Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,33
slack-jawed as the rest of the guys gave up and whirled around to head towards their tents, muttering bitterly. Alejo motioned towards the purple backpack with his chin, and said, “Pass me that, will you, Gabo? She and I are going to retire.”
Gabriel picked up the backpack and passed it over. “Sorry,” Gabriel barely whispered as he leaned closer. “The other guys made me bring her. But she would have had to go anyway. She’s a witness.”
“Yeah, I know. Everything’s going to work out.” Alejo winked again and then said a little louder, “You did it. It worked.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said, glowing expression admitting he enjoyed the praise.
The girl began to squirm feebly against Alejo. “What are you guys talking about? Please, my friend might still be around and I have to go back…!” Alejo plugged the girl’s mouth tightly with his hand and started towards his tent, dragging her in front of him and really hoping she wouldn’t bite.
“Good night!” he called to Gabriel, then raised his voice as he approached the tent. “Stalin! Get your butt out here with your sleeping bag. Bad news---you’re going over to bunk with Benjamin.”
Alejo ripped open the entrance to his large tent as he heard a low moan and “Awww, man! Alright.” Grumbling, Stalin gathered up his sleeping bag and pillow, then grabbed his bottle of antacids and the ridiculous stuffed Snoopy that he insisted on bringing along on every trip. Alejo and the girl ducked inside his tent, which was lit by a camping lantern perched on a box they always left up here in the clearing. Still keeping her tightly in his grip, he cautiously slid his hand off her mouth, waiting for Stalin to leave. She sucked in air with a shudder, still sagging against Alejo.
Stalin passed by them on his way to the door. He managed to free one hand from his mass of possessions and held it out to the surviving girl, rather sadly. “The guys say your passport says you’re a missionary, senorita. I admire the way you missionaries share what you believe, far away from home.” Stalin sighed dramatically and then ran a finger down the girl’s bloodied cheek, almost guiltily. “I don’t think you’ll be here much longer, but if anyone ever deserved to go through those heavenly gates, I think it would be you.”
“Wait! Please…?” Wara tried to reach after Stalin as he darted out the door. “Wait!” she screamed again, and Alejo clamped his hand over her mouth and growled lowly into her ear.
“I’m not going to hurt you, ok? Stop yelling. I need everyone else in their tents, where they won’t be paying any attention to you.”
He removed his hand from her mouth, then scooped her up and carried her, kicking and struggling, towards his rumpled sleeping bag. “You’ve got to lay down!” he insisted, inwardly kicking himself because he knew he was scaring her to death. “You were in an accident, ok? I’ve got to see how badly you’re hurt. You probably have a concussion, so you need to hold still.” He tried to keep his tone calm, because the usual way he barked out orders was probably not going to make this girl stop kicking.
She stiffened, then curled up on the sleeping bag, eyes squeezed shut. In the light of the tent’s lamp, Alejo took in his captive’s dusty jeans and sweater. Her dark hair, coated with a fine film of dust, was streaked with burgundy highlights and scattered around her shoulders. With tan skin and light brown eyes, she didn’t look like the typical North American girl.
Alejo slid to the floor of the tent, one knee in the air, and let out a long sigh. After deliberation he finally said, “I’m sorry for the crudeness outside, but I just wanted to get you in here to keep you away from the other guys. Ok?”
She slit her eyes open and searched his face, as if wanting to believe him, then gave up and curled back up in a ball. He did a double take, noticing the girl had coffee-colored, Indian-style tattoos on her palms. Henna.
“What’s your name?”
“Wara,” she muttered. Alejo was surprised to hear a Bolivian name.
Aymara language. Means “star.”
A gold star ring twinkled in the America girl’s nose. “Why do you have a name from Bolivia?”
He saw her swallow, hard. “My grandpa was a missionary, too. In Peru. He married a Quechua lady. My parents let my grandma name me and she gave me a native name.”
“Are you hurt?”