by Steven Law
He heard a dove and looked up into the sky and saw that day was breaking. A new day was coming and he knew not how it would begin. On a normal day he would help his father round up the goats for milking. Amelia would feed the chickens while their mother fixed breakfast of eggs cooked with peppers and chicken and wrapped in a tortilla. Huevos con pimientas y pollo en una tortilla, his favorite. Normally the thought of it would make his stomach rumble with hunger, but now it felt tightened into a knot and he could not possibly eat. But his mouth was dry, and he decided it would be good to find water. He was too afraid to go back to his home, so he decided to drink from a cluster of barrel cactus, using a method that his grandfather had taught him, of poking a hole with one of the cactus thorns, then curling a yucca leaf and letting the water flow down the furrowed leaf into his mouth.
The water was sweet and refreshing, and it would do for now. The cactus was plentiful in the desert, so he was not concerned about going without. It was not yet time for the summer monsoons, when the Sonora received most of its rain, filling the creeks and rivers, but the winter snow that had melted and flowed down the mountains was still nurturing the ground, providing the necessary nutrition for the spring plant life to bloom. Though the cacti sprouted many flowers this time of year, and it was normally a vibrant image of life in the Sonora, Enrique could only sense the ways of evil. His parents were dead, the whereabouts of his sister unknown, and his grandfather far, far way. He was all alone, and all because of ruthless, desperate men.
He found the trail that led to the area where he’d last seen Amelia, and he walked cautiously. He looked for footprints and saw where she and the man both had walked into the arroyo—the stirring of the sand where the strange behavior had occurred, and the tracks out, which consisted of one set of large prints and another of drag marks. Though it appeared that the man had dragged his sister, he saw no blood or any other traces that she might be dead, so he could not be certain.
He walked on and followed the trail, fearful that at any moment the man and his sweaty face would look right down at him. When he realized that the trail was leading back to his home, he stopped and pondered getting any closer. He supposed he could approach slowly, creep on his hands and knees, and lie low if he saw movement. He could think of nothing else to do. There was nowhere to go, other than the mountains, to hide, but the nights there would still be cold, and he did not want to build fires that someone could see, or cause smoke that someone could smell. He also thought about going to find his grandfather. Though he did not know how to get to El Paso, he was certain he could find the way. But the one unanswered question was the fate of Amelia. He could not bear to go away without knowing if she were dead or alive. What if she needed help? He would look for her, even if it took his lifetime to do so, and he would find her. If she were dead, he would give her a proper burial, and pray for her like Father Gaeta would do. If he could not find her, he would go to El Paso and find his grandfather, and together they would look for her.
Enrique crawled to where he could peek around an agave plant, and saw a lone chicken pecking the ground. The stable stood distinct and barren, the only dwelling left in its original state. A haze of gray smoke hovered above the roofless and charred adobe, a portion of one wall collapsed into rubble. Flies swarmed and vultures ripped at the flesh of the goat corpses that after a day in the sun lay bloated by the desert heat. From where he lay he could not see the bodies of his parents, and he wondered if the men had buried them. But no, it was not likely that such men would do any honorable thing.
Enrique mulled over what to do, whether to go look through the remnants of their home for signs of Amelia, or to look for her departing trail. He supposed it would be best to search the home area, that if she was alive, maybe she was hiding in the stable, or, God forbid, if she was dead, they might have left her somewhere near the adobe. The thought of it all tore at his emotions. But he was a man now. If he found her dead, he would then make three graves for all his family. Difficult for sure, but it was something a man must do.
Staying low, he crept closer and was immediately sickened when he saw that vultures also perched on and tore at the corpses of his mother and father. He closed his eyes and held his head low, feeling deep sorrow for his loving family. Something he couldn’t bear anymore—he stood and yelled. The vultures lifted their heavy wings and glided away, landing only a short distance from the bodies. Enrique picked up rocks and threw them at the unsightly birds.
“Get away, you ugly scavengers! Damn you!”
It felt awkward to curse, especially since it was something that he had never done, and had only heard from the tongues of grown men. But he was a man now, on his own, and the world seemed against him. If cursing would make him stronger, he would have to use it.
The air seemed suddenly silent, and Enrique realized that he had exposed himself to anyone who might be around. But no one came about, so he walked into the scene. The vultures didn’t go far, but Enrique was certain that with him there they would not return, and that his parents would be buried before they could get to them, so deep into the ground that even the coyotes couldn’t get the scent and Mamá and Papá would rest in peace.
He saw no fresh tracks near the stable, or none that looked like Amelia’s. The stable was the only place she could have hidden out of view, but she was not there. He saw a large stain of dried blood in the sand, where he’d hit the Apache with the machete, but the Apache was not there. He saw tracks leading out into the desert and a trail of dried blood. The Apache would surely die, if not by bleeding to death, by an animal that smelled his blood.
He continued looking around and found a square metal blade that his father had tied to a short wooden pole and used as a shovel. The handle was partially burned and charred and difficult for Enrique to hold, but he took it anyway and found a place not far away from the adobe to begin digging.
The sand was hard and crusty on top, and darker and moist as he dug further. There were many rocks that slowed the process. He tried to scoop and pry them out with the shovel, but many could only be loosened and had to be dug out with his fingers. He hadn’t dug very much before his arm felt tight and fatigued, and after assessing his work he realized that he knew nothing about digging graves, that this deed was something that would take him hours if not days to complete. But if he was really a man, he would have to do this, so he kept digging, occasionally stopping to rub his arms.
The vultures tried to come back, but he stood and shooed them away, cursed them, then went back to his digging. Eventually he became so tired that he had no more strength to continue breaking dirt. He rested his head against the shovel blade. His blistered, blackened hands could no longer grip the charcoal-laden handle. Feeling defeated, he fell to the ground, but now that he was a man, he would not permit himself to cry.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but he felt disoriented and sleepy. He fell backward and looked up into the clear and pale blue sky, with the rays of the sun making yellow circles that ran back to their origin like a string of glowing beads. He watched the dots change directions, the smaller ones far away, and the larger ones closer, but always staying together. He wondered if they would always be that way, if like humans and some animals they slept at night and came back out in the day to hang down from the sun and spread light over the desert. But then he saw a face appear among the dots, and he wondered if they were really angels, coming down to claim the souls of his parents. He heard the bray of a donkey and felt sure that angels did not ride donkeys. When the face spoke, he wondered what kind of tricks the sky was playing on him.
“Are you okay, son?”
The face came closer, and a hand touched Enrique’s forehead. Water was dabbed on his tongue and then arms picked him up and carried him. It was all making sense now. The circles of light were angels, and this one was taking him to heaven to be with his family.
*
Enrique hadn’t seen Father Gaeta in several months. It was winter the last time the pr
iest had made his rounds to spread the love of God along the foothills and the bank of the Santa Cruz River. Enrique’s father didn’t pay much attention to him—thought of him more as a nuisance than anything, coming around distracting them with silly talk when there was much work to do. But his mother adored the young priest. Being a descendant of Spanish conquistadores, she decorated a wall of their home with a cross, and a rosary was always close at hand.
Even though Father Gaeta wasn’t a Catholic, Jesuit, or even a Franciscan, but a priest who followed his own unique faith, Enrique’s mother felt especially blessed when he came to see them; as if God Himself were now closer to them. But the boy’s papá, a Tohono O’odham, would never be converted. He would say, “If God is only present when the priest comes around, then we are as doomed as a lame rabbit.” His mamá would make the cross over her chest then shoo him away from her. He would grin and wink at Enrique.
Now that they were dead, Enrique wondered if his papá wasn’t right, or if there was even a God at all.
“Are you not hungry, Enrique?” the priest said.
The boy hadn’t realized he was merely twirling his spoon in his soup bowl, daydreaming. He brought the spoon to his mouth and sipped. Though he had never had soup made with peas, corn, and yellow squash, and slivers of chicken meat, he liked the taste. But the broth was more appealing and easier for him to swallow.
Father Gaeta broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in the soup, and bit off the soggy end. The boy still did not have the stomach for such a filling meal and only drank the broth. The tragedy kept rolling around in his mind, from the point where it began, seeing the bandits amid their craziness, to the point where he woke from sleep at the mission. He wondered how such a horrible situation could take place if a priest were nearby.
He studied the priest while he ate, as if to look for something magical, or maybe fake. “Why were you coming to see us, Father?”
The priest swallowed his food and smiled at the boy. “It’s foresummer, my son. Time for the saguaro fruit harvest. I thought your father would like some help.”
The boy thought for a moment. “So you weren’t bringing God to us?”
The priest laughed. His healthy white teeth were an ivory glow amid his long brown beard. “Oh, my dear boy. God is everywhere. Why would you ask such a question?”
Enrique twirled his spoon again, half his thoughts in sadness, the other half in disgust.
Father Gaeta adopted a solemn gaze, took the last bite of his bread, brushed his hands together, and nodded to the boy. “I understand,” he said as he chewed.
“I don’t.”
“Well, son, my heart sank when I found you there, exhausted after dutifully digging the graves for your parents. Never have I seen so much heart in a young lad.” He watched the boy sip at his soup. “Your mamá and papá would have been proud of you, Enrique.”
“But I didn’t get to bury them, you did.”
“That does not matter. You gave it your all, and God sent me there to help you fulfill your honor.”
Enrique dropped the spoon in the bowl and tried to hold back his emotion. This made no sense. It felt wrong. Why couldn’t the father have come earlier and saved his family?
“If there is a God, how could he do these things to my family?” the boy asked.
“Those bandits made their own choices, Enrique. God didn’t.”
“But you always told us he was all-powerful, and that we were good people, and that God would protect us.”
The priest sighed. “I know I did, son.”
“Then why did this happen? You lied to us!”
The priest rose from the table, reached for the boy’s hand, and squatted beside him. “No, Enrique, listen. It is sometimes very difficult to understand God’s motives. The meek, and those who suffer by the hands of the wicked, will find paradise in His kingdom. But we must not ever doubt Him. And, my son, I do believe that God has a special plan for you. That is why you survived all this.”
The boy could only stare at the priest, wondering how any of his ideas could be trusted.
The father rose again to his feet. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Enrique stood slowly, took Father Gaeta’s hand, and followed. They walked together out of the mission, into the bright sunny day and toward the bank of the Santa Cruz River. The river was experiencing a dry time and was very shallow. The priest let go of Enrique’s hand and stepped out into the dull current in his sandaled feet. He stood there, looking back, the tail of his brown robe absorbing the water.
“Enrique, do you know what it means to be baptized?”
The boy only stared nervously and did not understand.
The priest gazed down at the water. “I’ve baptized many in this river. Whites, Indians, Mexicans, Criollos. Vitae spiritualis ianua. Baptism … it is the beginning of life with God and Christ. Through baptism we are freed from sin and reborn as children of God.”
Enrique looked down at the water. “If I would have been baptized, would those bad things have happened to my family?”
“Oh, my son, this life will always bring hard times. It’s the life after this one that brings us peace. But we have to accept Christ first, and be baptized. Maybe someday you would like to give it a try?”
The boy looked hard at the priest. “No, I don’t think I want to.”
“Enrique, I want to protect your soul, and for you to give it to God. That way, if anything ever happens to you, like what happened to your family, you will not die, but find a better life in heaven. And there, you will meet all your family again.”
The boy liked the idea of being able to see his family again, but his desire for justice churned his blood more. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I am going to kill those men who killed my family.”
The priest came back to the bank and put his hand gently on top of Enrique’s head. “My dear boy, you must always understand that vengeance belongs to God.”
“Then why doesn’t he kill them?”
“You should not worry so much about the death of others, but about your own life.”
“I can’t think of anything else.”
“I know this is hard for you, but for the sake of your own soul you must try to make things right for yourself.”
Enrique could not feel what the priest wanted him to feel. He wanted to see the men dead, screaming and bloody, like they had left his parents. It was the only way he could see his justice.
Father Gaeta looked out to the water, then turned back to the boy. “You’re right. You should not be pressured to God. Let’s take a walk.”
Enrique moped behind, and eventually they stood side by side and the priest squinted as he looked up at the mission tower.
Unlike the simple adobes and other rancherio shelters found throughout the Sonora, it was a structure with thick walls and an arched façade and molded columns lining the entrance. The bell tower stood to the side of the nave, two stories taller.
“You know,” the priest said, “this mission has never had a bell in its tower.”
“Why not?”
“They ran out of money. Sun-fired brick and Indian labor were not as hard to obtain. But when Friar Ramon ran out of funds, just the building had to be enough.”
“Was Friar Ramon your friend?”
“No, he was before my time. A Franciscan. They left here a few years after Mexico won its independence from Spain. The missions were no longer supported by the government.”
Enrique thought for a moment. “If God is so great, why does He need the government?”
Father Gaeta looked down at Enrique and smiled. “You are a bright young man. No, the main purpose of these missions was not to convert the Indians to Christianity, as many have thought, but more so to make taxpaying citizens out of them. Regardless of what they tried to make people believe, it wasn’t so much about saving souls.”
“Then why are you here, Father?”
“Ah, that is the difference in our purpose. I am here to s
ave souls. If anything, to keep peace among the people. Keep them neighborly and from mutilating one another.”
Enrique thought about how his own family had been ruthlessly murdered. “How can you do that? You didn’t save my family.”
The priest knelt before Enrique. “My dear boy. I am just a mortal man, like you. Like your father. I do not have the power, as God would have, to prevent such horrible things from happening. I am merely a representative of God, and operate from my own free will, with His spirit working through me.”
He stood and put his arm around Enrique, and they walked behind the mission and into the garden. “That is what my visits to the villages are all about. I like to bring smiles and fellowship to my neighbors, no matter what their beliefs may be. No, I am not a true Catholic. I’d have been banned from the church years ago. I follow my own beliefs, and that is mostly to free a man’s soul from hate and greed. They are the most deadly elements a man can carry.”
“You are not a Christian?”
“On the contrary! I believe entirely in Christ. It’s just the religions created by man I question.”
The priest looked to the garden and pointed down at a row of plants. “Maize. See it?”
“Yes,” Enrique said, drooping his head. “My mother grew it, too.”
The priest continued pointing. “And there are melons … squash there, and dragon’s claw. As you can see, I irrigate from the Santa Cruz. One of the things I liked about this mission. One could survive here and serve God.”
A rustling noise came from a creosote bush behind them. They both turned and looked, Enrique a bit startled.
“Is that you, Sereno?” the priest said.
A small boy, with long black hair and a red headband, and eyes darker than Enrique’s, peered around the bush.
“Who is he?” Enrique said.
“He’s an orphan of a Tohono O’odham family, who I feed, and then he leaves. He must be hungry. I call him Sereno because he is always watching.”