“Confess me—”
I placed my ear to his mouth and heard his mumbled confession. I felt the tears running now, flooding my eyes and blinding me, flowing into the corners of my mouth, and I felt great sobs choking at my throat, trying to get loose.
“Thank you, father, I will sin no more—”
I prayed, “Oh my God, I am sorry for all of my sins, not because I dread the fires of Hell, but because they displease you, Lord, Who art all good, and deserving of all my love—and with Thy help, I will sin no more—”
Then I made the sign of the cross over him.
“It is good to die on a hill of the llano, beneath the juniper—” were his last words. I felt his last intake of air, and the moan as he breathed for the last time. I slipped my hand from under his head, then the sobs came. I knelt by his side for a long time, crying, thinking of all that had happened.
And when the crying had cleansed my soul of the great weight of pity, I got up and ran home. I felt very weak and sick by the time I burst into my mother’s kitchen.
“¡Antonio!” my mother cried. I rushed into her warm arms and was safe. “Ay, Jesús, María y José—”
“Where have you been?” I heard my father ask from his chair.
“School’s been out a long time—” It was Deborah teasing.
I think I started laughing, or crying, because my mother looked at me strangely and felt my forehead. “Your clothes are wet, and you have a fever!”
Then I felt Ultima’s hand on mine. “¡Sangre!” she whispered. It was the blood of Narciso on my hands. The room and the faces staring at me began to swim, as if I was the center of a dark, rushing whirlpool.
“¡Dios mío!” my mother cried. “Are you hurt, Tony?”
“I knew those were pistol shots I heard!” my father leaped from his chair and grabbed me by the collar of my jacket. “Are you hurt? What has happened?”
“Narciso!” I blurted out.
“By the juniper—” I thought I heard Ultima say. She knit her brow and seemed to be testing the air for any trace of danger left to us.
“He is dead!” I cried.
“But where?” My father said in disbelief. My mother’s eyes fluttered and she stumbled back. Ultima picked me up.
“On the goat path—”
“But how? Did you see it?” He was already reaching for his jacket.
“The boy can speak no more. He must rest,” Ultima said.
“Sí,” my mother cried anxiously. Together they carried me to her room.
“I will go and see,” my father said. I heard the door bang.
“More blankets,” Ultima told my mother and she ran to obey. They had taken off my wet, frozen clothes and stuffed me under thick, warm blankets.
“He was coming to warn you,” I whispered to Ultima, “Tenorio threatened to kill you, there was a terrible fight, he was coming to warn you—”
“He was a good man,” her sad eyes filled with sympathy, “but you must not talk now, my son, you must rest—”
My mother brought the blankets. Ultima rubbed my body with an ointment of Vicks and many of her herbs, then she gave me something cool to drink. She begged me to be still, but the fever compelled me to repeat my awful tale over and over.
“Beneath our juniper, on the goat path, he shot Narciso! I saw all, I gave confession—”
“My son!” my mother cried. I could see in their eyes that they were very worried, and I tried to tell them that I was not sick, that I simply had to tell my story to purge the fever. Over and over I shouted out the scene of the murder. Then the cold spells came and I shivered with a cold that could not be thawed by the warmth of the blankets. Late into the afternoon I alternated between the burning fever and the shivering cold.
Soon I lost track of time. Sometime during the illness I saw the face of the doctor from town, and later I saw Andrew. And always Ultima was near me, caring for every turn I made in the progress of that hideous journey. It was a long night during which the nightmares, like a herd of wild horses, trampled through my fevered mind.
Strange scenes swirled in my ocean of pesadilla, and each one seemed to drown me with its awful power.
I saw Andrew and the young girl from Rosie’s. They held each other and danced while Narciso pounded at the cold door. She was naked, and her long, flowing hair enveloped Andrew and kept him from helping Narciso. She pulled Andrew away, and he followed her into the frightful fires of hell.
Androooooooo! I cried. I struggled desperately to help him, but I could not move beneath the heavy blankets.
God forgive him! I screamed. And from the dancing flames there issued a thunderous voice.