Читать книгу Trini - Estella Portillo Trambley - Страница 15

6

Gone!

“Salgazanos! Die!”

The Indian’s face was smoldering with anger. He pointed to the two dead bodies hanging from a tree, two suspended shapes swaying slightly in the night breeze. Trini wanted to cry out, but found no voice. Lifeless, heads hanging, the two men lost shape against the looming, giant boulders in the background. A group of men held Tonio and José Mario. One man had José Mario’s hands pinned back, another pulled his head back by the hair so that José Mario’s gaze would fall on the hanging men. Tonio, struggling against the men who held him, was also forced to look at the dead men.

They were by the river’s edge, where the Indians had led the wagon in the darkness. Tía Pancha and the children huddled in the wagon. The children emitted soft, frightened whines. Trini saw Tía Pancha turning their faces away from the sight of the two hanging sculptured bultos.

“It was just a goat, damn you,” Tonio shouted, as a scudding howl of wind swallowed his words. A Tarahumara held Trini’s wrists in an iron grip. He stood before her, erect with recoiled head. His face was in shadows, but bits of light, rained by a moon through trees, fell on the huge hands that held her. She twisted her body to make him let go. Wrenching pain. She looked to where her father stood between two captors. He stood wary, rigid. He turned his head toward the spokeman and asked sharply, “Is this Cusihuiriachi?”

There was no answer.

“You’re not going to hang us!” yelled Tonio, suddenly raising his tied hands and hitting the man next to him on the side of the face. The force of the blow threw the man to the ground. Tonio broke free from his captors. He ran into the darkness in great leaping strides, three braves following as he cleared bushes and rocks. Then they caught up with him and dragged him back. The moon slid eerily behind a cloud; the hanging men were lost in the shadows of the gaunt, black rocks.

José Mario demanded, “Are you the chief? We can explain.” The words were half-caught in the wind.

“Salgazanos!”

“We’re not thieves! We put the goat back . . .”

The spokesman pointed to the dead men. “Salgazanos!”

“What did they steal?” José Mario’s voice rasped tightly.

“A young woman, cowards!” A murmur of assent rose among the Indians.

“Is this the way of the Tarahumara?” José Mario asked. He repeated his earlier question. “Is this Cusihuiriachi?” He looked at the spokesman hard. “Is your ahau’s name Ambrosio?”

“How do you know?” the spokesman demanded.

José Mario breathed a sigh of relief. “This is Cusihuiriachi, isn’t it?” The man refused to answer again, but José Mario continued. “We know Ambrosio. He was my brother in the valley of Bachotigori.”

Trini prayed in silence. Please God, let it be. The spokesman was wary, unrelenting. He ordered, “Take them to the village!”

They were shoved back into the wagon, José Mario still demanding, “Where is Ambrosio?”

Still no answer. The wagon made its way to the village where Trini saw a huge bonfire effortlessly deploying spitting red embers that cut into the darkness. The flames rose in the middle of the pueblo square next to the large storage shed they had seen that afternoon. Its low roof made of logs and sod caught the dancing shadows. Eyes followed them, bristling like the fire. Trini saw strange, stern faces, but Sabochi was not one of them. Tehueques shoved them toward the door of the shed. Holding on to Buti and Lupita, she followed the straight figure of Tía Pancha with José Mario leading the way.

Tonio resisted, again, turning and digging an elbow into the stomach of the brave guarding him; instantaneously, three men were upon him. Trini saw one raise a heavy stick and strike a blow that caught Tonio on the side of the face. He fell to the ground. José Mario tried to get to him but was shoved roughly into the storage shed.

The shed was full of grain sacks. Two large windows looked out into the orange flames of the bonfire that fed a dancing light into the room. The tehueques locked the door behind them.

Trini ran to the window and saw them pick up Tonio, who seemed dazed. The two men locked Tonio’s arms behind his back, then led him toward the shed. The door opened, and Tonio was thrown to the floor. Trini ran to where he lay on his back, groaning.

Trini bent down to examine his blood-covered face. It was not a deep cut, but it had bled profusely. José Mario was working on the rope that tied his hands.

“They’re going to kill us,” announced Tía Pancha tremulously as she led Lupita and Buti to a pile of grain sacks in a corner. “Look at the children! Frightened, exhausted, falling on their feet.”

Trini looked at the tired little faces. They were holding on to Tía Pancha’s skirt, eyes half-closed in tear-stained faces. Tonio was now on his feet, rubbing his wrists. He looked around the room, then began to line up sacks for the children to sleep on.

Suspicious faces stared at them through the window as they piled sacks onto the floor, eyes fiercely steady. Then, all at once, they disappeared. Only the bonfire burned a dwindling dance. She felt Tonio’s hand in hers. “Try to sleep, Trini.”

Buti and Lupita were fast asleep, stretched out on the grain sacks. Tía Pancha had covered them with her shawl and was herself lying by the children’s heads, legs drawn up, arms pillowing her head. Only José Mario stood by the window watching. Tonio urged her again, “Sleep.”

The heaviness of exhaustion weighed down on her. She lay down, feeling the flames from the outside fire like waves, waves. . . . In fitful sleep she dreamt of El Enano running in open waves of fire, running, beckoning her to the cave, Sabochi’s cave. Then the fire turned into fields of chile piquín, redness waving in the wind. Sabochi’s strong arms were holding her, keeping her safe . . . until she woke up with the burning sun upon her face, Tonio sitting quietly next to her.

“Everything’s O.K.” His voice was soft, reassuring. She sat up and saw José Mario fast asleep, his head against the windowsill, sitting on grain sacks stacked by the window. She saw his body heave with the coming of a cough which filled the room. Outside, the bonfire was a pile of burnt ashes dispersed at intervals by small breezes. The square was empty.

“What time is it? she asked. Tonio went to the window, looked at the sun. “Close to noon.”

“Sabochi?” Trini’s question was a hope.

Tonio shook his head, looking out into the empty square. Suddenly, he turned to wake José Mario. “They’re coming.”

José Mario was on his feet. Lupita and Buti sat up, rubbing their eyes. Tía Pancha was praying silently on her rosary as the tehueques unlocked the door. The children ran to Tía Pancha who enfolded them in her arms protectively. José Mario steped forward.

“Where is Ambrosio?” he asked.

Again, José Mario’s question was ignored. The spokesman of the night before spat on the floor, then commanded, “Come!” The prisoners silently did as they were told, filing out of the storage shed into the hot sun.

Pencil lines of smoke smoldered in the huge, burned pile in the center of the square. Women began to appear with children, dogs trailing, following the prisoners as they made their way down a path lined with huts. Someone called out accusingly, “Salgazanos!”

The crowd was growing, braves leading the way past a water pump and the corrals. José Mario looked about frowning, squinting against the sun. He stopped suddenly. “Where are you taking us? Where is Ambrosio?”

The only answer was a shove. Someone hissed again, “Salgazanos!” A murmur rose in the crowd. Another voice shouted, “Hang them!”

The crowd surrounded them, pushing and shoving in a definite direction toward the river. Trini remembered the dead men of the night before. Fear was bitter in her mouth. She grabbed Tonio’s arm for courage. His eyes told her to be brave. She felt the anger in the hard hands that pushed her forward. Faces, curious, jumbled, strange; strangled angry sounds filled the air. Trini looked straight ahead, holding Tonio by the wrist. She could feel his beating pulse against her fingers, a transference of strength. The thought of Sabochi was something vague, lost, distant now. The spokesman stopped and ordered, “Men, come! Women, stay!”

“No!” Trini cried out. “I stay with my father, with Tonio!”

“Keep the girl back,” barked the spokesman. Two tehueques held her back as men hurried José Mario and Tonio toward the river. Trini struggled, catching sight of Buti and Lupita hiding their faces in Tía Pancha’s skirt. She was breathing with convulsive effort, heaving and thrashing to make the braves let go. Words came hoarse from her throat, “What are you going to do to them?”

No answer. They shoved her roughly toward the village, Tía Pancha and the children following. For an instant, Trini twisted herself free to turn and see the figure of her father and Tonio lose themselves in the huge group of men making their way to the line of boulders that fronted the river. Trini stopped to beg, “Please, please, let them go!”

She was on her knees, hugging the thighs of a tehueque, pleading. He merely stood and waited until she was cried out, then he pulled her to her feet and shoved her ahead of him.

* * *

They crouched inside a dark room where the only window was boarded up; the smell of burning green branches filled Trini’s throat. They had been thrown into the room without ceremony. Tía Pancha and the children sat in numb silence on the floor. The only light came from a doorway without a door. The dark was soothing to Trini. Nevertheless, she crawled into the sunlight streaming through the doorway. She leaned her head against the jamb, feeling a throbbing pain in her head. She saw an old woman, a man, and some boys working. Dear God! how strange to see people calmly doing things when such terror invaded her body. Her nerves were taut, her body tense, her eyes burning with tears; she placed her head on her knees and stared out without really seeing anymore. Behind her, she could hear Tía Pancha’s gentle voice leading the children in Ave Maria.

“Ave María, ruega por nosotros . . .” Trini sobbed silently. Oh, yes, Sweet Virgin, don’t let them kill Papá and Tonio. The prayers set a rhythm of hope beating in the dark room. Outside, the workers walked around small burning pyramids. The smell of burning cepas had the taste of ashes and made her eyes burn.

“Ave María, madre de Dios . . .” Trini watched two boys throw the green cepas into the fire.

“Tía, are they preparing graves for us?” she asked in a whisper.

“Don’t frighten the children. It’s just a cocedor de cal, that’s all.” Her aunt’s voice assumed a lightness. Tía Pancha pointed, “See, Buti, and Lupita, the man is putting limestone in the well.”

For a little while, curiosity clouded fear. Tía Pancha continued, “See, see how he sets the green branches on fire in the well?”

“What are the boys doing?” Buti asked, his eyes intent on the workers.

The Indian boys took out swollen rocks from one of the pyramid wells. The rocks looked like huge sponges. Tía Pancha told them, “Cal, limestone.”

They watched the old woman sprinkle water on the swollen stones, then take one of the stones and tap it lightly with a flat stick. Instantly, it pulverized and fell like a dirt avalanche into a chiquihuiti. Tía Pancha pointed again. “They put it in the basket.”

When the children’s interest waned, Tía Pancha told them a cuento about aves. They listened for a while, then Buti remembered El Enano. It was a temporary flight to happier times. Tía Pancha began another prayer, “Dios te salve, reina y madre . . .” The children joined in with light, trusting voices. Trini watched her aunt with the children, thinking, she’s so wonderful, giving them no time to be afraid. But I’m so afraid. Her aunt’s attempts to distract them had not pushed back despair for Trini.

Papá? Tonio? A void overwhelmed, a dreading, numbing fear. She stood by the door and looked up at a relentless sun, a fire without pity. She fell on her knees, seeing the workers’ fire as a killing fire, the pyramids were waiting graves, Papá and Tonio were hanging bultos on a tree . . .

Oh, God, she sobbed quietly, putting her head down to the floor, her body curved in sorrow. A shadow crossed the door, and in the darkness of herself, Trini felt someone. Her heart pounded a joy. She looked up.

“God, my God, Sabochi!” She knelt with arms outstretched, reaching for him. He picked her up and held her for a long time, stroking her hair, assuring her in whispers that all was well. She believed him. God was good. He answered prayers. She raised apprehensive eyes to him. “Papá? Tonio?”

“They’re safe, fine . . .”

She laughed, cried, clung, floating in happiness. She could hear Sabochi’s heart. He was holding her. “Sabochi, Sabochi . . .”

* * *

They stood by the goat corral, Buti in Sabochi’s arms, Lupita by his side. Isidoro was cutting the goat from the herd, and José Mario was asking, “You can find the exact goat we took?”

Sabochi laughed. “Yes, each goat is different, like people.”

Isidoro held a goat by its feet for them to see, then he put the bleating little animal under the curve of his arm. He went to a horse and tied the goat to its back, then mounted his horse, waved his arm, turned, and led the horse with the goat out of the village.

“Where’s he going?” Tonio asked.

Sabochi’s eyes followed Isidoro’s trail of dust. “He’s taking the goat to the hills.”

“Why?”

“To free it there, so it may roam the hills. It no longer belongs to us. It never existed.”

The gesture was one of grace. If the goat never existed neither did the theft. Sabochi now turned to them, smiling, “My family, this has not been a good welcome.”

“Why were those men hung?” Tonio asked.

“Two strangers. They raped one of our young girls.”

“Is it punishable by death?”

“All crimes are, where the strong attack the defenseless. It was also a matter of honor.”

Nothing more was said about the hanging. Trini walked up to Sabochi and looked up into his eyes, so appreciative of his family’s presence.

“I found you,” she whispered, a happy softness in her voice.

“I am glad all of you are here, pollito.”

“I would like to stay here with you.” Her words said so much more. They spoke of a loneliness, a happiness, a dream.

“Stay?” Sabochi seemed bewildered.

“With you, Sabochi.” Trini’s statement hung in the air. There was something in Sabochi’s eyes, something without joy or acceptance. How could he not want me when I have been his all my life? Her eyes told him this, and he turned away. Why did he turn away?

“It is a different way of life . . .” Trini heard Sabochi’s words as if from far away. He had not said them. He cleared his throat in awkwardness, and spoke other words, kindly, deliberately. “It cannot be.”

“Why?” Anguish drowned her. “Why?”

“There’s someone you must meet.”

For a fleeting moment their eyes met and Trini looked desperately for the old magic, but Sabochi quickly walked away toward a cenote, turning, nodding for them to follow.

The group followed him around a cluster of huts that circled the storage shed, Trini hesitant, behind the others. Little children ran naked in the sun. Sabochi’s words—‘It cannot be—It cannot be’—curled and contorted in the same sun. The laughing children were there and not there. The turmoil was spending her, making her blind. But life was all around her. A man was spreading corn to dry on a roof. Women bent over cooking fires. “It cannot be—It cannot be.” Words, pain thickening the blood.

Sabochi stopped before a hut where a huge half-woven yucca basket leaned against the wall, where old, discarded pots lay around the yard, and an old rack made of rope held long strips of drying meat. Sabochi went inside. This was his house? wondered Trini. He was back, standing at the door. When he stepped out, a young woman followed him with a baby in her arms. His house? Who was she? The young woman smiled shyly and held out the baby for them to see.

“This is the first born of Ambrosio.”

Trini stood and stared and did not choose to believe. How could she believe? She was hollow, years spilled into nothing. Trini turned her head away as Tía Pancha held out her arms for the baby.

“A boy?”

The mother nodded proudly. Trini faced them again, looked past the girl, past the baby, at Sabochi whose eyes were on her. Tears welled, a wild glistening. She choked back sobs. Sabochi stood immobile. She turned away and found Tonio beside her. Good, sweet Tonio, to hold on to, to stifle the hurt. She felt Tonio’s arms comforting her.

Gone, gone, gone. . . Sabochi was beside her. He whispered, “Trini . . .” She felt an urge to laugh. Sabochi had never called her Trini before. It had always been those childish names. Changes had taken place in the universe. She ran from him toward Tonio, begging, “Take me away.”

He took her hand and led her away from the group. She followed with her eyes closed, stumbling, holding tight. Where was he taking her? She opened her eyes. They had come to the well along the path to the arroyo. She could not go on. She had to face things. She must not be a child any longer. “Let’s go back.”

“Are you sure?” Tonio’s voice was kind.

Trini nodded, looked up and smiled bravely. They went back to Sabochi’s hut. Sabochi’s wife was setting out straw mats in front of the house. Again, Trini was there and not there. Talk, gestures, things were out of her range of consciousness. Little bits and pieces took the shape of realness. Her mind photographed, her ear recorded—Sabochi’s wife’s name was Chimac—she offered food—she served them—Sabochi put wood into the cooking fire—Chimac took out a breast to feed her baby—Trini felt the rising of a suffocated scream. She stirred atole in her bowl aimlessly, tried not to hear, not to see, not to feel. She pushed away from the bits and pieces, then she felt Tonio’s hand on her shoulder. No, this time she did not want his sympathy. She went up to Chimac blindly, stroked the baby’s head, asked in an alien voice cut with hurt, “What’s his name?”

“Chirachi, Chio.”

Chimac’s contentment tore at her; a flood of anguish, strange invasions filled her. The sun burned pain, spirals of blue and orange light glassed her sight. I mustn’t faint, she told herself. She turned away from the young wife and in confused defiance called out, “Come on, Buti, Lupita!”

She broke into a run, the children following. Soon she had left them far behind. She stopped, waiting for them, noticing that their little faces were wet with perspiration. She led them down a path, slackening her pace. Buti’s chatter came through, “They’re playing ball, look!” He was pointing to a noisy dusty game with boys holding long wooden scoops that kept the ball in the air. Trini did not want to look; the noise was bruising. She quickened her step again toward the curve of huts that led to the arroyo, passing an old man making a parrilla of iron tubing. Trini’s eye caught a trail of goat droppings snaking up to the old man sitting in the sun. She laughed, her laughter caught in a whimper. Nothing has happened. What I see does not exist. My valley must be near. Where are the hills? Remember the hills, Sabochi? Remember the fig tree? This is empty, empty land. It is not home, said her empty, empty heart. Faint veils of vapor rose from cooking pots, and ashes scattered in the wind before her. Buti was yelling, “You walk too fast!”

She didn’t answer. She wanted to escape them, to go back to Batopilas. A whirlwind grew in her, something she could not stop. Yes, yesterday there had been no Chimac, no Chio, no Sabochi. No Sabochi? Gone, gone, gone . . . She swallowed her desperation, running and running against the dirt wind. She was past the arroyo now. She ran far beyond it with eyes closed, with a mouth of dust. She ran until she could run no more, her lungs about to burst.

Finally, she fell to the ground and cried like a little child, sobbing loudly, her sobs mixing with the howling wind. She cried until she was spent. Then she sat, knees drawn up, held by her arms, head to one side, and stared blankly ahead. Her body opened up to peace, floating, silence restoring the world. Sights and sounds came back. The horizon. The river. She got up and continued her way aimlessly toward the river.

Gone, gone, gone. Tears again. They came silently this time. Now she was by the water’s edge, the rustle of leaves and the beating of birds’ wings moaned, gone—gone—gone . . . Another whimper grew inside her, but she stifled it. The sun blazed—gone—gone—gone . . . She looked around and soon recognized the spot. There before her were the trees backed by huge boulders. She remembered the dark bultos against the moon. She looked up, frightened by the tree limbs, now bare, that danced to the wind’s whine. The men were gone. Gone—gone—gone . . . The face of farce again! She wiped her quiet tears and tried to think of Chimac and the baby with calm. Vapors dissolving like the sponge, pulverizing. Death and life, green and desolate, cut by pain, loss and gain. Recovery sang in her veins, for no other reason than the surge of new energy in her body, the mind seeding new hope. Nothing stopped, all things went on, and with an elation born out of the sadness, a resilience born out of blindness, she turned back, feeling almost lightheaded.

She was el pollito, the little girl kicking dust along the road. She picked up a stone and threw it in the air. Then she looked for pretty stones, colored ones wearing the shades of her rainbow rocks. Every time she found a pretty one, she rubbed it clean on her skirt, putting it in her pocket. The sound of instinct hurrying in the blood. A name came to her lips—Chimac—Chimac—Chimac . . . What a pretty name. Like music. And the pain? Gone—gone—gone . . . almost gone.

Chimac, Chimac, Chimac—it was like the waterfall in Batopilas. She ran past the arroyo. She found herself in the midst of cooking fires, naked children, lean, starved dogs, milling people at their labors. She began to walk faster and wondered what had become of Buti and Lupita. When she came to the cenote, she looked around for them. They were not in sight.

She would walk back to Sabochi’s house. She looked up to see Chimac walking toward her with Chio in her arms. Chimac smiled and called out, “Trini!”

Trini pulled back the blown hair from her face. One hand still held the colored stones. Their eyes met. Dear God, I must move without feeling, she told herself. Chimac was before her holding the baby against her shoulder. Pretty Chimac. Trini opened her hand and Chimac looked at the colored pebbles, then Trini let them fall out of her hand, like a spilling rainbow, one by one. They both laughed; Trini asked, with great seriousness, “May I hold Chio?”

Chimac put the baby in her arms, and they both walked back to Sabochi’s house in silence.