Chapter 13

  A familiar pulse jumped from Arturo’s fingers up into his knuckles, into his elbow, into his shoulder, then its mirror working the same path from his other hand met the pulse in his chest. It sat there, he sat there, throbbing, a cry in rage and exhaustion, wondering why he left his home in her honey brown eyes and his pueblo at all. The pain sang, a symphony, more melodious and enthralling than any tune a mariachi playing for coin on the streets, Storm or not. He gasped at the sensation, and the gasp turned to a wheeze as the pain subsided. He flexed his hands and wiggled his toes in relief and was glad to be back to that feeling of normalcy. Another day, and the Mother hadn’t greeted him in the morning. And yet, perhaps the reminder of his chronic situation was a good thing.

  Arturo’s attention shifted to the room he lay in, and he realized he wasn’t waking in the inn from their first night in the Capital. Memory surged back faster than the punch that put him to sleep in the first place. At least, he thought it was a punch. Wasn’t it? Maybe a club? Who would want to club him? Now he was up, back straight, wired, eyes wide and darting from side to side. Was someone about to club him again? His head swam. A fresh and deep throb sprouted on the side of his head. Sweat rubbed in by his touch burned the sensitive skin on his temple. Whatever had hit him had left its mark.

  “Where am I?” Arturo wondered at his bland surroundings. Walls of packed earth, and a floor made of the same, encroached on him from all sides. He lay in a cot, truly a much nicer cot than he was used to while tending the herds, and it had pillows and wool blankets to comfort him. A single small hole opened in the wall above his head. He turned and got to his knees and tried to look out. The opening led to a shaft slanting upwards at an aggressive angle. Fresh air brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, but he saw no light. The only source of illumination was a burning lantern in the corner of the room. Was he underground? He could smell cooking food and hear garbled sounds of the city coming down the shaft. Both were faint.

  “Where am I?" Accusing the comfortable furnishings this time. Arturo moved to the side of the bed, waddling and hopping like the geese and rabbits he and Barto used to catch for dinner out in the grasslands. He slowly placed his right foot on the ground. Shaking his head, he quickly jumped from the bed. His obsessive caution was an annoying habit he had to nurture.

  The whole room was about the size of a stall in a donkey stable, enough to pace a few steps in each direction. He ran his fingers along the wall, and they came away dusty. The earth was packed tight enough to feel like a sandy rock. In fact, the room smelled like rocks holding hands with an unappetizing musk. Arturo hoped that wasn’t him. A door sat flush with the wall opposite the bed he slept in. It was made of thick planks of wood and attached to the wall with thick iron hinges. They must have been drilled deep into the dirt to stop anyone from knocking the door out of its place. After all, the bars set into the hole in the door’s face were the only indication he needed that this room was meant to be a prison. Despite the soft bed.

  Men committed crimes back home, albeit infrequently. A population with the voice of benevolent gods in its head wasn’t prone to mischief or misdemeanors. However, a few rotten papayas would steal coins or hit their wives on a drunken occasion. One rotten man with a pension for wrongdoing was his own coworker. The cage back home was built just the same as this one, thick hinges drilled into hard packed stucco, and Arturo had become familiar with it, bailing Barto out for belligerent lunacy on too many a drunken occasion.

  Arturo sighed. What would Barto and the guys be thinking right now? That he had run off with some stranger in the Capital? Or worse, decided to become a monk? Not a fun proposition. He drug his feet back to the bed to lay down and ponder his situation. Had he been taken for what he’d done in the grasslands to that poor puma? Or…

  Someone knew about the Mother.

  That she wasn’t greeting him as she’d always done, that she’d forsaken him. Spirituality might not be a virtue for him, but Arturo still believed in the Parents, still feared them, by their guidance. It wasn’t a good look. Sounds drifting down from the market were overtaken by a high-pitched squeal in his ears, his hands were wet and prickling with the beat of his heart, and the world blackened until a tunnel of light revealed only a spot of the bare wall to him. His head was light, and he shuddered, and his body sucked in air, but his lungs rejected it. Food would help. He was hungry. But Arturo had no food. He had shame and he was scared and he was a thoughtless wretch. The flames around him. Heat and screams. His hand kneaded at his chest. His legs bounced and he rocked back and forth and gasped at the suffocating air. Smoke filled the room, and he breathed it in. He closed his eyes and sat in the smoke. He breathed it in. His heightened senses dissipated, and a sulking remnant collapsed a sinkhole in his chest. The air was clean, and Arturo was ok. Barto's was always calm on his own visits with captivity.

  There wasn’t much to do without someone coming to get him, Arturo knew that. The old crab taught him that. He also knew the ‘cousin-kissing, uglier-than-a-donkey’s-behind, pinche cabrones we call men of the law around here’ wouldn’t respond to such name calling. Wholesome lessons from Barto. Perhaps all the happy parents around the pueblo would like to bring their nin?os to learn the extent of vulgarities possible relating to the Father and the behinds of the grasslands’ wildlife. Whatever this was, Arturo would have it sorted, soon enough. It must be a misunderstanding. He’d have plenty of time to get back to his own people before they left for home tomorrow.

  Residue of the earlier onslaught clenched at his heart. Arturo took deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. Something else the viejo had taught him growing up among the sheep. For all the bluster… Arturo snorted. Crazy old man, Barto was. Which was a good distraction because he had been avoiding his thoughts of home this entire trip. That was the point of coming after all. Forget his pain. But he had made someone else’s pain worse. What would Valeria think if he didn’t return home tomorrow? Probably the same as the friends he came with, that he ran off with a new girl he met, having the time of his life without his chain to the country. Aches and pains ruled Arturo’s life, didn’t they? Lose the physical and gain the mental. He had never been one for the spiritual, so he spared himself that much. Yet this relief, this feeling of nothing, it was becoming to feel like a loss. And he felt he was just now losing another part of his life in Valeria. He would have to make this right. Arturo would never hurt her like this again.

  He wondered why people couldn’t just relax and keep to themselves, improve their own lives, make themselves happy. He let a small sob release from his chest. Look how well he was doing at it. He imagined Valeria waiting by Olina’s for the wagons to pull up with her beloved, only for him to be absent, lost in his own world of new pleasures. Arturo forgot everything he had learned about how to handle himself after picking Barto out of jail over the years and jammed his face to the hole in the door, “LET ME OUT!”

  ***

  Barto’s back hurt.

  He was old, he knew that. Still pissed him off. His head didn’t hurt anymore from the fountains of booze. That was something.

  “Where in the Mother’s grand green chichis is Arturo?”

  The fat one shrugged his shoulders. He had such a stupid, fat face. The weird one just stared at him. He had such a stupid, creepy face.

  “Aren’t you two his friends?”

  The fat one’s fat face shook stupidly, “Yeah, but aren’t you too?”

  “Callete?, I’m trying to think.”

  “No mame?s…” the creepy one whispered. Barto wasn’t good with names.

  He continued like the creepy one hadn’t said anything, “I mean, he couldn’t have gone off that far, right? Don’t know why he couldn’t have just skipped mass like us normal folk.” The fat one, Migordo, that was it, raised his eyebrows at that last part. Barto glanced down and flinched at the various bits of filth splattered on what would be, at best, described as his shirt. He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “Alright, I’m not blind.

  “I’m gonna head to the Father’s dumpster of a church to see if they know where he is. If not, I’m sure he’ll turn up before we leave.” The idiots just stared at him. The creepy one creeped him out. “Are you coming or what?”

  The fat one gestured at his black and blue foot, “My foot’s broken, so…” He let the word dawdle and roll around in his stupid mouth.

  “Yeah, not like you’d wanna walk anywhere anyway, gordito.”

  “The chicas love guys with a little bit extra these days, cabro?n,” Migordo replied.

  Barto ignored the rest of the ladies man’s response and ducked out of their dank room. The sun was too hot outside. He never got used to that orange bastard in the sky. “Hell, can’t get away from it workin’, can’t get away from it playin’.” His feet kicked up dust as he hobbled down the road.

  The Monastery wasn’t far. That didn’t matter. Barto didn’t want to walk any distance at the moment. His head didn’t hurt anymore, but his stomach still lurched; and the smells from the market’s stalls were not helping. A group of whores lounged outside their fine establishment and beckoned toward him. They really were in it for the money. Barto’s old culo couldn’t get it up even for the Mother. Gross. Why would that be the thought he had? Whatever. He was too old to do any self-analysis. Sweat stung his eyes as he finally reached the church. He kept his head down after seeing the whores. Didn’t want to get distracted.

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  The pyramid loomed above him, a mountain made by the gods for all the little people down here. He stepped into the opening, and a blessed wall of cool air met him inside. A couple of monks stood their gabbing about religion and being superior, probably. “Hola,” he mumbled and coughed before regaining his voice. They didn’t hear. Finding it again, he barked, “Hola!” The monks turned. Looked to be family of one another.

  “Hola, son of the Parents. Can we help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m lookin’ for a tall fellow wearin’ an old sombrero. Luce? como mier-,” almost let that slip in the house of the monks, “just an old sombrero, and traveler’s clothes.”

  “That description could fit many of our visitors, hermano.”

  “Right, well. He came for mass yesterday and never came back.”

  “Did you not attend with him?”

  “Mira, we’re not here to talk about what or who I was doing, are we?”

  The kinder-faced monk of the pair smiled at him with pity, “Right, well… Perhaps I can ask the Arm of-”

  “No! No, no!” Another voice resounded from under the floorboards. “That won’t be necessary! Emiliano, get to the training yard. You’re going to be late, and you’re already worse than every other Thunderhead out there!” The monk’s head dropped at the comment.

  Barto smirked. “Best you run along now with your fancy blessing.”

  The meaner-faced monk, now clearly the Thunderhead’s twin, scrunched his face up in an attempt to look intimidating. He looked like a child.

  The other voice revealed itself. A short woman bobbed up from a hidden staircase near the altar. “What? What do you want? Why’re you harassing my Storms?” She turned her enmity towards the little, angry boy. “Jorge, vete al carajo! Why’re you harassing my Pilgrims?” The brothers scampered off.

  “Look woman,” Barto spat, “I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine that came here and never came back.”

  “Came here for what?” She barked back, nastier bite than him Barto reckoned.

  “What in the Father’s good demons do you think? For mass!”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Barto stopped himself from being impressed. This fragile, old lady breezed by his curses, but she was beginning to irritate him. So haughty, looking him up and down like he was a nin?o who couldn’t figure the sky was blue. “Old sombrero, traveler’s clothes,” he snarled.

  “Watch your tone with me, hermano. I’ll string you up by your ears and beat the wrinkles out of you, you miserable old man.” A chancla appeared in her hand. Barto’s eyes widened. He liked her energy, and it appeared something could get it up this trip after all.

  So, he calmed his tone and reached into his past for the shriveled carcass of festering stink that was left of his charisma, “Me llamo? Barto.” He leaned against one of the pews and smiled. And thank the Parents for that because his knee was about to give.

  “Socorra,” she narrowed her eyes at him, and a dangerous gleam took them over. “Your boy stumbled out of here as mass started. Probably drunk. I haven’t seen him since.” Barto knew when people lied, or he told himself he did. He was too distracted to care with this woman threatening him. And, boy, was she a woman. “Not many people come in here cursing the Father’s name and taunting Storms,” she slapped the chancla to his chest and looked up at him, “I might have to tell on you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barto nearly choked on his reply. His heart fluttered.

  She slapped him in the face now, “Go look in some alley. Your friend has probably passed out in a pigsty.”

  He gulped, “Ye- yes, ma’am.”

  Socorra glanced down and her face twisted into a grimace. It looked like a smile on her, “You are a dirty old man.”

  She stared into his eyes.

  And took a step closer.

  And lifted her chin…

  “Vete al carajo.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Barto turned tail and ran, wondering what in the Father’s blessed, stinking pants just happened.

  Barto was worried about Arturo. That great wall of white fury had punched from the boy’s fist and passed over and through the beast chasing them like it wasn’t there, like it didn’t exist, and left it like it had never existed. Barto didn’t want to think about it, hadn’t wanted to since it happened. Hadn’t wanted his chest to freeze and his throat to close in fear every time he saw the boy, and now Arturo was missing. But, with power like that, he didn’t need Barto’s help much, couldn’t need it. Besides, he’d rather focus on feisty women like that monk in the church. “Socorra, creo que estoy enamorado.” And he’d never been in love before.

  ***

  Arturo’s voice was scratchy now from his yelling. He had to get back to Valeria and apologize for being so selfish. His pains were nothing, his life was nothing without her, and he would show her what he meant when he said he loved her. He had acted like a child coming here when Valeria and her family were hurting. That was the only hurt that mattered, and now, Arturo knew if he was stopped from seeing Valeria again, he would tear this prison into pieces.

  Tears filled his eyes and dribbled down his trembling cheeks, and the hope that his grumpy old friend would peek his twisted face through the bars in the doors waned with every splat of his salty sorrows hitting the floor. “Por favor!” he screamed again through the grate in the door. He put everything he had into it. Sound rushed from his chest and into the hall and made his ears hurt. The door rattled against its hinges before they damped out after his yell.

  New sounds bounced down the shaft to the outside world, sounds of rushing water and a man laughing up in the markets above. Odd, Arturo hadn’t been able to pick out individuals from the jumble. He wiped his face and approached his bed and the opening above it with careful strides. Was it his captor come to taunt him? Stressed wood in the cot squeaked when he put his weight on the mattress, and the dirt in the hole rubbed off and rained onto his pillow, the patter of pebbles on linen lost in an increasing torrent in the shaft.

  The man’s laugh grew unhinged above the echoes in the dark, then it cut off in an instant like the captor’s air was stripped from him all at once. All the air was driven from Arturo then too, a wall of silence and pressure sucking at his lungs and the room, and a voice as large as the sky shattered the desolation of noise within the jail.

  “I… SEE… YOU.”

  Flood and death flung Arturo into the opposite wall, a wave crashing through the room from the narrow shaft. If the voice had left him breath, he would have lost it now. The shaft gushed a torrent of blood and gore as if an army of stone had descended from the mountains and ground every living thing in the Capital into meat and fluid. It forced its way into his mouth and eyes and down his nose and it was bitter and metallic and wet and soft chunks jammed down his throat and it was too warm against his skin as he tried to stand and breathe. Currents of gore swept his feet from under him. The ground struck him in the back, and Arturo wanted to scream. The blood would drown him. The sky shouted in his head.

  “YOU ARE SO CLOSE!”

  Someone knocked on the door. He jerked to his feet and looked around at his dry, undisturbed room. Bits of dust covered the pillow on the bed. The knock came again with a bit more force. “Hola, hermano?”

  “Uh,” Arturo shook his head and tried to clear his mind, “si?? Yes, I’m in here.” His voice was desperation.

  “Yes, I know you’re in there. We put you in there.”

  A bit of his gumption returned at the sassy response, “Ok, so get me out of here.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not quite possible at the moment. You see, the Ministry is interested in you as well, and you would be much worse off with them.”

  “What are you talking about? The Ministry helps us, they wouldn’t hurt me. Let me out.”

  “Nin?o, please,” the voice was nervous, “you don’t know what they can do. You don’t have to trust me, but at least cooperate for now. Then,” the voice paused and took a weary breath, “then we can figure out where to put you.”

  “You can put me on the wagons back home.”

  “We can’t do that. Look, let’s start with your name. Como se? llama?”

  “You’re telling me, you kidnapped me, locked me in here, and you don’t even know who I am? Who are you people, what do you want?”

  “We know who you are. And what you would look like.”

  A jolt ran down Arturo’s spine, but he asked his question knowing the answer, “How?”

  “We both know the answer to that, nin?o. Please, what’s your name?”

  Arturo sighed and shook his head. People really couldn’t just keep to themselves and leave others alone, could they? Always chasing something or wanting something. “Arturo.”

  “Ah. Arturo,” she said with some recognition, “Some desires die hard. Me llamo Socorra.”

  “Socorra, let me out.” Her voice seemed to be frail and small, maybe she was just some poor old woman, in over her head. “Socorra, I don’t have any money, I don’t know what you could possibly want from me.”

  “We are looking for something much greater than money, Arturo. I think you’re going to come to understand that.”

  He couldn’t see her through the bars in the door, so Arturo darted from the bed and slammed into the barred portal, ceiling shaking ancient dust free. He stuck his face into the bars as far as he could. His neck craned forward, and the metal pushed back his nose. “Open this door!” He yelled with a voice smooshed like his face.

  No one was there. The woman had gone off in silence. Arturo couldn’t make out much more than the wall across from his locked door, but he could tell the door opened into some sort of hallway made of the same packed dirt as his room. Turning his head to the side, he contemplated his situation. The metal pressed into his skull, cold against the palms of his hands, and rough with age. The Mother losing her favor, visions of blood and gore with a screaming megalomaniac, strange occurrences of ringing ears and rushing air, a dead puma, and now trapped in some dungeon with no way out. Arturo stood up straight, pushed away from the door, and began to laugh. Tears poured from his eyes, and he laughed and pulled on his hair to feel anything but loathing.

  “Arturo.”

  He stopped and held his breath. Feet shuffling on the dirt floor, he moved to the barred window and investigated the hallway. A tiny, old woman with a hunched back stood there, too short to see through the opening without getting close. “Here.” She lifted a vial of clear liquid in her right hand and lifted her left hand with quartered lime and a small woolen bag. “Mix the chile? and lime into it,” she nodded at the vial, “it will give you energy.” Arturo’s stomach rumbled. He took the vile and contents of her left hand. “When you have calmed and come to accept your situation, I will return and let you out.”

  “How could I accept a situation with details I do not know?”

  “You know what situation I’m speaking of, nin?o. And I know someone that’s been trying to tell you.” The woman met his eyes. Hers were far more striking and sharp than anyone of her age had a right to be. “What I can say now is that you are underground in the pyramid of the Monastery. I am its Arm to the Ministry, and I speak for the Father. And, I promise, you are safe,” she paused and smiled, it looked foreign against the wrinkles written clear by frowns. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  Buenos días, mi hijo.

  Arturo flinched at the surprise. Socorra furrowed her brow at his jump before wiping her face clean of any expression. “We know there is more than meets the eye.”

  She turned and walked out of sight. Arturo looked down at the loose suggestion of food in his hands. Exasperated, he shrugged and popped open the vial. He sniffed the contents and found they smelled of sugar cane among some indistinct herbs. “Energy, huh.” For the hundredth time, he shook his head, giving up control, letting the days take him as they come. He dumped the contents into the vial, squeezed the lime, and took a gulp. It tasted sweet and salty and wonderful.

  Energy exploded in his chest.