Alma clutched Julieta, Bruno, and Josefa against her chest as Pedro bolted the doors of the house. Their house. The house in which the children were supposed to laugh and sing and play. The house in which she and Pedro were supposed to grow old together. Bruno started crying.
"Cálmate, querido," she whispered, rocking back and forth, "It'll be alright." She didn't know if she was reassuring the dark haired baby in her arms or herself. Her stomach cramped painfully. Whether it was the lingering pain from bringing the children into the world mere hours ago or the fear that they would soon be taken from it, Alma didn't know.
The screams and hoofbeats and gunshots grew louder. Pedro wrapped a shawl over her shoulders, and after one last look back, Alma turned away. Behind her, the village was doing the same
"Mamá, where are we going?" Ana, the butcher's daughter, asked.
"Papá, we have to leave now!" Ernesto, the cobbler, shouted.
"Gabriel! Has anyone seen my Gabriel?" Teresa, the seamstress called out desperately.
The village coalesced together as what remained of it started to walk towards the mountains. Every step sent sharp jolting pains as she could feel blood trickling down from between her legs. The air was filled with sobs of children and gasps of pain from the elderly.
"I don't want to walk anymore!" 4 year old Rosa wailed, "I want to go home!"
"Just a little farther now, Rosita," Pedro crouched down to meet her eye, "Then we'll be in nice green meadows, clear crystal streams. You can pick as many flowers as you want. And I'll make you a crown and-"
A gunshot rang out. Someone screamed. The throng of villages started to run aimlessly. Some fell, to be trampled upon by the desperate crowd. Alma looked behind her. Four masked men on horses were visible by the torchlight from just beyond the trees. Where was Pedro? In the chaos she had lost him.
"Alma!"
She looked up, Pedro was tugging on her arm. The men were gaining ground quickly. She sprinted as fast as she could. After what seemed like an eternity, but could only have been a few minutes, she collapsed onto her knees with a sharp cry.
She gasped, "Pedro!" The men were only a few dozen feet away.
He pulled her to her feet, "Go. I'll hold them off."
"I can't go without you!" Alma cried.
"You can. And you must. For our children." He kissed the babies in her arms.
"I need you," Alma sobbed.
Pedro's lips met hers in a soft, tender kiss. "Te amo, mi vida."
He strode out towards the men with his hands raised. All Alma saw next was the machete slash through Pedro's chest.
They killed Pedro.
She didn't hear the scream being forced from her throat.
They'll kill the children. They'll kill all of us.
She didn't register the salty tears streaming down her face.
Please, not my children.
She didn't feel the rough earth under her arms and knees as she shielded the slowly stirring babies with her body. A horseman advanced towards her.
Maybe someone will save the children. Maybe I'll see Pedro again.
She didn't see the candle glow. Nor did she see the men being blown away. Nor did she see the mountains erupt from the ground.
"Señora Madrigal?" Little Rosa's voice called out tentatively. Alma looked up. Before her was a house. A large, beautiful house. Behind her, the village gathered in amazement.
"What happened?" Alma asked, dazed.
"We're saved," Teresa stuttered.
Padre Manuel crossed himself, "It's a miracle from God."
We're safe now. Alma almost couldn't believe it.
"What do we do now, Señora?" Ernesto asked. The villagers quieted, all eyes fixed upon her. Upon her, Alma realized with a pang. Pedro, I need you.
She choked down her grief. But they need me. "We need to find food and shelter for the night," Alma announced, finding her voice at last. "Teresa, how many beds do we need?" She pointed at the woodcutter, "Rosario, take some men with you and get firewood." She turned towards Minerva, the farmer's wife, "How much food do we have? Bring it all. We'll make sure it's fairly distributed." She continued giving instructions. "Everybody else, come inside." She stepped forwards to open the door. Before she could however, the door sprang open on its own accord, seeming to welcome her.
Hours later, when the children were fed, the animals rested, the wounded treated, Alma finally retreated to the private quarters the house had miraculously conjured up, as if it knew of the fatigue welling from the depths of her soul. It had been a shock when she first stepped into the bedroom, the very picture of the room she and Pedro shared only a day ago. Pedro. But the left side of this bed would forever be empty. She gazed over at Bruno, Julieta, and Josefa, sleeping peacefully in the cradles. She envied them. They did not know what they had all just been through, what they had lost, what they were so immensely lucky to have. Alba does not have a cradle to herself tonight. Ana had lost her brother and father. Oscar's wife was raped and murdered in front of him. Two of Diego and Marta's children drowned yesterday. Why do we have this house? What did we do to deserve shelter, food, safety that the others did not? Will they resent us for it when everything settles? Will they come after us if we do? The last thought sent a shudder up Alma's spine, and a subsequent jolt of agony through her abdomen.
A loud crash roused her from her musings. Through the walls of the house Alma could hear shouts as if a fight were about to break out. She desperately wanted to ignore the sounds and rest her weary muscles. But she could not. She had opened her home to everyone, and therefore, everyone was her responsibility. And if it took her endless toil to ensure that the village would want for nothing, that they would never direct their fear and envy upon her family, so be it. With a groan, Alma opened the door and gingerly stepped out.
