|
Pablo’s talk, talk,
talk, has rumbled in my head like a mountain stream for the last three
days. It will take more days of siesta in a dark corner of my leather
shop for his rumbles to subside from my head. I’m sure Pablo has never
had a thought that didn’t burst out to cast a shadow on a sunny day.
I knew little of Pablo
when I asked his Madre if he could go with me to Carrizo for supplies. I
thought he was in his twenties, but she said he is 18. When I met him,
his constant talking was worrisome, but I shrugged it off as nervousness
over his good fortune of getting a job. I could travel alone, but two
people can take turns sleeping on the trail. Bandits aren’t as apt to
bother a camp when one person is awake. One day to Carrizo, one day to
load my cart, and one day back to Rio Brayo. Pablo did tend my donkey.
And in Carrizo he helped load supplies. For that I am thankful.
A good boy, yes. I cannot
say he isn’t. And his Madre; she is a good woman. She does not rattle
like shingles in the wind. She is quiet as a hot day. Maybe Pablo
inherited all the words she has never said. Most of his prattle is about
Maria, the love of his life. For three days it has been Maria this,
Maria that. Oh, I’ve heard a thousand, thousand times, “My exquisite
Maria, the love of my life.”
Ahhh, maybe the problem is
mine, not his. Could it be, old man, that you squandered all your
romance too many years ago? Was the throbbing of my young man’s heart
so long ago I cannot remember the thrill? Perhaps. Perhaps that is it.
But now we are only one hour from returning to Rio Brayo. I can endure
one more hour. I must.
The next rise will bring
us to Cemetery Hill. From there we can see Rio Brayo, our home—and
rest—and if the saints preserve me for just a little longer—blessed
silence.
“Look Señor. A fresh
grave has been dug,” Pablo tells me.
“Must be for Carlos
Bolivar. He is 91 and he was very sick when we left.”
“You are mistaken, Señor.
Viejo Bolivar is tall and lanky like a rattler. This grave is not so
long. Hombre Viejo Bolivar would not fit so good.”
“You don’t know,
Pablo. Carlos is stooped now. It could be for him.”
“Lay down beside the
grave and you will see, Señor. The grave is too short.”
“I won’t lay
beside the grave.”
“Do it, Señor. That
will prove I’m right.”
“I won’t lay in the
dirt. Anyway, it will bring evil spirits to lay down beside a grave.”
“Ha, you are
superstitious, old man. There is no such thing as evil spirits.”
How little respect Pablo
has. I am not so old, I think. “Mark my words, Pablo. My Madre, God
rest her soul, told of these things when I was a child. There are evil
spirits in the air. I can feel them. A smart man will not take
chances.”
“Ha, ha. You are weird
in the head, hombre Viejo. I will show you.”
“Stay on the cart,
Pablo. Don’t be foolish.”
“Look, I’m not afraid.
I will lay beside the grave.”
“No, no, don’t lay
down, Pablo. I fear for you.”
“Ha. See hombre Viejo. The grave is too
short for me. And I am shorter than hombre Viejo Bolivar.”
“Please Pablo. Get up.
There is evil in the air, I feel it. This makes no sense. I believe you.
The grave is too small for Carlos Bolivar. Now get up.”
I wait while Pablo flaps
his hat on his rear and the breeze carries away clouds of dust. As he
climbs back in the cart, he says, “There is no such thing as evil
spirits. If there are, bring them on, I, Pablo Gonzalez, will drive them
away.”
“You talk foolish,
Pablo.”
I whip my donkey; the cart
creaks and my supplies rattle again. Boiling black clouds are
congregating over Rio Brayo. Brooding shadows consume the small
Mission
and the cluster of humble adobe homes that surround it. We see Maria
rush out in her desert yard to retrieve clothes from a clothesline.
Pablo waves and yells,
“Maria! Maria! It is I, Pablo. Hombre Pablo Gonzalez.” but the wind
makes great noise, and Maria, the love of his life, does not hear him.
This boy, he wearies me
so.
Suddenly Pablo jumps down
from the cart. “Look Señor, over by the prickly pear.”
Saints preserve. I see it
too. A swirl of wind blows sand away from a half-buried bottle.
“Don’t touch it Pablo. It will bring us harm. I can feel it. The
wind is evil to blow so suddenly.” I cringe as Pablo digs the ancient
brown bottle out of the sand with his bare hands. It has a weathered
cork in it. A spirit’s cold hand prickles the back of my neck.
Pablo holds the bottle
over his head and shakes it. “There is something in it, Señor. I will
tell you what it is hombre Viejo. This bottle holds your evil spirits.
Ha, ha.”
“I beg you, Pablo. Put
the bottle down. Nothing is right. See the storm over our village? Hear
the wind warning us. You are bringing bad things on us. My Madre knew of
these things. Let us hurry from here.”
A glance toward Rio Brayo
shivers my backbone. Huge black hands churn and hover over our homes,
our village. Streaks of lightning flash between the hands. Evil fingers
clutch downward. It is clear; harm is upon us. Furious dust swirls
around Maria. She has an armful of clothes and the wind is whipping her
skirt.
Strong wind is with us now
and Pablo’s hat blows away. His hair bats angrily making his head look
large. His shirt balloons and flaps in fright. “Ha, ha. Look, hombre
Viejo,” his voice muffled by wind, “I’m going to pull the cork and
let the evil spirits out. Ha, ha.”
“Don’t Pablo! Don’t!
Oh GOD, forgive us!”
I try to look away, but
fear clamps my head. In the side of my eyes I see Pablo’s young teeth
flash as he bites the cork. He twists the bottle with his hands and the
cork pops out. He spits it away like a mad man. His raspy voice screams
above the wind, “See hombre Viejo. There are no evil spirits.” He
turns the bottle down and laughs. His laughter is no longer the laughter
of pleasure; it is the laughter of evil, the laughter of Demons. You see
it in his face. Demons have possessed Pablo. Syrupy black stuff drools
from the bottle.
BOOM! A murderous bolt of
lightning stabs Rio Brayo. Furious wind and crushing rain
follow—and—and Maria is sprawled face up under the clothesline.
Pablo screams, “No! No!
Maria! Maria! My love! My exquisite Maria!” He throws the bottle
recklessly and runs toward Rio Brayo—and the love of his life.
Oh, Pablo, Pablo. You
unleashed el espíritu of death. You are so young, so foolish, so
stubborn. You would not listen. I knew. I understood. Why didn’t you,
Pablo? My Madre would not lie. And now—poor Maria. Her grave waits.
|