Maria's Trail (The Mule Tamer)

by Horst, John

  It was the first time the old woman had heard of the insult, though she was not surprised. Now, she grinned at the humiliation of Crisanto, though it really wasn’t the boy’s fault that he had an ass and bigot for a father. In fact, Crisanto wasn’t anything like his father. He was sweet and kind and just a little frail. He was a good boy and they all loved and felt a bit sorry for him.

  The old woman looked back at the work she was doing, and continued. “Crisanto’s father has an idea that he is superior. He believes he has Spanish blood.” She pretended to spit. “He’s no more Spanish than the Pope.”

  And the old man interjected, to add weight to the old woman’s statement, “He’s Italiano, you know.”

  Maria smiled. Everyone knew the pope was Italiano.

  “And he’s a shop owner.” The old man picked at a bean and did not look up. “Shop owners and church girls do not mix, Maria.” He smiled at her with love in his eyes. His Maria was better than the owner of the grandest shop in Mexico. He shrugged. “Some people are very small, Maria. They think that having us broken into castes makes them bigger.”

  He got up and headed for bed, kissing his two favorite girls on the head. “You keep at him, Maria. He might finally learn some humility one day.”

  Maria dreamed a little of Crisanto that night. He was a good boy, just as the old woman had said, and she liked him very much. She felt a little guilty for showing him up with the shooting, but she couldn’t help herself. She liked the way he looked at her when she shot the gun so well. She could feel his eyes on her when she walked away, swaying her hips like she’d seen the women do at the brothel. It made the men very funny. She fell asleep thinking of these things and slept until morning.

  She awoke earlier than usual. She felt that she was wetting the bed. She’d never wet a bed in all her time that she could remember and she jumped up to use the chamber pot. When she was finished she looked in it and there was blood.

  She got cleaned up and went back to bed. It was very early and she needed to think. What was this? She’d not experienced this, not bled, since the bastard Sanchez, the shop owner, had abused her.

  She wasn’t in pain this time, though. It didn’t hurt. She jumped up again and there was more blood. She’d not be able to go out like this. Her dress would be ruined.

  She considered her situation. Did a man come in and abuse her in the middle of the night? She looked around and her door was secure. The old folks had made her bar it now that she was older. They were just too afraid of something bad happening to her. It was still barred. No one had been in her room.

  She thought about the Virgin Maria. Could this have happened? That was preposterous. She could not be another Virgin Maria. She was not a virgin, as Juana so annoyingly reminded her many times. But it seemed the only logical explanation. A man had not abused her, yet she was bleeding, just as she had when she’d been abused those many years ago. So, did an angel do it? Or God Himself, or Jesus?

  She was a good girl, there was no doubting that, and now she was a good Catholic. She took the communion every Sunday, even if she didn’t really believe she was eating flesh. And she went to mass all the time and she was good. Did Jesus want to start a family and he’d chosen Maria? She was an Indian. The real Virgin Maria was very pale, so that did not seem to make sense. But the Virgin Maria was poor and from a lowly family, the priest told her that. Maybe the Virgin Maria was like an Indian in her land. So, maybe it wasn’t preposterous.

  She looked through the cracks in the shutters and could see the day was dawning. She sat on the chamber pot again and bled. She got cleaned up and made herself a bandage. She had to go see the priest.

  He was worried when he saw her at his door. She did not look well. She was very pale. He got her to sit down.

  “What is it Maria?”

  She did not know what to say to him. Her theory seemed ridiculous now that she was sitting before him. “I, I , no. Nothing padre.”

  She got up to leave and he stopped her.

  “Maria, tell me.” He was so kind to her. She loved the old priest and now he looked especially sad. She felt it was her fault that he’d start the day so sad. He usually started the day fairly happy, then got sad as it progressed. There was no telling now how sad he’d be at the end of this day if he started out badly.

  “I, I think that God or Jesus or an angel has visited me in the night, padre.”

  He nodded. “I see. And how, what form did this visit take, Maria?”

  “I think I’m going to have a baby, padre. I think, they did, you know, that.”

  “Why do you think such a thing, child?”

  “Because, padre, I am bleeding, down there. And it happened only once, a long time ago. When I…” She looked away, said nothing.

  “What is it, Maria?”

  She’d never told anyone about the time she’d been abused. Only Juana and the yellow-haired whore knew of it. The priest knew nothing of her past. She wondered how he would react to this news. She was committed now and had to tell him. “I, a man did that to me, padre. When I was ten and I bled, so I thought perhaps...”

  He stood up and grabbed her up in his arms. He held her for a long time. She could feel him crying. She pulled away and looked into his eyes. “Why are you crying, padre?’

  “This is such a wicked, wicked world, Maria, and what you have told me makes me very sad. I love you very much, Maria, and I did not know such wickedness happened to you. I am sorry, child. I am sorry.”

  This caused Maria to be confused. It wasn’t the padre’s fault and there was no reason for him to apologize. “But what of the visitation, padre? Did this happen?”

  He finally smiled. He took her by the hand and led her back to the old woman. “No, no Maria. You are a good girl but you are not the next Virgin Maria.” He called to the old woman and spoke into her ear, in a hushed tone so that Maria could not hear.

  The old woman smiled and nodded to the padre and turned her attention to Maria. She waited for the padre to leave and when they were alone, the old woman hugged her and kissed her on the forehead. “My darling little girl. Today you are a woman.”

  “Come on, Crisanto, catch up!” She rode hard in her vaquero outfit, Crisanto lumbering along behind her. They were chasing mustangs and Maria was catching up. This was the best sixteenth birthday a girl could have and Maria was pleased with her new outfit, much to the chagrin of the old woman. The old man had bought it for her.

  She was splendid in her trousers. She had not had trousers and this made riding difficult. She now wore trousers and tall boots and a lovely print blouse. She wore a short vest and a straw sombrero. The old man even got her a gun belt and big knife. He promised her that one day he’d get her a Winchester. He called her his beautiful vaquero.

  She looked on from the top of a cliff, down at the valley below as the beasts ran off in a cloud of dust. Crisanto finally made it to her side. He was winded. “See that one, see that one, Crisanto?” She pointed at a black filly with a white diamond between her eyes. “That one is magnificent. If you catch that one for me, I’ll marry you!”

  She was joking but the words struck the young man through the heart, like a thunderbolt. He looked at her smiling at the herd of wild horses as they ran off. His heart pounded in his ears and he felt that he might fall over. He was more in love with Maria now than he’d ever been in his life, and he’d loved her since the time she’d given him the black eye in the church those many years ago.

  She pulled her sombrero off and shook out her hair, letting the raven tresses fall onto her shoulders. She knocked the dust away from her hat. She’d become more beautiful than any young woman in the village. She was more beautiful than even Crisanto’s mother and his mother was famous throughout the land for her stunning features and lovely hair.

  He handed her his canteen and she drank and let the water run down her front and onto her breasts. He was nearly incapable of speech as he stared at her, until he blurted out, nearly incomprehensibly, “
Maria, marry me.”

  She looked at him. She knew the day would come and knew what her answer would be. She smiled coyly at him and gave her reply. “Crisanto, you know that is not possible. You know that your family will not have this. It cannot be.”

  It was easy for her to say this because, though she liked Crisanto very much, she did not love him and did not care to be the wife of a shop owner.

  He dropped his head, dejected. “I cannot please you and I cannot please my father. I cannot please anyone.” He miserably turned his horse toward home. He was a good boy, a young man, really, since he was now nineteen years old and Maria felt sorry for him.

  “Crisanto, stop. Wait.”

  He slowed and then stopped. He had no will when he was with Maria. She could wind him up and make him do whatever she wanted. He awaited her command.

  “Come here, Crisanto. Sit for a while.”

  They dismounted and sat and watched the sun move across the sky. It was a lovely day and Maria was happy. She knew she had to break his heart and now was just as good a time as any to do it.

  “I do not love you, Crisanto, and that was mean to say to you what I did about the horse. I am sorry.”

  She extended her hand and he took it and this only made him sadder because now he was holding her hand and everything, everything about Maria, made his heart ache until he felt it would burst.

  “Your father is very proud of you, Crisanto. He just doesn’t say it right. He thinks you are a very good man.”

  He lit up at her using the word man to describe him. She was lying, of course, she knew Crisanto’s father didn’t really like Crisanto at all. The young man’s father was a monster and an ogre and he didn’t like his own kind-hearted, sweet son and that was terrible, but Maria didn’t want to say this to him. She’d never say this to him.

  “He called me an alfeñique.”

  Maria suppressed a laugh because it was true, he was an alfeñique. Crisanto really was not at all manly. Poor Crisanto was the opposite of manly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I bet he’d have all respect for you if you brought in one of those mustangs. He’d think differently of you then.”

  He snorted. “That will never be, Maria, you know that. I cannot ride or rope. I am not one tenth the rider that you are. That is impossible.”

  “What if we worked together? What if I helped you and your father didn’t know?”

  He smiled weakly. “You’d do this for me, Maria?”

  “Crisanto. You are like a brother to me. I love you,” she held up her hand, “but not in that way, Crisanto. Not in the marrying way. I love you like a brother and I will help you.” She looked him in the eye, “But be clear on this, Crisanto. I will never love you like a wife. I will never marry you.”

  They hatched a plan to do this thing in a week.

  The old shopkeeper came to see them of an evening, just as Maria and the old man were starting a game of faro. They were all kind to him as he was very anxious. Crisanto had gone for a ride the day before and had not returned. He was hoping Maria would know something about it.

  She didn’t, at the time, think much of it and only as she got into bed did the realization hit her. He must have gone for the horse on his own.

  She awoke extra early and was in the desert by sunrise. If Crisanto had gone down, after two days, he’d likely be dead if the accident or whatever’d befallen him hadn’t killed him outright. She did not hold out much hope for him.

  By noon she was scanning the valley below. This is where the horses ran. She saw a glint, way off in a distance. It was something metallic and she decided to check it out.

  Sure enough, it was the young man. He’d fallen from his horse and his leg had become lodged between two boulders at the knee. From there down was now black; the boy was dying.

  He smiled uneasily. “Hello, Maria.” He was delirious and happy to see his love.

  She gave him water and pulled a blanket off her saddle skirt. She made a little tent over him. He’d been baking in the sun, hatless, for more than two days. He slept most of the time and his face was burned and blistered, his lips cracked and bleeding. He could barely see.

  Maria poured water on him and he felt a little better. She thought about riding back and getting help but that wouldn’t do. She studied the situation. The boulders could not be moved and his leg was now doubled in size. It was dead below the knee and she could detect the odor of rotting flesh. It had to come off, and quickly.

  “Crisanto, tell me.” She pushed hard on his thigh, just above the knee. “Do you feel this?”

  He smiled weakly. “No, Maria. No.” He gazed on her and smiled. “You are so beautiful, Maria.”

  “Shush, Crisanto.” She pulled out her big knife. She looked him in the eye. “I have to cut your leg off, Crisanto.”

  He looked down and didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore. “Okay, Maria. Okay.”

  She cut the material of his trousers away. The blackness had not yet made it above the knee. She held out some hope.

  She breathed deeply and began carefully cutting the flesh, fileting the skin and muscle back until the joint was exposed. She thought about the old woman and how she had taught her to separate the joints of animals they would eat. Maria’d gotten good with swine. She decided that this was not the leg of Crisanto, her childhood friend, but just another leg of a hog for the table.

  She worked deftly and, with a sudden pop, Crisanto became separated from the boulder and his lower leg. He fell back and bled profusely. Maria could now get a good tourniquet on his thigh and stop the flow of blood. He smiled at her and then down at his leg. He still felt nothing.

  Crisanto was not big, but he still outweighed her by forty pounds. She couldn’t put him on her horse. She thought quickly and decided to pull him up, with a rope around his chest. She got him to stand and pulled and got him to hop and help pull himself up. He was finally in the saddle and looked very strange with a good part of his leg missing. She jumped on behind him and tapped her mount’s sides, kicking him into a full gallop as she held onto the young man.

  As they rode, Crisanto mumbled and babbled. He spoke to someone and seemed to be having a conversation about horses and women and Maria. He said that Maria was the only one he’d ever love, but he couldn’t have her and, therefore, he’d be alone for the rest of his days. Eventually he slumped forward and lost consciousness.

  She took him to the church as she didn’t know what to expect at the store. The old woman and old man and priest would be better suited to help. They came out and eased him off the horse and placed him on the kitchen table. The old woman worked fast, pouring mescal liberally on the wound. She then took a big drink herself and handed the bottle to Maria. It was the first time she’d offered the girl spirits and now Maria knew for certain they were in for a rough time.

  Maria swallowed deeply and it warmed her to her toes. She looked at her hands covered in Crisanto’s blood and expected them to be shaking, but they weren’t.

  She was excited and keyed up but she was calm, too; this was the way with Maria. From the time of the bastard Sanchez catching on fire, to her own near drowning in the cave and now this, she was always calm under stress. She never got scared or shaky or cried.

  The old woman dumped cup after cup of water on Crisanto’s wound. It would be as clean as she could get it and she was nearly ready to remove the tourniquet. She bound the stump tightly, winding it round and round with a cotton sheet until it looked like a great turban on the end of the boy’s leg. She removed Maria’s scarf tourniquet and the bandages held. No blood seeped through. The wound was clean.

  They removed his boot and sock, cut his trousers away and removed his shirt. They bathed him and made him comfortable in Maria’s bed. If he survived the night, he had a chance. They turned to leave the room when the old woman drew in a deep breath. She sniffed the air near his leg and waited as if she were trying to remember something. She shrugged and looked at the old man and the priest. �
��Just the slightest hint, but that might be left from his clothes.” They walked out and everyone had a big shot of mescal.

  The shopkeeper was there. He was frantic and they let him look in at his son. He was crying now and looked each of them in the eye. He looked at Maria, wanting to thank her, but he could not. He couldn’t bring himself to stoop so low. He turned and walked out. This would break the boy’s mother’s heart and he was glad she was away just now.

  When they were finally alone, the old man reached out for Maria. He hugged her and kissed her cheek. He held up his fists, clenched together in victory. “Even if the boy dies, Maria, you are a hero. You are my best girl and I am so proud.”

  He had tears in his eyes and now Maria had to comfort him. She smiled and patted his shoulder. “He was trying to get a mustang for his father. He was trying to prove to his father that he was not an alfeñique.”

  She slept with the old woman that night and awoke alone. The old woman was in with Crisanto and she did not look happy. She lifted the blanket and Maria could see the bandages were bloody. His leg was now black beyond the knee, halfway up his thigh. “That smell, Maria. Gangrene. It is what I smelled last night. He is doomed. Poor Crisanto is doomed.” She dropped her head and walked out as Maria changed the dressing.

  Crisanto smiled weakly as she worked. “Maria.” She looked up and smiled back at him. He was trying to focus and realized where he was. “I’ve always dreamed of being in your bed.”

  She grinned at his naughtiness. He was dying and knew it. He didn’t care if he was embarrassing himself. He wanted to make Maria smile.

  She stood up. “I’m going to get the priest, Crisanto. I’ll be back.”

  The padre gave him Last Rites and now Crisanto was parchment pale. He wouldn’t last long and wanted to be with Maria. He asked the padre not to tell his father. He didn’t want to see his father now.

  They stayed together for the rest of the night. Maria watched as lights went out under her door. The old woman and old man left them alone and Maria was thankful for it. Even though she didn’t love him, she thought, it was a good thing for her to spend his final moments with him. She had cast a spell many years ago, and it was the least she could do. It was the greatest kindness she could give him and she sat close and kept his head cool with wet rags. She brushed his cheek gently. He smiled up at her.