Chapter 4

Many hours before Emiliano Zapata was to order the mobilization of his troops, a very unique and bizarre experience was being shared by two quite different people. One, the boy Vargas was drowning in his own hate. The other one, the woman Patricia, was desperately searching for herself in an act of love.

Humming a soft melody, she tenderly ran her hand through his coarse, black hair.

Pablo was having a nightmare, cold chills running up and down his spine, his body trembling.

"Have to kill him!" he mumbled over and over. "Have to kill him."

Next to her naked body Patricia could feel his long, slender body shaking. She pressed her body closer to him, to give him comfort, to give him warmth.

She could feel the warmth of his maleness, of his potency. And she failed to understand what had happened.

Studying his smooth face and clean-cut features, she decided she really liked him.

But this one really hated! She knew what hate did to people. She herself had lived through it. But this one! This boy was really consumed by it!

Maybe that was the reason why he had failed to make love to her. Somehow she felt responsible. But what had she done wrong?

He had followed her down the hill, to the bottom of a small ravine. They had talked a while. She knew this was going to be his first experience, and she was determined to make it a very special occasion for him.

When she had sensed that he was fully relaxed, she had unbuttoned his shirt and pants, taking pains not to over-excite him. It was hard on a man, to control himself. And she wanted him to enjoy her fully, to appreciate her completely.

Wishing to soothe him she had whispered softly and calmly, suggesting other things, other scenes: slowly she had helped him undress.

Pablo had wanted to help her undress but she had declined. "There will be other times," she had whispered gently.

But he had persisted and with fumbling hands helped her undress, accidentally rubbing his genitals against her warm, soft flesh. .Her fear came true. He had ejected prematurely.

She had smiled, concealing her disappointment, but still determined. "You are young." she had whispered, loving the sheepish expression on his face. "You are young. You are strong. And it's a long night."

They had been sitting on top of a big, gray boulder. And while she whispered sweet, dear words beside his ear, occasionally biting it, she skillfully and lovingly manipulated his genitals.

When she had felt he was capable again, she had made her way down the boulder and stretched out flat on the cool, rough ground.

He had followed her and stood above her, looking at her complete nakedness for the first time. That's when it happened.

He had stood there, numb, like a man paralyzed. And then he had started to scream, kneeling next to her, his hands covering his eyes.

"No! Please, oh please, leave her alone!" he screamed over and over. "Dear God! Please help her. Don't let him do this!"

Since then he had been hysterical, in some sort of trance, like a man possessed.

Tears slowly formed inside her brown eyes and with no great urgency rolled down her high cheek-boned face.

In many respects he reminded her of her brother. The last time she saw her brother alive he, too, had been in a trance. Before he was hanged by the people he, too, had been hysterical. Hysterical, not with fear, but with remorse.

But it had happened so long ago, that night, that terrible night. She could still see her father, dead on the floor with a hatchet deeply buried in his forehead.

Sheer terror in her heart, Patricia quickly moved her horror-stricken eyes from the bloody pulp of a face on the floor to her mother and brother.

Immediately she knew what had happened. Her father had come home, drunk as usual.

"God, I didn't mean to kill him," uttered Juan, her brother, badly frightened, his whole body trembling.

"I didn't mean to kill him," he said over and over, an expression of utter disbelief on his tormented face.

Her mother was bleeding through her nose and mouth and ears. Her face was blank and she kept mumbling to herself, looking at the dead body.

"He was beating me again," she whispered to herself. "He was beating me again when your brother came in."

By now half of the people of the village were out there, around the hut. A woman came in to investigate what all the screaming had been about. She saw the body with the diabolical ax stuck in his face and she let out a murderous scream.

More people came in until no more could fit in the small hut, and when they realized what had happened they began a horrible chant.

"He killed his father," they accused in one voice as if they were one man. "He killed his own father, his own flesh and blood!"

And in a murdering rage the crowd forced the frightened, crying boy outside and they shoved and pushed him until he was trapped against a tree.

They brought a strong rope and a sturdy-looking stallion and nobody paid any attention to the crying mother.

"He's a good boy," the unheeded mother screamed. "He has always been a good boy. He was only trying to protect me."

But the crowd of peasant farmers and angry women would have none of it. And they proceeded by forcing the boy up onto the black stallion, first having secured a tight knot around his neck.

Patricia felt paralyzed, unbelieving, a spectator to a horrible drama.

She saw her mother run forward, towards the black stallion; at the same time, a peasant whipped the rump of the horse.

And then it was dead quiet, as if nothing had happened. They all stood there, fascinated, their eyes wide open.

Her brother was swinging, back and forth, like a huge pendulum. His neck had snapped and his mouth was open and his tongue was hanging out, like a red tie.

Her mother had been crushed to the ground by the running stallion. Her chest had caved in and a great deal of blood was gushing out her mouth and nose.

She felt her body being lifted by her legs and she was running from that horrid scene, running from those murderous, hateful people.

And she ran until she could run no more, until her legs gave out under her and her lungs were hurting for air. She fell to the ground and mercifully slept.

She woke when the sun was high in the sky. Hungry and thirsty and not knowing where she was, except that she was under the Morelos sky, not caring where she was heading; she continued her journey.

Very late in the afternoon she approached a great procession of men and women. Upon talking with some of them, she found out this procession of people was Emiliano Zapata's army, on its way to Mexico City.

Because she was hungry and thirsty, because she had no other place to go, she joined the rebel forces of a country at war with itself.

The Zapata army expected its women followers to provide aid and comfort to its soldiers. It was kindly suggested to her that she choose a man of her liking.

And on the second day she chose Mario Rodriguez, a fine, kind man who was killed during the assault of Mexico City.

She then chose to become Gustavo Morales' woman. He was a drunk, disorderly man. Basically a good man, his life was distorted by bitterness and hate.

Gustavo maltreated her often, at times even hurting her physically and for no apparent reason.

But she remained loyal to him and even felt love for him. He reminded her a great deal of her father.

She had understood her father. True. He had often beaten his family. But her father had been a desperate man, a man who hated his way of life and who could find no way out of it. All his life he had been a peon, a peon who had always worked the land of Don Ramirez, a peon who would always work the land of Don Ramirez.

He had never appreciated the revolution. "They are too powerful," he had always said. "We are too poor; we cannot win."

And so like Gustavo her father had released his bitterness on those nearest him. But she understood Gustavo and gladly took care of his needs.

But then Gustavo was shot personally by General Zapata for deliberately disobeying a military order. Zapata had strict orders against the plundering and looting of their fellow peasants.

Near the city of Toluca a peasant woman complained to Zapata that her cow had been stolen, that her hungry children missed the warm milk.

Zapata, El Caudillo, leader of the common people, was outraged and ordered the guilty party to be found.

Several people had seen Gustavo take the cow and he was brought before Zapata. El Caudillo asked that the cow be returned to its owner.

Gustavo replied the cow could not be returned, that it had been killed.

Zapata wanted to know if he had been hungry or had he given the meat to someone who had been hungry.

Gustavo replied in the negative and was shot dead on the spot.

Gustavo's brother, Manuel, then asked Patricia if she would be his woman. She agreed. Manuel was a good and brave man, who often had interfered when his brother had been in a hitting mood.

Manuel wanted to marry her and she, of course, was flattered by his proposal. He was a kind man, not a difficult man to love forever. So at the first opportunity they rode to a nearby village and asked the parish priest to marry them.

The priest was delighted, of course, provided they confessed their sins first.

He was shocked. As a man he could understand. But as a priest it was his duty not to marry people of such loose morals, certainly he would never bestow such a noble sacrament on a woman who was no better than a common prostitute. And the circumstances made absolutely no difference at all. They could understand his difficult position, he was sure. Marriage was a gift of God, a gift meant to be earned by goodness. They could understand, couldn't they?

Not understanding at all, they rode away, unmarried, but determined to live together in any case.

They were good to each other, caring for each other, becoming deeply involved with one another.

But it could not last forever. They had always known that. They had never talked about it. But death was like air, it was always there.

She had buried him this morning. And while she was digging the grave, she had cried, knowing after he was buried he would be no more.

And yet here she still was, feeling weary, rather tired, but still breathing among the living. And, God forgive her, she was full of feeling and wanted nothing more than to keep on living.

She pressed her body still closer to the boy, loving his warmth, bathing in his vitality.

Pablo stirred and mumbled. "The priest. Damn the priest, too!"

The priest the boy was damning to all the dimensions of hell was, of course, none other than the good Father Perez. And at this very minute the good father was in Mexico City facing a very angry Bishop Gutierrez.

Bishop Gutierrez was quite dissatisfied and in the last twenty minutes he had repeated his admonitions several times.

"No, Father Perez," he said to the priest standing humbly before him. "The Church disapproves strongly, very strongly, your behavior in this case.

"Surely you must understand," he continued, completely demolishing the visibly trembling priest. "Times are changing. And we, all of us in the Church, must change."

"But your Excellency," complained the poor priest, who refused to accept the responsibility for the death of the peasant Vargas, and much less, for the rape and death of the peasant's wife. "But your Excellency, all I did was to cooperate with Don Rivera."

"Yes, yes!" replied the Bishop. "It was once quite acceptable to cooperate with the landlords. But this you must understand. This is a luxury the Church can no longer afford.

"Don't you understand?" he went on angrily. "If we keep on cooperating with the landlords, the people themselves will throw us out of Mexico. Even now, the government wants to confiscate all the lands owned by the Church."

The parish priest was quite scared but determined to defend himself. "But your Excellency," he objected.

Losing what little patience he had, the Bishop decided to be blunt. "Look!" he said, smashing his fist against his desk. "Once it was within the interests of the Church to support the peonage system. But now it is not. Surely you can understand that, Father Perez!"

Father Perez resented this whole business. He had been suddenly recalled from his parish of fifteen years. No sooner had he arrived in Mexico City and he was blamed for the tragedy of the Vargas family.

What had he done? God, what had he done!

He had just followed normal procedure. And for that he was being treated like a criminal now.

The Vargas peasant had been an atheist. Hadn't he refused to allow his son to attend Sunday school, where the boy would have learned the doctrine of God?

What had he done? Hadn't he reported the incident, as required by procedure, to the peasant's landlord. He failed to see how all this was connected with the death and rape which followed. How was he to blame for all this?

"But your Excellency," he insisted again.

The limits of the Bishop's patience were long overdrawn, and his face turned purple with rage. "Look! We are giving you another parish in the state of Sonora, and all we want you to remember is this. Your job is to preach the word of God and nothing else.

"Now, go with God," said the enraged Bishop, extending his right hand towards the priest.

"So be it," whispered Father Perez, kissing the Bishop's ring.

When the good priest had left, Bishop Gutierrez got on his knees and prayed. It was clear that in the years to come the Church would pay dearly for its long and immoral collaboration with the Diaz regime. He prayed that the Church be forgiven for its part in this unholy wedding, but somewhere along his prayer he also justified the Church for its part in this most unspeakable of unions.

It had been a matter of sheer survival, had it not? Before the regime of Don Porfirio Diaz, during the days of La Reforma, the liberals under the presidency of Juan Alvarez had literally oppressed the Church through legislation. These laws abrogated the binding power of monastic vows in the civil courts, decreed the expropriation of all the Church lands, and forbade the clergy to be recompensed for their spiritual ministrations.

Now, all these laws remained in the statute books; and from this point of view, the Church regarded the situation as being far from satisfactory. But the government of Don Porfirio never made an effort to enforce these laws, and this live-and-let-live policy was such an improvement over conditions of an earlier period that the Church became a strong supporter of the Diaz regime.

It would probably never be clear whether God could forgive the Church for its unholy trespasses; and in the years to come, the Mexican government would have to compromise with its attitude against the Church just like it would have to compromise with everything else.

But the boy Vargas; no, not he, he would nevei; compromise. He hated Padre Perez and as far as he was concerned, Padre Perez was the Church.

And all this hate plus a myriad of confusing emotions had come to him.

It had come. It had come like the sea, engulfing him, drowning him, robbing him of his sense, leaving him in a fever of terror...

They had worked the land, he and his father, his beautiful father. All day under the hot, bright sun. All day with their backs bent, their calloused hands touching a loved land, a mistress, a woman who had never been theirs; bathed in the salty sweat of their brown bodies, they caressed the land.

"Pablo," the older man would say. "This religion business is a tool of the rich man. Don't ever believe any of it. If you ever do, the rich man will have stolen your manliness."

"Believe if you must." His weathered face would become very serious then. "Believe in something bigger than yourself, if you must, but let the rich man and his religion go to hell."

They would walk back to their small hut, their bodies aching, their bodies overheated by the now dying sun. From far away Pablo could see his mother waving at them.

Rice, beans and tortillas. This was their supper. And it would be served, hot and ready to be eaten.

His mother would say, "Let us thank God for this food He has given us this day."

"Humph!" his father would grunt. "You should thank me for growing it."

But then, his father, his beautiful father, would repeat the prayer anyway.

"We thank you dear God," his mother would whisper, her hands reverently clasped together. "For this food You have generously given us on this day."

His father would repeat word for word and then add some of his own. "And if You would only get rid of all the Don Riveras," his voice would rise and he would wink at Pablo. "We would all be eating much better. Amen."

While his mother complained, they would eat hungrily, starved from being in the fields all day long.

"How do you expect the boy to have any respect," she would say angrily., "Even Don Rivera ordered you to send Pablo to church, to learn the ways of God."

"I already work his land and harvest the crops and am slave to nearly all his wishes," his father replied bitterly. "But I won't have my son learning all that lying crap Father Perez wants to teach him."

"Mario!" She was shocked. "They will punish you. God will punish you!"

How right she had been. That same evening the troops came riding out of the night. The soldiers, the ugly man, arrogant animals, had stormed into their small world.

Pablo could see the strained face of his father lit against the full moon. "What do you want?" his father screamed, boldly facing the intruders at the gateway of his world. "We have no money! We have nothing you want!"

"You impudent peasant," replied the ugly man with the harelip. "We want you!"

Two of the soldiers grabbed his father and secured each of his arms tightly while the ugly man dismounted his black stallion and slowly untied a whip secured to his saddle.

Calmly he took aim and Pablo heard the whip crack twice. Two direct hits aimed at each one of his father's eyes.

"That's for being a disobedient peon." grinned the ugly man, rolling his whip, strolling easily towards his horse.

Painfully enraged, Pablo's father struggled himself loose and blindly charged in the direction of the ugly man's voice, knocking him off balance.

One of the soldiers, who but seconds before had been one of the men holding his father, grabbed a pitchfork that was leaning against the hut and charged at the blind man.

The two middle prongs plunged deeply into his father's forehead. Bones cracked and Pablo heard an awful scream, that moved him like nothing ever had.

Pablo came running out of the hut, his muscles and senses concentrated on the ugly man, and sprang at him. Landing on top of the man's shoulders, the other soldiers found it humorous. And while they laughed, the ugly man tried to dump Pablo off his shoulders.

"Leave him alone," Pablo's mother came out of the hut weeping. "He's only a boy. Leave him alone, please."

They all grew quiet and even the ugly man stopped bucking. And while their attention was held by the weeping woman ; Pablo leaned over towards the black stallion and drew out a knife that had been tied to the saddle and he brought the knife down, hard over the ugly man's face.

Immediately two of the soldiers forced the boy off the wounded man's back and held him down on the ground.

The ugly man looked at Pablo, his eyes a cloud of fury. Pablo spat in his face.

"No!" said the ugly man. "I will not kill you, not just yet," He glanced at Pablo's mother and grinned.

"Take the woman into the hut," he shouted. "And him, too."

Two of the men stripped his mother, tearing her clothes off, touching her here, squeezing her there, and all the time making obscene jokes.

They tied her to the bed while they secured him to a wooden chair that faced the right side of the bed. His mother had shut her eyes tightly and would not look at him.

They wouldn't dare, he kept thinking. Not his mother! They wouldn't do that to his mother!

"All right," screamed the ugly man. "Out, all of you, get out!" His eyes were gleaming with lust.

Pablo looked at the man, climbing out of his uniform, his face still bleeding. He looked at his mother, naked, tied down, helpless.

His mother. It was his mother, lying there, flat on her back, her legs spread wide open.

"No," he pleaded. "Please, oh, please, leave her alone."

"Shut up!" ordered the ugly man, now completely naked. "You might learn something." He climbed into bed, between her legs, and

"Dear God! Please help her!" Pablo screamed over and over. "Don't let him do this!"

It had come. This vision had come like the sea, engulfing his senses, robbing him of his potency.

His mother. It was his mother, lying there, flat on her back, her legs spread out wide open.

"Damn the priest!" he mumbled. "Damn the priest, too!"

"Please," the woman Patricia pleaded from the depths of her soul, "Don't torture yourself any more, please."

How kind she was! How gentle! This woman, this stranger!

The palm and each of the fingers of her hand felt warm and delicate. How wonderful the caress of this woman's hand!

Yes. Beautiful and meaningful it was, her hand tenderly touching his chest and stomach in an ever endless circle.

Don't be ashamed, her hand pleaded. Don't feel embarrassed. You have your reasons and I have mine. But they make no difference at all. You see this is our private world, ours alone to do as we will. Oh, please, please help me and will with me. Oh, don't you see! Only kindness is important, only love is supreme. Will with me, oh, please, will with me this one reason, and only then will we live. Yes, only then, for one brief moment, the will to live will become a lovely one.

How gentle, this woman! How beautiful this stranger!

"Are you all right now?" she asked tenderly, rubbing her lips on his chest.

"I think so." Pablo lied, thinking of his mother, afraid of what he felt.

This woman, who was this woman at his side? For an instant she had become his mother. A woman waiting, her legs wide open. His mother. Waiting for whom ? Her son ? Oh, God! No! No! His mother waiting for him to come into her!

"No!" he whimpered. "It's not true. I feel terrible."

"I know," she whispered, understanding his guilt, sensing his awful distress.

The moon was concealed by some dark, huge cloud. And in the utter darkness they could see nothing, not even each other. They could only feel their naked bodies.

"Do me a favor?" she asked, hoping her sudden inspiration would work.

"Sure," he answered, feeling miserable, unsure of himself.

"Repeat my name, over and over and over," she pleaded, hoping he would do as she asked.

"And think of a big, white cloud," she added. "A huge cloud floating in the air. Think of that, and nothing else."

"Patricia," he began, "Patricia, Patricia..." and in his mind, he formed a huge, white cloud-floating, floating, floating...

"Nice," she encouraged him. "That's really nice." And with her lips she caressed his chest, slowly down his stomach, lingering down his genitals. And upward again.

"Yes, yes," she repeated after him. "It's me, Patricia. And I want you! I want you!"

Patricia! Patricia! How gentle, this woman! How beautiful this stranger!

Slowly she lifted herself on him and gently, ever so gently eased herself down his genitals, engulfing his swollen organ.

"No, no!" she moaned. "Not yet. Don't move. Make it last."

Patricia! Patricia! How soft, how warm it was down there! A warm sponge; a world of feathers and cotton; a living, growing, squeezing organism.

Hugging him, pressing hard against him, she nibbled on his ear. "Please," she begged. "Suck my breasts! Suck me!"

Raising his back, straining every muscle, every nerve tense in him; he placed an urgent responsive, erect nipple between his teeth; his tongue playing with it, tantalizing it, sucking on it.

She became bigger than life, this woman, this stranger! Moaning and biting, squeezing and pulling and pushing, her buttocks rotating, the sound of her breathing overpowering.

"Come!" she moaned, her nails savagely cutting into his back. "Come with me! Now! Ohh, now! Now! Ohh...! "

He was pounding in her! His organ went wild, out of control; it was straining, pounding, yearning to go in deeper and deeper and...

Wonderful! Wonderful, this woman! Wonderful this stranger!

Lovely! The will to kindness, the will to love, the will to live; for a moment, they had become one! A lovely wondrous thing!

Exhausted, she fell to his side. And together they slept, unaware of the military summons.

The drums were beating, the will to war was raising its ugly head, the land was still thirsty for more blood.

But together they slept. The boy and the woman. The gentle woman and the boy filled with hate.

The drums were beating. Darkness still covered the land, its western horizon not yet welcoming the warm rays of the sun.

"Wake up Pablo," he heard a soft kind of voice from far away. "Wake up!"

Already! But it seems like I just fell asleep, he thought. And already it's time to go to the fields! Papa! Papa, why weren't you born rich!

"Pablo," the feminine voice insisted. "Wake up, Pablo! They are gone. We have been left behind."

Gone? Who's gone? Papa! Has he gone? Without me ?

No! Mama, tell him to wait. Make him wait. Mama! He needs me. It's hard work in the fields. Hard work! Hard work! It'll kill him, Mama! Mama make him wait!

"Mama!" he woke with the words in his mouth. "What happened?" he asked with the words in his mouth. "What happened?" he asked startled. "Where am I?"

The burning sun was well on its course towards midpoint in the slightly clouded sky.

"You were having a nightmare," Patricia said kindly, petting his hair.

He sat up and rested his head against his knees. "Yes," he whispered. "I remember."

She was rubbing his back, her bronze colored body shining under the sun.

"Only," he explained. "It wasn't a nightmare. I was home again. And it was morning," he continued, turning his head to look at Patricia. "Like any other morning."

He smiled. "Papa used to tell me I should have been born a rich man's son."

He shook his head. "I never could get up early in the morning."

He felt his body relax as Patricia rubbed the back of his neck.

"They are gone," she said after a while. She stood up and dressed. Pablo looked at her shyly, embarrassed because he was blushing.

"They can't have gone too far," she said smiling, teasing him with her eyes. "It shouldn't be very hard to catch up with them."

She was lovely, the slight breeze blowing tenderly through her long, black hair.

My woman, he thought. No! She's too much. It must be a dream, a mistake, an illusion.

Had she really said, "I am your woman now." A sense of awe came over him.

Yes! She was his woman, his warmth, his comfort! How lovely and kind she was!

"Thank you," he said, blushing, looking into her eyes. Her eyes sparkled with life and her face was gentle.

She leaned over to him and softly kissed his forehead. "You look lost." She laughed, her hair tickling his bare shoulders. "Do I make you feel uncomfortable?"

"Oh, no!" he replied truthfully. "It's just that I've never known a woman before."

He couldn't stop his face from blushing. "I mean," he added nervously, "not the way I knew you last night."

"Is that why you were thanking me?" she asked, her tender face shining devilishly.

"I don't know," he answered, remembering last night.

"No," he said a few seconds later. "You were very gentle with me. Thank you."

"Aha," she said laughing. "I remind you of your mother."

"Shut up!" he screamed impulsively, not blushing now, but his face very angry, very tense.

"What?" she asked, surprised, drawing back from him.

Stupid! What's wrong with me, he thought. She doesn't know! She was teasing, nothing else.

"I am sorry," he said, his face melting as suddenly as it had become furious. "But you see," he started to explain. "My mother was..."

"No," she interrupted. "Please don't explain. Some things are better left unsaid."

"You really think so?" he asked, terribly sorry he had hurt her feelings.

"I know so," she replied, petting his hand. "Now come on. Get dressed while I go look for my burro.

"You must be starving," she called back, climbing out of the ravine, and making her way up the hill. "After all, you're still a growing boy! Just still a growing boy!"

"Go on!" he called back, laughing.

Wonderful! She was really wonderful! And he felt fantastically wonderful!

Land and woman! Woman and land! They are both one and the same, his father had often said. Both are the sources of life: both are the source of growth: and both affect man in the same way. He must love them both to make them produce. Love is what makes a man a farmer of both, a husband to each one of them.

"I want to be a farmer," he sang as he dressed. "Yes, I do. I want to be a husband, that the fruit may grow."

But why farm the land? Why husband the woman? Why become a slave to each one?

"Ahh, muchacho," his father would reply. "Because the joy of living is in them. The land satisfies your hunger and the woman satisfies your lust and her fruit satisfies your wish for immortality."

"I want a woman," he kept on singing, thoughts flashing through his mind. "I need the land."

But what about God? Yes, what about God, Papa? What does He satisfy?

"God," the old man would reply. "Why, God satisfies the rich man. The rich man needs to become richer. And so they must make the poor become poorer. But without God the rich man wouldn't have a chance."

What about the vultures, Papa? When your land is threatened: when your woman is in danger; when the vultures attack, Papa, what does a man do?

"Kill!" the old man had answered. "You must kill, boy! You must kill!"

"And so it shall be done," he kept on singing, suddenly interrupted by a sharp, deep crackling sound. A rifle shot! Immediately followed by a scream. A woman's scream!

With a great outburst of energy, Pablo jumped up and landed on his feet, already running up the ravine and up the hill.

He reached the top and far below he saw a group of uniformed soldiers, about thirty of them, riding away in the opposite direction away from him.

Patricia! They shot Patricia, he thought! Bastards ! dirty bastards! Dirty, filthy bastards! They killed Patricia!

He ran, stumbled, fell and rolled down the hill: and getting up, he ran some more, about forty yards away from the hill.

The burro! They shot her donkey. The animal was bleeding profusely from its head.

Patricia! Where was Patricia?

Up ahead Sergeant Lopez was enraged. He held the woman Patricia in front of him, tightly, angrily.

What tricks were they playing and why? Captain Contreras must have known. And the Colonel? Certainly the Colonel had known it all the time.

It wasn't bad enough he had counted some five hundred rebels before dawn. No, now it appeared there were even more.

But how many more? And where were they? Where were they going? How long had they been in this area?

Clenching his tobacco-stained teeth, his words hardly audible, the sound of running horses overbearing; he whispered in the woman's ear. "How many of you are there and where are the others ? "

Patricia couldn't answer, the heavy dust was suffocating her and the man's muscular arms were crushing her ribs.

"You will talk," Sergeant Lopez whispered. "I promise you that."

They rode up to the garrison, which but two days before had been held by some one thousand government troops. It was deserted now, except for a small dog that came running out barking.

"What now?" asked the Corporal, reaching inside his shirt for a handkerchief. He cleaned the mixture of dust and sweat from his tired face. A few vultures circled high above the silent garrison.

Inside the garrison a few of the buildings were burned to the ground. And scattered all over the grounds were dead corpses, some in uniform and others not. Some of the bodies appeared to be incredibly swollen. One body in particular was so badly decomposed that its openings were emitting a yellowish liquid substance. The stench was sickening.

"Tie the woman to the flagpole," ordered Sergeant Lopez, tying a handkerchief around his mouth and nose. "We don't have a moment to lose."

"Quickly," he howled to the others. "Help me to build a fire."

Everything they could find: rags, paper, pieces of wood; they threw it all in a big heap and made a fire with it.

Patricia, her eyes wide with fear, looked on as Sergeant Lopez held a long knife over the fire, impatiently glancing at her now and then.

"You're foolish," he told her several times. "You're making me waste all this time! And in the end you will talk anyway!"

"But I don't know anything," Patricia answered truthfully, her voice quivering with fright.

"You won't lie when your eyes are being burned out," he frowned, attempting to determine whether the blade was hot enough.

"I don't know!" she screamed frantically, the blade was beginning to glow a little. "I don't know!"

"Your last opportunity!" he declared, bringing the very hot blade out of the fire to about eight inches from her eyes. "How many of you are there and where have the others gone?"

"I don't know!" she screamed, crying, already sensing the glowing heat emanating from the terrifying weapon. "There were many of us. I don't know how many. And I swear by God I don't know where they are!"

"You're lying!" he screamed angrily, bringing the knife still closer. "This is your last chance!" he added, wondering if all the time she had been telling the truth.

The terrible heat, now but three inches from her, forced her eyelids to clamp shut tightly.

"Honest!" she cried, the color red overpowering her frantic brain. "Please believe me. I don't know anything."

Sergeant Lopez was about to pull the knife away, convinced she was telling the truth, when suddenly he felt a sharp, pointed sensation in the left side of his back immediately thereafter spreading to his chest and heard a sharp crack before losing consciousness forever.

For a moment Patricia felt the sharp edge of the burning knife cutting at her eyebrows, heard the sizzling sound of burning hair; and then the terrible pain against her eyelids overpowered her brain into instant blackness.

The Corporal followed the shot with an outburst from his rifle.

High on top of the garrison's wall the bullet sped by Pablo's head; like an angry wind it passed by grazing him slightly; shocking him into unconsciousness, losing his balance, he fell to the outer side of the garrison.

"What now?" asked the Corporal, leaning over, feeling the Sergeant's pulse.

There was no answer. It was up to the Corporal ; he was in command now.

He thought in silence. He remembered the great force of rebels they had fortunately spotted sometime before dawn, the hundreds of still recent campfires which they had seen just a little while ago, and the dead garrison with its countless corpses.

"It's every man for himself," he finally decided. "We are too few to engage a bigger enemy. And we are too many to hide effectively."

"Each man go his own way," he said mounting his horse. "And do it fast. The rebels probably have us surrounded."

They dispersed. And over the endless hours the clouds above concentrated into blackness and lightning zigzagged across the skies.

The sound of thunder frightened Patricia still more. It was dark! Everything was black! An immense shadow, a sea of nothingness, had engulfed her. And the deep, sharp, resonant sounds: were trying to break in, to smash the barrier of blackness, to strike her dead!

"God!" she whimpered. "Dear God, please, please help me!! "

Why? Oh, why had they done this to her: She had known nothing. Nothing!

She was blind. Blind? Yes. And forever and ever and ever. Blind!

"What am I going to do now!" she screamed, twisting her body frantically, the rope cutting deeper into her flesh. "What am I going to do! I am blind! Blind! Blind!"

Wouldn't anyone help? Didn't anyone care? Was there no one here? Where was everyone? Had everyone disappeared?

There was no one. No one to care for her; nobody to give her comfort.

"I want to die," she cried, the salty tears irritating her already burned skin. "Dear God, help me to die."

There, in the external darkness, trapped by a blackness of her own, she cried herself into unconsciousness. And even the rain, which came down in an outburst, would not wake her.

But the rain, wet and cold and falling hard, did wake Pablo.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed and he could not move. The earth was moving, spinning: and it had him pinned to the ground. His every muscle could feel the force of the earth, trying to swallow him, to drag him under. The earth was like a woman and her womb was reaching out, calling him, screaming for him.

Finally it let go of him. And he managed to stand on his feet. Leaning against the adobe wall, he wiped the mud of blood and dirt from his face. The bullet had grazed his left temple and it burned.

His left arm hung loosely, like a lifeless rag, absolutely out of control. He looked up the straight wall; five, six times his height. It had been a nasty fall.

A scream still lingered in his mind. A short painful scream. A death scream.

Patricia? Oh, no...! No! No! He shot the man and he fell forward. The knife? The man had a knife. He had shot him and then the scream. A woman's scream. And then nothing.

As he fell the man had plunged the knife into Patricia!

She was dead! "Patricia!" he screamed, crying, falling slowly to the ground.

Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Why her? Why? She had harmed no one. "God damn you," he mombled over and over, his good hand pounding the earth. "God damn you!"

Warm, gentle Patricia was dead. His mother and father were dead. And the God damn earth was wet and breathing.

He got back on his feet and started to walk away. He didn't want to see her cold dead body. He wanted to remember her the way he had known her: warm, kind, and gentle: and life screaming, sprouting, enveloping from within her.

He was not long in his journey before the memory of the ugly man again flowed through his veins, and his heart ached with fury while his mind demanded revenge. Someday, someplace. The ugly man would die a thousand deaths.