He had always gladly given everything to his inherited land: family, mind, time, youth, sweat, study, and even secret tears. But he never imagined that it would also demand wailing and blood. That it would demand his son’s life.
Will this orange tree nourished with my blood and tears grow strong? Will our blood be noticeable in its fruit? I’ll never know, he concluded.
This is death, he told himself. This is my death and my son’s, which I cannot prevent, however much I want to. Then he wanted to see his daughters one more time, but especially Beatriz, because he had always thought he would die looking into her eyes.
In the end that he had imagined, they would both be old, as they had promised each other, and by then, they would have had time to say everything to one another and to say it many times, without caring that they repeated it, without ever growing tired of it.
He had thought there would be time.
Now, too late, with no air in his body, he wished he could give her one—because he would have strength for only one—of those intense, loving looks that he had been saving up in order to use them in better times, for want of time, for want of energy, because he had been busy with his routine and because he had surrendered to his worries. If he had his wife in front of him just one more time, he would find a way to repeat in a single look all the tender words that he had said to her since they met. He would make sure that this last look would even create new words just for her.
Now it was too late, and while he wanted to find only words of love and parting, he could find nothing but words of pain, sorrow, and recrimination.
Would she accept them?
Because if Beatriz were there, stroking his aching temple, holding him, sharing her warmth with him, he would be able only to ask for her forgiveness and humbly accept any words of admonishment that came from her mouth, from her mind, from her heart, because I deserve them all. I deserve every harsh word, if not for the earth that our playful son is covered in, then for my overconfidence and arrogance, for choosing to be blind, for not wanting to see what I had in plain sight for so long: the danger at home. I would ask forgiveness for opening the door to him. Forgive me for beckoning death, for waving at it when I should have run. Forgive me, Beatriz, for killing with my clumsiness the son that I gave you so late and who I’m now taking away from you so soon.
He would have asked for her forgiveness, had he been able, for the earth that would cover their son forever. For that earth, he would. But it was too late for apologies and certainly too late to make amends, because then he heard him, softly, in a low voice, but growing in volume, growing closer: the chorus that he had never understood because he had never paid attention, because he had never wanted to, because it had never been important until that moment.
Now the golden eagle has flown
and the finch is chased away.
At last the day must come
when the mule takes the reins . . .
He heard Espiricueta’s dragging feet a few steps away, and had he been able to speak, Francisco would have pleaded with him for the life of his son, who at that moment was surely fading, little by little, between the earth and the heavy body that killed him while it protected him. He could not see his child, but he wished he could at least feel him one last time, speak to him one last time in life, even just with his eyes, to say, I tried. I tried and I failed. I failed you: I told you you’d be safe with me, to not be afraid, and I was wrong. But now you really must not be afraid, Son. We’ll go together. Take my hand, squeeze it. We’ll go together. Jump high. Jump. Nothing will make you fall now.
Francisco Morales was no longer capable of doing anything except waiting. And knowing what was coming, in the silence imposed on him by a bullet, he sent up a fervent prayer—perhaps not conventional, but certainly from the bottom of his soul and with all the strength he had left: Let it be quick, don’t let him understand, don’t let him suffer; better that I kill him, that my body suffocates him before the man hurts my adventurous son, my brave son, who is about to meet his executioner, because there’s no return from this adventure; may his death be painless and may he know no fear; God, may his life end quickly; let it be quick . . .
Close—too close—to his face, he saw some worn old boots that, without consideration, lifted the dust around him, preventing him from taking in the small amount of clean air that his body had the strength to inhale. He saw them stomp on the hand that was no longer his, and he was grateful that he could not feel anything. He closed his eyes, expecting to be kicked, but he opened them when, instead, in his ear he perceived the moist, warm breath of Espiricueta singing to him softly, almost with tenderness.
. . . when the mule takes the reins . . .
Had his body still belonged to him, he would have felt a shiver run through it. Instead, he felt the sword on his neck, ice cold.
But he would not feel the bullet that killed him.
73
Too Late
From a distance, still running, without allowing himself to slow his pace or close his eyes for anything, Simonopio saw the coyote walk up to his godfather and give him a kiss, like Judas. Then he saw the second kiss: of lead, of death. He saw Espiricueta stand up, satisfied, to show his son the outcome of his violence on the despised, now lifeless, body, and goad it irreverently with the toe of his boot.
There lay the lion at the coyote’s feet, killed by the hand of the coyote, like in many of the versions that Simonopio had constructed without wanting to, unable to avoid it, of the story his godfather told him when he was a boy. He had seen it since then but had not understood: he was not the only lion that the coyote bore a grudge against, that it hated; and on that day of confrontation he had feared so, he was not the fallen lion, no. He had been safe at the river—he reproached himself—distracted by a banal show for which he had reneged on the promise he had made to Francisco Junior one morning, years before, at the foot of his bed: I won’t leave you again.
He had reneged on it to watch a show and had abandoned Francisco Morales and his son to their fate. The price that everyone would pay for his doing so would be very high. Life had changed because of his carelessness, if indeed life continued for anybody.
Where was Francisco Junior? Close. He could feel him. Simonopio could not see him in the distance, but he had to find him before the coyote. Had his godfather had time to get him to safety?
No.
The coyote’s attack had not been from the front, with warning. He had attacked from behind, cunning and treacherous as he was, with the heat of two bullets that penetrated the body of the boss, the first target of the day. Reading or feeling his intentions, Simonopio understood that he would take care of the lion’s son later, and would do it at close range, without rushing. Because the coyote is not afraid to face a cub that he can enjoy killing slowly, as he had killed Lupita, sinking his teeth into her, tearing off her flesh and ripping out her eyes, blocking her air, seeing—with surprise—the tears run down in spite of her empty eye sockets, and, growing weary of the screams, squeezing her until she was silenced forever, then standing and carrying, dragging her to the bridge over the river and dumping her there unceremoniously, abandoning the dead eyes where Lupita’s body had abandoned life.
Simonopio did not stop at the realization, the hatred, or the temptation to seek revenge. He kept running, calling to Francisco Junior with one step and to his bees, which he felt were close, with the next. They had responded to his call, defying the cold despite the knowledge that many of them would die that day. Ready to sacrifice themselves.
We’re coming, we’re coming, they said to him as a swarm, in unison, and the sound began to echo between the hills until it became a storm, a hurricane in honor of the dead lion and in defense of the child in danger.
Simonopio thought the coyote would react, but Espiricueta seemed deaf to everything except the sweet sound that still resounded in his ears—one gunshot from a distance and a second at point-blank range—and, to a lesser extent, the voic
e in his head demanding that he find the child and kill him as well, to blow away every last obstacle to his claim on the land once and for all.
As he ran, Simonopio saw Espiricueta’s face change: under the father’s body, which he rolled over uncaringly, he had found the son, whom he lifted into the air, gripping him by the shirt and shaking him.
The boy’s weak sobs reached Simonopio’s ears. Still alive, but on the way to death.
This time Simonopio let out a roar: he was a lion throwing himself into the defense of his pride.
Simonopio had arrived too late to save one of them, but with help, he was in time to save the other.
Perhaps.
74
The Devil’s Thunder
Anselmo Espiricueta had not been in any hurry coming down from the hill after firing the first shot. He had given himself time to pick up his knapsack and the used, still-hot Mauser cartridge, which he put in his pocket as a souvenir while enjoying the smell of burned gunpowder that enveloped him.
It was not the perfect shot he had planned. He had wanted to hit Francisco Morales in the forehead, to blow his brains out, to destroy his eyes and his height, to wipe the arrogance from him forever, as he had imagined in so many practice sessions. However, Morales had not cooperated, and what Espiricueta had envisaged as firing on an easy, static target had proved more complicated: guessing his worker’s intentions, he supposed, the boss had turned around to run. Instead of hitting him in the forehead, he had struck him in the upper back. It was not the same.
“But dead’s dead,” he boasted to his son.
He could not recall whether he had spoken to his son of his plans, and he supposed not, because after Espiricueta fired, his son had seemed surprised and a little frightened, though he would never question his father’s actions. When Espiricueta took the first step down the hill, his son just followed him quietly. They left the horses tethered to the tree: they would not need them for their descent.
Satisfaction filled Espiricueta’s lungs as he breathed deeply with each step. As ever, he sang the chorus of which he never tired. It had taken him nineteen years—aside from the rest of his previous life—but in the end, he had done it: with a single shot, he had changed his life forever.
At last the day has come . . .
He would no longer live his life stooping, servile. The day had come when the mule lifted its head and refused to recognize the boss, because he knew, like he had always known, that nobody tells a landowner what to do; that owners do not suffer hunger, hardship, or worries, which is why they grow tall and straight and look everyone squarely in the eyes.
And that was him now: the master of his land.
He breathed in the new air of his property, filling his lungs with land and freedom.
. . . when the mule takes the reins . . .
In his reverie, he walked without looking up. He walked without devoting a single thought to the Morales boy, for when the father fell dead, Espiricueta banished him from his mind. However, as he approached Morales’s blood-soaked body, the boy’s absence surprised him. He stopped a few paces away, annoyed.
Had he climbed onto the cart? It did not matter: Espiricueta would find him. The boy was dead even if he didn’t know it yet.
He was also surprised to find that Morales’s body was still alive. He was almost disappointed with himself, but then he realized he had not missed his target: he clearly saw the wound where the bullet had entered the back and the blood running under the body, which meant the projectile had passed through.
He was breathing but choking. He was alive but dying.
Not wanting to be a part of what was to come, Espiricueta’s son kept his distance, preferring to rummage through the Moraleses’ cart. Espiricueta did not care: like the land now, this moment belonged to him and no one else.
He approached and trod on the lifeless hand to prevent the wounded man from defending himself in any way, but Morales did not react: he did not groan with pain or try to pull his hand from under the boot that insulted him more than it hurt him. The only parts of Francisco Morales that seemed to still be alive were his eyes and mouth. The eyes, weeping, understood that their end was coming and realized who would be responsible for it. The mouth tried to form words, without success. Francisco Morales seemed to be trying to plead, though Espiricueta was no longer interested in what the boss wanted to say to his former-peon-turned-executioner. Espiricueta was more interested to see that the boss was now irredeemably prostrated at his feet, against his will. He observed with enthusiasm that all the arrogance and elegance had now left his body and face.
The day had come when the boss was silent and the peon spoke, and it gave Espiricueta pleasure to have him as a captive audience: Francisco Morales had no option but to listen to what he wanted to say to him.
He had already said it to him forcefully with a bullet. Now he would tell him with a whisper.
Espiricueta then decided that missing the target had been for the better: it had given him time to administer death up close, intimately—almost like Lupita’s; he would see the precise moment in Morales’s eyes when he realized he was dead, even if he still breathed.
He moved closer to the living dead man, crouched down, and bent over him, and as close as one does with a lover, he sang into his ear, as he had always wanted to do.
Now the golden eagle has flown
and the finch is chased away.
At last the day must come
when the mule takes the reins . . .
As he did so, as he repeated the words that had remained with him for too many years, repeating them like an obsession, like a prayer, he promised himself it would be the last time they came from his mouth.
It was time to change his tune.
Standing again, he aimed the barrel of the rifle at Morales’s neck, and without hesitating or prolonging the moment, he fired, satisfied with the effectiveness of the weapon. The bullet ended its journey like a flash of lightning, but its thunder lingered in his ears like a constant reminder that there was no going back.
“Dead’s dead.”
Hearing his own voice, enveloped in the thunder that rolled on, enabled him to make out another quiet sound: a groan, almost as soft as a sigh. Then he noticed that under the father’s body lay the son’s, dying little by little, suffocated by Morales’s dead weight. Espiricueta was glad that he did not have to waste time searching for him. Pleased to know that the boy had been trapped, that he was suffocating. Espiricueta could leave him there, remain with him until the little body no longer had the strength to breathe in, remain with him until he died, and then enjoy the irony of it, almost as if he had killed two birds with one bullet. But he reconsidered: Why wait, when he had already waited so long? Why not kill him and solve the problem once and for all?
With the toe of his boot and with great effort, he managed to roll the dead body, and he saw that, though it had lost part of the face where the bullet exited, the forehead remained intact, and the blue eyes, open, now looked up at the sky. For a moment, and with a shiver that traveled across his skin, he feared that the boss was still alive and turning his accusatory eyes toward him—but no.
“Dead’s dead,” he reassured himself.
Now he had the boy at his feet, just as he’d had the father: alive, but half-dead. Without the weight on top of him, the child began to move, to take in more air, determined to cling to life.
Espiricueta helped him, ignoring the signals his son was giving him in the distance. His yells of Something’s coming meant nothing through the thunder that grew ever louder in Espiricueta’s ears. Nor did he notice—and at any rate he would not have cared—that the Moraleses’ horse was bolting, terrified, as if the weight of the cart behind it did not exist. There was nothing more important at that moment than finishing what he had begun: he gripped the boy by the shirt and lifted him, shaking him violently so that the thick mist that had taken possession of the boy’s awareness quickly dispersed, so that he, too, would know who w
ould kill him and how.
He took his knife from its sheath.
When the boy opened his eyes, he did not notice the blade that threatened them. He just stared at Espiricueta and, weakly, said something that Anselmo heard without understanding.
“Coyote.”
Then, inevitably, Espiricueta heard a roar that exceeded the thunder in his ears, and he knew immediately that it was the cry of the devil, who was coming for him.
After so many years searching for him on the roads without finding him, without coming face-to-face, that day he knew the encounter would be inevitable, and fear seized Anselmo Espiricueta. He did not want to see him anymore, he did not want to confront him, but he understood he could no longer avoid it. He looked up and saw several things at the same time: his son speeding away, the devil in a boy’s body now grown into a man, and behind him, above him, in front of him, as if he had opened the gates to hell itself, a living, furious, vengeful storm.
A winged storm that came to take him. The thunder in his ears.
75
Killing and Dying
On the longest run of his life, the interminable sprint that seemed to take him nowhere, feeling his thirst and the effort of his roar tear at his throat, feeling his lungs compressed from traveling over the path that he had traveled only once before, Simonopio knew the precise moment when Espiricueta feared for his life, when he let go of the boy, who fell onto the soft ground among the mounds of earth that his father and he had made while they dug holes.
He noticed Francisco Junior was not moving, but he breathed.
He saw that Espiricueta was running, pursued by the violent cloud that, implacably, came closer to him with every second, and which sooner or later would take revenge. That the son, despite his head start, would not escape the bees, either, now that they had come out of their hive in response to Simonopio’s urgent call.
The Murmur of Bees Page 35
