Rain of Gold

by Victor Villaseñor

  “Why, I went to church,” she said, “and God showed me the way.” Their mother said no more, and they rejoiced.

  By the end of the week, Juan’s fever was gone and he was strong and able to move around. And once again, Emilia’s breasts had enough milk so her baby didn’t cry in the night.

  Then one day, Juan asked his mother if he could accompany her to town, but she said no. After she was gone, Juan decided to go into town by himself anyway. He felt strong, so he thought he’d look for a job, too, and help their family.

  Juan walked around the center of town near the tall, thick-walled church, enjoying the sights of the Revolution. He suddenly saw a big powerful man yell, “Watch out! Here comes that filthy, old son-of-a-bitch woman again! Let’s get across the street before she gets us!”

  Four big men took off, running as fast as they could across the dirt road filled with ragged people and worn-out horses. Juan laughed. This was so ridiculous. Here they were, in the middle of war and hunger and death, and yet these grown men were running in fear from an old woman.

  Still laughing, Juan went around the corner, wondering what this terrible old woman could possibly look like. When suddenly, before his very eyes, he saw a wrinkled-up old lady, all dressed in black, hands twisted. She was a pitiful sight as she grabbed at each passing person, no matter how poor they looked. She was such a disgusting, dirty old lady, whining and crying as she clawed at every person, that she was, indeed, the most repulsive thing Juan had ever seen.

  Why, she wasn’t just old, filthy, and sick-looking, begging in the street like the lowest beggar on earth, but she was . . . Then she turned in his direction and Juan recognized her, but he couldn’t believe his eyes; this dirty old woman was his own beloved mother.

  And in that moment of confusion, in that instant of gut-hurting recognition, Juan screamed, slapping his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t make a sound, and he turned, running in panic. He didn’t want to shame his mother anymore. He didn’t want to add to her burden, this great woman, educated in Mexico City, the daughter of the great Don Pío Castro who’d fought alongside Benito Juárez himself.

  Juan ran, screaming around the corner, away from the tall ornate church, the crowds of people and the shocking sight he’d just witnessed. He cried all the way back to the brush alongside the fence where they lived.

  Out of breath, he reached out for his blind sister, holding onto her with all his strength.

  “It’s our mother, isn’t it?” she said. “She was begging, wasn’t she?”

  Juan pulled back, wiping away his tears, and he stared at his sister’s blind eyes. “But how did you know?” he asked.

  Emilia stared straight at him with her blank, flat, piercing blue eyes. “Because I saw her, too, hermanito, here in my head. I’ve been seeing her for days, begging, and people running from her in disgust.”

  She began to cry, too, and she drew her little brother close, hugging him. lnocenta came to them and they all held together, crying, feeling terrible shame of what had come to pass, and knowing down deep inside that this was, indeed, the end of them, that they’d just died, having lost all honor, and they were a gente sin nombre, a people without a name.

  CHAPTER TEN

  And so they were lost, far from home, and no one knew their name. But then there, at the end of the world, came the miracle of salvation.

  Juan was with his brother Domingo and they were racing up a cool, moist canyon where the wild orchids grew. Juan was running alongside his brother and their pet bull, Chivo, and the three of them were leaping from rock to rock as they ran, herding the white and brown goats up to where the green grass grew.

  Juan and Domingo had raised Chivo from a little baby calf. The big black bull loved them and followed them everywhere they went. The two boys raced on, feeling cool and strong and happy. Sheets of golden light poured down through the huge oak trees. Juan could hear the deep belly rumblings of Chivo’s stomach as he went flying over the rock, grunting, bellowing, blowing air out through his big, black, round nostrils as he ran alongside the goats, thinking that he was a goat, too, since he’d been raised with them.

  Suddenly, Juan awoke, knocking ants off his face. Hot sunlight beat down on him through the cracks of the fence. He glanced around, fully expecting to see Domingo and Chivo, but neither one was there. Juan sat up. He was sweating profusely. Suddenly, he remembered where he was and that his mother had been begging. He screamed. He just couldn’t believe it. His mother, the greatest woman on earth, begging like the lowest beggar.

  “What is it?” asked Emilia.

  “Oh, Emilia! I was just back home!” said Juan, crying desperately. “I was running with Domingo and Chivo up this deep canyon, herding the goats, when I suddenly awoke and remembered that I saw Mama begging and I . . . I couldn’t believe it. It was so real being back home!”

  “Oh, my poor hermanito,” said Emilia, hugging him. “I do that all the time. I’m back home sewing or cooking or helping with dinner, and the birds are in cages, singing under our ramada, and then I wake up and remember where we are, and I want to die!”

  Tears burst from her blind, blue eyes. “Truly, I just don’t want to know what’s become of us!”

  “Oh, no,” he said, drying his eyes. “We have to know what’s become of us, Emilia. Or we really will die.”

  “No,” she answered, “we must hold on to what we had, Juan, or we’ll be crushed!”

  Hearing this, Juan stared at his sister, and for the first time he truly saw her for what she was. Why, his once beautiful sister was now nothing but a dirty, desperate, wind-burnt rag. He glanced at his niece and to his horror he saw how scrawny and sickly she was, too.

  Suddenly, Juan felt even more repulsed by his blind sister and his little niece than by his mother. At least his mother hadn’t given up. She’d faced up to the naked, awful truth of what they’d become, and she’d done what she had to do . . . beg in the streets.

  His heart overflowed with love for his mother, and his eyes ran freely with tears. His mother, this great woman, hadn’t lied to herself and pretended they were still a great family. No, she’d kept her eyes open like the newborn chick that breaks the shell, and she’d just started pecking, begging, before God’s very own house.

  Juan took a deep breath, wiping his eyes, and he stood up. “Emilia,” he said, getting his hat, “I’m going. I’ll be back by dark.”

  “But where are you going, Juanito?” she asked. “You can’t go back to help Mama. It will only kill her with embarrassment.”

  “I know that,” he said. “I’ll go into the hills to look for firewood again.”

  “But you might be killed this time just like those horsemen,” she said. “Please, don’t go. Stay here with us until Mama returns. Then we’ll talk to her and figure out what to do.”

  “Emilia,” said Juan, putting on his straw hat, “there can be no talking to our mother. Don’t you see, we can’t even let her know that we know she was begging. I must go now, while she’s gone, and find a way for us to live.”

  “But, Juanito,” she whined, “Mama told us to wait here for her and not go anywhere.”

  Suddenly, Juan knew why his beautiful sister had gone blind and why his father, the tall, handsome, red-headed man, had gone up into the mountains to die after their rancho had been destroyed. His father and Emilia were bulls of little faith. They just didn’t have the power of the horse in their souls that the dark Indian side of his family had.

  “Emilia,” he said, “I’m going, and I’ll be back by dark, so don’t worry; everything is going to be fine.”

  “But how can you say that? You’re only a child!” she snapped.

  Losing all patience, he exploded. “I’m no child!” he yelled. “Damn it! None of us who’ve been through what we’ve been through is a child!”

  “But you might be killed!” she screamed. “Please, don’t leave me!” She reached for him, groping desperately.

  “No,” he said, staying out of her
reach. “I’m going, Emilia, and I’m not going to die! Do you hear me? We’re going to live!”

  “No, Juan, please! For the love of God! Stay with me!” she yelled, grabbing his leg.

  “No, Emilia, let go of me,” he said, pushing her away. “I must go! It’s our only chance! I’ll be back, I promise!”

  Hearing this and seeing her twisted, wretched face, he suddenly knew the secret to his mother’s power. Why, there it lay inside every person, like a tiny seed just waiting to be spoken to, to be watered, so it could burst forth and grow into a mighty tree and it was called faith! Vision! Knowledge in the absolute power of God!

  “But Juan,” she begged, wiping her eyes, “you’re not God. You can’t say that.”

  “Emilia,” he said, “but we are God. That’s the whole point. That’s what Mama has always been telling us, we are a piece of the Almighty.”

  “Yes, but . . . ”

  “No, Emilia, there are no ‘buts’” he said confidently. “Like I said, I’ll be back. You can depend on it.”

  And saying this, a power, a strength came shooting into Juan and he suddenly knew how his brother José had become the protector of their mountains while still only eighteen years old. And he also knew how his grandfather, Don Pío, had spoken to God that day on the knoll. And here it was inside him, the secret of life, the power of his mother, so clear, so perfect, and he knew that it all came down to faith and the strength of a man or woman saying it, committing it to words, inside, forever. Now he was good, complete, and at peace inside himself.

  He was a child no more; he was a man, a man of his word, for he had no questions. And all of life was now set on course, as true as all the rivers from the mountains to the sea for all eternity.

  An hour later, he was walking across the barren sands, headed for the distant hills south of town, and he was walking good and strong and confident.

  Villa’s army was fighting southwest of Ciudad Juárez in the canyons along the Rio Grande. Juan could see the cannons blasting fire and hear the roaring explosions, but he didn’t care. He had his own battles.

  Topping the first series of hills to the southeast of town, Juan still couldn’t find anything to gather for firewood. The people had already stripped all the wood off these first hills. He continued, hill after hill, until the El Paso basin was nothing more than a tiny dot in the distance and the cannon fire sounded like firecrackers. Here, Juan finally did find some wood, but it wasn’t enough. He had no axe to cut the wood, so he began to dig out the dead scrub brush by their roots.

  And the digging was difficult. The ground had a rock-hard crust. He had to get a stone to pound the crust around the base of the root until it loosened. Then he dug by hand, scratching at the granite-like earth, pulling out handful after handful of the hard-packed soil.

  His nails began to separate from the flesh, and the pain was so great that he cried out, “Oh, please, dear God, help me!” feeling so much pain that he couldn’t stand it. “Give me the power You gave the ants!”

  He continued digging, clawing, pulling until the pain was so terrible that his fingers went numb. Then miracle of miracles, Juan discovered that there was more wood to these bushes underground than on top of the earth.

  “Oh, thank You, God!” he cried out, and he yanked up the hard, solid piece of underground root and began to dig with new vigor. His mother was never going to have to beg again! God had shown him the way!

  So Juan continued to dig out bush after bush, shoving his fingers down deep into the cool, hard granite soil that surrounded the heavy roots. He pulled and pushed and dug, working with all his might, digging until his hands and arms were a bloody, torn, cut-up mess, but he never stopped. All he did was think of his mother, the great woman, seated there at the long, pine wood table to the right side of his grandfather, Don Pío, and Juan dug on, squeezing his eyes, holding back his tears, his pain, as he asked God for strength.

  The shooting continued in the distance, but Juan paid no attention and just thought of his mother, of the centuries of history that ran through his veins—not of ants and flies, but of men and women like his mother, like his brothers, like the giants, like his grandfather. Not one of them would have ever allowed a member of their familia to be a beggar. He worked on, and he never once thought of his own pain or suffering; no, he only thought of his mother begging with her face twisted in agony.

  He continued, raw and bloody, dripping with sweat, tongue turning to cotton, but he never slowed down. The sun set and the sky filled with rosy, long fingers of light and he could see the flashes of the cannons in the distance, but he had no fear.

  Finally, he was done. He’d dug up a whole pile of dead scrub brush roots, and he was going to be able to sell it and make, maybe, as much as ten cents.

  “Thank You, God,” he said, lying down on the ground like a panting dog and looking up at the stars and sky and flashes of light from the cannons. “We’re doing good, eh?” he said, wiping the sweat off his face with dry, blood-caked hands.

  He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew it was dark and he was cold. Quickly he got to his feet and glanced around and saw the pile of wood. He remembered where he was and what he was doing, so he took off the long rope he used for a belt and gathered the wood, tying it into a bundle as he’d done many times back home. But then, when he went to lift the wood to his back, he felt a hot, searing pain.

  “Oh, my God!” he gasped, falling to the ground. He sat there, stunned, taking deep, gasping breaths. “God,” he said, “this is no time to abandon me. Look, I worked hard. So now help me get this wood on my back.” Saying this, the pain seemed to lessen. He got to his feet and took off his shirt to use it as a pad on his shoulders. But then, getting the wood ready and squatting to lift it again, the pain sent him down with another scream.

  “God!” he cried in frustration. “Don’t You see I need Your help? I’ve done my share, now I need one of those miracles You’re always giving out. Make me strong!” But no matter what, he just couldn’t swing the bundle of hard root onto his back as he’d always done. And it wasn’t that big of a bundle, either. Back home he’d carried loads of wood that had towered over his head.

  “Oh, God!” he cried, losing all patience. “What’s wrong with You? I thought we had a deal!”

  But God didn’t answer or give him a sign.

  “All right,” said Juan, “have it Your way! With You or without You I’m going to carry this wood! Do You hear me? I’m not going to let my mother beg!” And saying this, Juan went crazy with rage, straddling the pile of dead, heavy ironwood, a type of dense wood that he knew nothing about, and he screamed at the heavens.

  “No one on earth has ever gone to church to see You more than my dear mother!” he bellowed. “All through this war, she always made plenty of time for You! It’s not right what You’ve allowed to happen to us! She was begging in the street, God! Begging! Don’t You understand? There, in front of Your very own church, begging! AND I’M MAD AT YOU, GOD!”

  Screaming these last words, Juan stopped dead, looking up toward the heavens, feeling sure that he was going to be struck down by lightning. He swallowed. He thought of his mother. He saw the cannons firing in the distance. But the skies didn’t open and strike him dead and yet he could see very clearly that he truly did mean what he had said. He was, indeed, mad at God.

  “God!” he shouted. “Look at that war going on, look at what we’ve been through! I can’t wait for You anymore! You’ve had Your chance to help us again and again and You’ve failed! Do You hear me, You failed!” Saying this, Juan looked up at the moon and the stars again, feeling so scared and nervous and yet, wonderfully happy. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, was going against everything he’d ever been taught by the Holy Catholic Church, but he was being truthful, too.

  A coyote called in the distance and the moon went behind a cloud. The night grew dark and cold.

  “God,” he said, continuing his talk with the Almighty, “my mother,
she was Your closest friend, and You abandoned her and so . . . “ He stopped. He swallowed. “I’m sorry to say this, but if I have to kill and steal . . . I will. My mother will never beg again!”

  And there Juan Salvador held, staring up at the heavens full of stars and moonlight and exploding cannons in the distance, but no lightning came and the earth didn’t part and swallow him, either. He wiped the sweat from his face and, strangely enough, instead of feeling abandoned by God, he felt closer to Him. He felt as if a great burden had just been taken off him; as if this was the first in a long time that he had truly spoken to God and told him what he really thought.

  He took another deep breath and looked at the pile of wood he’d gathered. Then, he saw it so clearly; there it was, the problem. “Why, this bundle of wood is too big,” he said. “These are heavy, hard roots. Not even a burro could carry this load.”

  He spat in his hands and went to work, taking off half the wood from the pile. This wood, he could now see, was a lot heavier than even the oak wood they had back home. He tied together only as much as he knew he could carry, and it wasn’t very much wood, either.

  Facing downhill, he put his back to the wood, squatted, and pulled the load to his back as he leaned forward with a grunt and rolled to his feet. “There, You see,” he said to God, catching his balance with the pile of wood on his back, “You should have paid closer attention, God, and then I wouldn’t have had to get so mad at You.”

  Below, in the distance, the cannons were firing once again on this side of the Rio Grande, and Ciudad Juárez was leaping in flames. But Juan didn’t care; he’d done his part. He’d talked to God.

  Step by step, he headed for town. His mother would never beg again with or without God’s help, he was going forth. Alone and strong and sure.

  BOOK THREE

  The Crying Tree

  The year was 1872 and Leonides Camargo was twenty-one years old. He was having a good time, stumbling drunk along the beach just north of Mazatlán, Sinaloa.