Clink, clink went the bottle as it hit the floor, and then came the sound of it rolling to the huddled boy in the dark corner. A low snore filled the room; the muscles in the boy' body relaxed. Across the room, his mother began quietly crying.
Pedro sat a while longer in the dim room, grateful that the episode had passed. He felt exhausted. The smell of dried herbs permeated his nostrils. Besides the two beds, one barely large enough to sleep upon, the one room adobe house contained a modest cooking area, a plain small table, and a family altar with various saints and votive candles.
He finally moved through the room, cluttered with items broken and askew, out the door where the sun had recently set. Time to take care of business. It was a lot of weight for a boy of 10 years, but he was used to it.
His first stop was the chickens, which clucked and cackled as he fed them. The burro in his pen brayed in welcome recognition. He would have to clean out the manure tomorrow. Then he sauntered past Ama' grinding stone and oven over to the goat fence, which had been broken during the afternoon violence. Of course the two milk goats were gone. He sighed. It might take some doing to find them.
He passed by the family's small vegetable garden and fruit trees, which struggled to stay alive in the summer heat. As he passed through the milpas, he grabbed corn to eat. The family subsisted almost entirely on food they grew themselves, except for the rare meat they bought for holidays.
He soon passed by the graves of three small children, one a stillborn, two who had died of illness. In so many ways, their ghosts still haunted the family.
The brown and white goats were of course down in the shade of birch trees by the river. There were only a handful of spots where grass grew. It was not like during the winter when the grass was plentiful. This time of year, the desert was barren. Only by the river was there any green life. After the dryness, the humid air of the riverbank was a luxury. The goats bleated cheerfully to see him, and lay their little heads in his hands. It was comforting to him to smell their goatiness again. Ever the herd animals, they followed him home.
The sound of his hammering echoed in the dark. It took some while to repair the criss-cross of wooden beams around the goats, but of course it had to be done. As he worked, he prayed to all the angels and saints to disperse the demons that plagued his family. He would have to remember to light a candle before the saints on the altar.
There would be no more problems for a while. Tired from his labors, he quickly fell asleep.
In the morning, Apa's voice was low and subdued. He chatted happily about construction work to be had in the city as he ate the tortillas and beans with Ama and Pedro. "With the money I make,", he said, "I can buy Ama one of those new machines for sewing. Pedro is a growing boy, and his shirt and pants are getting too small."I'll only be gone several weeks."
"This sounds wonderful!", exclaimed Ama.
"Pedro", said Apa", "the trench from the river to the milpas is filling up with silt. Re-dig it while I'm gone." The trench was one advantage their family had over their distant neighbors, who were forced to carry buckets upon buckets of water up to their small farms.
"I'll do a good job Apa."
"Remember that you are the man of the house while I am gone. Take good care of your mother. Remember that she is with child."
"Yes, Apa", replied Pedro, although inwardly he could only think of the irony.
They had watched as Apa walked down the dusty road towards the city, his pack upon his back. Ama's red and green skirt had rustled in the light breeze, and Pedro's white clothing had reflected the hot and glaring sunlight. How relieved they had been for several weeks of peace. And a little hopeful that perhaps this time there would be money for better things rather than for drink. Ama's bruises had healed. Yes, things would be different.
But now they could see Apa bumbling up the road towards them. They ran to the cooking area just outside house. Pedro took out the flint and struck it to light the fire, and then began pressing masa into tortillas. In silence, Ama quickly cut up squash, chayote, and chiles and threw them into a pan. They would go hungry tomorrow, but they would be safe tonight. They brought the food inside.
Apa stumbled in, slamming the door being him. He headed for the birch table, tipping over the chair as he sat. Pedro tried to help him up, but the spirits were in control and Apa waved him off, yelling, "Leave me alone, son of a pig. Do you think I'm an old man?" He straightened the chair and sat. His fist beat down upon the table. "Food", he demanded. Ama complied.
"What are you looking at?", Apa challenged Ama as he pushed his plate away from him.
"Nothing", Ama replied. "Everything is fine."
"Then why are you staring at me?" His voice raised. Ama was silent, her hands drawn up against her chest. He pounded his hand down. "Perra! What the hell is wrong with you? I'm so patient with you, but time and time again you have to treat me like a pariah. You are judging me again, aren't you?
"No, Juan, I swear."
He rose from his seat and approached her, looming. She backed against the wall, cringing. "Why do you make me have to do this? I have to teach you to respect me. It's unthinkable that a woman disrespect her man." There was a loud thwack as he backhanded her face. "Why? Why? You useless mother of one child! You might as well be barren for all you are worth! You will lose this one as well!" He punched her in the abdomen. Ama began to cry. "Enough of your crocodile tears!" He punched her again, this time in the left eye.
"Stop!", cried Pedro, who for the first time in his life could take it no more. "Can't you see she meant nothing? She is only a loving wife to you. Why do you always have to hurt her? Hurt me instead!"
"You challenge me?", Apa roared. "You interfere? Hurt you? I'll kill you!" He pulled the gun down from the wall and began to load it.
";Run, Pedro!", shouted Ama.
Out the door he flew, past the garden through the milpas, and left out into the desert. His breath came in heaves, and his sweat evaporated in the hot sun. He ran and ran, knowing his very life depended upon it. Through rocky dried out riverbeds and down through canyons.
Finally he saw what he was looking for: the rock with the piece jutting out from it. On its far side was a long, high crevice. He entered and the crevice opened up into a cave. His secret place. No one had ever found him here. How many time had he hidden here from beatings?
His chest ached from the run. In the dim light he lay down on the earthen floor to rest. A thousand time his father had beaten them, yet every time it had broken his heart. There on the ground he sent up a prayer, a pure prayer of great faith such as only a child can say. Blessed Virgin, mother of God, I beg you with all my heart, drive the demons from my father. Send your help to my family. Santa Maria, please, a miracle! Not for me, but for my mother, who is a pious woman, who always remembers you and the saints. Please! Please! Exhausted, Pedro fell asleep.
When he woke, the cave was pitch black and terribly cold. He walked slowly with his arms stretched out before him until his fingers touched the wall. He followed it around until he reached the exit.
Outside, stars filled the sky. A full moon was rising up over the bluff, creating a beautiful silhouette.
Suddenly atop the bluff, framed in the moonlight, were the black figures of two men. The smaller man held a pitchfork and the other had some kind of helmet and held a sword, and they were engaged in the most heated battle. The smaller man was using the pitchfork as a kind of staff for the most part, and he and the soldier crisscrossed blows along the top of the bluff.
In one blow the sword came smashing downward. The smaller man blocked with the prongs of the fork but the force of it knocked him backwards off his feet. Quickly he jumped back onto his feet as the soldier struggled to disengage his sword. They returned to crisscrossing.
Then, having a good opening, the smaller man gave a hefty blow directly to the side of the head. Although shielded by the helmet, it was enough to disorient the soldier. As he stumbled to the side, the smaller man gutted him with the pitchfork. The soldier bent slightly, dropped to his knees, and then collapsed to the ground.
Pedro was shocked. At first he stared at the smaller man and the lump on the ground. Then he stared at his feet, trying to decide what he should do. Should he tell Apa what he had seen? Apa probably wouldn't believe him and would beat him for lying. No, best to keep it to himself.
He looked up and practically jumped out of his skin. The smaller man was standing right before him. How could he have gotten from the top of the bluff to beside him in a matter of a few moments? It was obvious now that he was an Indian, and very poor from his tattered clothing, probably a farmer like Pedro.
"Do not touch me", said the Indian, "I walk the face of the earth only at night. You only looked", said the Indian. "So look you shall."
Pedro had no idea what to make of this riddle, but, dumbfounded, he could only wait in silence for what was obviously a ghost to say more.
"You have asked for a miracle. I have been sent to give you that miracle. Follow me. Pay attention to where we are going, or all is lost."
They traveled down and out of the canyon, to the top of the bluffs, and out onto the desert flats. They headed towards a Joshua tree. When they reached the tree, the Indian thrust his pitchfork into the ground and said, "Dig here."
Pedro began to dig. The hole was barely two feet deep when something glinted in the moonlight. It was several gold coins!
"Buried here is much treasure from the Revolution," said the Indian. "It is for you and your family, to give you a better life. But it comes with conditions. Each night the soldier and I repeat the battle. It is empty and lonely. To have the treasure your father must agree to two things. The drinking must stop. And he must commit to come each and every night to watch our battle, as must you. Do you agree?"
Pedro was overwhelmed by this turn of events. He could not speak for his father, but he could speak for himself. "I will come," he said, "I give you my word." The Indian faded away.
As Pedro walked home, the darkness turned to twilight. Soon the horizon was outlined with turquoise, pink, and yellow. As he approached the house, he could hear the roosters crowing in the morning light. On the clothes rope he could see the red shirt: Ama's sign that it was safe to return.
As he passed by the coop, he could see his mother scattering seed as the chickens pecked the ground. Her left eye was swollen shut. "Buenos Dias, Ama." "Buenos Dias, Mijo," she returned.
Inside the house, Apa was cleaning the gun. It made Pedro's stomach turn over. "I'm going hunting today. You can come," Apa said. No apology. No sign that anything at all had happened yesterday.
"Apa, I have news! News about treasure! We'll be rich!"
"What nonsense are you talking about, boy?"
"It's true!" And Pedro explained the whole thing to his father, the battle, the treasure, the bargain. "It's a fair exchange, don't you think, Apa?"
Apa was silent for a few moments. Then he said, "I don't know if you haven't finally gone a little crazy. But it wouldn't hurt to look."
The digging had taken a long time, and it was back-breaking work in the sweltering heat. It had taken a couple trips with the burro to get all the treasure home. Coins and jewelry, all made of gold, silver, rubies, sapphire, topaz, even diamonds… How rich they were! Evening grew close when they began shoving it under the bed.
"We'll never want anything again," said Apa. "We'll spend it modestly, so that we don't draw the attention of thieves."
"Oh, Apa! It's an answer to prayer! An answer to prayer!" Silently he formed his own words of thanks. Blessed mother, how can I possibly thank you. My heart and my life are yours, O sweet Virgin Mary. His head was filled with thoughts of how everything would be different now, how they would never go hungry again, how Ama would be free from fear and pain, how they could afford a midwife for the baby, how Apa would finally, finally be happy.
"We should hurry, Apa, if we are to get there in time," said Pedro, calculating the time to the bluff by weary bodies.
"Get where?" asked Apa.
Pedro felt a ping of foreboding in his stomach. "To the bluff to watch the ghosts fight. It's the bargain."
"Damn the ghosts. I have what I want."
Pedro felt sick. And afraid. The dead should not be toyed with. At least he could keep his own promise. He rose and made for the door.
"And where are YOU going?"
"To ... to the bluff ..."
"The hell you are, you little pig. Didn't I just say we are not going?" His voice was steadily rising. "Dios mio, sit down!" he yelled.
Pedro quickly sat down. He was afraid of the ghost, but he was more afraid of his father.
The sun set, and darkness came. Pedro only ate a few bites of beans and rice. Sleep came slowly for all his worries, but sleep he eventually did.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!", the voice shouted, waking Pedro from his slumber. The next thing he noticed was ammonia in the air and the foul smell of feces. "No, no! It can't be! No!", exclaimed Apa. Pedro sat up and looked across the room to his parent's bed. His father was pulling slush out from underneath. Gone were Pedro's happy dreams like water on a rock in the hot sun.
"Ay, ay, ay! We are ruined! Ruined!", wailed Apa. Ama got down on her knees and threw her arms around him to try to comfort him, but he would have none of it, wailing and cursing.
On his own bed, a silent tear slid down Pedro's cheek. They had not gone. It was a fair exchange.
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