Maria's Trail (The Mule Tamer) (10 page)

“Crisanto, stop. Wait.”

He slowed and then stopped. He had no will when
he was with Maria. She could wind him up and make him do whatever she wanted.
He awaited her command.

“Come here, Crisanto. Sit for a while.”

They dismounted and sat and watched the sun
move across the sky. It was a lovely day and Maria was happy. She knew she had
to break his heart and now was just as good a time as any to do it.

“I do not love you, Crisanto, and that was mean
to say to you what I did about the horse. I am sorry.”

She extended her hand and he took it and this
only made him sadder because now he was holding her hand and everything,
everything about Maria, made his heart ache until he felt it would burst.

“Your father is very proud of you, Crisanto. He
just doesn’t say it right. He thinks you are a very good man.”

He lit up at her using the word man to describe
him. She was lying, of course, she knew Crisanto’s father didn’t really like
Crisanto at all. The young man’s father was a monster and an ogre and he didn’t
like his own kind-hearted, sweet son and that was terrible, but Maria didn’t
want to say this to him. She’d never say this to him.

“He called me an alfeñique.”

Maria suppressed a laugh because it was true,
he was an alfeñique. Crisanto really was not at all manly. Poor Crisanto was
the opposite of manly.

“Oh, I don’t know. I bet he’d have all respect
for you if you brought in one of those mustangs. He’d think differently of you
then.”

He snorted. “That will never be, Maria, you
know that. I cannot ride or rope. I am not one tenth the rider that you are.
That is impossible.”

“What if we worked together? What if I helped
you and your father didn’t know?”

He smiled weakly. “You’d do this for me,
Maria?”

“Crisanto. You are like a brother to me. I love
you,” she held up her hand, “but not in that way, Crisanto. Not in the marrying
way. I love you like a brother and I will help you.” She looked him in the eye,
“But be clear on this, Crisanto. I will never love you like a wife. I will
never marry you.”

They hatched a plan to do this thing in a week.

 The old shopkeeper came to see them of an
evening, just as Maria and the old man were starting a game of faro. They were
all kind to him as he was very anxious. Crisanto had gone for a ride the day
before and had not returned. He was hoping Maria would know something about it.

She didn’t, at the time, think much of it and
only as she got into bed did the realization hit her. He must have gone for the
horse on his own.

She awoke extra early and was in the desert by
sunrise. If Crisanto had gone down, after two days, he’d likely be dead if the
accident or whatever’d befallen him hadn’t killed him outright. She did not
hold out much hope for him.

By noon she was scanning the valley below. This
is where the horses ran.  She saw a glint, way off in a distance. It was
something metallic and she decided to check it out.

Sure enough, it was the young man. He’d fallen
from his horse and his leg had become lodged between two boulders at the knee.
From there down was now black; the boy was dying.

He smiled uneasily. “Hello, Maria.” He was
delirious and happy to see his love.

She gave him water and pulled a blanket off her
saddle skirt.  She made a little tent over him. He’d been baking in the sun,
hatless, for more than two days. He slept most of the time and his face was
burned and blistered, his lips cracked and bleeding. He could barely see.

Maria poured water on him and he felt a little
better. She thought about riding back and getting help but that wouldn’t do.
She studied the situation. The boulders could not be moved and his leg was now
doubled in size. It was dead below the knee and she could detect the odor of
rotting flesh. It had to come off, and quickly.

“Crisanto, tell me.” She pushed hard on his
thigh, just above the knee. “Do you feel this?”

He smiled weakly. “No, Maria. No.” He gazed on
her and smiled. “You are so beautiful, Maria.”

“Shush, Crisanto.” She pulled out her big
knife. She looked him in the eye. “I have to cut your leg off, Crisanto.”

He looked down and didn’t care. He didn’t care
about anything anymore. “Okay, Maria. Okay.”

She cut the material of his trousers away. The
blackness had not yet made it above the knee. She held out some hope.

She breathed deeply and began carefully cutting
the flesh, fileting the skin and muscle back until the joint was exposed. She
thought about the old woman and how she had taught her to separate the joints
of animals they would eat. Maria’d gotten good with swine. She decided that
this was not the leg of Crisanto, her childhood friend, but just another leg of
a hog for the table.

She worked deftly and, with a sudden pop, Crisanto
became separated from the boulder and his lower leg. He fell back and bled
profusely. Maria could now get a good tourniquet on his thigh and stop the flow
of blood. He smiled at her and then down at his leg. He still felt nothing.

Crisanto was not big, but he still outweighed
her by forty pounds. She couldn’t put him on her horse. She thought quickly and
decided to pull him up, with a rope around his chest. She got him to stand and
pulled and got him to hop and help pull himself up. He was finally in the
saddle and looked very strange with a good part of his leg missing. She jumped
on behind him and tapped her mount’s sides, kicking him into a full gallop as
she held onto the young man.

As they rode, Crisanto mumbled and babbled. He
spoke to someone and seemed to be having a conversation about horses and women
and Maria. He said that Maria was the only one he’d ever love, but he couldn’t
have her and, therefore, he’d be alone for the rest of his days. Eventually he
slumped forward and lost consciousness.

She took him to the church as she didn’t know
what to expect at the store. The old woman and old man and priest would be
better suited to help. They came out and eased him off the horse and placed him
on the kitchen table. The old woman worked fast, pouring mescal liberally on
the wound. She then took a big drink herself and handed the bottle to Maria. It
was the first time she’d offered the girl spirits and now Maria knew for
certain they were in for a rough time.

Maria swallowed deeply and it warmed her to her
toes. She looked at her hands covered in Crisanto’s blood and expected them to
be shaking, but they weren’t.

She was excited and keyed up but she was calm,
too; this was the way with Maria. From the time of the bastard Sanchez catching
on fire, to her own near drowning in the cave and now this, she was always calm
under stress. She never got scared or shaky or cried.

The old woman dumped cup after cup of water on
Crisanto’s wound. It would be as clean as she could get it and she was nearly
ready to remove the tourniquet. She bound the stump tightly, winding it round
and round with a cotton sheet until it looked like a great turban on the end of
the boy’s leg. She removed Maria’s scarf tourniquet and the bandages held. No
blood seeped through. The wound was clean.

They removed his boot and sock, cut his
trousers away and removed his shirt. They bathed him and made him comfortable
in Maria’s bed. If he survived the night, he had a chance. They turned to leave
the room when the old woman drew in a deep breath. She sniffed the air near his
leg and waited as if she were trying to remember something. She shrugged and
looked at the old man and the priest. “Just the slightest hint, but that might
be left from his clothes.” They walked out and everyone had a big shot of
mescal.

The shopkeeper was there. He was frantic and
they let him look in at his son. He was crying now and looked each of them in
the eye. He looked at Maria, wanting to thank her, but he could not. He
couldn’t bring himself to stoop so low. He turned and walked out. This would
break the boy’s mother’s heart and he was glad she was away just now.

When they were finally alone, the old man
reached out for Maria. He hugged her and kissed her cheek. He held up his
fists, clenched together in victory. “Even if the boy dies, Maria, you are a
hero. You are my best girl and I am so proud.”

He had tears in his eyes and now Maria had to
comfort him. She smiled and patted his shoulder. “He was trying to get a
mustang for his father. He was trying to prove to his father that he was not an
alfeñique.”

She slept with the old woman that night and
awoke alone. The old woman was in with Crisanto and she did not look happy. She
lifted the blanket and Maria could see the bandages were bloody. His leg was now
black beyond the knee, halfway up his thigh. “That smell, Maria. Gangrene. It
is what I smelled last night. He is doomed. Poor Crisanto is doomed.” She
dropped her head and walked out as Maria changed the dressing.

Crisanto smiled weakly as she worked. “Maria.”
She looked up and smiled back at him. He was trying to focus and realized where
he was. “I’ve always dreamed of being in your bed.”

She grinned at his naughtiness. He was dying
and knew it. He didn’t care if he was embarrassing himself. He wanted to make
Maria smile.

She stood up. “I’m going to get the priest,
Crisanto. I’ll be back.”

The padre gave him Last Rites and now Crisanto
was parchment pale. He wouldn’t last long and wanted to be with Maria. He asked
the padre not to tell his father. He didn’t want to see his father now.

They stayed together for the rest of the night.
Maria watched as lights went out under her door. The old woman and old man left
them alone and Maria was thankful for it. Even though she didn’t love him, she
thought, it was a good thing for her to spend his final moments with him. She
had cast a spell many years ago, and it was the least she could do. It was the
greatest kindness she could give him and she sat close and kept his head cool
with wet rags. She brushed his cheek gently. He smiled up at her.

“I love you Maria. You know I love you.”

“And I you, Crisanto.” He brightened. “I know I
told you that day out with the mustangs that I did not and could not love you,
but I was wrong. I love you.”

With that she stood up and, gently, noiselessly
barred her door. She stood over him and slowly removed her clothes. With all
his will he moved aside, making room for the love of his life as she climbed
into bed with him. She pressed her naked body against his and then, gently, lovingly
made love to him, his first and last and best time. He was dead.

Maria thought a lot about Crisanto after he
died. She wasn’t in love with him but she did love him and was sorry to see him
die. She enjoyed making love with him because she wanted to make him happy. He
did die happy and she thought that it might very well be the best death for a
human being; to die after making love to the one person he loved more than
anyone or anything else in the world—and she liked it, too.

She enjoyed the act and was relieved because
she’d worried over that for a long time, off and on over the years, ever since
that bastard Sanchez had abused her. She often wondered if that would put her
off it and now she knew that it wouldn’t. She had liked it; it made her all
tingly and she felt a little convulsion deep inside. She thought it would be
good to do again.

She knew it was what the padre called a mortal
sin. She knew the Ten Commandments and she knew that the act was supposed to be
between husband and wife. But there was no time for that as Crisanto was dying
and she really was too young to marry. She didn’t much care, anyway.

 The more Maria learned about the faith and the
church, the less inclined she was to follow it. It was all just too much and
she’d already done things that were against the Ten Commandments.  She didn’t
feel bad for doing them and she was not sorry for anything she’d done. If any
of it kept her out of heaven, well, that was God’s problem and not hers. She’d
just as soon go to Limbo. It seemed that all the interesting people were in
Limbo anyway. She knew she’d never ever go to hell. That was out of the
question because she was good, deep down she was good and pure and pure of
heart and she knew she’d never go to hell.

After a few weeks she became ill and did not
know why. She’d not given any thought to becoming pregnant. Of course, she knew
that having relations could result in such a thing, but she’d known men and
women who’d been married a long time and had not gotten pregnant. The old man
and old woman had been married for more than fifty years, yet they had no
children. She knew that doing it would not result in pregnancy every time and
just didn’t give it much thought.

But along about the tenth week, she felt a bulge
and she knew. She was most definitely going to have a baby. She looked at
herself in her old mirror, the one the old woman had given her, and could see a
bit of a bulge. It was going to get bigger. She thought hard about when to tell
the people who cared about her.

This was all very queer because she wasn’t in
the least unhappy about it. She was quite pleased. She knew the old priest
would become sad, but he was always sad anyway. The old man and old woman would
probably be happy. They loved her and they loved children. It would just be
another child to love. There would be room for the child and she’d be happy to
give up her fortune to help raise the baby, but they probably wouldn’t take the
money. They’d let her keep her money and they’d all raise the baby together.

She was suddenly excited but still wanted to
keep it a secret. Somehow, she had a feeling in the back of her mind that this
might not happen. It might not come to pass and there was no reason to bring it
up if it wasn’t going to result in a baby. It would be easier on the padre and
the old people if they never knew that it almost happened, so she kept it to
herself.

She’d known of that, too. She heard of women in
the village and back in the poor village where she grew up that lost babies all
the time. They’d be pregnant just long enough to be sick and feel terrible,
then the baby would come out dead. She thought about that and hoped it wouldn’t
happen. She worried about it a bit too and decided not to ride horses or do
anything strenuous that might hurt the baby.

The old man was starting to wonder because
Maria rode as much as she could but now, strangely, she didn’t. He started to
ask her about it one day and then decided not to, almost as if Maria had
telepathically told him not to ask the question, told him she was in her
confinement and was not to be bothered. He didn’t ask.

After a time she swore she could feel a
fluttering and this made her feel very happy. The baby was alive and moving
about and she felt a little giddy. At night she’d talk to the baby. She didn’t
know the sex of the baby, of course, and resolved to call it Rosario. That
could be the name of a boy or a girl. She didn’t know if she’d name the baby
Rosario when it was born but, for now, it worked. She did not want to presume
the baby’s sex and call it by the wrong name.

She thought about all the things she’d do with
the baby. She didn’t care if they called it a bastard. She didn’t care that she
wouldn’t get a man once she had the baby. It didn’t matter to her. Nothing seemed
to matter now but the baby and she thought about going to the sea, to show the
baby the beautiful water and the fence’s pretty assistant. The fence’s
assistant would like Maria’s baby, she was certain of that. She’d take the baby
in the sea and hold it and bathe it in the salty water and then lie on the
beach in the sun and love her little baby.

It went on like this for four months. By now
she was bulging a bit and she had trouble hiding it because she was so slender.
She pulled her skirt up pretty high and puffed out her blouse and then wrapped
her rebozo in such a way that it hid everything well.

The old woman was strange about it all, though.
She said nothing and made no comment on Maria’s change in behavior. She seemed
to be feeding Maria often, as well. She put food in front of her constantly and
Maria was glad for it. She was ravenous these days. She figured she was hungry
because she was eating for two. The baby took a lot of her energy and that was
also a big change for Maria. She slept well until daylight most days. She
seemed always to want to sleep.

And now, as if all these changes weren’t
enough, her breasts began to grow again, and now they leaked. Sometimes she’d
have to change her blouse halfway through the day. She found this amusing. It didn’t
bother her very much because she had a magnificent bosom already. Now her
breasts became downright tremendous and leaky and itchy. She knew it was all
for her little Rosario and at night she’d tell the baby of her adventures; all
the details of her day and how her body was changing and preparing for when the
little one was ready to come out.

But as with everything in Maria’s life, nothing
ever seemed to go as planned and on an early Sunday morning, just as a cock
crowed, she awoke to strange goings on down below. She had pains that rolled
over her in great waves and she felt again as if she were wetting the bed.

She managed to sit on the edge of her bed and
thought about calling out to the old woman. She waited and the contractions
came again. She gave birth to a little, half-sized Rosario. Her little precious
one was dead.

She bundled the babe up in a sheet and climbed
back into bed. She remembered what the priest said about babies born and dying
before baptism, that even someone who was not a priest could baptize a baby, so
she did. She wetted her fingers with her saliva and made a little sign of the
cross on Rosario’s forehead. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of
the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

She looked at every inch of her baby. She was
beautiful with tiny hands and fingers and toes. She looked as if she was asleep
and Maria didn’t even feel like crying. The baby had been baptized and now
wouldn’t be stuck in Limbo. Maria had been baptized, too, so they’d both meet
up in heaven. She couldn’t wait.

She finally fell back to sleep and slept until
late morning.

She awoke and, for a moment, forgot that little
Rosario was dead. She thought maybe she wasn’t, that she was just sleeping and
she’d be able to feed her little baby from her breasts. They were paining her
so much and leaking terribly.

But she was wrong; her baby was dead.

Maria got up and cleaned herself. She bundled
the baby up tightly. She kissed her one more time and took her out to the
desert. She resolved to bury her near the mustangs where her father had gotten
his leg trapped. Maria thought it was a fitting place for little Rosario to
rest. She dug a small hole and lined it with stones. Rosario was so tiny. Her
baby didn’t need much room. Maria rewrapped her snuggly in a rebozo.

 Maria held her to her breast and kissed her
cheek then gently placed her in the stony crib and looked at her. She thought
about how long they’d been together and knew it wasn’t long enough, just enough
to break Maria’s heart.

Her little sleeping angel. “Sleep well, my
darling, I will be with you soon.” She found a large flat rock to seal the tomb
and fashioned a cross from some mesquite branches. She spelled out her name
with little pebbles. She would never tell anyone of little Rosario for the rest
of her days.

That evening the old man left right after
dinner, which was very strange because he never did this on a Sunday. He always
stayed with them and played cards with Maria. Now she was alone with the old
woman. They sat quietly for a while. The old woman warmed some milk and they
drank it together. Finally, when it was time for bed, the old woman stood up
and touched Maria on the cheek. She smiled at her and there were tears in her
eyes. They spilled down her wrinkled face and the old woman kissed Maria on the
forehead. “We are sorry, child.” She turned and went to bed.