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A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García
“This field is turning to dirt,” Flavio said, and then he turned his head and looked at the foothills. There had been no moisture in Guadalupe for four months, and the hills were dusty and too dry. The trees had grown faded and listless as if they had forgotten altogether what rain was. There was a shadow moving between the piñons, and Flavio thought idly that it seemed too large and moved too haphazardly to be a deer.
.....
Hours after Hipolito and Francisco had fallen asleep, Cristóbal lay awake, staring up into the limbs of the juniper. Through them he could glimpse the stars and the sliver of a new moon. He could hear the sound of the creek. Even the wail of coyotes at the other end of the valley now seemed comforting to him. For the first time in weeks, Cristóbal felt at peace. He thought of his wife and how he longed to be near her. He thought of his eight daughters and how it would be to hold each one, even the youngest, who was but an infant and only cried when he came near her. When he finally fell asleep, a thin mist of clouds had hidden the moon. In his mind Cristóbal saw himself walking into Las Sombras, and all about him was his family.
Cristóbal didn’t wake the next morning until it was light. The sky was a pale white and looked thin and fragile to him, as if it were something that might break. He lay quietly for a moment staring into the limbs of the juniper, and then he wondered why Hipolito had not already roused him to begin the journey home.
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