The Day the Rebels Came to Town (3 page)

“Don’t worry. Probably just some bad spirits. They get stuck together and cause pain. Lucky for you I wasn’t busy. I’ll have you feeling better in a minute.”

With a grunt, the old woman lowered her sack to the floor. Fishing around, she pulled out a glass bottle about the size of a deck of cards. The bottle was half-filled with clear liquid. She took out the tiny cork and moved toward Carlos.

“Now, I’m gonna put this under your nose. When I say ‘go,’ you sniff.”

She wiped the tip of the bottle on her filthy skirt and placed it inside his right nostril. “Go,” she said.

Carlos sniffed sharply. A river of poison flowed into his lungs and up into his brain. He
coughed and turned blue. A second after that, the room turned soft, as if it were filled with jelly. He swore he could hear music playing somewhere in the distance. He watched the pain in his foot turn into a pale green cloud and float out the door. But the best thing? The shame he felt for shooting himself slipped away. He felt as if it had never been there.

“What was in... uh...”

“Extracts,” answered the old woman. “Herbs mostly. A cactus stem or two. Maybe some mashed beetles. All mixed with a little ether.”

Carlos felt himself floating out of his body, settling somewhere near the ceiling. He rolled over and looked down. As he watched, the old woman took the bandages off his foot. She reached into her bag and pulled out a clay pot. After prying off the lid, she scooped dark green slime onto Carlos’s foot while rocking back and forth. To Carlos, whose back was still against the ceiling, it looked as though the old woman had gone into a trance.

When his foot was covered in goo, she reached into her bag and pulled out a bunch of dried twigs. She lit them with a match and
shuffled around the room while chanting in a low voice. The air filled with the scent of burnt almonds.

After a few minutes, she stopped. Again, she reached into her bag. This time, she pulled out a small brush and a pot filled with orange powder. She brushed this onto the top of Carlos’s foot.

Just as she began to remove the green mud, Carlos found himself being pulled back into his body.

“There,” she said with a grin. “All better. Your ribs and lip will take care of themselves. Your mood is up to you. Now get some rest.”

Three days passed. Mostly, Carlos slept. On the fourth morning, he awoke with a strange feeling. Though his head pounded and his ribs still hurt with each breath, the pain in his foot seemed to be gone. Gently, he moved his foot from side to side, something that would have caused him to scream before. He sat up and pulled his legs around. Tough moving still hurt, he could now picture the day when he would be better. With that thought, a moment of intense fear passed through him. He had come so, so close to dying. He had come so close to not
being
.

“Linda,” he called.

The village girl came running. He paused for a moment, looking at her. “Tell me something,”
he said. “Why are you all being so nice to me here?”

She tilted her head and grinned. A dimple formed on each cheek. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Please,” he said. “Tell me.”

Without looking at him, she said, “You made the bad men go away.”

Carlos cheered silently. It was her accent. She really
was
from the South. “They went away on their own,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it. It was chance and nothing more. And by the way, call me Carlos.”

She nodded.

“Oh, and one other thing. I think my foot’s a bit better.”

Later, Linda came back with a tall, thin man carrying a tape measure. He had an Adam’s apple the size of an egg.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” said Carlos.

“My name is Ramon. I am a wood worker.”

“I am...”

“Please,” he said. “I know who you are. Now, if I could ask you to stand...”

He helped Carlos to his good foot, and measured the distance between the ground and Carlos’s armpits. He then left, but returned a few hours later. Smiling, he handed Carlos a pair of roughly made crutches.

“Thank you,” Carlos said. “Thank you so much.”

Ramon nodded, backed out the door, and was gone.

As soon as Ramon left, Carlos stood and slipped his crutches under his arms. He gasped and fell back onto the bed, holding the spots where his crutches had touched his cracked ribs. For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for himself. When he tried the crutches again, he found a way to hold them so they didn’t rub against his sides. He walked around the room a few times, but soon both his ribs and his foot began to hurt. He had to return to bed.

Every few hours, driven mostly by boredom, Carlos got up and used his crutches a little more. The next day, he figured out how to use them
without hurting his ribs. It involved a lot of hopping and leaning to one side, but he didn’t mind. He opened the door of his room. For the first time, Carlos saw the front room of the old mayor’s house. As in most homes, a hammock was strung between two support posts. A table, two chairs, and a mirror took up one wall. The front door was painted blue. The shutters over the window facing the street were closed. It was as simple as the front room of his own little home in the South.

Carlos moved toward the door and pushed it. It swung open with a creak. He took a step into the dusty street and looked from left to right. It was late afternoon, and the town was just coming alive after its midday rest. He could hear the voices of children and the barking of dogs. He was about to make his way toward the town square when Linda came running up. She looked flushed and upset.

“Carlos!” she cried out. “You should be in...”

“I’m okay,” he told her. “Being outside is helping.”

She glanced at his wrapped foot.

“Really, I am,” he added. “With these crutches, I’m just fine. In fact, I want to see some of this town of yours. Why don’t you show me a little of it?”

“Me?”

“Why not?”

“I am only supposed to...”

“Take care of me, yes? Well, right now I need a little fresh air. It wouldn’t help things if I got lost, would it?”

She blinked. Her black eyes sparkled. During moments like these, her beauty leapt at him, as if coming from some place where wars were unknown.

“Then it’s settled. You lead the way.”

“All right,” she said.

They began walking along the street in front of the mayor’s house. Linda moved slowly, allowing Carlos to keep up. As they walked, he noticed how the sunlight reflected off her hair, making it shine violet. After a minute or two, they reached the plaza. It was full of people, all talking. As Carlos looked on, he thought of his own little town down south. There, the streets filled in the late afternoon and stayed full until well after dinner.

Just then, Carlos was spotted by the priest and the rich Spanish landowner. They both came over.

“Carlos!” said Antonio. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“It’s the crutches,” said Father Alvarez. “They’re working like a charm!”

Antonio looked at Linda. “I think we can take him from here.”

Linda nodded and turned. As she hurried away, Carlos looked over his shoulder and watched her for a moment.

“Come, come,” they said. “Let us show you our little town. Really, it’s so good to see you out of bed.”

They took a slow, halting walk around the small plaza. In the sunlight, the pale adobe buildings were the same colour as the earth from which they were made. First, the friends showed Carlos the town hall, where the mayor had his office. Then, they showed him the village church, built by the Spanish six hundred years earlier. “It’s still standing,” said Antonio. “Say what you will, but we Spanish people know how to build things that last.” They passed the hairdresser’s
and the place where an old man ground coffee and corn for a few pesos. They passed the town’s only store, where people bought fruit, meat, and milk.

They reached the southwest corner of the square.

“How is your foot holding up?” asked Father Alvarez.

“To tell the truth, it’s starting to hurt a little. My side as well. Though they weren’t hurt as badly, I think these damn ribs are going to take longer to heal than my foot.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be a little thirsty, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“In that case, there’s a man who would like to meet you.”

Carlos smiled. They were steps from the town tavern, which looked slightly charred from the fire. He followed the two men through swinging doors. The room was dark, small, and filled with five or six rough wood tables. The smell of smoke still hung in the air. The man cleaning glasses behind the bar turned and beamed at them. As he stepped out from behind the bar,
Carlos noticed that his arm was wrapped in a large bandage.

“Welcome,” he said. “Please. Sit. My name is Fernando. Whatever you want... it’s on the house.”

“Really, you don’t have to treat me.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Please...”

Carlos worked himself into a chair. Resting his wounded foot felt good. Fernando rushed off and came back with four beers. He sat and joined them. After a few sips, he said, “You know, while they were in my tavern the rebels were talking about coming back that night. Can you believe it?”

Fernando looked up. Carlos did, too, and saw that the ceiling was a mess of splinters and bullet holes.

“And then, when I dared to suggest they pay their bill, they poured tequila on a table top and lit a match. The tequila burst into flames, and that was the fire you saw. Of course, the fire was easy to put out, but I burned my arm. And
still
they were saying they’d be back for more.”

“It’s this damn war,” said Antonio. “It has lost all meaning. Each side has been taken over
by killers and thieves. It’s all about money now. The people who sell guns and bullets won’t let it stop. I suppose all wars are that way.”

“Of course,” said the priest. “Of course.”

Fernando looked at Carlos. “Either way, you did me a great favour, Carlos Orozco.”

There it was again. This stupid idea that somehow Carlos’s actions had caused the rebels to leave. His face reddened, and he felt angry. He had shot himself in the foot. It was the action of a coward. He was just about to explain this when church bells started ringing, even though it was not the top of the hour. The four men all looked in the direction of the street. Antonio rose, and pushed open the tavern doors. Sunlight speared the gloom and travelled to the rear wall of the bar. Dust hung in the air.

Carlos watched as Antonio stopped a middle-aged woman who was racing past the door.

“What’s happening?” he called to her.

“Haven’t you heard?” she yelled back. “It’s the mayor!”

Shortly after Carlos awoke the next day, he heard a slight knocking at the door of his room. The sun had already reached the highest point in the sky.

“Just a minute,” he called.

He struggled to his feet and opened the door. Linda was standing there, holding a suit of clothing.

“Linda,” he said with a smile.

“You’ve missed the funeral Mass,” she told him. “But they haven’t buried him yet. Hurry.”

She passed Carlos the suit. He thanked her, and watched as she left the house. As he dressed, he thought about the old mayor. Even though he was eighty-two years old, he had gone hunting for
deer in the hot, noon-hour sun. An hour later, his horse had trotted back into town without a rider. Its arrival had sparked fear in the townsfolk who loved him: had he met a band of rebels or army soldiers? A few men armed themselves as best they could and went looking. After an hour or two, they found the old man lying on the desert floor. He was staring straight up at the sky, not a mark on him, his rifle still in his hands.

The suit fit Carlos well, though it was a little loose around the waist and hips. He wondered who it had belonged to. He slipped on a belt and put some tonic on his dark hair before combing it. He then looked at himself in the mirror. It was the first time he had done so since his injury. Now that his body was on the mend, he was eating well. He enjoyed taking showers that flowed from the rainwater tank perched on top of the house. Even his bottom lip had healed, though it still looked a little puffy and blue. As he looked at his image, he tried to decide what sort of person was looking back.