Date: Thu, 19 Feb 2004 13:01:36 -0600 (CST)
From: Horacio Quiroga <horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mexican History/chapter 2

Disclaimer/introduction:

I'm so let down with the response I got from the last story that I
maybe shouldn't have written this one. But of course, since last
time I rushed the story and the translation, it had such a
humiliating amount of mistakes on it that I shouldn't have
expected anything else. It was pathetic and I realized it just after
it was sent to the nifty archive. But I'm back on track, hopefully
this time things will go better and I'll have a chance with those
who weren't entirely repulsed by the last story. The thing is: I
truly enjoy writing and I'm decided to finish this tales. I guess
asking for forgiveness to those who felt like precious minutes of
their lives were stolen during the last chapter won't do any good
(since I think none of them will be reading this one), so I just
won't. At this point I can't do any but thank you for trying again
(or for the first time if you started from here), and well, if you
like the story or have any comments, just write them to
horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com . By the way, to make things
easier, this story wasn't written in Spanish and then translated to
English: this is my first attempt to write entirely in English and
will hopefully bring better results in short time.

Remember: this story is intended for open minded, kind of
unusual adults. If you're under the legal age regarding explicit
sexual content (usually 18) don't go any further, same goes if
you think you might be offended by explicit descriptions of
sexual encounters between adults and minors. Well, just use
your common sense to decide whether to scroll down and read
the story or don't.
___________________________________________________

-Good morning, I whispered with my frozen breath made
of cigarette and sleeplessness, -Good morning, he answered
with his sleeping voice, with his mouth closed and sleep on his
eyes. And said to my self -- The sweetest voice, and closed my
eyes for a moment, warming my redden eyes, almost frozen
from watching the night come slowly and go away cold and
soberly. I rubbed his shoulder covered in heavy blankets to help
him get awake. And the blankets and the sheets were cold.
Everything was: from my nose to my toes my body was like a
large ice trying not to shake, my jaw was strongly shut and my
entire body felt shrunk in the chair I had put by the side of the
bed sometime between three and five a.m. I got my rough cold
hand under the blankets and took the longest way to him,
looking for warmness until I reached his still small body,
wrapped in cotton nightclothes. Caressed his belly between his
navel and the outline of his underwear in a playful quick
movement, and I couldn't help to laugh when, sleepy and
surprised, he tried to shout a little scream of irritation, his throat
howled with a high-pitched tone, as a small dog whining. I had
spent the night praying, and a week later, when my house was
burned and Don Cristobal was dead, we ran away never to come
back. But I was certain I had been listened.

For almost two years Angel and I had what could be
called a daily life, a simple routine filled with small repeating
details. We had our own places and they were filled with us,
with our presence and our routines: my house, his house, the
sides of the river, the deepness of the woods, that flat rock at the
edge of the cliff... all of them still, as they were meant to last
forever, as there couldn't be other way for things to be, clear,
soft, light, sunset after sunrise and things were starting to
recognize us, there was the scent of the pasture, there was the
sound of the water, the wind trough the tree's branches, the
warmness of the earth. I was still working for Don Cristobal, but
those were the last two years.

Three years the Vibora fought against Don Cristobal:
from that year I turned 21 to the year of the fever, the day of the
storm, when I thought I had killed him. And he was always hard
to find. I was called from one town to other, because there were
revolts everywhere and he was never there. Always traveling
with the troops, who didn't know me and didn't know why was
in charge of them being so young. Those were not easy days for
anyone and I had no rest and no desire to keep going, but I was
getting well paid and wouldn't have known what to do if
decided to quit. It was in the valley where we found him,
because he let us find him, thinking he could get rid of me once
and for all in a single battle. I was able to look him far in the
distance, between the people he had armed and trained, in a
yellow cloud of dust by the side of the river, at the edges of San
Juan. And before we let our men kill each other we both took a
deep breath and became deaf. And it was like a whisper,
because he wasn't able to travel his entire voice trough the
distance "come" calling my name and so I did, working my path
to where he was, covered in shadows as I was, silent and deaf
among the lead filled air, like the first time we met. And when
his heart was opened it was able to close itself back. They were
all dead, his, and mine I had killed once again before any was
able to run away. And he didn't die, and his opened heart
pumped blood to his raging hands and he grabbed my neck
before I was able to do anything about it, and I heard my spine
breaking as his fingers closed together. There was my voice in
the air, moving across the dead bodies, moving across the river
and to the skies, my blood stained voice, and the thunder turned the
sand under us into glass. When I waked up my neck was purple
and hurt, and there was no sight of Vibora. I thought he was
dead.

The days changed, the time changed as I was able to feel
pain again, and I was not able to do the things I once was proud
of. Very slowly at first, very fast after the night I prayed for the
first time, the first night Angel spent in my house.

I left my house half our early than I was supposed to and
went to Don Cristobal's hacienda, waited inside as they were
still getting things together. I offered to carry Angel with me, in
my horse, since he was too young to ride his own and being so
small and slim it seemed easy, I helped him to climb my horse
and seated him in front of me, and as I hold the rein my arms
were around his shoulders, like an unsaid hug. Rode our horses
for hours almost in silence, and my heart was beating so hard
that Apache was able to feel it. Set our campsite up in the
mountain, where the river was born, and waited. The night came
slowly and the smoke of our cigarettes became a large sign on
the air for those able to see it in the moonlight, there was no fire
at dark since it warns the animals on our presence and the cold
wasn't undefeatable with our sarapes, and the burning edges of
our cigarettes where the last sight of us before going to sleep,
we had to wake up before dawn and we would sleep just after
dusk.

Getting close to him was strangely easy and we slept
next to each other, at least he did because he thought I was a
good man. I could see on his gentle face, peaceful child, that he
trusted me, and his heart was beating softly, warmly as my arm
got around him. As a friend, because I was aware of his
thoughts, and he was lonely since he was left with his uncle. As
a gesture of goodwill, a comfort in the cold night. But my heart
couldn't beat slowly. Just my arm around him, the whole night
as he was sleeping, to let him know I wasn't cold, to let him
know he wasn't alone in here, in the middle of the woods, in the
hacienda. I was there in a single gesture, as single moment able
to make it trough him, he got closer to me and slept comfortably
in my arms, stranger, lonely, kind young man. The need of
being hugged didn't have much to do with me, it was part of
him, it was the part I wanted to hug.

That time, the first time he went along with us, he didn't
have a chance to fire his rifle. The third day Don Cristobal
wounded a black male and we followed the trail of blood to the
place of his death. The two nights we spent in the woods, it was
I who got close to Angel and hugged him. As he saw the dead
animal, with blood dripping from its mouth, it was him who
hugged me in celebration, and laughed excited as he realized his
uncle had shot the beast on the neck. A beautiful shot, and a
fortunate encounter since we weren't expecting to kill a bear
and therefore didn't bring a mule to drag him with us. It took us
long hours to prepare its skin, but we were on our way that same
day. In the way back he felt asleep in the horse and leaned on
me, I dared to feel his thoughts and his dreams were peaceful,
held the rein with one hand and hugged him with one arm all the
way home. His dreams about shooting a bear were peaceful.

A couple months later I was back to the hacienda, purple
hand marks still on my neck, and I was permitted to rest in my
house. Angel knocked on my door that night I was back. He had
been waiting for me, -Come in, I said and the small room that
was my house shone from the light bouncing in his face and
hair. I kneeled before he said a word I kissed his hand, our
shadows  in the wall moved with the fire of the candles. That
was the year of the fever, that was the first night I prayed. Never
dared to ask why was he there, never dared to find out by
feeling his thoughts. And the pain suddenly became a claim in
my heart, suddenly after all these years, suddenly crying come
to me Angel, come to me I'm back from war, hurt and confused,
tired and scared, lend me your hand and let's make a hug of our
solitudes. And from a hug we were wrapped in night and in
shadows, warm darkness, never to let go on us until the day we
died.
___________________________________________________

Well, another chapter is over, hopefully a good one, or at least
an acceptable one. There's much more to be written, and it
would definitely be easier to do if you send a mail to
horaacioquiroga@yahoo.com and let me know your comments
on the story.

Thanks and have a nice day