The Witches of Ruidoso by John Sandoval

PIATA BOOKS ARTE PBLICO PRESS HOUSTON, TEXAS
The Witches of Ruidoso is made possible through a grant from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance. Piata Books are full of surprises! Piata Books An imprint of Arte Pblico Press University of Houston 4902 Gulf Fwy, Bldg 19, Rm 100 Houston, Texas 77204-2004 Cover design by Mora Des!gn Sandoval, John The witches of Ruidoso / by John Sandoval. p. cm. Summary: In the last years of the 19th century in the western territory that would become New Mexico, young Elijah falls in love with a girl who has strange insights and abilities with animals. Together, they come of age in a land of mountains and ravens, where witches terrorized both white men and Apache IndiansProvided by publisher. ISBN 978-1-55885-766-7 (alk. paper) 1. New MexicoHistory19th centuryJuvenile fiction. [1. New MexicoHistory19th centuryFiction. 2. Apache IndiansFiction. 3. Indians of North AmericaNew MexicoFiction. 4. WitchesFiction. 5. LoveFiction.] I. Title. PZ7.S2186Wi 2013 2012044036 CIP The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. 2012 by John Sandoval Printed in the United States of America March 2013April 2013 Cushing-Malloy, Inc., Ann Arbor, MI 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Hi, Johnny
Well, heres your book. You wrote it, submitted it and left prematurely. Yana and I did the footwork and finished the project. I think you would have approved of the people from Arte Pblico Press who put it all together. You have no idea how much you are missed. Love from your sister, Francisca
ONE
ou see, her mother had died back east and her father, due to financial difficulties and illness, had decided to come westto start anew, to get his health right, to put a run of bad luck behind them. Wasnt much here thenNew Mexico, in fact, was not yet a state: The Territories is what they called it. Ruidoso, in those days, was just a village with a few ranches and farms scattered about, a stage stop. And that is how they arrived, on the stage, with all they owned in this world contained in a few trunks and carpetbags. I was a boy of thirteen at the time and lived with my father just outside the village. In the afternoons, when my chores were done, when school was out, I would walk down and wait for the stage or help Mr. Blackwater out in the store. And so there I was, sitting on the porch of the Ruidoso Store, when Beth Delilah and Mr. Jameson arrived that spring morning of 1895. I noticed her immediately. NoI recognized her. To this day, I can remember thinking: dont I know that girl from somewhere? Have I not seen her somewhere before? For she was fourteen years old, and with all that blond hair and that lovely white skin and those big blue eyes and dressed from boot to bonnet in black (still in mourning for her mother),
1
John Sandoval
black parasol opened above her against the sun, she looked like she had just stepped down out of a calendar. Very Exotic. Very Pretty. Very. So, as I watched from the porch of the store, she and her father climbed down out of the stage and came walking across the roadobviously having done some hard traveling. Then, suddenly, this lovely blond-haired girl wearing her pretty city dress stopped, squatted down and picked up a horned toad cutting through the dust at her feet. She held that old toad right up to her face, looking him right in the eye, not scared at all and completely fascinated by it, you see; not many horned toads back eastand not many pretty little girls that would pick one up, either, I bet. Then her father called to her and she set that toad back down and hurried up onto the porch and into the store, not even noticing me sitting there on the bench as she passed by. Did you know that boys at that age are quite capable of being thoroughly jealous of horned toads? It is a factI was there. Mr. Blackwater was a man who had spent too much time fishing the dark pools of his soul. He was brother to Mr. Jamesons deceased wife and owned the Ruidoso Store and some nearby landhomestead acres given to him by the government for his services as a soldier during the War Between the States. The local Apaches called him No Leg Dancer because, you see, every morning, no matter how much whiskey he had drunk in the course of the night, he could be found out on the road at first light, blowing reveille with his bugle, marching to and fro, that right leg of his, from the knee down, just a strap-on wooden peg. He was convinced the sun
The Witches of Ruidoso
was incapable of rising up without his assistance, you see. He also believed that his missing leg, buried somewhere at Shiloh, had developed a bad case of arthritis and despite the distance separating them, pained him terriblyand thats why he drankor so he said. He was also convinced that his cat, a yellow, stub-tailed tom named General Grant that ate lizards, squirrels and anything else it could corner and kill, and cared for no one in particular and disliked everyone in general, accurately predicted the weather. He believed the cat promptly passed that information on to him through a complicated code that could be deciphered through General Grants grooming habits and where exactly he sprawled out on the porch at various times of the day. I could go on and on about Mr. Blackwater, for he was a very strange and curious man. But his story is unto itself. I have often wondered, though, through the years, whatever became of Mr. Blackwater. Its all just a Chinese puzzle . . .
TWO
everal days after the arrival of Beth Delilah and Mr. Jameson, Mr. Blackwater left. Said he was going back to Shiloh to dig up his missing leg and put an end to its misery. Said wed have to tend to the suns rising ourselves, but he would leave General Grant with usjust in case we needed any assistance. As Mr. Blackwater stood on the porch, looking around one last time, he noticed Beth Delilah sitting in a rocking chair and in her lap, sound asleep, General Grant. Seeing that cat so tamed was a shock. Mr. Blackwater was speechless for a moment. Then, sipping jug in one hand, his beat-up bugle in the other, he hobbled over to Beth Delilah and, with a courtly bow, handed her the bugle. Then, stepping off the porch, he gimped across the road and over to the stage and climbed in. He was taking a pull on that jug there in the window, profiled real handsome with his white hair down to his shoulders, when the stage set off. Never saw him again. Its a curious thingthough eighty years have passed, I have never stopped missing Mr. Blackwater. He was that kind of man, you see. I have not mentioned the mountain yet. I should, because, as youll see, its an important part of this story. Whenever I
4
think back on those days and those people, it is there alwayslooming, waiting. It was certainly a very impressive pile of rock and dirt, rising up proud and spectacular just outside of the village. In the winter, when it was white with snow and the big winds kicked up, it would disappear and reappear in the clouds and mist like some dream mountain. In the summer, on a clear and calm night, the moon full and hanging over its peak, it was most certainly a very eerie piece of real estate. The Apache believed it to be a special and powerful placeI never found a reason to disagree with them. It was always there, you see, the first thing you noticed stepping out your door in the morning. And it always gave you the feeling that your significance was not very significant and that everything in this worldincluding itselfwas temporary and ever-changing. I still have dreams about that mountain of falling off of it, or climbing up it, usually very scared with something purely malevolent pursuing me. But that is not surprising. Early one morning, soon after Mr. Blackwaters departure, I walked down to the village. Beth Delilah was standing out on the porch of the store, staring off at that mountain, perfectly still, her eyes riveted on the sun just rising up and giving to those slopes a glorious mantle of purple and gold. General Grant was there, calmly and thoroughly cleaning a paw. I joined them. The three of us stood there in the dawn quiet, just watching. And then something very strange happened. Stepping down off the porch, Beth Delilah walked off across the yard, moving like a somnambulist, the queerest expression upon
John Sandoval
her face, her eyes never leaving the mountain. When she reached the road, she stopped, then raised both hands upas though to touch something quite astonishing there in the air before her, something that only she could see. Then, suddenly, she dropped down onto the road. It was as though somebody had snuck up behind her and had struck her down with a rock. On the ground, she lay perfectly still, her arms flung out above her, upon her face an expression of fear and shock. I must have yelled when Mr. Jameson came hurrying out of the store, I was kneeling there in the road, holding her, a very scared boy indeed. Mr. Jameson quickly took charge. He calmly smoothed her dress back into place, lowered her arms, then held her head in his lap and gently waved his hat back and forth over her until the seizure had passed. Did I mention that her eyes were blue? The bluest blue that I have ever seen. That morning, out on that road, they stared up into a spring sky that was dull in comparison. I loved Beth Delilah Jameson from that day forward, as only thirteen-year-old boys can love. We forget and trivialize, as we grow older, the capabilities and depths of our youth. For you see, though eighty years have since passed, I have not forgotten or forsaken my pure and true infatuation for that girl. Isnt that strange? One morning, soon after witnessing Beth Delilahs seizure, I awoke, as I had all of my life, to the sound of Mr. Blackwater heralding in the new day down at the village store. Sleepily, I noted that the sound of his bugle was ragged and off key and supposed that he was merely drunker than usual. And then I rememberedMr. Blackwater had left for Shiloh to
tend to his missing leg. I jumped out of bed, dressed and hurried down to the store. When I came running up, Beth Delilah was hunkered down out in the yard before the store. Mr. Blackwaters bugle was across her lap, gazing down at the ground. General Grant was sitting next to her, also intently gazing down. Stopping next to them, following their gaze, I saw they were staring at an anthill. Beth Delilah glanced up at me, smiled and then reached for my hand and tugged me down next to hereasily and naturally, as though we had been friends for years. And so the three of us watched those big, red fire ants coming and going from their mound of sand and dirt. I watched for a while, then looked over at Beth Delilahshe was absolutely absorbed by those ants. I looked over at General Grantthe same. I resumed watching the ants, trying to see what I was not seeing. But it was no usejust looked to me like the usual crowd of ants doing what ants do: charging in and out of their nest in a constant frenzy, as though it were come the Last Days, bumping into each other, crawling over each other, arguing and then wrestling over who would carry off some uselesslooking twig or pebble, then, eventually, shaking hands after a lot of fuss and going their separate waysthe much-desired and fought-over item forgotten and left behind. Then things picked up when General Grantmaybe intending to help them alongreached out with a paw and gave one of the ants a prod. But the ant took offense and clamped down on General Grants toe. That was the last we saw of General Grant for the rest of the morning.
John Sandoval
Beth Delilah and I became constant companions that spring. It is strange, remembering this many years later: it seems to me we were together for much of our childhood. In truth, it was less than a year. In the time allotted to us, though, we were as children in Grace. We were Innocents playing in a sunlit glade, time pausing just for usbefore being called away into twilights dark woods. Beth Delilah was not much of a talker. I, at first, supposed that she was merely shy and had not much to say. Some people can carry off being quiet without being intrusive or rude, and are quite graceful with itBeth Delilahs silence was so: a reflection of her minds stream calmly flowing. But this calm reticence, I soon came to learn, was her way of being inaccessible when surrounded by some people. And, sometimes, this silence of hers, this calm, was also, I believe, a way in which to draw to herself things she wanted close to hercertain people, most animals and, I sometimes suspected, things not visible or obvious to the logical mind. A Mescalero Apache once described to me what it had been like looking into the blue eyes of a white man for the very first timehe said it was like staring into the sockets of a skull and on into an eternity of blue skies beyond. Not very complimentary, I guess. But not really rude, either, if you look at it right. Sometimes Beth Delilahs eyes were like that for mewhen I looked into them and then had to look away for what I saw there . . . And so Beth Delilah and her father took up residence above the Ruidoso store. They inherited the business from Mr. Blackwater, so to speak. Wasnt much to it. I helped Mr. Jame-
son with what he did not know or could not figure out. I had assisted Mr. Blackwater through the years. Mr. Jameson was a haunted man. Though just a boy, I could see this in himthese many years later, it is what I remember about him most vividly. He was not a healthy-looking man having, as I have mentioned, the consumptionlean and hollowed out, best describes him. With Beth Delilah and her seizures, his wife recently deceased and all the rest of it, it is not surprising that he was haunted. But he was a good man, that I also remember. Is life not a trial and a tribulation? But children are so constructed that most of lifes woes do not take rootthat comes later, as the years take their toll, as inevitable, hard reality settles in. Is not nature clever? For Beth Delilah and I were oblivious to those slings and those arrows, those trials and tribulations. As I said, children playing in a sunlit glade. At first, Beth Delilahs seizures frightened me. But after witnessing three or four of themthey seemed to occur about once a weekI almost grew accustomed to them. Mr. Jameson showed me what to do if he were not present. And I came to recognize the symptoms that told of their approach; sometimes she would become greatly agitated just before they struck her down, rushing about, trying to do several things at once, those blue eyes of hers flashing off sparks. It seemed to me as though she were trying to outrun somethingor trying to chase something down. Other times, she was as calm as the dawn and then, gradually, would slip into a trance of sorts that grew stronger and stronger, pulling her closer and closer as she stared off with the strangest expressionand then she
10
John Sandoval
would be gone. These seizures lasted only a minute or so, but would leave her spent and dazed for the next twentyfour hours. Though Beth Delilah rarely spoke of them, she did once describe them to me as having a thunderstorm pass through her brain. I think Beth Delilah was somewhat like a lightning rod, or a vein of metal running through the earth, drawing electricity to itself, you see. There was something evil about those seizures and I would cry when they were upon her, for there was nothing I could do to stop themit was like watching helplessly as a friend was being crucified. But, strangely enough, the memory of those seizures also include a tenderness, for I would hold her thenas her deceased mother must have held her once upon a time.
THREE
y earliest memory of Seora Roja is of her walking slowly down the main road of the village at twilight, dressed all in black. Though just four or five years old at the time, I can clearly remember being frightened by her. When I was a bit older, I saw a dog bark at her as she was hanging clothes out in back of the store for Mr. Blackwatershe ignored the barking dog for a while, then, irritated, turned and said something in Spanish and the animal immediately fled, tail tucked, yelping. Seora Roja turned back to hanging clothes, saw me watching her from the back steps and laughed. It was not a nice laugh. I put a flea in his ear! she called. But it was not ear that she said. Portents of things to come, you see. Though I thought her an old woman, Seora Roja was probably no more than fifty when all this took placea mere youth, compared to my present state of affairs. She had no husband or children and lived alone in her adobe house next to the creek just outside of the village. Everyone believed Seora Roja to be a brujaa witch, sometimes called a curandera. You see, it was not uncommon in that day to have a village drunk, a village idiot and a village witchsometimes,
11
12
John Sandoval
several of each. Though this may sound odd now, then, in that country, it was quite common. Such women often provided medical care, birthed babies and knew the properties of local plants and herbs. Sometimes, though, they were scorned, feared, even persecuted. There were good witches and there were bad witches. New Mexico is ancient country, a mysterious terrain. Talk to the viejas and the viejos that have lived there all of their lives and they will tell you stories of witches and ghosts, of strange lights seen in the skies at night, of visitations by the Holy Mother and her son Jesus and as many of the saints as you can line up. The memory of Hernan Cortez and Cabeza de Vaca lay scattered across this terrain like abandoned armor, rusting and fading, but still identifiable, still recalled. The Indians, the Mexicans, the Anglosthey are all the same and shamefully superstitious, all have stories that are not stories, all have memories that are nearly fact. But it is not they, but the land, I am sometimes certain, that is the author of those stories, that is the origin of these myths and legends and recollections. With the fossilized bones of sea monsters resting in the arroyos, with the creation and then the detonation of the first atomic weapon just down the road, what else can one expect from such a country? For example, there are the La Llorona stories, a tradition older than the fables of Billy the Kidand the fables of Billy the Kid, if you are familiar with New Mexico, are endless and ever multiplying and show no signs of failing health, even at one hundred plus years. For, you see, all true natives of New Mexico have a mother or a grandmother, a father or a grand-
13
father that knew Billy the Kid personally, that played with Billy the Kid as a child or saw Billy the Kid as an adult slaughter a dozen poor innocents, even held his coat for him as he did his bloody work. And so it is with La Lloronaimmortal and incapable of rust. La Llorona is an old lady seen at night who is forever searching for her dead babymoaning and screeching and wailing as she walks along the roads and the creeks. She is no doubt several centuries old, Indian or Spanish in origin, and has quite successfully scared the wits out of many generations of ill-behaved children. Like Billy the Kid, La Llorona shows no signs of wear and tear and refuses to leave the field, preferring to roam the countryside with her dead baby. I have met La Llorona.
FOUR
he summer before Beth Delilahs arrival in Ruidoso, I came to understand that Seora Roja was not just an old Mexican lady rumored to be a witch that the village children jeered at and fled from as she passed along the road at dusk. That was the summer that I discovered the perfect fishing hole beneath the low-hanging branches of a willow down on the creek. One morning, as I was fishing that deep, shaded pool beneath that willow, comfortably reclining in the carpet of clover that grew there, Seora Roja suddenly appeared on the embankment opposite me. Cooling herself with a turkey feather fan, her back to the sun, she looked to me like a great dark shadow bird, that fan moving back and forth giving the sound of wing to that momentary perception. When she asked if I was having any luck, I proudly showed her the trout that I had caught. She praised my skills as a fisherman, then asked if any of my fish were for sale. I told her that she was welcome to take what she wanted, as a gift from me. What a nice boy you are! she said. Come to my house with your fish on your way homeperhaps we can make a deal, you and I.
14
15
When I stopped by Seora Rojas house, she invited me in out of the heat. Politely seating me at her kitchen table, she brought me a glass of cold hierba buena tea. As I drank the sweet mint tea, she gutted and cleaned the trout in a basin of water at the sink, singing in Spanish as she worked. If you have ever noticed, the first sensation of a house as you enter is that of smell. Seora Rojas house did not smell good. It smelled as though a rat had died somewhere within its wallsin fact, several rats. And looking about the kitchen, I could see that housekeeping was not important to her, though she did appear to enjoy cooking, for there were herbs and plants everywherehanging from the ceiling, stored in jars upon shelves, growing in clay pots on the window sills. Soon after finishing the glass of tea, I began feeling strange; a gentle wave of nausea rolled over me, followed by a sudden weariness. I closed my eyes, opened them: the kitchen began slowly spinning about me. The smell of the herbs and plants, the stink of the house, the smell of gutted trout did not help. I lay my head down on the table, closed my eyes, trying to not be sickand then felt as though I were slowly falling. What is wrong, hijo? Seora Roja asked, stepping over to me. Too much sun? Too many fish? She placed a palm to my brow. Youre feverish. Come, you must lay down and rest. Seora Roja helped me up from the table, led me out of the kitchen, whispering reassurances, emitting sounds of pity as we went. Somewhere, far away, in a darkened room, she guided me over to a bed. Lay down and sleep. Ill watch over of you, she said.
16
John Sandoval
I lay down on the bed and passed out immediately. On that bed, in that darkened room, I had strange, feverish dreams of crows feeding in the stomachs of dead cows as forests burned in the hills at night. I dreamed of a full white moon with a grotesque face winking and laughing at me as beaked and clawed creatures slid and crawled about the bed, maliciously scratching and biting at me. I awoke in the dark, completely disoriented. Feeling the weight of someone or something on the bed next to me, I cried out, sat up. Sleep, Seora Roja said, pressing me back down onto the bed. She placed a cool, wet cloth to my brow. Do not be afraid, Im right here to protect you, she whispered. Ever so gently, she wiped at my face with the cloth. Its just a little fever, its just too much sun . . . , she said, wiping off my throat, my chest. Her touch was soothing, hypnotic. The wet cloth felt wonderful on my skin. Thinking what a kind and gentle woman Seora Roja truly was, I drifted off once again. And then my dreams were of the creek and of the cool shade beneath that willow tree. And there, out of the shadows, a woman appeared: familiar, not familiarSeora Roja, but somehow much younger and now quite beautiful. Are you ready, my handsome fisherman, she asked. Ready? I said. There is something that I need, she said, standing over me. Por favor, she added, smiling. Fish, I said. No, she replied. But, I am very hungry, she added, smiling again. I dont understand, I said. I will show you, she said. And reaching down with both hands, she slowly lifted up the long black skirt that she wore.
17
I awoke again, sat up. Though feeling a little groggy, the nausea had passed. Do you feel better, my little fisherman? Seora Roja asked, a shadow leaning over me in that darkened room. Yes, thank you, Seora Roja, I said. Such a good boy. Such good manners. I had the strangest dreams . . . I said. Oh, dreams can be very niceeven when they are strange, she said, sitting down on the bed next to me. Tell me about your dreams. Remembering the woman by the creek, what had happened, I said nothing. No? said Seora Roja. Then, leaning in close, she whispered in my ear. Lay back down, close your eyes, and well dream some more, together . . . When she placed a hand upon my chest to press me back down onto the bed, I moved away from her, disturbed by her urgency. She did not seem so nice now. I have to go home, its late, I said, quickly climbing off the bed. I looked about the darkened room, trying to find the door. Seora Roja rose from the bed, moved across the room, pulled the curtains open. Late afternoon light entered the room. Stay, she suggested. I will cook fish for you. I have chores to do. Following me into the kitchen, Seora Roja offered me another glass of hierba buena tea. I declined, once again telling her that I had to get home, that I had chores to do.
18
John Sandoval
You do not like my tea? she asked, following me to the door. Yes, Seora Roja, it was very good tea, I said. And your fish? she asked. Theyre for you, I said, opening the door. Such a good boy. And such a fearless hunter. As I started to step outside, Seora Roja grabbed my arm. Wait. There is one more thing that I want to show you . . . she said. Her fingernails biting into my arm, she tried to pull me back into her house. I pulled away, frightened. She laughed. Dont be scared of Seora Roja, boy. She is only playing with you. Out on the porch, I grabbed my fishing pole, hurried down the steps. Such a good boy! she called after me. I hurried across the yard, toward the road. Hey, fisher of fish! Seora Roja called. I stopped, turned around. Standing on her porch, Seora Roja waved goodbye to meand then, sliding both hands down the front of her dress, she touched herself, there, between her legs, staring at me with the strangest expression. Turning away, laughing, she disappeared into her house. That night, when I removed my clothes for bed, I found a track of small red scratches down my stomach, along my thigh. Thereafter, whenever we happened to meet, Seora Roja would ask if I had any fish for sale or she would demand to
19
know why I had not been out to visit her, for were we not friends and neighbors? And her eyes, black and clever, would look at me in such a way that I would immediately feel guilty, nervous. Those eyes seemed to know all of my secrets. For I had often thought of her since that visit to her house. And if she casually touched me or brushed up against me, something in my stomach would begin stirring, softly twisting and sliding about and I would get away from her as quickly as possible, embarrassed, disturbed by that excitement. Sometimes, I would try to remember what exactly had happened that afternoon at her house when I was asleep on that bed, I would try to understand the dreams that I had had then, but mostly I tried to not think about any of it and avoided Seora Roja. Sometimes, though, as I walked past her adobe house beneath those cliffs, I would have the impulse to walk down and knock on her door, to once again drink that sweet hierba buena tea, to once again have those dreams upon that bed. One morning, as I walked past her house, Seora Roja, sitting in a chair out on the front porch, called out to me, beckoned urgently. My heart immediately began pounding. I left the road and walked toward her. Look who has come to visit me! she called, as I entered her yard. Good morning, Seora Roja, I said, stopping before the porch. Where have you been, boy? she asked. There was a basin of water at her feet. Reaching down, she took a rag from the water, wrung it out.
20
John Sandoval
I could think of no answer to this question. You were in such a hurry to leave the last time you came to visit. I think that I scared you. She pulled her long black dress up to her knees, exposing muscular brown calves that were covered with fine black hair. Did I scare you, boy? I stared at those legsshocked that a womans legs could be just as hairy as a mans. I did not feel well, I stammered. And do you feel better now? she asked, wiping off those hairy calves with the wet rag. In truth, I did not; within my stomach, that snake of dread began softly twisting about. Rising from the chair, glancing toward the road to make sure that no one was passing, Seora Roja slowly pulled her long black dress up to her waist. She held it in place with one hand and began wiping off her heavy, brown, smooth thighs with the wet rag. She wore nothing beneath the dress. It is so hot today, she complained. I stared at that. I had never seen that before. Transfixed. Years later, during the First War, gazing upon my first enemy killed, a strangely similar sensation of fascination and dread entered me. I turned away. When I next looked at her, Seora Roja was once again sitting in the chair, her dress back in place. She was staring at me. She wiped off her neck with the rag. Perhaps you would like something cold to drink, she suggested.
21
Unfastening the buttons that ran down the front of her dress, she wiped off her shoulders. Unbuttoning the rest of the buttons of that black dress, staring at me all the while making sure that I was attentiveshe reached in with the rag, wiped off her heavy breasts. A large nipple, black as the buttons of that dress, slipped forth. I looked away. I heard Seora Roja laugh softly. I should be going, I said, staring down at the ground, that dread now twisting wildly about now in my stomach. Take this water. Throw it into those flower beds, she said, nodding at the basin at her feet. I hesitated, then stepped up onto the porch, picked up the basin of dirty water, carried it back down the steps, over to the flower beds, carefully poured it out, returned with it to the porch. Seora Roja was watching me closely. Bring it inside, she said, opening the screen door. I stepped past her, and entered the house. Seora Roja followed. The screen door slammed shut. What is it that you want? Seora Roja asked, after I had set the basin down on the kitchen table. I could not answer. What is it that you want? she asked. And that is how it began with Seora Roja and me.
FIVE
hat happened that summer had nothing to do with romance or affection or friendship. In truth, Seora Roja probably disliked me, perhaps even loathed meif she felt anything at all. As for me, I was a thirteen-year-old motherless puppy, a stranger to feminine affection, and such natural prey for the dark machinations of a woman like Seora Roja. Remembering her this many years later, I cannot retrieve kindness or affection or even a conversation that was not dark with paranoia and cracked logic. Seora Roja remains a mystery to meever beneath a mask, an undecipherable whisper in the dark. Late one night, after spending several hours with her, I impulsively kissed Seora Roja goodbye before heading for the door. This astonished her. And then she laughed; it was ugly laughter, mocking and cruel and insane. Years later, while passing through a small village in France that had just been hit by artillery, I heard that very same laughterstopping, turning, I was certain that Seora Roja had somehow escaped the grave: an old woman, obviously deranged, was laughing hysterically at a horse struggling in the opening of a well that had somehow been blown out. The screams of the
22
23
horse, the laughter of the French woman, the eyes of the horse, the eyes of the French woman, merged horribly. As that strange summer faded, the spell that Seora Roja had constructed began to come apart; the erotic mystery that I had so willingly entered and participated in began losing its hold on me. What had been wonderfully fleshed and softly toothed and silken with fear and sin began to tatter, revealing itself to be a thing old, soiled, quite common. Sensing my growing disinterest, realizing that I would soon make my escape, Seora Roja hurried to recover her hold on me. Her first attempt was with affectionthe results were ludicrous: it was as though she were trying to remember something from long ago; but she simply did not know what affection or anything similar to it was or how to go about obtaining it. I almost felt sorry for her. She then turned to the familiar: malice, black as a popes sin; lust, teeth as white and sharp as a cats. It nearly worked. Come to my house tonight, she said to me one day, when we met down in the village. I have something important to show you. I did not go. Where were you last night? she demanded the next day. Youre no longer Seora Rojas friend? she asked. Glancing around the store, making sure that no one was about, she grabbed me by an arm, pulled me to her. If you will not come to me, then I will come to you, she whispered in my ear. Then, with her big tongue, she licked my ear and departed. That night, I was startled awake by something. I stared at the moonlight streaming in through the window across the
24
John Sandoval
room. I listened: my heart thumping; the wind moved through the trees with a soft rustling sound. Climbing out of bed, I went to the window and looked out: swaying, moon-lit trees, shifting shadow. And then I saw her. Standing perfectly still next to a tree across the road, nearly invisible in her black shawl, almost like a shadow was Seora Roja. She was staring up at me. I moved away from the window. I was feeling sick. I waited a minute, and then, ever so carefully, once again looked through the window to the road below. Seora Roja was gone. Had I been imagining things? I climbed back into bed and tried to sleep. But it was no goodI could not get comfortable. I tossed and turned and listened to every creak of the house, every noise outside. Eventually, I fell asleep. . . . fingers scratching, tapping at the window pane . . . oh, please let me in, my little fish man . . . face black pressed to that glass . . . eyes flicking left, flicking right, seeking me out . . . gone . . . footsteps on the porch . . . footsteps trudging up the stairs . . . coming down the hallway . . . doorknob rattling . . . door creaking open . . . Ive come to tuck you in, little fish, man of mine, she whispers . . . as I struggle to surface, to awake . . . ever so carefully, in this secret dark, she settles upon me . . . a weight sly . . . succubus of smoke heavy, black, radiating hypnotic heat upon my skin . . . into my belly . . . penetrating like pure-grain alcohol burning hot, arousing . . . wet silk snake probing . . . not there . . . oh, yes, there . . . I am not awake, I am not asleep . . . go away . . . I am in your dream, dreaming, too . . . then nothing but the dark and that shivering pleasure, ever so gently opened, entered . . . shall I go or shall I stay . . . stay . . . say it, tell me . . . stay
25
. . . see, it is only she . . . it is only me . . . there on the bed next to you . . . whispering, promising, explaining, as she ever so gently examines . . . gives breath . . . takes blood . . . accuses, apologizes for the pain with pleasure, curses my resistance, praises my surrender . . . it is not I, says she, it is not, but something from long ago that once was me, so afraid of not being hungry . . . devouring with teeth and mouth . . . this is not Seora Roja, I realize, trying to awaken, this is not Seora Roja, but some beast with legs furred and with claws . . . I finally surfaced from that nightmarish pool, sweating and shaking. I could smell Seora Roja on me. On the bed, pine needles and dirt.
SIX
reams. Beth Delilah said to me one day. Dreams? I asked. Dreams are not dreams. Dreams are windows. Dreams are windows? She nodded, smiled. They allow us to look beyond the house, they let us see what is coming down the road. I looked at her, shook my head. If you care to look. I shrugged. She said nothing for a while. Last night I had a dream, she then said. You and I were sitting here on this porch as we are now. And Seora Roja came walking up the road there, she said and pointed. And as she grew closer to where we sat watching, a raven came down out of those treesthereand it went at her, flew about her head, scolding her. Seora Roja yelled and cursed back in Spanish. Then the raven flew off. We sat on the porch and listened to the ravens calling back and forth to each other from the pine trees. And then, in the distance, someone appeared on the road, walking toward us
26
27
it was Seora Roja. And when she was not too far from the store and passing beneath a stand of pines, a raven swooped down out of one of the trees and went at heras Beth had dreamed. Seora Roja yelled and cursed and slapped at the raven as it flew about her head, cawing and screeching back at her. Then the raven gave up the attack and returned to its tree. And Seora Roja continued on toward us. I had never seen a raven attack a person like that, for ravens are usually very reticent animals. Do you see what I mean now? Beth Delilah asked. I tried to make sense of what had just happened. For a moment, my logical mind would not accept it. And then, when it did, it was like opening a birthday box and having a rattlesnake jump out at you. Seora Roja stepped up onto the porch, still somewhat flustered by her encounter with the raven. She paused to stare at Beth Delilah paying her no mind, stared at me, then entered the store, muttering to herself. I always liked the ravens that populated those mountains. I can recall with vivid pleasure the sight of them gliding from pine tree to pine tree during a snowstormbig and black, their wings powerfully rending the air. It was such a pleasant visionlater, when you saw them rooting through garbage or busily feeding within the belly of a dead and bloated horse, you almost forgave them. Beth Delilahs insights and her way with animals eventually became apparent and not to be questioned. One day, soon after spring had turned to summer, we were roaming the hills just above the village, following a deer trail beneath the big
28
John Sandoval
pines and had stopped to examine an outcropping of rock in which there were embedded fossilized seashells. I was mystified by those sea shells. Beth was not. We are now standing where things once upon a time swam, she explained. There was a lake here? I asked, astonished. There was an ocean here, she replied. I stared at her, looked at the hills all around us, at the sea shells protruding from that stone, back at her and shook my head. She shrugged. That was when the bear showed up. Now, the bears in New Mexico are mostly a nuisance, unless you cross up with a mother and her cubs or just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I knew a Mescalero Apache, usually a man stalwart and fearless, who readily admitted to having once wet himself after being chased up a tree by a bearthe bear eventually wandered awayafter chewing off one of the mans boots. The bear came down off the hillside above us. Beth Delilah saw him first. Tugging on my arm, she pointed, smiled happily. I saw nothing to smile aboutin truth, I nearly let loose, as had my Apache friend. It was a good sized bearthree or four hundred pounds, easy. And as it made its way down the slope toward us, its brown fur rolling, it paused now and then to sniff, to look about with that somewhat comical and human-like way that bears have about them. I began gathering up throwing rocks. For a moment Beth Delilah watched the bears approach with great interest, then stepping away from the outcropping of rock, to my horror, started walking toward the bearstrolling
29
casually along as though going forth to meet the mailman. The bear spotted her, halted. When Beth Delilah and the bear were maybe twenty yards from each other, Beth Delilah stepped behind a large pine tree, turned sideways, out of sight, hiding from the bear. She peeked out at the bear, then looked back at me, a hand to her mouth and barely able to contain her laughter. The bear stood up on its hind legs, swung its head left, right, trying to locate her. Then, Beth Delilah raised Mr. Blackwaters bugle that she carried on a leather braid around her neck and blew out a screech. The bear gave a start, staggered back. Beth Delilah stepped out from behind the pine tree and continued walking toward the bear, but weaving now, blowing on that bugle, in perfect imitation of Mr. Blackwater blowing reveille at dawn. The bear stared at her with astonishment for a moment, then dropped down to all four feet and started back up the hillside, paused once to look back and verify what was following, then poured it on and was gone.
SEVEN
ne afternoon, Beth Delilah, Feather and I sat out on the porch of the store. One of those quick and furious summer storms up from Mexico had just passed through, its lightning and thunder sending General Grant scattering for safety beneath the porch. We watched those clouds with great interest, immense and awesome, retreating over the mountains, the days heat gentled, the good smell of rain upon earth in the air. Then, up the road, in the distance, two figures approached on foot. And the nearer they came, the more peculiar-looking they got; soon, we were able to discern that it was two men, both carrying large packs upon their backs, each with a walking stick, both sporting thick, unkempt black beards reaching down to their very bellies. Their clothing was horribly ragged and steaming now after getting wet in the storm that had just passed through. They looked enough alike to be twins. And they looked queer enough to have escaped from the lunatic asylum. This Texas? one of them asked, coming to a halt before the porch. His left eye was milked over and dead-looking. This is Ruidoso, I said. Ruidoso? he asked, astounded. He then looked up the road, back down the road, at the store, upon his face an expression of bewilderment. What the hell is Ruidoso? he wondered.
30
31
Looks like something the dog left behind, said his companion. He was missing his left earwhere it should have been, there was a gruesome, scarred-up stub. Were looking for Texas, but Ill be damned if we can find it, said the bad-eyed one, setting his pack down. Leaning on his walking stick, he closely examined Beth Delilah, Feather and I. Texas is fair bigit cant hide from us forever, said the one missing an ear, also setting his pack down. Whats in there? he then asked, looking past us toward the open doorway of the store. The store, I said. The Ruidoso store? he asked, astonished. I nodded. He turned, looked at his companion. Hear that? This here is the Ruidoso store. Yes, I heard, said the bad-eyed one. Well, captain, said missing an ear, they sell anything cold and wet in that Ruidoso store? Yes, sir, I replied. Lets take a look-see, he said. They set their walking sticks up against the porch, climbed the steps. And you keep your hands off our possessions, nit, the bad-eyed one said to Feather, pausing to look at him hard. I could smell them as they passed byit was not a pleasant smell. I also noticed that both had big bone-handled Bowie knives tucked into their ragged boots. When they emerged from the store, they each had a large bottle of beerthe thick brown glass ones shipped in from El
32
John Sandoval
Paso with the buffalo leaping through a horseshoe embossed on the front. They had sat down on the steps of the porch and had just worked off the glass stoppers of the bottles when Mr. Jameson appeared at the door. If you would, gentlemen, please drink your beer away from the store and these children, he said. The two men turned, looked up at him. Where are your manners, Jake? asked missing an ear. Pardon us, sir. We have forgotten that we are in Ruidoso, said Jake of the milked-over eye. Trot out some glassware and I will pour these blossoming youths a tasteI do not mind sharing, after all. Mr. Jameson said nothing, stared at them. Come, Jake, lets go sit beneath that tree across the roadtheres no good in dirtying the waters of the stream that we may want to drink from later. They both stood, took up their packs and sticks and walked across the road with their bottles of beer. What do those two remind you of? Beth Delilah asked, as we watched them go. Two buzzards, said Feather immediately. Beth Delilah nodded. And it was so: with their heavy packs hooked over a shoulder and weighing them down, walking sticks in one hand, bottles of beer in the other, they tottered and halfhopped as they went along, looking just like a couple of outof-work vultures on the prowl. You children mind your manners and keep clear of those two gentlemen, said Mr. Jameson. Coughing, he walked back into the cool darkness of the store.
33
From the porch, Beth Delilah, Feather and I watched the two strange men drink their beer sitting with their backs to the big pine tree in the shade across the road. Later, after they had departed Ruidoso, Beth Delilah and I would find a half dozen small green bottles, along with several empty beer bottles, scattered about the base of the tree. When I sniffed the opening of one of the green medicine bottles, I almost went to my knees, so powerful was the smell. Along with the beer, it explained their peculiar behavior that afternoon. It did not manifest immediately, this peculiar behavior, but took a couple hours to find its legs. But once it took hold, was up and moving, there it was. It began with Jake, the one with the horrible milked over eye, bursting into song. Pete, the one with the missing ear, told him to shut up, saying he sounded like a coyote whelping. Then they both stood up and Jake knocked Pete down. Pete regained his feet and, in turn, knocked Jake down. Next, they sat back down up against the tree and calmly drank some more, the fisticuffs having bruised their friendship not at all. And then, their arms around each others shoulders, they ripped into a song, giving it all that they had and holding nothing backthe village dogs joining in as a sort of weird and mournful chorus. It was a fearsome disharmony all around. Then, when they had had their fill of singing, they once again stood up and squared off but instead of fighting, they now began a strange beard-to-beard dance that was similar to two cats taking each others measure before getting down to businesscircling each other, hissing and growling
34
John Sandoval
and spitting, kicking the dust up with their feet, their elbows flung out, their shoulders all tucked in queerly. By this time, Beth Delilah, Feather and I were absolutely intrigued and could not have been any more entertained if the circus had set up for business. Whats wrong with those two? I wondered. Theyre intoxicated, said Beth Delilah. They havent drank enough beer to be that intoxicated. I said. Theyre dancing, said Feather. Next, they will marry. After that, they will have a house together with a wonderful view and at night they will sit next to their fire and they will discuss the mysteries of life. Beth Delilah and I stared at Feather. Mysteries of life, my granny, I said. I think those two are ripe for the nervous hospital. The nervous hospital? asked Feather. I ignored him. The trouble began when Pete came weaving across the road to the store for more beer. On the porch, he paused once again to glare at Feather with his one good eye. Time was, not so long ago, the guvment paid out five dollars American for every blanket ass scalp I brought in. Did not matter if it were boy, girl or full grownfive dollars American for each and every blanket ass scalp I brought in. And then he walked into the store. Beth Delilah, Feather and I looked at each other. Lets get off this porch, Im tired of it, I said standing up. Feather also stood up.
35
Those two are not but braggarts and bullies, said Beth Delilah, remaining in her chair. Feather and I looked at her. Scamps of the worst sort, she added. Propping her bare feet up on the porch railing, she reached over and tore a sliver of wood from one of the lengths of kindling stacked next to her, then calmly picked at her teeth as she stared at Pete sitting beneath the tree across the road. Feather and I looked at each other, sat back down. Jake soon exited the store, two big bottles of beer clinking in a hand. Again, he stopped to stare meanly at Feather. With that one eye so dead-looking and the other staring crazy, it just about made me sick to look at him. Stink? I guess them scalps stank . . . he began. Sir? said Beth Delilah, interrupting him. He turned, looked at her, startled. Beth Delilah stared up at him, snagging him with those eyes of hers. You are bleeding, sir, she said to him, calmly. What? he asked, unable to look away from her eyes, fascinated by them. You have blood upon you, said Beth Delilah softly, her eyes never leaving his. What? he said again, sounding now like someone that has been shook awake at two a.m. Beth Delilah stared at him. And then she said, Look at your hand. And she looked down at his hand that held the two bottles of beer by their necks. He followed her gaze down.
36
John Sandoval
Do you see the blood, sir, do you see the blood? she asked. He stared down at the hand with astonishment. The bottles of beer dropped to the porch, rolled and clinked across the boards, came to a stop against a leg of the chair that Feather sat on. He raised the hand, stared at it with horror. What have you done to bleed so? Beth Delilah asked him accusingly. He stared at the hand, then he stared at Beth Delilah. I swear, I could almost see the blood just pouring off that hand myself. Were you, once upon a time, given to evil deeds, sir? she asked him. Is that the blood of Innocents upon you? she accused. He grasped the hands wrist, staggered off the porch, down the steps, tripped, fell, rose, hurried across the yard. Feather and I looked at Beth Delilah, much impressed and a little frightened. Then, across the road, Jake was hollering and weeping and waving the hand around as Pete threatened to hit him with his walking stick if he did not staunch it. Beth Delilah, Feather and I abandoned the front porch. Later, Feather and I questioned Beth Delilah. I did nothing, really, he was already thinking bloodyhe had already admitted to being a murderer and he was intoxicated. I simply suggested, I merely provoked, she explained. You did something with your eyes, I said. She looked at me and then widened those blue eyes menacingly. And smiled.
EIGHT
n the summer, at night, the roof of the store was cool, pleasant and safe and if it were up to it, Beth Delilah and I would climb up there to recline upon an old quilt and stare up at the stars. They do not make as many stars as they used to, nor are they as brightly and mysteriously arrayed, it seems to me. And sometimes, when a storm was passing through, from that roof we would watch the play of lightning on the horizon with much fascination, munching on apples filched from someones yard or orchard or upon hard candy from the store. And when not enjoying the wonders of nature, we would roam far and wide in conversation and speculation, discussing and debating and conjecturing without limit or fear, as only children can. There was often a cool, silken mountain breeze moving about even in deepest summer that smelt of the pines. And, in the almost absolute darkness it would seem that the multitude of stars twinkling and glowing above were so very close and like a silken coverlet warm upon us. And the moon, especially when it was full, was a mystery and an excitement and seemed so very ancient. From that roof, we would see elk and bear and deer roaming about below if the moon was bright enough and the village quiet. And sometimes we would
37
38
John Sandoval
watch with great interest the comings and goings of the people of the village: the drunkards weaving home to their bedsthe touched and the peculiar drifting about like wandering ghosts in the night. More often than not, General Grant would be in the vicinity, restless as cats are on such nights, now and then stopping by to see what Beth Delilah and I were up to, then slipping off into the shadows once again to tend to his own affairs. Elijah? Yes? When father and I rode the train west, I spoke with a gentleman who had some very peculiar ideas. His name was Doctor Timothy Tribly. Now, Doctor Tribly said that we are, in fact, as a planet, in motion through space. That we are as passengers upon this earth and that the earth is much like a train with a destination unknown. Was the doctor drinking? I have thought about it much and cannot help but wonder what our destination is. I can sometimes feel our voyage, I am certain. Beth Delilah, do you think that Seora Roja is a witch, really? Of course she is. I have seen her boiling baby soup with a dozen cats in attendance many times. For a moment, be serious. Very well. For a moment. Do you think Seora Roja is a witch? Of course she is. I have seen her stuffing children into her oven many times.
39
Feather says that the Apaches believe her to be one. He says that they will have nothing to do with her. He says that she has been seen late at night running and flying through the mountains, killing things. Seora Roja running? She is too old to run. He says that she can change herself, that she can become other things. Seora Roja is a woman quite mad and given to a muchdistorted sense of self-importance. I do not care for her. For a moment, I wanted to tell Beth Delilah what had happened the summer before, with Seora Roja and I. But I could not. I was ashamed. And then you care too much, Elijah.
NINE
have traveled much, but never have I seen the moon lovelier than in Ruidoso. On summer evenings, it would rise up above that mountain and begin its slow journey across the sky, burning white as phosphorous, hypnotic, so lovely you could cry, so strange and so old that you knew there was something that it could tell you if only you stared at it long enough. I have felt the heat of the moon upon my face and do not doubt that it is Brother Cain to the earth: much pocked and forever exiled. One night, as Beth Delilah and I sat up on the roof of the store watching that full moon, Seora Roja passed by on the road below. Lets follow her, Beth Delilah suggested. No. Do you not wish to know what it is she does, Elijah? Every night she passes by, where does she go? What is she doing out there in the dark, up in those hills? Perhaps the Apaches are right about Seora Roja. I would rather remain here with you, moon gazing.
40
41
Oh, please, Elijah. You must come along and protect me, Beth Delilah begged. The moon will still be there if we grow bored with Seora Roja, she added. And so, descending from the roof, from a distance, Beth Delilah and I followed Seora Roja out of the village and up into the hills. Even with that moon so full and so bright, it was difficult keeping up with herfor an old woman, she moved quickly. Several times she paused to look back over her shoulder as Beth Delilah and I ducked behind trees, then hurried on, intent upon her journey, talking and muttering to herself as she went. I thought at first it was the play of moonlight, the trick of shadow and darkness distorting my perceptionsfor it appeared that Seora Roja was doing things that she should not have been able to do. One moment, she had paused before a wide arroyo, the next, she was standing on the other side of that arroyo, somehow having skipped the climbing down and the climbing up; coming upon a fallen pine tree blocking her path, its trunk near as big as she was, she appeared to slide up and over that obtrusive tree, fluid as a snake. Afterwards, Beth Delilah and I would carefully describe to each other what had happened that night and would conclude that we had seen pretty much the same things. Perhaps it was moonlight and shadow, perhaps Beth Delilah and I were merely tired and imagining the same thing. Eventually, Seora Roja came to a small, circular clearing surrounded by trees and there she paused. With those trees so black, with beams of pale moonlight streaming down through
42
John Sandoval
their branches, it was a most strange and eerie scene and, somehow, reminiscent of an ancient cathedral in ruins. As Beth Delilah settled behind a tree, Seora Roja began walking slowly about the clearing, muttering and gesturing as she went, pausing now and then to listen, then continuing to pace, around and around, as though awaiting the arrival of someone. This went on for a good whileI was soon ready to go home to my bed. Then Seora Roja stopped, tilted back her head, and staring up at that immense moon emitted the strangest soundI can only describe it as part dog howling and part cat scalded. The hair on my neck bristled, Beth Delilahs fingers pressed into my arm. Seora Roja then paused in her baying at the moon to toss her head about madly, her long black hair flying, then, once again, let loose at the moon. She appeared quite possessed to me. Next, moving over to a nearby tree, she began clawing at it with both hands though Beth Delilah and I were fifty yards away, we could clearly hear the sound of her fingernails tearing into the bark: it sounded like General Grant sharpening his claws on the porch railings. Then clouds began drifting past, obscuring that full moon, further complicating what exactly was and was not. It was all very queer and strange, now with moonlight descending and then withdrawing, with the shadows sliding and shifting about, the trees all around appearing to twist and writhe as the light and the dark came and went, all the while Seora Roja screeched and clawed away. Then, the moon was totally and suddenly enveloped by clouds and in a snap the glade went dark and Seora Roja was abruptly silent.
43
In a moment, when the moon once again came forth and the clearing was illuminated, Seora Roja was not to be seen. Where is she? She cannot have gone far. We studied the clearingnothing. And then, with a horrible cry, something rose up from those black trees and came flying across the glade, directly toward Beth Delilah and I. You could hear those great wings approaching, sounding like sheets on a clothesline snapping in a heavy wind. And then, whatever it was, passed overhead, a great winged shadow not fifteen feet above us, as big as a locomotive, it seemed to me. With wonder and fear we watched as it rose higher and higher and then went gliding across the moon, black and strange and from long ago. Oh, what is it? What is it? Beth Delilah whispered. I did not know. I still do not know.
TEN
ne day, Mr. Jameson and I were alone in the store. I could sense, as we uncrated and shelved canned goodsAztec Peaches, Gold Pan Beansthat there was something on his mind. Son, he said, and began coughing. I waited until the coughing fit had passed. Yes, sir? Son, he continued, I take for granted that your father has spoken with you about repercussions and responsibilities. Not knowing what he was talking about, I waited. That he has, so to speak, spoken to you about those things usually left unspoken. I stared at him, bewildered. Beth Delilah, he then said. Yes, sir? He paused, considered for a moment. I will simply say that I trust you absolutely and know that you will conduct yourself as would a gentleman. And then he walked off, coughing. Your father and I had a conversation today that made absolutely no sense.
44
45
A conversation? About what? About you and II think. Yes? He mentioned responsibility. And repercussions. And that left unspoken. Beth Delilah stared at me for a moment, also perplexed. And then she smiled. Goose, she said. Goose? Goose.
ELEVEN
ate one night, as Beth Delilah and I sat on the roof of the store, our feet dangling over its the edge, two shadows came drifting up the road, one following behind the other. As they drew closer, we could hear the one leading the way angrily whispering to the one following. Then, as they passed below us, I saw that it was Seora Roja walking in front and that she held a length of rope in her hand attached to a Mexican girl reluctantly following behind. Its Seora Roja, Beth Delilah whispered. Who is that with her? I whispered back. I dont knowbut why is Seora Roja pulling her about on a rope as though she were a dog? Come, my puppy, we are almost home, we heard Seora Roja call, pausing to look back, to tug impatiently on the rope. The two continued up the road, soon disappeared into the darkness. Lets follow them, Beth Delilah said. I guess not. We must, Elijah. It is clearly kidnappingor worse. Its none of our business. Seora Roja gives me the black dreadfuls. I want nothing to do with it.
46
47
Elijah, did you not see the rope? It was quite obvious that the girl was not accompanying Seora Roja of her own volition. I tried to think of an explanation for the rope, could not. Abandoning the roof, we descended the ladder, crept past the upstairs bedrooms, made our way down the stairs and through the darkened store. Outside, we followed the two women down the road into the darkness. Seora Rojas adobe house was located at the bottom of a road just outside of the village. There next to the creek, tucked up against the cliffs, it was a place isolated and unfriendly looking. To the rear of the house, up in those cliffs, there was a cave and, in the summer, at twilight, thousands of bats would issue forth from that black mouth. It was said that this cave was many miles deep and contained tons of Aztec gold hidden there by the Conquistadors of long ago. When we approached Seora Rojas house, lanterns had been lit within. Like two burglars, we snuck up close, then, ever so carefully, peeked in through a window from which light came. The Mexican girl was seated at the kitchen table, Seora Roja was standing over her, the rope lay on the floor. The girl did not look any older than sixteen. Seora Roja was holding a pipeas we watched, Seora Roja inhaled from the pipe, then blew a great cloud of grey smoke in the girls facethe girl closed her eyes, shook her head, coughed. Seora Roja held the pipe above the girl, raised and lowered it several times, speaking as she did so. Again, Seora Roja inhaled from the pipe, then leaned over and placed her mouth upon the girls mouth, exhaled smoke as the young woman struggled, coughed, weakly tried to push Seora Roja away.
48
John Sandoval
What is she doing? I whispered. What witches docasting a spell. Beth Delilah whispered back, her eyes never leaving the strange sight within. Then Seora Roja brought a basin to the table and the girl was sick into it. Not wanting to see anymore, feeling sick myself, I pulled Beth Delilah away from the window. She came away only reluctantly. All of that night contained a strangeness. For as we made our way down the road back to the village, holding hands in the near total darkness, we somehow became disoriented. The road that I had walked countless times before now made no sense, the silhouettes of the surrounding hills that I thought I knew so well and tried to use as markers now were suddenly unfamiliar. Then, as we paused in the darkness, trying to get our bearings, there appeared above us, amid the multitude, a star that was much brighter than all the rest. As we stared up at this glowing orb with wonder, it began moving across the sky slowly, pausing now and then as though considering its path, and then, suddenly, it shot off like a bullet, was gone. Mind you, this was many years before airplanes, not to mention satellites. Beth Delilah cried out with joy and surprise, hugged me. Do you see, Elijah? she whispered into my ear urgently. Through space we sail. I could feel her vibrating with excitement against me. And in an instant Beth Delilah and I were transformed: we kissed. We walked on through the darkness. Eventually, the village lights appeared.
TWELVE
dog howled mournfully somewhere in the distance as we stood in front of the store. Instead of heading home, though, without a word spoken, I followed Beth Delilah inside. Once again, we crept through the shadows of the darkened store, up the stairs, past the bedrooms, then climbed the ladder to the roof. Exhausted with the nights adventures, Beth Delilah and I immediately fell asleep on the quilt. And then I was awake and it was nearing first light. Sitting up, I saw, there across the roof, the silhouette of someone standing next to where the ladder protruded. Still spooked from the nights adventures, I was about to shake Beth Delilah awake when the dark figure coughed. And then, silently, the visitor discreetly withdrew. Beth Delilah awoke soon after and we lay together on the quilt, tucked in close together for warmth against the dawn chill, not saying anything, just laying there and watching the lovely pink and blue light slowly rise up all around us. And then Beth Delilah spoke. Elijah, she whispered, there is something that I would like to do before I die.
49
50
John Sandoval
Yes? I said, somehow already knowing what she was about to say. I do not want to die without experiencing it. Please, Beth, stop talking about death. It gives me the dreadfulls. I want to do this with you. Neither of us spoke then. I have to get home, I said. Please, Elijah. I remember a raven calling from a nearby pine tree, and I remember the smell of the morning, and I remember hearing an anvil being struck up the road somewhere, and I remember Beth Delilahs eyes looking up onto mine as we fell into each other, as we clung to each other. And I also remember, afterwards, as we lay in each others arms, knowing that a border had been crossed and that Beth Delilah and I had entered another country. When we descended from the roof and entered the kitchen, Mr. Jameson was nowhere to be seen. On the stove, there were freshly baked biscuits and a pot of coffee. I have thought about it much through the years and have concluded that something was set loose upon Beth Delilah. And I, soon after that dawn was up on the roof of the store. I am not saying what we did was wrong; I am saying that a sweet and good thing was given and then almost immediately taken away. And I have never forgiven whoever or whatever was responsible.
THIRTEEN
uch terrible things, more often that not, begin with the most insignificant of occurrences. And sometimes, it is not until the final result has been attained that the first step, or thought, that began the journey to that result can be clearly seen or comprehendedall interconnected, no thing or person or occurrence separate. And there is that Chinese puzzle once again. Or is it just the ramblings of an old man knocking about in the attic of his mind? Several days after that strange night, Seora Roja and the Mexican girl came walking up the road. Beth Delilah and I were out on the front porch of the store, trying to teach General Grant how to fetch and return what had once been a small rag doll. General Grant would pounce on the rag doll after we had thrown it, would proceed to rip and tear into his hapless victim with avidity, but then would absolutely refuse to cooperate any furtherthe logic of giving back what had been given to him beyond his comprehension. He was quite the show off, though, and a hunter of the first order, and he never grew tired of leaping upon that poor doll and committing manslaughter. And each time, with each attack, adding his
51
52
John Sandoval
own personal touch to the game to keep things interesting. After pouncing upon his prey, he proceeded to roll about with it in a life and death struggle that was absolutely Shakespearian in effort and execution. He would turn his back on Beth Delilah and I between rounds and clean a paw with the greatest concentration and calmuntil the doll came sailing into view and then it was all business and out of my way. He would leap into the air, performing the most absurd cartwheels and somersaults for no other reason, apparently, than the pure pleasure and spectacle of it. These antics of General Grants soon had Beth Delilah and I staggering about on the porch, helpless with laughter. Mr. Jameson stepped out onto the porch to see what all the noise was about, stared at the two of us for a minute, and then, shaking his head with wonder, stepped back into the store. And then General Grant ceased all antics, looked up the road, gave a hiss, arched his back, and fled. At least she isnt towing her about with a length of rope, commented Beth Delilah. We watched Seora Roja and the Mexican girl approach, the Mexican girl walking a dozen steps behind Seora Roja, subdued, absolutely cowed. As they stepped up onto the porch, Seora Roja spoke sharply in Spanish to the girl, looked over at Beth Delilah and I suspiciously, and then entered the store. Meekly, the Mexican girl sat down on the long bench that ran along the porch, folded her hands in her lap, stared down at them. Beth Delilah and I looked at each other. Then Beth Delilah gave the faintest smile, walked over, sat down next to the girl. The girl did not look up, spoke not a word, seemed absolute-
53
ly unaware of Beth Delilahs presence. Beth Delilah was silent for a minute, still, also staring down at her hands folded in her lap, then she extended her legs out before her, crossed one ankle over the other, wiggled her toes, sighed. Then said, Most people pay scant attention to clouds and that, I think, is a terrible mistake. She paused to stare skyward. I personally believe clouds to be messengers. I truly believe clouds to be a source of information, when properly deciphered. And then she was silent and staring up into the blue sky with the greatest interest. The Mexican girl looked over at Beth Delilah shyly, then also looked up into the sky. There are no clouds now, she said, almost in a whisper. There are always clouds, said Beth Delilah. Either arriving or departing or traveling somewhere in between. Then, in but a few minutes, the pine trees opposite the store began to softly sway. And then there came a sudden gust of wind whipping up the road, kicking up dust, bending flowers and grass over as it came. From behind the Sacramento mountains to the south, immense cumulus clouds peeked forth, rose up higher, then began roiling and tumbling toward us. Beth Delilah and the Mexican girl looked at each other, smiled. Soon, what had been pure blue sky was grey and black with storm clouds; furious and awesome, biblical and foreboding, filling the sky. Never before had I seen a summer storm manifest so quickly and so absolutely. It was astonishing you expected to see chariots of gold hurtling down from there any minute.
54
John Sandoval
With the first rumble of thunder, Beth Delilah and I were leaping off the porch and then dancing about in the yard like two escaped lunatics as the thunder boomed, the ground shook and the sky grew darker. We laughed merrily, frolicking, frenzied by the electricity in the air. On the porch, the Mexican girl watched us with astonishment. When it began to rain down big drops of warm rain, Beth Delilah ran back onto the porch, grabbed the girl by the hand, tugged her up to her feet, drug her off of the porch and out into the pouring rain. I did a cartwheel. Beth Delilah merrily danced about the girl. I did a handstand, landed ungracefully in a puddle. Beth Delilah proffered a hand to the girl, inviting her to dance, the girl shyly declined with a shake of her head. Beth Delilah skipped away. We were all three quickly and thoroughly soaked, but did not mind or really notice. The thunder cracked, lightning flashed, the rain descended in torrents. And then Seora Roja was standing out on the porch, watching us. The Mexican girl saw her first and went as still as a fawn hiding in tall grass. And then I saw her. And then Beth Delilah saw her. And then we all three stood there in the yard, in the rain, the fun snatched out from under us. Guiltily, feeling foolish, I trudged across the yard, through the mud, up the steps, onto the porch and sat down on the bench. Beth Delilah followed, though certainly not feeling guilty or foolish, and sat down next to me. The Mexican girl started to follow. No, no, my puppyyou stay out there, you like the rain so much! Seora Roja called to her, then cackled evilly. Settling in a chair on the porch, chewing and spitting, Seora Roja gazed at the girlshe reminded me of a spider.
55
And so that poor Mexican girl stood alone in the yard, in the pouring rain, drenched, forlornly staring down at the muddy ground. Beth Delilah tolerated this for about two minutes, then, rising from the bench, she stepped off the porch, walked across the yard and took a stand next to the Mexican girl. Arms crossed over her chest, she stared back at Seora Roja defiantly. I guess it was then that the gauntlet between Beth Delilah and Seora Roja was thrown down. And so Beth Delilah and the Mexican girl stood shoulder-to-shoulder out in the yard, drenched to the bone as it thundered and flashed lightning and poured down rain. Finally, Mr. Jameson stepped out onto the porch, calmly stared at Beth Delilah and the Mexican girl for a moment, then turned to Seora Roja. Seora Roja, why are those girls standing out in this inclement weather? he asked. I do not know certainly, Mr. Jameson, replied Seora Roja. Maybe they are both a little crazy, maybe they are just defiant children. Mr. Jameson turned to me. Elijah? I did not know what to say. A bolt of lightning crashed down not too far away, shaking the ground. Beth Delilah, come in out of the rain! Mr. Jameson called. Beth Delilah took the Mexican girl by the arm, together they came sloshing through the mud and the wet and up onto the porch.
56
John Sandoval
Elijah, you and Beth Delilah go into the store and build up a fire and get dry, said Mr. Jameson. He looked at the Mexican girl, at Seora Roja. This is my niece, said Seora Roja, reluctantly. Her name is Rosa. Rosa, why dont you join Beth Delilah and Elijah inside, suggested Mr. Jameson. In the store, as I turned over ashes and fed kindling into the stove, Beth Delilah dried Rosas long black hair off with a towel. And as she dried off Rosas hair, Beth Delilah asked questions. In but a few minutes, she was able to learn that Rosa was indeed related to Seora Roja and that Rosa had been left in the care of Seora Roja by her parents because of illness. Illness? What is wrong? asked Beth Delilah. I havehow do you say in English? A ghost? No, in Spanish, it is diablo. A devil! Yes, within me. Beth Delilah and I looked at each other. Seora Roja says that she will pull it from me, Rosa continued, matter-of-factly. She is an excellent curandera and she will make me clean. But when Beth Delilah asked Rosa how Seora Roja specifically went about curing her of this illness, the girl blushed furiously and was silent. Soon after, Seora Roja herself stepped into the store and impatiently called to Rosa. Several days later, when Beth Delilah and I next saw Rosa, she was sitting out on the front porch of the store. But when we approached and tried talking to her, she would not look at
57
us; when Beth Delilah sat down next to her and reached for her hand, the poor girl jumped up and fled.
FOURTEEN
eora Roja is a vile and evil woman, Beth Delilah declared. We were sitting up on the roof of the store, our feet dangling over the edge, watching the activity of the village below. It was late September and there had recently been just the slightest shift in temperature, the vaguest change in the color of the sky. And something else, something that one cannot exactly name or describe, but that tells of Fall soon and of winter approachinga sad and lonesome sensation for me. You dont like Seora Roja? I asked. Does one like a scorpion? Do you think that she is a witch, really, as Rosa says, as the Apaches believe? I think that she is satanic and has enslaved Rosa. Beth Delilah replied, then paused. Have you ever smelled Seora Roja? She stinks of spunk water and doodle bug and of black rot from an out building. And she leaves behind, as she goes, grey smoke upon the ground. I thought perhaps Beth Delilah was imagining things. Just being a bit dramatic.
58
59
Knowing immediately that I doubted, she asked, Has Seora Roja passed since we have been up here? I shook my head. I wager that I can find her, Beth Delilah said. I looked at her, shook my head. I should have known better. It was not unlike watching a bloodhound scenting as Beth Delilah hurried up the road ahead of me: slowing, stopping, her eyes hardly leaving the ground, walking on, backing up, looking about, proceeding on again. What do you see? I asked, looking where she looked, trying to see what she saw. Wisps of grey smoke. Wisps of grey smoke? Yes. Does everyone have this smoke? She paused, looked behind us. Yours is green, as is mine. Seora Roja is the only person I have known to have grey smoke. I looked behind us, saw nothing. We left the road, cut through the woods. She paused here, said Beth Delilah, stopping to study the ground beneath a tree. To do what? To do what people do, she said, wrinkling her nose, then hurrying on. Not surprisingly, we eventually came to Seora Rojas adobe house there next to the creek beneath the cliffs.
60
John Sandoval
Now that is cleverwhy would Seora Roja walk to her own house? I said. Beth Delilah stuck her tongue out at me. Goose, she said. She is not in the house. She paused, stared off. She is down at the creek. And Rosa is with her. We began walking along the creek there beneath the cottonwoods, heading downstream. Soon, we heard voices and halted. The sound of Seora Roja was unmistakablelike claws screeching down a blackboard. Cautiously, we moved toward the sound, halted and peeked around a tree. Seora Roja was standing on the bank of the creek. She was watching Rosa who was squatting in the water, naked and shivering, her arms wrapped around herself. You are afraid of water? Seora Roja cried impatiently. What about snakes? There are many snakes in this creekand they bite! Poor Rosa looked about anxiously, her eyes wide with fear. Lay down! The water must cover you! Estpida! Seora Roja called, waving her arms about, spitting. Rosa whimpered like a beaten puppy. Seora Roja, with a snort of disgust, stepped into the creek, waded over to where Rosa squatted, grabbed her by the neck and shoved her down into the water. Like this! Like this! she screeched, holding Rosa under the water. Poor Rosa struggled and kicked. This is how we chase the demons out! Like this! And like this! Seora howled, her face distorted horribly. Leave her alone! Beth Delilah screamed, and went charging down to the creek like a maddened boar. Leave her
61
alone! she screamed, running into the water, then up the middle of the creek, heading straight for Seora Roja. Seora Roja froze, stared at Beth Delilah with shock. And then Beth Delilah ran straight into her and Seora Roja went sprawling into the creek water. Go to hell! Vile woman! Beth Delilah hollered. Seora Roja screeched and wailed and flopped about in the water. Rosa staggered to her feet, gasping and coughing. Beth Delilah turned around, marched back up the creek toward me. It was a frightening thing, seeing Beth Delilah enraged like that. When Beth Delilah reached me, she turned, stared back at Seora Roja and Rosa. Seora Roja had crawled out of the creek and now stood wailing angrily on the embankment. Rosa remained in the water, her long black hair wet and hanging down so that you couldnt hardly see her face. Never have I seen a sadder spectacle than of that poor girl standing there, naked, halfdrowned, and knowing, I am now convinced, what awaited her. And Beth Delilah, perhaps sensing this, perhaps also knowing, called to her to come with us, almost weeping. But Rosa said nothing, just stood there, hidden behind her hair, staring down at the water flowing around her knees, just staring down, already gone, you see.
FIFTEEN
began having strange dreams. More often than not, they included Seora Roja. I would awaken from them sweating and scared and certain that she was there in the dark with me, waiting, watching. They were horrible and troubling dreams for a boy of that ageI remember them yet. They all seemed to take place at twilight, in the backyard of the store. In one of these dreams, Seora Roja was crying mournfully as she sat on the bottom step of the stairs, cradling something in her arms. Come look, boy, come look! she called to me. Unable not to, dreading what she had to show me, I went to her. See, boy, see! she wailed, pulling back her black shawlrevealing a babys white skeleton pressed to her withered brown breasts. In another of these horrible dreams, Seora Roja was hanging clothes in the backyard. Then, as I looked closer, I saw that it was not clothes that Seora Roja was hanging upon that clothesline, but Rosa, the Mexican girl. And as I drew closer, I saw that Rosa was naked and that Seora Roja was carefully skinning her with a knife. Arms and legs splayed and secured, Rosa passively stared at me as Seora cut and then
62
63
tugged her skin down, exposing bloody muscle. Then, horribly, a single tear slid down Rosas cheek. Beth Delilah was also troubled, though I cannot say if she was having the same terrible dreams. I fear what the days to come will contain, she said one twilight as we sat on the roof of the store. What has become of summer? she wondered, shivering suddenly, looking about warily. Youll like Ruidoso in the winter, I said, trying to be cheerful and reassuring. I do not think that I will, she said. And, for the first time, I understood with certainty what it meant to have someoneor somethingwalk upon your grave. And I sensed the intrusion of something that was absolutely outside of myselfand of everyone elsesomething that did not care and was without mercy.
SIXTEEN
ometimes the wind would blow for days without pause in those mountains. You would fall asleep to its sound and when you awoke in the morning it would still be there, waiting for you, whistling, moaning, whipping about. These relentless winds made a lot of people short-tempered and irritableand worse. And if you listened too closely, for too long, they could become something that had nothing to do with the weather or with the season. The winds had been gusting and howling for several days when the ants got into the kittens. I have mentioned the red ants found in New Mexicoalmost an inch long, satanically mean if you stirred them up, their bite vicious. The Apaches, I have heard, used those ants to close woundsafter the carefully placed ant had bitten down, pinching off the rest of the body, the head remaining as a suture. There was a feral cat that had nested down behind some barrels in the shed in the backyard of the store. There it had birthed a litter of kittens. I am sure that General Grant was responsible, to some degree, for her condition. Though the cat did not care much for me and would hiss and growl when
64
65
I entered the shed and approached her and her kittens, she did not mind Beth Delilah. I immediately knew that something was wrong when Beth Delilah and I entered the shed to check up on the kittens. For, despite the wind blowing outside, rattling tin roofs and knocking things about, I could hear mother cat there in the shadows hissing. When my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I spotted her atop one of the barrels, her back arched. Beth Delilah stepped over to the barrels, knelt, looked behind them and screamed. I hurried over to her. The ants had gotten into the shed and had swarmed the kittens, perhaps while the mother was out hunting. One or two were yet alive, pitifully mewing. Beth Delilah began clawing and picking at them with her bare hands. I stared down at the ant-covered kittens, horrified. I remembered the barrel of rainwater just outside the shed, grabbed the kittens and hurried outside. Ants bit my hands. I plunged them into the cold water, and then I released the kittens. They sank to the bottom of the barrel. I figured drowning was better than being bitten to death. A stream of tiny bubbles rose to the surface, then nothing. The next day, Beth Delilah and I tipped the rain barrel over and retrieved the dead, sodden kittens. After removing the ants still clinging to them even in death, we buried the kittens. Then we found the ant nest. Do ants think? I wondered, as we stood over the nest, watching the ants coming and going. They think enough to have found their way into that shed and to those kittens, said Beth Delilah.
66
John Sandoval
I brought my boot down on the nest, kicked at the dirt piled around the opening. Beth stepped on ants with her left shoe, then with her right. Ants poured out of the nest, panicked by our intrusion. Do you think that they feel pain, I asked. I know that those kittens felt pain, Beth Delilah replied. I heard them. We continued stepping on ants in silence. We cant kill them fast enough, I said. Eventually, we walked away.
SEVENTEEN
ays and then weeks went by and we saw neither Seora Roja or Rosa. Late one October afternoon, not long after the massacre of the kittens, Beth Delilah and I were sitting out on the back steps of the store. Suddenly, Beth Delilah stood up and stared off toward the clothesline with the strangest expression. What was that? she asked. And in an instant, at that very moment, the horrible dream that I had recently had of Rosa being skinned alive by Seora Roja while strung up on that clothesline came back to meonce again, that rattlesnake coming out of that birthday box, you see. Something is terribly wrong, said Beth Delilah, turning to me with a look of dread. Its RosaSeora Roja is hurting her. Trotting and running, down the road Beth Delilah and I hurried. We arrived at the house of Seora Roja. Next to the creek, beneath the cliffs, there was no sign of either Rosa or Seora Roja in the yard, front or back. Theres no one here, I said.
67
68
John Sandoval
Yes there is, said Beth Delilah. Mr. Blackwaters bugle gripped in her hand, she boldly led the way across the road, down the embankment and across the yard. We peeked in through every window of the house, but there was no one to be seen within. Finding a back door open, we cautiously entered, then went from room to room. My heart felt as though it were about to burst through my shirt. And, once again, there was that bad smell to the housethe smell of something putrid, of something dark and rotten and way past dead. In the kitchen, Beth Delilah looked about, frowned. I know that they are here, she whispered. Stepping over to a brightly colored Mexican blanket hanging up on the wall, she pulled it asiderevealing a small cellar door. As soon as I pulled that cellar door open, the stench came up at us, strong as a slaughterhouse. I thought I was going to be sick. Behind me, Beth Delilah made a gagging sound. A set of stairs descended into darkness. Theyre down there, Beth Delilah whispered. Then, ever so faintly, voicesdrifting up to us as though from some canyon or some ocean bottom. Then, from that darkness, from that stink of death, there came a terrible cry followed by mad laughter. Something that felt like a scorpion ran up my back, over my scalp: fear. Beth hurried over to the kitchen table, set her bugle down, pulled the chimney from the lamp that was there, lit the lamp, replaced the chimney. Come, Elijah, we must hurry, she said, her bugle in one hand, the lamp in the other. Taking the lamp from her, I led the way down the stairs.
69
The glass chimney of the lamp rattling with my fear, I carefully moved down the steep wood steps, trying not to breathe in the horrid smell, trying not to cry out from the horror of it all. At the bottom of the stairs, we paused to look about. The cellar was dirt-floored with walls of river stone and scattered all about were crates and furniture and assorted trash, all draped with years of cobwebs. And when I raised the lantern, we saw, there just above us, the source of that awful smell: hanging from the beams of pine were bones and feathers and the dried out carcasses of ravens and dogs and cats and of things that were no longer identifiable. It was a gruesome and unnerving sight and if Beth Delilah had not been there, I would have fled without shame. Twenty years later, in the trenches of France, I would have to do things that I did not want to do, I would have to stay when every cell in my body ordered me to fleeremaining down in that cellar that day was preparation for those ordeals, you see. Away in the darkness, we heard Seora Roja cackling. Cautiously, we moved toward that sound, carefully stepping around the crates and the furniture, avoiding looking up, trying not to come in contact with horrors hanging just above our heads. Then, ahead, we saw a ribbon of light escaping from beneath a door. We crept closer and closer, halted before the door. Behind the door, we could hear Seora Roja speaking in Spanish, then weirdly laughing. Beth Delilah and I looked at each other. Handing Beth Delilah the lantern, I pushed the door open.
70
John Sandoval
The room was not very large and was illuminated by several candles burning upon a shelf. There were clothes scattered about, a large cross made of bone and feathers on one wall, even more horrors hanging from the ceiling. Seora Roja, wearing only a black skirt, her bare back turned to us, was leaning over a large table beneath those candles, her shadow enormous upon the stone wall. Where was Rosa? On the table, I saw bare feet, an arm, blood. When Seora Roja turned around and looked at us, we saw with horror that her face was covered with blood, as were her arms and hands and breasts. And there upon the table behind her, poor Rosa lay naked, splayed, her arms and legs secured by rope, a bloody messher throat had been cut and was pouring forth blood even as we stared, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping with the shock of death. She has no more devils, Seora Roja informed us, not at all surprised by our appearance. After a great struggle, I have cast them out, she announced, wiping off her dripping mouth, glancing back at Rosa triumphantly. Beth Delilah and I could only stare at the bloody nightmare. You, said Seora Roja, pointing a bloody finger at Beth Delilah. You also are a child badly possessed. You are worse than Rosa. Looking about, she spotted a butcher knife lying in a pool of blood on the table next to Rosa. Snatching up the knife, she came at us with a shriek. Stepping in front of Beth Delilah, I grabbed Seora Rojas wrist as she brought the knife downbut because of all the blood, I could not get a firm grip and the knifes blade slid
71
deep into my arm. I shoved Seora Roja away. She came back at me with the knife, screaming, her face horribly contorted. And that was when Beth Delilah threw the lantern at Seora Rojain an instant, Seora Roja was engulfed in flames. Beth Delilah and I fled the room. Seora Roja followed, staggering, screaming. Oh, my children, what have you done! Oh, my Rosa, come help your poor auntie so badly abused! But if she had not followed, we may not have escaped, for it was by the light of the flames consuming her that we were able to see our way through the clutter and darkness of the adjacent room and find the stairs. When I last looked back, Seora Roja had collapsed face down upon a pile of wood debris, feebly twitching, groaning. The smoke and flames of the burning house soon brought people hurrying from the village. As Mr. Jameson bandaged my knife wound back in our home, I numbly watched the house burnseveral of the onlookers crossed themselves as the foul-smelling black smoke billowed up into the sky. From nearby trees, many ravens made a loud racket that sounded strangely joyous. For many years afterwards, the debris-filled pit that had been the cellar of the house was a place considered haunted and not to be trifled with. The ghosts of Seora Roja and Rosa were often seen late at nightSeora Roja leading a weeping Rosa about on a rope. Children that misbehaved were threatened with visitations by those two tormented souls. The last time I passed by the sight of that tragedy, some fifty years later, the parking lot of a service station sealed that tomb.
72
John Sandoval
Beth Delilah and I returned early one morning a week or so afterwards. We encircled that dreary pit with flowers gathered along the creek and nearby fields. General Grant had followed us; as we placed the flowers, we could hear him mournfully calling from a stand of willows near the creek he would not come any closer and would not cease his eerie dirge until we had walked away from that pit.
EIGHTEEN
eth Delilah, not surprisingly, was never the same after that tragedy. How could she have been? As with a major trauma to the body, so too with her perception of the world and her place in it once such havoc had infiltrated and left its mark. She became quieter, withdrawna young woman knowing now that angels do not necessarily reign supreme. I was not doing much better. I was not sleeping well and was pursued by nightmares. My thoughts were morbid and questions that had no answers would not cease their relentless assault. That is not to say that they were not good questions: why had we not been able to arrive in that cellar ten minutes earlier and perhaps save Rosas life? Better: what terrible thing had Rosa done to deserve such a short life and such a horrible death? And so Beth Delilah and I were cast from our garden. Whats wrong? Nothings wrong. Whats wrong? Theres nothing wrong. Youve been staring off at nothing for an hour. Please, Elijah.
73
74
John Sandoval
You cannot be thinking about it. I cannot help but think about it. It will hurt you. I am already hurt, Elijah. I feel as though I have been gutted. Like Rosa. Seora Roja haunted me. During the day, when she came around, I was usually able to ignore her, to lock away that voice and the memory of what had happened. But at night, she made her mischief; it was then that she roamed freely about the hallways and cellars of my mind, cackling and spitting. The dreams usually took place in Seora Rojas adobe house beneath those cliffs and it always seemed to be night or dusk as thousands of bats came pouring out of that cave. And Seora Roja and I were always alone in these morbid dreams, though I do remember once seeing General Grant on her kitchen table, frozen in placea stuffed trophy. And, another time, in another dream, Beth Delilahs long blond hair hung from a rafter down in that horrible cellar, swaying back and forth slowly. Horrible dreams, as I said. Come here, boy, Seora Roja would whisper, squatting in a dark corner, down in that cellar. Come here for a moment onlytheres something I want to show you. The most horrible aspect of those dreams was that I was never able to say no or to flee or to simply murder that horrible woman againI always went to her. What they said about me is not truethe things that I did, I did not do. She would whisper, her fingers biting into my arm like the talons of a cat. I was just a tormented poor old lady. And that child? That child was dead before I killed her.
NINETEEN
y father, like Mr. Blackwater, had fought in The War between the States. Though he had returned home with all limbs intact, he had been forever changed by that experience. Many were the nights I was awakened by his yells and his curses as he dreamt of those battlefields in the next room. Like the death of my mother, that war had taken much from him, though he rarely mentioned either. Once, when we were out cutting wood, I noticed the quarter-size indentions that ran down one side of his torso. My Jeff Davis forget-menots, he explained, when I asked about those scars. And, like Mr. Blackwater, my father drank, though certainly not with the same conviction. Although I believe, for similar reasons. And sometimes, when drinking, he would take out his fiddle and bow and he would play the tunes of those long-ago army campfires, some of them so lonesome and mournful that you could not help but cry, others as cheerful as the month of May. Late one afternoon, soon after the death of Rosa and Seora Roja, my father called me out onto the front porch. Elijah, come watch the sun go down with me. And so together we sat in the twilight, at my fathers feet a jug of the local shine and, leaning against a porch post, his
75
76
John Sandoval
fiddle and bow. After drinking from the jug, to my surprise, he passed it to me. I guess if youre old enough to see what you saw down in that cellar, youre old enough to drink with me out on this porch, he said. Ever so cautiously, I drank the fiery liquor, my first taste of the Demon drink . . . Father took up his fiddle and bow, speculatively drug out some notes, adjusted a string, spat off the porch. First time I ever went into a fight, I was no more than a boyperhaps a year or two older than you are. Afterwards, the rest of the company took me down to the creek and threw me in after getting me thoroughly drunk. He drew the bow over the strings, paused once again. Wasnt much of a fight, not even near a proper battle, just some long-since forgotten dustup between a couple hundred men in some Georgia pine woods early one morning in August. He played some, paused. But it was mean and ugly and there I first saw men killed. I wanted to go home to my mother after. Didnt want nothing more to do with war. Little did I suspect what awaited me come the next two years. He set aside the fiddle to drink, passed the jug to me. In our company, he continued, there was an old campaigner by the name of Sergeant Winston. Now, Sergeant Winston was a man well-versed in life and in war and it was to him that we all went for advice and guidance. A good man was Sergeant Winston. Father took up his fiddle and bow.
77
That day, after my baptism by fire, as we all sat upon the banks of that creek drinking, Sergeant Winston gave me some excellent advice. He said, Between the arriving and the departing, there is a mess of miseryyou just might as well get used to it, son. And then my father set to with his fiddle and spoke not another word that evening.
TWENTY
ne morning, Feather rather mysteriously requested that Beth Delilah and I go walking with him, said there was someone that wanted to meet us. And so the three of us walked out of the village, tramped along the road until there was no road, then ascended a trail up into the hills above the village until there was no trail. Eventually, we had paused upon a shelf of large rocks to rest. Far below, the village neat and small, the sound of a dog barking, a nail being hammered gently drifting up to us. I did not see the old man at first, and then Feather said something in Apache and I saw him thensitting not a dozen feet away, a little old brown-skinned man perched easy and relaxed between two boulders, his clothing and his stillness fitting right into the immediate terrain. In his lap, a book entitled The Daring Deeds of Kit Carson, Indian Killer. Beth Delilah and I stared at him with surprise. This is my grandfather, said Feather. The old man looked up at us, smiledit was a wonderful smile, very familiar, somehow. Beth Delilah and ElijahI have heard of you both, he said. Sit down, sit down! I do not want you falling off this mountainnot before we get
78
79
acquainted! he said, then laughed. His laughter was even more engaging than his smilenot to mention quite unusual. Beth Delilah, Feather and I sat down before him. The old man stared at Beth Delilah for a long time and then he said, I thought you would be so much biggerat least seven feet tall! Beth Delilah blushed. You scared off the bearded onesand then you had the witch for dessert! he proclaimed proudly. Beth Delilah stared down at the ground. What is that? he asked, looking at Mr. Blackwaters bugle hanging from the leather throng around Beth Delilahs neck. Mr. Blackwaters bugle. He left it in my care, said Beth Delilah. Ah! No Leg Dancer! said Feathers grandfather, much impressed. He held out his hand. May I? Beth Delilah hesitated, then lifted the bugle from around her neck and handed it to him. Feathers grandfather took the bugle from her, held it in his lap, gazed down at it. Then he raised it, studied its many dents and scratches with great interest. Finally, he said, This has been to war. Holding the bugle to his forehead, closing his eyes, he said, ThereI can hear the horses screaming! Opening his eyes, he handed the bugle back to Beth Delilah. We sat without speaking, waiting. The snake eating its tail, said the old man, staring at Beth Delilah. Sir? said Beth Delilah.
80
John Sandoval
The riddle riddling the riddle. The mystery pursuing the mystery. Beth Delilah looked at him, smiled politely. Then, for a moment, Feathers grandfather seemed bewildered, staring off over our heads, frowning, trying to sort something out. And then he smiled. I am always doing that! he exclaimed. And it gets me absolutely nowhere! He laughed, picked up the book in his lap, glanced at its cover. Perhaps I should go riding with Kit Carsonperhaps he could sort some things out for me. Beth Delilah, Feather and I glanced at each other. But never mind all of that, he said, tossing the book aside, slapping dust off of his pants, then staring at Beth Delilah again. I am curious about you, Beth Delilah. He said. Curious about me, sir? asked Beth Delilah. Yes. They stared at each other. Curious about my . . . enigma? Beth Delilah asked, then smiled innocently. Feathers grandfather looked at her with surprise, also smiled, delighted. And then no one spoke and we stared off at the mountain, the village below, the range of mountains in the distance. Once again, Feathers grandfather stared at Beth Delilah. But you dont like it much, he said to her. Sir? Its a burden, most of the time. Beth Delilah said nothing. Its like walking about with your skin turned inside out.
81
Beth Delilah stared down at Mr. Blackwaters bugle lying in her lap, suddenly looking very tired. It is trueI often dont care much for it, she agreed. And then she began to cryat first softly and quietly, then loudly and horribly, her whole body shaking, her hands held up to her face, unable to contain her pain any longer. I did not know what to do, so unnerving was the sight and sound of it. I looked over at Feathers grandfatherhe was looking off toward the mountain, unconcerned. I glanced at Featherhe was staring down at the ground forlornly, looking as though he might start crying himself. Eventually, Beth Delilahs grief subsided. Beth Delilah, Feathers grandfather then said. Beth Delilah did not look up. Beth Delilah! he said sternly. She looked up then. Theyre coming, he said to her. A shiver slid up my back and over my scalp. Theyre coming, the old man repeated. Beth Delilah, her face wet with tears, stared at the old man. He pointed toward the mountain. We all stared to where he pointedin the distance, in the blue of the sky, there above the mountain, a flock of birds circling, tiny and black. You must call them, said Feathers grandfather to Beth Delilah. Call them? asked Beth Delilah. They are searching for you, said the old man.
82
John Sandoval
Beth Delilah looked at me, at Feather, back at the old man. With your war buglebring them to you, said the old man, nodding at Mr. Blackwaters bugle. They will come, he promised. Beth Delilah stood up, stared off at those ravens for a moment, then raised the bugle to her mouth. I saw those ravens immediately change their flight with that first loud notelike metal filings when you pass a magnet over them. Again, said the old man. Beth Delilah blew on the bugle. And then the ravens were coming toward us, all in a line, as neatly lined up as soldiers on the march. We stood up and watched with wonder as those ravens approached, growing larger and larger, until they were directly above us, circling silently, gliding around and around wonderfully, their black bodies glistening and flashing in the sunlight. There must have been fifty of them. Sit down, said Feathers grandfather. We sat. In a moment, a raven descended, alighted upon one of the boulders above us. And then another descended, and another, and then they were all down and perched upon the boulders all around us. But for an occasional fluttering of wings and the scratch of their claws upon the rocks, they were silent. It was an astonishing sightand a spooky one, too. What are they doing? Beth Delilah whispered, looking at them with awe. They have come to see you, said the old man.
83
To see me? Why? To say hello, said the old man. They are friends. Arent they beautiful? said Beth Delilah. Why are they friends? she asked. I had the distinct sensation that those ravens were watching usintently. They seemed wholly unafraid. They know that you are the one that stopped the raven killer, said Feathers grandfather. Seora Roja, said Beth Delilah. The old man nodded. And then all those ravens let out a great and deafening sound. And were silent again. They are thanking you, Beth Delilah, said Feathers grandfather. Beth Delilah smiled shyly, looked down at Mr. Blackwaters bugle laying in her lap. Suddenly, with a startling flapping of wings, the ravens rose up as one and flew away. After sitting quietly for a while, enjoying the view, we said goodbye to Feathers grandfather and began the descent of the mountain in the dusk. We were halfway down when there came a ravens cry from above. Beth Delilah halted, raised Mr. Blackwaters bugle and returned a final farewell to Feathers grandfather. They would not meet again, though we did not know that thenI suspect that old man did, though.
TWENTY-ONE
inter came early to the mountains that year. One day it was mild and warm with the aspens and the oaks and the cottonwoods brilliant bouquets of orange and yellow and red, the next day it was sharp and cold with gusting winds whipping through those trees and harvesting those leaves. Soon after, the first snow was upon us. It was a pleasant shock to see the mountain covered with white that first morning and the sky so brilliant and so blue that it made your eyes ache. As though in harmony with this change in season, like those leaves, Beth Delilah was somehow gradually transformed her hair, already very blond, went as white as chalk and she began wearing it loose and hanging instead of in the braids of spring and summer. And her complexion, already fine and pale, went almost translucent, so that you could clearly see the map of her blue veins just beneath the skin. She had found a heavy full-length black coat that Mr. Blackwater had left behind and now wore that when out in the weather, her hands hidden in its too-long sleeves, its excess length dragging behind her as she walked through the snow, looking like some strange arctic creature, like some lonesome ghost from
84
85
a Shakespeare play. And always now, as she went, several ravens were nearby, cawing from branches above, gliding from tree to tree, following her, in attendance. She was quite a sight walking through the snow, those black ravens swooping above her through the falling flakes. I sometimes did not recognize her, I sometimes had the sensation that she was fading away and if not for Mr. Blackwaters heavy black coat, she would become one with the snow, invisible, gone. That winter, Beth Delilahs seizures grew worse. After having one, she would have to remain in bed for two or three days before fully recovering from their onslaught. They are horrible, she said one morning, as I sat next to her bed. But, she added, theres something else there. What else? Where? I asked. There is, I believe, something trying to reveal itself to me, she said, then paused. Theres a purpose and logic at work, there amid the misery. They are, these seizures, sometimes like curtains behind curtains, I think. Beth Delilah, please stop riddling. Butterflies within cocoons struggling for the flight awaiting without. My granny. You should see what I see when I am hurtled through the glass panes of those seizures . . . I looked at her. Tell me. She considered for a moment. I have not yet fully deciphered those . . . shards. A hint.
86
John Sandoval
She smiled. My dear Elijah. I sometimes get you and General Grant confused for all of the curiosity that is about. Leave General Grant out of this and tell me what you are not saying. She looked at me. You will have to come closer. I left the chair for her bed, sat next to her. She took my hand, held it, then with her thumb, ever so gently, caressed. And that lovely falling sensation there in my stomach came as it always did whenever Beth Delilah touched me. Tell me, I whispered. Tell me what you see. She considered, caressed. Its like touching a tiger with your eyes closed when you do not know that its a tiger and have never met a tiger. Pause, caress. Familiar. Not familiar. Frightening and intriguing, both, at once. How do you go on? When I have a seizure, Elijah, its as though I am entering a forbidden territory, a country strange. There, for a moment, I am allowed a glimpse of something very important, something quite immensebut only a glimpse. It seems that the pain of the seizure is the price of admission for that glimpse. She paused, frowned, ceased caressing my hand. Wheres your father? I asked. Gone to Mescalero. I looked at her. She looked at me, smiled. Well, come on, then, she said, pulling back the covers, making room for me in the bed. It would be our last time together.
87
How quiet and still the village was as the snow fell and we whispered and laughed and then there in the cocoon of that bed, in that small little bedroom that was all of the universe necessary, we healed each other. And then we slept. And when we awoke, there beneath the quilts, the room was nearly dark. I immediately had that horrible, sad lonesome feeling you sometimes get when you sleep during the day like thatof course, its only your brushing up against your mortality that makes you feel so. General Grant, curled up asleep at the foot of the bed, awoke also, sat up, looked about, seemed somewhat bewildered for a moment, then gave a mighty, luxurious stretch and then, pleased all to hell with himself, yawned which made Beth Delilah and I laugh. And just like that, somehow, it was all back in place and just fine. Feeling shy and awkward and a little guilty, we dressed. Then we went downstairs and we lit the lanterns against the dark and built the fire up against the cold. Soon after, Mr. Jameson returned from Mescalero. Then it was time for me to head home. Beth Delilah was sitting in a chair before the fireplace, General Grant sprawled in her lap. I said goodbye and started for the doorsuddenly, General Grant sprang from Beth Delilahs lap and followed me to the door. He quickly cut in front of me and began urgently pressing up against my leg, emitting the strangest sound. I looked at Beth Delilah. He does not want you to leave, Elijahnot until you have properly wished me a good night, she said. I looked at her, bewildered.
88
John Sandoval
Come, Elijah, do you not know how to kiss a lady good night? she said, staring at me mischievously. Blushing, I glanced over at Mr. Jamesonhe was behind the counter busily writing in a ledger and seemed oblivious of us. I nearly fled, so acute was my embarrassment. I have ever since been eternally grateful that I did not flee, but, instead, stepped over to Beth Delilah, leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. Good night, my good, sweet prince, Beth Delilah whispered. Touching my face lightly, she stared up into my eyes intently for a moment, then looked away.
TWENTY-TWO
y morning, two feet of snow had fallen. I awoke from troubling dreams and for a minute lay in my bed listening to the gusts of wind outside, trying to remember exactly what those dreams had been. That was when someone started pounding on the front door. I immediately knew that something was terribly wrong. As I quickly dressed, I could hear my father talking to someone. And then I heard Mr. Jamesons awful coughing and a black dread entered me. Later, in France, I would come to know that black dread very well when affixing my bayonet to my rifle just before leaving the safety of our trenches. When I entered the kitchen and saw the faces of Mr. Jameson and my father, I went weak. Elijah, have you seen Beth Delilah? Mr. Jameson asked. Not since last night, I said. Mr. Jameson looked very scared then. Are you certain? my father asked. Yes, sir. No one said anything.
89
90
John Sandoval
Put on your heavy boots and coat, my father then ordered me. Turning to Mr. Jameson, he said, We will meet you at your store, Mr. Jameson. Search about there for any tracks before this snow gets any deeperand along the road as you go. He paused, thinking. We will cut through the fields going in and try and find anything there. Im sure that girl has simply gone for a walk. Mr. Jameson, looking sick and pale, left. My father and I followed soon after, he upon a horse, I walking. It was a fierce storm with a cold wind whipping about madly, visibility low, the snow up to my knees. As my father rode through the fields and orchards on each side of the road going into the village, I searched for tracks near the road. But I soon realized that it was uselessfor even the recent tracks of Mr. Jameson as he had walked to and from our house were already fast fading. As I walked and searched, I tried to think where Beth Delilah might have gone to. Mr. Jameson was standing out on the porch with several other men when we came up to the store. I could tell immediately that there was no good news. My father took charge, sending each man in a different direction with orders to fire off one round from their firearms if they found anything; if they found nothing within an hour, all were to return to the store for further instructions. My father and I set out together once again. We searched all of that day and when it grew dark we went out with lanterns and torches, up into the hills, through the forests, calling out, whistling, firing off guns. But we found no sign of Beth Delilah. Mr. Jameson, my father and I searched
91
through the night and it was nearing first light when we finally returned to the village. Exhausted, I rode on the horse behind my father, nodding in and out of sleep. By then the storm had abated and had left behind a deep blanket of snow. We were soaked to the skin, the horse was staggering with exhaustion when we reached the store. And that was when I saw Beth Delilah. There she is! I called out, pointing. My father and Mr. Jameson, about to enter the store, turned. She was standing beneath the big pine tree across the roadthe one Pete and Jake had sat beneath that summer day. Wearing Mr. Blackwaters black overcoat, his bugle clutched in one hand, General Grant calmly sitting at her feet. She laughed, waved at me. Beth Delilah! I yelled, leaping off the porch. Falling, rising, staggering through the deep snow, I hurried toward her, overjoyed to see her. Beth Delilah! But when I got to the tree, she was not there. I looked all about, certain that she was playing games, that she was hiding from me. But she was nowhere to be found. When my father and Mr. Jameson tried to lead me back to the store, I did not want to go. When I awoke, I was in bed and it was dark. Outside, another storm was blowing, making the trees creak and groan eerily, the house to shake and shiver. Feverish, I became convinced that the house had somehow become a boat and that we were adrift at sea. And then I remembered that Beth Delilah was missing and realized with dread that she had been
92
John Sandoval
washed overboard and was now helplessly swimming about, trying to get back to us. I climbed out of bed and began dressing, the floor tilting and rocking beneath my feet crazily. I nearly made it to the front door before passing out. My father and Mr. Jameson found me there on the floor when they returned from searching for Beth Delilah.
TWENTY-THREE
fter four days, the search for Beth Delilah was ended, even though Mr. Jameson continued looking for his daughter. I knew nothing of this, for I was very sick and not aware of much that was going on around me at that time. Apparently, I came near to death, though my proximity to that mystery, as I recall, was neither pleasant or unpleasant. I soon recovered. Like Mr. Jameson, I was unable to accept that Beth Delilah was gone. I awaited her return, convinced that she had merely gone off on some strange but necessary journey and would soon appear once again, a bit exhausted and battered, but with wonderful adventures to share. Mr. Jameson, already thin and pale with his illness, became frightfully gaunt and skeletal, his ever-present racking cough grew worse, his eyes now perpetually horrified by the world they looked upon. Not surprisingly, he began acting strangely and was rarely found at the store, because he took to roaming the hills and countryside in search of Beth Delilah. When he was seen in the village, he swore to anyone that would listen that he had seen his daughter; that she was living in a cabin in the woods; that he had received a letter from her
93
94
John Sandoval
from New York and she would soon be returning home. It was heartbreaking to see such a good man come apart like that. One morning, as I sat out on the front porch of the store for the first time since Beth Delilahs disappearance, I found myself looking about, trying to understand something that was tugging at me. And then it came to meGeneral Grant was not to be seen. After thinking about it for a moment, I went inside and looked about; General Grant was not there. I went to the back stairs and looked out on the backyard, but there was no sign of General Grant. Back inside the store, Mr. Jameson was intently tying lengths of rope and string together at the counter. Sir, have you seen General Grant? I asked. So absorbed was he in his task that he appeared unaware of my presence. Sir? He looked up, stared at me, for a moment did not seem to recognize me. General Grant? Why, yes, Elijah, I once saw the man from a distance. During the war. There was nothing spectacular or outstanding about him that I could see, though. Just another soldier . . . He went back to tying and knotting rope and string together there at the counter. No, sir, I mean the cat, have you seen the cat that we call General Grant. You see, Elijah, with this rope, Beth Delilah will be able to find her way home. She has become disoriented and needs our assistance . . .
95
Yes, sir. General Grant had disappeared as suddenly and as absolutely as Beth Delilah. I knew immediately that they were together.
TWENTY-FOUR
rue winter set in and upon the village there was a darkness and a melancholy. And as each day passed, the horrible fact that Beth Delilah was gone and not returning settled inthe flame of hope paused, flickered, went out. And it seemed to me that the village had become a place abandoned, cursed by God. One morning, several weeks after Beth Delilahs disappearance, the weather cleared and Feather and his grandfather came riding into the village. I was in the store, sweeping and straightening things out; Mr. Jameson had pretty much lost interest in such things by then. Hearing their horses, I stepped out onto the porch. Seeing that old man once again immediately cheered me. I invited them in for coffee and something to eat. No, Elijah, were not stopping, said Feathers grandfather from his horse. I looked at Featherhe looked back at me, very quiet and serious as he always was when in his grandfathers company. Where are you going, sir? I asked, noticing that both horses carried gear.
96
97
The old man carefully adjusted the horses reigns. Sometimes its good to get away from people, from things familiar, to pretend that you are unattached. He paused, then grinned. We are playing hooky. I looked at him, at Feather. The old man sniffed the air, looked around the village, at the store, made a face, sniffed once again, turned to Feather and said something in Apache. He says that the houses of white people smell like Grandmothers feet. Feather interpreted for me. The skies were sharp and blue and the air was cold and brittle and the mountain, for the first time since Beth Delilahs disappearance, was visiblecovered with snow, at its peak the winds violently moving aboutto me, it seemed very large and menacing. Suddenly, I badly wanted to leave the village, to get on a horse and ride off with Feather and his grandfather. Do you have a horse? the old man asked, as though knowing my thoughts. I think my father would let me have one, I said. With his permission, you can ride with us, said the old man. I dont want to be shot for stealing horses and children, he added. Those days are behind me. Feather and I grinned at each other. My father seemed not at all concerned or surprised that I wanted to go riding with Feather and his grandfather; though he knew Feather, I do not think that he had ever met Feathers grandfather. He took us down to the corral and helped me
98
John Sandoval
saddle up a horse, then outfitted me with a bedroll and a canteen and rough weather gear. How long will you be gone? he asked Feathers grandfather. Two days, said the old man. Unless these boys become a bother, he added. Where are you headed? my father asked. Feathers grandfather looked off toward the mountain, gave a nod. Up to that mountain. My father and the old man stared at each other. Its very nice up there this time of year, said Feathers grandfather. And I think these boys need to see some unfamiliar country. There was a trail of sorts that wound its way up the mountainside through the pines. Riding single file through the cold, ducking the low branches heavy with snow, now and then pausing to look out upon the wonderful view, we made our way up. It was an astonishing place to be that time of year with everything as far as you could see covered in white; aside from an occasional distant wisp of smoke rising from a house or cabin, that country then was pretty much unpopulated. Having set out in the late morning, by dusk we had nearly reached the summit of the mountain. In a small clearing we set up camp, an overhang of rock there affording us an excellent location that was free of snow and nearly dry. There we hobbled and fed the horses and built a fire. The good weather held. Then it was quickly dark. We cooked and ate and then sat with cups of hot coffee and stared into the flames. I felt as
99
though I had escaped some horrible fate. The black oppression that had been with me for weeks departed as I sat with Feather and his grandfather there in the dark before that fire on that mountain. Feathers grandfather was one of those men you somehow immediately know when you meet them, one of those men you never forget, a man not to be taken for granted. Such men are not common and, perhaps I am prejudiced, but it seems to me that they have become rarer through the years. My father was such a man, as was Mr. Blackwater and perhaps a dozen other men that I have known. I do not know if such men are born or made, though it seems to me that there is much integrity involved, along with a certainty that is frightening and perhaps illogical. To become such a man was once a goal of mine, though I fear that I have failed to make that mark. That night, Feathers grandfather thoroughly captivated Feather and I with his stories and his reminisces. He was a very good storyteller, had seen much in his seventy or eighty years and, he was quite the actor, clever, and had a voice that was hypnotic. He told Feather and me about life in the territories, of great battles, of the hunt, of magic and of mystery. Though these stories were entertaining, they were told to us, I realize now, with a purpose, as preparation for what was to come the next day.
TWENTY-FIVE
he ravens were there the next morning, waiting for us a hundred black, silent sentinels perched on the rocks and in the trees when we awoke. When Feather asked his grandfather what they wanted, the old man replied, They will take us to our friend that has gone missing. It took me a moment to realize what he was saying. Feather and I looked at each other. I felt that awful dread thenthe dread of soon knowing. Neither Feather or I dared ask if Beth Delilah was alive or notyou see, as the mind works, if we did not ask, then we did not have to know, and if we did not know, then Beth Delilah would remain safe and alive: it is an old trick. The old man said nothing else. We cleaned up the campsight, saddled the horses. As soon as we mounted, the crows flew off. We continued ascending the mountain, the crows escorting us. After a couple of hours of riding, we came to a final slope strewn with large boulders capped with snow from the last storm. Upon the boulders, silently waiting for us, the ravens. Feathers grandfather dismounted, secured his horse. Feather and I did the same. For a minute the old man looked about with solemn interest, then casually walked over to a gap
100
101
between two of the boulders, stood before it for a moment, then turned to Feather and me. You boys come over here, he ordered. Feather and I went to him. No doubt he saw the fear on our faces, for he smiled then. There is nothing to fear here, he said. It helped a little. We have come here to say goodbye to our friend Beth Delilah, the witch killer, the old man said. He nodded toward the two boulders with the gap between them. Shes in there, he said. Feather and I stared at the opening with astonishment and wonder. The old man went to his horse, from his saddle unfastened something tightly wrapped in a blanket, returned to us. Wait here, he ordered. And with the blanket-wrapped bundle under an arm, he passed between the two boulders. Feather and I stood in the snow, shivering now. I cant go in there, I said. Feather said nothing. What is she doing up here? I asked. Feather said nothing. From the dark opening between the boulders there came light. In a few minutes, the old man reappeared. He gestured for us to follow him, walked back into the side of the mountain. Feather started after him. I could not move. Feather stopped, turned, looked at me. He walked back, stopped, looked at me. You remember last
102
John Sandoval
summer when the stage came in and that woman got out with the midget hiding beneath her dress? For a moment what he was saying made absolutely no sense. And then it did. It was a bustle, Feather, not a midget, I said to him. I told you that. It was a midget, he insisted. Then, taking my arm, he led the way over to the cave opening between the two boulders, and we entered. Inside, Feathers grandfather had lit a torch and wedged it into a crevice, illuminating the cave. It was not a very large cave, its ceiling low, only twenty or so feet in depth. I did not see her immediately. And then I did. Beth Delilah was in a far corner of the cave, lying on her side with her head resting upon an arm next to a large rock. And curled up right against her, Beth Delilahs other arm encircling him protectively, was General Grant. Both had their eyes closed. A fine white frost covered them. They looked asleep. Atop the large rock, where Beth Delilah had placed it before lying down, was Mr. Blackwaters bugle. If I had been there alone, I would have laid down with them and I would have stayed there until the sleep that they had attained was given to me also. But the fear, once I had seen her, was dispelled. That is not to say that I was not feeling horrible and black seeing her like that. But, after all, it was only death, which is always the sameonce it has done its work. Feathers grandfather had spread the blanket out on the floor of the cave a few feet from Beth Delilah and General
103
Grant. In a small clay bowl, he had lit some herbs that smelled of the mountains in the spring. And I noticed, scratched into the wall of the cave just above where Beth Delilah and General Grant lay, were the figures of people and of animals that looked as though they had been there for a very long time. We stayed in the cave that night with Beth Delilah and General Grant. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder next to a small fire, facing their corpses, Feathers grandfather told more stories and answered our many questions, seeing us through the night. And in the course of that long, strange night, the small cave somehow became immense. Along and traced with those ancient petroglyphs, with grief and exhaustion our shadows became a tableau that was eternal, and Beth Delilah and General Grant were then upon an altar from long ago. Keeping guard upon them was a ritual familiar, final.
TWENTY-SIX
n the morning, we prepared Beth Delilah and General Grant for their final rest. Before covering them with all of our blankets, Feather left a bears tooth next to Beth Delilah; his grandfather, after tucking Mr. Blackwaters bugle in close to her, left a raven feather; I removed a turquoise ring that I wore and placed it upon one of her fingers. Knowing that I was looking upon her for the last time, staring down at her face so lovely and pale, I could not help but cry. Then, ever so carefully, we covered them with rocks. When we were done, there was nothing of them to be seen; where they had been, there was now a very neat cairn about four feet high and six feet long. Then we left the cave, the petroglyphs ancients watching over them. Outside, Feathers grandfather cut down a small pine tree with his hatchet, limbed it, then with Feather and me helping, used it to lever large rocks into the cave, filling it. We then pushed and rolled more rocks down off the slope above and placed them before the caves entrance. When we were finished, you could not tell that there had been an opening. Beth Delilah and General Grant were safely at rest and would not be disturbed. Exhausted, muddy and wet and cold, we
104
105
descended the mountain. The ravens that had been about for the last two days, dispersed. Soon after coming down off that mountain, with a trembling heart, I tried to tell Mr. Jameson about Beth Delilah. He would not listen. It was the strangest thinglike locking the door of someones room after they have died and not allowing anything to be changed there. I just received a letter from Beth Delilah this morning, he said, and started rummaging around through the drawers behind the counter, searching for the letter. Shes gone to New York and is attending college thereshe wants to be . . . now where is that lettera geologist . . . When I told my father that we had found Beth Delilah up on the mountain, in that cave, he was astonished and saddened. That child climbed up that mountain, in that storm, all by herself and then crawled into a cave with a cat and went to sleep? Yes, sir. Poor child, he then said, looking woeful. Then, when I told him about Mr. Jameson not believing that Beth Delilah had died up on that mountain and was buried there, he said, Its probably better that waythe man is already adrift. I dont think that he could handle realizing that his daughter is dead. He thought that we had done the right thing leaving her up there. A fine place to rest, he said. And then, as had everyone else, he wondered, What was she doing up there?
TWENTY-SEVEN
hat was eighty years ago. As I said, all those people are dead now. Feather, the last time I saw him, some twenty years ago, was an old manas was I. We happened to run into each other one last time one summer morning in downtown Ruidoso and sat down together on a bench. Quite naturally, we got into an argument over the exact location of the Ruidoso Store those many years ago, so much time had passed, things had so changed, that it was hard to tell where exactly it had been located, then finally agreed that it had been. As a matter of fact, it was located right across the street from where we were sitting, where a twenty-four hour convenience store had recently been built. The tree which Pete and Jake had sat beneath, a big, scarred up ponderosa pine, was still standing not ten feet from where we sat. We paused together on that bench for a couple of hours, remembering, putting everything into place. And, by simply turning our heads and looking up the street, we could clearly see that mountainit was strange to think that Beth Delilah and General Grant were still up there, in that cave, by now just bones. I am the last man standing. I am the final piece on that board. I am alone in this glade at twilight after all the others
106
107
have long since gone home. I would be a liar if I said that I am not lonely. Sometimes it is very strange, realizing that it is soand to see how casually we all arrive and, just as casually, depart. I try to not be morbid about it. As a matter of fact, I sometimes find it quite exciting knowing that I am so near the finish line and closing in on whatever answers will eventually be available. Of course, only one question needs answering, as far as I am concernedthe rest can go hang: will that blond-haired, blue-eyed child be waiting for me?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JOHN SANDOVAL wrote screenplays, poems and novels. Two of his plays were given staged readings in local theaters in Nevada City, California, where he lived for many years. He earned his daily bread as fire fighter, gold miner and house painter. From these occupations, and from idling about on street corners and in saloons, he has drawn his inspiration. At the time of his death in 2011 he was residing in Cleveland, Ohio, where he wrote and worked at the historical Alcazar Hotel as late night desk clerk. This is his first and only published novel.
108

The Witches of Ruidoso by John Sandoval

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

The Witches of Ruidoso by John Sandoval

Uploaded by

Copyright:

PIATA BOOKS ARTE PBLICO PRESS HOUSTON, TEXAS

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

The Witches of Ruidoso

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

You might also like