but he did. We dove in and pulled him out—”
I didn’t want to hear anymore. My stomach turned and made me sick. I pushed my way through the crowd and began to run. I don’t know why I ran, I just knew I had to be free of the crowd. I ran up the hill and through the town’s quiet streets. Tears blinded my eyes, but the running got rid of the sick feeling inside. I made my way down to the river and waded across. The doves that had come to drink at the river cried sadly. The shadows of the brush and the towering cottonwoods were thick and dark.
The lonely river was a sad place to be when one is a small boy who has just seen a friend die. And it grew sadder when the bells of the church began to toll, and the afternoon shadows lengthened.
Veintidós
In my dreams that night I saw three figures. At first I thought the three men were my brothers. I called to them. They answered in unison.
This is the boy who heard our last confession on earth, they chanted as if in prayer. In his innocence he prayed the Act of Final Contrition for us who were the outcasts of the town.
Who is it? I called, and the three figures drew closer.
First I saw Narciso. He held his hands to the gaping, bloody wound at his chest. Behind him came the mangled body of Lupito, jerking crazily to the laughter of the townspeople. And finally I saw the body of Florence, floating motionlessly in the dark water.
These are the men I have seen die! I cried. Who else will my prayers accompany to the land of death?
The mournful wind moved like a shadow down the street, swirling in its path chalky dust and tumbleweeds. Out of the dust I saw the gang arise. They fell upon each other with knives and sticks and fought like animals.
Why must I be witness to so much violence! I cried in fear and protest.
The germ of creation lies in violence, a voice answered.
Florence! I shouted as he appeared before me, is there no God in heaven to bear my burden?
Look! He pointed to the church where the priest desecrated the altar by pouring the blood of dead pigeons into the holy chalice. The old gods are dying, he laughed.
Look! He pointed to the creek where Cico lay in wait for the golden carp. When the golden carp appeared Cico struck with his spear and the water ran blood red.
What is left? I asked in horror.
Nothing, the reply rolled like silent thunder through the mist of my dream.
Is there no heaven or hell?
Nothing.
The magic of Ultima! I insisted.
Look! He pointed to the hills where Tenorio captured the night-spirit of Ultima and murdered it, and Ultima died in agony.
Everything I believed in was destroyed. A painful wrenching in my heart made me cry aloud, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!”
And as the three figures departed my pesadilla they cried out longingly. We live when you dream, Tony, we live only in your dreams—
“What is it?” Ultima asked. She was at my bedside, holding me in her arms. My body was shaking with choking sobs that filled my throat.
“A nightmare,” I mumbled, “pesadilla—”
“I know, I know,” she crooned and held me until the convulsions left me. Then she went to her room, heated water, and brought me medicine to drink. “This will help you sleep,” she said. “It is the death of your young friend,” she talked as I drank the bitter potion, “perhaps it is all the things in your mind of late that cause the pesadilla—anyway, it is not good. The strengthening of a soul, the growing up of a boy is part of his destiny, but you have seen too much death. It is time for you to rest, to see growing life. Perhaps your uncles could best teach you about growth—”
She laid me back on my pillow and pulled the blanket up to my neck. “I want you to promise that you will go with them. It will be good for you.” I nodded my head in agreement. The medicine put me to sleep, a sleep without dreams.
When Florence was buried I did not go to the funeral. The bells of the church kept ringing and calling, but I did not go. The church had not given him communion with God and so he was doomed to his dream-wanderings, like Narciso