by Dale Cramer
Miriam’s eyes were still on Domingo, a pale figure lurching into the low mist across the valley. She sighed. “We put too much faith in words, I think. Best to wait, and see what happens.”
Domingo stayed away all day. When Miriam went to tend the horses that morning she spotted him sitting on a rock by the creek near the upper end of the valley, and she watched him for a moment. But Domingo’s eyes missed nothing, even now. If she could see him, he could see her, and if he needed help he would have asked for it. She moved on and left him alone.
Late in the afternoon Kyra was spitting a rabbit to roast over the fire when she turned to Miriam and said, “I’m beginning to worry about Domingo. He has had nothing to eat all day. Shouldn’t we go look for him?”
“I’ll go,” Miriam said, picking up the goatskin and slinging it over a shoulder. “You’re busy, and I know where he is.”
He had not moved, though he was no longer sitting upright. Lying on his back on a slab of limestone overlooking the creek, when Miriam called out to him he raised his head and looked, then patted the rock with his palm. She climbed up to sit beside him.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, taking a long pull of water from the goatskin flask without rising. “Much better, now.”
He was using Miriam’s straw sombrero to cushion his head against the rock.
“I wondered where my hat got to,” she said. “I couldn’t find it this morning.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was Kyra’s.” There was a curious smile on his face when he said this—the first time she’d seen him smile since his awakening. He sat up, used a fist to reshape the crushed crown of the sombrero, and placed it gently on her head.
“What have you been doing?” she asked.
“Keeping still. Listening.”
Bright green and red parrots swooped about the cliffs. She could hear their cries, and the sound of the creek tumbling over stones. A Mexican jay landed on a cactus nearby and let out a sharp hack. The triple caw of a crow echoed down the valley, and from somewhere in the distance the yipping of a coyote.
“Life is busy here,” she said.
“More than you know.” He winced, shifting his weight from his injured hip. “I spoke to your God this morning.”
He seemed embarrassed, almost apologetic. Picking a pebble from a dimple in the rock, he flipped it into the creek. His eyes remained on the creek as he said, “There has been a great weight on me these last three days. I could not sleep last night, and this morning I could bear it no longer. I came down to the creek thinking today I would either find peace or drown myself.”
“Well, you haven’t drowned yourself,” she said.
“The day is not over yet.” But he smiled again. “I didn’t know if your God was listening, but I told Him this thing was very hard for me to bear, and if I understand your Bible right, it says the weight can be taken away by this Jesus. So I asked for forgiveness—I think Kyra calls it absolution.”
She held her breath for a moment. “And have you found peace?”
He took a great deep breath and let it out. “Sí. The weight is gone, but there were no voices, no great sign from the heavens. I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe your God is very subtle, or maybe it was only the sunshine and the birds and the music of the stream that lifted my spirits. So only a few minutes ago I decided to put Him to the test. I told Him if He was real and this peace was His doing, He should give me a sign.”
Her eyes widened. “It is not good to put Gott to the test. What did you ask of Him?”
“It was only a simple little thing.” He reached up and ticked a finger on the edge of her sombrero. “I asked Him to bring me the owner of this hat.”
Miriam’s mouth hung open, speechless.
He shrugged, smiled sheepishly. “I thought it was Kyra’s. Perhaps your God plays tricks, but He is real, and He is here. I know that now.”
———
When they got back to camp Miriam told Kyra the things Domingo had shared with her. They expected a lot of questions from him, but as the evening passed he remained his usual quiet self—except that the dark mood was gone. He seemed content for a change, at peace, though he still kept to himself.
“Don’t worry about it,” Kyra said, when she had a moment alone with Miriam. “It’s just his way. Domingo has his own mind, and he will not be told what to think. If I know my brother he will spend many more hours thinking it through before he will talk about what he has decided.”
The next morning he rose early again and slipped out before the girls were awake. He went back to his rock, alone, and stayed until Miriam came to him in the afternoon with food and water. She couldn’t resist asking him, once, if he’d talked to Gott any more.
He shrugged. “Mostly I just listen.” Without another word he eased himself gently down off the rock and onto his crutches.
Miriam went with him as he meandered about the little valley, and he showed her his world. They stopped at the maguey Kyra had hollowed out, and she dipped aguamiel from its heart for him to drink.
“They make a kind of beer from this, called pulque,” he said. “Also tequila. A very useful plant.”
It became a routine of sorts. Every morning Domingo would rise early and go to his rock, and every afternoon Miriam would join him for a leisurely stroll. He grew stronger every day. The pain in his head eased a little day by day, but the double vision proved very stubborn.
They walked together at Domingo’s hobbling pace and talked of many things. Miriam was constantly amazed at how much there was to learn about the rich variety of life all around her. In a place she had first thought was a barren waste, Domingo unveiled a veritable Garden of Eden and shared it with her.
It was a pleasurable time, a time of laughter and discovery, a golden time when Miriam marveled at the fact that she didn’t have a care in the world. She’d spent ten wonderful, carefree days in a deserted valley high up in the mountains of Mexico with nothing but a pot, a rifle and a knife, and not once had she gone hungry or suffered for want of anything. She felt perfectly safe and at ease living off the land with Kyra and Domingo.
By the middle of the second week Miriam and Kyra had grown used to Domingo’s routine and did not expect to see him in the mornings, but when Miriam went down to the creek on Thursday morning to move the horses she found him already there, leaning on his crutches and feeding leaves to the mare.
“Where is Kyra?” he asked as Miriam untied the horses.
“Gathering breakfast,” she said. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“A little. I found some berries, drank some aguamiel from the maguey. I am fine.”
She walked slowly, leading the horses a little ways up the creek to find fresh grazing. Domingo hobbled along beside her on his crutches.
“I am strong enough to travel,” he said. “We should leave soon. You have been gone almost two weeks, and your people do not know where you are. They will be worried.”
“Sí, I worry constantly about my mother, especially after all that has happened. But it’s your head Kyra is worried about.”
“The pain is gone from my head and I can see pretty good now.”
“Still, I think it’s best to wait and let Dr. Kyra tell us when you are well enough to ride.”
He shook his head. “I cannot ride a horse with this leg, and my hip still hurts.”
“Then we’ll have to make another travois. You can ride lying down, but it will mean your head has to take a lot of bouncing.”
“I hope no one sees me being dragged home behind my sister’s horse,” he said. “My amigos would never let me hear the end of it.”
She tied the horses in a new spot and left Domingo at the water’s edge as she waded out into the creek to fill the goatskin. A question had plagued her since that first morning when Domingo awakened, but up to now she hadn’t had the nerve to ask.
“Who is Dulcinea?” she said absently, her back to him as she submerged the big flask in the cre
ek.
He gave out a single brief snort of a chuckle. “Where did you hear that name?”
“You said it.” She tried her best to seem disinterested—she had no right. But an unexpected pang of jealousy had pierced her when he said the name, and now she wanted very much to know more about this Dulcinea. Who was she? How long had he known her and where did he meet her?
“I said that name? When?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he frowned. Disquieting.
“Sí. You said the name. I heard you. It was the first thing you said the morning you woke up in the mine. I thought she must be someone very special to you, since her name was the first word to cross your lips in three days.”
The frown remained, and now he would not meet her eyes.
She watched him closely, the jealousy creeping back in. “You don’t remember?”
He lowered himself with his crutches and sat gingerly on a little stretch of sand. Settling back on his elbows, he said hesitantly, “Sí, I remember. It’s just . . . I thought it was a dream.”
She pulled at the sides of the goatskin, drawing water into it, waiting.
“It is from the book,” he said quietly.
“What book?”
“You know, the book you gave me last year at Christmas, when you were teaching me to read. Don Quijote de la Mancha. It is a big book, a lot of words. But you were right—I read it twice, and by the time I finished I had learned to read as fast as I can talk.”
Straightening up, she corked the flask. Her brow furrowed as she waded out of the creek. “So Dulcinea is someone from this book?”
“Sí. You have not read it?”
“No, I gave it to you. I doubt the church would approve anyway.”
She set the goatskin on the sand next to Domingo. Perhaps a little too relieved to discover that this Dulcinea was only a character from a book, now she wondered why it bothered him so. A prickly pear stood at the top of the bank, gourd-shaped fruits lined up ripe and purple on the top edge. Carefully she broke a few of them off with her knife, gathered them in her hat and sat down beside Domingo. Now that her hands had something to do, she pressed him for more.
“Tell me about this Dulcinea,” she said as she began carefully shaving the thorns away.
He pulled out his own knife and did the same, fidgeting, reluctant to answer, as if his thoughts embarrassed him. His face turned skyward and he squinted at the wheeling parrots for a minute. When he turned back to her the embarrassment was gone from his eyes, replaced by a steadfast resolve.
Chapter 40
Domingo split open a cactus fruit, pried it apart and bit the ripe heart from it. In a moment he spit out the seeds and said, “Probably it was the cave that made me think of it. In the book, Don Quijote falls asleep in a cave and has fantastic dreams. In one of his dreams he meets the perfect woman, the most beautiful woman in all the world.”
He put his palms against the ground and shifted his weight from the sore hip, wincing with the pain.
“Like Don Quijote, while I was asleep in the cave I had many dreams, but none compared with the last one. I did not know where I was or how I came to be there, but it seemed I was in a cave, dim light flickering from the rocks, and there was a woman hovering over me . . .”
She waited, hardly daring to breathe. He would not look at her. His voice had become very soft, very quiet.
“She was my dream woman,” he said wistfully. “Dark hair lay in shining waves on her shoulders and hung down around a face lit by golden candlelight. As long as I live, I will never forget that face. It was the face of an angel, a face I would die for. A face I would live for.”
His hand rose and his fingertips touched his temple, pensively, his eyes shining as if the memory still surprised him. “There was a moonflower in her hair.”
He sat still for a moment, remembering, and then said, “I am not an educated man, so I do not have the words to describe what I saw, what I felt. I can only tell you she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It was the most beautiful moment of my life.”
Now his eyes met hers.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I really believed it was a dream.”
His hand came up slowly, lifting her hair aside and caressing her cheek with a heartbreaking tenderness, exactly the way he had done before.
“Dulcinea,” he whispered, and then he leaned closer and, ever so gently, kissed her lips.
It was more than she could bear. She forced herself away from him and staggered to her feet. Knife and cactus fruit fell to the ground, forgotten, as she stumbled to the edge of the water and knelt down to drink.
“Cualnezqui,” he said gently.
She didn’t answer, didn’t turn around, but his voice came to her again, soft and persistent.
“Surely you know that I have loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
Still on her hands and knees, Miriam splashed cold water onto her face and watched the droplets shatter her reflection in the pool. Her voice trembled. “Then why have you waited until now to tell me?”
He was quiet for too long. She hesitated, afraid to turn around for fear the moment would burst like a bubble. Finally he spoke.
“Because until this day I did not know how important it was. I have seen my death, and found life. Everything is changed. Days—moments—are precious. The sky is bluer, trees greener, the fruit of the nopal sweeter. To pretend not to care for the only woman I have ever loved, now, seems only foolish.”
His words burned the morning air. She pushed herself to her feet and turned to face him.
“Do not toy with me, Domingo. Fences, you said. The fences are still there. What of your honor?”
“There is no dishonor in love.”
She could not stop her feet from carrying her to his side, where she knelt in the sand and took his hand.
Her eyes were downcast, staring at his hand in hers as she whispered, “Domingo, you captured my heart from the beginning. I never really had a choice. But you were right, and the fences remain.”
He studied her face for a moment. “Micah?”
“No. I am free of Micah—he has already said he will not marry me now. But what of my father, my religion?”
“I don’t know. I only know I could not hide my feelings from you any longer.”
She gazed deeply into his eyes and saw no answer. “Nor will I. But I cannot court you.”
He shook his head slowly. “I am not asking you to court me, Cualnezqui. I am asking you to be my wife. I promise to make you very happy.”
Stunned speechless, her hands came up to cover her mouth, and tears blurred her sight. Somewhere deep within her a key turned in a secret lock. A door opened and flooded her heart with light.
But a great treasure commands a great price. In the very next instant she counted the cost, and the light dimmed. Despair forced her to ask the question.
“Domingo, how will I be happy if I am banned? I was baptized. If I leave the church now, my family will turn their backs on me. I will lose my family.”
He lay back on his elbows, staring into the distance. A high sun shattered itself on the rippling stream and sent shards of light flitting silent across the face of the cliffs.
After a while, without moving, he said softly, “You would have me become Amish?”
The thought had occurred to her, but somehow it was not foremost in her mind.
“I would only have you know my Gott,” she said. “After that, I would be content to let Him tell you who to be.” Then it occurred to her that she should at least admit the possibility. “But you could be Amish if you chose. My father thinks of you like a son. You would be accepted, and it is a good life. I would not be honest if I said the thought didn’t quicken my heart.” It was the perfect solution.
His eyes watched the sky, and a sad smile crept onto his face.
“Look at those buzzards,” he said.
She shaded her eyes and peered int
o the blue, wondering what buzzards could possibly have to do with what they were talking about.
“Do you see anything strange?” he asked.
The buzzards circled slowly in a loose formation a little to the south, not very high up. They soared on an updraft, never flapping, keeping their wings rigid except for the feathers at the very end that worked the wind like fingers.
“No, I see nothing. They are just buzzards.”
“Look closer. One of them is different.”
Squinting, she finally saw it.
“Sí, you are right. One of them is not exactly like the others, but it’s very hard to tell. It looks like his head is black where the others are bald, and there is a band of white across his tail feathers. The others are all black.”
“Watch him.”
The buzzards circled, shifting and drifting in a light breeze, constantly making subtle adjustments to the wind. She kept her eyes on them for a long time, thinking perhaps she had missed something until the one with the band on his tail suddenly broke formation.
Flattening his wings against his sides, the bird darted straight down at a dizzying speed. At the last possible second before crashing into the ground his wings spread to catch him and his body pivoted. Thick legs reached out and sharp talons snared a ground squirrel that had come down to the water to drink, strayed too far from cover, and saw the shadow of death a second too late. The bird bent his neck and put a swift end to the rodent’s struggles with a sharp beak, then spread his wings and flew away to the trees with his prize dangling from his claws.
“That was no buzzard,” she said.
“No, he is not. He is a hawk who only looks like a buzzard. He flies among them and makes himself look like them because the creatures he preys upon have no fear of buzzards. The ground squirrel thinks he is safe until it is too late.”
Domingo let his words settle for a long moment before he spoke again, from a profound sadness.
“Cualnezqui, I could never be Amish. It would only be a lie. I was born a hawk. I could dress in Amish clothes and learn Amish ways, but in my heart I will always be a hawk.”
