November 1925
Héctor stood beneath the dark and worn gateway of the Land of the almost-Forgotten, carrying all that he owned in the world, and entirely unable to move.
Somehow, impossibly, this place was to be his new home.
It wasn't right! he thought as he watched skeletons move in the distance amidst the crumbling buildings. They looked as worn and dusty as the world around them, as if everything had been dipped in gray.
This wasn't fair! he wanted to shout, biting his lip as he looked out at the dark and dismal land stretching out into the distance, growing darker still in the fading light.
He didn't belong there, it couldn't be right.
Yet another Dia de Los Muertos had passed, and for the fourth time he couldn't cross over the Marigold Bridge. There had been murmurings for a while, from roommates to other musicians to the landlord who had finally kicked him out of the shabby little apartment he had lived in since arriving. He knew the rumors. Some people thought he was lying about his family, or had lied about how much his wife loved him. Or, worst of all, teased him that his wife must have moved on and found another man to keep her company.
He found it hard to argue against because the truth was he didn't know why he couldn't cross. His wife, his daughter, his friends and family… surely they still remembered him. They couldn't have forgotten him so soon. But then why had no one put up his photo? Or left an offering at his grave? No path of marigolds, no songs, no gifts of pan de muerto.
Nothing.
Why didn't anyone seem to care that he had died?
He stood there, impossibly lost and alone, a ghost among ghosts. His guitar grew heavy in his hand, his shoulder began to ache from the bag slung over it, and the sun crept lower in the sky. With a final deep breath, he straightened his back and passed through the entrance into the depths of the Underworld.
Somehow, somewhere, he would need to find a place he could call home. At the very least, a place to lay down for the night, out of the wind and weather. It was no small task. He didn't know who to talk to, or where to go, with no friend or family or home amongst the dead. But then, of course, if he did have any of those things, he wouldn't be down there.
His feet moved him further along the muddy pathways, even as his mind screamed to turn and never come back. But still he walked on, sometimes slipping around festering puddles or over crude bridges where water still remained from the rainy season. Everything seemed worn down and rotting, like that was their natural state, strangely constant in a world that was anything but. Where was he supposed to go?
"Ah, excuse me!" he called to a couple of men chatting outside a shack. Both paused, took one look at him, and frowned.
"What do you want?" one asked in a gruff, low voice.
"I'm looking for, uh… well, I'm not sure. I just got here and have no idea where to go. Can you—"
"That way." The other man pointed down a road.
"Oh… gracias!" Héctor said cheerfully, his smile perhaps a bit too forced as the men scowled after him. Once he was past them he glanced back and wondered what he had said wrong. Perhaps newcomers weren't welcome there, he thought as he made his way down the path, holding tight to his guitar, thankful he had been able to scrounge enough to get a case for it as he moved around a pile of rubbish in the street.
A woman slowly walked past him, leaning heavily on a gnarled stick, her bones soft and gray like old wood. Glancing down at his own white bones, he wondered how long until that would be his fate. Was it true that just being there would make one's bones turn gray and dusty? It was said that things decayed faster there: spirits, homes, and everything else. Food would rot, paper turn to dust, wood would warp and disintegrate. And souls would simply vanish, disappear in a cloud of gold dust, and their names would be forgotten for eternity.
Was that his fate?
Time and again he paused, gazed backwards, and then forced himself to keep going. There must be somewhere for him to go, although he grew increasingly pessimistic. He had hoped to find some friendly spirits in the worn down place, but everywhere he looked people seemed to look at him with suspicion and a chilly silence. Anyone that he asked simply pointed him in the same direction, and so he kept walking, feeling small and alone. He still didn't understand where he was even going. Could he have taken a wrong path?
"Hey, you there!"
Héctor looked up from staring at his feet, and saw a few skeletons sitting on a raised porch. They were all looking towards him, and he pointed to himself with a questioning look.
"Yeah, you! You a músico? Know how to play that guitar?" one man called out and waved a hand, beckoning him over.
"Uh… sí. I was a musician when I died. And I can play pretty well."
"You know any good songs?" another skeleton said, eyeing him almost greedily. "Any corridos? La Rielera? El Cuartelazo?"
"What about Panchovilla?" another called out.
"Sí, sí, I know those… Some of them… a little."
Honestly, he knew bits and pieces but didn't know those kinds of corridos too well, since he had managed to avoid the worst of the revolution. He had been young when he had fought in it himself, just a child. Still, he had picked up some songs, and after traveling with Ernesto through town after town in Mexico, he had picked up quite a few more over the years.
"That's great! Hey, you looking for a place to stay?" The first man got up from where he had been slouching against a post.
"What? How did you know?" Héctor asked as he came to the little porch.
"Ahh, it's obvious! Look at you, muchacho, you look like a stray dog wandering about. Come on, I'm sure we can find you someplace to stay."
"R-really?" Héctor said, and felt a smile on his face. Had he found his new home? Just like that?
He followed the other man into the large, two-story building and was stunned to find others that looked like him. All around were young men, and some women, with strong white bones, looking jovial, and as alive as the dead could be.
"Hey, I got us a músico!" the man called out as soon as they entered a wide, low-ceilinged room full of smoke and men's laughter. Héctor had to blink through the fog and saw others all around as the man dragged him in by the arm towards a man seated on a low chair like the throne of a foreign king.
"That's Javier," the man said in a low voice. "He'll decide if you can stay or not, ya get me?" Héctor barely managed to nod before they were standing before him.
"Who the fuck is this pendejo?" the seated man said, looking Héctor up and down with a stern eye. "New friend of yours, Pedro?"
"Just picked him up off the street," Pedro said, slapping Héctor on the back and shoving him forward. "Says he knows how to play guitar, and he's looking for a place to stay."
"Uh… hi there," Héctor said, waving a hand and feeling like he was very much in the wrong place.
The man rose to his feet, looked him up and down, and then gave him a toothy grin, sticking out a hand for a firm shake. "A músico, eh? Well then, make yourself at home! We lost our last one not long ago. It'll be good to have someone who actually knows what he's doing."
"Really? I-I can stay? That's great! Ay, ay, I thought I wouldn't find anywhere to stay." A flare of hope flickered within him. Maybe he could do this, after all.
"Fate must have brought you here," Javier said, throwing an arm around him and waving about the room. "We may not have much, but we make do."
Héctor would have liked to ask more, but Javier merely sat back and waved a hand, dismissing him. When he turned, he found Pedro has disappeared from his side, and no one else was remotely familiar. He picked up his guitar case and just barely stepped away before he was stopped again.
"So you're joining us, hombre?" another man said, coming up and nodding amiably. He was short, dressed in the same dusty-tawny clothing as many of the others, and had a bandage around one bare arm. "Good to hear it. I'm Alvaro, mucho gusto!"
Héctor shook his hand and introduced himself, thankful there were at least some friendly faces. Alvaro nodded with apparent understanding, and said, "Shantytown's a tough place. We gotta stick together, che. And I can tell you're another like us."
"Eh? Like you?"
"Sure!" he said, grinning widely and gesturing to the other skeletons, many with pale bones, ragged clothes, and bare feet. "Another poor soul here too early. Your living family forsake you then, eh?"
"Well, no, that's not—"
And ya ain't got no familia in the Dead, either, I bet, or you'd be with them." Héctor had less to say to that, and closed his mouth. Alvaro laughed at his expression, clapping him on the back. "Ah, don't worry about it, kid. The rest of the Dead may turn up their noses, but we get you."
Héctor wanted to argue. He wanted to say that, no, he wasn't being forgotten, that there was clearly some misunderstanding because… well, he didn't really know. But before he could speak, there was a shout interrupting his thoughts.
"Come on, músico, play something!" a man called out, and there were a chorus of agreement and curious looks.
Héctor looked out at his eager audience and felt excitement like he hadn't felt in months as he pulled his guitar out and strummed a familiar chord.
"Señoras y señores, Buenas tardes, buenas—"
He stopped singing abruptly, at hearing the shouts and disgruntled noises from all around.
"The hell is that?"
"Fuck that noise! Play something we know!"
"What corridos you got?"
This kind of audience. His eye twitched, but he took a breath and smiled. One thing he had learned while being on the road with Ernesto was how to put on a show. With a quick strum he rolled his shoulders and started over, singing one he was sure they'd know, and began "La Valentina" to approving hoots. He could do this, he thought to himself as he sang out the lyrics, soon joined by many others.
He played song after song, getting one request after another and maneuvering around the ones he wasn't as confident with. Songs about famous generals and battles, lost love and beautiful girls, and melancholy life.
As he did, he took note of his new home. It was a well-built place with white-washed walls and well-scuffed floors, and in the corner a staircase to the second floor. Many of the men looked like revolutionaries, some with wide sombreros, others with bandoliers crossing their chest, including one soldaderas who wore her rebozo shawl crossed instead. There were other skeletons in skirts, although they kept quiet and skittered to and from, heads bowed low. They reminded him fiercely of the viejas, the camp followers during the Revolution, and it was somewhat distracting. They looked quietly unhappy, he thought, and that seemed a warning sign.
However, the men were friendly enough, certainly more amiable than the rest of Shantytown that he had seen. Some offered him tobacco and macuche, which he declined for how difficult it was to sing with, or their canteens, which he accepted. The night seemed to go on and on, and very quickly he grew tired, but kept playing.
"Perdoname, I just need a break," he would say, and then get called to play one more song.
It took a few tries and something like pleading, but finally he was able to escape as the last of men dispersed, and he let his fake grin drop and his shoulders slump forward. He had always disliked these kinds of performances, where he had to actually act and work at it. Ernesto probably would have done better there, he thrived in that environment. For a moment Héctor was struck by the pain of missing his brother. Would he still be playing music? Did he ever achieve his dream?
There was always a guilt lodged in his heart for abandoning his family. But there was another one for abandoning his closest friend. So many regrets. There was so much he had wanted to do. So much he had wanted to be…
He pushed aside those familiar, lingering thoughts, and went to find someplace quiet, which wasn't all that hard. So late at night, most of the men were already asleep and strewn about the floor, although a handful played card around a little lamp, half-stifled with smoke. It was far later than usual, but that was all right, he still had a promise to keep.
He sat down against a wall, sighing as he realized how much his legs hurt from standing all day. Setting the guitar in his lap, he plucked familiar chord and it relieved some of the tension that had been building in his shoulders. Softly, low under his breath, he sang the familiar words of Coco's song, unheard by anyone else under the general noise.
Things weren't great. They couldn't be, considering he was dead and away from his loved ones.
But at least he had a new place to stay, perhaps even new friends. True, they were a bit on the rough side, but at least they had an appreciation for good music, right? And they seemed friendly enough.
And no matter what anyone else could do or say, he still had his song, and the hope that one day things would get better.
Author Notes:
There's going to be bits of history and culture thrown in throughout the story. One note is that a corrido is a style of song popular during the Mexican Revolution. Like a folk ballad.
Also, shout out to my lil' sis for being my beta reader!
Thanks for reading!