Silencio. In the moments before the dawn, everything was bathed in deep cobalt azul. The faint light offered by the crescent moon had faded as it continued its journey across the sky where it hid behind a mountain, awaiting his brother’s arrival in the east. Under the blanket of oscuro, shapes were only hinted at and identities were lost behind a mask of igualdad. A small scurry broke the great stillness as a desert mouse ventured from the safety of his burrow to bring a piece of nourishment back to his stores. He crouched out in the open for a moment, eyes ever watchful as he stuffed his cheeks before scampering back to his home.
He appeared to be the only living creature in that dry, desolate world. He had company in a great boulder that rose and fell with a steady rhythm. A twitch. The boulder had appendages like a tall saguaro cactus. Its spines were thick and rounded at the tip. They clenched and unclenched uneasily. The mouse, his curiosity piqued, ventured towards the great boulder, intent on climbing it. Wary of the clenching spines, he climbed above them, to the plateau on which sat the entrance to a dark tunnel. He poked his head into the tunnel, whiskers feeling about. He nibbled the walls and soft threads came away in his teeth. He entered and his tiny claws pricked the skin of the boulder. It came awake and with a great shake. The mouse was thrown loose and landed back in the sand and was soon lost in the depths of his burrow.
The boulder had transformed its shape. The mouse could see now it was not made of rock, but rather was viva. Orbs had appeared in the smooth brown canvas of the cara. They seemed full of inky black liquid that reflected the faint light in the east that signaled el amanecer. Apollo’s crown began to show above the horizon and his creatures anticipated his arrival.
One such creature, the former boulder, did not wait for him. The sixteen year old girl looked up at the cactus that had stood guard over her through the night. She hadn’t moved from the spot where she had fallen when her weary legs could no longer carry her. With slow, stiff movements, the girl pushed her tired cuerpo up off the sand, fallen cactus needles pricking her palms. Sand fell from her hair as she lifted her head. A small, cracked hand reached up to wipe the sand from her cheek and the sleep from her eyes. Her legs protested as she forced them to support her weight once more. Finally on her feet, she gathered up her many skirts, pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders, slung her bolsa across her back, and with a last glance to the south, set out in the semi-oscuro.
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“Marcela, ven aquí y ayúdame.”
Una niña of about ochos años turned away from the doorway leading out to the yard and walked over to her mother. Her head—adorned with smooth black hair tied into twin braids that framed her small face—barely reached above the counter. She looked up at her mother with wide eyes like black bottomless pools framed by soft feathery lashes.
“¿Sí, Mamá?”
Her mother handed her a large earthen bowl. It was heavy to her small arms, and had the rough texture of hand-thrown ceramic. The natural red-orange of the clay had been allowed to show through and a border of white, black and red geometric shapes and patterns was its modest decoration. She pulled it into her chest and the smell of corn wafted up to her as she carried it over to the wooden table. Her small hands grasped fistfuls of her skirts as she clumsily climbed up onto the bench and stood over the bowl. A metal-wire basket full of tomatillos greeted her where they hung at face level.
¿Cómo debo hacerlo, Mamá?
“Ay, niña. Como así. Es la última vez que voy a mostrarte.”
The girl watched as her mother’s brown leather hands reached into the mix of ground corn and water, and as if by mágica, began to turn the sloppy mess into smooth yellow masa.
“Gracias Mami.”
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The sun was nearly at its zenith now. The girl could feel Apollo’s harsh gaze as it beat down on the back of her neck. Sweat clung to her face and shone like small glass beads rolling their way slowly down a smooth rock face. Her tired eyes scanned her surroundings desperately. Finally, her eyes found what they sought. A few barrel cacti stood several hundred feet away. A slight prick from their familiar spiraling spines brought forth a sigh of relief from her chest as it proved to her the sight was not merely a mirage. She knelt before it on the ground and searched the sand for a suitable rock. With the rock in one hand and her crucifijo in the other, she mumbled an Ave Maria to herself before removing the cactus’ crown of thorns. The dangerous spines no longer a threat, she fumbled in the waistband of her skirts for a kitchen knife. With it she cut out the crown of the cactus, and leaned back as she gratefully drank the life-giving liquid that bled from the sacrificed cactus.
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The mid-afternoon sun shone in through the windowpanes and bathed the soft earthen walls of the kitchen in its warmth. Its rays caressed Lucía’s prematurely aged face and its golden light melted away the lines etched by worry over her many children to reveal her once-youthful beauty. Two of her four daughters joined her in her task of preparing la cena while one played with her younger brother outside and the other held the youngest, Antonio, in her arms while she watched her mother and sisters.
The sound of a key being turned in the front door lock sparked a smile of relief that spread across Lucía’s face. For a moment her face was transformed back into that of her nineteen year old self and the look love in her eyes she first felt twenty years ago shone out as she watched her husband walk through the door.
Pablo was not a tall man. Rather, he had the characteristic look of an indiano. He had short bowed legs and measured just over five feet. His straight black hair was thick and tied in a knot at the base of his head. His eyes were deep set, endless black pools shadowed by dark skin that was wizen by a lifetime of work under the relentless Mexican sun. He took off his broad straw hat and hung it by the door before removing his mud-caked boots and leaving them on a woven mat. His eldest son followed him through the door. Raúl was the spitting image of his padre, except that his back was yet not bent by years of oppression and discrimination at the hands of los Penninsulares as his father’s was.
“¡Papá! ¡Raúl!”
The two youngest children, un niño and una niña, ran in from where they had been playing outside to grab their father’s legs and tilt their small heads up for a kiss. He obliged them both as he picked each up, one at a time, to kiss their sun-tanned cheeks before handing them off to his son to hug and kiss as well. He walked over to his wife, wrapped her in a hug and kissed her cheek.
“Buena tarde, mi amor. ¿Qué tal?”
“Bien, ¿y tú?”
“Bien. Estoy casi terminado con el segundo proyecto de Señor Jiménez. Debe pagarme la semana próxima para los dos.”
“Tú dijiste lo mismo la semana pasada.” An exasperated look crossed her face at the news.
“Lo siento… Tú conoces Señor Jiménez.”
“Déjame en paz si quieras la cena.” A touch of irritation colored her voice.
Frustrated, Pablo sat down at the table with a deep sigh.
“Marcela, tráeme una cerveza.”
The thirteen year old obliged and brought her father a bottle from the ice box.
“Espera Lucía. Un día, todo va a cambiar.”
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After finally quenching her thirst, the girl reached around into her bolsa for a hollowed out gourd. She untied the rawhide cover and filled it with the pulp from the barrel cactus. Careful not to take all of his pulp, she replaced his crown and bowed her head to thank San Cristobal, patron saint of travelers, for placing such a blessed source of nourishment on her path. Wary of Apollo’s harsh gaze, she searched for somewhere to shelter her until it was cool enough to travel again. She was not a mouse; she could not burrow into the sand and take her siesta there. She surveyed the landscape before her; it seemed hopeless until a strange tree caught her eye. She had never seen one like it before. Certain it was a mirage; she crept closer and realized it was not un arbol, sino era un cactus. A cactus, sí, pero not like any other she had seen before. Maybe this is the cactus Jacinta told me meant I was in New Navarro. He was tall, taller than she and he had many arms that seemed to branch outwards and upwards, as if he were reaching for the sky. She stood at the base and looked up into his branches before positioning herself in the area with optimal shade and curling up to await the coming of la puesta del sol.
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Screams pierced the darkness of night and awoke the sleeping inhabitants of the small adobe casa. Marcela shot up in her loft bed in fear and panic, hands immediately outstretched and searching for her sisters in the darkness of their room.
“¡Juanita! ¡Aurora! ¡Rosaura!”
Nadie answered her cries. Destruction greeted her when she descended from her attic home and peeked out of their bedroom door. Screams continued to sound from her parents’ side of the house and she ran towards them, stumbling over wrecked furniture checking her brothers’ room as she ran past.
“¡Jesús! ¡Raúl!”
Vacío.
Marcela continued her mad dash to her parents’ room at the far end of the house. She recognized her mother’s sobs, and when she burst through the door, saw her crumpled form in a heap on the ground in a growing pool of her own blood.
“¡Ay, Mami! ¿Estás bien? Mamá, ¿qué pasó? ¿Dónde está Papá? ¡Y el bebé! ¿Dónde está mis hermanos, dónde está Antonio?
“Marcela, gracias a Dios que no te encontraron. Soy muerto. Sacaron el bebé, no sé de dónde van. Sacaron tú Papa, sacaron tus hermanos. Me dejaron aquí para morir.”
“Mamá no me dejes, no me dejes por favor.”
“Voy a morir mi amor. Tienes que salir de aquí. No puedes quedarte aquí.”
“Pero, ¿a dónde voy?”
“Busca tu prima, Jacinta. Ella te dirá a donde ir. Vaya con Dios mi amor.”
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Helios was on the retreat now. From far off to the west, his gaze no longer beat down upon his hapless victims so unmercifully. The changing scent of the earth releasing its heat back into the atmosphere and the night plants beginning to open their flowers slowly awakened the dusty traveler. Her lungs no longer resisted the hot, heavy air that reluctantly allowed itself to be pulled inwards through her dry throat and into their choked cavity. Her body no longer poured sweat in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable overheating brought on by the afternoon sun, barely hidden as she was from its rays. Just as one’s body might finally allow itself to sleep once comfort has been attained, hers forced itself to wake, and once again submit itself to the rigors of traveling.
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“Escúchame Marcela. No puedes quedarte aquí. Tu padre era un líder patriota muy importante. Sabes que significa, ¿sí?”
“No sé mucho…”
“No importa, sino que significa que tu vida está en peligro. Tienes que ir a los territorios en Norteamérica. Ningunos de los Monarcquicos van a buscarte allí. Cuando miras un cactus que parece como un árbol, estas en el territorio de Nueva Navarra.”
“Bueno… pero ¿qué voy a hacer cuando llego en Nueva Navarra?”
“No sé, Marcela. Va a la costa de Alta California y trata de ganar la vida. Buena suerte prima.”
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The sun rose over the sleepy pioneer town, illuminating a scene of earthy reds, dark ochre, yellow dun colored sands, and pale browns. Rays of pure gold chased wispy rosada ribbons from the horizon line and threw open the curtain to reveal the wide, pale, azul globe that stretched as far as the eye could see. A dot, insignificant compared to such a sky, awoke and tentatively clambered down from the plateau on which she had slept and entered the town.
A small metal bell announced her arrival in the general store. The tired old man behind the counter with skin like brown leather barely looked up from under his Stetson.
“Hola.”
A nod.
She looked around, unsure of what she was doing. She turned around and left the store to stand against the familiar adobe wall and regain her composure.
“¿Esta perdida usted?
Startled, she looked for the source of the sudden question. Un muchacho in torn denim trousers and a flannel shirt was leaning up against the wall to her right, looking at her with a slight smile and raised eyebrow.
“No, no estoy perdida… Pero, ¿Cómo se llama este pueblo?”
“¿Este? Este no es un pueblo. Es un pueblito.” She could sense a hint of bitterness in his melodic laugh.
“¿Hay una caravana?
“No, no aquí. Pero en Arispe, sí hay. ¿A dónde va usted?
“Voy a la costa… Me llamo Marcela. ¿Y usted?
“Ay, perdóneme buena dama. Me llamo Apolinar: Apolinar Ortega.”
“Mucho gusto Apolinar.”
“Y a usted también.”
She nodded to him and set off down the street.
“¡Espérame! ¿Y a dónde vas ahora?” he called out after her.
“Voy a Arispe para tomar la caravana.”
“¡Ven conmigo! He estado allí antes. Te ayudaré.”
Marcela had never known anyone but her own family members. They didn’t go to school, none of the farmers’ children did. The only other people she had ever had contact with were the people at church, and even they rarely exchanged words.
“¿Por qué debo permitirte a ir conmigo?”
That halted the young man for a moment in all his bravado. Hands shoved into his front pockets, he pondered the hard-packed, dusty street beneath him, worn down by so many passing carts, hooves, shoe soles, and bare feet.
“No tengo nada aquí.” The sadness in his voice caught her off guard.
“Pues…. Puedes viajar conmigo, pero no confio en ti.” She gave him a stern look that colored her older than her sixteen years, and the two set off on their long walk to the town of Arispe with the light of Helios and the well worn path through the dusty clay desert to guide their way.
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The boy awoke in confusion. He was in a man’s arms, he didn’t know whose, but they were running. The cold air against his face was sharp and biting when the cover of his sheepskin hood fell away. The man turned his face and a ray of moonlight revealed his features.
“¿Tío Angel? ¿Qué está pasando? ¿A dónde vamos? ¿Dónde está mi papá?!
“Cállate Apolo. No tenemos tiempo.”
The next time he awoke he was being handed off to a woman he didn’t know in the darkness of pre-dawn.
“María, tómale el niño. Sus padres son muertos, y tengo que escapar de este desierto dejado de la mano de Dios.”
“¿A dónde vas? ¿Qué ha pasado con sus padres?”
“Su madre murió hasta muchos años y su padre le mató a un hombre en Santa Fe. El está corriendo.”
“Ay Dios mío.”
“Sí. Aquí hay veinte escudos. Te traeré más cuando puedo. Buena suerte.”
“Vaya con Dios.”
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It was their third week on the dusty wagon trail, clinging to their hard wooden bench and pawning what little they had at the small pueblos on the way for rations of hard jerky and corn bread. By now they each nursed sores caused by the unpadded wagon sideboard against their backsides as the oxen dragged the wagon over the rough, rutted road. The setting sun signaled that their pain would be over soon, though just for the night. As the wagons fell into their usual evening circular arrangement centered around a large campfire, the weary travelers gratefully washed the dirt and dust from their mouths with carefully rationed water from their stores.
Apolo dug a shallow pit in the earth near the wagon on which they had hitched a ride and arranged a few sticks and dry grass he had gathered in the form of a teepee. He carried a bundle of sticks and grass over to a neighboring fire, crouched down and waited until the greedy flames began to lick the ends of the grass and begin to consume the bundle. He carefully brought it back to his teepee and let it light. Marcela busied herself with the kettle and began heating up their dinner of broth and corn mash.
They had a routine by now. Too tired to speak, they prepared la cena in silencio and ate with their eyes glazed over as they stared into the fire. The days and nights had begun to blend and neither of them could be sure how many days had passed since they met with the wagon train in Arispe. Some nights the other travelers would gather around the central fire and drink tequila from their flasks and chew tobacco while the told stories from the old days. Apolo and Marcela didn’t usually join them. Fatigue overtook their bodies and their rough beds of a few moth eaten blankets on the ground under the wagon called to them.
Once settled in their usual places for the night, they said buenas noches and Sueño took them gently into His arms. Usually, they slept through the night. The sounds of the desert around them did not wake them anymore. Rather, the crickets’ chirping, the moscas’ humming, the oxen’s snorting and the night sounds of their neighbors formed a lullaby which wrapped them comfortably in security and sleep. Tonight however, a daring man disturbed their slumber.
Half-drunk on tequila from his flask, the man crept through the night to the unsuspecting Marcela. He had been watching her the past few weeks, noticing how young and beautiful she was, and had become angered that she never gave him a second glance. La puta sola tiene ojos para el joven he thought bitterly to himself. He decided to teach her a lesson for ignoring such a rugged and charming man as he. He knew where the two of them slept. It never occurred to him that he never saw them sleep in eachothers’ arms, but no matter. As he neared their wagon he drew the old knife he always kept at his side, and once he reached them, crouched down and reached under the wagon to grab the sleeping Marcela and pulling her towards him, press the knife to her throat.
“No digas nada, Chiquita, y no te mataré.”
A squeal of terror escaped her throat and she attempted to push the man off of her. They struggled with the knife as she tried to kick him and free herself.
“¡Apolo! ¡Apolo ayúdame!!”
The fear in Marcela’s voice shocked Apolinar awake and, adrenaline immediately pumping; his instincts reacted before he even knew what was going on. In a second Apolo had tackled the man off of Marcela and wrestled the knife from him before pinning him to the ground. The shouts and the scuffle woke their neighbors and drew everyone nearby to their wagon. All of the voices demanding answers at once threw Marcela into confusion but they pulled the men apart and she found her voice.
“Este hombre trató de violarme. Apolo me defendió.”
They found his knife in the dirt. He claimed he only wanted to scare her, but the people knew better. They left him there the next morning for the next caravan to find, if he lasted that long. The routine resumed as usual the next morning as they stirred the dust and readied the oxen. Marcela however, was quieter than usual. As the caravan began on its way in the semi-darkness of early dawn, Apolo looked at her with concern in his eyes.
“¿Estás bien Marcela?”
“No sé… nunca pensaba que algo así pasaría…no sé que había hecho sí no estuviste allí. Gracias.”
“Por supuesto. Estamos juntos, somos un equipo.”
A look of relief crossed Marcela’s face and some of her worry lines melted away at his words.
“Sí, somos un equipo.”
Nov. 2011
