A Ballad of Love and Glory(113)
“Shhh,” she said, putting a finger on his lips, then she did it all softly again and again, her kisses on his face, a cascade of sweet-scented orange blossoms.
She took off her blouse and guided his hands to her breasts. She let out a moan, and that sound of pleasure helped him forget that he was a monster now. She wanted him. Despite everything, she still wanted him.
He lowered her onto her back, and she tugged at his pantaloons while he pulled off his shirt. He entered her hard, without holding back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to him with all her might, pulling him deeper inside. Her body spasmed with pleasure just as his own body shuddered, and he fell on her, breathing fast and hard. Then, suddenly, his body convulsed again, but in tears. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as he cried on her bosom. He thought about his men hanging from the gallows, of Patrick’s painful death. He thought of the guilt that was eating at him knowing that he, John Riley of County Galway, had led his men to their brutal deaths. He had robbed them of a future, of their families, of the love of a woman. What right did he have now to such things? What right did he have to love and be loved? To have a future with Ximena? To have a family?
I ought to leave her, he thought as his tears finally subsided. He pulled away from her arms and turned away, sat up on the edge of the mattress, and wiped his face dry.
“?Madre mía!” She gasped, and he turned around to look at her, wondering what had affrighted her so, until he realized what it was. His bare back. The skin had been torn open and shredded by the muleteer’s whip. She ran her fingers along his back, tracing every scar that zigzagged and crisscrossed like markings on a queer map, the geography of his pain and humiliation. The wounds of his lacerated flesh had healed, but they still rankled. As did the bitter memories of the Yanks.
She wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed his back again and again as she cried. It was her turn now to convulse in tears, her body shaking from sorrow and helplessness. He wanted to gather her in his arms and tell her that she oughtn’t cry, that he didn’t deserve her tears, her anguish. But he didn’t comfort her. He sat, unmoving, remembering that fateful day when Twiggs gave the order to strip and whip him, to brand him like cattle—not once, but twice. Double was his hatred now for the Yanks.
He couldn’t tell how long they sat like that, but she finally stopped crying and let go of him. She went to the altar in the corner of the room and placed fresh candles and copal incense before the statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe. She crossed herself and said a silent prayer. Soon, curls of incense filled the room with a piercing fragrance. She reached into her basket and took out herbs and jars and a few other things, and she came back with a tray and told him to lie down.
She rubbed his body with almond oil, her hands gliding across his chest, his arms, his legs. His muscles relaxed under her healing touch, the knots unraveling. She mumbled prayers in Spanish, entreating the Virgin, the saints, God himself, to relieve him of his burden and restore the lost piece of his soul. He surrendered to the sacredness with which she caressed his body with her eagle feather.
She took an egg and rubbed it over his body, beginning with his head, down his chest, his arms, the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet. The coolness of the egg against his skin soothed him. He remembered her telling him that eggs absorb negative energy and harm inside the patient. He had a lifetime’s worth of that. She gently swept him with the fragrant branches of epazote, and he inhaled and took it deep inside his being. She asked him to turn over and lie on his stomach. She was extra gentle on his back, touching him with compassion, and he wanted to tell her it no longer hurt, though he wondered if he might be lying. Perhaps his ragged wounds had healed, but he could still feel the pain as if he had been flogged yesterday. Her monotone voice rose above him in prayer, and he mumbled along with the words. He thought of the chapel where he’d received his first communion, his parents beaming with pride, Father Myles giving him the holy Host. And after, his friends and relations had gathered for a modest meal but with plenty of poteen that his father had made, and dancing and singing, his uncle playing the fiddle for the last time before the English hanged him in the gallows two weeks later. No! He pushed the memory aside and returned to Ximena’s prayers, to let her voice bring him back to the happy memories of his life. He wanted her words to take away the memories that hurt him like the thorns of a cactus buried deep inside. If she could yank them out, one by one, singe him over an open fire, peel him like a prickly pear, he could finally be free.
When she got to the last part of the cleansing, she rolled dried hemp leaves in a corn husk, lit it, and blew the smoke over him. As it hovered above him like a cloud, he thought of his cannons, of his gunners expertly firing at his command, the gunpowder smoke lingering over them, the cheers and hugs they gave each other when they hit their targets, decimating the Yankee ranks. That was how he would remember his men, Patrick Dalton by his side. All of them fighting under the green banner of Saint Patrick.
Exhaustion finally overcame him, and he felt himself drifting off to sleep. He felt comforted, reassured.
“I love you, John Riley,” she said as she pulled the blanket over him. She kissed each of his cheeks and tucked him in.
“And I you, lass,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her. “My heart will always be yours. Always.”
He closed his eyes again, and let sleep take him. No, he couldn’t leave her. As long as she wanted him, he would stay with her, do right by her and their daughter. He couldn’t let the Yanks destroy their love, destroy his family. But he knew he could no longer stay in this country. He could not make a home upon the soil where his men had been so brutally killed.