Simonopio was an active child, even when he slept. Sometimes Reja thought he followed his bees in his sleep, just as he did when he was awake: he moved his legs as if running and his arms as if flying. He also preferred to be closer to his nana’s tough, woody skin than to the hard, unyielding wall. As the night wore on, Simonopio gradually conquered more and more territory of the shared bed, leaving her with little space to rest—insufficiently and poorly—on the edge of the cliff. Reja was not scared of the void; she was scared of the hard floor. She was afraid that, when she hit it, her bones would shatter like glass.
Nana Pola could not help but notice so much unusual movement in their bedroom. When months went by and the situation did not improve, she spoke to Simonopio one night, as she tucked him in.
“You can’t go to sleep in your nana Reja’s bed anymore; she’s very old and aches all over. I don’t know what you’re frightened of, Simonopio, but you’re a big boy now. You’re safe here. I bless this room every night. No witches or ghosts can come in here. No monsters can fit under your bed, either, because it’s very low and they’re very big, as they say. And we don’t have any dolls that wake up and walk around at night, because we sent them all off to the storehouse. Now sleep tight.”
This list of beings that he should fear would never have occurred to Simonopio, but if the room was blessed every night, that was enough to reassure him. He was not afraid of them. What continued to terrify him was falling and—asleep—never finding his way to the floor. Falling and falling without end and never waking up. And he did not believe any blessing would protect him from that. But Nana Pola was right: he was a big enough boy now to understand that, though he needed his nana’s protection at night, she was too old to give it to him without certain consequences. He had to be brave.
He was brave and he was inventive, so finding himself denied the protection of his nana’s body, he dragged a chair to the edge of his bed. It was not the complete enclosure that his crib had offered, but the high backrest served the purpose of tricking his sleepy eyes in the darkness. It took him several more weeks to achieve peaceful sleep once more, but he never bothered Nana Reja again. One day he forgot to push the chair against his bed when it was time to sleep, and gradually he forgot the fear that had prevented him from resting properly. And in time he completely forgot that he had once needed to have Nana Reja near him in order to sleep.
Nevertheless, on the day when Beatriz let go of his hand to run off ahead of Martín, the bird of ill omen, Simonopio had stopped there, alone, rooted to the spot in the middle of the path. He was not afraid for his godfather Francisco’s health: he knew that something had happened to upset him and nothing more. Frozen there, Simonopio was afraid that he was falling, falling without end, that he would never find the ground. Because of his recklessness—because he had gone where he should not have gone—he was sure that he had set in motion his story with the coyote, and he did not know what to do to remedy it.
Because sitting on his rock behind the bush, while he waited patiently for his godmother to finish her visit, he had heard a noise that alerted him just in time to turn around and see the man approaching fast with a stick, ready to strike him. He managed to avoid the first blow by reacting nimbly, but he knew he would not be able to dodge it forever: he could read in Espiricueta’s eyes that he would not stop until he had killed him.
Only Beatriz’s scream stopped the man—just. She approached, furious, armed only with a ragdoll. Simonopio recognized it as the doll his godmother had made for the Espiricueta girl, the one with the silent eyes. She reached them with the look and sense of purpose of a bee defending its swarm. Simonopio was glad to have her by his side.
“Whatever is the matter with you? How dare you?”
Halting the blow did not mean that Espiricueta had contained his rage or put down his stick. Beatriz stood between Simonopio and his attacker.
“What I wanna know,” Espiricueta snapped back, “is what this possessed wretch is doing at my house. How many times’s he been here to bring us bad luck?”
“Why would you think he would do that?”
“My wife died on me. Then my children.”
“And that’s why I came: to offer my condolences,” said Beatriz, trying to calm herself and rediscover the pity she had felt for this man who had lost so much.
“What good will they do me? Go give ’em to someone who has a use for ’em. Far as I’m concerned, this one killed my family. I don’t want no condolences or pity. I want the last two kids he left alive to live. I want the ones he took given back, like that fella what came back from the grave.”
“Anselmo. I understand your grief and your desperation, but how can you think that Simonopio is to blame in any way? It was a disease that attacked the entire world!”
“I told you nothin’ but misery’d befall us. My field’s never borne what the others have since he arrived, and then my family dies on me like no one else’s does. Why only me?”
“A great many people died, Anselmo. All over the world.”
“That might be, but no one died on you.”
“Aunts, relatives, friends. And your family, Anselmo.”
“No one.”
They were not going to get anywhere like this, so Beatriz changed the subject and adjusted her tone to a more conciliatory one.
“Well, I brought you some things for your little girl. If she needs anything else, let us know. If you want, we can enroll her at school so—”
“No. All they do there is teach ’em to be servants, and she won’t be nobody’s servant. Know what I need? I need you to take your charity to someone who wants it. There ain’t nothing we want from you. Or do you think a doll’s going to bring my girl’s mama back? Take your boy and tell him to never set foot on my land again, ’cause next time, I’ll kill him.”
The threat made Beatriz hold her breath and lose the color in her face. She let out the air little by little. Simonopio noticed that the hand that still held his wrist was trembling, but her voice was firm.
“And I warn you that if you go anywhere near him, things will go very badly for you. You’d better not so much as look at him. Is that clear? And let me tell you one thing: this land is not and never will be yours.”
Beatriz did not wait for a reply. She seized Simonopio by the forearm and sped off with him without looking back. She gripped him in one hand, feeling him take to the air behind her like the ragdoll that she still held in her other. Her breathing had not returned to normal, and Simonopio thought that not even Espiricueta would dare challenge her when such bravery and such fury was expressed in her face. As the path widened, Beatriz remembered the doll she had devoted so much time to making, thinking of Margarita Espiricueta. Without a second thought, she cast it into the undergrowth so that it would slowly rot, like any of the scarce plants and animals that inhabited that barren land. Then she found a strong stick with which to replace it in her empty hand.
“Don’t worry, Simonopio. Everything’s fine. He would never dare,” she repeated to him every so often to reassure him, albeit without slowing down and without letting go of the stick.
They encountered no danger on the path—just Martín with his news of Francisco Morales’s supposed fit. And there Simonopio remained, frozen to the spot in the middle of the icy wilds, with no godmother or bees, his only company a discarded piece of wood that he knew would be useless should he have to defend himself in the story that, he was certain, had begun that day.
He could not regain his breath, and it was not from the effort of their trek but from fear.
No. His story would not end in a stick fight, nor would it end that day; of that much he was sure. But he still did not know when, which was why he was terrified: he felt as if he were falling endlessly, awake but with no control, unable to find his balance again on the firm ground of certainty. Then he remembered the warmth of his nana protecting him from the void, and he ran to find her.
26
This Land Is Not and
Never Will Be
yours. Never. Not. Yours. Not yours.
Anselmo’s chance to thrash the little demon had been brusquely interrupted by the hag. But what could he do? Ignore the boss’s wife? Kill the boy in front of her? He would have liked to, but he was not stupid. Because then what?
So he had contained himself—though he had not stopped wanting to do it—but stood his ground to defend his territory until the woman left with her demon.
Still blinded by rage, it was some time before he remembered that he was still holding his arm aloft and gripping a stick in his hand, but when he saw his daughter come out of the house, looking for her absent benefactor with a sparkle in her eyes that he had never seen before, perhaps from the excitement of putting on the new skirt and blouse the Morales woman had given her, he felt the weight of the cane again and the rough texture of the thin edge that dug into his callused hands.
His urge to strike out revived, he went for her for accepting the charity and gifts that were no doubt the result of the guilt felt by those who have everything.
He beat her to make her take off the new clothes, right there outside, before making her go back into the house and heat up the comal. When it was hot, he set her to cooking chilies. Before he could feel the sting of the hot and spicy smoke of the toasted chilies in his lungs or eyes, Anselmo Espiricueta left the house, closing the door and shutters tight; and there he left her, crying, pleading, burning inside from the chilied air, just as his parents had punished him whenever he misbehaved.
Espiricueta went out into the icy elements, convinced that with his punishment he would banish any inclination to be poor and lowly from his daughter’s soul.
He saw the skirt and blouse lying where they had fallen and picked them up. He headed into the hills along the path that the meddling hag had taken. When he reached the point where it widened, satisfied that he was far enough from the house, he threw them in the undergrowth so that they would slowly rot, like any of the scarce plants and animals that inhabited that barren land.
“My land.”
His land.
27
The Roof That Breathes
Simonopio spent every remaining night of that icy winter taking refuge in his nana Reja’s warm bed.
When he heard her arrive at night to lie down, he would climb into the bed after her, using—without knowing it—the same tactic he had perfected at the age of four: carrying a pillow and blanket and moving with as much stealth as possible, for fear of being turned away. It took him a long time to fall asleep, both due to the narrowness of the bed and to the thoughts that insisted on going around and around in his head, trying to find a way out of the predicament he had gotten himself into. In the end he slept, because his child’s body demanded it and his mind gave in.
Nana Reja remained silent, as ever, saying nothing and asking nothing: not What’s the matter? nor Why are you so frightened? nor even There’s nothing to be afraid of. Simonopio suspected that she knew, that she sensed something monumental was happening to him, and that was why she never dared tell him to stop being afraid or that there was nothing to fear. She lay awake, motionless, as Simonopio knew she always did at night in her bed, even without the Simonopio-shaped lump that visited her without asking permission. When he opened his eyes with the first light of the morning, the bed was cold. His nana was no longer there: she had gone back to her eternal place, sitting on her rocking chair under the shelter of the shed’s overhanging roof.
Simonopio had heard his godmother Beatriz say that, especially when it was cold, Nana Reja should no longer be allowed to spend her time keeping guard out in the elements. That an elderly woman her age could die from exposure. But there was no persuading the little old lady made of wood. She did not care about the changes in weather or the elements. All that seemed to matter to her was not leaving her post as a deaf, mute, and blind lookout. When Beatriz asked Martín or Nana Pola to lift her up and carry her to the warm kitchen, Nana Reja reacted with a forcefulness that could hardly be misinterpreted: she shook her stick vigorously, managing to strike Martín—who was not quick enough to escape—on his legs. As for Pola, Reja would not dare hit her for any reason, but nothing stopped her from waving her stick in a wide arc when she sensed Pola was close.
Nothing and nobody would convince her to change the routine she had followed for decades.
Not even Simonopio, who also worried about her.
He was eight: he was not a baby anymore. He knew that he disturbed her at night, but the experience on Espiricueta’s land had shaken him, and for the time being, he needed to feel protected, at least while he was in the unconscious state of deep sleep.
He spent the days rebuilding his courage. Since the cold refused to go away, his bees came out very little, and when they did, they remained close to the large structure with which they had colonized the shed roof. They came out to exercise their wings and—perhaps—their instinct a little, but not all of them did so. Or at least, not all at the same time.
Simonopio did not want to go anywhere without them. Not for now. He had wandered near the house for days, surprising everyone with his constant presence, because with his continuous expeditions into the wilds, his appearances had been increasingly rare.
Before everyone in the household began to quiz him about his well-being, when he knew he would not even be able to offer a response, it occurred to him that he could help his nana so they stopped bothering her with all their worrying and, of course, so she would not be cold. Simonopio suspected she did not feel the cold on her hardened skin, but perhaps in her ancient insides she did, without realizing it. He knew it was not time for Nana Reja to die, but he also knew certain situations could easily change because of a stubborn refusal to protect oneself.
Since it was imperative that Nana Reja not be cold in the day, so that she lived for as long as she was meant to, Simonopio lit a fire for her, which eased everyone’s concern for the little old lady and for him. Keeping a fire going—while making sure the smoke did not reach his bees in their hive—was a nonstop task: Simonopio fed the fire with wood all day, every day, until the weather turned. The bees came out of their cozy enclosure without difficulty, and he felt strong enough to stray from the house again.
Because, since the night when he returned to his nana’s bed or the first day he spent sitting at her feet, watching over her and keeping her warm, Simonopio had known that he could allow himself only a short break. That soon he would need to go out into the world again to prepare himself, before the world—the violent one—came looking for him. But in those days, when they all praised him for being so attentive and protective of Nana Reja’s well-being, without imagining that he was also looking out for his own, he could not shake off the desire for the cold to last a little longer. For the truce to continue for just another short while. At the same time, he was aware that desire did not come into such matters: the cold would disappear when it had to disappear, and when it did, his period of artificial serenity would end, and he would have to face up to the consequences of his grave error.
When he thought of this, sitting to one side of a motionless Nana Reja, he was besieged by fear, like the cloud of smoke from the fires he lit himself. Because the end of winter was the time limit he had given to his fear and paralysis. To his sleeping all warm and safe beside his nana. To the task that anyone could do of endlessly adding log after log to the fire. Simonopio decided that, before the final bee came out to enjoy the freedom of spring, before they all left together on their epic journey, he would take his pillow and fold up his blanket. He would leave behind his nana’s warmth and protection. He would also leave behind Nana Pola’s nocturnal blessings against monsters, animals, dolls, and everything else. He would transport his bed with or without help. He would clean Nana Reja’s shed, which nobody used as a storehouse anymore because of the bees, and move in there to sleep, to wake up, to grow, to become strong.
At first, Francisco and Beatriz Morales were against Simonopio sleepi
ng in such isolation and rustic conditions. They also argued—with good reason—that the shed had been built as a storage space. That it was not meant to be anybody’s sleeping quarters, much less the bedroom of a dear child they would have taken to sleep in the main house on the day of his arrival had Nana Reja only allowed them to, without caring if Consuelo had a tantrum because of the strange and ugly baby.
Every time Simonopio moved his bed and placed it in front of the shed, Beatriz or Francisco sent someone to return it to the house.
“No, Simonopio. You can’t sleep there. If you don’t want to sleep with the nanas anymore, come to the house with us.”
They continued to explain to him how the bees had gradually taken possession of the rafters of Nana Reja’s shed—because they had not dealt with the problem in time, they admitted—and that now it was too late: for years, nobody had been brave enough to store tools or anything else in the storehouse.
“How’re you going to sleep there, Simonopio?”
As they asked him the question, in spite of the boy’s expected silence, the answer—clear, logical—came to them by itself. And if they had not been persuaded by the fact that there was no one better for that space than Simonopio, who was rarely seen without his bees, they would have witnessed Nana Reja—who nobody ever saw move, speak, or show any interest—attempting to remove her beloved boy’s bed from their shared bedroom herself.
They laid down some rules, of course. First, that before moving there, Simonopio must clean the shed. And second, that he allow them to build an adjoining bathroom and make a window to improve the ventilation and natural light in the space. For the time being.
Simonopio gladly agreed: he did not want to put his bed where the nocturnal dolls that Nana Pola had sent to some unspecified storeroom might have been left and forgotten. He would do the clearing out.
The Murmur of Bees Page 18
