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.