The Plum Orchard

by Jonah Gruber
1. The Nurse Moran worked as a night nurse for twenty years. He had enjoyed the work immensely, sitting by the side of the old and listening to the their stories retold in their waning breathes. His life was full of meaning. When someone is dying, they find someone to trust, anyone, to sit with them and hear their stories, because they want their lives to be remembered. At first these stories are glorified dramatizations of the eras in which they lived. As they grow closer to death, as their mind weakens and they become ever more aware of their crumbling bodies, the stories take the form of confessions. They pour out their regrets in life, the ones they hurt, the ones they feel betrayed by, the moments that changed them for better or worse, the reduction of their families into singular emotions and feelings. Regrets, promises, and love. Moran would listen to these men and women, their stories would envelope him and eclipse his own modest life. One man, his favorite, was a sickly doctor who had wished throughout his life that he had become a writer. His attic was filled with scribblings, notebooks overflowing with observations and poems, obscure doodles and manifestos. Early on in their friendship he related his love of opera, and Moran would bring in vinyl records of the doctors favorite opera singers from the 1940s and 50s. The opera worked on Moran like incense in a cathedral, its crackling hiss lofting into the dark halls and into the vegetable garden and the cafeteria, where the Dominican janitor would take it as a cue to look out the window and think of his wife. One spring week Moran kept the windows and the drapes open so that breeze and moonlight could fill the room while Tito Gobbis baritone trickled into their bones. This living poetry made Morans life meaningful, so that he never took a wife or found the need for children. The doctor left in his will thirty acres of fallow land near the eastern border of Guatemala and Honduras, somewhere near Poptn, to be tended by Hugo Moran until he leaves this world. It was a strange bequest that angered the doctors estranged children. However, when they realized the land was remote and practically worthless, they found themselves blessed with charitable temperament, and so let the night nurse fly to Guatemala to set up claim. The doctor also left a generous trust to Moran, to be paid in five-hundred dollar monthly checks from a bank in Cleveland. There was enough to last him almost three years, and his life would be quite easy in Guatemala if he lived simply.

On his fortieth year, Moran arrived at Guatemala City airport and caught a series of buses headed toward the sleepy tropical town of Poptn, a rainforest enclave supported by little more than a military base and a collection of isolated farms, tourist traps and logging camps. It was during the storm season, but what did he know of tropical storms? For one, they did not deter the local bus drivers. The jefe drove at dangerous speeds, across unpaved and muddy roads, through sporadically gathered crowds of cigarette hawks, gum peddlers who would latch onto the side of the bus yelling Wrigley!, mango merchants, glue urchins, hungry stubbled men and prostitutes with sad smiles. Every now and then, as he got further from the city, he would see people on the sides of the road that he imagined to be real Mayans. Seeing them struggle through the rain, their oxen eyes looking terminally before them with their belongings hitched to their backs, he felt he had lived a wealthy life. He was poor for an American, but he was never very sick and always had food, so the twenty-dollar bill he had in his pocket filled him with shame. When he arrived in Poptn, in an act of compassionate spontaneity, he gave the money to a pregnant woman selling roasted corn to the passengers. She looked at him in what appeared to be shock. He realized later that she probably thought he was looking for a trick, and so he felt even more ashamed.

(Photo of Poptn outskirts by alphaknbrown )

The land was clearly being used by vagrants, and was now the commons for village waste, trash fires and wandering livestock. The dirt path cut right into the center of the property where there was a one-room shack, for living in, and a smaller dilapidated shack across a yard of fattened weeds, presumably for relieving oneself in. It suddenly occurred to Moran that he had not bothered to bring any of the trappings of a common jungle villager, and that before he could live here he would need to buy a machete. This was always Morans problem. He lived life in a dream and so was able to live freely from the constrictions of status and wealth, in a state that many might consider poverty. An unfortunate side effect of this was a lack of focus and determination, or the perpetual need for machetes. 2. Tito Moran hitched a ride in a sidecar with a motorcyclist into Poptn proper, which consisted of a row of bars, a motel and some brothels, with a singular general store advertising the wares of civilization in bright, hand-made signs. The town obviously existed impurely as a result of the army base, which grew like gangrene from an aggregate of warehouses and fortifications into a patchwork of shacks and shanty collectives. The gringos were not supposed to be here, but at places like the Ixtobel Hotel where they could look at wildlife and go tubing in a river. Still, they could be seen with their eyes either worried or glazed over completely, strolling along the dirty street, and always followed after by emaciated Mayan children looking for centavos and pieces of chocolate. Once inside Titos Tienda General, he saw a man who could only be the bearer of the stores name. A cross between a mobster and a saint or your own father, depending on what he wanted to get across. Tito looked Moran over, pressing a fat finger into his chin while he did this. Morans clean denims must have closed the deal, because Titos face lit up with the first genuine Guatemalan smile he could remember. Hello sir, welcome. Tito waved. He spoke to Moran in an oily English which made him think that he stored meat in his cheeks or beneath his tongue. Moran decided it was best to use English with him. He was aware that if he spoke in his second language, Tito might pick up his Mexican Spanish and choose to bestow a mysterious stereotype upon him, one that might command even less respect than his lingua Americano would. Bad rain here huh? You still wet. Tito said. Yeah the rain got me pretty good. Moran replied, genuinely happy that someone was finally engaging him. Ohhhhhhh. Tito sighed. This was an expression Tito would use a lot throughout the conversation to suggest a deep concern for Morans general well-being. Machetes are big business in Poptn, bigger than tobacco and rifles, and almost as big as prostitution. Rows of military issue machetes hung from the walls and filled buckets around the store. One thing that stood: Nothing was in the open, as if to suggest that everything was worth stealing, even the cans of Goya that colored the walls. Having

to ask a young man to retrieve a can of beans from a shelf was a new, humbling experience. When it was established that Moran was not a tourist, that he would not only be living in Poptn but was a landowner no less, Tito became ingratiatingly friendly. He yelled to some of his employees of Morans exceptional status, and it was at this point that he became aware of the hostility apparent in these young mens eyes, which had been locked on him the entire time. It was suddenly not such a nice thing to be talking to Tito. The fat man showed his teeth in a wide smile and turned to open a metal cabinet whereupon he retrieved a bottle of rum and included it, free of charge, in Morans purchases. For celebrating tonight. Tito suggested. Moran felt self-conscious taking out a wad of fresh Guatemalan quetzals he exchanged at the airport and had stored in rows in his underwear waistband. The place was suddenly frightening, and he could not wait to get back to his little dump in the country. He would not celebrate tonight. He suddenly felt very lonely and very stupid for coming to this terrible country. He was overtaken by nostalgia. That evening, he cleaned as much of the vagrant debris from his new home that he could. He threw a tarpaulin on the floor and laid his sleeping bag down, and saw himself in a broken mirror at the end of a rope. Thats what he deserved, at least. The wind brought forth another storm right as the tears started to fall, and this made Moran think that God was giving him permission to both be a man and to cry. He wept on and off for hours, like the flash storms above him, over every painful thing that had ever happened. These tears he choked down with the bottle of snake venom that Tito had given to him. He whispered at least God gave me a dry floor. This was his last thought before the humid languor of sleep overtook him. 3. Land

Moran awoke to the pain of a rooster pecking at his scalp. The roosters here do not doodle-doo in the morning. You piece of shit! The rooster was neither offended nor intimidated, and flexed his plumage proudly. Moran noticed that his throat tasted like stomach acid, but could not remember vomiting. He felt the pain in his muscles from passing out in a fetal position. The rooster pecked and pinched at his legs as he stood up. A swift kick sent it into the yard, where it conceded defeat and disappeared into the brush. The first order of business would be to repair the door which must have swung open during the storms, but that would require too much concentration. Moran wanted to hack away his pain, and so he took his machete and a bottle of water and a satchel of pork sausage and cheese and headed into the chaos of his new kingdom. He swung in deep sweeping motions. Hundreds of stalks collapsed in a hypnotic whoosh-fwik-whoosh-fwik rhythm, and this made Moran softly aware of the pleasure of labor and the wholesomeness of thoughtlessness.

Towards the evening, he saw what he had done. He had cleared fifteen acres all by himself in ten hours. This gave him a reason to smile. Now the house appeared to be a cabin and not a shack. Now this land seemed like a place where a man could really live. The road to the shack was now more visible, and some curious children had convened at the property to watch this strange man wage war with nature. Hey! he yelled, dropping his machete. The children would not judge him by his accent. The younger ones waved with smiles that warmed Morans soul, but the older ones, those who were soon to become men and women, continued to leer in the same way he had seen in the town. Even at such a young age their faces told stories of hard lives. For some reason he compared them to fruit that had lost its flesh, leaving only the pit, forever in the same shape. The older children began to continue along the road, pulling their siblings with them. What a sad place this is, he thought. He gathered the weed stalks in a great pile, and that night watched them burn and send angels up into the darkness, where they all seemed to be snuffed out at the same time, at the exact same place. Moran imagined a devil there being kept at bay by the flames, angrily swatting away the seraphic ashes he was sending into his kingdom. Why had his imagination become so active? Why was he suddenly seeing symbols in the simplest things? These things happen when you travel to a strange place alone. He drank some more of the venom, then splashed it into the holy flames. The fire disapproved with a sizzling belch that became muffled in the dampness. The land around him seemed to rumble all at once with an eerie susurration, but this could have been his drunken imagination once again. The next morning he was awoken by the bird again, only this time it did not peck him, it merely clacked and cooed near his face. It appeared to be waiting for his new master to wake up. Are we friends now? It affirmed this with soft clicks of its beak. He went to his neighbors that morning to introduce himself. They were poor and tired, like most of the farming families along the gravel road where he lived. They had only two hectares land, barely enough to eke out the simplest of lives, and most of this seemed to be dedicated to feeding a massive pig that wallowed in the warmth of a puddle of mud. The pig was the happiest person he had seen since he arrived. When they found that he lived on the large plot of land next to theirs, they were concerned. You live with the fantomas. The father said. You will need to awaken the well. The land has no water. Awaken the well. Funny way to say it. Moran thought. The man had not said it in a way that suggested anything other than simple digging, but the ghost part, that was different. The man said fantomas in the same way Morans brother would say bad guys when warning him about what streets to avoid when he was coming home from school. Dont go down Beech, theres some bad guys down there. He thought he had felt something around him last night, had woke up feeling like he had been touched beneath his clothing, and now it would be almost impossible to sleep without the use of alcohol or pills. Or maybe that priest.

Later they ate together. He brought over some canned meat and beans which they were dearly thankful for. He had never seen such joy over so little. That supper was spent mostly in warm silence. The grandma farted and everybody laughed. They laughed again when one of the children carried her favorite chicken to the table, but she began to cry when she was told to leave it outside. Besides this, very little sound but the sounds of spoons and the clatter of pots, then the insects that begin as a few loud and irritating chirps but sink into an pervasive static, a din inseparable from the air itself. The candles cast deep shadows in the room and softened the faces of the family. He felt that feeling of sacredness once again, like he was being placed by giant fingers in the sidelines of scenes that were important to history, like those you see in old paintings from schoolbooks. They did not allow him to sleep on his land that night. The father was generous with his home-stilled liquor, which smelled something like corn flakes and turpentine and probably acted similarly on his liver. They set up some blankets and straw in the childrens room, and that night he slept just like a child without a single care in the world. 4. Priest Moran had been so tired and drunk that he had slept in, and was embarrassed to see his hosts hard at work. The mother was washing her childrens clothes by hand. Not even his own mother washed clothes by hand. She was so poor that other Mexican ladies would look down at her in the parking lot, so he offered help. Of course, the guest does not help the mother of the house. And besides, she said, you have plenty of work to do today. He washed up and decided to take the tortuous muddy road to the new church that the family had described. The street they were now on was not on a map, and was simply called Sprite Street because of an old gas station Sprite soda sign one of the farmers hung on his porch for who knows why. The way they pronounced it was similar to the way one says spirit in Spanish, and again he felt eerie coincidences tug at his brain. After walking a half hour down Sprite Street a truck filled with soldiers from the base almost ran him off the road, but stopped abruptly. Perhaps it was his lighter skin that peeked their interest. A solicitation for a bribe maybe? Moran pretended not to think much of them and did not make eye contact, but he could feel their eyes on him, the same coldness he felt from the young men in Titos store. He tried to inch around the jeep, but it followed him at walking pace. This ritual went on for what seemed like many minutes, until the jeep skidded off and disappeared down the road, spraying mud onto his pants. He could just make out their laughter in the distance. The roads gradually became overgrown with weeds, until finally the verdant growth around him began to eclipse the power of the sun. He felt a comforting coolness descend upon him, and he could hear through the tangle of life the cooing of strange birds and the shuffling of unseen creatures among the trees. Somewhere a forest brook gurgled dimly, its low hum suggested it was in a nearby ravine. Near the church was a vast climbing growth of lachrymose Angels Trumpets, which Moran knew from his landscaping days.

He had been hired to clear yard waste from the city arboretum and he would always sneak away on breaks to study the plants. Angels Trumpet was a nightshade, known for its toxic as well as its hallucinatory properties, though the ones at the arboretum were

Flowers like Angels Trumpet growing wild near the Holy Church of the Conception.

orange and grew under the sun, not the shade. Maybe these were not Angels Trumpets at all.

For a church trying to hide from the tyranny of the local military, the priest could have chosen a less obtrusive paint job. The Holy Church of the Conception was brighter in its yellows and blues than the birds that he saw gliding between the trees. The door was slightly open, so Moran helped himself in. There were four rows of pews, which were nothing more than fallen rosewood trees that had been halved into benches and set on stands, and on the altar was a Virgin Mary surrounded by freshly lit candles and a kind of burning holy oil that he had never smelled before. He had lost track of time in the small, beautiful objects and idols he saw around the altar, and became acutely aware of a silence that penetrated the wild noises outside. May I help you sir? he heard a voice say. The accent was smooth and sophisticated like Castilian, but there was American there too. Im sorry. I didnt see anybody here. Moran said.

The man before him was unshaven and tired looking. He was sweaty, like hed been out working. He held in his hand a Colt .38 police issue revolver. This weapon he raised to Morans chest. Woah-- Im just looking for the priest-- Im a Catholic. he pleaded. You have found him. With this he put his pistol in his belt and his lips edged upwards into a slight smile. Were all pretty Catholic around here, but youre Mexican and American, which were all not. Yes father. Not many tourists come out here... And I apologize for this, he patted the pistol, but there are many people who do not respect the sanctity of the church. Stay for awhile, or if you must pray, then pray. The priest consummated his orders with a pardoning motion. Moran had momentarily forgotten why he had come in the first place. But Im not a tourist, I just moved here. Moran said. Oh? Thats strange. The priest rubbed his face in thought. He walked behind a black curtain and disappeared into another room. Moran was at a loss for what to do. Hello? he called out, and then crept through the curtain. The garage was dark save a couple kerosine lamps and a singular floodlight being shown upon the open trunk of a beaten GMC truck. The priest had a mechanics book laid open next to a towel, upon which was laid many tools and odd parts blackened with grease. They had been ordered in delicate rows, arranged by size and caliber, as if he were about to play a form of industrial chess. Why dont you work in the sunshine? You could kill your eyes. Moran asked. The priest disregarded him with a wooden rotation of his head. Where the fuck was that three eighth header bolt. I had it right round-- The priest moved his finger in a probing circle along one of the rows of bolts. It was just then that Moran noticed how gentle and slender the priests hands were, not at all matching the severity of his other features. Father, my stepdad had one of these old Jimmies, I could maybe take a look. he suggested. This relaxed the priest up a little, and he poured them both some cool white wine from a box. The priest told Moran his full name was Javier Juan Ignacio de la Rosa, and he had come from a rich Castilian family but had joined the clergy to avoid persecution from the Franco regime. When Franco died, he began to feel the calling, and left his wealth and comfort for the third world in order to do good deeds. The engine could not be fixed. There were numerous parts that were completely rusted and had cracked beyond repair. The battery pan was so corroded that acid had leaked into places where it definitely did not belong. After relating the bad news, Moran was able to breach the subject he had originally sought out to discuss. Some of the local farmers have told me that my plot is cursed. This he brought up sloppily, after a long but enjoyable silence in the priests little kitchen. They had moved on to warm boxed wine, and were feeling relaxed and honest.

Where is your land exactly? The priest asked with the same severity he had possessed when they first met in the altar room, which was unsettling to him, because he had thought the priest would not have taken the comment seriously at all. Moran handed over the crumpled scrap of paper with his address. I see. Yes, this land is cursed. The priest said matter-of-factly. Why is that? Moran asked with a disbelieving grin. He expected the priest to lighten up a little. A man of his education would not believe in these kinds of idle superstitions. In the last revolution, some terrible things happened on that land. A lot of blood was shed there. Some people were buried, some were burnt. the priest said. Moran was aghast. You mean to say I inherited a mass grave? Unfortunately, yes. Some time ago, some gringoes from the Guatemala Foundation and the UN came around here and asked us where the atrocities of the revolution happened. That plot of land was used to execute any priest, teacher, guerilla or campesino that got in the way of Montts* men, and they were simply left there in shallow pits for the worms and dogs. The foreigners dug up the dead and gave them a decent burial and donated a pittance to the national coffers to build a stone monument to them. Right on your land, in fact. Of course we never saw the memorial built, as the funds were appropriated for some kind of flood relief program-- which of course we never saw either! Anger was stirring in the man, anger he was probably used to drowning with cheap wine. He finished a cup in one swig and took a moment to gather himself. And there is still a problem. Every now and then we will find a dead prostitute or gangster there. A body of an organizer or a child from God knows where will turn up. Thats why they say its cursed. That land has not been tilled for over a decade. You know the Billy Holiday song Strange Fruit? I know it. Moran said. The words were hard to form, so it came out a whimper. Goose bumps formed beneath the sweat on his neck. He felt sick to his stomach. Thats what we get there. Strange fruit... Im surprised somebody owned that land, actually. Its likely you are awakening some unpleasant memories for these families by being there, Hugo. If I were you, I would go back to America. His sincerity turned to laughter. I think you might be the only Mexican ever to leave America for Guatemala. With this, they both laughed, but both men were aware of one anothers uncertainty. I think Im going to stay. Moran declared. Well, it must have taken you hours to walk out here. Why dont we listen to the radio and get more drunk, you can pass out on the cot. I have somebody coming to pick me up tomorrow and we can get this consecration out of the way. the priest said. Somehow this did not win over Moran. Maybe the cruelties of the war had caused the old man to lose his faith. Perhaps he wasnt even a real priest, or maybe a defrocked priest, or a corrupt plastic surgeon who had been chased out of Spain? I dont suppose you could spare some of those American dollars for our little church, could you? There is a lot work. Holes in the roof, vestments.

Yeah, of course. What have I got. Moran pulled out a folded wad of quetzals, Is a thousand enough? That would be adequate. The priest tucked the money into his belt. A harmlessly vulpine grin broadened across his face and he turned to fill their cups with more wine.

5. Festival Word spread like wildfire that the priest was going to be consecrating Morans farm. Moran was amazed to see so many people show up that afternoon. There must have been over a hundred strangers, all farmers, who had gathered on the road to watch the priest perform the ritual. Clearing the world of demonic forces was at least as interesting television, so why not? The priest began by addressing the crowd, and by thanking Moran for inviting him. Hugo Moran has come to till this land, and while the Devil is strong, God is stronger! The people watched, some seemed worried, some doubtful. Was God really stronger? The ritual would have to be completed in order to prove it. Moran was mortified. The priest raised a bible and spoke in Latin incantations. What followed was, at least superficially, not terribly exciting. The priest walked the perimeter of the plot, dousing the soil and weeds in holy water. A pleasant smelling incense filled the air, and somehow the place seemed to feel lighter. God, please bless this land that has been used by the Devil to undo your good works on this Earth. Bless Hugo Moran. Bless the people who work this soil and protect them from evil. Bless them with good health and help them live in your light. By the power of God clean this land of sin and let all who have suffered here find peace. May Mary embrace the women and the children who have died here. May God have mercy on the men who cause suffering on the Earth and may Christ shepherd them to goodness! Amen. Amen. the people said. Amen. Moran whispered. Let us rejoice in Gods work. the priest said. The crowd began to cheer, but Moran could not break the spell that was over him. It was like he himself had just been consecrated. This was the first moment of his life, and he was a newborn that had not yet had its first breath and needed to be hanged upside down. Each farmer came to shake his hand. He began to tear up, and then weep uncontrollably, and the people wept also and put their arms on him and laughed. He had never known such pure happiness. Later in the evening more farmers showed up, and a party took shape. Some soldiers and police arrived too, only it seemed these were not the bad ones, and may have even been related to some of the farmers. They danced with the women and got drunk on the thick maize liquor that was being poured out from large plastic buckets. Some of the soldiers began cutting down weeds and hurling bales of the stalks into a huge bonfire.

Musicians began to play festive songs, and Morans neighbors slaughtered the poor pig that had been so happy all its life. They roasted it on a fire and they shared it with everyone there, so in the spirit of sharing many of the peasants sacrificed extra grain and eggs and chickens and cans of soup or whatever they had. It was complete, harmonious chaos. Moran noticed his rooster was frightened because the soldiers were trying to catch it, so Moran picked it up and told them it was his rooster and they should be more respectful, to which all the soldiers laughed. He carried the rooster around the festival more drunk than hed been in years. The farmers began joking that it was his date, and the joke spread. There is Hugo Moran with his sweetheart! So Moran named his new husband Amado. Sweetheart. The singer among the musicians began improvising a song about Morans love affair with Amado, and it was the funniest thing Moran had ever heard. This is what Heaven is, it is being around such love and life and moving on from pain. Moran thought. He spotted a girl no older than sixteen or seventeen in the crowd who caught his attention with her smile and kept it. She looks like a supermodel. was his first thought, but he immediately felt cheap and ugly at bringing such an unsophisticated American expression into this world. He couldnt help but stare at her. She was divinely beautiful. He could sense the years creeping up on him, but he also felt warm in his oldness. Many men tried to dance with her, but she said no to all of them. He felt a paternal and protective spirit overtake him. She should be careful. Slowly the sun crept up and people began shuffling away. The women tried to round up their husbands. The soldiers almost had a fight with the police, but the priest broke it up, and they forgot why they were angry. Some men fell asleep drunk by the fire. They had tore the boards up from Morans well for the fire and were drinking water from it. One of the prostitutes had invited herself into his cabin. Her name was Rosa. They kissed a bit and cuddled, but they were both too drunk to do anything more. In the morning she kissed his cheek and promised that Amado would never find out about what they had done. She went back to the town in a truck full of soldiers. His land was a happy mess. The many feet had stomped the ground into muddy ruin, but the people had done much of the work in clearing the rest of the land for him, which was a good enough trade, and the mountain of ashes from the bonfire would make excellent fertilizer. He took a hung-over stroll across his plot to the remaining brush, where he spotted a small tree, almost dead from a deprivation of sunlight, about four foot tall and arched over so that its top was in the dirt. Moran introduced himself. Good morning, tree. He propped the tree up by tying it to a loose board with rope, then he got a bucket and washed the trees leaves of dirt, then cut off the dying branches. He didnt know why he was being so nice to it. It was not going to survive the next big rain, and it was a miracle that it was able to live beneath the fronds of hungry weeds for so long in the first place. The tree had soft, purplish leaves, and he thought it might be a North American

Plum, but this was unlikely. Quite possibly the tree was a volunteer carried over by a trick in the weather. The metaphor was not lost to him, and he thought again that there were mysterious forces at work. The tree looked as if it had fought many wars with the local insects but didnt have much more to feed them with, just a few branches of viable leaves. He swore to himself that he would make the tree live. He surrounded it with stones to mark its home, and gathered some of the priests candles and lit them there. Then he took a bottle of soapy water and splashed the leaves and bark to kill off any eggs or bugs. He surrounded the base of the tree with a thick circle of salt to ward off the millions of voracious snails and slugs that inhabit the forest. You are the only person here that comes from the same place I do. The tree said nothing back. Hes started talking to himself a lot. When you are alone and you talk to yourself, you always have company, especially if you are the kind of person that believes that what trees think of you is important. 6. The Police Captain The following few days after the party Moran spent cleaning up. He had supper with his neighbors almost every night. He began to grow very close to them. Being with them made him not miss home so much, and it was truly wonderful to be around children that so valued the presence of an uncle. None of them were concerned about video games or clothes. They were disciplined and kind. Sometimes Father Javier would show a an old Buster Keaton film in the church and the children would go crazy over it. What a spoiled man Hugo Moran is, how sad Americans are. He thought this, but there was no shame this time. He was now totally detached from the constrictions of identity that plague people in the modern world. Moran would tell the children stories he had gleaned from the bedsides of the nursing home, with a great deal of embellishment, and they hung on to every word. Often times other families would be present for supper, so word got around that Moran was a masterful raconteur. He was in a sense living the dream of his benevolent patron, the doctor. His neighbors were being eaten out of house and home, and after they had been so helpful in preparing him for a farmers life, so he gave them enough money to buy a dozen chickens and a hen house. The husband did not want to accept it. It was against the rules to take advantage of a neighbor. After all, neighbors must help one another, it is how the world works. Moran knew that he had insulted the mans pride, so he said it was just a loan and that maybe he could pay him back if he had a bumper harvest. The husbands pride was not so satisfied. The farmer became aware of how poor he was, and felt shame in that. This will help us Hugo, thank you. He said. The husband knew he needed the money badly, but being very aware of need and having what is needed is sometimes worse than needing and not having. Dont feel bad-- I want Amado to have more girlfriends. They smiled, and everything was okay after that.

The gossip had gotten around that Moran was putting the land to work. On one particularly hot day, the kind of tropical afternoon that seems to hold the moisture in the air, where the mosquitoes congress into blooming black clouds, a detachment of policemen appeared on the gravel road leading up to his cabin. An older, portlier man stepped forward. What is your name? asked the most decorated one. Hugo Moran. Is there something I might help you with? Are you aware that this land is condemned? the sergeant asked. Yes, well, it was, but the priest was here and he saved it. Moran said. Do you think thats funny? asked the sergeant. Moran had meant no joke by it. He had been spending too much time in outer space. This was serious, ground level business. Im sorry. I had no idea, but I think youve made a mistake. This is my land. This land belongs to the Federal Government of Guatemala, sir. Thats impossible, I was left this land in a will. Let me see the will. I dont have a copy of the will, but I have the deed. Let me see the deed, then. the sergeant replied, with pronounced irritation. The sweat on their bodies was thick, like paste, and you could hear everywhere the drone of insects mating and hunting and trying to find one another. They all paused to wipe their faces and necks with bandanas. In such heat it is always acceptable to halt a conversation in order to recognize one anothers shared pain. For those necessary moments of grooming there is always a truce. Ill get it. At this point the two deputies began to perambulate the farm. One disappeared into the shed, while the other wandered off across the clearing, trying to appear useful or forbidding, but pausing awkwardly in the open to figure out where he was going. Moran entered his cabin, and the sergeant invited himself along. No warrants here, no privacy. He supposed he couldnt protest in any case, since if what the sergeant said was true it wasnt his cabin at all. Quite a setup you have here, Mr. Hugo. The sergeant observed, and began twiddling with Morans radio, lifting up books, looking for something, or perhaps he was just applying the intimidation of authority for its own sake. Moran produced the deed, which the sergeant merely glanced at, and with a nod he then said that he was going to have to take him down to headquarters. Do you have to handcuff me? Ill go willingly. Moran pleaded. This is just the protocol. What am I being arrested for, exactly? They did not find it necessary to respond. Did they want a bribe? He didnt even know if they were real police. What followed was a fast, bumpy and intense ride in an SUV. His windows were blacked out, so he had no idea where they were taking him.

At the police headquarters, Moran was escorted into a small, cramped office. Somewhere nearby a man was yelling in slurred, drunken Spanish, which reverberated eerily against a metal door. These words were laden with ixls and atls. Bolo Indian fuck, the warden muttered in the lobby, which Moran could see plainly through the open door of the office. The warden appeared drunk himself, and was in recline, paging through a comic book. Moran didnt know what bolo meant.

The sergeants citation.

The sergeant came in and removed Morans handcuffs. He sat down at his desk and rolled a form of some kind into the typewriter. Mr. Moran, this deed is no good. What do you mean its no good? Moran asked. That land was repossessed by the government last year, in February, Im sorry. Okay-- so what am I going to do. First, you have to pay a fine for starting a fire on government property. And if you wish to farm this land, you will have to pay a development fee and estate tax. The sergeant said, only he did so as if ashamed, or perhaps just unsure of what he was saying. It was quite obvious these laws were not exactly carved in stone. I should have known this would happen. Moran whispered to himself in English. How much. He was getting irate. The fine for the property damage is five-hundred quetzals... One moment.

The sergeant began typing, apparently copying information from Morans passport onto the form. The sergeant yanked the sheet from the typewriter after an extended bout of painfully lethargic field entry, then reached it toward Morans hand. Property damage? But Im fixing the property, not damaging it. he said. You should be pleased that you are not being charged with arson, yanqui, because that carries a prison term, you know? the sergeant intoned. Moran reviewed the form. It was a generic criminal report form, with blank areas where the officer could type in an offense, and right below that a punishment. A citation number had been made up on the spot and entered at the top. Passport information was wantonly written at the bottom, in a spacious notes section. It was as if a child had decided to create a criminal offense record with his playmates as part of a make believe game of cops and robbers. Moran had to use every grain of his being to repress his laughter. May I keep this? Moran asked. The absurdity of it was too much to bear. Yeah, you have to keep it. replied the sergeant, and was somewhat surprised at his prisoners turn of mood. Now there is the issue of the development fee. The sergeant continued. He scratched his head and wiped his sweaty fingers on his collar. Once again he broke eye contact. For a man like this to beat around the bush... He began to explain through tired lumps of time a circuitous law that made little sense. He then got up, handcuffed Moran to a chair, and left the room. Where are you going! Whats happening? Moran panicked. I have to speak with my superior. Jesus Christ. This is unbelievable. Moran waited there for an hour and thirty-eight minutes and nine seconds. He knew this because he watched the clock. He also watched a mosquito, the same one each time, land somewhere behind his back and steal his blood. Eventually he got too tired to resist. It kept leaving, flying to a corner, then coming back, just to take a little more. He heard its buzzing descend upon him one more time, just as the larger mosquito arrived and removed his handcuffs. Come with me, the captain wants to see you. the sergeant said. This is not right. This the sergeant ignored. This room was nicer. It was cleaner and far more capacious, and there were attractive handmade furnishings made of dark rainforest woods instead of metal military issue furniture from the 1980s. Objects of Mayan origin were scattered about, though there was something cruel about their exhibition, a colonial collection rather than an expression of pride or beauty. Framed photographs of politicians and generals took up a single section of wall, and this worsened Morans alienation. Several small desk fans cooled the air in various strategic cooling points of the room, but it hardly helped. A great Guatemalan flag was spread across the wall behind the captains desk which expanded the rooms obtusely fascist look.

Mr. Moran, Im Captain Aguilar, please sit. the captain said. Their hands clasped together, and Aguilar made certain to embrace Morans hand with both hands, as if to convey his heartfelt condolences. I apologize for the way youve been treated, and for this terrible business in regards to this land. Thank you. Look, sir, Im tired, and thirsty, and hot, and Id like to go home. The captain poured a glass of iced tea, which Moran drank rapaciously, finishing with a gasp. Again, Im sorry. My men are not smart men, theyre local men who needed work, and I gave it to them. Im from the city, I trained in police work in the city. I have a college education. Do you have a college education? When the captain asked this question Moran drifted from his body. He began to feel like he was no longer sitting there, but watching from behind a film camera on the side of things. At any moment, somebody would say Cut. Great, now this scene is done. His muscles were light, like strands of boneless sinew without any relation to a total form. No, sir. I was a landscaper, and then a nurse. A male nurse? Yes sir. Is this normal in America? It is not abnormal, sir. Moran said, but the captain furrowed his brow, because he must have sensed that he was being subtly belittled. Do you regret it? Not getting to school? Not often. I have a child in a school, in Mexico City, not too bad, cheaper than American school... Aguilar divulged, though Moran couldnt think of anything to say to this. There was silence, awkward for Moran, but not so much for the captain, who scrutinized him in such a way that it appeared he was executing some mental sentence, the final judgment that could not be appealed. Well, about your land. You see, we require a development fee of five thousand dollars in order to convert it from government property into an agricultural zone. Captain Aguilar said, and he looked over some papers, though these papers probably didnt matter, and this continued adherence to this charade made Morans blood boil. Thats insane. I mean, I dont have that kind of money. Thats about forty thousand quetzals, thats a fortune. And for such a small unused plot? Cant you waive it? Or reduce it? Why do I have to pay in dollars anyway? Because its a federal fee, we do it in dollars, because of the fluidity of the exchange rate, we require dollars to fulfill the requirements of the fee. He replied, and it was obvious that fluidity and exchange rates had nothing to do with it, just greed. Well, I cant possibly pay it. So Im screwed. Moran shifted morosely to the side, and came eye to eye with a stuffed jungle rodent of some kind, extended in a permanent, frozen pounce in the corner of the room.

The Tepezcuintle. The locals eat them, though they are little more than giant rats. interrupted the captain. Moran looked into the glass eyes of the Tepezcuintle and felt like he, too, was a Tepezcuintle. What am I going to do. Moran mumbled. The captain swiveled in his chair and peered out the window, then turned to face Moran. I tell you what I can do for you. I can reduce this fee to a monthly payment of, say-- two hundred dollars, starting today, to be paid to an officer of the law on the first of every month. I see. So Ill be paying rent to live on my own land. This was not a good idea, as Aguilars disposition turned severe. Lets not get aggressive, yanqui. It is not your right to get aggressive here. You dont understand this place, or how things work, so I have to help you. Its a dangerous place, and you are an outsider. There are rebels here, gangsters, poachers, pimps, and yes, even the police can be dangerous, though not my men. Thus far, you have yet to impress upon me your ability to live safely in our town... Moran looked above the captain at the great flag of Guatemala, a peaceful blue and white cloth with a flamboyant bird in the center sitting atop a coiled scroll, behind which were two crossed rifles and two crossed sabers. The captains head was positioned in such a way that it appeared that the bird was resting on his head and the swords and rifles were sticking out of his ears. Of course, Im sorry. Youre right. Moran noted. ...And theres another thing I wanted to bring up, and that is your relationship with this priest, Javier de la Rosa. He is the most dangerous of all. Im just giving you a warning. You dont want to get involved with this man. Theres good reasons why he lives alone, out in the trees... Captain Aguilar, are you forbidding me to see Father Javier? He is my friend. Of course this was not true. He hardly knew the priest, but he felt it necessary to preserve some of his dignity by manufacturing a bond that did not exist. By not betraying Father Javier he was more in control of his own destiny, instead of handing it over to this monster, who was now coming off as a banana republic generalissimo from central casting. Friendship is legal in this country, Mr. Moran, but he will only bring you trouble, and that is a promise. He is an outsider too, and he has ideas about the way things work, and some of those ideas are almost criminal, and some are just ignorant, and some, well, they almost border on treason, but maybe thats too harsh a word for that old Spanish bolo-- Are you a socialist, Mr. Moran? the captain paused for a moment, but the question came off as rhetorical. In any case, we have our own old church right here in town you know, right across the boulevard from my window in fact. You should comfort your spirit there. Its a closer walk, and its closer to God. The captain laughed at his own joke. Moran wasnt sure if the captain had intended to denounce the sanctity of Javiers distant church or if he had intended to compare himself to God.

Moran could only nod. He was now too frightened to talk. In his tiredness and irritation he had been stupid enough to forget how vulnerable he was. As if, somehow by virtue of his nationality, he was awarded certain rights. But the rights of the yankee dissolve out here, out in the real world. Who would care if an expatriated chicano died out in the jungle anyway. How did they know about Father Javier? So he was being watched, so be it. Later, a police escort took Moran to the local bank, where he cashed some of his travelers cheques and paid off three months of the captains extortion. On the ride home, Morans mind was racing. I guess a bolo is their word for a drunk. Moran thought. And thats what he wanted to be for the rest of the day.

7. The Girl in the Forest The next day was just as hot. Moran slept his hangover off until late afternoon, then decided to head into town to Titos for supplies. While walking down the main avenue that leads right to the heart of Poptun he passed many brothels. Soldiers and the occasional gringo tourist wandered by, the tourists being slightly ashamed about the process whereas the soldiers entered and left with a kind of routine nonchalance, as if they had just assembled their rifles and were ready to march. Moran also felt the lure of the prostitutes. A group of them grabbed his arms and tried to coax him indoors, but his sadness at their plight overtook his need for intimacy, or was it just a need for a release? He didnt care to think about it, because he knew that, as a man barely forty years old, he needed a woman. Travel itself stimulates sex, as each place offers new kinds of beauty and the adrenaline of danger filtered into arousal, but before now he had been able to work it off in the fields, and had been sick with the usual digestive ailments that besiege a persons body when they first arrive in the tropics. But now the work was done, at least until the rainy season ended, and now there was only himself and his thoughts. A clap of thunder drew him back from his mind. It was about to come down in sheets, so he hurried past the rest of the brothels and tenements. Tito was not there, and that was a relief. He had had his fill of local despots. There were different men there this time, but they acted the same as those rough types he had seen the first day he arrived. Their cold eyes locked on him. A massive air conditioner chilled the place, pumping hot air out into the street over those less fortunate, but under these circumstances it only brought out the coldness of his company. Moran had thought ahead and had made a list of things he wanted, so he wasnt standing there pointing at every little article that took his fancy, like some idiot off the bus. He handed the list over, and twenty minutes later the clerks had compiled his order near the register. His eye kept wandering up to a rifle for sale behind the counter. He hoped that they did not see him looking at it. He imagined at that moment pointing it

right to Captain Aguilars head and blowing his brains out all over his Guatemalan flag, with particular detail given to the bits of pink brain splattering all over the place. How much is that old Browning up there? You want guns? We got lots more than that. the clerk said, and he was suddenly excited. Now he was selling guns, not beans, and that was exciting. I think I might... Moran said. Look, you want a rifle? Look. the clerk leapt to his feet and sorted through a ring of keys on his belt. He opened a wide steel locker behind the counter. See, weve got more. Yeah? The clerk snapped his head back and forth between the weapons and his customer. Moran reluctantly shifted over, and indeed there were a wide variety of killing tools there. Pistols, both automatic and revolving, short carbine assault rifles, an AK-47, even a grenade, though that may have just been a display item to entice the connoisseur. I think just the Browning? And a box of .308, please. said Moran, but felt out of place saying it. The clerk shrugged. He was now carrying a rifle, and he thought every eye in the world was on him. The flash rains had ended and mud was everywhere, and there was something about a rifle slung over his shoulder and mud all over his pants; people seemed to respect him more, some soldiers even nodded at him, when before they saw him as little more than a yanqui. Now he was a man, and decided not to hire a lift home, but to walk like a true Guatemalan. Once out of the city he loaded it, reveling in the noise. Clack, chink, clickclick. He fantasized about all the game he would hunt and eat and share with his neighbors over a spit.

When he returned, Amado went crazy. Whats wrong? Amado was pecking at his feet and cackling. Moran picked him up and kissed him, but Amado bit his lips. Whats the matter with you? Over at his neighbors place he heard a roosters call. They had bought their own cock to be the master of their new henhouse. Amado crooned, and a competition began between them. Oh, I see what youre angry about, he must have forgotten. Im sorry Amado. Ill talk to him tomorrow and see if we cant get you a job. Okay, okay, shut up now. The two would drive him crazy throughout the night and into the morning. He planned to get a pack of supplies together and take his new rifle into the jungle to see what he could find. If anything he wanted to finally explore the rainforest before the rainy season broke open. The locals said the jungle was impossible when the rain season really got underway.

His neighbor was very apologetic, almost obsequiously so, and seemed discomforted by Morans rifle. He had messed up, and after Moran had been so good to him. The farmer chased after his new rooster, picked it up and snapped its neck. Im sorry, I was not thinking from this crazy heat. Here, please. the farmer said, and handed him the flaccid rooster by the neck. You really didnt have to do that, I wish you didnt. Moran bowed his head and said why dont you keep it. Here he was about to go shooting up the forest and he was on the verge of crying over a dead chicken. Are you sure? Please, its yours. The American was a strange man, maybe even a little crazy, and the farmer was worried for him. Moran did not want to look at the bird. Are you going hunting now? Be careful. Stick near the logging roads. There are rebels, soldiers, poachers, all kinds of things. They will shoot you for your rifle. Really? Does that happen often? Not often, but sometimes. The farmer nodded. Should I be frightened of the soldiers? Yes, the farmer thought for a moment, The normal soldiers are mostly alright, they might want a bribe, because they live here, but the kaibiles used to kill thousands of campesinos, now they just kill sometimes, usually because of drugs or money. They are corrupt. Lots of them were told to leave after the war ended, and they have nothing to do to make money. The Kaibiles, Moran learned, were the elite Guatemalan commandoes that caused much of the genocide during the regime. Their headquarters were right here in Poptun, though he had not yet seen any of them. They are reputed to be able to spend weeks in the jungle without supplies, and are the most feared special forces in Latin America, engaging in notoriously cruel rituals of animal torture to prove their courage. They have been linked to dozens of human beheadings across this part of the world, and were genuinely the most frightening thing he had come to learn about his new country. Moran thanked him and disappeared down Sprite Street. He continued walking an hour into the forest where the road dissipates into smaller muddy trails on which mobs of workers tread each morning to tear down whatever they can find thats worth anything. This great swath of land, partially connected to the Maya Reserve, a contiguous impenetrable jungle that links to the wilds of Chiapas, was technically protected by the government, but it was almost impossible to stop the hungry and greedy who sought to exploit it. Deeper into the murk and swelter of the rainforest he kept feeling a gaze on his back, and would swivel to face his watcher, only to find a swaying leaf or tiny bird flitting about. He couldnt tell if this was just the fear the farmer had instilled in him or if there really were dark brown figures disappearing into the thicks of leaves. He had brought everything that a survivalist could carry, just in case of an emergency. Even so he felt confident that he couldnt possibly get lost so close to the tourist centers or the logging roads. But he had been hours out there in the black brush beneath the canopies, and could swear he knew his way back to the main road, until he

came across a narrow, calm river that he had not intended to. The first thing they tell you is how easy it is to get lost in the jungle, and here he was. Stories abound of tourists losing their way only a half-mile away from a road or camp, walking in circles, contracting trench-foot and dying of gangrene or being carried off by a jaguar in the middle of the night. Moran began to panic. It started as a small creeping anxiety in the back of his neck. As he followed the bank of the river, which is what one is told to do in cases where one is lost, the panic crept into his stomach and soon began to take hold of his thoughts. He could not determine a course of action, and so he stood there staring at nothing for some time, chewing his lip and drinking water from a canteen. He called out for help, though it was as if the river was devouring the sounds around him. Perhaps this part of the river was evil. The survival guides say to always maintain your cool, to focus on a single goal. He had to chase all these disturbing thoughts from his head, because the natural would destroy him faster than the supernatural world could. An hour passed as he carried along the river. His socks were soaked and his feet began to itch, so he hunched on a log to dry them with a rag and some hikers foot powder. The most important thing in the jungle is to keep dry, because the jungle wants to corrode the flesh and take it over, to break it down with fungal flowerings and parasites and return it to the soil. A high pitched buzzing cut into the silence. It was coming from somewhere deep in the trees, and he had to decide whether or not it was wise to charge toward it, with what remaining light there was, or to stay along the relative safety of the river where he could be almost sure to find people eventually, but this could be hours, or days. Or it could be never. For all he knew he had walked miles into the Maya Biosphere and hed never be heard from again. His map turned out to be useless. He was stuck in the middle of a crisscrossing network of minor rivulets and distributaries of the great Machaquila, so finding exactly where he was proved prohibitively difficult as he was within a mile of any one place and thus on one of three completely separate banks. He sensed the humidity around him coalescing into a pall of rain clouds. If he got stuck in a flash flood, he could very likely die. He put his boots on and followed the sound through the gloaming. Moran did not stop, nor did he think. He hacked away with his machete, slipping in the mud and cutting his skin in the falling bramble, only to swear and bounce back on his feet. Very slowly the sound, which he could now clearly make out to be that of a chainsaw, became louder, and had the effect of mooring the human aspects of his brain to reality. It often surprises people who are lost in the wilderness just how quickly they become wild. To have only an echo of humanity, a forsaken tool, even a piece of somebody elses trash, is sometimes enough to return a person to sanity. As he made his way forward he could hear human voices shouting in Spanish, and observed a thinning in the canopy and a thickening of the carbon hungry foliage and smaller trees that characterize areas of jungle that have been ravaged by slash-and-burn deforestation. He picked up his pace now, and became careless in his thrust for safety.

Over here! Silence. What if they had been logging illegally, and fearing that he could get them in trouble, were now hastily making their getaway? It would take another thirty minutes at least just to machete his way a hundred yards to the work camp. There was no promise that they would wait for him, or that they even cared. He then began to panic, only now he was worried about how he would be greeted, or if he would find a camp at all. He blitzed forward nevertheless with his machete in full swing. Then Moran was overcome with a searing pain so severe that he froze in place and screamed. It was a primal, simian shriek. He felt like he had been sliced open. The pain stretched from his shins to his neck, a burning, malevolent, infernal pain. There were a thousand things that could cause such pain in the forest, but he assumed he had stepped on a nest of bullet ants, the sting of which are considered the worst of any insect in the world. His mind reeled. Perhaps he had been shot by a poisonous dart, and he was soon to be eaten by cannibals. He frantically convulsed through the leaves, trying in vain to brush off whatever had attacked him. Dear God! Help me! Help! Again he screamed. Fearing that he was now covered in ants, Moran dropped his machete and blitzed through the brush toward the logging encampment. The burning continued to spread. Even in the looming darkness he could make out the silhouettes of engorged appendages, digits dangling helplessly. He was suddenly aware that he was in a thicket of enormous fanlike leaves, only these were not nettles of any kind he had ever seen, as they stretched ten feet over his head and their stalks were like wood rather than fiber. He struggled with his pack and removed a flashlight. Mottled red and white bumps rose from every inch of his hands and his fingers protruded from his palms like bloated red cigars. Hey brother! Youre in a bunch of chichicaste. Wha?! Moran could not reliably form consonants through the burnt paralysis of his lips. He was slightly aware that his mouth was dangling open and strings of saliva were dripping to the ground. Mala mujeres, chichicaste! the man yelled. You crazy fuck! What are you doing in there? echoed another man, a less inviting voice. The mocking tone of this second one angered him. Moran then heard the voice of a young woman, a pleading voice, but he could not make out her words. He warbled incoherently. He was quite certain he was going to die. The chichicaste had poisoned his blood to the point that his brain was consumed with fire. He was burning from the bottom up, from the inside out. His flesh was a useless conflagration of helpless ligaments. His hands quivered uncontrollably as if he had just withdrawn them from boiling wine. God help me, I cant move! Dear God! Morans tortured voice filled the darkness, which had now fully congealed over the remnants of the day. Then the sky broke and the tempest finally came down. In the distance, Moran could hear the voices of many people, yelling, scattering. A trucks engine turned. You cant move?! asked the nicer man. No! Please help me! Dont go!

American? Youre an American? yelled the other man that Moran now despised, and this was a question he couldnt even answer. Was he American? No, he was a wave. A wave that was bright and high, somewhere on an ocean of fire, and it was pulsing, then bouncing off a scorched coast that was black and made of bones, and that wave was followed by another wave, then another. Hold on brother, Ill come get you! Dont move into the chichicaste, you can go blind! If it gets in your eye, dont touch your eye with your hand, or your mouth! interrupted the saint. The man said more words, but they were swallowed by the static flush of rain. He had already touched his mouth, which would explain the acidic burning he felt in his lips and gums. Blind. Blind. Blind. Moran whispered to himself. He shut his eyes and felt the tears well up. The raindrops stung him as they agitated the flesh and mixed the poisons in his skin. His chest began to become heavy, his breath felt adhesive and damp, and the pressure of inflamed lymph nodes constricted his throat. He would die right here, a hundred feet from civilization, of some bizarre and ridiculous allergic reaction, suffering the most intense pain a human being can possibly feel, and that was life. He heard sounds. People sounds. And then things got dark. Moran awoke naked by the yellow light of a fire. Shadows were dancing in a nightmarish tableau across a wooden wall of some kind. He was feverish, the pain still unbearable. His muscles, skin, bones, all seemed to scream at different frequencies. It was absurd, but he was alive, maybe, or maybe this was what hell was. He saw himself lined up in a row of burning people, each watching the shadows of other burning people on the wall, paralyzed, naked, with the voices of Aztec and Toltec and Mayan and Zappatec and Chinatec and Incan heathens whispering prayers to their gods. Somebody was whispering in a new way, and his mind began decoding the language. That wasnt Aztec. It was a tribe that was killed by the name of a conquistador that he could remember if he tried. Suarez? Is that one? Someone will come soon and burn his eyes out with a hot poker. Its Captain Aguilar, the Devil, hes eating boiled rats and offers Moran one. He was being sodomized by Tito, who was covered in olive oil. The olive branch is on the Guatemalan flag, surrounded by swords and rifles. Where was his rifle? He left it on Earth. His eyes were hot and itchy and he wanted to scratch them out of his skull. When he moved, his flesh united in pain against him. Then an angel appeared. It was the beautiful virgin girl from the party on his farm. Moran knew she was from Heaven when he saw her the first time. The angel came to rescue him from Hell. A wetness happened on his chest, above his heart, where she touched him. It was wet and felt good and took the heat away from where she touched. Her face moved above his. Are you feeling better? the angel wanted to know. Moran turned his head away from the shadows. He saw a shaman. Also some men, who looked concerned. He saw some ladies who seemed like good women, their faces were plump and round. The angel took him out of hell. A piece of silk grew in his blood, and it cooled him more. His eyes turned into metal and closed.

The next days were spent in a fever. The heightened pain from the chichicaste had dissipated, leaving only a blanket of blisters and welts across the front of his body, but now he was under a different sickness. The girl who had helped him was named Elvia, and her father and uncle had brought him back to his cabin and spent the night tending to him. She served him bitter teas and treated his welts with a cool paste that had the consistency of liquid latex.