Pray for the dead, fight like hell for the living – Mother Jones

María watched Manolo's eyes close and open slowly as his head lulled. They were on the couch, Joaquín was in the arm chair across the table writing feverously. Manolo sat, slumped, next to her on the couch, one hand gripping the arm of the couch, the other laid across his stomach. He seemed well on his way to fall asleep but putting up a reasonable fight against it.

From her sketchpad María recorded it and felt a pit form in her stomach as she saw just how strange he looked to her now with every stroke of the pencil. She had to add in dark circles around his eyes, she had to draw his shoulders unsupported and low, she had to capture is lifeless and sweat stained hair. And she also had to add in the tip of the scar that was visible from the v opening at the top of the buttons on his sweater. For the first time in a while, drawing put her in an awful mood.

Across the room his guitar, her engraving facing them, sat unused in days.

He grunted in his half asleep state and she put down her pencil and watched him. His eyebrows dropped into a scowl and lines appears on his forehead. She watched both his hands curl up into fists and back, multiple times and his knuckles went from pink to white and back again. His jaw was clenching as his teeth bit down on each other. His eyelids opened and closed occasionally, his eyes were unfocused, sometimes even rolling around. He let out more grunts and sometimes things almost like words.

"Is this what it looks like?" Joaquín asked, also watching now. María reached out to tuck Manolo's hair behind his ear.

"Yes, but it's usually more violent than—"

Manolo, in his sleep, grabbed at her arm, tightly, painfully. She cried out in surprise and a bit in pain. He shoved, and she was unseated from the couch and onto the floor, her forearm stripped with four white marks from where his fingers had been.

Chuy let out a squeal of panic and now Manolo was thrashing and yelling, she couldn't tell in fear or in anger. Joaquín was on his feet and took a knee to Manolo's stomach and pressed while holding down his arms. That did not sit well with the sleeping Manolo who only seemed to get angrier.

"She's mine!" he yelled with closed eyes. "She remembers me!"

"What the hell—"

Manolo's free hand swung aimlessly, trying to fight something in his dream. It collided with Joaquín's chest, not hard, but enough to make him angry. He lunged at the arm and slammed it into the arm of the couch. Manolo gave out a cry.

"Joaquín! Don't hurt him!" María called, scrambling to her feet.

"He threw you off the couch!" Joaquín shouted back, struggling with what appeared to be a surprisingly strong Manolo.

"He's dreaming!"

She marched over, placed two firm hands on Joaquín's shoulders and yanked back.

He obeyed and pulled off of Manolo who was now free to swing his arms and yell as he pleased. He gave slurred shouts of "They remember me!", "I'm a alive!", and "You're a liar!" over and over again.

María ran into the kitchen and grabbed the water they'd pulled from the pump this morning, she took it back into the living room and dumped it over his head, shocking his eyes open.

He blinked several times and whirled his head around. He stilled his arms and legs immediately and sucked in as much air as his lungs would let him. The water hung in droplets off of his wavy hair as his head stilled and locked eyes with María. And for a second she saw pure, childish fear in his eyes, they were huge and frightened and even a little bit begging for forgiveness. But then it was gone and nothing but anger stared back at her as the door to his mind closed to her again.

He stood and shook out his hair. He turned to Joaquín who shot his angry glare right back at him.

"You're still here," Manolo said.

"I'm visiting friends."

They were glaring at one another. Manolo moved out from between the couch and table and Joaquín defensively took a step back. As much as María didn't want to see either of them hurt, she was mentally preparing to tackle whichever one of them decided to throw the inventible first punch.

"That all?" Manolo said, sliding towards the fireplace while Joaquín backed up.

"What does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means."

María watched Manolo's face as his eyes occasionally averted, focusing on something in the empty space as if someone was talking in his ear. Then he turned back to stare at Joaquín. He grabbed onto the mantle and squeezed tightly.

"You won't take her from me."

As it directed at Joaquín or something else, María wasn't sure but in that second she watched him rip his father's bullfighting saber from the mantle and lunge at Joaquín. And in that same instant she let out a yell and dove for the two of them, a flash of flowers occurred and suddenly Manolo was grabbed by Xibalba, who held him by the neck and lifted.

Grateful as María was for the intervention, she cringed at the gasping sounds Manolo made.

"Put him down!" she ordered.

"First things first," he said to María and then turned to the gasping and clawing Manolo in his hands. "Boy, I will not hesitate to throw you into the wall, put it down."

Manolo dropped the sword instantly and was set back down on the ground. He alternated between gasping in air and coughing as he doubled over with his hands on his knees. María moved to go to him but La Muerte put a hand on her shoulder to hold her back.

"Now, I apologize for this—sort of—but I've also wanted to do this for awhile."

And with that Xibalba punched Manolo square in the side of the forehead and he twisted back violently and right into the wall. There was a sharp knock of his head hitting first and then his hands slapped against the wall to steady himself as he slid slowly down, passed out before he hit the floor.

It was then that La Muerte let go of her and María rushed forward to the stomach down body of her husband, breathing through his mouth. Even Joaquín glared at Xibalba.

"Bastardo!" María hissed at Xibalba.

"What was that for?" Joaquín shouted.

"You're welcome for saving your life, by the way," Xibalba said. "The bullfighter might not like doing it, but he does know how to kill a bull. If I were a betting man, I would have put my money on him."

Joaquín said nothing and went over to kneel beside María. He grabbed Manolo around the shoulders and yanked him up. He scooped an arm under him and lifted. María joined in, lifting what she could of a man who was twice her size and together they moved him to the couch. They set him down and María lifted his head and sat, replacing it onto her lap.

She brushed through his still damp hair and saw the welt on Manolo's head beginning to form. His eyes were still and his breathing steady.

"He won't dream in that sleep, so when he wakes, he'll be himself again. A bit of a recalibration on his brain," Xibalba said. "When he's up we'll explain everything but at the very least I imagine you noticed he's been acting odd. At least I hope you have."

María kept her eyes down but Joaquín nodded.

"It's not his fault," La Muerte said.

"Well I mean, he is thinking the thoughts, she's just expounding on them—"

"It's not his fault."

La Muerte put her hands behind her back and paced in the minimal space their house afforded a god-sized being.

"Who is 'she'?" María said.

"We'll explain when he wakes," La Muerte said. "You don't want to have to listen to Balby complain about repeating himself." Xibalba gave a childish huff and turned.

They stayed that way for probably a half hour, waiting for Manolo to regain his bearings. María wished she had her sketchpad in arms reach so she could draw him this way, still and peaceful, and very nearly himself. From across the table she saw the tired, ill, and very nearly evil looking version of him.

She watched one brown eye open, then the other and she was overjoyed to see it was the boy she knew growing up staring back at her from below. He blinked away confusion and immediately slapped a hand to his head and groaned.

"Careful," María said, placing hands on his back and helping him to sit up.

He shook his head a little and then looked at his hands. He seemed particularly fixated on his gold wedding band. After a moment of reflection, he looked up at Xibalba.

"I'm not going to apologize if that's what you want," Xibalba said. Manolo rolled his eyes.

"But I will," La Muerte said. "Manolo this is not your fault."

"What's happening to me?" he asked quietly.

"Your ancestors called her Huehuecoyotl," Xibalba said. "It's not her real name. I'm not even sure she has one."

"And who is she?" Joaquín said.

"María knows," Xibalba said and she turned red at being caught with her angry gaze.

"A god of mischief," she said.

"You learned about pagan gods in a convent?" Joaquín said.

"They wanted us to recognize heathens," María said doing her best impression of a stuffy nun. "But Huehuecoyotl was a man, not a she."

"She can take any form she likes. I don't even know what her true form looks like. All we know about her is that she was human once," Xibalba explained.

"Humans can become gods?" Joaquín said. Had this situation not been so serious María could predict at least five follow-ups that included Joaquín thinking himself an excellent candidate for godhood.

"Yes."

La Muerte spoke up, but quietly. She was looking at Manolo with such pity she might have mistake her for Manolo's own mother Carmen. María had only met her one other time but even she could tell the woman was ill at ease.

"That's not the point," Xibalba said quickly. "She was human once, so she knows what hurts you. And she will hurt you. It seems she already has."

Manolo looked down, his hands were shaking. María reached out to take them but felt only the fleeting coldness of his skin as he pulled them away and refused to look at her. It was not in anger, she saw that in his eyes, but she still felt like a lead ball dropped in her stomach. La Muerte's eyes were on her but when she turned, the goddess looked away.

"She's a troublemaker," Xibalba said.

"You're a troublemaker," Manolo said quietly.

"I antagonize, I don't torture," Xibalba said, his head turned up with an air.

"You made me think María was dead and tricked me into…" Manolo trailed off.

"Into what? Killing yourself? I think you are partially responsible for that, boy," Xibalba said icily.

"We are not here to debate that," La Muerte said, stepping between them.

María forgave Manolo for his stupidity after what happened at the tree and painful as the memory may be to her. Manolo and Xibalba both saw the other one at true fault for that. They were dangerously alike sometimes, and María readjusted her position when she realized she'd struck the same irritated pose as La Muerte.

"She is dangerous," La Muerte said plainly. "She can get in your heads, she already has. It'll be more than dreams now Manolo."

"What does she want?" he said.

"Chaos, mischief, fun…for her," Xibalba said. "And since you let slip to our friend your connection to La Muerte, she will gun for you boy. And right now, she's winning."

"I don't know how to fight her," he said. "What does La Muerte have to do with it?"

"Complications," Xibabla said with a tone that told Manolo not to ask again.

"There is nothing harder to defeat than ailments in your mind, Manolo," La Muerte said, kneeling down to him. "Unfortunately, I cannot help you in this. You alone have to face this. I picked you all those years ago for a reason Manolo Sánchez. Prove me right."

María felt herself bud with warmth inside as La Muerte kissed his forehead. The color seemed to return to his body instantly, slouched and tired as he still looked, his cheeks livened up again and his face lightened.

"We can't intervene every time," Xibalba said. "But we will be watching. That said, the Candlemaker is older than us and knows far more. La Muerte is going to speak to him so I don't have to."

La Muerte glared at him and took a smack to his shoulder and María watched Manolo actually laugh and she felt herself smile too. Quiet as Joaquín had been through most of this she watched him lighten as well, a smile brewing under his mustache.

"And one more thing," Xibalba said. "She will mostly likely come to you in the form of people who've died, family, friends. She likes to do that. Don't be stupid."

María wanted to ask numerous questions on that topic but she was quickly shut down by a puff of air as the gods bid farewell with a promise to be watching, and departed. And the room was deadly quiet and echoing again. Manolo looked down for probably the tenth time that afternoon, Joaquín did the same. The stayed like that, hands in pockets, shuffling their feet and María rolled her eyes.

"If you two babies won't do it," she said, stepping toward them. "Joaquín, Manolo is very sorry for what happened, whether he was in control or not. Manolo, Joaquín is sorry for manhandling you, he was just trying to protect everyone. There?"

Both men looked up and finally nodded. The clapped hands firmly

"I won't let this thing get you, brother," Joaquín said. "Or any of us."

Manolo nodded.

They decided it best that Joaquín take the spare room downstairs. Manolo felt better knowing he was there though he knew María was slightly uneasy with the possibility of them getting into another physical fight. Joaquín swore he would do his best not to hurt Manolo, who in return swore he would try and fight this. But how did you do that? You can't hurt dreams just as much as they can't truly hurt you.

When he was alone with María in his room he rushed her, grabbed her face, and kissed her. She gave out a squeak of surprise before almost immediately kissing him back. It wasn't hungry or heated, but it was passionate. If the dreams, if this thing tried to steal him from her again, he wanted a memory, something to pull him out.

"María," he whispered, breaking them apart. "If it happens again, kiss me."

"What?"

"I'll remember this, it's how I'll find out what's real. I can't feel this in dreams and it can't whisper this in my ear. So kiss me, and I'll come back to you," he said.

She nodded and kept their foreheads pressed together, gently stroking the sides of his face. His hands resting on her hips were shaking again.

"What it is?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry," he said back, his voice was hoarse and she looked into his eyes, pulling back, and saw them glistening. "I…"

He looked to her arm, bruising in the shape of his fingers.

"It wasn't you," she said. But he heard an edge on her voice that told him she was scared.

It wasn't me, he swore to himself. It wasn't me, it wasn't me, it wasn't me.