Hours after Hipolito and Francisco had fallen asleep, Cristóbal lay awake, staring up into the limbs of the juniper. Through them he could glimpse the stars and the sliver of a new moon. He could hear the sound of the creek. Even the wail of coyotes at the other end of the valley now seemed comforting to him. For the first time in weeks, Cristóbal felt at peace. He thought of his wife and how he longed to be near her. He thought of his eight daughters and how it would be to hold each one, even the youngest, who was but an infant and only cried when he came near her. When he finally fell asleep, a thin mist of clouds had hidden the moon. In his mind Cristóbal saw himself walking into Las Sombras, and all about him was his family.
Cristóbal didn’t wake the next morning until it was light. The sky was a pale white and looked thin and fragile to him, as if it were something that might break. He lay quietly for a moment staring into the limbs of the juniper, and then he wondered why Hipolito had not already roused him to begin the journey home.
“If we travel like this,” he said aloud, “we will not be back home until spring.” He smiled and when his words went unanswered, he turned his head. He could see that the fire had burned out long ago and that the burro was still asleep in the grass, his sides heaving slowly with labored breaths. He could also see that not only were Hipolito and Francisco nowhere about, but their packs and their blankets were gone.
Cristóbal threw off his blanket and sat up. Other than depressions in the grass where Hipolito and Francisco had slept, the place looked as though just one man had ever been there, not three. Beside the ashes of the fire were a small pot and one plate and spoon. Cristóbal’s pack was at the foot of his bedding as were the hatchet and the one gun they had carried with them from Las Sombras. Everything else was gone. For a few seconds Cristóbal did nothing but stare about him in disbelief, his eyes wide and his mouth half open. Then he leaped to his feet and ran out of the trees and into the meadow.
All he could see in every direction was grass that stood tall and motionless. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled Hipolito’s name. A large flock of ravens picked up in the foothills and then disappeared up a canyon. He yelled again and again, looking for movement in the piñons. He yelled until his voice was harsh and until the sun had risen high up above the mountains.
IT TOOK HIPOLITO AND FRANCISCO seven days to make the walk from the valley of Guadalupe back to Las Sombras. They had traveled as quickly as possible, leaving each morning in the dark and walking until long after the sun had finally set. Neither spoke of Cristóbal or of what they had done to him. Francisco, because for the most part he was relieved that he no longer had to listen to Cristóbal’s constant complaining, and Hipolito because he could not even bear to speak Cristóbal’s name. He envisioned his friend lost in his own confusion in the valley they had found, and he knew that the responsibility was his alone. The only thing that eased his mind was the thought that if they returned to Guadalupe quickly enough, all could, in the end, be set right. Unfortunately for Hipolito and Cristóbal, that is not what happened.
When the two men walked into Las Sombras, not only did they find everyone who had lived there gone, but the entire village had been burned. Each house was no more than charred adobe, the walls lying in heaps or at best half standing. Ceilings had collapsed and the latillas and vigas were only black ashes. The sole structure unharmed was the church. It stood in the middle of all the debris as if it had left the village when the fires had begun and not returned until it was safe.
On the thick plank doors of the church was nailed a piece of white cloth and on it was written:
We have left this village for the safety of Santa Madre. All those who read this must know that the church has abandoned these lands and this territory and all those who live in it.
In peace,
Padre Martinez
Weeks later, in a howling blizzard, Hipolito Trujillo and Francisco Ramírez stumbled into Santa Madre and began the search for their families. In the small valley of Guadalupe, which lay so many miles to the north, Cristóbal García stood in snow that came to his waist. He had lost his mind not long after Hipolito and Francisco had left, and all that had once been part of his life was now lost to him.
Three
FLAVIO AND HIS WIFE, Martha, had been married fifty-six years when Flavio came home one morning to find her dead on the floor of the kitchen. He had just returned from irrigating and had taken his boots off by the front door and hung up his cap. Then he had walked through the quiet house to the kitchen. When he saw his wife sprawled on the floor, his first thought was that while he had been working peacefully in the sun, his wife had gone through something terrible all by herself.
He had hurried to her side and crouched down. Her dress had pulled up above her thighs and so he pulled it back down to cover her legs. Then he touched her face with the back of his hand. Her skin was still warm, but beneath it he could feel a chill like a pocket of cold water.
“Martha,” Flavio had whispered, as he shook her shoulder gently. He moved her hair from her face. Her eyes were half open and her mouth was slack. “Martha,” he said again.
MARTHA MONTOYA HAD BEEN A SMALL, round, quiet woman who, much like her own mother, had been blessed with a good nature. She had been an only child, and her mother, besides having an even temper and a soft smile, had entered the world speechless. So the sounds Martha remembered of her childhood were not voices, but the sounds of things. She remembered the scraping of spoons, the dry limbs of juniper cracking in the woodstove, the swish of her mother’s dress as she moved through the house.
Martha’s father was much older than his wife, and he had left the village in search of work far to the north before Martha was born. He was a miner and had left on foot one morning, carrying with him only a worn leather bag that held a few tools, a change of clothes, and a framed picture of his wife. No one in the village ever saw him again, but on the first Monday of every month a letter would arrive for Martha. In it would be a few dollars in coins and a note, the words printed in a childlike hand on yellow paper. It almost always read:
To my daughter, Martha,
I am fine and still far away
and the work I do is very hard.
Always I think of you and your mother
and of the day I will finally come home.
I know you will be a good girl
And in my prayers I am with you.
Your loving father
Martha and her mother would sit at the kitchen table as Martha read the words aloud. They would sit close together and count the coins, and then Martha would take a pencil and paper and write to her father. She would tell him how far she walked to school each morning and if it was cold or windy or if there had been snow. She would tell him how she and her mother made tortillas and biscochitos and, in the autumn, picked gooseberries and sour cherries and apricots for jam. Even if she was ill, she told him that she was well so that he would not worry. She said that she missed him and hoped that he would finish his work soon and come home to them. Later, at night, Martha would lie awake in bed and see her father far away, with a piece of paper clasped in his hand.
The last letter Martha received from her father was the day after her mother’s death following a long illness. Martha was a grown woman herself, married just one month to young Flavio Montoya, and she had found the letter on the small table beside her mother’s bed.
To my daughter, Martha,
I have grown old and I fear
that this is my last letter to you.
And if that is so, I want to say that
I am so proud to have you as my daughter.
I