Wild Penance (29 page)

Someone had ransacked my cabin, leaving it in total disarray. But my spartan living quarters didn’t offer much place for a person to hide. The log bed made of thick aspen limbs sat high off the ground, its covers torn from the mattress and thrown to the side. Beneath it, I could see the floor all the way to the wall. On the other side of the room was the kitchen, with its stove, fridge, sink, and cupboard, the contents of which had been emptied onto the counter and the floor. The one big chair had been shoved all the way into the corner, and the only other furnishings, besides a small table with two chairs, were my dresser, the open shelves of books, a portable stereo, and my nightstand—all of which had been emptied, their contents rearranged or knocked to the floor. I moved cautiously across the room toward the pass-through closet that led to the bathroom, still holding the shotgun at the ready.

The bathroom door was open. The shower curtain had been pulled aside, revealing the empty tub. The cantilevered doors to the closet, too, were open, and everything had been pulled off the shelves, the clothing pushed aside on the hangers, the shoes strewn apart, and all the boxes that had been stacked on the top shelf had been dumped out onto the middle of the closet floor.

Nobody there. I lowered the shotgun barrel.

I looked down, still in the habit of following my gun with my eyes. Among the scattered items at my feet I saw a yellowed sheet of lined notebook paper with the familiar blue lacy script. I stooped and picked it up, squatting over my boots, and read again what I had read before many times:

I felt like I was going to cry.
Come on, Jamaica, you better keep it together,
I told myself, as I laid the shotgun on the floor next to me and picked up the rest of the poems my mother had written, placing them in the box with the few other things of hers I had kept. I knew that whoever had trashed my cabin was looking for La Arca and knew that I was its guardian now. I grabbed the shotgun and walked back into the main room where the door had swung back to a halfway position, drew back my left leg, and kicked the door as hard as I could. It shook the whole room when it slammed shut.

Holy Night

Clouds as dark as flint began to pile up over the Jemez Mountains as I went on duty that night, and the temperature sank with the sun. It looked like snow. It looked like a lot of snow. Roy had briefed us at the meeting that morning that the Forest Service road would have a checkpoint at each end, and the gate to the four-wheel track would be locked because it was Holy Thursday.

Any curious Anglos hoping to see a Penitente crucifixion in this area would have to take the High Road through Trampas and Truchas, where they would be met by menacing-looking villagers, some with rifles slung on their shoulders. The cars of these prying intruders, if they dared park them and set out on foot, would be stripped and looted. Villagers would conveniently have chickens or goats escape from pens and fill the streets so traffic would be stalled. And then the windows of out-of-town cars would be pelted with eggs or fresh animal dung as the occupants sat helplessly within. Law enforcement officers at remote locations would be suspiciously delayed from responding to distress calls from cell phones in Mercedes, if they were in cell range at all. The inhabitants of these vanity rides would be fearful and complaining, waiting hostage with windows rolled up tight, their expensive parkas and fur-lined après-ski boots too much for spending the evening trapped in their car.

I sat astride Redhead at the top of a knoll overlooking the four-wheel track. A thin line of fiery orange still edged the top of the Jemez range as the sun tried to paint blazing colors in a sky heavy and dark with impending snow. Behind me, the full moon would rise unseen, behind rumpled blankets of black and blue vapor held back by the tips of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

To the east, up the slope and through the trees, the Boscaje morada would be empty tonight, according to what Theresa Mendoza had told me. Its members would have gone to Truchas for the rituals, in fear for their safety. Beyond the deserted morada—somewhere higher up—the Calvario would also be abandoned. This was the place where the Boscaje Hermanos would have directed their procession, following the fourteen stations of the cross—and perhaps even raised a cross on which one of their own was hung.

In the old days, this ritual would have been done at noon on Good Friday, after the procession to the church. There, the stand-in for Christ would have his last earthly meeting with his mother, portrayed by a bulto of the Virgin Mary carried by the women of the village. All would then proceed to the graveyard for the crucifixion. But, as Father Ignacio had said, the intrusion of outsiders had forced many moradas to hold clandestine midnight rituals in remote places carefully guarded by villagers.

All over the Rio Grande Valley, in villages, towns, and pueblos, the faithful were going to mass at this hour for the consecration of the Eucharist, representing Christ’s flesh and blood, reenacting the Last Supper in the ritual of communion—the last time this would be done until Easter Sunday. Tonight, their world would enter a figurative darkness, symbolizing the betrayal and crucifixion of their Savior. The threatening weather seemed perfect for this.

In the past, my book, my job, even the spartan comfort of my little cabin, were all things that shielded me from the feeling that I was utterly alone. Now even this country—this beautiful corner of northern New Mexico that was the only place that felt like home to me—offered me no protection. Its wild beauty made me feel helpless, assailable. I had been unable to sleep in my cabin, afraid of another attack, robbery, or violation. In my heightened vulnerability, even my budding relationship with Kerry—which had both thrilled and terrified me—seemed bound up with this string of mysteries now.

I wasn’t even tired anymore. A vague, unnamed fear had taken hold deep within me and begun to expand. Some hidden accelerator inside me had been pressed hard to the floor, causing my breathing to grow short and my skin to tingle in a random pattern of synapses.

I rode the fence line south, climbing in elevation. The air felt heavy, wet, and cold. It was going to be a hell of a snow. There had been a sickly cast to the last remaining light, like the slick, blue-gray underbelly of a snake, so that I was glad to see it ending. I was only planning to ride a short way. On a night like this, in this rough terrain, a person could get trapped in a blizzard and die just going out to check the mail.

Redhead was skittish, as horses are before storms. She jibbed and volted, feeling the wildness in the weather as her mustang ancestors did, wanting to outrun the storm. She bridled and we halted.

“
Shhhhh.
Are you going to calm down, or are you going to wear your bit through your gums?”

She whistled, shaking her head, fussing with her bit.

“Well, all right then. Getup!” I gave her a tiny press with my heels.

She balked. Then she whinnied loud and snorted, her nostrils flaring back in fear.

“What is it?”

I waited, senses alert.

I smelled smoke—not unusual in a land heated by woodstoves and fireplaces. Then, as I scanned the horizon, I saw the red glow. Fire! There was fire in the forest land above me. I gouged Redhead with my heels. She was ready and took off like a bullet. As we bounded up the slope, I knew in my heart what was burning. I made straight for the Boscaje morada. Small limbs smacked into me as I tried to guide the horse at top speed through the dense thicket. The foliage switched my face, stinging it with sticky juniper sap. It was getting so dark I couldn’t see where I was going. Redhead slowed, nervously pulling her head back to avoid vicious swipes from low limbs. Reluctantly, I dismounted and led her, picking my way along through the forest with one hand outstretched. Finally, as I neared the meadow, I could see the golden flames coming from the morada’s roof and slapping the low sky, hissing at the cold moisture. The perfect black silhouette of a cross stood at the center of this high hat of yellow fire.

The inhabitants being away at the morada in Truchas, a lone man was hurrying into the morada. I let go of Redhead and raced to the door, just as he came out again. He was carrying a large carved figure, nearly half his height. “Here!” I yelled, beckoning him to hand it to me. Our eyes met, and in the glow of the fire, I recognized him. I had seen his picture only a few hours before, and here he was. “Manny! Are there any people inside?”

“No people. Save this!” he snapped. “There are more!” He shoved the bulto into my arms and went back in the door of the morada. In spite of its size, the cottonwood bulto was light. I looked around for a safe place to set it and saw the cart that had been parked a few yards away in front of the morada. I went to it, put the figure on the ground beside it, and was returning to get the next one when I heard the high whine of a rupturing viga, one of the wooden beams that spanned and supported the earthen roof. There was a terrible sharp squeal, the vicious dogfight sound of dense wood tearing, and then a heavy thud. Sparks flew up in the doorway, and a great cloud of thick smoke caromed out.

“Manny?” I screamed, trying to see in. Fierce heat boiled out of the opening, and I held one arm over my face and forced myself to step inside. The light of the flames inside the morada made the whole shrine seem like a flickering candle, the walls glowing yellow gold, the micaceous flecks in the adobe sparkling. The huge black and red ember of what was once a viga had severed in two, its stems like wicks in the ground at the center. The roof was torn open above this, and flames rose toward the night. Dust of broken adobe and earthen roof danced in the scorching hot air. “Manny!” I screamed, trying to make my voice louder than the roar of the fire.

I couldn’t see him. The blaze seemed to be centered at the rear of the room, away from the door, and so I edged my way along a wall, the air making my lungs feel like they were roasting in a furnace each time I breathed. The smoldering viga was starting to gush smoke now. I pulled my muffler over my face and tied it behind my head to screen the air. I moved in front of a long bench that had been set against the wall. “Manny, where are you?”

“Here!” he grunted. The sound was ahead and to my left, just beyond the downed viga.

I saw him then, in its shadow. He was sitting on the floor before the altar, which was covered with a woven cloth embroidered with small black skulls, like the one covering La Arca. On the altar stood a bulto of Saint Francis, another of the Holy Virgin, and a human skull. Manny was still, his expression pained. He was holding a huge crucifix, its face against his chest, the top of the cross extending at an angle over his head, the arms stretching as if to embrace and comfort him. The splintered base of the cross passed like a stake through his right leg and pinned him to the floor.

“Oh, no!” I screamed, and ran to him. I straddled his legs with my feet, bent my knees into a deep squat for leverage, and pulled up on the crucifix, extracting it from his flesh. Blood pooled in the hole left by the cross, and the shards of Manny’s broken femur poked through the leg of his pants. He looked up at me with fear in his face.

I loosened the knot in my muffler and pulled it off. It took some maneuvering, but I got it to pass under Manny’s thigh, and found it soaked with blood as I pulled the end through. I tied it off above the break, and the pool of blood stopped growing.

“We gotta get you out of here!” I urged, trying to figure out how I would lift a man twice my weight.

“I’m not going without the crucifix.” He coughed, and then gasped as he inhaled smoke.

I winced from the heat. There was no way I could lift that big cross and help him, too. “Manny, we have to get out of here!”

“Not without the crucifix!” he shouted. He pulled at the altar cloth behind him and dragged the bultos on it toward him. Again, he started coughing.

I looked around, frantic. Then I spotted a square table in the corner. I rushed to it, turned it upside down, and slid it across the floor. “Let’s get you on this.” I reached down to turn him around.

“I can get on it myself! You get the crucifix!” He gathered the two bultos and the skull into a bundle and tied the ends of the cloth around them. He pushed down with both his hands and raised himself slightly off the floor, turning himself as he did so. He repeated this movement, edging himself over the lip of the table’s framework and cried out in pain as his broken thigh met resistance. I moved to help again, and he barked at me, “Get the crucifix, or I swear to God I will get up and get it myself!” He pulled the bundle onto his lap.

I hoisted the great cross again and carefully placed it beside him, then moved to the other side of the table. I leaned forward and—using the power of my legs—pushed on the upturned frame, sliding Manny, one thrust at a time, across the floor toward the door. This worked surprisingly well. The smooth adobe floor offered only a little friction, and Manny was reaching out with his hands on the floor to help, pushing each time I pushed. We developed a wrenching rhythm, each of us throwing our pain-filled voices into it as we
ahhed
and
ughed
our way across the shrine. Each time I inhaled—heat searing my airways—I blew out hard, using the same force to contract my abdomen and give everything I had to the push.