Eat.
It was raining, still raining. It had been raining for over a week and everything was wet, damp, and moldy. The rain beat down ceaselessly on the thatched roof like a herd of horses on pavement.
“Eat.” He repeated.
She lifted the spoon to her swollen lips but could not open them. He reached over and shoved the spoonful of cold corn mush into her mouth.
“You must eat; for Faustino’s sake.”
Maria Raquela looked over at Pagan sleeping; his breath coming in small gasps. She swallowed painfully. She forced another spoonful down and began clearing the few crockery bowls. She went to the water cask and filled the washing bowl with water. She looked out of the small window at the gray sky. Demetrio got up from the table. He grabbed his coat and hat and put them on. He lit a stub of a cigar. She wanted to ask him where he was going and how long he would be gone but she thought the better of it.
“Boy.” He shouted.
“I’ll get him, you don’t have to shout.” She said, surprising herself.
She knelt down by Pagan’s pallet and gently shook the very small boy awake.
“Mi hijo, it’s time to wake up.”
Pagan awoke very slowly, fever clouding his small mind.
“Take this.” She whispered and stuffed two cold cooked yams in his pocket. She took off her ragged shawl and tied it around his neck.
“Come boy.” She heard Demetrio’s shout.
Pagan ran out into the rain and got into the wagon. She watched them drive off.
“If you leave this house while I am gone I will take him away where you will never find him” he said. His words returned to her like the crack of a whip.
How would she buy shoes for him? No shoes, no school and he must go to school, he must.She remembered her fascination with shoes, though she was one of the many Arriaga girls, she, unlike the rest, never went barefoot. During this time of the great war with the gringos from the north, all the men and boys in the village had been taken. Since there were no boys, they had to do the work of men. But she would rather get beat than to dig the latrines or drag load after load of firewood or comb through the mangroves for fat snakes to skin and eat. She bathed twice a day at the spring, so much so that her sisters called her La Princessa.
It was the day of the funeral. It was hot and all she could think of was bathing in the secret spring under the waterfall. Her small eight year old cousin had died of fever and was being buried. There were many garlands to make for the small Church of St Tomas in the village of Cancion. That is why she looked for the flowers. Everyone thought it the height of vanity; instead of using the traditional showy blossoms as was the custom in Cancion, La Princessa had found orchids; delicate, yellow orchids on the hillside of the secret waterfall.
She climbed the hill with care, careful not to scratch her delicate feet. One here and one there, she tucked the yellow orchids into her pockets and descended the hill.
A sound. What was that? She heard it once, then again, not the sound of a large cat, the kind that terrorizes the village when there were wild fires in the hills. There had been no fires this summer, at least not yet. It did not sound like a big cat, more like a moan. She walked to the mouth of the cave, the sound grew louder. She could barely see in the light. As she walked closer she could make out a head of dirty yellow hair, pale eyes stretched wide in fear. Then she saw blood stains on his pant leg. He was one of those soldiers from the north. To her eyes he was a sleeping prince. She touched his face, he grabbed her hand. She spoke quietly explaining that she would help him, she would return with bandages, food and water. She lightly stroked his face.
“Calmate, calmate” she whispered. He released her. She ran to the cave entrance, tore the hem of her dress, wet it in the water from the falls and ran back. She bathed his hot forehead with the cool water. He fell back. She ran home and took what she needed. The village was miles away. She wrapped the things in a small bundle. When she came back she knelt to him and dressed the wound. Her small brown hands patiently stitched his wounded leg with her mother’s finest cotton thread. He did not utter a sound. She sat with her delicate feet tucked under her dress, not minding that she sat on the dirty floor. He grabbed her hands. She came back each day, whenever she had time.
It ended as soon as it began. She came to see him one day and he was gone, like an interrupted thought. Hot tears ran down her face and clouded her eyes. She searched for him as though he could be hiding in the rocky walls. She turned to leave and almost missed it, but it sparkled when the sunlight hit the wall of the cave. A small gold charm hung on a leather chain on the wall. The charm had something written in English letters, she could not read. She clasped the charm to her small breasts and kept it near her heart.
She had always been proud; especially of her delicate feet. She took care to wrap them at night swabbed in goose fat and wrapped in cotton rags to maintain their delicate appearance. She always wore shoes, never sandals, as her abuela had told her.
“You don’t want feet that spread like a duck, do you?
”She had to leave her tiny village of Xochitl once they found out. She tried to hide it but she did not know what was happening to her. Her feet began to swell and her heart beat fast with very little effort. One day her mother looked deep into her eyes and saw something she had not seen before.
“Have you bled?”
“No, I mean yes.”
Her mother slapped her hard across the face, for the first time. She grabbed her scrawny arm and drug her through the dusty streets of Xochitl to the church and threw her down at the door step.
“Don’t come home until you confess all your sin.”
Her hair and clothes were filled with the dust of Xochitl. She had never felt so dirty before. She stood up and wiped herself off and walked the twenty miles to her grandmother’s village of Cancion.
Her grandmother promptly sent her back, but not before she married her off to Demetrio, a drunken mule driver. He never beat her or raised his voice. When they met he looked at her delicate brown feet and swollen belly and smiled to himself. Once they were married he took all of her shoes and piled them in the dirt yard and burned them. He and his friends rode off into the night laughing loudly.
She smiled at the memory of the wagging tongues and the road full of glass. She took her old shawl, the one she didn’t use anymore, tied it around her head and reached beside the coal brazier. She felt along the floor board until she found the loose ones and pulled them apart. Underneath she picked up the tin box and opened it. Inside were all her earthly treasures, her dowry: her silver rosary, a pressed flower, and a very finely engraved small gold coin. Her abuela had given her a small piece of land before she died.
“A fine salve for his wounded pride” she said to Maria Raquela on her wedding day.
She took out the rosary and put the rest away. It was decided. She would walk the twenty miles to Telolo to the large market in Los Coyotes where she could get a good price for the chillies and corn she would harvest. But first, she needed to get the harvest in; by herself it seemed. It was the thought of the shoes that made her stay, having them in her hands, giving them to her son, these things made her stay and simply go on.
She looked down at her large calloused feet and thought of a time when her feet were small and smooth. She knew that without the shoes no school in Mexico City would take her son, he could not be sent to his Tio Abelard, nothing would happen nothing; would change without the shoes.
Demetrio had left on a long dangerous journey to Mexico City and would not be back for almost a month. She counted twelve beads on her rosary and took a loose thread from her skirt and tied it between the twelve and thirteenth bead as a reminder. She went to the wall next to the stove and took a piece of charred wood and marked the wall; 1. She would only have twelve days to harvest the crop and twelve days to figure out how to get the money and to buy the shoes. Her head swam with unanswered questions. She took a small cold yam from the pot and broke it into two small pieces, put half back and put the rest in her pocket.
The wagon sounds died away slowly. She listened. The rain had slowed to a trickle. She went to the shed and rummaged in the dark, then remembering the candle in her pocket; she put it inside the metal wall bracket and lit it. She searched in the back under a pile of unused things and there it was hidden under a tarp, her abuela’s wedding chest. She had learned many things from her abuela; one of them was patience. “Sometimes you must wait for the wheel to turn mi hija; wait for the turning.”
Her abuela would always say this as they were grinding the corn for the meal and the grinding was very hard at first, the wheel would be so difficult to turn it would almost be impossible to move. But as they worked, it seemed the more tired they became the easier the wheel was to turn. She never understood this as a child but she never forgot it either. Now she did something she had never done before. She looked for a heavy wrench and with a few deft strokes, broke open the large rusted lock. The things she saw in it reminded her of the girl she had been when her abuela married her off to the mule driver Demetrio.
“I will marry you because of your delicate feet.” He said.
She knew that it was also because of her dark skin and her green eyes and the fact that she could read and write. Then it all changed – like the changes of the sea from, hour to hour, imperceptible, quiet, and silent like the steps of a caterpillar on wet grass.
And then. He took from her all the things that made him want her. In this box were her last pair of shoes, her comb and her books. He took everything but her memories.
She caught her breath. She reached inside the chest and got what she needed and dragged it outside into the light. The rain had finally stopped. The steam rose from the ground as the sun dried the day. She sat on a three legged stool and took the hat from the chest and tied it around her head with a piece of rag. She picked up a burlap sack and headed toward the corn field. The ears of corn hung in remorse, full and fat, embarrassed by their fertility. She could smell the distant sea.
Most of the corn harvest would be ruined if she did not hurry; perhaps she could save some if not most of it, and the chilies too precious to eat, she could sell at the market in exchange for coins. She would, if she were lucky have enough money to buy the leather to have the shoes made.
She walked in the muddy fields through the rows of rotting stalks looking for corn she could salvage. She found an ear here, one there, even half an ear she threw into the sack. The afternoon sun unleashed its fiery breath on the earth. Her wet clothes steamed in the heat. She patiently checked each stalk and every row. Her ankles sank in the mud. Now she held a full bag. She dragged the sack back to the side yard that she had covered with river stones and laid the corn out to dry. She took out a knife and began cutting the rotting parts of the corn and tossed them into a pile. She would make compost with it later. She squatted down and watched the ants quickly overrun the pile of rotting corn. She clutched the silver rosary and prayed. She walked to the rain barrel, took a cupful of water, rinsed her mouth and then spit it out. She took the bag and returned to the field. She worked until nightfall. The sun fell from the sky and sunk into the earth. She went inside and went to sleep, too tired to eat.
She woke early the next day. She went out to the field to pick peppers. She did not eat; but she drank some goat’s milk and started work.
Night followed day. Each evening she sat in the small chair by the cold kiva and fell asleep holding her rosary, her lips moving silently.
She thought she was dreaming. She shifted in the chair and rubbed her knees. A rustle; footsteps? She could not make out which it was. The small goat cried and then became quiet. She reached for her machete and crept toward the door.
She saw him drinking goat’s milk from his cupped hand. He looked at the machete raised above her head and smiled; his eyes twinkling. His wide grin filled his face.
“I have no money Senora, but if you could put me up for a day or two, perhaps? I will work for food. Look I have already begun.” He pointed at the wood he had already cut and stacked. He had gone into the field and finished harvesting all the corn and laid the remainder in neat rows next to hers.
“Besides Senora, I can help you get this to market. The market in Los Coyotes opens soon.
She did not answer, but she lowered the machete. How did he know about the market? His clothes were filthy as though he had come a long way, but there were many like him fleeing the many battles. Perhaps he was a soldier who had deserted or he had gotten lost or he just grew tired of the reformista.
“You will have to stay with the animals.” She heard herself say. She vowed to sleep with the machete from now on.
They worked until sunset. They worked liked there was no tomorrow.
The Next Morning.
Two eggs appeared on the table. It was already hot, even early in the morning. She set the breakfast table outside. The thatched roof provided shade over a small area to the side of the round mud hut. She set two cups of water, corn fritters, chilies and the two eggs on the small table. She had cooked the eggs in a pot surrounded by beans, wild onions, dried chilies and sauce.
“Senora, if I may. I am Augustin Jose Maria Galeano Bravo. The longer the name the poorer the prospects, they say. But, call me Juan, por favor.” He flashed that wide grin of his. He said this as he sat down to eat. He had cleaned up and shaved. His beard was gone but his shiny raven black mustache matched his black hair, standing out all the more against cheeks that were not burnt by the sun. She noticed small flecks of silver light in his hair that caught the sun as he turned his head.
She carefully spooned out half the eggs and placed a tortilla beside it. She watched him eat. He ate like he had not eaten in a month. As soon as he finished eating he took his plate, wiped it clean with sand and a rag. She put it inside on a small shelf.
He said. “I am going to the river that I passed in the hills for more water. I will return by noon to help with the afternoon chores.”
No sooner had he left than she felt anger bloom in her chest. What was she angry about? Was she counting on him already? How could she be displeased with anything he was or was not doing. He was nothing if not polite and hard working. A warm wind disturbed the dry ground. She made her way to the field to start harvesting the chilies.
She dreamt of a burro last night; indigestion, perhaps. The sky was a bright pink tinged with green and promising a cooling rain that was only a tease. She went to check the tree beside the field. There were five marks already. She made another. Demetrio would be home in ten days. They still had to harvest and dry the chilies and take everything to market in Los Coyotes. Then buy the leather and take it to the shoemaker and have him make the shoes. Would there be enough time? He has to let him go to school, once he sees the shoes. She bit her bottom lip to calm herself. Beside the old hen had begun laying eggs again, surely this is a sign that God’s eyes are upon us.
She retied her hat on her head and squatted down to pick the chilies. She worked all morning and afternoon picking peppers, carrying basket after basket to the end of the rows. She laid them on a sisal mat that she made last winter. She went back and forth in the hot sun. Her hands turned red, stained with the fiery pepper juice. She stood and bent over at the waist, wondering if she would ever be able to straighten up again. Women in her home village of Cancion became small gremlin like creatures after many years of picking peppers. She had promised herself this would not happen to her. The memory of that promise made her wince. She worked through the noon day heat; pausing only to sit in the shade and sip a cup of water while she eat a cold yam.
Her eyes followed the ridge line of the foothills. She could barely make out a shape. Her heart stopped. It was too early; he couldn’t be back this early. She saw a shape, then two shapes, a man, no an animal and a man walking down the black hills toward the stone field. A man leading a burro.
“I have a way with wild things.” She thought she heard him say. She kept her head down as much from the sun’s glare as from anything else. Augustin Jose Maria Galeano Bravo led the burro, speaking softly to it; it didn’t resist him.
“Corn fritters; makes all the difference.” And then the smile, his face dripping with sweat as he fed the burro a piece at a time. He led the burro by a rope and tied him to the side of the shed. He followed her to the chilies and began picking them with his bare hands.
“This should be finished by tomorrow. When is the market?”
She replied before she could stop herself. She held up three fingers.
“I better hurry then. They must dry and then we have to account for the trip to the market. Juan hurried, finishing the remaining rows in no time.
“Come Cielo, pull, pull.” The burro dragged the woven mats one after another to the shed. She carefully went through each one, discarding those chilies that did not pass muster and separating out those of the highest quality from the rest. Her fingers were swollen and felt as though they were filled with needles but she knew it would be worth it to get those shoes.
They cleared the field. She went in to prepare supper. It was late and already dusk. Her body twisted in pain that arched through her back in wave like spasms. She lay on her back to ease the hurt.
She heard hammering. She sat straight up. She rushed to the door. There he was; hammering the broken wheel on the discarded pony cart.
“Bueno Senora. This small cart should do; verdad?”
There was wood strewn on the ground and pieces fitted for the broken wheel and nails. She couldn’t imagine where he got the nails. First the hen lays eggs, then a burro and now nails? The burro stood patiently eating small leaves, its ears flicking the sun’s dying light.
“Augustin, Juan, dinner is almost ready.”
She went to get more wood for the stove. She heard the tapping beat to the rhythm of her heart.
Market Day
Market Day came. They loaded the small cart with baskets of dried corn and chilies and with basket of husked corn. Everything must be sold. She walked up into the foothills and prayed at the small shrine.
Dear Virgin, I am a sinner, I am weak and vain and have been less than faithful but this one thing I ask. This one thing only.
She walked back to the hut.
“Senora. Venga, listos?” Juan asked.
She had never been more ready for anything. She went inside to put on her shoes and her hat. Then she filled a small jar with cold yams and a jar with chili sauce. She prepared four eggs and a small bucket of precious charcoal for cooking. She took these outside to the cart.
Juan held out his hand and helped her to get into the cart.Juan drove carefully so he would not upset their goods. They arrived at the market early enough to look for a good space.
“Let’s set up near the church. It will bring us luck.” She told Juan.
“We still have to pay the patron.” He said. She had not thought of this.
“What will you use to buy our ticket?”
“No te preocupes.” He said flashing his smile. He got out of the cart and walked through the crowd that was already forming. She held her rosary and counted the beads with her swollen fingertips.
She saw Isabella Mendoza watching as she flipped tortillas.
“Maria Raquela, como estas? Where have you been? I thought I heard Demetrio complain to mi marido Pedro that these markets are worthless.”
Isabella Mendoza let her eyes wander over the wagon taking a quick but thorough inventory; her lazy eyes drinking it all in. Maria Raquela watched a scorpion crawl across Isabella’s foot unnoticed. ‘If the scorpion bit her the scorpion would die.’ Juan waved a red rag to signal her he had found a spot.
She drove the cart forward leaving Isabella open mouthed. She wondered how Juan paid the fee but didn’t ask. They unloaded the cart and set up their stall.
They sat and waited. She watched Isabella Mendoza slither from stall to stall whispering and laughing and trailing contemptuous arrogance behind her like snail droppings. One hour passed and then two with no customers. She held on tight to her rosary.
“Get some water and fill up that large pot.” She heard herself say. “And set up that hearth with the charcoal from the wagon.”
Juan did as he was told. She opened her precious portion of handmade tortilla wrapped in a once damp cloth. They were now old, dry and curled at the edges. She could not make the chili stuffed tortillas she planned. She would have to make something else. She could feel the eyes of the other women on her. She had been in this village for four years and had never been invited to anyone’s baptism, christening or funeral. She knew she was a Moreno, a dark one, but she thought it had to be more than this. Perhaps it was because Demetrio had a good trade as a muleteer, or because they owned their own land or because they had their own mule or shed. There were too many reasons and none made sense.
“Senora?”
She looked at Juan. He had lit the hearth, brought the reserve stores from the wagon, the charcoal as well as sugar and lard. Somehow he knew what she would need and had gotten it all. She had seen him move amongst the crowd but did not realize what he was doing until now. She had no time to waste. If they could not bring people over to their stall all the work for the past few weeks would come to nothing. Juan tended the fire and she went to work.
She laid out all the things Juan had traded for; lard, honey, cinnamon, black pepper, salt and chocolate. She shaved the chocolate very thin and placed it in a small bowl to melt in the sun. In another bowl she mixed the cinnamon, salt and black pepper. And finally the sweet honey she had been saving for her son’s birthday and for the unborn one’s christening.
The women feigned disinterest. They had each brought their own specialties from home, things they had learned from their mothers and grandmothers, things they had made since before the Spanish landed. She ignored their antagonism and concentrated on the task. She prayed as she shaved the bitter chocolate. She prayed while she mixed the spices.
“Keep the fire hot.” She said to Juan.
She crossed herself and began dropping piece of broken damp tortilla in the hot lard one at a time. The grease sputtered. They floated slowly, blistering and floating to the top of the pot.
“Juan, I need another set of hands.” She showed him what to do.
“After you finish, lay them on this plate around the bowl of honey. Keep going and make sure you coat each piece with the spices before they cool off.”
The smell of fried tortilla filled the air with a familiar smell. But, once the aroma of cinnamon, salt and black pepper were added the aroma was intoxicating.
A little boy, no more than four watched at the edge of the long wooden plank they used for a table. Juan handed him a newly cooked chip dipped in honey.
The hungry boy filled his mouth with the hot tortilla. His eyes opened wide, surprised at the flavor, he chewed the mouthful slowly enjoying every bite.
Just as quickly as he appeared he disappeared leaving Mara Arriaga speechless. It was not just the one, but Juan gave the small boy several chips wrapped in a corn husk. She continued cooking and said nothing.
“You know we have nothing to spare.” He heard her say without speaking. He had read it in her eyes.
All around the market the women’s eyes grew wide with haughty insult; their hair curled in contempt. The men began to form a line. The men who had dug the drainage pit for the church had come to the market to see what was going on. They were tired and they were hungry. They came and stood quietly in a long winding line under the glaring eyes of the women; their wives. It was a many headed caterpillar stretching across the market.
She cooked. He served. By nightfall the pennies grew and grew until they filled three pots with coins; coins that would pave the road from the village of Xochitl to Mexico City.
They cleaned up and packed the wagon. The cart trundled slowly by the river using the moonlight as a guide. Juan had affixed a torch to the back of the cart for the journey back to Xochitl. They reached the farm several hours later, dog tired.
She did not stop to rest. She carefully put everything away and cleaned all the pots and utensils that were used. Then she sat down to weave by candlelight.
“Senora.”
She turned to face him.
“There will be trouble if I stay. A seasonal man can be explained; one who overstays the harvest cannot.”
The candle flickered on the walls. She nodded. She went to the small shelf and took a long piece of hand woven cloth and put it around his neck.
“The nights will be cold.”
Juan fell asleep looking at the stars overhead. She stayed awake looking at the moon. He was gone the next day.
The Following Day
The sun came up later than usual, or so it seemed to her. She ran to the knot calendar to count out the days since Demetrio left for Mexico City. “Tomorrow, no today.” She put the three pots of coins on the table covered in a cloth.
He will know. Isabella and her husband travel the same post road as Demetrio. The word will spread like a drop of ink on a white sheet. She knew Demetrio would be enraged. She had thought of everything but how to explain the money.
She heard the wagon pulling up to the house. She went to the wagon to get Pagan. Demetrio was busy unloading supplies. She watched him work untying large crates marked “peligro” and placing them in the shed.
“I have to leave tomorrow for Tlacoa They want this delivered to the mining camp by tomorrow night.
“Where is Pagan?”
“He is with a friend.”
“Who?”
“With Ramirez. Ramirez has a tannery in Mexico City. He will learn to work hard, he’ll learn a trade; perhaps one day he will have his own business. Why so many questions?”
She was overcome with overwhelming exhaustion. Her stomach ached and her head began spinning. She went to the water bucket but did not drink. She held onto the side of the house. She fell down on her knees clasping her rosary.
Months later.
They did not speak that day, or ever again. She prepared his food and washed his clothes and kept his house but she did not speak. Her words were gone. He left for Tlaco that night and returned, as promised the next week. Each week she went to market days, wherever they were held around the village. She came home with jar after jar of coins that she hid in a cave with the rest. Word spread about her success.
Demetrio came home smelling of Isabella Mendoza’s cooking and unwashed sheets.
“People are talking”
He flew into a rage and slapped her across the face and arms. She did not feel anything, she could not feel anything. She fell next to the cradle and held the recien nacido, Faustino; only a few weeks old. He drank himself to sleep that night. She held the baby in her arms. Demetrio was snoring like a freight train.
“My fate is to be tied to the devil in hell”
She wrapped the baby up warmly and took the cart into the hills. She went to the cave and put the ten jars of coins into the cart and drove on.
Demetrio had fallen asleep dreaming of pulche. He thought that he must remind her to refill the large jar. The next morning Demetrio noticed the water had stopped running; even though he had discovered a spring and created an irrigation pipe for the field. The money he made for delivering the “Peligro” loads paid for these improvements and paid for his pulche and nights with Isabella Mendoza. But the spring had to be cleaned regularly. He climbed many hills to get to the spring. He paused to wipe his brow. The trail had become overgrown since he was here last. Has it been one month, perhaps two? He could not remember. He was losing track of time. Why did she no longer speak to him? He never asked her about the second wagon, or the two burros or why the hen had begun to lay eggs again after days when she wouldn’t lay any. He climbed and climbed. He reached the spring after two hours. His legs felt like lead.
Demetrio cleaned the spring of mud and leaves and walked slowly back down to his house.
“Maria should be back from the market by now.” He almost said aloud.
He had done what needed to be done. They had barely enough food for the two of them and now with baby Faustino; there would never be enough for four. He fell asleep to the sound of her weeping night after night until he could stand no more of it. He would tell her so the moment he saw her. He tended his fields and made his meals of beans and corn. He cleaned his tools and did repairs for his neighbors when they asked. But. He had stopped seeing Isabella and he drank one jar of pulche instead of his customary three. He made special trips to the spring just to have something to do. He sat outside in the evening in the harsh dry wind to get away from the wall of loneliness that closed in around him.
It took two weeks for him to realize that she was gone. Bewildered; he crawled into a jar of pulche, covered his face and eyes in the biting liquid and never emerged.
Karen Frederick is an avid reader, active runner and teacher. She has converted her lifelong joy of reading into a commitment to teach very young children from economically disadvantaged backgrounds to read and write. Her stories have appeared in Scriblerus, The Paragon Press and the Book Smugglers Den. She comes from a musical family and grew up singing Bach and playing classical music.
