The Bell Tower

As far back as I can remember, I have always felt different. I don't say that as something that I'm proud of. My mother was the first to point this out, and she described it almost as a disability. "That boy is not right in the head," she would say. "It's that damn Nintendo." Like most Mexican parents, they loved to blame any behavior issue on those damn Nintendos. Mental health problems are too unknown or too taboo to be discussed openly in the Mexican household. 

They say we reflect our parents' virtues, but it’s their failures that make us who we are, for better or for worse. "Daniel is fine," my father would say sharply with indignation. "He just needs some time outside. A few weeks back in Mexico will be good for him. I'll have my brother ready a horse for him.” His thick mustache barely moved as he spoke. "let him live down there for a few months so he can see how people live, work as they work, eat what they eat. See if he doesn’t return as a new person." So they sent me to Mexico. 

If my parents thought they sent me down there to straighten me out, they were mistaken. It was no boot camp. For the first time in a long while, I found joy. I was eager to work outside. Rural Mexico is filled with endless hills covered in wildflowers and cactuses. I loved riding my horse behind the cattle under a blanket of blue sky. Occasionally, a lonely cloud would hover above, casting a refreshing shade beneath, and its cool breeze always felt rewarding. Sometimes, I would chase beneath as it floated away, trying to stay in its cool shadow that moved over the rocky terrain below my feet. But most of all, I enjoyed working with Uncle Isaac, my father’s younger brother.

It was the summer of 2003. I was 13 years old, and the day finally came when Uncle Issac trusted me to pull the wheat seeder on the tractor. He didn't have a choice. Just a few minutes before making the decision, one of his workers, a kid roughly my age, caught his fingers in the planter, and it tore the tip of his finger. Blood ran down his arm, leaving a deep red stain on his shirt, but he didn't scream in pain. He only clenched his jaw and puckered his lips, putting pressure on his wound. I was fascinated by his composure. When Uncle Issac saw his wound, he halted his work on the tractor and drove him into town, where the boy would be treated. "Drive steady and straight," He said, as he thew me the keys.

It feels good to know you are trusted, and in my case, that evening, I was behind the wheel of a New Holland Model TB100. It was no John Deere, but it was almost as expensive and twice as beautiful; something about the color blue in New Holland tractors stood out so beautifully within a sea of golden wheat.

Two tractors filled the soil with wheat seed that cloudy evening. Gustavo, my uncle's right-hand man, drove the second tractor. He was a quiet man with broad shoulders and rough hands. A gentle giant. He was always either working or talking about work on the farm.

With my flimsy, boyish hands, I drove my tractor as steadily as possible. I could feel the wheat seeds being nestled in the soil, and I was proud of my straight lines as I dragged the seeder that evening. I felt the wind breeze on my face and saw large clouds looming overhead.

We finished the planting by dusk. "You did good, boy," Gustavo told me as he checked the diesel in his tank. "You got enough to make it back home?" I gave him a confident thumbs up. "Okay, Daniel," he said as he returned behind the wheel. “The road back to the ranch is short, but it's dark, and it looks like we’ll get hit with rain. Just drive like you were driving before and watch those turns.”

The night came, and a gray fog engulfed the tractors. I was trailing behind two red lights that guided me on the dark, bumpy road. They came from the back of Gustavo's tractor, only a few yards before me.

In the distance, I could hear a loud bell, like a church. It seemed to be far away, but it was clear that a bell tower was ringing somewhere. I focused on the red lights that guided me through the dark road when, suddenly, their glow disappeared, dissolving into the dark mist. I sped up a little, trying to catch up, but there was no use; Gustavo was gone. 

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning hit a lonely tree in the distance. I began to smell the earth beneath me and feel the weight of a storm that was approaching. It was not a good time to be in an open-cabin tractor. Just an hour prior, I felt so big. It was like pulling the seeder that evening was my transition into manhood. Feeling that power and responsibility made me feel something new; joy, not the dull indifference that plagued my life. Life has a funny way of lifting you to euphoric heights to send you crashing back down to a dark pit. It’s something so amusing yet cruel. At that moment, as the imposing clouds blocked the moonlight and the sounds of heavy rain loomed in the distance, I felt so little once again.

The thick raindrops began to bounce off the tractor's steel with such a force that the sound of the engine diminished in the storm. The violent sounds of the wind and the rain disoriented me, and I could no longer follow the dirt road. I began to doubt there was a road, as if I had suddenly found myself in a different place. And no matter how loud the wind or the rain got, the bell tower in the distance began to ring louder.

Lightning struck once more, and as it lit up the sky, I saw the enormous bell tower in the distance. Its ringing became more menacing as it swung violently with the wind. I began to follow the sound after it vanished again in the night. I drove over the rocky terrain, crushing the cactus that grew abundantly. Finally, I reached the bell tower. It stood at the center of the old McAlester Hacienda.

The hacienda, like most age-old structures from the days of the Mexican Revolution, lay in ruins. Once an essential agricultural and commercial hub for the region, the hacienda no longer showed its Spanish colonial architecture that stood among the lush green hills so proudly. It was now rural decay that had lost its glory, and its only purpose now was to offer shade to the sheepherders who spent their days looking after their livestock outside. It was also the center of popular myths uttered in town: stories of hauntings and a bloody tragedy. But they were stories of tragedy and suspense that accumulated a cinematic flair over the years. People often value entertaining narratives over truth, and that’s the real tragedy. Whether or not there was truth in the stories of the hacienda, it made no difference to me; I needed shelter. 

The rain’s intensity grew more violent. After killing the engine, I approached the old building with a flashlight, looking for an entrance or space where the wind and rain would not find me. Finally, an old wooden door appeared. It was so fragile that I only had to kick it, and it almost disintegrated into dust. 

I walked inside carefully in the dark, just far enough to avoid the water that dripped inside. A large portion of the roof had caved in throughout the large building, and with the heavy winds, there was no telling if the rest of the roof would fall on me. But I stayed inside, within a wide hallway with its tile floors filled with dust and rocks. 

They say that one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist. Arthur McAlister was an American landowner who moved to Mexico before the revolution of 1920. Some say he was a former enslaver who exploited the Mexican people. Others say he was a good man who employed hundreds of peasants. And some say he was a regular Mexican with a unique name. The truth tends to get blurred throughout the years, but one thing is certain. Everyone who tells the story of Arthur McAlister agrees on how he died; He was slaughtered by the revolutionaries who demanded wheat and supplies to help their armies as they mobilized the South. He declined and was butchered in his own living room, a room just down the hall from where I sat in the dark that night. 

I tucked my head between my knees and sat with my back to the wall. I felt like I was the only person in the world. I was too exhausted to feel fear or worry about the ghost of McAlister showing up. The minutes turned into hours, and the rain would not stop. My eyes became heavy, and the exhaustion from a twelve-hour workday came immediately. Then I fell asleep and dreamt a dream so vivid that I will never forget.

In my dream, I was walking through the McAlester Hacienda. Far from the sight of the dark, wet ruins that I arrived at, I was now in a beautiful building, a palace almost, with hand-crafted floral designs wrapped along its concrete pillars. The exterior walls were yellow, and before them stood lush green plants and vibrant flowers that drew your eyes into their perfect assortment of colors. I walked silently until I heard a frail, masculine voice behind me.

"You shouldn’t wander too far, my child. There are horrors in this place— bloody horrors too strong for delicate eyes."

I turned back and saw a man in a dark, burgundy robe. His figure was long and thin, and he wore a sleeping cap that hung to his left shoulder. 

"Are… are you—"

"Arthur McAlester," he interrupted. “And if you’re looking for the food pantry, it's that way," he said, pointing to my right.

I looked at him carefully and saw that blood dripped from his robe as he moved slowly towards me. He spoke in a frail but clear voice. Then I noticed the strangest thing about his speech— his mouth did not move. He spoke to me with his dark green eyes locked into mine and his motionless dark red lips.

"It's so nice to have visitors," he said, "especially those who speak English. I'll tell you, my Spanish is no muy bueno." A chuckle came out of his motionless mouth, and though his lips contorted into a broad smile, his eye remained locked on mine. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

“Am I lucid dreaming?” I asked. 

“Ah, lucid dreaming,” he said, “when you’re aware that you’re in a dream, and you can control it as you please, right? Well, child, do you feel in control right now?” 

A piercing feeling of fear went across my chest, and I could feel my shoulders become numb and my legs become weak. I did not doubt that I was in a dream. Still, the place I found myself in was so vivid that I could feel the solid ground beneath my feet. I could see the golden sunlight creep in through the windows, revealing countless dust specks in the trailing light. And I could smell the metallic scent that flowed from Arthur Mcalester’s burgundy robe. 

“Is that, that your blood?” I asked. I could feel the goosebumps that ran down the back of my arm.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I beg you to forgive the mess, my dear child. As it turns out, when twelve vile men bury axes in your chest in the name of revolution, well, it’s bound to leave a stain.”

“Why didn’t you just hand over the supplies?” 

“Well, I had a hacienda to run and people to feed,” he said very matter-of-factly. “I had women and children to house and hundreds of workers in my employ. What of them, eh? Was I to hand over their livelihoods to a bunch of warmongers in sombreros? Now, I offered a generous donation, but no, those barbarians wanted it all. I tell you, I’m proud to have stood up for my people. It’s the least I could have done after they made me rich.”

“They said there was a massacre here,” I added. “A lot of people died?”

“Indeed, boy, but we held the revolutionaries off, and those bastards only took a small portion of what they intended to steal from me. 

“Was it worth it?” I asked, completely forgetting the strange situation I found myself in. It was almost as if I had accepted that in this dream, I was living in an alternate reality, and I was comfortable with it.

“Oh, I was already old,” He said. “Halfway dead; no wife or kids to leave in my will. In fact, I put my workers in my will since they were the closest thing I had to family. Perhaps that is why some of them died so bravely, defending what was theirs.” 

Mcalester coughed violently and then gathered himself as he continued. “I know the stories that they say about me. That I was an enslaver and that I exploited Mexicans. Can you believe that, boy? I don’t blame them; it’s been over a hundred years. I don’t care to be remembered for the good or the bad. Hell, I don't want to be remembered at all. I only want to die knowing that I did the right thing. That’s the way to go, my boy.”

“If you died a good person, why aren’t you in heaven now?” I asked. “Why are you wandering here, staining the floors read with your crimson blood?”

“Aren't you a curious one,” he laughed. “Perhaps there is no heaven,” he said. “Perhaps your soul roams in the spot where you perished. Oh, how lucky am I to have died in my own home.” He paused and studied me with his wide green eyes. “Perhaps you’re dead, too. Right now. Having been struck by lighting just moments ago? Maybe the ringing of my bell tower led your soul to this place? Oh, dear child, even ghosts need a roof over their head, you know? Why do you think there are so many haunted houses instead of haunted streets?” 

I stood motionless. “I want to go now. I want to go home.” My voice broke with fear once again. 

Mcalester laughed. “Maybe you never left Kansas City. Maybe the medicine your psychiatrists prescribed you is playing tricks on you in your sleep. There are so many possibilities, child. The only truth is that you’re not right in the head right now. Isn’t that what your mother and father say? Isn’t that why you’re in Mexico and not back home with your friends? Do you even have friends?

“Stop asking me all these questions!” I raised my voice and then sunk my head into my palms. I could hear my heart beating louder and louder.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear,” he said, “It’s just that I hardly get any visitors, and, well, I’m just eager to make conversation. I didn’t mean to be intrusive with my questions. “But,” he paused to choose his following words carefully, “I notice something different in you. I think I know why your parents sent you here. I can feel the pain, the uh, sadness, the anxiety that you harbor in you. The kind that hurts more than a dozen axes to your chest.” He looked down at his bloody robe. “And trust me,” he continued, “I would know. Yet you remain so calm. So, uh, stoic for your age. But you know what? I think you’re going to be okay.”

I looked up at him and noticed the blood in his robes began to dissolve into specks in the air, revealing a clean white robe beneath. Then I saw his lips finally move as he spoke. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I think you’re gonna be okay,” he continued. Then, the room became dark, and after a few seconds, I felt the fresh morning air. 

When I opened my eyes, Uncle Issac and Gustavo stood before me as I sat with my back to the wall in that old ruin. 

“Seems like a good place to take shelter,” said Uncle Issac. “It was a cyclone out there last night.”

You gave us a good scare there, Daniel.” Gustavo added. “But you’re a smart kid. You handled yourself just fine like I knew you would.”

As we made our way out of the ruins, I took in the scent of wet dirt and noticed how the sunrise reflected gold off the puddles. The cacti around the ruins seemed almost plucked out by the winds. The land looked devastated. 

As I approached the tractor again, I looked up at the bell tower and noticed something was missing. 

“Those heavy winds must’ve knocked down the beams that held the bell. I didn’t know the storm was that strong.” I said.

“That bell has been missing ever since I was a kid,” Gustavo said. “Those copper thieves must’ve made a day’s salary with it.” He laughed. “If you ask me, it’s not worth the hassle of bringing it down and carrying it... But hey, if you gotta eat, you gotta eat.