A/N: This is my first Once Upon A Time In Mexico fic; I hope it meets the standard. Characters do not belong to me. They belong to Rodriguez. I'm not making any dinero off this. All flames will be used to make s'mores and burn a crap-load of incense. And please excuse my Spanish, I'm still learning. Spanish will be in italics and the translations will be at the end.
El Día de Los MuertosBy Freakish Lemon
Parched wind slithers across the dust to snake its way through the young man's black hair. Brown fingers trace through grooves in hard wood; grooves made by an inexpert hand years ago.
A small smile twitches at the corners of dry lips. His hands still bore the scars of his attempt at carpentry. Memories of an old man who spoke to him of how to shape the slabs of dead tree, how to lash the two pieces together. The old man had even given him the things he needed. But his old hands no longer obeyed the old man's still sharp mind. The boy had had to do it himself.
The body had been buried before he had finished. A priest had been called. Prayers had been said for a man who might not have had a soul in a grave that did not yet had a mark, with only a young boy, a gravedigger, and the priest himself to witness. There was nothing to say that a body lay beneath the dirt, save for a raised mound amongst other raised mounds.
The grave marker had been finished the night of the burial; was set in place above where the dead man's head lay only hours after it was entombed. A wooden cross amidst a sea of stone angels. The boy's heart had broken, ashamed by his inability to make this grave deserving of the man beneath. The cross simply read "Sands".
The young man's head bows and fingers drop from the wood to make trails in the rusty earth. It had been six years; six years since he had first seen el hombre sin ojos, el ciego pistolero, stumble out of the small doorway.
While growing up, the boy had seen many tortured men leave by that door, screaming or ranting or lashing out at whatever moves nearby. But this man, el señor, had been different.
At the time, the boy's plan had been to quickly ride by el señor and keep going. He had heard of muchachos jovenes who had been killed by madmen who had emerged from that door, and he himself had seen what those men could do in blind pain. Memories of the panic that seized hold of him in the same instant that los manos del señor had. Memories of the fear he had felt, expecting el señor to ring his neck.
Instead of facing el loco de atar he had feared, he had been greeted by a voice that was steady and hands that did not shake. The cartels had not killed his spirit.
The young man shakes his head. He knows now why had helped el señor, why he had gone back to find him, why he returns to the grave of el ciego pistolero every year on El Día de Los Muertos. He had grown up in the shadow of fear that had been thrown down by the cartel lords; had feared them more each day as he watched family and friends die at the hands of their hired gunmen.
But el señor did not submit to the cartels, or to their torture. El señor remained strong. For the first time in his life the boy had tasted hope on his lips.
That hope had left a bitter taste in the boy's mouth when el señor died. Infection had clawed into his wounds, burned away at his life. Nothing could be done. It pained the boy to see this man dying; lying feverish and rambling in ailing oblivion. He had died within a month. The boy had not cried then.
And he was not going to cry now. Fingertips quickly brush away the single escaping tear as the young man's other hand opens the dark, worn satchel at his side. Fingers close around three wire stems and draw forth tres floras amarillas.
La señorita who lived next door had made them, had created from decorative paper and had given them scent with the perfume she always wore. She had handed them to him saying, "Todos los muertos serían esplendidos hoy."
Wire stems push down into loose soil. The fake flowers mark a sign of poverty amongst heavily decorated headstones. But of all las floras bonitas in the cemetery, the young man believes these paper creations the most beautiful.
"Unico el mejor para usted, Señor," he whispers to the dead man beneath the soil. There is a long silence before the young man speaks again. "Lo siento para que no se podería vengar antes. Pero ahora yo soy un hombre, y se vengaré."
Hands again reach into the worn satchel and bring forth the gun belts and weapons he had stolen for el señor; that el señor had died wearing. Fingers caress the leather straps almost lovingly before fastening them on.
The young man stands, shoulders his satchel, and turns to leave the cemetery. Before his fourth step, he smiles and turns back to the lonely grave.
"Yo las devolveré cuando he acabado."
~Fin~
el hombre sin ojos – the man without eyes
el ciego pistolero – the blind gunman
el señor – the man (a term used with respect)
muchachos jovenes – young boys
los manos del señor – the man's hands
el loco de atar – raving lunatic
El Día de Los Muertos – The Day of the Dead
tres floras amarillas – three yellow flowers
la señorita – young lady
Todos los muertos serían esplendidos hoy – All of the dead should be beautiful today.
las floras bonitas – the pretty flowers
Unico el mejor para usted, Señor – Only the best for your, sir.
Lo siento para que no se podería vengar antes. Pero ahora yo soy un hombre, y se vengaré. – I am sorry that I could not avenge you before. But now I am a man, and I will avenge you.
Yo las devolveré cuando he acabado – I will return them when I have finished.
A/N: What do you think? And if you didn't catch it, Chiclet boy is going to hunt some cartel guys. Please review. Please? *holds out the collection tin*