heavy with danger. I continued searching farther and farther out into the countryside, thinking maybe Alicia had run with the baby. Behind me in the distance, thick smoke still rose into the sky from the fires in the pueblo. The afternoon air cooled, but I refused to give up.
When darkness finally blanketed the countryside, I finally sank to the ground in tears. Every living human I had ever known was gone. There on the hard ground in the dark, severed from all that I had ever known and loved, I sobbed uncontrollably. Memories of my family and friends and my past haunted me.
For a long time I lay motionless on the ground and waited for my soul to join the sparks that had drifted to the heavens back in the pueblo. That was where I should have died. Now I wanted everything to end—my loss, the pain, my memories, my life. But a dog barked and barked in the distance. The moon still hung above me in the sky, and around me the soundsof crickets chorused. I still breathed, and life refused to end so easily.
Finally, I forced myself to stand. I looked back toward the pueblo at the dull glow of flames still tinting the sky, then I turned and wandered toward the North Star. What else could I do? My heart still beat, and tonight life wouldn’t surrender and allow me to quit. For two full nights I’d been without sleep, but still I stumbled blindly into the next night, moving forward in a drunken stupor until at last my body would go no farther.
I didn’t search for soft or protected ground to sleep. I simply quit walking and collapsed, unconscious before my body met the earth. The sleep of the dead captured me, not allowing me to wake either for the heavy rain that came during the night or for the coming of dawn. Only when the sun climbed high in the sky and made the air hot around me—only then did I roll onto my stomach and open my eyes.
I found my clothes and hair soaked from the downpour, and I coughed and stared around me at the wet ground. I still lived, whatever that meant. Struggling tomy feet, I continued northward.
The first days after the massacre, I must have been in shock. I remember little of that time except walking, sleeping, and weeping. Always I wept as I walked, each day surrounded by lonely winds, hot days, long cold nights, crickets chirping, and the crying of doves. I remember hearing doves.
I ate sparingly from the food I carried, and when my path crossed a stream or a spring, I soaked some of my dry bread to make it easier to swallow. I didn’t choose to be alive. I ate because as long as I still lived, I felt hunger.
I tried to avoid people by keeping to trails high on the hills, but many of those who escaped the killings in other cantóns and pueblos also walked the same trails northward. Whenever someone came near, I hid in the trees or ran.
One afternoon I was walking sullenly, staring at my feet, when a voice surprised me from behind. I turned to find myself only a few feet away from a family of Indios who had walked up behind me. A mother, father, grandmother, and one little child stared at me. I started to run,but I saw in their faces the same haunted desperation I also felt. These people were no threat to me. I stared back at them briefly, neither of us greeting the other, and then I continued on alone.
With the passing of each day, more Indios found their way to the trails—mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children. Like me, most had only the clothes they wore and the heavy loss they carried in their hearts. Many limped and nursed wounds. Others threw up and sweated from illness. Each day heat came like an oven, and each night brought bitter cold. Many parents and grandparents trudged along carrying sick children on their backs. I isolated myself from everybody, carrying on my back the burden of shame for having survived when so many others had had the courage to die.
Where could so many people have come from? There were hundreds, many of whom wore the clothes and spoke the language
When darkness finally blanketed the countryside, I finally sank to the ground in tears. Every living human I had ever known was gone. There on the hard ground in the dark, severed from all that I had ever known and loved, I sobbed uncontrollably. Memories of my family and friends and my past haunted me.
For a long time I lay motionless on the ground and waited for my soul to join the sparks that had drifted to the heavens back in the pueblo. That was where I should have died. Now I wanted everything to end—my loss, the pain, my memories, my life. But a dog barked and barked in the distance. The moon still hung above me in the sky, and around me the soundsof crickets chorused. I still breathed, and life refused to end so easily.
Finally, I forced myself to stand. I looked back toward the pueblo at the dull glow of flames still tinting the sky, then I turned and wandered toward the North Star. What else could I do? My heart still beat, and tonight life wouldn’t surrender and allow me to quit. For two full nights I’d been without sleep, but still I stumbled blindly into the next night, moving forward in a drunken stupor until at last my body would go no farther.
I didn’t search for soft or protected ground to sleep. I simply quit walking and collapsed, unconscious before my body met the earth. The sleep of the dead captured me, not allowing me to wake either for the heavy rain that came during the night or for the coming of dawn. Only when the sun climbed high in the sky and made the air hot around me—only then did I roll onto my stomach and open my eyes.
I found my clothes and hair soaked from the downpour, and I coughed and stared around me at the wet ground. I still lived, whatever that meant. Struggling tomy feet, I continued northward.
The first days after the massacre, I must have been in shock. I remember little of that time except walking, sleeping, and weeping. Always I wept as I walked, each day surrounded by lonely winds, hot days, long cold nights, crickets chirping, and the crying of doves. I remember hearing doves.
I ate sparingly from the food I carried, and when my path crossed a stream or a spring, I soaked some of my dry bread to make it easier to swallow. I didn’t choose to be alive. I ate because as long as I still lived, I felt hunger.
I tried to avoid people by keeping to trails high on the hills, but many of those who escaped the killings in other cantóns and pueblos also walked the same trails northward. Whenever someone came near, I hid in the trees or ran.
One afternoon I was walking sullenly, staring at my feet, when a voice surprised me from behind. I turned to find myself only a few feet away from a family of Indios who had walked up behind me. A mother, father, grandmother, and one little child stared at me. I started to run,but I saw in their faces the same haunted desperation I also felt. These people were no threat to me. I stared back at them briefly, neither of us greeting the other, and then I continued on alone.
With the passing of each day, more Indios found their way to the trails—mothers, fathers, grandparents, and children. Like me, most had only the clothes they wore and the heavy loss they carried in their hearts. Many limped and nursed wounds. Others threw up and sweated from illness. Each day heat came like an oven, and each night brought bitter cold. Many parents and grandparents trudged along carrying sick children on their backs. I isolated myself from everybody, carrying on my back the burden of shame for having survived when so many others had had the courage to die.
Where could so many people have come from? There were hundreds, many of whom wore the clothes and spoke the language
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