When Miguel awakened fully, the sun was low and the air was rapidly growing cold. He couldn’t get used to the extreme temperature changes that he had to endure each day. A fit of coughing racked his body, and he moaned with pain. He ran his dry tongue over his parched lips. When was the last time I drank any water?
Miguel sat up, wincing at the barbed cactus thorns that pierced his arms, chest, and back. He tried to grasp the tips of the thin spines, but they slipped through his fingers. Using his fingernails, he gripped them firmly and tugged. He managed to pull out a few thorns. The barbs left small ragged cuts, and Miguel rubbed the tender spots. It would be soothing to wash them in cool water, but he wasn’t likely to find any now. He pictured the well in Tucson where the women filled ollas to the brim. Spilled water splashed at their feet while they laughed. Dear God, he vowed silently, I’ll never again take such a blessing for granted.
A soft scratching sound broke the silence, and Miguel crouched closer to the tree. Peering from his hiding place, he spotted a streaked black-and-white roadrunner scratching at the pebbly sand and pecking at bugs. The bird’s long tail feathers flicked, and the feathers on the crown of its head were as ruffled as hair tousled in the wind.
The scrawny desert chicken was more feathers than flesh, but Miguel thought that if he could kill it he could get moisture and nourishment from its meat. With the barest movement, he picked up a stone. Staring the bird into focus, he took careful aim and hurled the stone at its tawny head. His throw was wide of the mark. Miguel felt bitter disappointment as the startled fowl simply flapped out of range.
I couldn’t have cooked it, anyway, he argued to himself. But he knew he would have eaten it raw, if necessary. Despite the time he spent with the band of warriors, Miguel hadn’t gotten used to eating only once each day. His stomach rumbled. He might survive without food for a few days, but not without water. How had the Indé discovered so many water holes? He glanced at the rocks towering overhead. The last water hole where the warriors had dipped their gourds was high up on the trail.
The path he had traveled was both distant and dangerous. He couldn’t climb with his injured arm, and even if he could, he risked being captured again. He had to find water, but how?
Miguel turned his face away from the setting sun. Purple shadows crept over the rocky crevices and fell in jagged patterns across the boulders. How can I make my way across the desert? He had heard of silver mines outside Tucson. Maybe he’d come across a mining camp. If he was lucky, he might find a wagon trail and meet a caravan of travelers. There was always a chance he would cross paths with a lone peddler like Jacob Franck who would take him home.
A surge of loneliness washed over him, and Miguel realized that the peddler’s companionship would now be welcome. I ran from him and the awful words he read, but what did I run to?
Miguel’s thoughts surged back to his life in Tucson. It seemed so far away. When I helped with Mass, I thought God was calling me to serve Him and the church. Father Ignacio said that one day I would know the right choice in my heart. After all that had happened, Miguel only felt emptiness. Perhaps God was testing his faith. Or worse, maybe He was telling Miguel that he had no place as a priest.
An image of the quiet interior of the dim church filled his head. He saw himself on his last Sunday at Mass, moving toward the Communion railing behind Father Ignacio. He couldn’t get past the sense that he was shadowing the priest so he would one day serve Communion to his own parishioners.
The image persisted like a blurry dream. He could almost hear Father Ignacio ring the silver bells three times, calling the congregants to receive the wafer that represented the body of Christ. Miguel remembered his mother and brothers rising from their pew and coming forward. His mother’s hair was covered by her lace mantilla. As the priest placed the thin, flat bread upon each worshipper’s tongue, he intoned the Latin prayer that began, “Corpus Domini nostril Jesu Christi . . .” Miguel joined in a fervent amen at its conclusion.
Papá hung back that morning. As Miguel held the silver patina close to each person who received a wafer, he noticed Papá looking worried and distant, as if troubling thoughts had brought him far away. As soon as Miguel caught his eye, Papá hurried to the railing, kneeling before the altar.
Had Papá been wondering when he should tell Miguel about their Israelite ancestor? Until the night when the peddler read from the leather diary, Miguel had been secure in his beliefs. With just a few words read from a crumbling book, his life had changed completely. He no longer felt certain of anything—not his family, not his calling, not his very self.
Miguel tried to snap out of the vision that clouded his thoughts. He had to stop daydreaming and start walking. If he observed the desert around him more closely, he might find water. It had been days since he had run from the ranch. By now, they’ve all given up any chance of finding me, he realized. It’s up to me to get home. Only me.
Shadows lengthened and Miguel pulled himself up, clinging to the tree for support. He spit out the dust that coated his throat and staggered forward. Cactus thorns pricked his back and arms with the slightest movement, but Miguel couldn’t stay where he was.
He would keep the mountains on his right and continue traveling south, walking only at night when the desert was cool and darkness would hide him. Miguel reassured himself that the Indé weren’t likely to venture onto a trail at night ever again. He was amazed that the strong warriors who roamed the desert like antelope and endured cold and hunger without complaint were so easily frightened by the screech of an owl.
How many days have I been walking? he wondered. He counted each day on his fingers, recalling the events of each one until the moment when he had been pushed off the ledge. Five days, he realized with a shock. Tomorrow is my birthday. If I make it through one more night, I will be thirteen.
A crescent moon lit the sky, and Miguel’s eyes slowly adjusted. Stars flickered as if someone had tossed a handful of glittering mica into the air. Miguel picked out the brightest as the North Star and carefully kept it behind him.
Papá had often tried to teach Miguel to name the constellations, but the task had seemed boring and useless. Miguel had no interest in learning to recognize the shapes and patterns his father pointed out. If only I’d known that I would need to find my way across the desert by their light, I would have listened, he thought with regret.
He remembered the words Señor Franck had read from the diary. Aharon ben Avraham had used his skills as a mapmaker to chart a path across the desert. He must have been familiar with every constellation in the sky. Miguel had tried to deny his connection to the first Abrano. Now he wished the mapmaker could guide him home before it was too late.
A coyote howled in the distance, and a chorus of yips answered from another direction. Miguel glanced around, straining to see into the distance. With the arrival of night, the desert had come alive with sounds. Insects buzzed and chirped, and dry brush rustled around him. He didn’t know what made the noises or whether they posed a danger. All he could do was push forward.
Suddenly there was a faint clatter of loose gravel from the mountain trail above. Miguel froze. Were the Indé tracking him? Or was a stealthy puma looking for an easy meal? Miguel felt so weak that he had no chance of outrunning anyone—animal or man. The coyotes let out a mournful chorus of howls. As long as he heard them in the mountains, Miguel guessed they were not hunting him. A mountain lion—or a bootless warrior—would stalk him silently.
A cascade of small stones and sand tumbled down the slope. Narrowing his eyes, Miguel thought he glimpsed a moving shape, barely a shadow. Someone, or something, was watching him.
He edged toward a large saguaro, its arms branching upward like a sentinel giving a salute. He might be able to shelter near its thick trunk and disappear from view. He stepped closer to its thorny protection when an excruciating sting blazed through his bare foot. He let out a muffled cry as fiery heat spread rapidly up his leg. He barely glimpsed a small scurryi
ng creature flicking its curling tail over its back before it darted into a hole in the sand.
Scorpion! He had to stop the poison from coursing through his entire body. His foot swelled as quickly as a bubble rising in hot fat. Miguel fumbled to tie his headband tightly around his ankle, hoping to stop the poison’s flow. Then he remembered the pocketknife and pulled it out, struggling to open the blade. Gripping the knife tightly, he slashed his foot where the scorpion had stung. He had to drain the venom before it spread. A hot dizziness swept over him, and Miguel dropped to his knees.
Chapter 9
Son of Rain Stalker
Miguel dreamed he was running across the desert, chased by Indé shooting cactus spines into his bare back. As each prickly needle pierced his skin, he flinched in pain. Miguel darted left and right, but couldn’t escape their attack. He panted with exhaustion, wondering how much longer he could keep running.
Caught between wakefulness and sleep, Miguel wondered if the pain was part of his dream—or if it was real. His eyes fluttered open, and with a rising fear, he saw two deep black eyes staring at him. The warriors had found him! This time, Miguel wouldn’t let them take him without a fight.
Seeing his open knife on the sand, he seized it and stabbed in the direction of his enemy. The glinting blade cut the air harmlessly, and the mere effort of waving it sapped Miguel’s last reservoir of strength.
Without showing the slightest fear, the person looming above him took the knife, folded it with a snap, and placed it back in Miguel’s hand. The handle felt cool against his sweaty palm.
Miguel heard a voice so soft that he wondered if he were still dreaming, “I am not your enemy,” the voice said. “I am Tohono O’odham friend.”
Miguel tried to understand where he was. Instead of the saguaro where he had stopped last night, he was in the shade of the mountain under a rocky outcropping. He reached up and felt a tattered cloth tied just above his eye. A poultice of soft leaves soothed the knife wound, and his foot was tightly bound with a blue cloth bandage.
Another strip of my clothes gone, he thought, recognizing pieces of cloth from his pants legs. An unfamiliar red neckerchief cradled his limp arm in a tight sling.
The young man eased Miguel against the rock and held a gourd of water to his mouth. Miguel gulped in desperate swallows. A faint bitter taste lingered, but as Miguel drank he felt his tight chest loosening.
“More water,” he begged.
“Drink slow,” his companion advised, holding the gourd back for a moment. When Miguel had drained the last drop of water, he studied the young man. His hair was cropped short, a gray muslin shirt was tied around his waist, and he wore baggy cotton pants tied at the waist with rope. Sandals woven from braided grass protected his feet. As far as Miguel could see, he carried no weapon. He couldn’t be Indé. But what tribe was called Tohono O’odham?
“Can you eat?” the Indian asked. He held out a stick of roasted meat, and Miguel recognized the smell of cooked rabbit. He savored the first bite, letting the fatty richness slide into his empty stomach.
Miguel saw no fire, but noticed a ring of stones piled nearby. He could feel heat radiating from them, yet there was no flame. How could anyone cook a rabbit without a fire?
“I am Rushing Cloud, son of Rain Stalker, son of I’itoi, the Creator,” said the young man. “And you?”
Miguel tensed. Father Ignacio would explain about God to such a heathen, but Miguel kept silent. If Rushing Cloud stayed with him, Miguel would find the right time to show him the truth.
“What are you called?” the young man persisted.
Miguel hesitated. Who was he now? He was the son of his father, Mateo Abrano. Was he also ben Avraham? That isn’t part of me, he determined. I won’t let it be.
He sucked in his breath. “I am Miguel,” he said simply. He chewed another mouthful of meat and soon finished every morsel on the stick. He lay back down and realized with relief that no cactus thorns bit into his back.
“Did you pull out all those spines?” Miguel asked.
His companion nodded. “I have watched you in the desert,” he explained. “At first, I was afraid—afraid you are a white enemy searching for me. Then I see you are just a boy wandering. You eat nothing. You drink nothing. I think, this boy will die soon.”
A flare of anger rose in Miguel’s chest. Even this stranger thought of him as a boy and not a man. Yet today he was thirteen, and as weak as he was, he was still alive. Still, Miguel couldn’t deny that in spite of what he had endured along the trail, he hadn’t become a man just because he had turned one year older.
Miguel was grateful for Rushing Cloud’s help, but why had he waited so long?
“You thought I would die, but you just left me alone?” Miguel demanded. “I stepped on a scorpion trying to hide because I thought you were a warrior stalking me, or a mountain lion.”
“Enemies and mountain lions do not watch,” said Rushing Cloud evenly. “They kill.” Now Rushing Cloud asked his own questions. “Why are you in the desert with no white companions? Were you with a wagon train that was attacked?”
“I was alone from the beginning,” Miguel said. Rushing Cloud waited expectantly for more.
Miguel couldn’t admit that he had run away from home without a plan. Surely he would seem worse than a child—he’d look like a fool. Rushing Cloud would never understand what Miguel had learned that night at the ranch. Now he was no longer certain what he had been running from. Was it the revelation about his family, or the shame of his tears?
“I was riding, and I—I got lost,” he stammered. “I camped for the night in a stand of cottonwoods. I thought I’d find my way home in the morning, but I was captured by a band of warriors who stole my horse and my boots. At first, I thought they were Apache, but they got angry when I said that. They called themselves Indé.”
“You make them angry,” Rushing Cloud explained. “Apachu is what others call them. It means ‘enemy.’ They think they are Indé, The People.” He made a sound that was half sneer and half horselaugh. “As if they are the First People.”
Miguel shivered. So, they were Apache, he thought.
“Apachu raid in small bands. They hide in the desert at night. They must have been stalking travelers to steal horses and food. Then you come along and they decide to keep you instead. No fighting, no more searching, and they return to camp with a valuable catch. They think you can become a warrior like them. If not, you will work for the women in the camp—carry wood and water, do woman’s work.”
So that would have been my life, Miguel realized. If he had stayed “soft,” as Bootless Warrior called him, he would have become a slave in the Apache camp. If not, he would have trained to be like them, heading out on his own raids.
Rushing Cloud frowned. “How you got away?”
Every part of Miguel was shutting down with exhaustion. He hadn’t spoken so many words in nearly a week. His face flushed with fever, yet a wave of chills washed over him. He curled up on the ground. In a hoarse whisper he asked, “Why did you help me?”
“It is what a man must do,” Rushing Cloud said. He draped his shirt over Miguel’s shoulders, covering him with comforting warmth. “Sleep now,” he said, “for tonight we must walk far.” As Miguel drifted into sleep, he thought he heard Rushing Cloud murmur, “Scorpion has chosen you.”
* * *
Miguel awoke as dusk settled. His fever had cooled as quickly as the desert air. He sat up against the rock wall, looking for his companion. Faint music filtered toward him. Miguel looked a short distance away and saw Rushing Cloud sitting cross-legged under the open sky, his head hanging down against his chest. He sang a soft melody, filled with repeated sounds. His voice was high, each note pure and clear.
Seeming to sense that Miguel was watching him, Rushing Cloud stopped chanting and loped back to the shelter. In a barely audible voice he said, “The night comes and we must walk.” He helped Miguel to his feet.
“What were you singing?�
� Miguel asked. He felt stronger, although he couldn’t put any pressure on his injured foot.
“I am singing of our journey, of the way it will be. I tell I’itoi, the Creator, how he must help us. In the coolness of the night, in the shadow of the mountain, we will walk. Long will be walk, never tiring, never thirsting, like stars walking across the sky.”
Miguel was mesmerized by the sound of Rushing Cloud’s gentle voice. Yet it wasn’t a song, he realized. It was a prayer. Could a heathen’s words be called that? Father Ignacio was certain that only the prayers of the faithful were heard and answered. Still, Miguel knew that the voices of the natives had chanted to their gods long before the church began. The prayers of his Abrano ancestors had surely risen to God, as well.
Miguel lifted his eyes to the brightening moon. The last time he had asked God’s help was on the trail. He had prayed to be rescued. Would his prayers and Rushing Cloud’s both be answered? Which god was listening?
Miguel handed back the shirt, but Rushing Cloud merely tied it around his waist. He scattered the cold stones that had smoldered earlier and brushed all traces of their tracks from the sand. “We must leave no footsteps for others to follow.”
Miguel limped from the shelter, Rushing Cloud keeping a slow pace beside him. He pointed to Miguel’s foot. “Scorpion is your guardian now,” he said. “He will give you power.”
“That’s pretty generous,” Miguel said. “Being stung certainly didn’t make me feel powerful.”
“It is your own knife that has hurt you the most,” Rushing Cloud countered. “Scorpion is sending you a sharp message. He says you have power to survive in the desert with little food or water, as he does. He will help you.”
Miguel looked up at the skies again, seeing a flurry of stars. They seemed close enough to touch.
Rushing Cloud followed his gaze. “Some say scorpion watches the stars to guide his path across the desert,” he said. “If you watched them to begin your journey home, then perhaps scorpion has already guided you.”
Walk Till You Disappear Page 6
