Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna: "Citlalin Popoca"–Chapter 5

Everything was a sign to us mestizos, from eclipses to new moons to burned tamales in a pot.

It was some sort of a traveling star, he said, one that crossed our sky every so many years. To people like Papá’s boss, that’s all it was, but to us mestizos, it was the worst omen possible.

It was so soiled that it looked like winter had set on the little yellow flowers. And when I did the wash, no matter how much I scoured the dress against the creek’s boulders, I could never bring spring back into it.

Soft claps of women making corn tortillas came from adobe cottages.

“This is a pretty door,” said Amelia, running her hand through the grooves.

“I beg you, my wife gets a little frantic sometimes, but please, take the money. I know you need it. We all need it, especially with everything going on. Please, I’ll feel terrible if you don’t.”

The Federales were the army of the government, of our current president, Victoriano Huerta, whom Papá had called a tyrant.

They’d dragged Papá away and had also shot one woman who’d protested against her sons’ forced conscription.

Rebels were like mythical creatures. I’d never seen one, but I’d heard plenty whispered about them: How they dressed, their bravery, and the women who fought among them. They hid in the mountains, I was told, and ventured out only at night.

Amelia rushed inside the hut through the front door, and I ran around to the back to place our donkey in the corral.

Amelia and Abuelita’s bed was flush against the wall, and Luisito’s tiny hay cot lay next to it.

Next to Abuelita was a large wicker basket sitting on top of a straw mat.

I could feel my insides contracting in fear; it was Pablo he was asking about.

The soldiers, however, didn’t notice the old mat in their frenzy.

The terror Luisito felt as he lay on the floor was expressed by sharp, piercing screams that further enraged the old soldier.

My heart lurched, and my eyes followed the black rock as it fell into a puddle of spilled beans.

Slowly, I stood up and skulked toward the mangled front door, afraid any loud noise or sudden movement would bring the Federales back.

Slowly, I stood up and skulked toward the mangled front door, afraid any loud noise or sudden movement would bring the Federales back.

My heart leaped at the thought of Pablo leaving the hacienda, but soon my excitement was overshadowed by anguish.

He grew up in a nearby hacienda, a large plantation, and was forced to work reaping wheat since he was six years old.

The foreman always whipped his feet to make him work faster.

Abuelita rubbed at her knees vigorously over the fabric of her long skirt.

Every free moment she got, she spent playing and conversing with our donkey, our chickens, or our goat.

Chills ran through my body despite the sun’s relentless rays.

“But if you ask me, I believe the desert is so harsh that every living thing in it has to grow thorns to protect itself. Some things, like the yucca and the lechuguilla, become bitter about the desert and grow poison within. Then you have things like scorpions and rattlers. Those resent the desert. They turn their bitterness into anger and spew their poison onto the innocent.”

Tall ahuehuetes—sabino trees—fringed the banks as patches of green grass spanned from the river to a large building with a white cross sitting on top.

Before long, I heard cows bellowing and goats clamoring to be milked.

The chapel was bigger than the one in Esperanzas but showed signs of disarray.

I continued to walk behind her and observed the niches on the walls. Some were empty or littered with broken pieces of clay. But despite the empty niches and lack of pews, people prayed.

Their soft murmurs and the clicking of rosary beads filled the dark and damp air.