The Greyhound bus chugged out of the station in downtown Charleston into the South Carolina night. There were 4,000 miles between Charleston and Point Hope.
"That's about how far blue whales migrate from Mexico to Alaska," thought Hilcias. "If they can make it, maybe I can make it, too."
This first part of the journey would take four days. He closed his eyes. He felt the tires of the bus thump against the road, listened to the soft snore of a soldier in the seat behind him, and swayed gently from side to side as the driver moved from lane to lane around late night drivers. He drifted off to sleep and became a blue whale, the thump of his giant fluke in the deep waters moving him along at 14 miles per hour, the songs from other blue whales from different waters touching his great heart, his giant body swaying from side to side in the Pacific Ocean waters.
He woke to the hand of a frail, old woman on his shoulder.
"'Scuse me," she whispered, "I hate to wake you up but my ticket says I'm 'sposed to sit here beside you."
He rubbed his eyes with the fists of his hands and looked up into the face of the woman in the soft glow of the bus lights.
There were deep wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and across her forehead. They didn't seem to be wrinkles of worry that he'd seen on his mamí’s and abuelo’s faces as they worked the fields and lived among strangers in small Southern towns. No, they seemed to be wrinkles of kindness that might have come from years and years of loving and hoping, the kind of wrinkles you get when you cradle a baby in your arms and rock it deep into the night, the kind that come when you study the small, quiet things in the world and wonder why so few people see or hear or touch the beauty they hold.
She tried to keep her eyes open, but they stayed closed a bit longer with each blink, and her head nodded to each passing mile along the highway. Her breathing came into rhythm with the wheels of the bus on the road. The bus moved around a curve and she slid ever so slightly against Hilcias’ body. His small shoulder sank into her tired, withered breast and his smooth cheek rested on the folds of skin on her thin, bony neck. Her gentle breaths made a soft whistle through her nose, so soft that no one who was not as close to her as Hilcias could hear it. Hilcias not only heard it but also understood the story the whistles told.
Here is that story.
- When my chi'ren were yo age, they walked to school 'long a dirt road. 'Bout haf way dere, a school bus'd pass dem by, ev'ry day. It'd stir up mo dust'n you evah seen'n yo life and dat dust'd swirl 'round my chi'ren, cling to dey skin, and turn de water in dey eyes to mud. "Why won't dat bus stop and pick us up, momma?" dey asked me.
Well, I knew dey'd come a day when I'd haf to sit wid'em at de table and tell'em 'bout de way things was, 'bout how a school bus wit white chi'ren on it couldn't haf black chi'ren on it, too, 'cause dats de laws of men's hearts.
But I know'd dat day hadn't come quite yet. I hoped so much in my own heart dat 'fore dat day came, a new day's come when de laws of God's heart'd overcome de laws of men's hearts and dat bus'd stop, op'n it's doors, and welcome my chi'ren on board.
“Don't you all worry 'bout dat bus now, you hear?" I answered my chi'ren. "Lissen now, when dat bus passes you by, you stop for a minit and think 'bout dat dust all 'round you. Breathe deep and let it come into yo lungs 'till you breathe it out wit yo breath. Den take de back a yo hands n'rub'em in you wat'ry eyes 'till de mud comes off on 'em. You think 'bout dat dust and dat mud. You 'member dat dust is made up'a tiny little dust particles, so small you cain't see 'em 'less dey all together. And you 'member dat mud is what we all made of, all of us, folks inside de bus n outside de bus, and one kind'a mud ain't superior to another kind'a mud, it's all just de stuff God made us out of. 'Member dat, my loves. 'Member dat."
Hilcias listened to her sleeping, listened to the soft whistles of her breathing, listened to her face, and he loved her.
"A blue whale's heart is as big as a Volkswagon Bug," he thought. "It must feel love very deeply and widely, because it's heart is so deep and wide. My heart is just the size of my fist. I don't think it can hold as much love as a blue whale's heart. I surely feel a deep and wide love for her, though."
"Where could this love come from?" he thought. "I don't know. Maybe it's because we're both small, quiet ones who no one sees or hears, in our own ways. I hope I'm as beautiful as her. I hope I whistle the same beautiful song as her."
He put his tiny hand on top of hers.
You've heard of the narwhal whale, haven't you? Along with the bowhead and beluga whales, it is an Arctic whale, living all it's life in the icy waters of the Arctic ocean. It's called the unicorn of the sea because it has a single horn that protrudes up to nine feet out of it's forehead. In older days, it's horn was given to the kings and queens of Europe to use as scepters, for many thought there was great power and even magic in it.
It's not really a horn, though. It's a tooth. Like a human tooth, it is very, very sensitive. If a narwhal tooth breaks, it causes the poor narwhal a sharp and abiding pain. When that break happens, an amazing thing happens in the life of narwhals. Another narwhal places it's tooth into the broken tooth of the hurting narwhal and that act of kindness assuages the pain.
He hoped his hand might somehow assuage her pain, too.
- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
