When finally I wake up I am in a daze and wonder what has befallen me. I feel as though my blood has drained away. Barely breathing, I wait to die in the dirt where they have dumped me. At last, when I struggle to open my eyes, I can open only one. The other is swollen shut. From the good eye I see a blurred form. One of my captors is crouching to finish me! I groan and urge my body to flee. But crumpled there in the dust of the road I can barely move. The taste of blood is strong in my mouth. My teeth. My tongue tells me one of them is gone. My whole bloodied self, it is throbbing.
The guy squats so close I can feel his breath. I curl up and try to cover my head, waiting for a machete chop to come.
Instead comes a soft whisper, “Shhhh, shhhh.” Slowly I try to focus. The person before me is not a savage, but a woman. “Shhhh, shhhh.” She cradles me like a baby.
Out of my throat comes a wheeze.
“Abue, am I dead?” I mumble, believing my grandmother is with me now. Even to mumble costs me.
“Not one bit,” the woman says caringly.
“With all gentleness,” she instructs while she and others lift me. It seems from the little I can grasp, I am not a dead one—just very broken.
Like dust devils, those evil ones passed quickly through my life. This woman, she stays. Little by little I learn from her what has happened. Mine is no sana, sana situation. The gang of brutes, they beat me insensible, till nearly my whole body turned blue. They gashed my face. Injured one eye. They cracked my skull and broke four ribs and one leg. Also some toes. The doctor himself is not yet certain of the number. All I feel is pain pain.
They took my belongings—the faithful tennis shoes, my clothes—everything but my chones. In the palm of one hand they branded me with a crude horned B. A B that stands for their gang name, LOS BANDIDOS. To show how they hurt people. But for me and I am sure for many others who have suffered from them, the B means something else. A badge of pride. All my life—if I recover—all I meet who know this dreaded train, when they see the brand, will know who I am: Manuel Flores, Beast Rider.
X
I am broken but unbroken. Bones sí, spirit no.
The doctor is unsure of what the treatment should be. In a haze I hear him, them, whispering. He and Serafina, my protector. The one who found me.
Having heard me, out of my head, babbling telephone numbers, they have already passed news of me to my family. I would love to talk with them, but I can barely speak. Ay how they will worry! Ay how they will pray! Ay the mystery words they will say for my recovery! My Abue, she will for certain share with Serafina her remedies—which herbs are the most useful, the most potent, the most prized for this work before them. The work of keeping me undead.
“Where to begin,” says the doctor in a hollow tone. I believe he has not had this sort of experience.
“Do not worry,” Serafina says calmly, tending to me like the mother hen of the pollitos song. “I know the cure.”
“What?”
“Soup.”
The doctor attempts to repair the breaks. Serafina, her goal is bigger.
Serafina believes strongly in the power of pumpkin-flower soup. From a recipe, old old, she brews this molten gold. Spoon by spoon, bowlful by bowlful, over the next months, Serafina hovering close, I sip a soup of pumpkin flowers. And certain healing teas which bring comfort. As I become stronger, I can think—a little—and when I take the soup, a glorious color, I consider my golden insides. Then, weakly, I smile, thinking of home, where my people would also care tenderly for me.
My life becomes one long groan of pain. During these days, in visions or dreams, scenes of home float up to me. One time we are eating Abue’s fresh tortillas, warm warm. All seated at our table so small our elbows are nearly touching. Saying grace. Papi is saying “Keep us happy with the small things.” His theme. Oh to touch elbows—just to be in the little room—with them.
Once, in a vision, instead of working, I am lazing in a soft furrow of our milpita, gazing up into the endless sky at a hawk. Once I see a candle at our window. A nub. The candle has been blown out. All are asleep for the night. Then, by magic, the candle lights by itself. Once also I dream of Toño. I awake. Urgently I say into the dark, “You must get to him. You must get to your brother.”
How many cauldrons of this beautiful soup does it take to bring me back to life? A number I cannot count. For certain the pumpkin flowers do their work, but I believe it is the love of Serafina and the many good souls of this dusty village and God that makes me once more whole.
While I am near death, each day, I learn little by little that villagers come. They chant. They sing. They light candles. They pray. They hold my hand—not the raw, bandaged one. Some only stand by my bed and wait.
And the love takes hold.
I begin to heal.
One day Serafina brings her golden cure, then sits beside me while I sip. We do not speak. Then, in a thin slot in the quiet, she leans and gently touches my head. “Mi viejito,” she says with the voice of a mother. My old man. I must look puzzled for she then brings a mirror, cracked but good enough. There is my solemn reflection looking back at me, my hair as white as salt.
From my experiences my hair has been frightened and gone white. Now everybody calls me El Chavo Viejo, The Old Kid.
To celebrate my recovery Serafina presents me with new clothing and a new pair of tennis shoes. I mourn my first ones, faithful to the end but stolen. “These are to keep safe your feet,” she says, unveiling them with her usual resolve. I know she means that they are to keep safe my whole self. So I can move more easily upon my journey. She knows that this stop with her is just a rest.
As I grow stronger I grow inquieto, restless. I look for something to do. Limping along in the new tennis shoes, I take walks, at first small ones, then longer. And the little children, they follow me. They take turns, but always, one holds on to my good hand. Maybe they think I will fall. Or become lost. Or wander off for my faraway home. The children. I believe that they think I need them. I do.
When we are not walking, I teach the little ones things of my childhood so far in the past. They learn the song of the pollitos, a song of chocolate, the train chant. From their many fallings and scrapings, already they know the chant of sana, sana. Even when it is not yet night, I sing to them the lullaby that Mami sang to me:
Duérmete mi niño,
Duérmete mi sol,
Duérmete pedazo
De mi corazón.
Sleep, my child.
Sleep, my sun.
Sleep, little piece
Of my heart.
Mami. My mother who gave me light. When I sing this my voice breaks into pieces. Also my heart.
So. With the children I sing songs. I walk. My white hair is a wonder to them. They want to touch it.
“It is okay?” they say, like my hair is a thing of magic.
“It is okay,” I answer, leaning down for them to reach. What a thing. To feel their small hands upon my head, it is a kind of blessing.
Sometimes I sweep the church. Not with big energy. Small sweepings, broom-whisperings.
Then, one day, I am almost my old self. My hair will ever be white. One eye will always droop. Always I will walk with a limp. Always my brand will say my story. But after nearly one year by Serafina’s calendar and the vigilance of Dios—and uncountable pots of soup—I am recovered.
To leave these people. It is a wrench. But Toño is in Los Angeles. Like the ruedacacas, I must keep going. Everybody of this place has given to me, and given again. I have nothing to give in return. Serafina, the doctor, the villagers, the niños, ever after, each one will stay always always in my prayers.
XI
I walk and I walk. Really, I hobble to another village. I am still weak, but nimble enough to take on The Beast. I have both food and money now, Serafina’s parting gifts.
I listen for the reeench of wheels, a whistle-scream. Signs that The Beast is coming. Maybe this will be my last stretch on the train. Serafi
na said that to my dream I am close close.
I have been told where to wait. In time, with a great hiss of hot breath, The Beast stops in this place. Once again I am hiding close by in the tall weeds, awaiting my chance to haul myself up when the wheels begin to grind and screech, when once more it begins to race.
I look at the horned B burned into my palm. Beast Rider. Instead of raising fear, the small brand gives me power.
It is daylight. A bad time to try this. People are milling along the tracks, waiting for something in this poorest of poor places. Some carry clubs. To stop me and the other riders?
Another beating. In spite of my brand, a pulse of panic grabs me. I nearly turn back.
“What are they waiting for?” I whisper to a fellow Beast Rider.
“Us.”
From imagined blows I cringe.
“To help us board, Chavo Viejo.”
“How do you know?”
“I have been here—three times before. This is a place of good people.”
The breath of The Beast begins its fierce panting. Like hell-gasps. My heart begins to drum. Nearly a year has passed since I have faced the brute. Another year before that. I am out of practice. I look at my hand. The B. Then inside I say, I can do this. And I know I can.
These people, it turns out, they are mostly mothers. Maybe they have lost their husbands or brothers, their daughters or their sons. Now they stand fast beside The Beast, as my fellow rider says, determined to help us. As I rush from hiding to scramble on, like a warrior from a story I have heard, one such woman approaches. A heavy one with a do-not-fool-with-me look. Arms folded, she takes a firm stance when up comes a police.
“Váyase, señora,” barks the poli. “Go.”
“No.”
He strikes her with a fist.
“Out of my way.”
This rock of a woman, she says nothing but holds firm.
He strikes her again.
I can no longer stand this, hitting a woman who is trying to defend me. Like a snake I strike back. I am weak and have no weapon so, with my ragged teeth, I bite him.
“¡Cabrón!”
The poli curses and grabs for his gun.
Warrior Woman swats it away.
Eyes murderous, the poli whirls and goes after his gun—and after easier prey.
All along the tracks the story is the same. The locals standing up for us against the police. Sometimes arrested, sometimes injured. The local people, young and old, heroes to us Beast Riders.
I look at Warrior Woman with thanks.
She presses a plastic bag of food into my hand. Softly she says, “You could be my own boy Juan. Que Dios te bendiga.”
“Que Dios la bendiga,” I say.
At last the train begins pulling away and I dash for it. Then, in a big confusion of scuffling and shouting, I am atop The Beast again.
Somewhere, though the train is in motion, somebody is strumming a guitar, singing “México lindo y querido,” an old song Papi sang in our milpita. The voice is so sweet, so clear, my heart aches.
“—just tell them that I am sleeping, tell them to bring me back here, if I should die far from you, Mexico lovely and dear.”
All along The Beast, people begin singing, even not-Mexicans. “México lindo y querido, si muero lejos de ti . . . ” They sing a prayer, an absolute prayer.
XII
As in Serafina’s village, on The Beast, everywhere, I am El Chavo Viejo. My hair is not salt and pepper. Just pure and solamente sal. El Chavo Viejo. I have earned it. This name is good with me.
The moon is high this night. Moonlight pours down upon train and riders alike, a great spill of moon. I look far down the train. Moon. Moon. Moon. All riders are silvered with light. Glowing. I look down at myself. I am glowing too. I, now silver-hair, Manuel Flores.
A child near me holds on to his mother and tugs on my shirt. “I am hungry.” He pleads. Maybe it is the moon glow, for in this moment I remember these same words coming from my own mouth. Before I met Señor Santos.
“Take this,” I say, breaking in half a torta I have bought from a vendor.
“Gracias,” he says, hungrily taking a bite.
This train is not a crowded one. So carefully I arise and move to a place where I can nearly be alone. I look up at the olden face, luminous and holy. I feel a sound lift in my throat. Like a wolf I howl at the moon. Then—somebody is howling howling beside me. Night pouring down, light pouring down, we howl, we howl.
For a time then, all is silence. Who would speak in this silvery presence?
The other wolf, he is a boy, younger than me. He wears a worn-out cap—who knows what color?—silver now. Beneath the bill his eyes spark like obsidian chips. Cejas, eyebrows, go swooping across his small brow. Silver ones.
When the moon retreats he speaks.
“Hola, lobo,” says this guy, splunking down beside me. Hello, wolf.
“Hola.” From all that silver I am still nearly speechless.
“Who are you?”
“Manuel Flores, El Chavo Viejo. Who are you?”
This small wolf with the cap, he pulls it off, and hair hair billows from beneath. A silver riverspill.
“I am Inés.”
“Do not trust anybody,” I say with urgency. Like I am an old hand at this. “Put back your cap.” Girls especially are in danger on The Beast.
“I have been watching you, Chavo Viejo,” says Inés, stuffing her hair beneath the cap again, “From over there I have seen you share half of nearly nothing. Besides, you are part wolf. You I can trust.”
For a moment I just gape at her face.
“Here then,” I say smiling, holding out to her the rest of my torta, “Take half of nearly nothing.”
Inés, she is all cejas. Something from my school days comes back to me. This one, she resembles a lot the one called Frida, who painted in a very weird way. On our classroom wall, my teacher hung a calendar with Frida’s odd paintings. And a photograph of her and her fantastic eyebrows. I call Inés, Cejas.
Cejas is not beautiful. But she is. With a good smile. She brings life wherever she goes. She is like a sparrow, a small brown bird with sparking eyes always hopping hopping seeking crumbs. A plucky little bird of complete mischief that steals your tortilla from your very hand if you are not watchful. A little mischief bird that for its boldness makes you smile. Like a sparrow, Cejas is small and busy and bold.
Cejas sees things I cannot see. Feels things I cannot feel. Dreams dreams beyond my dreams. She stretches me in a magical way to open my mind, my soul.
Cejas and I, two young lone ones on a train, trying to stay alive. Instantly we become comrades. A friendship of relámpago, lightning. Right off Cejas calls us Los Intensos because we feel fierce about things. A miracle! I tell myself in wonder, I have a friend.
My dream is to find my brother. Cejas’s dream is to find her mother, in a place called Virginia of the West. There Cejas will get a job. Her first money will go to her family, she declares in her spirited way, her sparrowness.
Cejas likes photographs. She has seen one in a store window. A picture of tortillas in a basket. Tortillas of all things. But she loves it.
“One day I will take photographs also,” she says, her dark eyes alight with the shine of her dream. For safety against bad ones, her hair is now always hidden.
Comes now her long braid of words. “Plain things—jars, petates, cactus, old fountains, old walls, old faces. Whatever I like I will snap. Maybe even sell,” she adds.
At these times Cejas speaks with such grit, such fervor, such fire, I believe she might just do this.
The Beast rushes on. Cejas becomes bored.
“Now I will take photos,” she says in a voice of secrets and hops up, balancing against me to not fall off.
“You are loca,” I say, “and completamente reckless.”
“Where is the harm in being a little reckless?”
In my mind I see death, but I do not say so.
“C
ome on.” She beckons with her little hand. And of course, under her spell, I cannot say no.
Suddenly Cejas kneels down. Beside a mother and child, wrapped in the same torn shawl. Like us, they are tired—exhausted really—from being vigilant against assaults, from trying to stay on The Beast. They are ragged and dirty, but these things do not hide their love. “Click.” Cejas works her pretend camera. “See?” she says, turning to me. Perched here on top of this raging beast, she captures who Beast Riders are.
Cejas clicks her camera again and again. Maybe the subject is a ladder of the train that Beast Riders grasp for their lives. Or a broken shoe abandoned—though not for long. One time she finds a huddled guy, completely filthy, gripping a filthy doll. She clicks him. Enraged, the man leaps up, yelling “¡Ladrona!” Thief! Cejas darts away from him, jumping jumping with care from car to car, crouching against the wind, shouting to me all the time, “Do not look down! Do not look down!”
At last we escape the furious man.
“Photography is dangerous,” she says, not smiling.
I look at her, panting.
XIII
It is three years now since I left my home. Three years of struggle. Trickery, deception, capture, beating. These things I have known in trying to reach my goal, Toño. I am nearly fifteen, and I am one hundred. But for all of my setbacks I am strong strong.
Cejas and I are friends of the soul but going separate ways. She to Virginia of the West, me to The Angels.
“Take this,” she says to me soon after we meet, her dark eyes sparking. She holds out her hand toward me.
“What?” I ask, seeing nothing.
“My camera.”
“Oh, Cejas,” I say, my throat tightening. “I cannot take your most treasured thing.”
“Do not worry, Manuelito.” Cejas shoots me a tear-bright look. “I will find another.”
I reach out my hand to receive the magical camera.
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