The White Warrior

by Marilyn Donnellan

  The sun was just coming up as the three awakened when the boat bumped against the riverbank. Large willow trees grew on the edge of the bank, their thin, leafy branches gently swaying where they dipped into the water. Their guides tied up the boat beneath the canopy of trees, hiding it from sight. They pulled off the tarp covering them, and their hosts motioned them out of the boat. Herman jumped out behind them, landing in the water, making a splash and shaking vigorously after scrambling up the bank.

  On the river bank stood a tall Hispanic man with a long handle-bar mustache. He wore a traditional Mexican peasant outfit, a loose brown, pajama-like garment and sandals. He sported a wide-brimmed hat. Frank searched through his brain and recalled it was called a sombrero during the last century. The startling outfit included a crisscross bandolier full of old-style rifle bullets, and an old Remington rifle slung across his back.

  “Greetings, fellow banditos!” the man said with a huge grin. “My name is Pedro. Come. I am sure you mucho hungry. Follow me, gringos.”

  He turned on his heels and headed toward a small village set back among trees. Stretching to remove body kinks caused by their uncomfortable beds on the floor of the boat, the three fugitives stumbled up the bank, their legs unsteady after so long on the boat. They were immediately surrounded by probably a dozen armed men dressed similarly to Pedro. After a short walk, they arrived at a village, women and children emerging from small huts made from mud bricks, topped with thatched roofs. Women dressed in colorful long swirling skirts and roomy tops, with thick black hair either in braids or loose down their backs. Naked children laughed and played with skinny dogs among pigs rooting through weeds around the huts. Herman joined in the fun, after some vigorous sniffing and growling to determine dominance. And, since he was by far the largest dog in the village, he quickly became head of the pack.

  It eerily felt as though they were transported back in time a couple of hundred years. The village sat less than sixty miles from the suburb of San Antonio, yet the people seemed to live very primitively. Frank saw no sign of electricity or running water. His questioning mind suddenly stopped short when he saw Brogan’s pale face. Apparently, the smell of something cooking started her uneasy stomach to churn. She frantically looked around for some place to throw up.

  Bryan quickly guided her to an area away from the huts. After she threw-up what little she had on her stomach, one of the older women gently guided her into a hut and had her lie down on a cot.

  “Senora is pregnant, si?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think so.”

  “I bring something to settle stomach. I be right back. Rest.”

  The woman returned a few minutes later with some peppermint leaves she stirred into a hot tea. She added a few drops of lemon juice.

  “Sip slow. Will help. Apple juice before bed also help.”

  Brogan sipped on the tea. She was amazed how much better her stomach felt after just a few minutes.

  “My name is Brogan. What is your name, and how do you know so much about pregnancy?”

  “Me nombre Juanita,” the woman replied. “I am the midwife for our village. Plus, I have three children myself.”

  “What about the empire’s one-child rule?” Brogan asked in bewilderment.

  “Oh, empire ignore us,” Juanita said with a smile. “We not use como se dice, “electronics,” so do not know we here. Sometimes send hombres into San Antonio for supplies but use cash. Plus, we know who not betray us to policia and we buy only from them.”

  A shadow covered the light from the door as Bryan and Frank walked into the hut.

  “How are you feeling, honey?” Bryan asked.

  “I’m doing much better. Bryan and Dad, this is Juanita. She is the midwife of the village and she just made me some tea, which is helping.”

  “Thank you so much, Juanita,” Bryan said with a worried expression. “Frankly, I feel totally helpless and have no idea how to help my partner. I’ve been very worried. We don’t even know for sure if she is pregnant or if she is sick with the flu.”

  “Si, es probably pregnant,” Juanita said with a gentle smile. “She has symptoms. Es probably about seis weeks. Siete months you be papa. Now go away and let your partner rest.”

  As soon as he translated her Spanish in his head, the reality of it hit Bryan again and a huge grin swept across his face. “Whoopee!” he yelled as he rushed out of the tent, “I’m going to be a father!”

  Brogan started laughing. “Well, at least I don’t need to worry about whether he wants this baby!”

  Frank was at the door of the hut and just managed to step out of Bryan’s way as he started to run out of the hut. He grabbed Bryan and shook his hands.

  “Congratulations, Daddy!” he said with a huge grin. It was good to smile again after Emily’s death.

  “And congratulations to you, too, Abuelo!” Bryan said enthusiastically, throwing his arms around him, a very uncharacteristic response.

  Pedro walked over to discover the source of all the excitement. Bryan told him about the coming baby. “I am going to be a father,” he said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

  Pedro turned to some of the women. Speaking excitedly in Spanish, he sent them scurrying and turned to the two men.

  “Es cause for great celebration! The birth of any bebe’ bring great joy. We will have fiesta. We know of work to save books. We be honrado if celebrate with you on coming bebe’. It been long time since fiesta!” He bowed to Bryan and Frank and left to oversee preparations.

  Tortillas made in the same way they had been a century before, hand rolled and tossed, soon lay heating over rocks next to an open fire. Large black kettles of beans, chicken, rice and other delicious smelling dishes simmered over fires scattered throughout the village.

  Colored lanterns were hung among old oak trees, some of which were several hundred years old, their gnarled branches brushing the ground.

  Bryan and Frank periodically checked in on Brogan who seemed to spend most of the day contentedly sleeping. When she awakened, she sipped on peppermint tea and nibbled on tortillas.

  As the hot Texas sun began to set, musicians began to play, and villagers emerged from their huts dressed in colorful attire. Bryan went to the hut to see if Brogan was ready to join the party. Juanita gave her a bright yellow skirt and red, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse to wear, tucking a large yellow flower behind an ear. He had never seen her look more beautiful.

  The evening provided a welcome change from the stress of the previous five days. They relaxed and enjoyed the music, food and dancing. Brogan’s stomach settled enough to enjoy some food, too.

  As the evening continued, mothers put children to bed and the mood of the party turned more somber as Pedro asked them to talk about what happened in San Antonio and their plans. He assured them everyone spoke enough English to understand them. As usual, Brogan spoke first.

  “We appreciate your hospitality today. You put yourself and your families at risk by bringing us into your village. We cannot possibly repay you. Muchas, muchas gracias.

  “Secondly, the reason we are hiding and, on the run, is because we think the empire’s law prohibiting books and banning writing are blatant attempts to destroy our freedoms of thought and choice.

  “We believe this so strongly my partner and I, along with several other individuals, started a protest movement two years ago, called Book Liberators. Although we originally intended to stop the law from implementation, now it is in place, we not only protest the law, but we work to save and hide as many books as we can. The law also attempts to ban religion of any kind.

  “I am pleased to say thousands of citizens across this empire signed on to the cause. As I speak, books are being hidden and stored away from the empire’s law enforcement in hopes someday they will be available to our children, our grandchildren and our grandchildren’s children.

  “A few days ago, members of the empire’s task force, Operation Close the Book, organized to stop the protests, murdered more than
200 people near Van Horn, all members of Book Liberators. They also captured 50 other people, including my parents, Frank and Emily Finlay, who they beat unmercifully…”

  Brogan began to tremble with emotion. Frank stepped up beside her and put his arm around her. He cleared his throat before he spoke.

  “My name is Frank Finlay, Brogan’s father. Because of help from people like you, prisoners who survived horrible conditions in prison managed to escape, except my partner and six others. Although already very sick with leukemia, my partner, Emily, was beaten to unconsciousness by our captors. Death probably came earlier for her because of Prime Minister Altero’s henchmen.”

  He looked at Brogan and Bryan. He had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could speak.

  “I am so proud of my daughter and her partner, Bryan, and others who sacrificed themselves for the protest movement. But remember, Book Liberators is not just about saving books, it is about stopping the empire’s attempt to control us, destroy our freedoms and to tell us what we can believe. I decided, even if it costs me my life, to commit myself to the destruction of this evil empire so my grandchildren can be free. This is no longer a protest movement, but it must now become a revolution.”

  Overcome by emotion, Frank stood with his head bowed and tears trickling down his face. The crowd of villagers came to their feet, cheering, stamping and clapping their hands. Brogan watched and listened with awe as her father spoke. Ordinarily, he was a man of few words. She had never heard him speak with such passion. She looked over at Bryan, who had tears in his eyes. He knew, too, what Frank’s speech cost him emotionally.

  As the villagers quieted down, Pedro stepped in front of the group.

  “I speak for village when I say we join Book Liberators’ revolution. You give us mas to comprender. I think we do no more than help gringo’s escape Policio. Es mucho mas. Village lideres now decide how we be involved.

  “Now, es tarde. Early start manana. Need rest. Buenas Noches”

  The villagers dispersed. Bryan and Brogan moved to the hut where she had been sleeping most of the day. Frank bunked with some of the single men in a hut near the river.

  It seemed they hardly shut their eyes before being shaken awake. Although still dark outside, they stumbled to their feet, struggling to put on clothes the villagers provided. They put on peasant clothes over their black jumpsuits and pulled on the sturdy boots given to them after getting out of the sewer. Wide sombreros would keep the sun off. Each person had a backpack of supplies, including tortillas, beans and water canteens.

  Their guide, Carlos, who spoke excellent English, explained to them what would happen next.

  “The next leg of your journey will take us west across south Texas toward Laredo, a route many of us used after crossing the border illegally during the last century. There is not much between here and Laredo, so conserve your water. Once we reach Laredo, another guide will lead you across the Rio Grande River south and west across Sierra Madre Mountains to Mazatlán. If we manage to make twenty miles a day, on foot, the entire journey will be at least 40 days. We need to get you as far away from the empire’s clutches as possible. The further south you go, the less likely you will be to run into the empire’s law enforcement.”

  The terrain they covered on their journey to Laredo was mostly scrub brush sticking out of loose dusty soil. The sun blistered hot during the day and the desert air froze them at night. The clear night sky filled with billions of stars, periodically broken by a brilliant shooting star. Scorpions and coyotes proved to be the least of their worries, since Herman served as their protector and security guard. The nights were never silent. Sometimes they heard the roar of a mountain lion or a lone coyote; always the clicks of grasshopper legs rubbing together, or sounds of other buzzing insects, shattered by hoots of horned desert owls.

  Sleeping on rocky, dusty ground took some getting used to, but exhaustion always won over the constant desert sounds, stiff, bristly grass under their solar blankets and small rocks finding the wrong spots under their backs.

  Some days their monotonous plodding was broken by the incessant buzzing of a rattlesnake in their path. Herman delighted in tormenting any rattlesnake he found. He barked as it coiled and rattled in warning. He always managed to jump adroitly out of its way as it struck. The snake eventually gave up its posturing and slithered away. Periodically they forded a creek or stream, after filling their water canteens. If no water could be found, their guide showed them where to dig for it, or as a last resort, they drank from the emergency water packets they carried.

  It was eight days walk to Laredo; eight days of adapting to the rigors of never-ending hiking, stumbling over half-buried rocks and making their way around or through rugged canyons carved out of the desert. The first three days of hiking tortured their legs, backs and arms, trying to adjust to backpacks and endless walking. Frank, weakened from the beating and his time in prison, slowed them down. It was a few days before he walked more than a few miles a day without having to rest.

  Carlos always seemed to know exactly what direction to go. If the three of them had been on their own, the journey would undoubtedly have been much more dangerous and taken even longer. He was probably about the same age as Frank but looked older. He said he made the trip across the desert many times. His skin was leathery, dark brown and wrinkled from constant exposure to the hot sun. His wiry build hid a strength and stamina ideal for the desert trek. He never seemed to tire and stopped only to allow his charges to rest. He spoke little, but if they seemed to be too exhausted to go on, he took their minds off their aching bodies by telling them stories handed down from generation to generation; stories of survival and adaptation despite centuries of invaders.

  When they arrived at the Rio Grande River outside Laredo, Carlos told them to wait under some trees while he went into town to see if any soldiers bivouacked there. Brogan saw Herman joyfully splashing in the water and it looked so refreshing she decided to go for a swim. Making the men build her a makeshift screen from their peasant clothes, she shimmied out of her clothes and dove into the water. It felt so good to be clean. Fortunately, the river’s current where they stopped was not too fast, making it perfect for her needs.

  “Hey, mermaid, when is it our turn?” Bryan called from the riverbank.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll get out. If I gotta.”

  Frank cleaned up the remains of their meal, while Bryan stood protectively near Brogan while she napped on the riverbank. He and Frank took turns swimming in the river, with Herman paddling beside them or dozing beside Brogan in the shade of a convenient willow tree. It was evening by the time Carlos returned, carrying several packages of food and water.

  “How are things in town, Carlos?” Bryan asked.

  “I think you are good to go. I saw no sign of law enforcement or military. And, I asked around to see if anyone heard anything about a prison escape in San Antonio. Everyone I talked to say the vid-news reported all Van Horn prisoners were killed as they tried to escape. They also said a doctor and a prison cook got roughed up in the escape attempt, but they were okay.”

  The three looked at each other.

  “I can’t believe it,” Frank said. “Apparently, the empire doesn’t want to admit any prisoners escaped so they are saying everyone died. Why would they do that? And what does it mean for us?”

  “Carlos are there any pictures of the three of us on vid-news?” Bryan asked.

  “Nada.”

  The trio sat under the tree and enjoyed their first fresh food in eight days.

  “Oh, my God,” Brogan said, “This is the best chicken quesadilla I have ever eaten in my entire life. And these refried beans? To die for.”

  She had just gobbled up her third helping.

  “Hey! Save some for me!” Bryan said as he grabbed for another quesadilla.

  With a haughty expression on her face, she looked at him and said, “Well, I never. Remember, I’m eating for two now. Just where is your sense of responsib
ility? You are supposed to be taking care of me and this child of yours.”

  His mouth open, it was a moment before he realized she teased him. Without saying a word, he quietly reached over, grabbed a squeeze bottle of ice water and dumped it on her head. Frank started laughing so hard food spat out of his mouth.

  “A lot of help you are, Daddy!” Brogan sputtered indignantly, water dripping off her face. She began to laugh, too, as she grabbed another bottle of water and tried to empty it over her father’s head. Surprised, he picked her up and dumped her in the river. She came up sputtering while the men stood on the bank laughing. As she struggled up the bank, her clothes dripping, she joined in the hilarity. It was good to be safe, her stomach filled and relaxed.

  They spent the night on the banks of Rio Grande River. The next morning, they gathered their few belongings and walked into town. So much of what had once been a bustling city in the last century was destroyed during the war; few stores remained. The old town square with the federal courthouse nearby dominated the area, with an open-air market in the center. They picked up some supplies and Carlos asked some questions about transportation further south, deeper into Mexico.

  Only one of the two original bridges across the Rio Grande seemed passable: The International Bridge. A spur of the empire’s rail north-south transportation system paralleled the bridge several miles to the west. But since they did not want to use forged T-chips on the train for fear of being recognized, they decided to look for some other means of transportation. After they walked across the bridge, Carlos pointed out an old truck parked in front of a restaurant.

  “Let me see where he is going and if you can hitch a ride,” he said, and walked over to the driver filling up the tank with biofuel. A few minutes later, he came back and said the owner of the truck, a member of the Dami tribe of indigenous Indians in Mexico, planned to return to Mazatlán. He had just delivered a load of produce to Laredo. “He speaks some English and he said for $100 each he will be happy to take you with him. He said it won’t be the most comfortable ride, but it is better than walking.”