Chapter 7

  Buenas noches, mi hijo.

  Exquisite, warm pain caressed Arturo’s joints with an intensity to bring tears to his eyes, and that was normal. Only this level of agony, these tears, they were different. The pain was less. So significantly less. His joints were stubborn, not drilled with a chisel, his skin a little sensitive and raw, not peeled back to expose bone and muscle, his feet a bit sore, not driven through with nails. Arturo just stood and breathed and sighed and stretched… stretched out his soreness and it almost fled.

  What a feeling to not feel at all.

  Supple dirt shifted from under his heels, and he wiggled his painless toes in the cool earth. Arturo wrung his hands and popped his knuckles, something he hadn’t been able to do in a year without blacking out. And most people still felt better than this every day. The Parents were sparing in their blessings. No, Arturo was not traveling to worship, to attend mass, to speak to the self-righteous monks. No. He took his pilgrimage for this. But he would stop taking them. For Valeria. This relief wasn’t made for him, not always. He could take the pain. He hoped he could. The closer to the Capital they got, the more he reveled in this simple relief.

  The first leg of the trip had gone by without a hitch. Barto slept most of the way leaving the nice couple to go without his boyish charms for the whole day. Arturo breathed a light snort through his nose and smirked. The wagon line had stopped for the night on one of the first knolls on the way to the Capital. They were leaving the grasslands after eight days of travel, with as many days’ worth of the identical beige green terrain he had called home, and began passing these little hills with smatterings of little trees. The mountains loomed in the distance, the short trek through the highlands of La Terra a comforting change in climate, and Arturo welcomed the change in scenery.

  The wagon ride had been characteristically awful. The bumps sent him into spasms and found him reassuring the nice couple that occupied Barto and Arturo’s wagon that he was fine through his gasps and held back screams. It was all normal. Those days were a blur in agony, but Arturo got to sleep under the stars in peace when the wagons stopped. And he loved the pinpricks of light. He would trace the wandering stars that would meander across the sky every few minutes, white dots moving at a lazy pace from horizon to horizon. If he was lucky, he would catch one of the flashing stars, greenish in tone, and he would count the seconds it took for another small blink of the light, a harmony to the regular rhythm, and wonder as to what put it there. So, he made it through those days.

  Morning fires crackled with a hypnotizing warmth. Dry, hot days in the grasslands always meant frigid nights, and the sun was not yet high in the sky baking the vegetation and people to a crisp. An abuelita sat, hunched, flipping tortillas on a comal placed over one of the fires. More of the little old ladies sat around other fires doing the same thing, making breakfast for the weary travelers nearing their destination. This abuelita wore a white shawl with triangular, black stitchings in the heavy fabric, her hair pulled into a tight bun, leather sandals wrangling the swollen feet of a woman well-fed over many years. Arturo hoped she was happy.

  In a strong voice, she greeted Arturo, “Buenos dias, nin?o.”

  “Buenos días, Do?a,” Arturo smiled his response.

  She gestured to a wicker basket with a loosely placed lid of the same material. “Tortillas,” she slowly pointed next to the basket at some white cloth tied in a bundle with string, “y queso.”

  “Gracias, Don?a.” Arturo ate the food happily. Thicker tortillas than he was accustomed to, but the cheese was crumbly and salty, and the food filling. The other pilgrims started waking up as he ate and relaxed by the fire. The old lady continued her work. Smash the masa into circles, slip it onto the comal, flip it, put it in the basket. Valeria’s abuela had tried to teach him the technique, flattened dough in a delicate circle on her palm. Then she would wave her hand, and the tortilla would be there on the comal, smooth flat and toasting to a perfect slight char. He always managed to fold or tear them. The abuelita here had four more baskets filled to the brim with steaming food before Barto drug himself to the fire.

  “Buenos dias, Barto,” Arturo greeted the man with a content sigh.

  “We’ll see,” Barto coughed in response.” Today’s gonna be a hot one. Don’t think we’ll be very comfortable in the back of those things bumping down the road,” Barto jerked his head towards their wagon and spat.

  Arturo took a deep breath and pushed his lips into a line, “Would you rather walk?”

  “Now listen here you little-”

  “Callete,” the don?a scolded Barto. She pointed a twisted finger at him and widened her eyes, daring him to say another word. These old women were such a treat on this journey.

  “Arturo? I didn’t realize you were coming with us on this one!”

  Arturo stretched to look behind himself, body refusing to give up the comfortable position he’d taken up by the fire, stretched out in its tickling warmth. Two of his friends from town, Miguel and Antonio, walked up and sat down next to them by the fire. Barto growled at them like a mangy mutt.

  “Oh, hey guys. Yeah, I was a little late packing and getting ready.” They stared at him expectingly. “And you know its hard for me to move around the first leg of the trip. Dejame? pas.”

  “Well, we’re happy to see you here, amigo. We can hit the bars and drink all of their mezcal now! Que bueno,” Miguel replied, jovial jowls jumping with each word. The young man was charitably chubby, but more honestly portly, and he was every bit the life of every party, the glue of every click of friends of which he was the happiest part. People lit up at his generous smiles. Antonio was every bit the opposite. He was a whip of a man, as quiet as a mouse hiding from hawks in the stalks of grass about the sheep in the plains, but he never made trouble for anyone. And, when he did offer a quip rarer than gold, he could strike an entire group stupid with laughter without so much as a smirk. But most of the time, Antonio was quiet, so Arturo didn’t push him to talk. Miguel’s silent sidekick stared into the flames, not offering anything so much as a nod to his friends’ conversation.

  “Would you boys be quiet? I just woke up and my skull is trying to part ways with my brain!” Barto burped, his mouth full of food. The old lady watched him with a smirk on her face. Arturo grimaced instead and obliged the grumpy old man.

  “Bien,” Arturo stood and nodded his friends over to the wagon a few paces away. Miguel, having just sat down, heaved himself to his feet, a great rush of wind exhaled from his lungs in a grunt of effort. Though, he didn’t complain.

  They walked to lean on the wagon. Miguel continued their conversation, “So, how’s work been? I heard some of the trade might get messed up with that dye business going belly up.”

  “It’s been fine. All I’ve heard was a Ministry man saying something about a tax.”

  “Si?, the Ministry has to increase the taxes on the rest of us to make up for all the lost money from that one. Embezzling the Parents’ money, I heard.”

  “Que lastima,” Arturo sighed.

  “Si?. By the Parents’ guidance.”

  Arturo only nodded in response.

  “You don’t think the Parents correct to levy this tax?” The three of them turned in unison to see the big stranger from the pueblo astride a black horse. The woman wasn’t with him.

  “Didn’t say anything like that. What are you doing on the pilgrimage? This is just for the townsfolk. Why don’t you ride with your friend,” Arturo narrowed his eyes at the stranger. The man unnerved him, and he hoped he’d seen the last of the stranger when he’d left on the trip. Grayish eyes narrowed back, juxtaposed against a fake smile.

  “I am from the Capital. Can’t a traveler accompany this convoy to keep from loneliness on the road home?”

  Miguel tapped Arturo’s shoulder, and whispered, “Quien es eso?” Arturo didn’t take his eyes from the stranger. The black horse snorted and clopped its massive hooves. The beast was at least five handspans larger than any breed back in the pueblo.

  “I’m a Ministry man,” the stranger spoke in reply to Miguel’s question.

  “I was asking Arturo.”

  The stranger sneered, “Arturo didn’t know. So, I informed you.”

  “People from the Ministry are caring. They help us. You seem like a menace,” Arturo challenged.

  “The Parents require many things done by their children. Like finding malcontents with their guidance,” the stranger responded, his voice a drawn sword. Arturo didn’t like the idea of this stranger following them, Ministry man or not.

  “Ride where you want, amigo. Just let us enjoy our trip,” said Arturo. The stranger’s nose flared, and his horse snorted. He pulled on the reins and turned, guiding the horse through the camps, the heads of townsfolk turning to watch the black robed rider on his monstrous horse.

  “Odd man,” Antonio had a quiet and clean voice.

  “He had an odd woman with him too,” Arturo replied. “What would the Ministry want with spooks like them? All I’ve ever seen from the Parents’ governors are helping hands and full sacks of food.”

  “We ought to be more malcontent with said sacks. Its terrible,” Miguel added. Antonio turned cold eyes and stared Miguel down. “Hey, I’m just sayin’.”

  “It doesn’t contribute to the conversation, Miguel.”

  “Well, at least I actually have conversations.” The two men stared daggers at each other in the way only the best of friends, or maybe brothers, could. Miguel spoke again, “He’s one ugly puto. Uglier than that brute of a horse. Wonder if the woman is any better looking, huh?” He began nudging Antonio in the side. The skinny man just continued to stare Miguel down silently.

  ***

  Parallel lines seemed to converge over the horizon, the distant point of Arturo’s home a nexus for his thoughts, the coming tide of relief a salve to soothe his aching bones. He looked down at his hands. They didn’t hurt. Maybe they’d hurt to someone without whatever plagued him, but they didn’t hurt to him. It was a miracle. A blessing. Well, not the blessing of the Parents, but a blessing anyway. Wagon wheels creaked and shuddered, and dust billowed behind them and settled into the road to be picked up again on the morrow with some passing traveler or grain shipment or wool cart. The pueblos by the sea to the west could connect to the Capital by a Storm-powered rail. He wondered if this journey would be quicker on such a contraption.

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  The air was wetter and the sun less oppressive this close to the mountains. They’d covered a good distance during the day. Barto had said only a handful of extremely offensive things to the couple they rode with. Things like: “She’s a bit on the chubby side, why didn’t you leave her back with la carnicera?” Or, “Oh, she’s only pregnant? That doesn’t explain the chins.” Then most recently, “A woman like you couldn’t move fast enough to smack me.” Barto stared out at the wagon wheels with Arturo and nursed a swollen cheek.

  Arturo thought to alleviate the tension. He could never stand people being angry around him and had to fix it. “You’re really going to the Capital pregnant? Seems like an uncomfortable time,” he added a fake, little laugh to the end. To show he was being congenial. He often worried how interjecting silence would affect people.

  “Oh, si,” the young woman replied in an amiable enough fashion. Good. Maybe her mood could improve. She continued, “The accommodations haven’t been a great bother.” Her gaze went past Arturo and swatted at Barto harder than her hand could. “Anyway, the Father said they’re twins.”

  Arturo froze, then, “Twins! Verdad? That’s amazing! By the Parents’ guidance, what a blessing.”

  Barto spat and said, “Probably Greatstorm monsters with that attit-”

  She raised her hand again, half standing in an instant, but Arturo smacked Barto’s shoulder. The pregnant woman sat back down. Barto pouted and pressed his mouth shut, scraggly beard poking out. Her husband watched the interaction aloof, probably confident in her ability to fend for herself. So far, she’d proven capable.

  “Sorry about him. I don’t normally have to deal with him around others.” Arturo glanced at Barto out of the corner of his eye. “So, twins? A Storm. We haven’t had one of those back home in years.”

  “The Father’s own bastard, a lot of weird things are happening around that town.”

  Arturo’s heart skipped a beat, “Would you stop?” The couple had no idea what he’d done out on the plains. No one had. Barto was still a right puto.

  Barto raised his hands by his head, “Just sayin’.”

  Arturo lowered his eyes. “Well, congratulations! You have been blessed and your offering blesses us.” He realized only he and Barto had been talking, the young woman’s eyes darting between the both of them, a smile presented to avoid any more interaction than necessary.

  “Gracias, amigo,” the man spoke with a guarded tone, “What was your name again? I’ve seen you around the pueblo obviously, but we haven’t had any business or drinks that I can remember.”

  “Si, me llamo Arturo. I’ve seen you around too.”

  “Arturo… Right right, you’re Fernando’s boy. He always raised the prettiest sheep.”

  His chest hurt at that name. Fire and smoke filled his nostrils then disappeared. Arturo glanced up at the brim of his hat. “Yeah, that’s me,” Arturo moved on quickly, “so, will you be taking the Storm straight to the Ministry?”

  “No,” the woman replied, “we actually sent for an escort before this trip. They said they had taken on too many for the year. We will be going to the Monastery after all.”

  “Well, it’s just like a normal pilgrimage then.” Arturo smiled at the couple, and admitted it was difficult to tell she was just pregnant. They both looked down at the woman’s round stomach, and they were happy. So, he was happy for them.

  Arturo pictured the stranger riding off on his beast of a horse. “You should tell everyone about your blessing at dinner tonight. It would make this trip that much more special.” The Parents’ do not stand for endangering Storms. Whatever that man is, he submits to the Parents’ guidance. All men do.

  “Yes, I think we will,” they smiled into each other’s eyes, and the man continued, “we didn’t get a chance to tell anyone but family back home. The Father told us too late.”

  “I’m sure the babies will have an amazing time in the pyramid.,” Arturo paused, “I never got your names?”

  “Oh! Well, my name is Roberto. My wife…” Roberto ran his fingers through his wife’s hair.

  “Isabella,” Isabella said with a smile.

  “Mucho gusto. I promise Barto was happy to meet you too.”

  Barto let out a grunt, “Si?.”

  Smooth wood without splinters, or any other texture of any kind after suffering the touch of so many hands and feet, tickled at Arturo’s desensitized fingers. He noticed the touches of everything he used to avoid with a near euphoric sense. He could sleep on a rock in the cold and be comfortable. The wagon rocked back and forth, and he pulled his knees to his chest. Grainy wood, soft dirt, and the smell of day-old tortillas embraced him. His eyes… began to droop… a clap of thunder, scarlet red warmth, and wetness slick between his fingers. The puma’s head rolled to his feet and the eyes looked up at him. Bared fangs stained with red resonated with a distant voice.

  “You, too. You are a liar.”

  Familiar. The presence? Terrifying. Arturo jolted, and Robert and Isabella jumped at the sudden movement. “Perdon,” Arturo breathed a half-hearted laugh. “I’m gonna walk alongside for a little while. Save my sleep for the Mother.” Arturo stood and hopped to the ground out of the back of the wagon. He enjoyed the mobility of his lessened agonies. He shook his head trying to dispel the image of the talking cat's head. The warmth spread in his hand, and it sickened him to find it comforting.

  Mud squelched under his boots as Arturo hobbled along the wagon. He wasn’t used to the movement and got out of breath quickly. Hooves clopped up from behind him. “Young men like you shouldn’t be so winded with such simple exercise.” Arturo closed his eyes and sighed at this unfortunately familiar voice.

  “Do you want my hat or something? You sure seem interested in me.”

  The gray stranger’s eyes widened. Was that rage or fear? What would this brute have to be afraid of? “I spoke with many people in the town and on this journey. Why do you think you’re special?”

  “A god does speak to me every night before I go to bed,” Arturo smirked at the man.

  “Petulant countrymen!” Rage it was. Arturo clenched his fist, his fingernails bit into his palm, and it felt good.

  “Hey what’s this talk of countrymen?” Miguel’s happily round mass bounced towards them, wagons leaning to-and-fro with the roll of the land. “We’re one people, aren’t we? Don’t have to put each other down like that,” he had a less than happy expression on his face. “The Parents don’t like their children fighting, amigo. You want to follow their guidance, don’t you? Ministry man?” Other people around the camp began looking in their direction. The stranger fixed his gaze on Arturo. What did this grey freak want?

  “Have a good pilgrimage.” The stranger’s voice ground threw his teeth like a rock bouncing down a cliff in the summer rains of the mountains.

  “Thank you, I believe we will.” Arturo attempted to return an angry glare. He imagined his face was anything but intimidating. Yet, the stranger allowed the slightest bit of worry to touch his eyes. Arturo felt the hair on the back of his neck stand, and the air smelled of rain. There were no clouds in the sky. The gray man yanked the reins on his horse and bolted away.

  “I’m really glad you guys are here,” Arturo breathed out heavily.

  “No problem,” Antonio intoned.

  “The woman riding with Barto and I, Isabella, she’s pregnant with twins. I was terrified that guy would start trouble and get her hurt. Can you imagine? The Father could come down from his pyramid and dash our heads against the rocks just like…” Arturo swallowed, fear lodged in his throat, but his companions seemed unfazed.

  “Get out! Really? It's been what, five? Six years since our last Storm back home?” Miguel more than made up for Antonio’s lacking enthusiasm. “Well, the coward rode off,” then he continued, dripping confidence, “smartest thing he’s ever done.”

  “Six years. My cousin gave birth for the Parents. Bless them,” Antonio responded bluntly.

  Miguel scratched at his head, “Right, yeah. You’d think I’d remember that, huh? Well. Felicidades. Bless them.”

  Arturo stared off after the stranger, “Bless them.”

  The convoy made camp for the night under the shadows of mountains upon a small swell of land among the hills. The road wound past their chosen knoll and on to the east towards the mountains, La Valle de Las Tormentas, and the Capital. Reaching peaks scratched the sky and split the clouds, tall as the tops of the Parents’ thunderstorms, and lush with the rain and deluge and running mud that came with them. The grasslands and plains of Arturo’s home suffered the thunderstorms, clouds brewing in the west over water and rainforest, torrential downpours and fierce winds. Fronts of curved and churning clouds threw themselves across the land and weakened as they trekked across La Terra. Then, the storms slowed to a stop over the mountains and draped a cloak of rain and fog over the sharp rocks and rolling hills of the highlands. Farmers here had beautiful crops. And the masa in the Capital made the best tortillas Arturo had ever eaten as a result. His stomach rumbled.

  The people of his pueblo were accustomed to the vastly different landscapes on these pilgrimages. In two short weeks the scenery molded into something foreign, but the cooking of the don?as was as consistent as Barto’s mood. The group of ladies huddled around a fire gossiping and doling out bowls of mole with pork and rice. Thick, almost sweet, and salty sauce dripped down Arturo’s chin, a perfect companion for the scenery.

  “Only a day more, and we should be in the Capital tomorrow afternoon,” Barto shambled over from the pot of food and plopped down among the young men. “Good thing too. My bony backside can’t take that bumping wagon anymore.”

  “Good luck with those Monastery pews then, Barto,” Miguel laughed.

  “I’m not going to no mass, Father’s eyes or not. I’m gonna eat tacos and drink cerveza in the market. Maybe some single old ladies will keep company.” He smiled over his shoulder at the don?as and their pot of mole?. A few actually giggled and waved. Antonio coughed and gagged on his food while Miguel slapped his back.

  “Que linda,” Arturo shook his head and laughed at it all.

  Just as the crabby old man scooped some sauce onto a leftover tortilla, the ground began to shake. Wagons rattled and people around the several campfires swung their heads about, frantic jerks of their eyes in every direction. A rumble slowly resolved into the thunder of hooves. The people of the pilgrimage walked to the edge of their little encampment and watched the road.

  Two dozen riders galloped past, black robes with backs hunched, a similar dress and look to the stranger. They rode out into the country on the road the convoy came in on, so there was no telling where they were headed. The road branched at least twenty times heading in that direction. Merchants took advantage of the difficult route to sell their wares at exorbitant prices the more rural their surroundings became because the people living in that land could hardly remember even the first few turns to make it to the Capital. Luckily, the Monastery sent the wagon drivers.

  Miguel walked up behind Arturo and spoke with a quiver in his voice, “They wouldn’t be heading back home, would they?”

  “No way to tell. What would they have to do back there, anyway? They’re Ministry men, and the officiants already delivered all the supplies,” Arturo responded cooly and smiled at the trio of men watching the riders fade into the distance. “And besides, the trouble is all here.” That received a grunt from Barto, but then again, most things did. Arturo shoved Miguel on the shoulder and forced a laugh.

  “Gotta be from the Ministry. Wouldn’t be the Monastery. The monks wear brown robes with cords on their waist,” Barto growled from behind.

  Arturo smirked, “What would you know about the monks? You just talk to poor old women in the streets!”

  “Well, what’s the Ministry doing sending riders this far? They don’t do that kind of stuff unless there’s trouble,” Miguel’s voice quivered on.

  “Miguel, amigo, they send people out to our pueblo all the time,” Arturo tried convincing Miguel as he did the same with himself.

  “Si?! Soft men and women with wagons loaded with food. Not a squad of black riders and beasts!”

  “Look, just relax, amigo. We can’t do anything, and the people that need help clearly called for it already. Trouble solved.” Arturo gestured at the riders disappearing into the distance. “Sit and eat, Miguel. We’re almost to the Capital!” He walked back to his seat by the fire and took up his remaining mole. Antonio still sat there, unbothered. Miguel stood watching the riders disappear over the horizon, slowly shaking his head. Face in his bowl trying to avoid the dust cloud billowing behind those horses, Arturo wished people could just let things go. The Ministry was always there to help. This was a little odd, yes, but it's not like they were out in the country hurting people. Miguel shook his head and wandered off, and Antonio shoved to his feet and following his rotund companion.

  “Tell us… THE TRUTH!”

  A rasping voice rattled Arturo’s head, and the puma’s head rolled to his feet at the fire, a second attempt at trying to spill Arturo’s food all over himself. The eyes were far too alive, alive with a heat of their own, raging against him, boring holes in Arturo’s skin as phantom claws raked at his chest. He gasped.

  “TELL US!”

  Blood splattered all over his clothes and face. The warmth of it, it should make Arturo gag. Instead, it soothed him from the vision. He jerked and realized the real warmth was his feet far too close to the fire. He glanced at Barto who had stopped eating. The man held the same look of fear that day Arturo woke from his injuries. “You alright, nin?o?”

  “Si?, estoy bien.”

  “Good, let’s keep it that way.”

  Arturo shifted and stood. He noticed two small craters in the dust by his hands and covered them over with his feet as he walked away. Fresh pain revolted in his knuckles and began to fade. “I was just nodding off. I’m fine.”

  Arturo walked back to the wagon. Roberto and Isabella were eating by a fire with a group gathered around them. It seemed they had spread their news to the people of the convoy. Good. The gathering of a Storm was always good news. Always.

  He climbed into the darkness of the wagon. The whisper of voices and the crackling of fire lulled Arturo to sleep, and despite a clear sky overhead, thunder rumbled in Arturo’s ears and shook from his hands.

  Buenas noches, mi hijo.