Disregarding the scratchy bushes,I dashed after the dog, who was scurrying through the sagebrush with recklessspeed.  

I soon lost sight of its goldenfur shimmering amidst the fragrant wild shrubs and followed the sound of itsbarks, growing fainter and fainter in the distance.  

Uneasily, I glanced at the thickfog advancing on me.  

It closed in around the spotwhere I stood and within moments there was no sight of the sky. The lateafternoon sun, like a subdued ball of fire, was scarcely discernible. And themagnificent view of the Santa Monica Bay, now more imagined than seen from theSanta Susana Mountains, had disappeared with incredible speed.  

I wasn't worried about the doggetting lost.  

I, however, had no idea where tofind the secluded spot my friends had chosen for our picnic. Or where thehiking path was that I had taken to chase after the dog.

I took a few hesitant steps inthe same general direction the dog had followed, when something made mestop.  

Emerging from above, through somecrack in the fog, I saw a tiny point of light descending toward me. Another onefollowed, then another, like little flames tied to a string.  

The lights trembled and vibratedin the air, then just before they reached me, they vanished, as though the fogaround me had swallowed them up.  

Since they had disappeared only afew feet in front of me, I moved on, closer to the spot, eager to examine thatextraordinary sight.  

As I peered intently into the fog,I saw dark, human shapes glide through the air, two or three feet off theground, moving as though they were tiptoeing on clouds.  

One after the other, the humanshapes squatted, forming a circle.  

I took a few more vacillatingsteps, then stopped as the fog thickened and absorbed them.  

I remained still, not knowingwhat to do.  

I felt a most unusual fright. Notthe fright I am familiar with, but one in my body, in my belly; the kind offright animals must have.  

I don't know how long I stoodthere.  

When the fog cleared enough forme to see, I saw to my left, about fifty feet away, two men sittingcross-legged on the ground.  

They were whispering to eachother, and the sound of their voices seemed to be all around me, captured insmall patches of fog that were like tufts of cotton.  

I didn't understand what theywere saying, but I felt reassured as I caught a word here and there: They werespeaking in Spanish.  

"I'm lost!" I shoutedin Spanish.  

Both men slowly turned around,hesitant, disbelieving, as though they were seeing an apparition.  

I spun around, wondering if therewas someone behind me that was causing their dramatic reaction; but there wasno one.  

Grinning, one of the men rose,stretched his limbs until his joints cracked, then covered the distance betweenus in quick strides.  

He was young, short, andpowerfully built, with massive shoulders and a big head. His dark eyes radiatedamusement and curiosity.  

I told him that I had been hikingwith friends and had gotten lost chasing after their dog. "I've no ideahow to get back to them," I finished.

"You can't go any furtherthis way," the man warned me. "We are standing on a cliff."  

He took me confidently by the armand led me to the very edge of the precipice, no more than ten feet away fromwhere I had been standing.  

"This friend of mine,"he said, pointing to the other man, who had remained seated, staring at me,"had just finished telling me that there is an ancient Indian burialground down below when you showed up and nearly scared us to death."  

He studied my face, my long blondbraid, and asked, "Are you Swedish?"

Still bewildered by what theyoung man had said about the burial ground, I stared into the fog.  

Under normal circumstances, as astudent of anthropology, I would have been thrilled to find out about anancient Indian burial ground.  

At the moment, however, Icouldn't care less if there was indeed one in that foggy emptiness belowme.  

All I could think of was that ifI hadn't been distracted by those lights I might have ended up buriedmyself.  

"Are you Swedish?" theyoung man asked again.  

"I am," I lied andimmediately regretted it. I couldn't think of any way to correct it, though,without losing face.  

"You speak Spanishperfectly," the man commented. "Swedish people have a marvelous earfor languages."  

Although I felt terribly guilty,I couldn't help adding that more than a gift, it was a necessity forScandinavians to learn various languages if they wanted to communicate with therest of the world.  

"Besides," I confessed,"I grew up in South America."  

For some strange reason thispiece of information seemed to baffle the young man.  

He shook his head, as if indisbelief, and then remained silent for a long while, deep in thought.  

Then, as if he had arrived atsome kind of a decision, he took me briskly by the hand, and guided me to wherethe other man was sitting.  

I had no intention ofsocializing: I wanted to get back to my friends as soon as possible, but theyoung man made me feel so at ease that instead of asking them to lead me backto the hiking path, I gave them a detailed account of the lights and humanshapes I had just seen.  

"How strange that the spiritwould spare her," the seated man muttered as if to himself, his dark browsdrawn together in a frown.  

But obviously he was talking tohis companion, who mumbled something in return that I didn't catch.  

They exchanged conspiratorialglances, intensifying my feelings of unease.

"I beg your pardon?" Isaid, turning to the man who was sitting. I didn't get what you weresaying."  

He stared at me aggressively andmorosely.  

"You were warned of thedanger," he stated in a voice that was deep and resonant. "Theemissaries of death came to your help."

"The who?" I feltcompelled to ask, even though I had understood him perfectly well.  

I examined him closely. For aninstant, I had the certainty I knew him, but as I kept staring at him, Irealized I had never seen him before. Yet I couldn't completely discard thefeeling of knowing him.  

He was not as young as the otherman, but he wasn't old either.  

He was definitely an Indian. Hisskin was dark brown. His hair was blue-black, straight and thick as a brush.  

But it wasn't only his outwardappearance that was almost familiar to me: He was morose, as only I could bemorose.  

Seemingly uncomfortable under myscrutiny, he rose abruptly. "I'll take you to your friends," hemumbled:  

"Follow me, and don't you darefall down. You'll fall on top of me and kill us both," he added in a grufftone.  

Before I had the opportunity tosay that I wasn't a clumsy oaf, he led the way down a very steep side of amountain in the opposite direction of the cliff.  

"Do you know where you aregoing?" I shouted after him, my voice sharp with nervousness.  

I couldn't orient myself- notthat I am normally good at it- but I had not been aware of climbing up a hillas I chased the dog.  

The man turned around.  

An amused little grin quickly lithis face, though his eyes did not smile.

He looked at me with a black,stony look. "I'm going to take you to your friends," was all hesaid.  

I didn't like him, yet I believedhim.  

He wasn't too tall- about fivefeet ten- and he was small boned, yet his body projected the massiveness andcompactness of a stocky person.  

He moved in the fog withextraordinary confidence, stepping with ease and grace down what I thought wasa vertical drop.  

The younger man climbed downbehind me, helping me every time I got stuck. He had the solicitous manner ofan old-fashioned gentleman.  

His hands were strong andbeautiful, and incredibly soft to the touch. His strength was tremendous.  

He easily lifted me up and overhis head several times; perhaps not an extraordinary feat considering my punyweight, but quite impressive taking into account that he was standing on shaleledges, and was no more than two or three inches taller than I.  

"You have to thank theemissaries of death," the man who had led the way insisted as soon as wehad reached level ground.  

"I do?" I askedmockingly.  

The thought of saying thank youto the 'emissaries of death' seemed ridiculous to me.  

"Do I have to get down on myknees?" I asked in between a fit of giggles.  

The man didn't think I was beingfunny.  

He rested his hands on his hipsand looked me full in the eye, his narrow, gaunt face unsmiling.  

There was something menacingabout his stance; about his slanted dark eyes under the bristly eyebrowsrunning together over the bridge of his chiseled nose.  

Abruptly, he turned his back tome, and moved away to sit on a nearby rock.

"We can't leave this spotuntil you thank the emissaries of death," he pronounced.  

Suddenly, the realization that Iwas alone in a godforsaken place hit me.

I was fogged in with two strangemen; one of them perhaps dangerous.  

I knew he wouldn't budge from thespot until I fullfilled his ludicrous request.

To my amazement, instead offeeling frightened, I felt like laughing.

The all-knowing smile on theyounger man's face clearly revealed that he knew how I felt, and he was quitedelighted by it.  

"You don't have to go as faras kneeling," he told me, and then, no longer able to hold back his mirth,he began to laugh.  

It was a bright, raspy sound; itrolled like pebbles all around me. His teeth were snowwhite and perfectly even,like a child's.  

His face had a look at oncemischievous and gentle.  

"It's enough to say thank you,"he prompted me. "Say it. What do you have to lose?"  

"I feel stupid," Iconfided, deliberately trying to win him over. I won't do it."  

"Why?" he asked in anonjudgmental tone. "It'll only take a second, and," he stressed,smiling, "it won't hurt a bit."

In spite of myself, I had togiggle.  

"I'm sorry, but I can't doit," I repeated:  

"I'm like that. The momentsomeone insists that I do something I don't want to do, I get all tense andangry."  

Eyes on the ground, his chinresting on his knuckles, the young man nodded his head thoughtfully.  

After a long pause he said,"It's a fact that something prevented you from getting hurt, perhaps evenkilled. Something inexplicable."

I agreed with him. I evenadmitted that it was all very baffling to me.

I tried to make a point aboutphenomena happening coincidentally at the right time; in the right place.  

"That's all veryappropriate," he said.  

Then he grinned and daringlynudged me on the chin. "But it doesn't explain your particular case,"he said:  

"You have been the recipientof a gift.  

"Call the giver coincidence,circumstances, chain of events, or whatever: The fact remains that you werespared pain; injury."  

"Perhaps you're right,"I conceded. "I should be more grateful."  

"Not more grateful. Morepliable, more fluid," he said and laughed.

Seeing that I was getting angry,he opened his arms wide as if to encompass the sagebrush around us.  

"My friend believes thatwhat you saw has to do with the Indian burial ground, which happens to be righthere."  

"I don't see a burialground," I said defensively.  

"It's hard to recognizeit," he explained, squinting at me as if he had trouble with his eyes."And it isn't the fog that prevents one from seeing it. Even on a sunnyday, one sees nothing but a patch of sagebrush."  

He went down on his knees and,grinning, looked up at me. "However, for the knowing eye, it's anunusually shaped patch of sagebrush." He lay flat on the ground, on hisstomach, his head tilted to the left, and motioned me to do the same.  

"This is the only way to seeit clearly," he explained as I lay down beside him on the ground. "Iwouldn't have known this but for my friend here who knows all kinds ofinteresting and exciting things."  

At first I saw nothing, then oneby one I discovered the rocks in the thick underbrush. Dark and shiny, asthough they had been washed by the mist, they sat hunched in a circle, morelike creatures than stones.  

I stifled a scream as I realizedthat the circle of rocks was exactly like the circle of human figures I hadseen earlier in the fog.  

"Now I am trulyfrightened," I mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "I told you that Isaw human figures sitting in a circle."

I looked at him to see if hisface betrayed any disapproval or mockery before I added, "It's toopreposterous, but I could almost swear those rocks were the people Isaw."  

"I know," he whispered,so softly I had to move closer to him.  

"It's all verymysterious," he went on:  

"My friend, who you musthave noticed is an Indian, says that certain Indian burial grounds such as thisone have a row or a circle of boulders.  

"The boulders are theemissaries of death."  

He looked at me closely, and thenas if he wanted to make sure he had my full attention, he confided, "Theyare the emissaries, mind you, and not the representation of theemissaries."  

I kept staring at the man, notonly because I didn't know what to make of his statements, but because his facekept changing as he talked and smiled. It wasn't that his features changed, buthis face was at moments that of a six-year-old child, a seventeen-year-old boy,and that of an old man, too.  

"These are strangebeliefs," he continued, seemingly oblivious to my scrutiny:  

"I didn't put too much stockin them until the moment you came out of the blue, as my friend was telling meabout the emissaries of death, and then you told us that you had just seenthem.  

"If I were given todistrust," he went on, his tone suddenly menacing, "I would believethat you and he are in cahoots."  

"I don't know him!" Idefended myself, indignant at the mere suggestion, then whispered softly, soonly he could hear, "To be quite frank, your friend gives me thecreeps."  

"If I were given to distrust,"the young man repeated, ignoring my interruption, "I would believe thatyou two are actually trying to scare me. But I'm not distrustful.  

"So the only thing I can dois suspend judgment and wonder about you."

"Well, don't wonder aboutme," I said irritably. "And I don't now what the hell you're talkingabout anyway."  

I glared at him angrily. I had nosympathy for his dilemma. He too was giving me the creeps.  

"He's talking about thankingthe emissaries of death," the older man said.  

He had walked to where I waslying and was peering down at me in a most peculiar manner.  

Eager to get away from that placeand those two crazy people, I stood up and shouted my thanks.  

My voice echoed, as if theunder-brush had turned into rocks.  

I listened until the sound diedaway.  

Then, as if possessed, and quiteagainst my better judgment, I cried out my thanks again and again.  

"I'm sure the emissaries aremore than satisfied," the younger man said, nudging my calf. Laughing, herolled on his back.  

There was a wonderful strength inhis eyes, in the delighted power of his laugh.

I didn't doubt for an instant,despite the levity, that indeed I had thanked the emissaries of death. And mostoddly, I felt myself protected by them.  

"Who are you two?" Idirected my question at the younger man.

In one agile, smooth motion hesprang to his feet. "I'm Jose Luis Cortez; my friends call me Joe,"he said, holding out his hand to clasp mine. "And this here is my friendGumersindo Evans-Pritchard."  

Afraid I would laugh out loud atthe name, I bit my lip and bent to scratch an imaginary bite on my knee."A flea, I think," I said, gazing from one man to the other.  

Both stared back at me, defyingme to make fun of the name. There was such a serious expression on their facesthat my laughter vanished.  

Gumersindo Evans-Pritchardreached for my hand- hanging limply at my side- and shook it vigorously."I'm delighted to make your acquaintance," he said in perfect Englishwith an upper-class British accent. "For a moment I thought you were oneof those stuck-up cunts."  

Simultaneously, my eyes widenedand my mouth opened. Although something in me registered that his words weremeant as a compliment rather than an insult, my shock was nevertheless sointense that I just stood there as if paralyzed.  

I wasn't prudish- under theproper circumstances I could outswear anyone- but to me there was something soappallingly offensive about the sound of the word cunt, it rendered mespeechless.  

Joe came to my rescue. He apologizedfor his friend, explaining that Gumersindo was an extreme socialiconoclast.  

Before I had a chance to say thatGumersindo had definitely shattered my sense of propriety, Joe added thatGumersindo's compulsion to be an iconoclast had to do with the fact that hislast name was Evans-Pritchard.  

"It shouldn't surpriseanyone," Joe noted. "His father is an Englishman who abandoned hismother, an Indian woman from Jalisco, before Gumersindo was born."  

"Evans-Pritchard?" Irepeated guardedly, then turned to Gumersindo and asked him if it was all rightfor Joe to reveal to a stranger his family's skeletons in the closet.  

"There aren't skeletons inthe closet," Joe answered for his friend. "And do you knowwhy?"  

He fixed me with his shiny, darkeyes that were neither brown nor black but the color of ripe cherries.  

Helplessly, I shook my head tosay no, my attention held by his compelling gaze.  

His one eye seemed to be laughingat me: The other one was dead serious, ominous and menacing.  

"Because what you callskeletons in the closet are Gumersindo's source of strength," Joe went on."Do you know that his father is now a famous English anthropologist?Gumersindo hates his guts."  

Gumersindo nodded his head almostimperceptibly, as if he were proud of his hatred.  

I could hardly believe my goodfortune. They were referring to none other than E. E. Evans-Pritchard, one ofthe most important social anthropologists of the twentieth century. And it wasprecisely during this term at UCLA that I was researching a paper on thehistory of social anthropology and the most eminent proponents in thefield.  

What a scoop! I had to restrainmyself from shouting out loud and jumping up and down with excitement. To beable to come with some awful secret like that. A great anthropologist seducingand abandoning an Indian woman.

I was not in the least concernedthat Evans-Pritchard hadn't done any fieldwork in Mexico- he was mainly knownfor his research in Africa- for I was certain I would discover that during oneof his visits to the United States he had gone into Mexico. I had the veryproof standing before me.  

Smiling sweetly, I gazed atGumersindo and made the silent promise that, of course, I wouldn't revealanything without his permission. Well, perhaps I would just say something toone of my professors, I thought. After all, one didn't come across this kind ofinformation every day.  

My mind was spinning withpossibilities. Perhaps a small lecture with only a few selected students at thehome of one of my professors. In my mind, I had already selected the professor.I didn't partcularly like him, but I appreciated the rather childish manner inwhich he tried to impress his students. Periodically, we met at his home. Everytime I had been there, I had discovered on his desk a note, left there as if bymistake, written to him by a famous anthropologist, Claude Levi-Strauss.  

"You didn't tell us yourname," Joe said politely, gently pulling me by my sleeve.  

"Carmen Gebauer," Isaid without hesitation, giving the name of one of my childhood friends. Toease my discomfort and guilt at having lied again with such facility, I askedJoe if he was from Argentina.  

Seeing his puzzled frown, Ihastened to add that his inflection was definitely Argentinian. "Eventhough you don't look like an Argentinian," I noted.  

"I'm Mexican," he said."And judging by your accent, you grew up either in Cuba or inVenezuela."  

I didn't want to continue on thatline of conversation and swiftly changed the subject. "Do you know how toget back to the hiking path?" I asked, suddenly concerned that my friendsmight be worried by now.  

"No, I don't," Joeconfessed with childish candor. "But Gumersindo Evans-Pritcharddoes."  

Gumersindo led the way across thechaparral, up a narrow trail on the other side of the mountain. It wasn't longbefore we heard my friends' voices and the barking of their dog.  

I felt intense relief, and at thesame time I was disappointed and puzzled that neither man tried to find out howto get in touch with me.  

"I'm sure we'll meetagain," Joe said perfunctorily by way of farewell.  

Gumersindo Evans-Pritchardsurprised me by gallantly kissing my hand. He did this so naturally andgracefully that it didn't occur to me to laugh at him.  

"It's in his genes,"Joe explained. "Even though he's only half English, his refinement isbeyond reproach. He's totally gallant!"

Without another word or backwardglance, both of them disappeared in the mist.

I doubted very much that I wouldever see them again.  

Overcome with guilt for havinglied about my name, I was on the verge of running after them when my friends'dog almost knocked me to the ground as it jumped on me and tried to lick myface.