by John Wilson
“He is Perdido. I told you.”
“But where is he from? What happened to him? What is his story?” I move over and crouch beside the fire.
“Ah. So now you want stories, historias. That is the difficulty with you white people: you always want more.” He reaches over and places a battered tin pot filled with beans on a flat rock in the fire.
“Do you know how valuable stories are?”
“Yes,” I say, not certain that I do.
“Huh,” the old man snorts dismissively. “I do not think so. The world exists in two places. Here, aquí.” He sweeps a scrawny arm wide to encompass the world. “Now, ahora, this moment of pain, and hunger, and sunshine, and darkness, and death, muerte. And here.” He touches a finger to his temple. “Where yesterday lives.”
I frown in puzzlement, and the old man leans forward and deftly flips a tortilla on his makeshift griddle.
“You are like children, niños, you white men. You need everything explained. Your meeting in my cave with Perdido, it exists no more. It was only real when you were face to face. It is gone now and cannot be recaptured. It lives only in your head. It has become a story. Part of your story, and of Perdido’s.
“You are now the guardian of that story. You may tell it. You may change it. It does not matter; it is your story now. But with stories comes responsibility. The past, el pasado, exists only in our stories. Change the story and you change the past. Stories are the only way the past can live; that is their power. Do not ask for or tell them lightly.
“Can you read words?” he asks abruptly.
“Yes,” I reply.
“And write words?”
I nod.
“That is good. Stories become more real if they are written on paper. I have a story written on paper.”
“Moby Dick,” I say. “I saw it in your cave.”
“I am told it is of a sea monster and the man who searches for it.”
“It is.”
“And that it begins with a name.”
“It does. Ishmael.”
“That is good,” the old man says thoughtfully. “Names are important. But it is time to eat,” he says, lifting two large, flat pieces of thick bark from beside the fire. “Good stories are best told on a full belly.”
The old man concentrates on spooning beans onto the pieces of bark. He adds tortillas to each and passes one over to me. I watch and try to copy as he deftly wraps the tortilla round the beans and eats. My eating is much messier, but the food tastes good.
We eat in silence until the pot of beans is empty and wiped clean with the last of the tortillas. Then the old man pours a black liquid into a tin mug. It is the only mug he has and so we share. The coffee is bitter, but I feel restored by the hot drink.
“Now we must know each other,” the old man says, sitting back. He pulls a tobacco pouch from his belt, undoes the neck and pours some dark leaves onto a torn piece of an old newspaper. He rolls it, twists the two ends and places one end in his mouth. Reaching forward, he plucks a burning stick from the fire, tilts his head to one side and lights the other end of his cigarette. He puffs and looks at me.
“What is your name?”
“My name is James Doolen,” I reply.
“Hmmm. This name, James Doolen.” The old man says my name slowly, savoring the sounds. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never thought about it. I don’t think it means anything.”
“Then it is not a name,” he scoffs and takes a long drag on his cigarette. “A name must have meaning or it is nothing. If you do not have a name, then you have no center, and if you have no center, then how can you know where you are or where you are going?
“I gave Perdido his name when he became my friend. It was my gift to him in exchange for his helmet. Do you know what it means?”
Suddenly I realize I do know what it means. “Lost.”
The old man smiles.
“Exactly. Perdido is lost, to his family, his compadres, his world. Now, I will give you a real name.” He tilts his head and stares at me until I begin to feel uncomfortable. Eventually he says, “From now on you shall be Busca.”
“Busca,” I try out the sound. “What does it mean?”
“I think that you are searching for something,” the old man says. “In Perdido’s language, uno quien busca is one who seeks; therefore, you shall be Busca.”
“Thank you,” I say, strangely pleased with my new name. “What is your name?”
“If you live as many years as I, you collect many names. My mother was Chiricahua Apache, an aunt of Firewood, the warrior you know as Cochise, and she gave me my first name, Too-ah-yay-say.”
“Tooaysay,” I say, struggling with the complex pronunciation.
My companion smiles.
“It is, I think, difficult for your ears. It means Strong Swimmer. I earned it as a boy, in the first year of your century, for the time I swam the Rio Grande River to recover a horse that had run away. Too-ah-yay-say.”
“Too-ah-yay-say,” I try again after the old man has repeated his name slowly. My pronunciation is awkward and halting, but I do better.
“Good, but Too-ah-yay-say is only my first name. My father was Spanish. This land was all New Spain when I was born, but he gave me no name. You see, I began life living in two worlds.
“And I have been called many things over the years, some good, some not so good, but I have one name in your tongue. It was given to me by an Englishman for whom I was a hunting guide many years ago and who taught me to speak your language. He called me Wellington.” The old man placed the emphasis heavily on the final syllable. “I think it is after a famous warrior of his people. Perhaps you know him?”
“I have heard of him,” I say, forcing myself not to smile. “He was a great general.”
Wellington nods approval.
“That is the name I use today and by which you may call me. But now it is time for stories. Perdido’s story is lost, but I can tell you my story and Perdido’s where it is a part of mine. Will you respect Perdido and my story?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“And will you tell me your story in exchange?”
“Yes,” I repeat.
“Very well then, Busca. Let us exchange stories. My story begins with this.” He thumps his chest over his heart. “My Apache half.”
7
“This land is very ancient,” Wellington begins his tale. “Antiguo, and many people have passed through it. The old ones carved pictures on the rocks and built houses of mud that dwarf the puny things you white men build of wood, many lifetimes before even my mother’s people arrived here. Their stories are vanished.” He looks sad at the thought of all the lost stories.
“When I was a child, my grandfather told me of something that happened when his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather was but a niño.” Wellington waves his arms as if to emphasize how long ago that must have been.
“In those far-off days some men came to our land from the south. They were white men and they rode the first horses my people had ever seen. Some said they were gods because they carried spears that flashed fire and some wore suits made of metal that glinted in the sun, but they were not gods, they were just different men. They were led by a man called Coronado, and they had wonders that we did not know of—horses, guns and armor—but all their wonders were things, and without them they had little.
“We had few things—a sharp arrow point, a good club—but we had something more valuable: knowledge. They did not know where to find water or how to catch and skin a lizard for dinner. They did not know how to live in the desert, and without that what good are all the wonders of the world?” Wellington stares at me as if he expects an answer, but when I stay silent, he continues.
“They came to our villages and asked about a city of gold, una ciudad del oro. We said we did not know, but perhaps there were such things to the north where we had not been. I do not know if they believed us, but th
ey left.
“Some of our young men followed them, and when they saw how these newcomers did not know how to live in the desert, they wanted to kill them and steal their wonders. The elders said that only bad would come of molesting these men and it would be best to let them pass through, but young men do not always listen to advice.
“Some warriors followed the strangers and ambushed small parties that left the main group to hunt or search for their city of gold. They brought horses and weapons back to our villages. The elders were not happy, but the strangers did not return to claim their things. The young men said that all the stranger’s power was in their things, and without them they were weak. In any case, we never saw them again; but, although my ancestors never knew it, our world had changed.
“We learned to ride the horses and breed them, and this helped us greatly with our hunting and fighting our enemies, but other strangers came from the south and brought cattle and sheep with them and took over our land and put up fences and built houses and towns and churches. We fought them for many years, but there were too many. We tried to take away their possessions to make them powerless, but it did not work. It seemed that however many horses we ran off or guns we stole, there were always more.
“For all that, we learned to live with these strangers. We raided and killed some of them, and they raided and killed some of us, but the land was big enough for all. And they are my other half.” Wellington sweeps his hand down the right side of his body. “It was on one of these raids that a Mexican, as these new Spaniards called themselves, found my mother hiding in an arroyo and became my father.”
Wellington pauses and takes a deep breath as if preparing himself for the next part of his story.
“Then more strangers came from the north,” he continued eventually. “Americanos. They fought with both the men from the south and with us, and much blood soaked into the desert.
“The Americanos are a part of my story. I have fought against them, as some of my people still do, but we will not defeat the north men. They are like ants on the desert floor. You can kill many by standing on them, but more will always come.”
Wellington stops talking and I assume he is finished. The men from the south must have been Coronado’s Spanish conquistadores followed by the Mexicans and the Americans. I am wondering if it’s my turn to tell a story when the old man continues.
“I did my share of fighting when I was young. I knew the great warriors—my cousin, Cochise, and Red Sleeves, Mangas Coloradas—but I saw how many soldiers there were and how they kept coming, no matter how many we killed.”
A look of great sadness crosses Wellington’s face.
“It was not a good time. I saw forests of poles hung with our drying scalps and how the white men paid each other money for them. It is one thing to take a trophy when you kill a brave warrior in a good fight, but these white men killed women and children for their hair. When I saw all this, I knew we could not win against these people. So I left my people and went to work for the white men.
“I was a guide for an Englishman with many names who came to our land to hunt,” Wellington pauses and concentrates. “Lord Alfred George Cambrey Sommer-ville, Earl of Canterbury,” he says in one breath. “I do not think his names meant anything, but he set much store by them. He taught me his language and killed many lions before my people found him.
“Lord Alfred George Cambrey Sommerville, Earl of Canterbury, went one day to follow a lion that was only wounded. He told me to stay at our camp, but I followed at a distance and watched. He was crouched by a rock, waiting for the lion to appear. I saw a small band of my people come close to him without him knowing.
“The first arrow hit Lord Alfred George Cambrey Sommerville, Earl of Canterbury, in the back. He roared in anger, stood up and turned. He fired his rifle and wounded one of the attackers. He did not have a chance to reload, although it took seven more arrows before he fell and my people could come close and end it with their knives and clubs.”
Wellington pauses thoughtfully.
“He was a great warrior, even though he did not have a proper name.
“After that, I became a scout for the blue army in the great war that was fought between the states. I scouted the enemy ambush at Picacho Pass, but the young Lieutenant Barrett didn’t listen and went forward anyway. The price was his life and that of several of his men.”
Wellington shrugs as if the stupidity of the world is not his concern.
“Eventually I came to see that men are all the same. It makes little difference whether they are white or red, or black like the buffalo soldiers I saw once. Some are good, some are bad, but all die alone. So I decided to give up the company of men and live alone in the desert.
“One day, I found this cave, crawled in and saw Perdido. I think he was one of the long-ago southerners, maybe even one who accompanied Coronado on his search for golden cities. Perhaps he was wounded by our young warriors and managed to drag himself here before he died.
“I liked Perdido immediately. He understood loneliness. I made my home in his cave and we became friends. Occasionally others, such as yourself, come to visit, but Perdido and I are content.”
The old man again lapses into silence and sips his coffee.
“That’s quite a story,” I say. Remembering something Ed told me, I ask, “Did you know of a scalp hunter called Roberto Ramirez?”
The old man looks at me sharply.
“Always more questions,” he says. “Was my story so much not to your liking that you wish more?”
“Yes. No,” I say in confusion. “It was a good story. I liked it very much. It was very interesting.”
Wellington seems mollified.
“Then you owe me a story, as you promised.”
“Of course.” I launch into the tale of my journey down here. I skim over the early parts, but when I tell him of the schooner, the Robert Boswell, on which I sailed to San Diego, he nods vigorously and says, “Yes. Yes. I have heard of such vessels.”
I concentrate on the meeting with Ed, the ambush and my killing the kid in the pork pie hat. Wellington listens closely and occasionally nods as if confirming that I have got the details right.
When I finish, he nods approval.
“That was a good story, thank you. I shall remember it. That way, even if you die tomorrow, you will live on in what time I have left to remember.”
Wellington stands and stretches stiffly.
“But now we must tend to your wounds.” Without waiting for an answer, he heads off down the mountainside. I scramble to my feet and follow.
At length, we come to a spring coming out of a cleft in the rock. It’s not a rushing torrent and it quickly soaks into the sands of the arroyo below, but enough water flows to fill a small hollow in the rock. Wellington makes me kneel beside the pool and gently washes the blood off my face. Then he carefully picks out the pieces of rock and bullet embedded in my cheek. It’s a painful process, but when it’s done, I feel better.
When he is satisfied that he has cleaned everything, Wellington takes a few small dried leaves out of a pouch on his belt, puts them in his mouth and chews vigorously. When he is satisfied, he takes the soggy mess out and plasters it over my wounds. It feels soothing.
“Now you must sleep,” he says, shepherding me back up the mountain and onto his sleeping pallet in the cave. I don’t even have time to think about sharing the cave with Perdido before I am asleep.
8
The sun is still high in the sky when I wake up and crawl out of the cave, so it can’t be much past noon. I can’t have slept more than a couple of hours, but the effect of the rest and the food is amazing. My injuries still ache, but I feel revitalized and eager to go on. Wellington is crouching by the fire and greets me as I stand and stretch.
“You do not sleep long, Busca. That is good. Sleep is the little death, la pequeña muerte, and the end comes soon enough without it.” He stands up. “Come, I have your horse.”
Welling
ton strides off without giving me a chance to ask what he means. I don’t have a horse, Alita’s dead. Confused, I hurry after Wellington, down into a narrow arroyo where a few gnarled mesquite trees have pushed their roots sufficiently deep into the desert ground to find enough water to support life. Where the arroyo widens at its mouth stands a horse, its head low and its reins dragging on the ground. It has white star on its forehead.
“That’s not my horse,” I say. “It belonged to the man I shot.”
I feel guilt returning at the memory.
“And, any minute now, he will be walking up the arroyo to claim it back?” Wellington asks. “You took his life, so his horse is yours. And who else will take it? I have no use for a horse in these mountains. Would you rather it wander until a mountain lion finds it?”
“Of course not,” I say.
Wellington shrugs. “Then take it. If you happen to run into the kid again, you can give the horse back to him.”
I can’t argue. The alternative is to let the horse run wild, and I do need a horse. I take a couple of steps forward. The horse raises its head, stamps its hooves and eyes me warily.
“It’s okay, boy,” I say in a quiet voice as I hold out my hand and slowly move closer. “I’m not going to hurt you. We can become friends. I have a long journey ahead and you can help.”
The horse rolls its eyes back until the white is showing, throws its head up and whinnies through bared teeth. It takes a couple of skittering steps backward and stands looking at me with wide eyes. I repeat the process, but the result is the same.
“Busca,” Wellington says behind me. “You must explain things to him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Wellington sighs, as if he is dealing with a not-very-intelligent child, and steps past me. He approaches the horse slowly, speaking in the strange, complex language of his original name. In fact, I hear his name, Too-ah-yay-say, mentioned several times. The horse watches him closely and shifts its feet but doesn’t retreat. Wellington strokes the animal’s forehead and puts his head beside its ear, talking all the time. A shudder ripples down the horse’s flanks but it doesn’t move.
