“Ave María, madre de Dios . . .” Trini watched two boys throw the green cepas into the fire.
“Tía, are they preparing graves for us?” she asked in a whisper.
“Don’t frighten the children. It’s just a cocedor de cal, that’s all.” Her aunt’s voice assumed a lightness. Tía Pancha pointed, “See, Buti, and Lupita, the man is putting limestone in the well.”
For a little while, curiosity clouded fear. Tía Pancha continued, “See, see how he sets the green branches on fire in the well?”
“What are the boys doing?” Buti asked, his eyes intent on the workers.
The Indian boys took out swollen rocks from one of the pyramid wells. The rocks looked like huge sponges. Tía Pancha told them, “Cal, limestone.”
They watched the old woman sprinkle water on the swollen stones, then take one of the stones and tap it lightly with a flat stick. Instantly, it pulverized and fell like a dirt avalanche into a chiquihuiti. Tía Pancha pointed again. “They put it in the basket.”
When the children’s interest waned, Tía Pancha told them a cuento about aves. They listened for a while, then Buti remembered El Enano. It was a temporary flight to happier times. Tía Pancha began another prayer, “Dios te salve, reina y madre . . .” The children joined in with light, trusting voices. Trini watched her aunt with the children, thinking, she’s so wonderful, giving them no time to be afraid. But I’m so afraid. Her aunt’s attempts to distract them had not pushed back despair for Trini.
Papá? Tonio? A void overwhelmed, a dreading, numbing fear. She stood by the door and looked up at a relentless sun, a fire without pity. She fell on her knees, seeing the workers’ fire as a killing fire, the pyramids were waiting graves, Papá and Tonio were hanging bultos on a tree . . .
Oh, God, she sobbed quietly, putting her head down to the floor, her body curved in sorrow. A shadow crossed the door, and in the darkness of herself, Trini felt someone. Her heart pounded a joy. She looked up.
“God, my God, Sabochi!” She knelt with arms outstretched, reaching for him. He picked her up and held her for a long time, stroking her hair, assuring her in whispers that all was well. She believed him. God was good. He answered prayers. She raised apprehensive eyes to him. “Papá? Tonio?”
“They’re safe, fine . . .”
She laughed, cried, clung, floating in happiness. She could hear Sabochi’s heart. He was holding her. “Sabochi, Sabochi . . .”
* * *
They stood by the goat corral, Buti in Sabochi’s arms, Lupita by his side. Isidoro was cutting the goat from the herd, and José Mario was asking, “You can find the exact goat we took?”
Sabochi laughed. “Yes, each goat is different, like people.”
Isidoro held a goat by its feet for them to see, then he put the bleating little animal under the curve of his arm. He went to a horse and tied the goat to its back, then mounted his horse, waved his arm, turned, and led the horse with the goat out of the village.
“Where’s he going?” Tonio asked.
Sabochi’s eyes followed Isidoro’s trail of dust. “He’s taking the goat to the hills.”
“Why?”
“To free it there, so it may roam the hills. It no longer belongs to us. It never existed.”
The gesture was one of grace. If the goat never existed neither did the theft. Sabochi now turned to them, smiling, “My family, this has not been a good welcome.”
“Why were those men hung?” Tonio asked.
“Two strangers. They raped one of our young girls.”
“Is it punishable by death?”
“All crimes are, where the strong attack the defenseless. It was also a matter of honor.”
Nothing more was said about the hanging. Trini walked up to Sabochi and looked up into his eyes, so appreciative of his family’s presence.
“I found you,” she whispered, a happy softness in her voice.
“I am glad all of you are here, pollito.”
“I would like to stay here with you.” Her words said so much more. They spoke of a loneliness, a happiness, a dream.
“Stay?” Sabochi seemed bewildered.
“With you, Sabochi.” Trini’s statement hung in the air. There was something in Sabochi’s eyes, something without joy or acceptance. How could he not want me when I have been his all my life? Her eyes told him this, and he turned away. Why did he turn away?
“It is a different way of life . . .” Trini heard Sabochi’s words as if from far away. He had not said them. He cleared his throat in awkwardness, and spoke other words, kindly, deliberately. “It cannot be.”
“Why?” Anguish drowned her. “Why?”
“There’s someone you must meet.”
For a fleeting moment their eyes met and Trini looked desperately for the old magic, but Sabochi quickly walked away toward a cenote, turning, nodding for them to follow.
The group followed him around a cluster of huts that circled the storage shed, Trini hesitant, behind the others. Little children ran naked in the sun. Sabochi’s words—‘It cannot be—It cannot be’—curled and contorted in the same sun. The laughing children were there and not there. The turmoil was spending her, making her blind. But life was all around her. A man was spreading corn to dry on a roof. Women bent over cooking fires. “It cannot be—It cannot be.” Words, pain thickening the blood.
Sabochi stopped before a hut where a huge half-woven yucca basket leaned against the wall, where old, discarded pots lay around the yard, and an old rack made of rope held long strips of drying meat. Sabochi went inside. This was his house? wondered Trini. He was back, standing at the door. When he stepped out, a young woman followed him with a baby in her arms. His house? Who was she? The young woman smiled shyly and held out the baby for them to see.
“This is the first born of Ambrosio.”
Trini stood and stared and did not choose to believe. How could she believe? She was hollow, years spilled into nothing. Trini turned her head away as Tía Pancha held out her arms for the baby.
“A boy?”
The mother nodded proudly. Trini faced them again, looked past the girl, past the baby, at Sabochi whose eyes were on her. Tears welled, a wild glistening. She choked back sobs. Sabochi stood immobile. She turned away and found Tonio beside her. Good, sweet Tonio, to hold on to, to stifle the hurt. She felt Tonio’s arms comforting her.
Gone, gone, gone. . . Sabochi was beside her. He whispered, “Trini . . .” She felt an urge to laugh. Sabochi had never called her Trini before. It had always been those childish names. Changes had taken place in the universe. She ran from him toward Tonio, begging, “Take me away.”
He took her hand and led her away from the group. She followed with her eyes closed, stumbling, holding tight. Where was he taking her? She opened her eyes. They had come to the well along the path to the arroyo. She could not go on. She had to face things. She must not be a child any longer. “Let’s go back.”
“Are you sure?” Tonio’s voice was kind.
Trini nodded, looked up and smiled bravely. They went back to Sabochi’s hut. Sabochi’s wife was setting out straw mats in front of the house. Again, Trini was there and not there. Talk, gestures, things were out of her range of consciousness. Little bits and pieces took the shape of realness. Her mind photographed, her ear recorded—Sabochi’s