mystery. Young, her dark face smooth, ebony envy, no lines of time. Her eyes, deep, seeing far beyond her years. She moved, like a whisper, like a shadow in the night.

Did you get everything? the old woman asked.

Sí, mama, the young woman replied.

Ahí te dejo, entonces, the old woman said as she left the house.

What’s his name? the young woman asked following her steps on the way out.

I don’t know. Ask him.

He grabbed his leg with both hands and tried to sit by the edge of the bed, but it felt as if his femur was a log on fire. He moaned and Moonlight approached him.

Don’t rush. You’re still hurting.

Yes, he said, letting himself fall back to bed in frustration.

It’s not supposed to happen.

What’s not supposed to happen? Pain?

Nope. Not in here.

What’s here?

Here is here, Nadir. Rest easy.

Nadir, she said. Soft, so soft. Was that his name? What was his name? Her voice, ancient, like the earth. Words, riddles and metaphors, wrapped in night.

Why, he asked, do you call me Nadir?

Do you have a name?

I… don’t know… I can’t remember… I…

Names are powerful, she interjected. They hold our essence, even when we forget. You are at a crossroads, and from here, the only way is up.

Up? Up where?

Her words, heavy, settled in his bones. Pain in his leg, a throb, but deeper, the pain in his heart, lost memories, unanswered questions. He wanted to ask her so many things, but what? Pain blurred his sight. Confusion, a fog. Her presence stirred something—memories, fragments. The scent of herbs, familiar, a dream half-remembered.

Who are you, then? he asked.

She smiled, serene, knowing. I am Moonlight, she said.

Oh, la Luna.

A keeper of forgotten paths.

I have not forgotten anything. I just don’t know how I got here in the first place.

Because you don’t remember. You have wandered far, Nadir, but every journey has a purpose

Her words echoed in the empty spaces of his mind. Light, laughter, shadows. Nothing clear, nothing whole. A connection, strong, but elusive.

I’ll get that leg ready in no time, she said.

She prepared a poultice, her hands sure, precise. The earth heals, she said, as the soul heals. Trust, and you will find.

He struggled. Pieces of his past fell like breadcrumbs from a table. A child's laughter, the scent of pine, a blurred face. Moonlight, an anchor in the chaos.

Moonlight finished, looked at him, kind, determined.

Let the earth cradle you, the night speak its truths.

He closed his eyes, sleep pulling him. Again. It was like centuries-old tiresomeness. The past, fragments, swirling like leaves in a storm.

Where are the men and the child that brought me here? he asked.

Oh, so you remember things after all, Moonlight said. The Man will see you later. The Man will see you later. Now, sleep.