When the Owl Cries Part 31

"We never escape the past, do we?" he said.

The past accompanied him as he rode home. With Manuel, he rode across country, under ceibas and palm, the trail winding, sometimes across streams, sometimes through boulder-piled land. They talked about Pedro. The people at Mountain Rancheria reported he was living there, buying and selling guns. The rurales had to be informed. It was a six-day trip. Would they go after him?

White ibis and rosy spoonbill flew up from a small lake ... a blue heron sat on a dead and leafless tree, its wings outspread in the sun.

An alligator splashed away from the sh.o.r.e as the horses trotted along a sh.e.l.l-strewn beach.

"Do you remember this lake?" Raul asked.

"Sure. We shot a grandfather alligator here, years ago."

"I bagged a _tigre_ in the bush," grinned Raul, "a fast, running shot."

"There are no _tigres_ around now."

"I suppose not," said Raul. "We should go _tigre_ hunting, way up the volcano, where there are plenty of them. Let's try our luck one of these days."

Dismounting, they rested under _cocos de aceite_, a woodland of thousands of short-trunked palms. They nibbled tortillas and a coil of cheese, an armadillo scrabbling in the distance.

"I remember that when it rains here the gnats take over," said Raul.

"Ssh, see, over there," whispered Raul.

Regardless of men and horses, three racc.o.o.ns, one behind the other, filed toward the water. All stared at the ground, their tails low; the leader had an injured paw and limped badly.

"They're late for their food," said Raul.

"Something must have delayed them," said Manuel.

Raul dug for his pipe and filled it and Manuel rolled a cigarette and they lit from the same match. Again, something ignited in their eyes--they felt their close communion. Saddlebag under his head, Raul smoked, the smoke climbing and climbing, the _cocos de aceite_ completely windless.

A blue flycatcher lit on a mossy log, where it preened its wing and tail feathers lazily.

"Have you heard that the flycatcher is from Quetzalcoatl?" asked Raul.

"Yes, I've heard that," said Manuel.

"I wonder why the old G.o.ds died," Raul said.

"People say they died because no one cared any more. Why does anything die, Don Raul?" Manuel shook his head; he removed his hat and forked his fingers through his hair. Faced by his own question, he felt tired, old. The forest could answer that question. Bending over his cigarette, sheltering it, smelling it, he listened to the woods.

"We couldn't go on living, all of us," he said, exhaling after a long drag, the smoke flooding over his eyes. "Some of us must be lost, in jungles, in rivers, fall on the sides of mountains, take sick of fever, be buried in ruins and little roadside places."

"But the G.o.ds weren't buried," objected Raul.

"They were buried at Tenocht.i.tlan, at Monte Alban, at temples in Yucatan."

The flycatcher went on preening its lovely feathers.

Manuel lowered his voice: "Perhaps the old G.o.ds may return. I've heard it said...."

12

"I guess it was quite a party," said Fernando.

"Yes, Father."

"Who was there?"

"General Matanzas, Serrato, Roberto ... the Count, Jesus Peza, the Radziwills, Federicka ... several asked about you."

"Don't be so d.a.m.n' polite."

The old man screwed round among his pillows, his cot in the patio of the serpent fountain. Slouched among pillows and sheets, he resembled a beachcomber, a feudal derelict. Behind him hung one of Alberto's cages, an _azulejo_ fluttering inside. Columnar cypress sliced the sky.

Raul perched on a cane chair, his hat on the floor beside him. He had just returned from an inspection of the lagoon irrigation project, a job that would put fifteen hectares of land under cultivation.

"I saw your cancellations in the books," Fernando cried, the flames in his eyes starting. "I want those cancellations stopped." His voice sounded childish.

Raul did all he could to control himself: he fished out his pipe, nicked off scale, stared at it, silent.

"You can't alter our records," Fernando exclaimed.

"I'm not keeping our people in servitude," Raul declared.

"Will you free them?" Fernando cried, lips wide. "They'll kill you!"

"We've had them killed. Perhaps it's their turn."

"You talk like a madman!"

"Hasn't it been insane to think we can destroy and destroy and go on destroying?"

"We must eat," said Fernando foolishly. He wanted to see clearly: the d.a.m.n' sc.u.m floated about at any time, blocking, filtering; he rubbed his eyes.

"I'm going about the job of changing things as slowly as possible. The lagoon project is coming along. I've had the dam repaired in Sector 17. Petaca is being improved. Our people have a right to a better way...." He thought he could not go on defending himself, repressing his feelings. "You say we must eat. G.o.d knows we've never gone hungry, we Medinas!"

"Listen," Fernando said. "I've disposed of my mining shares in Pachuca Incorporated. The money is banked in my name now."

Raul had counted on the dividends for further improvements. He had counted on them as a financial buffer as well. His lips went white.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"You talk of improvements. I'll cut your income. I can control Petaca." Fernando's sheet billowed and sank back.