Suddenly she stopped and I almost ran into her. Glancing up, I spotted the ruins of a building silhouetted against the deepening gray sky. She turned to me and I nodded. All I could think about was removing my heavy shoes and letting my feet breathe. Without a hint of caution, we stumbled toward it, only to be stopped by a curt, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
I was stunned. For hours we had trekked with no one else in sight. As I stood, my mouth open wide, Rosa wheeled around and pulled me into her arms, holding me tight, perhaps out of both fear and a need to protect me. She took in a breath and spoke to the shadows beneath the trees, “We are only women. We are harmless,” words that should never be used in such a situation, for to tell a hungry coyote that you are a vulnerable rabbit is beyond foolish.
There was a rustle of branches, hushed whispers, then the sound of approaching footsteps, quick and firm. “You are alone?” the same voice asked.
“Yes.” This time I answered, perhaps because Rosa now recognized the error of such a response, but also, I had detected a nervous, youthful quality to the voice—though it then dawned on me that in Chiapas, youth did not preclude danger.
“Step apart. One of you, come forward slowly. Muy despacio.”
Rosalba loosened her grasp and took a few steps toward the voice. Suddenly three figures appeared from the brush; one held back pointing his gun toward Rosa, while the others approached. To my surprise, they were smaller than her. By Mexican standards, Rosa was a tall woman, so most men were at least her height. These men, who I soon saw were merely boys, were inches shorter. One tugged at her bag, pulling it over her head; the other searched along her hips, perhaps for money or weapons, but did not discover the coin purse in her waistband. Next it was my turn. After tossing my pack to his friend, one patted me down along my back and sides, avoiding my front. He looked no older than ten and smelled like a chicken coop.
As the gunman approached us, Rosa took my hand, lifted her chin and said to him calmly, “We are simply passing through. Please let us go on our way.”
He was older and taller than the others, perhaps closer to my age. His thick mop of hair hung in his face, casting a shadow that kept his eyes hidden.
“What are you doing out here alone?” He spoke to us in Spanish, but the boy looking through Rosa’s bag shouted something to him in the Indian language of my grandmother. I knew the sounds, the rhythm, but I did not comprehend the meaning. I turned to Rosa who whispered, “Our food, I think he said something about our food.”
“Where are you going?” he asked again.
“To Oaxaca. Our father is waiting. He will worry if we do not hurry, so please let us go.” Rosalba’s voice quivered. She was squeezing my hand so tightly I thought I had screamed, but it was the boy’s laugh that pierced the night.
“To Oaxaca and your father is waiting? ¿De verdad? Well, he has a bit of a wait anyway, so a few more minutes won’t matter.” With that he motioned us to walk ahead in the direction of the building and spoke sharply in that other language to the younger boys, who followed carrying our bags.
They wanted something certainly, something we would surely lose, but that was not the only thought that bore down on me as we entered the decaying shelter. It was the weight of what we had taken on with so little planning. Rosa, whose head was forever in the heavens, would say, “Put our faith in the Virgin of Guadalupe, and we will find our way,” while I walked with feet planted firmly on the ground, believing that if so many others had made this journey, then we could as well. But certainly, those others did not just dash out the door in a fit of anger.
Trembling, we stepped through the doorway with hands tightly clasped. I saw that the shelter was missing one wall and most of a roof. A small campfire had been set up on this open end with pieces of wood neatly stacked in a pit surrounded by stones. A few herbs floated in a chipped clay pot of water nearby—apparently the beginnings of their evening meal. Rosalba and I circled to the far side of the pit. The boys followed, only to lay the packs at our feet and step back beside their companion.
I could see his face now in the firelight. His eyes were almost black and his brows thick under a disheveled horse’s forelock of dark hair. A shadow of a mustache was beginning above his full lips. To our surprise, he lowered the gun to his side. “You will need protection,” he was saying matter-of-factly, and nodded toward our packs. “Share your food, and we will guide and protect you on the rails.”
“The rails? What are you talking about?” I asked, until I realized he assumed we were planning to take the Beast. “But we aren’t taking the train! We are walking . . . and taking the bus.”
As Rosa stepped forward, he instinctively raised
