by Jill Zeller
Was that how Jesus Robles came to have a sword wound in his side?
I wondered if, somehow, she knew about my time with Jesus. But there was not a hint of anything in her face other than a stern focus as she occasionally gave an order to one of the troops.
I admired that. I thought often about how she had pistol-whipped Francisco Robles after he murdered Hammer. Never would be soon enough for me to see Francisco Robles again. But he was out there, somewhere, plotting against his brother, from what Edison Lowe had told me.
And so I sketched Señorita de Castro quickly, while we waited, capturing light from the hacienda doorway. There had been no time, no opportunity to draw a proper portrait of her. Ever present but never seen, like a wolf hunting through the bracken, she was here, in every space and shadow of her hacienda. Even, I thought, watching myself and Colonel Robles as we shared our very intimate moment.
At last all was ready. Señor Beltran helped me mount my mule; I settled into the strange Mexican saddle, with a horn for grasping and heavy stirrups, the knapsack carrying my drawing supplies strapped across my shoulder. Milo sat upon his mount looking as if he were onboard a ship about to enter a hurricane. Mr. Lowe climbed easily up and then we started, a long clopping and jingling train of animals and humans, walking out into the sultry, silent night. Looking back, I saw Señorita de Castro standing at the gate, then she quickly helped her peones shut it behind us with a thunk of wood.
Glad to be rid of us, I thought.
As we moved through the night, I felt a watchful tension. The soldiers looked warily into the darkness, heads turning side-to-side, one hand resting on their pistolas. I saw Nicanor, the hare-lip boy, with them. A shiver ran through me; the warm air had no effect. I should have felt glad that Colonel Robles had released us. We were going home.
But why did I feel as if we had been thrown to the wolves?
U
After two days of travel by night, we reached the belt of mountains called Sierra Nevada. Señor Beltran told me that in winter the peaks could be draped with snow. But as we climbed the pass northwest of Cuernavaca, a large town once home to many British and Americans but now in the hands of the Zapatistas, the mountain tops were shrouded with heavy fog.
We were glad of the mules. The track leading to the mountain villages was narrow, carpeted with small rocks and detritus. Hugging the cliffs, on one side of the path stood walls of stone, the other a plunging drop into a deep barranca.
Each day we slept in abandoned haciendas. But this third night, after our daytime climb up the mountain side, we came to a small village clinging to the mountainside, enveloping a monastery. Milo, Mr. Lowe, and I were given cells to sleep in for the night, narrow stone rooms with a cot and a forlorn crucifix for company.
But, after a weary night and full day of travel, and a warm meal of tortilla and beans, I couldn’t sleep. My body aching, I lay on the cot under my serape as cold air rolled off the mountain and into my bones.
Something nagged me, a queer anxiety I couldn’t place. Thoughts of Hammer kept creeping into my mind, how he moved to save me and died. Rising, I stood to look through the window of my monk’s cell, wondering what it was like to serve nothing but God. I had selfishly served myself all my life, but had done nothing for others. Hammer had given his life to keep me safe. He must have known the cost of doing so, and yet he made a choice and acted.
Singing rose from the plaza below the monastery; our soldier escort was celebrating. Until today, they had been quiet and tense, watchful during the days as we rested. Now, they seemed to consider that danger had passed them by. Laughter, the lights of a fire, and guitars. I wanted to go down and join them, but something stopped me. I was not one of them. I would never be a fighter or a rebel.
Jesus Robles’ steely calm was rare and admirable, but I had none of that. I missed his presence, his sharp, appraising gaze, his idealism. Mr. Lowe’s cynicism aside, I believed the Plan de Ayala had to be realized.
Wrapped in my serape, covering the riding chaps and shirt that I had grown accustomed to sleeping in, I left my cell and saw a figure wreathed in smoke that I recognized as Mr. Lowe leaning against one of the veranda columns bordering the cells, looking out into the night. And with him stood Milo.
“I couldn’t sleep, either,” I said.
They turned to look at me. All we could see were the monks' narrow garden plots of corn and amaranth, beans and tomatoes. Beyond stood the monastery wall of adobe frescoed with the Blessed Virgin looking over a group of kneeling farmers. Above was a night salted with stars. We were in an orderly, tight little kingdom, shut off from the rest of the world.
I felt Milo’s eyes on me and smiled at him, although in the shadows I wasn’t sure he could see my face.
“I’m fine, Milo. Every day stronger.”
It was true. Traveling, on the move, going somewhere—anywhere—was more healing for me than any amount of quinine.
“I’m sorry about your hair.”
“Milo, stop apologizing for my hair. You did what you had to do.” And I still had it, braided and wrapped in paper, stowed with the sketch books Jesus had given me.
“I could pass for a boy. A ticket to a wilder journey than I could ever have imagined.”
Milo looked quickly away, as if embarrassed.
Mr. Lowe offered me his flask, but I turned him down. I believed he had spent most of the last two days and nights drunk, to soften, I thought, his disappointment that he could not meet and interview Zapata himself.
I said, “We haven’t heard or seen anything from Colonel Robles’ rogue brother. That’s why they’re celebrating.”
Raising his flask in salute, Mr. Lowe took a sip. “They say he’s gone north, to fight with Pancho Villa.”
A small knot in my gut loosened, but others stayed tight. “You don’t sound as if you believe them.”
Mr. Lowe glanced at me, his eyes glinting with soft night lights. “The man would be a fool to cross Zapata like that, although I could see why he would do it. Villa and Major Robles are very much alike.”
“How do you mean?”
Wiping his hands on his stained white jacket, Mr. Lowe slipped his flask into his pocket.
“They both like to murder people.”
We stood in silence after that, listening now to a woeful song raised in a fine tenor voice. When the song was over, bowing slightly to me and Milo, Mr. Lowe left us, going back to the cell he shared with Milo.
I turned to Milo. “That wound of Colonel Robles, the knife wound. Was it his brother, do you think?”
Milo shook his head. He held a dried leaf from a corn stalk in his hand, ran it through his fingers. “Uncle Amado told me it wasn’t the brother.”
“Who, then?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
We said good night, and I went inside. I must have gone to sleep at some point, because the next thing I knew there was a knock at the door. It still seemed to be the middle of the night; from the window of the monk’s cell I could make out only adobe wall and the mountain rising above, but there was little to see. A heavy murk lay on the mountain, fog so thick it felt like rain on my skin.
Milo’s voice came through the wood. “I think we’re leaving soon.”
By the time I was ready, knapsack across my chest underneath my serape, I realized it was even later than anyone thought. The monastery bells rang terce. Even I knew that meant mid-morning.
“Where are the soldiers? Why so late?”
Milo stood in his worn woolen sea-coat, collar lifted against the cold. “I think they just slept in.”
Too much mezcal. Too much entertainment with the single ladies of the town. The chill of the day dug into me.
We heard the jingle of tack outside the monastery walls. I had slept too, as late as allowed. Fatigue lined Milo’s face.
I asked, “Is Mr. Lowe up?”
Milo nodded, his lips pressed together. “He’s out there with the soldiers. I brought you some food.”
&n
bsp; He pressed a rolled tortilla into my hand, filled with soft cheese and beans, and the familiar spicy bite I was beginning to like. A handful of monks passed quickly, hurrying to chapel.
Milo felt it. I felt it under my ribs, ice and worry, as if the mountain shrouded itself in cloud so it could not watch us leave.
Passing through the monastery gate we found our mules saddled and ready. The soldiers were quiet; Nicanor yawned and rubbed his eyes as he sat on his horse, a carbine across his knees.
Señor Beltran appeared from somewhere, dressed in a fine black bolero and riding trousers, eyebrows lowered with impatience.
“Perezozos bastardos.” He glanced at me, and Milo. “Le pido perdón, my friends. I have been trying since before dawn to rouse them.”
Soon enough we followed the track as it wound higher along the mountain’s flank. The fog seemed to mute everything except the steady clop of hooves and the occasional chink of brass tack. The soldiers slumped on their mounts, hungover, I supposed.
My heart thundered in my ears. Mr. Lowe told me he felt the same, because of the elevation and the thin air. We were climbing, he said, to more than 7000 feet. But I still could not quite convince myself that my racing heart, and twisted gut, were only because of thin air.
The trek was slow, but eerily quiet. No one felt like talking; our voices seemed to be vacuumed up by the fog. At one point someone began to sing, but his words trailed off into nothing.
Having gotten such a late start, and intending to make the next village just at the other side of the saddle pass we aimed for, we didn’t stop. As we neared the pass, the fog shredded into puffy clouds; orange westering light painted their bellies. Just the sight of the sun; the feel of it on my cheeks and in my eyes, lifted my wary spirits. Below us canyons scarred the mountainside; in the distance, toward the south and north, I could see the peaks of several volcanoes of Mexico’s plateau.
Even our escort seemed relieved and began to chatter amongst themselves. Señor Beltran rode with me and Milo, and began to tell us funny stories of his misguided attempt to become a puppeteer.
Above terraced fields of corn stood the last Zapatista village where we were to spend the night. We were close to Federale territory; far below us was the town of San Mateo, where there was a railway under Federal control and we could easily get a train to Mexico City. The plan was for Señor Beltran to take us from the village to the town, and turn us over to the Federals the next morning.
By the time we neared the village walls dusk settled heavily around us, dimming shadows and light, draining colors from the soft pines and rock. A raven called in the distance, and the ever-present reek of the town latrine floated into our nostrils.
A soft wind came up, carrying warm air from the plateau below, where we could see a sprinkle of lights and the dark thread of the railroad trailing east and west. The thought that, in a matter of days, I could be safely back on my journey, made my heart warm under my ribs; but at the same time I felt a tugging sorrow at probably, likely, never seeing Jesus Robles again.
Rock huts and hovels crowded close to the old town walls of adobe. Chickens and dogs flitted in the shadows. No one came out to greet us. Perhaps they were afraid, I thought, not knowing which band of armed men might again bring war into their little town.
The gate through the walls into the village central stood open. Wondering if I would have the luxury of a monk’s cot tonight, or just hard wood flooring, I rode my mule under the archway, following Señor Beltran’s horse.
In the dusty plaza the men sat on their horses, quiet, looking around them. A stone street led off to our left, toward the church. Before us stood a low building fronted by a wood veranda; several chairs stood on the porch, but none were occupied. There was not a soul in sight.
The silence of the place crawled up my back with needle claws. Turning in my saddle, I looked around at dark huts and stone walls. A horse stamped his hoof, startling me. I could sense the rise in tension all round me as the soldiers stayed on their mounts, wary, waiting. Wordless.
When the shout came I jumped, and my mule lifted his head. The voice was like a gunshot of sharp, quick Spanish. I didn’t need an interpreter to understand.
“Don’t touch your weapons. No one is to be hurt. I am here for the Americans.”
T
Emerging from a black shadow on the veranda as if he had been born in it, Francisco Robles ambled toward us, arms draped over the carbine across his shoulders, a sword hanging from his belt.
Our soldiers raised their rifles with clicks and snaps of cocking triggers. Several aimed straight at Major Robles, who stood unmoving, smiling.
He spoke slowly, lips curled back from his teeth in a smile that would, on anyone else be welcoming and friendly.
Americanos. He wanted us, Mr Lowe, Milo, and myself. Jesus’s hostages would become his, and any idea of safe release fled. My heart thundered in my ears. My fingers gripped the reins so tightly that pain shot up my arms. And deep inside, my guts turned to water.
Here is where I die.
Beside me, Milo breathed heavily, choked with terror. I glanced at him, and beyond, at Mr. Lowe, who stared at Francisco as if at a person long thought dead who has appeared alive.
Major Robles stood smiling, unmoving. Just ahead of me, Octavio Beltran sat on his horse, silent; but I could see the back of his head, and his shoulders, tense and almost quivering. I concentrated on the neckline of Señor Beltran’s hair, a little shaggy after several days on the trail.
Major Robles spoke in a low voice to Señor Beltran and I saw his shoulders jerk. Lifting his chin to the right, and to the left, Major Robles indicated that we should look around us.
I watched Señor Beltran’s head as he complied, looking left, then right, jaw tightening, shoulder rising and falling in a sigh. I didn’t want to see Robles’ rifles trained on us from the town walls, some with villagers held before them as human shields, pistols to their heads, but I looked anyway.
Far above us, gliding invisibly against the clouds, an eagle called. Below, in the canyons, coyotes gabbled at one other. There was no other sound. No breathing or speaking, or any sound; we humans did not exist.
Centuries passed, village walls crumbled into dust and our fossilized bones lay under them. At least, it seemed that long before Octavio Beltran dismounted.
He is going to turn us over. What choice does he have? We had been ambushed; all precautions of might wasted as we traveled through the valleys, where it was thought, wrongly, that Major Robles might be most likely to attack. It was not Federales we were guarded against. And here, waiting, how long no one knew, Francisco Robles had set his trap.
But I didn’t understand why. Why leave the fighting and risk this, coming to kidnap some American hostages on their way to being released? News of our coming would already have reached the Federals in Toluca. Beltran had told us he sent messages ahead.
I thought, listening with my meager store of Spanish, that Octavio Beltran was trying to tell this to Major Robles. As if reason would work with this man.
A cold breeze funneled through the plaza, brought down from the mountain behind us. But that was nothing compared to the chunk of ice deep inside me now.
Something Señor Beltran said made Francisco Robles laugh. His laugh echoed through the plaza, up the walls, to where Robles’ soldiers took it up; laughter poured around us like rain.
Quick as a snake, Major Robles whipped his carbine from his shoulders, aimed and fired straight into Señor Beltran’s chest.
Under me the mule jumped, pulled backward, slamming into Milo’s. The sound of rifle fire peppered the air. I could hear the sharp zip of bullets.
I heard frantic shouting, grunts, the occasional scream from horses.
I wanted to stop hearing that, the screaming of horses.
Someone pulled me from my mule, where I hugged it tight, as if to protect it. I struggled and bit at the arms that grabbed me, but they were strong, wrapped with steel. Pain stung my left
hip but I scored a kick on my kidnapper’s knee, and he faltered, but only for a second.
Moments later I was inside a cantina of wooden tables, chairs, a small stone bar, the poster of an American burlesque star tacked to the wall behind the bar. My attacker-rescuer turned out to be Nicanor, the harelip guard. He stood before me, breathing heavily, as I leaned against the bar, listening to gunfire, not so frequent now, my heart black with sickness at the thought of poor Milo and Mr. Lowe and whether they were safe.
Finally, silence, except for shouted words in Spanish echoing outside in the plaza. Even the horse had stopped screaming, silenced too I hoped, by a bullet to the head.
Now what? My left hip stung, and looking down I saw a rip in my leather trousers and blood oozing. Grazed by a bullet, I supposed, and oddly, incredulously, I began to laugh.
Eyebrows crooked with surprise, Nicanor glanced at me. I could only hope that our defense had won, our soldiers had killed Francisco Robles and his traitorous gang and Milo and Mr. Lowe and even Señor Beltran would walk through that doorway alive. But all I could think about was how much I didn’t understand this place, Mexico, where everything was fluid like the clouds and the rivers, changing course whenever the stormy winds blew.
Nicanor’s head swung away as someone came through the door.
Francisco Robles walked toward us, spurs jingling, sword swinging against his booted leg. Nicanor stood to one side, and I saw, with a start of fear, a near-smile on his face.
Nicanor? Working for Major Robles?
No doubt there had been others, switching sides, taking gold where they could get it. My heart ached for Señor Beltran, young and idealistic, the only one here who really hoped and worked for a fairer, egalitarian Mexico.
And Milo. And Edison Lowe.
I didn’t have to push back tears, because no tears came. My throat closed around my breath, but I felt my hands close to fists, one of which I wanted to ram into Robles’ smirking face.
Robles dismissed Nicanor, who gave me a glance as he left; I could almost think I saw apology in the lines around his eyes.