Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology Page 30

  “Ya, ya, ya,” he whispered over and over until the sing-song nature of his words enveloped my world and me.

  Although I didn’t know what the strange murmurs meant, the soothing sounds and my exhaustion lulled me. I rested my head against his shoulder; hiccups spasmed through my body and I closed my swollen eyes.

  The man, whose name was Bernardo, carried me to his home in a haunted village simply called Pueblo Blanco. He cleaned me, then teased the snarls from my tangled black curls with a little tortoise shell comb. He marveled aloud at the beauty of my eyes, all pale and green, the color of sea foam.

  “I will call you Alejandro,” he proclaimed, as if the name was a valuable gift.

  Later, I would find the true worth of that name. On this, my first day in Pueblo Blanco, Bernardo dressed me in a white robe meant for his own son, who lay against his mother’s breast in the churchyard’s cold grave.

  Bernardo resurrected his dead son’s cradle and polished the wood with care. I fell into a wearied sleep on a rug by the door. There I dreamt of caverns—crystal and fire and stone—where my mother lay in her labyrinth tomb.

  #

  Bernardo was a good man, and he treated me as if I was his very own. I couldn’t stand for him to be out of my sight. Although I knew he had no intentions of abandoning me, anxiety gnawed my heart whenever he left, even for a moment.

  We often roamed the beach where Bernardo searched for driftwood while I played amongst the stones. Beneath a crag, I discovered a rock scooped smooth by the waves. I pressed my ear against the hard surface and listened for movement beneath the earth. I imagined if I lay perfectly still, I might hear my mother’s voice.

  Once, I thought I detected words vibrating up through the rock, like a long ago echo, a whisper from the grave. Just two words, but I heard them as clearly as if a woman spoke.

  Be vigilant.

  Excited by the discovery, I held my breath and covered my other ear with my palm. I closed my eyes tight and tried to still my noisy heart, but the sound never came again. When I opened my eyes, I found Bernardo’s head close to mine, his ear pressed against the rock.

  He sat up and frowned. “What do you hear, Alejandro?”

  “A dragon,” I whispered, expecting him to laugh.

  “A big dragon?” He frowned and glanced at the rock suspiciously.

  “Yes!” My imagination seized the image as only a child can. “She is a giant dragon with scales all blue and green.” I held my stubby arms wide to indicate a girth bigger than me.

  Bernardo did not laugh, nor did he mock me. He nodded somberly as if I was an adult.

  I lowered my voice and shared the dragon’s secret words. “She says we must be vigilant.”

  “Well,” he mused as he rose and took up his bag of driftwood. “Those are wise words. We shall have to watch out for one another.”

  I slipped my small hand into his and we walked home, Bernardo whistling a slow tune and me watching the shadows for dangers unseen.

  Two weeks later, he presented me with a small dragon, which he had carved from driftwood. He had carefully tinted the scales blue and green and gave her a great horned head with yellow crystals for her eyes. The carving was familiar to me in ways I didn’t understand; I adored it and refused to be parted from the toy, or Bernardo.

  We became a pair, the carpenter and I, and were rarely seen one without the other. I had no basis for comparison, so I never noticed anything unusual about the town or its inhabitants, but a pall hung over Pueblo Blanco. Hardly a month went by without violence—a beating, a murder, a disappearance, a suicide. Bernardo tried to shield me from the more horrific acts and never let me go to the public hangings. He distracted me with his guitarra and his songs, then he taught me to play. The vibrations of strings and measures and beats insulated us from the evil that prowled through the shadows and alleys.

  In the music, I found my solace, but my respites were meager. The sounds tickled my memories like an itch I couldn’t quite reach. A secret lay in those notes—a song I knew was mine, and in that music rested my redemption, the secret to my beginning, the story of my end.

  Yet no matter how often I played, I never found the right combination of chords to create my song. As the harmonies of my beginning slipped from my heart, likewise, my vision began to fade and leech the color from my life.

  By the time I was fourteen, the images around me had started to darken. I wasn’t blind; instead, I was limited to nebulous shades of black against lighter shades of gray. Everything around me was indistinct and fluid as if I saw the world through a pool of water.

  Each morning, I opened my eyes cautiously, hoping my sight had returned to normal, only to be disappointed. My vision became darker, the shop grew harder to negotiate, and the tools became indistinct lumps of black. A small tumor of fear lodged in my heart.

  Last month, our neighbor Salvador had smothered his deformed son and called it an act of mercy. He said the boy wouldn’t have survived to his fifth birthday and even if he did, what good was a useless mouth to feed?

  A horrible notion took seed in my mind: had my mother suspected I’d one day go blind? Had she set me by the sea to die? Surely I was loathsome in her sight; otherwise, she never would have abandoned me.

  And what good was a blind boy to a carpenter? The nagging thought depressed me and unhinged my every fear to run black circles in my brain. Bernardo called me his miracle, his gift from God. What would he say when he found this gift tarnished, wearing thin before its time? I would become a useless mouth to feed, something to be hidden away like a filthy secret, or cast from the cliffs into the sea.

  My misery grew. A week passed, and the longer I kept the secret of my deteriorating vision to myself, the more antagonistic I became toward Bernardo. My hatred of myself manifested in harsh words; or worse yet, frigid silences when I wouldn’t speak to him for days. I left the shop as often as possible, claiming I was off to meet my friends.

  The truth was that I had no friends. The boys of Pueblo Blanco wanted nothing to do with me—I was an outsider with my pale eyes and lean frame. The differences didn’t end with our looks. Their interests were in bullfights and caballeros and wars, whereas I sought comfort in the strings of my guitarra.

  When I left Bernardo during my rages, I wandered to the lonely alleys and sulked amongst the shadows. Sometimes, I brought my guitarra and played for the ravens in the churchyard cemetery. There I beat the strings, seeking sounds I couldn’t make. The song I so desperately craved continued to elude me.

  Confused and hurt, Bernardo retreated from my anger. We no longer played our music together in the evenings. We retired earlier and earlier, often without speaking.

  In the night, terrible visions invaded my sleep. I dreamed that, while I lay sleeping, Bernardo crept to my pallet with a hammer in his hand. No matter how I tried, I could neither wake nor move. Every muscle was frozen while he advanced on my helpless form.

  Whispers filled the room like the hiss of wind scraping through the trees.

  Bernardo stood over me, his features twisted in contempt. He raised the hammer over my head.

  He seeks to rid himself of you, sang a woman’s voice, intimate and close, her breath touched my cheek. Was this my mother?

  Fool. The woman laughed without mirth, without love… Worthless child…

  Bernardo swung the hammer down.

  I woke with a scream trapped behind my lips.

  Minutes passed while I lay on my pallet too frightened to move. My pulse thundered in my ears while my blind eyes stared upward into shadows of black and gray. The sound of Bernardo’s soft snores wafted through the room.

  Kill him now, said the woman’s voice.

  I sat up and looked around the narrow chamber, but my blind eyes wouldn’t see. I sniffed the air and smelled nothing out of place. “Who is there?” I whispered.

  Bernardo means to rid himself of you. The voice came from nowhere; it came from everywhere and sang her urgent song. Kill him!

/>   “Are you a fairy?” I asked the empty air.

  Strike first and strike quick, or you will be next.

  She was right. If I didn’t kill Bernardo, he would slaughter me like Salvador murdered his boy.

  You know what to do. Her whispers skittered away on a renegade breeze.

  Of course I did. The solution was simple. Only one of us could greet the dawn. I rose and skirted the familiar objects of the table and our benches. Bernardo was diligent with his tools. I had no trouble finding the mallet that hung from its peg. I inched my way back into our little room. Bernardo slept soundly, a man secure in his home. I stood over him, his death in my hand.

  A night bird screamed.

  Bernardo sighed my name. “Alejandro?”

  I held my breath and lowered the mallet to hide it behind my hip.

  “Are you unwell, my son?” Bernardo’s words were slurred by sleep.

  A sudden image seized my mind—Bernardo’s face, so sad and wise as he held me up that first time. Ya, ya, ya, he had said, his deep voice singing until my sobs faded to hiccups.

  “No,” I lied. “I am fine.”

  “Good, good,” he murmured. “Sleep, then.” He rolled on his side with his back to me. I was certain that he never truly awakened that night.

  The mallet was heavy in my hand, a dead weight that dragged me to my knees. I couldn’t kill Bernardo. His love had sustained and nurtured me through the years, without him, I would have died. I returned the mallet to its peg and felt my way back to my pallet. I did not sleep again that night. Instead, I spent the hours rehearsing how I would tell Bernardo I was going blind, and sometime near the dawn, I finally dozed.

  Hours later, Bernardo woke me, and I moved through my morning chores, my eyes filled with sand. A woman came to our shop while I gathered wood outside. I heard her voice, soft as silk; she barely spoke a word before Bernardo interrupted her.

  “You are not welcome here.”

  I froze. Bernardo was never rude. His anger took me by surprise. I strained my ears to hear the woman’s reply. I thought I heard her say my name.

  Bernardo lowered his voice to a growl, and I detected a note of fear. “I want you to leave. Never come here again, not while I live.”

  The woman made no reply. By the time I worked my way into the shop, she was gone.

  “Was someone just here?” I asked.

  Bernardo kept working.

  “Papa?”

  “A woman. I couldn’t help her. She left to find another carpenter. That is all.”

  “You sounded angry.” And afraid.

  He shook his head, his hands busy with his work. Then he sighed and set the wood aside. “Do you remember Salvador, the man who murdered his son?”

  I nodded, afraid to speak in case my voice belied my fear.

  “It is said, that the morning after Salvador killed the child, a strange woman appeared at the wake. Our neighbor, Lucia, says that she has heard from others around town that this woman always appears after misfortune strikes a home. The woman who just left fit Lucia’s description.” He sat still and turned his head toward the door. “But we’ve had no tragedy,” he mused. “I probably let my fear guide me. I am a foolish old man, no?”

  My lips went dry as the memory of my murderous thoughts resurfaced. “No, you are not foolish, not at all.” I brushed his worries aside. “You say that Lucia chatters like a mockingbird. Pay her no heed.”

  “You’re right.” He picked up his tools once more. “You are a good boy, Alejandro, and wise, too. Pass me that chisel by your hand.”

  The vague shapes all looked the same to me, and I accidentally passed him a knife. He was silent for a long time, then he gently placed the knife on the table. He guided me to a stool and made me sit. “You know the difference between a knife and a chisel. What is wrong with you, Alejandro?” he asked.

  All of my carefully rehearsed explanations vanished from my mind. “I cannot see. Forgive me, papa. I am going blind.” Relief drifted over me like cool night air on my skin after a hot day.

  “You cannot see anything?” Bernardo passed his hand before my face.

  The shadow caused me to flinch. “I see shadows and shapes but everything is blurry, without form.”

  Bernardo took my hands. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Weeks,” I whispered.

  “So this is why you have been so angry,” he mused. He gripped my shoulders and brought his head level with mine. The earnestness that I couldn’t see in his features was reflected in his voice. “Don’t be afraid. We will talk to the apothecary. Jorge will know what to do.”

  “And what if he can’t? What if Jorge has no remedy? Will you make me leave?”

  Bernardo’s breath whistled in an irritated hiss. “Why would I make you leave?”

  “I will be useless to you.”

  “Oh, Alejandro.” Bernardo drew me into his arms. “You will never be useless to me.” He led me to our table and pressed a cup of wine into my hands. I sensed his gaze on my face, measuring me and my maturity.

  He sat across from me, his graveled voice somber. “On the day I found you, I had gone to the beach to die. Several weeks before, my wife and son had succumbed to a mysterious plague that came to this city. I tried to pass my days without them, but living became a burden, a terrible chore. I dreamed of the ocean and the peace of the waves. It felt like the right thing to do. I waited until after church so I could take communion one last time, then while the city took its siesta, I walked to the beach. I intended to swim until I could swim no more.”

  Bernardo fell silent, and I dared not rouse him. My shame at my anger and distrust overwhelmed me. The wine lay bitter on my tongue.

  Several minutes passed before he continued. “When I arrived at the beach, I found you, screaming your grief to the wind and sky. There was no sign of a soul, nor any footprints to lead me to your parents. It was as if the sea had birthed you and left you as a treasure for me.” The shadow that was Bernardo’s arm rose and fell as he sipped his wine. “I took your presence as a sign from God, that so long as you lived, then I was needed on this earth.” He touched my hand. “Love is a miracle, Alejandro, and you are mine. I will never cast you out of my house, not for anything or anyone. You carry my first son’s name, yet he is nothing but a dream. You are my reality, my miracle. And I love you.”

  “I am sorry,” I whispered. I was sorry for believing he could be so callous as to wish me dead. I was miserable for wanting to murder him when it was my selfishness and hurt pride that almost destroyed us.

  “Enough,” he said. “Later, we will notch the handles of the tools. Your fingers will be your eyes. For now, we will go see Jorge.”

  We went to Jorge, the town’s apothecary, who examined me quite thoroughly. He decided that my pale irises were the cause of my blindness. The lack of color unbalanced the humors in my body, leaving my eyes hot and dry. There was no way to restore my sight, yet I might halt the weakening of my eyes if I always wore a hat that shaded my face whenever I ventured outside.

  Bernardo immediately purchased a wide-brimmed hat for me, and we returned to our home via the winding streets.

  That night, when we rested in the dark, I went back over our conversation and realized that I had left words unsaid. Before my regret could grow, I went to his bedside and whispered in his ear, “I love you, too.”

  A weary smile creased his mouth. “I know, my son.” He tousled my curls. “Now sleep.”

  And I did.

  #

  When our neighbors found out about my disability, they got together and tied knotted strings along the sides of their houses. That way, I could reach out to any wall and count the knots to know which house was which. Their kindness and goodwill overwhelmed me. I determined that I would serve the people of Pueblo Blanco as my Bernardo had served me, with humility and love.

  #

  The whispers that tried to persuade me to kill Bernardo never intruded in my dreams again; however, the rest
of Pueblo Blanco’s residents were not so lucky. If anything, the murders and disappearances escalated, and after each tragedy, an unfamiliar woman was rumored to appear at the residence of the victims. Though Bernardo worried over the violence, he made no move to leave, Pueblo Blanco was his home, and he desired no other.

  I adjusted to the shadows of my life and finally accepted my place in the city. Weeks passed when I didn’t think about my song or the mother who left me. My dreams of caverns and crystals and stone ceased entirely until even my dreams were blind.

  I was twenty-one when Bernardo died. Death crept quietly to him in the night and stole him from me while I slept. The next morning, I couldn’t wake him. Frantic, I stumbled through the shop, spilling his carefully arranged tools to the floor. I went to Lucia’s home and pounded on her door until her son Olivar answered.

  Lucia sent Olivar for the priest and the apothecary, then she helped me back to Bernardo’s side. I heard the soft rustle of her skirts as she knelt by his bed. She was silent for a very long time and when she spoke again, she took my hand.

  “I am so sorry for you, Alejandro. He is dead.”

  “No.” The word turned into a sob and strangled itself in my throat. I pushed her aside and cupped Bernardo’s cold cheeks gently. “That’s not true,” I said, though I knew she was right.

  She hugged me until the apothecary came. Jorge said that Bernardo had died of natural causes in the night.

  The wake and funeral passed over my days, and I moved like a man made numb. Lucia cleaned my house and hers, she made sure that I ate, and nursed me through my grief. In the evenings, the strings of my guitarra wept nothing but sad songs.

  My heart was broken with Bernardo’s absence, but I was never alone. My neighbors checked on me constantly and referred their friends to my shop. Lucia asked that I take Olivar as my apprentice and he became my eyes about the town. Slowly, the sorrow of Bernardo’s passing metamorphosed into fond memories, and I learned to laugh again.

  One still afternoon, when the street outside was unusually silent in the hot day, a woman hesitated by my door. “Are you the blind carpenter?” Her voice was rich and deep, silk on water, and vaguely familiar.