Blue Moon
Over Califa
© 2014 Ruth E. de Jauregui
I dashed from the darkened doorway, racing toward the knotted rope trailing from the stern of the zeppelin, but I already knew I was too late. The rising moon revealed the flashes of gunfire overhead as the pirates took control. A scream cut short as I changed direction and dodged the crumpled body of the crewman who’d smacked the cobblestones smartly. A glance told me he wouldn’t rise again, blood puddled around his twisted neck and broken skull, while his wide eyes gazed blankly upward at July’s blue moon.
Too bad for him, but lucky for me. When the sky lit in a massive explosion, I had time to duck back into an alley to avoid the falling debris. Leaning against the wall, heart racing and time slowing in the adrenaline rush, I watched the chunks of metal and fabric floating to the ground like flaming orange snowflakes. The wailing sirens of the fire brigade were nearly upon me when I ran through the alley, pulled the piled boxes away from my motor bike and gunned it, escaping the madhouse scene behind me.
When I couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, I slowed and shed the black scarf covering my head, shaking the long black braids out in the cold breeze. I dropped the filthy cloth in a convenient garbage can and donned the opaque black helmet that the Vigilantes insisted on as safety equipment. I often wondered if it was for safety -- or another way for them to mix unnoticed with the peoples of the Barbary Coast. Zipping into the fast lane, I rolled with the early morning traffic heading south to the Peninsula. The border guards pointedly didn’t notice as I waited patiently in line, showed my ID, and then slowly drove through the gate leading out of San Francisco and into the free state of Califa.
*********
“Barbarians!” Pio shouted as he pounded on his desk in frustration. “Stinking barbarians! Babosos! I told Papá that we should’ve cleaned out that vile nest years ago, but he didn’t want the Russians to get involved. Four hundred years we’ve had in el Mundo Nuevo and we’re still tolerating pirates and murderers at our borders!”
“Sí, mi hermano, but the political climate is delicate…” I ventured.
He glared at me.
I pressed my lips together and stopped mid-sentence.
Governor Pico stomped back and forth across the tile floor, the blues and maroons of the classic Moroccan pattern faded by time and the boots of a dozen governors before him. The bright sun shining in the tall windows highlighted his handsome dark face and crisp, black curls as he whirled and glared at me again.
“And what in the name of Dios were you doing in San Francisco? And you’re telling me about the political climate?” His voice dropped and deepened in intensity. “Do you know what those politicos would’ve made of it if they’d caught you there?” He rolled his eyes in an expression that reminded me of his Mamá, our father’s first wife. “You aren’t even supposed to be here, you’re supposed to be with the Ambassador, meeting with the First Nations Confederation on my behalf!”
Trying not to fidget, I waited. I needed to finish my report and get back to the Ambassador’s palace before anyone noticed I wasn’t in my room.
“Ayyyy,” he muttered. “You are so like your mother.”
I glanced up at the portraits on the wall. Yes, I do look like my Cherokee mother, light olive with long black braids and brown eyes, while Pio took after his Mamá, dark with the Afro-Moorish features of España written over her serious expression. Papá was lucky that Mamá was head over heels in love with him or he’d have had trouble once she realized that she’d become his second wife. Like most men, he’d not considered that she might take offense to the African tradition of multiple wives that was practiced in Old España. Christianity had skipped over España, establishing itself in the cold Norse nations and leaping across the Atlantic to a toehold on the east coast, among the few French and Norwegian immigrants allowed by the First Nations Confederacy.
I snickered. He hadn’t taken a third wife. Mamá ruled the house, tradition be damned, and Pio’s Mamá was happy to let her take over.
Pio whirled on me. “You think this is funny?” he hissed.
Snapping to attention, I silently waited as he resumed pacing. Brother or not, he was my commanding officer.
“I should have married you off to that German. He offered a fine bride price for…”
I bristled, all pretense at subservience gone. “Mi hermano, let me remind you that I am also a First Nations citizen. We have always had the right to decide who we would marry―if we chose to marry at all. Papá agreed to this according to First Nations law, otherwise lovers or not, Mamá wouldn’t be his wife. Grandmother wouldn’t have allowed it. Now, either you wish to hear my report or I must go. I barely have time to dress for these bloody negotiations.”
Pio laughed heartily at my indignation and sat down, reaching for the black café on his desk. “Tell me then, quickly and off the record. I’ll expect a full report later.”
*********
Barely an hour later, in full formal First Nations military uniform, I strode into the courtyard of the palace to greet our guests. I nearly missed a step when I saw Mamá’s own brother escorting the dignitaries, dressed in the same uniform that I proudly wore.
Behind me, the Ambassador swore under his breath. It was going to be a bad day.
© 2014 Ruth E. de Jauregui
I dashed from the darkened doorway, racing toward the knotted rope trailing from the stern of the zeppelin, but I already knew I was too late. The rising moon revealed the flashes of gunfire overhead as the pirates took control. A scream cut short as I changed direction and dodged the crumpled body of the crewman who’d smacked the cobblestones smartly. A glance told me he wouldn’t rise again, blood puddled around his twisted neck and broken skull, while his wide eyes gazed blankly upward at July’s blue moon.
Too bad for him, but lucky for me. When the sky lit in a massive explosion, I had time to duck back into an alley to avoid the falling debris. Leaning against the wall, heart racing and time slowing in the adrenaline rush, I watched the chunks of metal and fabric floating to the ground like flaming orange snowflakes. The wailing sirens of the fire brigade were nearly upon me when I ran through the alley, pulled the piled boxes away from my motor bike and gunned it, escaping the madhouse scene behind me.
When I couldn’t hear the sirens anymore, I slowed and shed the black scarf covering my head, shaking the long black braids out in the cold breeze. I dropped the filthy cloth in a convenient garbage can and donned the opaque black helmet that the Vigilantes insisted on as safety equipment. I often wondered if it was for safety -- or another way for them to mix unnoticed with the peoples of the Barbary Coast. Zipping into the fast lane, I rolled with the early morning traffic heading south to the Peninsula. The border guards pointedly didn’t notice as I waited patiently in line, showed my ID, and then slowly drove through the gate leading out of San Francisco and into the free state of Califa.
*********
“Barbarians!” Pio shouted as he pounded on his desk in frustration. “Stinking barbarians! Babosos! I told Papá that we should’ve cleaned out that vile nest years ago, but he didn’t want the Russians to get involved. Four hundred years we’ve had in el Mundo Nuevo and we’re still tolerating pirates and murderers at our borders!”
“Sí, mi hermano, but the political climate is delicate…” I ventured.
He glared at me.
I pressed my lips together and stopped mid-sentence.
Governor Pico stomped back and forth across the tile floor, the blues and maroons of the classic Moroccan pattern faded by time and the boots of a dozen governors before him. The bright sun shining in the tall windows highlighted his handsome dark face and crisp, black curls as he whirled and glared at me again.
“And what in the name of Dios were you doing in San Francisco? And you’re telling me about the political climate?” His voice dropped and deepened in intensity. “Do you know what those politicos would’ve made of it if they’d caught you there?” He rolled his eyes in an expression that reminded me of his Mamá, our father’s first wife. “You aren’t even supposed to be here, you’re supposed to be with the Ambassador, meeting with the First Nations Confederation on my behalf!”
Trying not to fidget, I waited. I needed to finish my report and get back to the Ambassador’s palace before anyone noticed I wasn’t in my room.
“Ayyyy,” he muttered. “You are so like your mother.”
I glanced up at the portraits on the wall. Yes, I do look like my Cherokee mother, light olive with long black braids and brown eyes, while Pio took after his Mamá, dark with the Afro-Moorish features of España written over her serious expression. Papá was lucky that Mamá was head over heels in love with him or he’d have had trouble once she realized that she’d become his second wife. Like most men, he’d not considered that she might take offense to the African tradition of multiple wives that was practiced in Old España. Christianity had skipped over España, establishing itself in the cold Norse nations and leaping across the Atlantic to a toehold on the east coast, among the few French and Norwegian immigrants allowed by the First Nations Confederacy.
I snickered. He hadn’t taken a third wife. Mamá ruled the house, tradition be damned, and Pio’s Mamá was happy to let her take over.
Pio whirled on me. “You think this is funny?” he hissed.
Snapping to attention, I silently waited as he resumed pacing. Brother or not, he was my commanding officer.
“I should have married you off to that German. He offered a fine bride price for…”
I bristled, all pretense at subservience gone. “Mi hermano, let me remind you that I am also a First Nations citizen. We have always had the right to decide who we would marry―if we chose to marry at all. Papá agreed to this according to First Nations law, otherwise lovers or not, Mamá wouldn’t be his wife. Grandmother wouldn’t have allowed it. Now, either you wish to hear my report or I must go. I barely have time to dress for these bloody negotiations.”
Pio laughed heartily at my indignation and sat down, reaching for the black café on his desk. “Tell me then, quickly and off the record. I’ll expect a full report later.”
*********
Barely an hour later, in full formal First Nations military uniform, I strode into the courtyard of the palace to greet our guests. I nearly missed a step when I saw Mamá’s own brother escorting the dignitaries, dressed in the same uniform that I proudly wore.
Behind me, the Ambassador swore under his breath. It was going to be a bad day.
