Jornada del Muerto: Prisoner Days by Claudia Hall Christian Page B

was
stuck, I could ask her, and she’d tell me what to do. If I did what
she said, I was always all right.
    Look where going to prison got me. I’m the
only living Tewa.
    Today, she didn’t know what to do. She had
no advice for me. She’d missed the rise of the wasps and the death
of the world she’d known. Yes, she’d dropped in to see me, but that
was about me. She had no idea the world had changed so much.
    And frankly, I think it terrified her.
    Even the rebirth of the streams, mountains,
and prairies was disturbing. For all the decades of believing and
repeating the prophecy, I don’t think she really believed it would
come to pass. Or if she did, I’m not sure she imagined anything
like this.
    Who would?
    Not one to waste time with sentimentality,
my great-great-grandmother left me to think. George and I went on
about our day. We killed a few thousand wasps, I moved their souls
along, and we had dinner. I’d frankly forgotten about my
great-great-grandmother when she came tearing back into the
cell.
    “ You must leave as soon as
possible,” she said.
    I must have looked surprised or maybe
stricken, because George turned to me with concern. I repeated what
she’d said. George shook his head. He was as unwilling as I to
leave our gear, our supplies, and the horses behind.
    “ How?” I asked.
    She smiled as if she was waiting for me to
ask and flew out of the cell. I had to run to keep up with her.
Unable to see her, George panicked and followed close behind me. We
went through our building and out onto the Pen campus. We ran down
the main road until we reached the Administration building. Like a
parade, I followed my great-great-grandmother’s spirit, and George
followed me. We entered the prison administration building, took a
quick turn, and went down another hallway.
    Great-great-grandmother
went to the hoarding assistant warden’s office. She stopped behind
the woman’s desk and pointed to the wall. There was a cheap
reproduction on the wall of the historic Jornada del Muerto desert. She
pointed to a label on the map, and then to a book that magically
still sat on the assistant warden’s bookshelf. I picked up the
book.
    The title read Part-time Soldiers, Brave Soldiers: The History
of the New Mexican National Guard by
Oswald Vega. I shrugged. My great-great-grandmother pointed to the
assistant warden’s nameplate. It said: Trudy Vega. This assistant
warden must have been related to the author of the book.
    The book pages began to flip in my hand. My
great-great-grandmother was going through the pages until it fell
open to a page that discussed the area next to the prison. Before
the Great Human Transition, that area had housed the New Mexico
National Guard. The properties were adjacent but not connected.
There was a fence in between.
    I looked at my great-great-grandmother for a
second, and she nodded. George grunted and gestured to something on
the page. I looked down.
    There was a large supply tunnel into the
National Guard area. The black and white photo showed a wide
concrete tunnel lined with every kind of vehicle and even tanks.
The text said the tunnel went from under the National Guards area
to the open road.
    “ Emil,” my
great-great-grandmother said, speaking my name.
    It had been such a long time since I’d heard
my own name that I didn’t look up. George tapped me on the arm. I
looked at him, and he pointed toward where he’d heard the sound. I
looked at my great-great-grandmother.
    “ You must leave as soon as
possible,” she said and disappeared.
    I stared at the spot where she had been for
a long time. George touched my shoulder. I looked at him and told
him it was time to go. George pointed to the book, and I nodded. He
shook his head and pointed again. I shook my head because I had no
idea what he was talking about. George gestured for us to check
this new route first, and I nodded.
    He started toward the door. At the door to
the assistant warden’s office, he waved for me