A Ballad of Love and Glory(83)

“We would gladly take you, hija,” the old Madre said to her when Ximena shared her thoughts with her one day. “But your heart belongs to capitán Riley, and it will always be so. Especially now that you’re carrying his child.”

Ximena was taken aback. She put a hand on her belly and looked at the Madre, knowing she spoke the truth. In her distress, she hadn’t paid attention to the signs—the queasiness in her stomach, the retching in the mornings, her missed cycles.

“Yes, hija, I’ve been watching you,” the old Madre said. “The babe belongs with its father as well. But above all, it cannot be brought into the world out of wedlock. You can’t suffer the poor creature to pay for your sins. Some of our priests will be traveling to Mexico City to visit the archbishop. I can inquire if they have a seat in one of the carriages for you, perhaps you can travel with their attendants. And with your skills as a healer, they might not protest the presence of a woman.”

“Thank you, Madre. I appreciate your kindness. But I don’t yet know what I will do.”

Afterward, Ximena sat in the courtyard, thinking about what she’d just learned. When she was a child, she’d watched from afar as a wildfire, started by lightning, had spread across the prairie and burned everything in its path. She still remembered the breath of heat on her skin, the odor of scorched earth, the crackling grasses and screeching wildlife. Seeing the sky choking on smoke, she’d cried at the catastrophe before her. Nana Hortencia put an arm around her and told her not to cry. “Don’t you see, mijita, this is how the Creator renews the prairie. The fire gives it new life.” After the fire passed, and Ximena looked at the blackened earth, the piles of cow dung still smoldering, the carcasses of rabbits, coyotes, prairie dogs, and other small animals littering the scorched land, she’d doubted her nana’s words. How could there be life when all she saw was death everywhere? It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when the new grasses and plants returned with vigor, that she’d understood. The fire had burned everything to the ground to give new seeds and overcrowded roots a chance. She imagined her baby as a seed burrowed deep within the sacred ground of her womb. Her home had literally been destroyed by fire, the war had all but consumed her, her loved ones had been taken from her. She was as scorched and barren as a burned prairie. But now life had sprouted within her.

A new beginning.



* * *



She dreamed of him that night. She saw herself in a plaza, with rain falling and trees swaying in the wind. On bare feet, she walked across the wet cobblestones, slippery and cold, the rain soaking into her nightgown, her hair sticking to her face. And there before her, hanging from the gallows, were the San Patricios. Some had their backs to her, others faced her with dead, red eyes, tongues thrust out of their foaming mouths, hands clenched into fists. One of them turned with the wind and now she could see his face, and she blinked and blinked, wiping the rain from her eyes, but every time she looked, it was him. It was always him.

She woke suddenly, bathed in a cold sweat and choking down a scream. After she caught her breath, she lit a bundle of sage and gave herself a barrida, the smoke soothing her mind and steadying her as she swept her body with it. She lay down, trying to push the images of the hanging men out of her mind. But every time she closed her eyes, she could see John hanging from a rope.



* * *



At sunrise in mid-May, Cheno appeared with Canales along with the other guerrillas. Furnished with a mount, Ximena grabbed the reins and climbed willingly upon the saddle. Soon she would be back to the Río Bravo delta, back to the rancho and her new life with her child. The old Madre and the nuns stood outside the convent to see her off, some crying their farewells. They handed Ximena a box with sweets and fruits for her journey.

“Gracias, Madre. Gracias por todo.”

“God be with you, hija.”

Canales gave the order, and the group rode out. Ximena didn’t turn to look behind. She stared straight ahead until they reached the city limit and the convent bells began to toll, as if calling her back. Then, very faintly, she heard the nuns singing their daily hymns.

As they left the city behind them, she listened as Canales told Cheno about his adventures and misadventures fighting Taylor’s forces, including all the Yanquis he’d killed and the men he’d lost to the Rangers who roamed wild in the area, committing atrocities from village to village. He told of how he’d lassoed a Ranger and dragged him through the cacti, how he’d stripped and castrated him in retaliation for killing two guerrilleros.

“Well done, amigo. They thought they would come here to kill Mexicans and go unpunished? No, se?or,” Cheno said approvingly.

When Canales told the story of another band of guerrillas who’d killed dozens of Mexican muleteers whom Taylor had hired to transport his supplies, Ximena thought about the carnage she’d witnessed and the stories from the wounded she’d tended to. In the ranchos and haciendas from San Luis Potosí all the way to the Río Bravo, Mexican families had been forced to flee because if they refused to help the guerrilla bands, the guerrilleros would destroy their homes, and if they helped the guerrillas, the Yanquis would destroy their homes. They were caught, as the saying went, entre la espada y la pared, between a sword and a wall.

This war was taking place not only on the battlefield, but also on the roads, in humble villages and isolated ranchos, in the chaparral and prairies, in deserts and mountain passes. She thought of Joaquín, of what had been asked of him.