I am Ángel Nagual. I will be a man soon. My village, Campo de la Estrella (Field of the Star), was once a Spanish Misión (Mission) before the break with Spain a generation ago. The Spanish priests were persecuted after the revolution. My village now keeps our own faith in our own homes.
Into my village one late afternoon walked a poor man with his woman holding a child. My father, Patecatl , met these strangers outside of the old Capilla (Chapel). The red tiles of that Capilla were molded and baked by my people when they were slaves.
The child in María's arms begins to cry.
My father raises his eyes to María's gaze.
I lead José and María with their child Jesus into the old Church. The sheep and the goats stir in the straw. Chickens roost in the rafters and up on the old cast-iron arañas de luces (literally, spiders of lights, chandeliers). On the altar stage I spread clean straw for them. I leave them a basket for Jesus and a clay jar of water upon the altar. María places little Jesus into the basket upon a mound of straw. She covers her face. José comes to her side and holds her in a comforting embrace. I leave them to their privacy.
We hear a scream. It is María!
My father and I run from the Capilla onto the altar stage. There José is restraining María who reaches screaming toward the child in the basket upon the altar.
My father hollers, "What is wrong…?" but in that instant we see the scorpions!
An army of black scorpions is scaling the altar, climbing onto the child's basket. The scorpions halt their advance in a halo radiating around the child Jesus. The innocent child is enchanted by his wiggling visitors and he laughs with delight and he reaches for the nearest scorpions. The scorpions raise their claws but they remain just out of the reach of Jesus.
María now faints to the floor in the embrace of José.
My father hisses, "Wait here!" but I follow him out of the Church to the road.
There are horsemen shuffling on the dark road. A man rides forward. He is enormous. I gasp when I realize that under his sombrero he is wearing an Aztec sacrificial mask of jade mosaic. The plaster eyes stare relentlessly.
Then the other horsemen ride forward ominously. Poncio Pilato points to each rider as they come to his side.
I realize in horror that his eyes are sewn shut.
I see that instead of eyes there are gold coins in his eye sockets.
My father and I turn to see José supporting the unconscious María.
Poncio Pilato leans forward and says quietly, "The child belongs to me now," and then he laughs, "You were a good hen, but this huevo (egg) belongs to me. Me costo un huevo (literally, it cost me an egg, it cost me a hell of a lot)!
Poncio Pilato sits erect in his saddle and his horse snorts and stamps.
My father is unafraid, saying, "Only María can give the child to you willingly. Am I right? All you can do is terrorize us into forcing María to yield him to you," and my father turns toward María and stares.
María is dashed sober by my father's implications, and she cries, "No! No, no!" and she pushes herself away from José's loving grasp. She runs stumbling back into the Church. José cries, "María!" and regaining his balance he runs after her.
I hear María screaming. I hear José wailing.
I am transfixed by the words, by the will of my father.
José grovels inconsolable in the dust.
But another rider approaches from the darkness. I stumble backwards. It is María! Or what was once María.
Upon a horse the color of ash sits an apparition of María. From her eye sockets flow two springs of tears. She joins the horsemen of Poncio Pilato.
And then Poncio Pilato and his horsemen rode away with the wind.
My father welcomed José to stay on with our village, but José was too heartbroken to remain for long. José left Jesus with my father and my father made me Jesus's keeper. Jesus is a little brother to me now and I worry all the time about his fate.
Posted on December 10, 2018 by ASH	• This entry was posted in Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.