scanning the ground as I go. To the cairn I have built at the far end of the grove. I look out along another trail I have clarified to the best of my abilities. This is the path Pilar walked the next day, walked until she fell and could not rise.
Back to where I entered the grove. Begin a circle. Mariángel twists against my chest, whines, and I put a hand across her forehead, sidestep a columnar and its spines. Again to the starting point, and another circle, this one slightly larger. I must find something, anything, before we can leave. That is the arrangement.
A third circle. Into the densest part of the grove, and now more vegetation underfoot—strands of bichayo, withered borrachera. Halfway around there is a small overo, the broad leaves covered with dust. Mariángel is crying yet again and I squat in the shade, bring out her juice, bring out raisins and crackers, wait as she eats and drinks.
The sand at the base of the trunk is oddly patterned, rivulets as seen from a mile in the air, beautiful. I stand, smooth the rivulets with my boot. My hip has stiffened but does not hurt. Mariángel points, a huerequeque, sprinting away.
Farther and farther out. Mariángel pulls again at my beard and I push her hands away. Deer tracks. A low gray maze of some woody plant, and Reynaldo once told me the name but I have forgotten. I pick my way through. On the far side I find a hard patch of ground three feet across, almost perfectly round, a glittering disc of sand and dried mud.
I walk past it, turn back, step closer. Mariángel whines and I sweat and she whines and I threaten and she whines. The disc is nearly gold from this angle—another sun. Mariángel whines again and I curse her, curse myself, whisper.
The search, curling in on itself as well. I wipe the sweat from my face, neck, hands. Turn away from the disc and walk. Walk and look. Only bushes, grass, only sand and heat. I am so very tired, and there are so many good reasons not to have brought Mariángel. In the future I will come only when I can leave her with Casualidad.
In front of me now is a wide ravine. There is loam in the bed, smooth and dry, and for a few months each year water must come fast from the mountains. I have never yet walked it and not found tracks. At times the species that made them is clear to me and at times it is not. When it is not, if it is early enough in the day, I sketch the tracks as well as I am able and research them the next day at work. Along and along and perhaps today will be the day there are no tracks but then ahead I see the loam disturbed, the thin bands of darker soil. Closer, and it feels as if I already know. Closer and there is no question, dog tracks, a dozen sets or more, intermingled, down and across and disappearing.
I want to move, to walk, but don’t, can’t, my fault wholly and inexcusably and the dogs found Pilar three miles east of here. She was dead by then, the mortician promised me this, but late at night I have seen it otherwise, Pilar too weak to move, and she can hear the dogs as they come, the lead dog loping up and others and they snap at the backs of her legs. She tries to fight them off but the lead dog seizes her wrist in its jaws, pulls her flat and another sinks its teeth into her face and I scream, gasp, Mariángel screaming too.
I am on all fours in the sand, Mariángel hanging beneath me, fighting at the cords of her sling. I breathe, deeper, slower. Push myself upright. Mariángel cries and I stand, hold her, whisper to her, only sounds. I turn away from the ravine and walk, gather it all around me, the old guilt and the new as well, my fading, my emptying, I gather it and bear it.
The heat stronger, this expanse, the haze. I walk and stare and stop and walk. Nothing. Mariángel still crying and I walk, whisper, walk. Then a copse of palo verde. The trees are twenty feet tall and at least as wide, their green trunks dust-stained brown, their lowest branches reaching almost to the sand, the
Back to where I entered the grove. Begin a circle. Mariángel twists against my chest, whines, and I put a hand across her forehead, sidestep a columnar and its spines. Again to the starting point, and another circle, this one slightly larger. I must find something, anything, before we can leave. That is the arrangement.
A third circle. Into the densest part of the grove, and now more vegetation underfoot—strands of bichayo, withered borrachera. Halfway around there is a small overo, the broad leaves covered with dust. Mariángel is crying yet again and I squat in the shade, bring out her juice, bring out raisins and crackers, wait as she eats and drinks.
The sand at the base of the trunk is oddly patterned, rivulets as seen from a mile in the air, beautiful. I stand, smooth the rivulets with my boot. My hip has stiffened but does not hurt. Mariángel points, a huerequeque, sprinting away.
Farther and farther out. Mariángel pulls again at my beard and I push her hands away. Deer tracks. A low gray maze of some woody plant, and Reynaldo once told me the name but I have forgotten. I pick my way through. On the far side I find a hard patch of ground three feet across, almost perfectly round, a glittering disc of sand and dried mud.
I walk past it, turn back, step closer. Mariángel whines and I sweat and she whines and I threaten and she whines. The disc is nearly gold from this angle—another sun. Mariángel whines again and I curse her, curse myself, whisper.
The search, curling in on itself as well. I wipe the sweat from my face, neck, hands. Turn away from the disc and walk. Walk and look. Only bushes, grass, only sand and heat. I am so very tired, and there are so many good reasons not to have brought Mariángel. In the future I will come only when I can leave her with Casualidad.
In front of me now is a wide ravine. There is loam in the bed, smooth and dry, and for a few months each year water must come fast from the mountains. I have never yet walked it and not found tracks. At times the species that made them is clear to me and at times it is not. When it is not, if it is early enough in the day, I sketch the tracks as well as I am able and research them the next day at work. Along and along and perhaps today will be the day there are no tracks but then ahead I see the loam disturbed, the thin bands of darker soil. Closer, and it feels as if I already know. Closer and there is no question, dog tracks, a dozen sets or more, intermingled, down and across and disappearing.
I want to move, to walk, but don’t, can’t, my fault wholly and inexcusably and the dogs found Pilar three miles east of here. She was dead by then, the mortician promised me this, but late at night I have seen it otherwise, Pilar too weak to move, and she can hear the dogs as they come, the lead dog loping up and others and they snap at the backs of her legs. She tries to fight them off but the lead dog seizes her wrist in its jaws, pulls her flat and another sinks its teeth into her face and I scream, gasp, Mariángel screaming too.
I am on all fours in the sand, Mariángel hanging beneath me, fighting at the cords of her sling. I breathe, deeper, slower. Push myself upright. Mariángel cries and I stand, hold her, whisper to her, only sounds. I turn away from the ravine and walk, gather it all around me, the old guilt and the new as well, my fading, my emptying, I gather it and bear it.
The heat stronger, this expanse, the haze. I walk and stare and stop and walk. Nothing. Mariángel still crying and I walk, whisper, walk. Then a copse of palo verde. The trees are twenty feet tall and at least as wide, their green trunks dust-stained brown, their lowest branches reaching almost to the sand, the
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