"Free at Last"

Prompt: Center your story around a character who yearns for someone or something they’ve lost-or never had.

“Free at Last”

The sky was blacker than I had ever seen it. The clouds cast ominous shapes as I glanced above the palm tree forest. But that was above me. I had to concentrate on my steps as I trudged my way through ankle deep mud which held me like quicksand. Slithery, venomous snakes and ill-tempered lizards riveted their eyes on my movements. I was terrified. But it was the day ahead that made me quiver on this journey into the unknown. I would not be doing this except the town (pueblo) I came from was under siege by the armed guerillas (guerillas armadas) fighting the drug dealers (narcotraficantes).The humid air of the jungle seemed to carry their acrid breaths and smells of gunfire as I imagined them chasing after me.

It became too dangerous for me to stay in my pueblo. The drug dealers were forcing the people of my town to manufacture and transport their drogas mortales (deadly drugs) to the borders. My momma feared I would be taken and groomed into their notorious ways or sold as a sex slave to some rich gringo across the border. I was only nine, but I knew the opposite of living the la vida loca.

My momma decided that tonight would be the night I would make my escape from our little pueblo. It was the only place I ever knew and the only place that made me happy. Everyone had a little garden. Everyone was family, not just by blood but by our heritage (herencia), our faith (fe), and loyalty (leatad) to each other. Momma was the matriarch of our familia. Papa had long since succumbed to the temptations of drogas dinero leaving his family for the status and riches of the cartels (carteles). Before the wiles of the devil enticed him, my papa was a loving man who worked hard with his hands in construction and in the maize fields.When my friends and I were in the field, he would stop his work to play soccer (futbol) with us. He would be the only one against all of us. The man was amazing! He singlehandedly defeated the six of us. I quietly lamented, “Oh, my papa, how I miss you.”

Now I find myself following my friends who, like my momma, had their families send them out for the hope of a better life to the Rio Grande and across the border. The night air was still humid but cooler. I was hoping soon we would stop to eat and get warmed by a small fire. My oldest cousin, Miguel, soon to celebrate his thirteenth birthday tomorrow, was in charge of the four of us. Nonetheless there would be no celebration tomorrow or any day. I remembered those birthdays when we would celebrate them in our pueblo regardless of how old or young a person was. There would be lots of singing and dancing. I could see pinatas dancing in the air as the celebrants tried to break them for their treasures: Food, candy, and more candy scattered all over the ground. That thought caused my stomach to churn and make noises.

Miguel continued to press forward through the densely wooded terrain. I pleaded with him for a break. “Miguel, we must stop. We are all hungry, thirsty, and tired. Please listen to me!” The other two kept their silence. Miguel stopped in his tracks sternly looking at me. “Silencio Diego! We cannot stop! And no fire either. They will see us! We need to reach the river’s edge in the twilight so we can hide in the tall reeds.”

Miguel tried to clear a path for us through the woody brush but missed many of the low hanging thorny branches. We pressed on through bushes but most struck me in the head and face.I could feel every thorn scraping and piercing my skin. The closer we approached the river, the denser the underbrush became. I was hoping this would all end. Then one of the thicker branches smacked me hard in the head. More of them struck me in the back as I clumsily tried to get through.The pain stirred memories of my pueblo celebrating Passion (Pasion) week and Easter (Pascua). Men from the pueblo reenacted the scourging and torture of Jesus with whips and a crown of thorns. The town mayor walked to the hilltop carrying the cross (La Cruz) of Cristo. The women of the pueblo would be crying, but on Sunday, (El Domingo de Resurreccion), the pueblo erupted in amazing joy celebrating Christ rising from the dead.It was breathtaking! There was incredible feasting. Smiles, shouts of praise, cheer, respect, and unmitigated happiness overcame the people on that day.

Another branch rudely returned me back to reality. Unfortunately, there are no smiles on my face as I continued through the garden of torment.The horizon was casting a slight orange hue as the sun was making its way up into the sky. We had traveled the entire night. The group had made its way to the banks of the river, but Miguel shouted at us. “We need to get into the reeds before we are seen by the guerillas or traficantes.Quickly, fill up your canisters with water and cool off your head. Quickly!Get into the reeds!” We did as he instructed and literally dove into them.

The sight of Rio Grande prompted another memory for me. Back at home, my friends and I would hike outside the limits of the pueblo to our secret water hole with our fishing poles.It was not a large body of water like the river, but more like a quarry pond; nonetheless, the three of us loved it.We never caught much of anything, but it was a great place to practice our swimming and shallowing diving skills.Most of all, it was a place for us to hang out, especially after school (escuela). The three Mexican Musketeers, (Tres Mosqueteros Mexicanos) as we referred to ourselves: Pedro, Juan and of course me Diego! We were free to be whatever and wherever we wanted to be in our dreams, our adventures, and our ideas.

Gunfire rattled me out of my dream. The three of us were petrified in fear. Where was Miguel? What happened to Miguel? I panicked.Meanwhile I urged the other two to go deeper into the reeds and seek any help. I had to find Miguel! I cautiously crawled to the edge of the reeds.

What I saw horrified me.I saw Miguel laying on the river embankment bleeding from his stomach. Two armed men stood over him rummaging through his pockets. I could not tell if they were guerillas or the traficantes or even perhaps soldados americanos. They took his shirt, shoes, his machete, and his drinking canister. They were leaving him to die. I whispered to myself, “Oh my cousin. I am so sorry mi hermano de sangre (blood brother).”

It was only about a minute when the men left Miguel, but it seemed like an eternity. I had to help him. When I crept up to him, he was still breathing. I wadded up some of my extra clothing to stop the bleeding. Miguel looked at me and smiled. In a feeble voice he said, “Te amo, mi hermano. Hoy voy a Dios.Vere’ a Jesus en mi cumpleanos. (I will see Jesus on my birthday).” Miguel closed his eyes.

My heart was breaking.I sobbed. I prayed. I had lost track of time. The sun was rising quickly well above the horizon. Then I heard a motor boat. I saw Pedro and Juan with other refugees on the boat. There were armed soldiers on it as well. These men were soldados americanos because of the flags on their arms. The boat was able to dock in the shallow waters of the river bank. Some passengers lifted Miguel’s body onto the back of the boat. I joined Pedro and Juan with the crowd of others at the midsection of the boat.

Some time had passed and the boat docked at the other side of the river much further away where we were rescued. I could see American flags flying on poles near several buildings. Seeing the flags and soldiers made me think of a Peace Corps teacher who taught at my school. She told us that freedom in America came at a great price through many wars. She also told us about two great patriots who worked to get equality for all Americans regardless of race, religion, or ethnicity. I would never forget their names. Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King.

Today, however, I would not know American freedom as I stood in a long line at a detention center. I could see other refugees crowded inside the center surrounded by wire fences, gates, and razor wire. They did not know freedom either.

Many days would pass and my thoughts drifted back to my momma and my pueblo. How I longed for that freedom with my familia.

I could no longer find Juan or Pedro. No one knew where they were or even tell me if they knew. Did they escape? Did they taste the sweetness of freedom?

And I thought of Miguel.He would not see the wire mesh walls or steel bars in front of him hindering his freedom. His pain and suffering would be over. His eyes would be riveted on the Savior of the world.His freedom would be lasting into eternity. He is free in Jesus Christ. He is “free at last!”

-END-

Christ has truly set us free. Now make sure that you stay free, and do not get tied up again in slavery to the law. (Galatians 5:1, NLT)

So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus. And because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death. (Romans 8:1-2, NLT)

NLT=New Living Translation Bible

Author:Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com prompts