Candlelight Bridge, page 6
Yan Chi dared no such thing. He and Bing Sam were outnumbered, and they knew no martial arts. He wanted revenge but saw no purpose to sacrificing his life for a girl already dead. He’d trekked far to become a hero only to discover himself less than a coward, a man whose choices made no difference. The only thing he could do for Mei Yin was refuse to acknowledge her killers. He silently closed her eyes and waited for them to leave.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a last glimpse of the leader, who held up the sack of money and declared to no one in particular, “Death to the Ching Emperor!” He muttered his next words so quietly they were hard to hear, “We will return the land to the people.” Then he walked away. His comrades followed, a half-dozen scared, hungry boys with nowhere to go.
The American buffalo rifle went with them. Yan Chi ignored it, looked only at what was left of his bride, silenced forever by a Gold Mountain dream.
5. Barefoot Angels
Christmas Night, 1910 – Chihuahua, Mexico
Candelita lagged under Graciela’s sleepy weight, far behind the rest of the family, until the vision jolted her to a halt, even before Papá raised his hand to signal stop. The giant maze she’d dreamed during their long walk now rose from the desert to face the six Riveras. This time it was real. Fat adobe walls zigzagged in lazy directions, a labyrinth bigger than the entire village of Mata Flores. The eroding caliche flushed red in the sunset, as if the structure were a living, warm-blooded thing. It stood tall in the middle but melted into the earth at the edges. No roof enclosed it, open to the sky so she could see the walls dividing it into dozens of rooms. Like a fortress—or heaven. Didn’t Padre Eladio say Jesus promised many rooms in His Father’s house?
“What’s that?” she asked Papá.
“The güeros call it Las Casas Grandes,” he replied. “But the Aztecs call it Paquimé. It was once a great city, back when the ancient ones ruled.”
“What ancient ones?” Lalo asked.
“Nobody knows,” Papá said.
“They say it’s haunted by ghosts,” Miguel said.
Graciela turned to Lalo with a concerned look. “Ghosts?”
He shrugged and pushed out his lower lip, not daring to question his big brother.
Miguel leaned down to Graciela’s ear. “Like La Llorona, but hundreds of them.”
“Nonsense,” Candelita said. “Stop teasing.”
“The ancient spirits are nothing like La Llorona,” Mamá said, “but not nonsense either.”
“Or at least they’re useful nonsense,” Papá said. “Since so many people believe those ghost stories, they avoid this place at night. We’ll be safe camping here.”
Mamá gave him a skeptical look. “What if bandidos decide the same?”
“Criminals as clever as me wandering the desert on Christmas Day? ¡Claro que no!”
Candelita was so tired of walking, it inclined her to believe Papá. Even if ghosts did haunt Casas Grandes, dead spirits sounded safer than live bandits. And she was glad of any excuse to set down Graciela, who ran toward a nearby cluster of cottonwoods, alder, and willow, to answer the chuckling call of a small river amid the trees.
“Candelita!” Mamá snapped.
“I know, I know,” she sighed. “Don’t let her fall in.”
She trotted after Graciela—feet aching so bad they felt inside out—and caught her before she could scramble into the water. Candelita eyed the river with mistrust. It looked shallow yet seemed in an unusual rush considering this was the dry season. She slung her sister over her shoulder and hauled her back to the family. They were making camp under a cottonwood so top-heavy it bent over till its crown touched the ground, as if it were praying.
She plopped Graciela and her cornhusk doll under the tree-arch and pointed. “Stay here.”
Graciela demanded, “Play with me!”
“After I carried you all day, gordita? Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding.” Graciela turned irritable whenever anyone called her chubby—or teased her at all. Since she was the baby, this meant she got irritated a lot.
Candelita threw herself down in the tree’s slender shade as if daring anyone to make her do anything. Which her mother did before she could close her eyes, setting her to skewer the meat from the rattlesnake they’d butchered that morning.
Papá put the boys to work building a lean-to at the hunchback cottonwood’s base, using a tarp, three branches, and rope. Mostly they pretended to sword fight with the branches. Miguel was winning—swinging, thrusting, and striking too hard as usual, though Lalo would let his big brother beat him bruised and bloody before he’d ever stop giggling or admit he was hurt.
“Laugh at me, will you?” Miguel thrust his branch into Lalo’s belly with such force he fell backward with a huff, the wind knocked out of him.
Papá strode up, ripped Miguel’s branch from his hand, and held it over his head, shaking with rage. “Does it ever occur to you that you and your brother are on the same side? Do you ever consider teaching him how to win?” He tossed the branch back to Miguel and lowered his voice. “If you really want to play at being a hero, finish this shelter before dark.”
Miguel lowered his eyes. “Yes, Papá.” He gave Lalo a hand up off the ground.
Odd. Her brothers always fought and their father never interfered before. He stalked off to gather wood, muttering to himself. Mamá’s mouth twitched as if she had much to say, but she remained silent as she wandered around camp gathering rocks in her skirt.
Papá returned with kindling, then large branches, and made a small pyramid of wood, which Mamá surrounded with her rocks to create a hearth. Graciela followed, pushing each rock into her notion of a perfect circle. Papá nudged her aside, “Stay out of the way,” and set the kindling ablaze with a match. Mamá set gorditas on the flame-licked stones, heating the little pouches of cornmeal and meat, which weren’t as plump as their name suggested.
Graciela prodded one gordita with a finger.
Mamá swatted her hand. “¡Cuídate, mija, it’s hot!”
Graciela gave up trying to help and switched to scolding her doll: “Stay out of the way… Careful, it’s hot… I don’t care if it’s pretty!”
Candelita smiled. The flames were pretty, especially as the sun dropped low to kiss Casas Grandes goodnight. But she caught Mamá looking from the fire to the ruins to Papá with a distressed frown, as if she feared the fire, or the ghosts. In reply, he stopped stacking firewood, said he needed to make pipi, and wandered into the trees.
Candelita was turning away to give him privacy when a glint of sun on metal caught her eye. She was stunned to see him pull a pistola from under his shirt. He peered into the chamber, head bowed, lips moving, as if praying over the bullets like rosary beads. He’d long owned the revolver, but she’d never seen him shoot it. She’d only seen it once before, when he instructed them all never to touch it. Then he’d put it on a high shelf to gather dust. Did he expect to use it in the desert? Why run from the federal leva, or reject joining the rebels, if he still must fight?
He caught her staring and shook his head. A warning: don’t tell the others. She turned away and pretended to see nothing. It made her feel grown up, sharing a secret with her father.
***
At dusk, La Familia Rivera sat around the fire to eat, but before Candelita took one bite, a low drumming throbbed across the skin of the desert. They exchanged alarmed looks and crouched as if to run. It was the sound of boots as at least two dozen federal soldiers marched toward the ancient fortress of Casas Grandes. Not ghosts. Men.
Mamá hissed, “The fire, viejo!” She leapt to her feet, ready to kick dirt on the blaze.
Papá jumped up to stop her. “No, vieja! They’ve already seen the fire. If we put it out now, we’ll only draw attention. Best to go about our evening, like it’s nothing, like we belong.”
“They’re only after real fighters,” Miguel said, “not a sorry bunch like us.”
Candelita scowled at this insult till he smiled at the little ones. Was he trying to protect them?
“Exactly, mijo,” Papá said. He and Mamá eased back into their places around the fire.
Candelita’s heart thumped in time with the boots marching into the labyrinth, but she followed Papá’s lead and settled on her haunches, pretending there was nothing to fear.
Soon the soldiers’ tall shadows climbed Casas Grandes’ walls in the light of scattered campfires, while her family’s shadows skipped across the cottonwood arch as they ate. She’d known hunger before, but this deep hole in her stomach felt new. She wanted to make each bite last, but restraint was impossible. She bolted her chorizo gordita, spicy-sweet as home, and barely chewed her snake meat, wild and smoky as the desert. Despite the unexpected mix of flavors, Graciela’s head bobbed with pleasure, reminding Candelita of a roadrunner.
An eerie howl split the night air.
“¡Ay, La Llorona!” Graciela dropped her gordita.
Mamá rescued it from the dirt, dusted it off, and handed it back. “Don’t worry, that’s not La Llorona. It’s a pack of coyotes. Shall I tell you a story about a coyote?”
Graciela nodded.
Mamá scooped the girl onto her lap, and the others leaned forward to watch firelight rearrange her features into a visitor who only appeared at night, a witch or angel: The Storyteller. No one told stories like Mamá, whose voice could make the real world disappear.
“One full-moon night, much like this one, a rabbit hopped down to the river for a drink of water. Señor Conejo began to sip, when who do you think snuck out from behind a tree?”
“El Coyote!” Graciela sang.
“Riiiiight. Pues, as you know, Coyote is clever and likes to play tricks, so you might worry about Conejo. But this night the moon was so bright Coyote’s reflection in the water gave him away. Conejo started to hop off, but Coyote leapt in front of him and blocked his path.
“Coyote said, ‘No use trying to get away. In one pounce, I’ll catch you and eat you.’
“Then Conejo said, ‘Wouldn’t you rather eat the delicious cheese?’
“‘Where?’
“‘There!’ Conejo pointed his paw at a yellow ball floating in the river’s black water.
“Coyote admitted, ‘Cheese is my favorite.’
“‘Mine, too!’ Conejo replied.”
“Mine, too!” interrupted Papá.
“Who’s telling this story, viejo?” Mamá scolded.
Papá clapped a hand over his mouth in mock apology. He’d broken the Riveras’ first commandment: Thou shalt not interrupt the story.
“Hmph,” Mamá snorted. “So, Conejo said, ‘The problem is I can’t swim. I tell you what: if you get the cheese, I’ll go home to get beans and tortillas. Then together we’ll eat a feast!’
“Coyote agreed, ‘That does sound delicious.’
“Then he leapt into the river, swam to the cheese, and snapped his jaws around it. But all he got was a mouthful of water! He bit into the wheel of cheese again and again, spluttering and nearly drowning in the effort. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t catch it…”
“Coyote gave up and swam to shore, so angry at his failure that he couldn’t wait to gobble the rabbit. But Conejo was gone. Coyote gazed sadly at the cheese in the water, until he realized: that was no cheese. It was only a reflection—”
“—of the mooooon,” Lalo intoned as if this were a profound revelation.
“¡Exactamente!” Mamá grinned—nobody minded Lalo’s interruptions because he never stole the stage. “When he realized Conejo’s trick, Coyote looked up at the real moon and let out his frustration in a great long howl.”
Papá looked up at the moon, pursed his lips, and cut loose a piercing coyote cry so real it prickled Candelita’s skin. Mamá shot a nervous glance at the army outpost and gave him a stern look, but he shrugged her off. For the first time, it occurred to Candelita that maybe Papá was neither a coward nor a hero, simply a man who didn’t like being told what to do.
“Pobrecito Coyote,” Graciela said.
“It’s either poor coyote or poor rabbit,” Papá said.
“Unless you want to give him your gordita.” Miguel reached for Graciela’s last bite.
“No!” She stuffed it into her already full mouth, cheeks puffed out.
They all broke into laughter.
Lalo stepped from the firelight into the shadows and returned with Candelita’s vihuela. He handed her the little guitar, his chin cast downward and eyes cast upward in a wheedling plea.
“Tonight?” she asked Papá, with an uncertain glance toward the nearby ruins.
“Especially tonight.”
At that moment, she would’ve followed him anywhere. “What should I sing?”
“The barefoot angels!” Graciela declared in a voice that would not be denied.
Candelita closed her eyes to the silhouettes dancing on the walls of Casas Grandes, plucked her vihuela, and sang to her family as if they were the only people in the world.
A la puerta del cielo venden zapatos
Para los angelitos que andan descalzos.
Duérmete, niño, Duérmete, niño,
Duérmete, niño, arru, arru.
At the gate of heaven little shoes they are selling.
For the little barefooted angels there dwelling.
Slumber my baby, slumber my baby,
Slumber my baby, arru, arru.
The whole family joined in. Then she heard it: the faint refrain of many young male voices singing along. The Riveras exchanged disbelieving looks and turned toward the glow of Casas Grandes. When the family stopped singing, so did the unexpected chorus.
She sang another song, but the soldiers’ voices did not return.
Papá nodded at her in approval. “Your lullaby was so sweet it soothed them to sleep.”
She blinked back tears before Miguel could see them and tease her for crying.
Papá clapped once and announced they should sleep too because they must cross the river come morning. This news startled Candelita, who was no strong swimmer. “Don’t worry, mija, you won’t have to swim.” He ran a rough hand through her hair, but it only increased her uneasiness.
They slept on rugged ground, sharing three blankets between them: one for the boys, one for the girls, one for Mamá and Papá. She pressed her palm against the cool earth. “Please keep us safe as we cross,” she muttered, unsure to whom she prayed. God? The Desert? The River? A low hum rose from the ground, as if the earth answered with its own lullaby.
She sat up with a start. They’d forgotten to sing Christmas songs! Today was their last Christmas in Mexico, and now it was over. She reached into her skirt pocket, feeling for the cookie she’d hidden there just last night in Mata Flores, but nothing was left of it except crumbs.
“What is it?” her mother murmured.
“Merry Christmas, Mamá.”
“Feliz Navidad, Candelita.”
***
Though the water didn’t look deep and the river wasn’t all that wide, Papá said, “We’re taking no chances.” He handed one end of a rope to Miguel, then pulled the length across the river, wading through a current that rushed between his knees. On the other side, he tied his end to a small cottonwood, then returned, hand gliding along the taut rope. He carried Graciela across first. They swayed and jerked through the uneven course, but it looked easy enough.
He returned to guide the rest of them.
The river was sneaky. Candelita clutched the rope with both hands, but slick stones tripped her feet and the strong current sucked at her thighs, trying to pull her down. Her skirt was hiked between her legs and tucked at her waist, but swirling water yanked it loose till it billowed and wrapped around her, slowing her progress. She stumbled, and a whine escaped her. She emerged on the far side, skirt clinging to shaking legs, and turned to anxiously watch the others.
Mamá and Miguel crossed in no time, even with their heavy bags, as if they did this every day.
Lalo came second to last, Papá close behind, holding the rope taut round his waist. Her vihuela bounced against Lalo’s back. Maybe she should’ve carried it. But he gripped the rope with one hand, held up the bag of chickens with the other, and grinned as he called to everyone on the bank, “This is easy!”
Then he tripped.
He still clung to the rope single-handed but landed face-down in the water. He had no leverage to push up because his free hand held the chickens high. His head went under. Candelita held her breath. Papá grabbed the hens, freeing Lalo’s other hand. He pushed up, spluttering, and rose toward the trees that leaned over the bank. He laughed in victory. Then the strap that held the vihuela to his back snagged on a branch and ripped. The guitar fell with a splash.
Lalo let go the rope to reach for the vihuela. Candelita leaned forward and sent a silent plea to the river: Please, let him grab it. But it was already drifting away like a small, badly made boat. He poised himself to swim after it. Mamá gasped. Papá seized a fistful of shirt and ordered, “Grab the rope, Lalo!” He obeyed, and they finished crossing, soaked but safe.
“¡Tonto! Why did you let go?” Mamá shook him, then threw her arms around him.
He pulled away. “I’m fine. But the vihuela, it’s gone!” He sank onto the bank, clasped both hands behind his head, and hid his face between his knees. “I’m sorry, Candelita.”
She stared downriver to a bend where the vihuela dipped from sight. Pressed both hands to her mouth, but not to pray. The desert, the river, God: they might watch, listen, even sing, but she decided they didn’t answer prayers. Her family would live or die by their own efforts.
6. It Always Rains
The Day Before Ching Ming, 1911 – Toisan County, China
