‘When he waked he found another golden coin in his palm, and he was so unnerved that he went to the nearest cantina and drank himself insensible. He understood that he had been chosen by the spirits as the ground on which to fight their ancient battle, and he could only hope this particular engagement would be brief. But the next afternoon the king once again begged entry to the hunter’s dream, and when a brief time later the conquistador’s ghost came into view, the hunter complied with his demands and, his heart full of remorse, accepted another golden coin. First months, then years went by. The hunter constructed plots against the conquistador’s ghost, but for each the ghost had a remedy. He grew wealthy due to the daily payments, and his family’s future now assured, he considered suicide. But his moral imperatives had been seduced by comfort, and he reasoned that if it were not he whose dreams served as the battlefield, it would be some other: how could he burden anyone else with this terrible conflict?
‘Then one day as the king fled the dream, he said to the hunter, “Friend, thank you for your years of service. I am leaving now to find a new dream, for the conquistador has delved all the secrets of the palace and I can no longer elude him.”
‘Stricken by guilt, the hunter asked forgiveness, but the king told him that there was nothing to forgive, that the hunter had provided him with the best hiding place he had ever had. He sprinted off into the jungle, and soon the conquistador’s ghost emerged from the dream. He, too, spoke to the hunter.
‘ “Of all the hunts I have known,” he said in a voice that rumbled like a volcano, “yours has provided the most intriguing of all. I am sorry to see it exhausted.”
‘The hunter trembled with hate, but limited himself to saying, “I am grateful I will never have to lay eyes on you again.”
‘The ghost’s laughter filled the sky with dark clouds. “You are an innocent, my friend. That which is fallow will one day be fertile again, and that which is valueless will grow to be priceless. Sooner or later you will dream a new dream, and we will return to have our sport within it.”
‘“Never!” said the hunter, ‒I would rather die.”
‘“Die, then,” said the conquistador’s ghost in a voice of flame. “Perhaps your child will have the gift of dreams.”
‘The hunter was staggered by this possibility, and knew that he would do anything to spare his child this doom.
‘Again the ghost laughed, and lightning flashed across the sky, its forked values defining the thousand forms of terror in the language of the gods. “Here!” The ghost tossed a golden coin studded with emeralds at the hunter’s feet, a coin worth a decade of its usual payments. “I commission you to build me a new dream, one more elaborate than that of the palace. When I return it had better be ready.” And with that the ghost rode off in pursuit of the king, its steed leaving a trail of hoofprints from which an ineffable smoke arose, signs clear enough so that any spirit peering down from the heavens might take note of them and follow.’
Garrido butted his cigar, making a nest of sparks on the limestone. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
‘Coulda used a hair more dialogue,’ said Mingolla. ‘But not bad.’
Letting out a hiss of disgust, Garrido pulled himself up by his hammock rope. ‘Good night,’ he said. He slipped into the hammock and pulled the mosquito netting over his head.
Despite himself, Mingolla had been impressed by the story, although his secondary reaction had been to consider asking Garrido why he hadn’t simply said, ‘For the money.’ But he realized this would have been unfair. He would have liked to question Garrido further, for it had occurred to him that not only were there a great many things he did not understand, but there well might be a great many other things to whose very existence he had been blind. He gave thought to cultivating Garrido’s friendship, but after reflection decided against it, feeling that friendship would blur his judgments, and that the argument between them would in the long run prove more entertaining than any conversation generated by an accord.
He managed to get to sleep despite the frost, though sleep was hardly restful, a tapestry of anxiety dreams, and when he was awakened by a bright light shining in his eyes, he wondered if he had cried out and disturbed Garrido. ‘What is it?’ he asked, shielding his eyes, his hand tangling with the mosquito netting.
‘Son of a bitch!’ said a voice with a hillbilly twang. ‘This ol’ beaner talks American.’
‘I am American.’ He struggled up. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Something jabbed him hard in the chest, shoving him back; through the white mesh, he saw a rifle barrel and a hand holding a flashlight.
‘Sure looks like a beaner,’ said somebody else.
‘I’m an agent… a spy. Who are you people?’
‘We own this place, man,’ said the hillbilly voice, loaded with menace, ‘And you trespassin’.’
A chill washed away the dregs of Mingolla’s drowsiness, and he pushed with his mind; but rather than meeting mild electrical resistance and enforcing his will, he was flung back, repelled: it was as if he had been riding in a car, had stepped out while it was still moving, and instead of running smoothly along, had been flipped up into the air. He tried again, achieved the same result.
‘That’s a disguise, huh?’ said the hillbilly. ‘How we gonna tell for sure? Lotsa Cubans do real good American. Maybe we scrape ’way a little bitta that color, see what’s under it.’
A chorus of dopey-sounding laughter.
‘Whyn’t ya do like them ol’ war movies, Sarge? Ast him questions ’bout baseball and stuff?’ Another voice.
‘Yeah!’ Hillbilly. ‘How ’bout that, friend. S’pose you tell us who plays centerfield for the Chicago Bears.’
‘Your pal in disguise, too?’ Still another voice.
‘What you guys want?’ Mingolla tried to push the rifle barrel away. ‘Lemme up!’
‘Guess his buddy’s a beaner for real,’ said the hillbilly. ‘Go ’head and do him.’
A burst of automatic fire.
Mingolla stiffened. ‘Garrido?’
‘He answers ya, man,’ said the hillbilly, ‘and I’m gettin’ outta here.’
‘You crazy motherfucker!’ Mingolla said. ‘We’re…’
The rifle punched harder into his chest. ‘You ain’t outta the woods yo’self, boy. Now you wanna answer my question?’
Mingolla suppressed an urge to scream, to heave up from the hammock. ‘What question?’
‘’Bout who plays centerfield for the Bears.’
Snickering.
‘The Bears play football,’ said Mingolla.
‘Well, I’m convinced! Take a reg’lar American to know that,’ said the hillbilly amid renewed laughter. ‘Trouble is’—the humor left his voice—‘we don’t cotton that much to Americans, neither.’
Silence, insects chittering.
‘Who are you?’ Mingolla asked.
‘Name’s Coffee… Special Forces, formerly ’tached to the First Infantry. But y’might say we seen the light an opted outta the military. You gotta name, boy?’
‘Mingolla… David Mingolla.’ He thought he knew them now, and to make sure he asked, ‘What do you mean, “seen the light”?’
‘The light’s holy in Emerald, man. Y’sit under the beams what shine through the leaves, let ’em soak into ya, and they’ll stir truth from your mind.’
‘That right?’ Mingolla pushed again, and again achieved nothing.
‘Think we’re nuts, don’tcha?’ said Coffee. ‘You ’mind me of my ol’ lieutenant. Man used to tell me I’s crazy, and I say, “I ain’t ordinary crazy, lieutenant sir. I’m crazy gone to Jesus.” And I’d tell him ’bout the kingdom we was gonna build. No machines, no pollution. Y’gonna thrive here, David, if you can pass muster. Learn to hunt with a knife, track tapir by the smell. Hear what weather’s comin’ in the cry of a bird.’