LAND OF ENCHANTMENT
Ann Walters

The trip has been long, hot, and dusty. The car climbs upward, winding through rocky hillsides to leave the featureless desert below. We started fighting days ago, somewhere near Bandelier, or was it Pecos Pueblo? You had your shoes off, twisted in your seat to reach the back, scrounging in the cooler for the last beer, forgetting we’d shared it the night before by the campfire. You said I was driving too fast. I told you your feet smelled and there was no more beer.

In between then and now we’ve seen monuments to dead explorers with names like Coronado and Cabeza de Vaca. You couldn’t stop giggling over a cow-headed conquistador. I walked away, pretending not to know you. We confronted the duality of Spanish missions and Pueblo ruins–-abandoned sandstone buildings still standing in tribute to conquerors and conquered alike–-and tried not to take sides.

Frequenting ruined cities that house only the dead, I got a sunburn and a case of the blues. You picked a striped squash growing in the shadow of ancient adobe walls. Afterward, we passed roadside stands selling works of art in silver, turquoise, and clay. You bought me a necklace, a Zia sun symbol, to brighten my day. I’m still wearing it.

At an eloquent army outpost on the edge of the plains we paused, hats in hand, and strained to hear a hint of taps on the wind. We breathed chile fire and danced like coyotes, fondled priceless treasures in the gallerias, and mocked the lunacy of a pueblo-style McDonald’s.

Visiting with Billy the Kid, you told me he was your hero; I pointed to the noose that hung beside the Lincoln County Courthouse. While I sat beneath giant artificial ears, listening for voices from other worlds, you poked me in the side and chanted ‘go home’ in your best E.T. voice. When evening came, we snuggled in silence, sampling the solitude of fine white sand.

We’re tired now, and the parking lot is crowded. You haven’t forgiven me for laughing out loud at the International UFO Museum in Roswell. I still won’t let you drive. We look at the busses, extruding foreigners, senior groups, and church youth into one homogeneous tourist mass, and wonder why we’re here. You tug my hand and tell me it will be cooler down there.

It is cooler, despite the humanity pressed together on the amphitheater’s benches. The cold flows out and over the throng, like air conditioning for the world. The sky purples behind us, throwing high fluffy clouds into pink and orange relief, and the crowd hushes to an unnerving stillness. Before I can tell you that this light makes you look like a Grecian god, like the man I married, you tap my shoulder and point.

The sons and daughters of the dusk are whirling, leathern wings shining in the last of the sun’s light. They issue from the cavern’s mouth sequentially, simultaneously, amazingly individual and coalescent at once. I wonder how they keep from stumbling over one another. You squeeze my hand. We are told they number in the hundreds of thousands. It feels like more. And less. The last pair flits from the opening in a dance both awkward and graceful. It feels just right.

© Ann Walters 2005

Living in the Pacific Northwest, Ann combats rainy days with large quantities of chocolate. She is aided and abetted by her husband who provides unstinting support (and chocolate) and two young daughters, who provide inspiration, frustration, and joy, often all at once.

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