DEVIN’S JOURNEY ~ PART 3

Story by Linda S Barth     Artwork by Carole W

~ Ouro Preto, Brazil ~

Golden Topaz

After more than a year meandering through Central America, continuing to work a scattering of jobs – some he’d rather not dwell on – and add to his list of anticipated adventures and unexpected skills, Devin – or Rafe Martin as a newly acquired set of  documents attested – wandered further and found himself in South America.

He enjoyed several weeks exploring Rio de Janeiro until he found himself growing restless in the city’s vibrant atmosphere, as if its pulse was disrupting the flow of his own energy. He’d attempted a few surfing lessons, mastered a few phrases in Portuguese, spent far too much time relaxing on the beach, and enjoyed the seductive guitar rhythms of music he’d never heard in all his travels. Bossa nova’s smooth blending of jazz and Brazilian samba held an enchantment all its own, but it could never replace his love of the music that had underscored his first tastes of freedom. 

On a cable car heading back from a day of rock-climbing and hiking on Sugarloaf Mountain, he chatted with some college students in Rio for a weekend break. A day later he was on his way north in another battered van, having accepted an invitation from his new pals to join them as they returned to Ouro Preto, a small city in the Minas Gerais hills. With his new and growing interest in geology, he looked forward to spending time in what was once a mining center for gold and gemstones.

Yet during another night trying to get comfortable on an air mattress in the lounge of a dorm at the Federal University of Ouro Preto – or UFOP as they called it – he found himself already growing restless. It had been fun for a few weeks, hanging out with the guys and getting a taste of college life he’d never known; but, he had to admit, a wry smile curving his mouth, maybe at nearly twenty-four he was just a bit too old to sustain this lifestyle for long. 

When his friends returned from classes later that morning, he told them he’d soon be moving on, but they managed to convince him to stay at least through Carnival. It was not, they told him, exactly like Carnival in Rio or Sao Paulo, but it was still, in their opinion, a blast – a balacobaco – he shouldn’t miss. Never one to pass up an appealing opportunity, ‘Rafe’ shrugged and pivoted in this alternate direction.

He soon found his pals had been exactly right. The street parties called blocos carnavalescos far exceeded his expectations. Music from local live bands drew crowds of people to form impromptu parades filled with costumes and dance and carefree fun that lasted all day and all night. He loved the exuberant spirit and sense of community, a joyously free celebration of life conveyed and underscored with every note and beat of the ever-present music. As he became immersed in the festivities, he felt the pervasive, percussive rhythms reverberate within, revitalizing him with bursts of renewed energy.

On the final night of Carnival, the various UFOP dorms held a competition, showcasing the students’ abilities in a swirling sortimento of skills and talents. Encouraged by his pals to help represent their dorm and win a prize, he struggled to come up with something unique from the growing agenda of musicians, singers, dancers, jugglers, gymnasts, and even a self-proclaimed fire eater. But try as he might, he could not think of any talent he had, although he had many, that would be suitable for such an event.

Just as he was about to resign himself to being simply a member of the audience, he recalled a skill he’d learned in Uruguay, working at a beach resort in Punta del Este. Accepting a dare he wasn’t sure he was equipped to win, he’d surprised his co-workers – and himself – when he’d demonstrated a seemingly natural talent for knife-throwing. He’d even won the top prize at a local taberna’s competition, earning himself a sizable bonus of pesos uruguayo that helped fill his nearly empty pockets, while gaining some respect, along with a considerable degree of resentment, from his grumbling, jealous cronies.

The days that followed were filled with animosity that a forastero, an outsider, had outshone the locals. He huffed a sigh, recalling it all. He should have known better, should not have ignored the memory of how a knife long ago had been an instrument of another kind of pain. He ran his fingers over the fading scars on his face. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He’d thought it wise to abandon Uruguay – and his current name, even though he’d quite liked the sound of ‘Rafe’ – soon afterwards. But at least now ‘Ben Donovan’ had a talent of sorts to share as an unexpected representative of his newest friends and temporary home. He felt good about his decision. If he secured a win for their dorm, it would be a better way to repay them than only with the chores he’d shared or the stories of his travels he’d offered during late night bowls of breaded cheese puffs and too many shots of cachaca, a drink even more potent than the tequila he’d developed a liking for during his days in San Miguel de Allende.

He smiled, wondering if anyone actually believed any of his stories, all composed of varying amounts of factual truth and spur-of-the-moment inspiration. It really didn’t matter. It had all been in good fun until the night someone pointed to his scarred cheek and asked what had happened.

For once, he found himself struggling to harness words that would pull him out of the spotlight. With another swallow of cachaca, he’d come up with a story that had them gasping and then shaking their heads with chuckling disbelief and claims there was no way a jaguar had rejected ‘Rafe’s’ attempts to pet it during a camping trip in Belize. He’d goodnaturedly laughed off their skepticism and smoothly changed the subject. Some memories, whether tormented by truth or embellished for entertainment, were not ones he was ready to contemplate.

He pushed those recollections from his mind and settled back on his mattress, thinking about how this night had ended. At the final event of the campus Carnival, amidst the students proudly displaying more traditional talents, he’d been more than a bit surprised his knife-wielding performance had ended in loud applause and cheers, along with his choice of a prize. He almost couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted something special among the eclectic array of medals, mugs, t-shirts, and other assorted items the students had assembled.

It was the only thing he wanted, an object he’d admired in the dorm’s library where he’d spent several somewhat sleepless nights. It had been displayed in a glass case among dozens of other samples of locally mined rocks, gemstones, and minerals. Golden topaz, a firefall of faceted stone whose power and beauty outshone all the rest.

He’d blinked hard, not quite believing the coveted crystal was there in front of him. Even the faintest flickers of light seemed to feed the fire in its heart, reflecting and refracting flames that changed from a glowing warmth to a brilliant blaze. For reasons he understood in his heart, he was not at all surprised the crystalline prism seemed to pulsate with heat and light when he held it in his hand.

As tempted as he was to keep it, he hesitated. Perhaps it was too valuable, too much to accept for so little effort on his part. But his friends insisted he take it, a fine but not rare local specimen that would remind him of his days spent with them. He was happy to accept and stowed it carefully in his belt pouch.

A few hours before dawn, after helping clean up the party detritus and packing his bags for an early walk to the bus station, he detoured to the campus library. In its collection of books on local history, he found what he was looking for. Far more than simply being a beautiful aluminum silicate mineral, golden topaz had a lore and legacy all its own, just as he’d expected. He smiled, understanding why the stone had seemingly drawn him to it as if it knew what he needed.

According to what he firmly believed was far more than folk lore, the gemstone’s heart of fire promised him confidence, self-esteem, and the power to manifest dreams and intentions. Its legends spoke of protection from danger and evil intentions. Its powerful gifts could provide emotional healing, enhance focus and purpose, and  inspire a life of creativity and truth.

While at one time, he might have scoffed at such notions, as his journey had progressed, he’d developed a deep respect and belief in powers and knowledge far beyond those which could be seen with only a superficial glance or dismissed as nothing more than legends or childish fantasies.

As he held the glowing warmth of golden topaz tighter in his hand, he remembered something Mary had read to the children long ago, words that had remained in his heart even though he’d thought he’d forgotten them. He murmured them aloud, the message the Fox told the Little Prince to help him find the wisdom and understanding he sought. “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

He sighed softly. He’d always known there was truth in Antoine de Saint Exupery’s words. And now it was time – he shook his head no, it was past time – to believe it. He would find a way to release still more of the darkness, the guilt and resentment he carried, and instead embrace a melding of bittersweet pain and precious happiness. That was the essential truth only his heart…and perhaps that of one other…could see.

His spirits were lighter as he boarded yet another bus, one of a series that would take him north to the coastal city of Cayenne in French Guiana. During his days at UFOP, he’d learned of a program seeking graduate students to teach English in various countries around the world. Okay, he wasn’t exactly a college student at any level, but when he got to the recruitment office, he’d be able to fake it. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a list he’d copied from the posted announcement. Spain, Belgium, Portugal, Bulgaria, Austria, Denmark. They all sounded tempting, but two other names seemed to sparkle on the page.

He nodded, decision made, and folded the paper away. Maybe there would be stiff competition for positions in his first two countries of choice, but he was confident, just like the promise of lapis and amethyst and golden topaz reminded him in whispers only he could hear. ‘Liam Murphy’, Irish-American expat, might have to spend a little time in Cayenne, but it wouldn’t be long before he’d be on his way to France or maybe Poland.

Or maybe both.