The Gathering Read online

  The driver eased the mechanism closest to him, opening the door to let passengers vacate the bus, the driver, however, was the first one outside. Even with the dozens of windows open on the bus, the air still felt heavy and laden with humidity. Passengers idly attempted to cool themselves by fanning hats, folded newspapers or shirts they took off early in the ride.

  Brown skin glistened with sweat on every person on the bus and Hector was no different. The heat hit him harder than most, he imagined, as it had been a long time since he found himself on the shores of Catemaco. For the past six years he had been living in Boston and attending Harvard. Boston is not known for its arid climate.

  Glancing out the window of the bus, Hector took in the sights and sounds of the town. Pristine white buildings with red tiled roofs lined the road. Shops and homes mingled close like friendly neighbors, and the streets were bustling in the afternoon sun. Even with the lake a few streets over, a strong odor of fish floated on the wind, which wafted into the bus and assailed Hector’s nose.

  Hector turned to examine the people on the bus. Sweaty passengers, stinking from the long trip here on an overcrowded bus, gathered their things and filed out. Hector waited to begin the process of getting off as he hated those first moments when everyone felt the need to clog the only way out in a rush to get off the bus, only to slow the whole process down.

  With a slight shake of his head at their foolishness, Hector returned to watching outside. He caught sight of the bus driver unceremoniously retrieving the passengers’ belongings from the under compartment of the bus. Little care was taken as he grabbed them, and with hardly a second look, tossed the bags to the curb. He either didn’t see or didn’t care about the dirty looks some of the passengers gave him. Hector knew better and kept his only luggage, a worn, olive-green duffle bag, under his seat.

  It was almost six years since he boarded a bus in this same spot. At eighteen years old, he had never travelled farther than the other side of town, and here he had been, getting on a bus, with his final destination, another country. He had been scared. More scared than he ever been, though he hid it from his mother and his grandfather. He returned only once, a year later when his mother died.

  It had been his grandfather who arranged the whole thing. His grandfather, who after his father died, helped raise him, and taught him things no one else did. Who trained him and prepared him for what he called, ‘his holy duty’. Not that Hector understood any of it, or believed it holy, but it had been his grandfather and he had always been taught to listen and respect his elders.

  He worked hard, harder than any other child his age, or twice his age, in town did. The only playing he had been allowed to participate in was playing that would strengthen him in some way.

  And strengthened him it did. He was a solidly built man, broad of shoulder, tall and fit. His muscles bulged along his arms and legs, visible as they were in his tank and shorts. His chest muscles were firm and defined, his trapezius visible as they rose to meet his neck. His broad flat face glistened with sweat which dripped from his wide flat nose, a trait of his heritage.

  Peeling his tank top from his sweaty chest, he billowed it in an attempt to cool himself, with little actual effect. Reaching a hand up, he pushed a sweaty strand of hair off his forehead, allowing it to cling to the others which shared its current state. His dark brown hair, which typically held a slight curl, hung limp in the humid clime.

  Hector’s thoughts returned to his grandfather, as it was his grandfather’s phone call which had him return home. The man had been cryptic, as he always seemed to be. A slight smirk grew upon Hector’s face as he thought of his grandfather. He had been a hard teacher, but Hector loved him fiercely.

  The man had not only taught him what he would need to know to do well in school, but he gave him lessons which helped him do well in life. There were few circumstances life could throw at Hector which he couldn’t get himself out of or conquer.

  All of that had been because of his grandfather. So, when his grandfather called him and told him he needed to return home, as something important had happened, Hector got on a flight the next day and flew home to Mexico.

  Hector, of course, pestered his grandfather for more information, but the only thing his grandfather asked him was if he had continued his studies. Hector knew he hadn’t meant for school.

  His grandfather taught him how to be a warrior. To fight. To protect. He trained religiously, turning himself into a living weapon. He mastered countless fighting styles and was deadly in hand to hand as well as with a variety of weapons.

  Many times, Hector thought to ask why his grandfather taught him these things, but when training was in session, his grandfather took on the role of master and he, student. And students didn’t ask questions like those. They did what they were told and that was all.

  The last of the passengers were making their way off the bus and Hector stood to follow. Grabbing his duffle from underneath his seat, he stood and quickly made his way off the empty bus and onto the sidewalk. Tossing his duffle over his shoulder, Hector started down the street, lost in thought.

  Why his grandfather wanted to know if he kept up his studies had him curious. He had kept up, as best as he could. There were few places where he paid to train and few places which could teach him some new techniques, but American trainers were different than his grandfather, so it hadn’t been the same.

  Walking the streets of Catemaco brought back memories. The streets were busier than when he had left. There were more vehicles on the road as well as pedestrians. This out of the way town was a bit of a tourist stop on account of the brujas—the witches. The lake, it was said, held mystical properties and had once been the home of the Olmec, the early meso-Americans who lived in this region, and those who came before the Olmec.

  Every spring, the council of witches would meet near the town and it became quite the spectacle. Hector went once, when he turned eleven, much to the dissatisfaction of his grandfather.

  “Charlatans!” his grandfather had been fond of calling the council. Hector had to admit, after witnessing the congregation of the council, it looked more like a show than a meeting of actual witches.

  Hector made his way toward the town center and the Basilica del Carmen. He would find a taxi willing to make the trip out to his grandfather’s home there. His grandfather lived some distance from the actual town. He lived closer to the base of the volcanic hills of Mono Blanco, which visibly dominated the west.

  His grandfather couldn’t stand to live in town with all the so-called brujas. He, or so he claimed, was a direct descendant of not only the Olmec, but those who came before, whose names had been lost to history. He claimed to have real mystical powers, unlike ‘those fakes’ who lived in town.

  Growing up, Hector had been fascinated with the idea his grandfather had been an actual sorcerer. As he got older, he realized magic didn’t exist, only superstition and powers of suggestions. He never told his grandfather what he grew to believe. He figured it better to allow the old man his fancies. His grandfather had been so adamant Hector didn’t want to make him feel like a doddering old fool who believed himself a mage.

  The Basilica remained as beautiful as he remembered it. Twin white towers topped with crosses rose high on either side of the church, the massive arched doorway stood open in the midday sun, welcoming one and all into the shrine devoted to the virgin, Carmen.

  Across the street from the Basilica were a row of taxis waiting for fares, and Hector crossed over to the crowd of drivers talking together. Their laughter filled the streets as one of the taxi drivers finished regaling them with a humorous story from his last fare.

  As Hector approached, several drivers, who noticed him first, broke from the others to offer their services. Like sharks with the scent of blood in their noses, they quickly moved in for the kill.

  Hector didn’t wish to be inundated with offers from drivers who most likely wouldn’t want his fare so instead he called out to all of th
em as he approached.

  “I’m looking for a ride to Senor Garza’s place out by Mono Blanco.”

  Immediately, most of the drivers quieted down and moved back to join the group. He didn’t blame them; it was a long drive out to the place, and it was easier to pick up lots of short fares where you could pick up another at your destination. This would be a long drive, with little chance of a return fare.

  One man broke from the crowd and moved to his taxi. He was an older man, older than most of the drivers, with graying hair and a legion of wrinkles. As old as he seemed, he was still spry with a quickness to his step. Motioning with his hand to Hector, he quickly opened the back door of his cab for Hector to get in.

  Hector smiled at the old man and nodded his thanks. The old man returned his smile, with a wide, almost toothless grin. If embarrassed by his lack of teeth, Hector couldn’t tell, for his smile was open and put his gums on display.

  Ducking into the cab, the old man shut the door behind him. Hector couldn’t help but notice some of the other drivers shaking their head at the old man as he rounded the cab to the driver’s side and got in. Without so much as a glance towards the other drivers, or Hector even, the old man started the taxi and eased out onto the road.

  The white painted buildings of Catemaco sped by and soon they were on the road which led out of the town and onto the foothills to the west. The landscape appeared to undulate, like waves on a green sea, but Hector knew it an optical illusion, for he was the one moving.

  Outside of town were plantations of coffee, the chest-sized bushes striated the hills in every direction. Hector stared out the window as the fields passed. Surprisingly, the taxi driver remained quiet, something Hector wasn’t used to, as the drivers in Boston were talkative, too talkative for Hector’s taste.

  Gradually, the plantations gave away to empty hills, some dotted with livestock and others dotted with trees and bushes. It had been years since Hector had been home and yet the scenery remained unchanged. Time moved at its own pace here, unbeknownst to the rest of the world.

  When they arrived at the entrance to his grandfather’s home, the long driveway disappeared up and over a small hill. The house, as Hector remembered it, lay a short distance beyond it. Mono Blanco and the surrounding mountains rose as a backdrop to his grandfather’s home; the dark green of the trees which blanketed it looked like a jade thunder cloud looming over them.

  Hector indicated to the driver to drop him there and he would walk the rest of the way. The old man looked back at him and smiled his toothy grin and indicated the meter which registered the cost of the ride. Looking over the back seat, Hector took his wallet out and thanked the man and offered a sizable tip on top of the fare. Again, the old man offered him a generous smile as he took the money and Hector realized for the first time the old man had never said a word. He must be mute.

  As the cab drove off, Hector hitched his duffle over his shoulder and began the long walk down the drive to his grandfather’s house. The dirt road lay rutted and pitted from inattention and the scrubby looking grass covering the yard on either side of the drive encroached onto it.

  He knew his grandfather was getting old, but he had always been a strong, fit man who took care of the maintenance of his home. From the looks of the drive, it would appear his grandfather’s health had declined much since he left for the United States.

  Hector’s pace slowed as he went, unexpectedly dreading seeing his grandfather again. It wasn’t he didn’t wish to see his grandfather. He loved him, and missed him terribly, but his grandfather had always been a rock. A source of strength which by its magnitude imparted its strength on those around him. To see him in failing health would be devastating for Hector.

  For the first time Hector began to wonder if this was why his grandfather had called him home. Perhaps, his health had grown so bad he wished to see Hector before it gave out altogether. The idea his grandfather might soon pass, drowned him in uncertainty and sorrow. With a heavy heart, he travelled the rest of the way to his grandfather’s house.

  The house was a sprawling villa, sparkling white, with the red tiled roof so many of the homes and buildings of the area sported. Flowers decorated the front of the home, their myriad colors in stark contrast to the white walls. Sounds of birds filled the air as they hopped around the home’s garden, pecking at the ground snatching unlucky ants and other insects.

  The house looked like he remembered it. For some reason, he expected it to look different. Perhaps, due to the lack of upkeep on the road, he imagined the house to have also fallen into disrepair, but it wasn’t the case. The house looked in perfect condition, like it always had.

  Hector’s heart lightened at the sight of his grandfather’s house, and his steps quickened. As he approached, the front door opened, and his grandfather stepped out.

  Chapter Three

  In the six years of Hector’s absence, his grandfather appeared to have actually grown younger. He stood more erect; his eyes blazed with an inner fire Hector could recall being there in his youth. Even the deepness of the man’s wrinkles looked to have grown shallower as if his skin had grown younger, suppler.

  The new youthfulness of his grandfather didn’t spread to his hair though as it had turned grayer, shifting slightly toward white. Hector imagined in a few years it would be totally white. His grandfather was a bold looking man. He had been a handsome youth, or so his grandmother told him, before she died. With strong facial features—a square jaw, hawkish nose and full lips — he wore pride like others wore clothes.

  In all the time Hector knew him, he’d never actually gotten to know him. Hector knew next to nothing of whom his grandfather had been, what he did growing up, where he went to school. It had all been a mystery. He knew his grandfather believed himself some sort of sorcerer, but that was all talk. Somewhere along the way, his grandfather learned to fight like a warrior and to somehow gain influence or prestige and finances to have sent Hector to Harvard — no small feat.

  Seeing his grandfather now, standing there looking twenty years younger and exuding such a powerful presence, Hector was reminded of the many times his grandfather claimed to know magic. Seeing him now, Hector could almost believe it.

  Hector approached his grandfather hesitantly, as the man gave no indication of his mood. Hector came to a stop a short distance from his grandfather, and looked at him expectantly, feet shuffling slightly, creating little puffs of dust which formed, drifted slightly and died.

  Suddenly, his grandfather smiled. His smile was so full of love and light, Hector could feel wetness at the corners of his eyes.

  “Mi niño!” His grandfather had called him that ever since Hector’s father died when he had been three and his grandfather all but raised him.

  His grandfather opened his arms wide to receive him and Hector quickly closed the distance to embrace his grandfather. They hugged for a while.

  His grandfather pushed him back slightly.

  “Let’s have a look at you.” Holding Hector out at arm’s length, his grandfather took him in with his eyes, studying him.

  “You have stayed fit. That is good. That is good.” His grandfather nodded, his eyes straying off to the side, distracted.

  “What is it, Grandfather?” He studied his grandfather. Something concerned the old man.

  Turning, his grandfather eyed him appreciatively, and he nodded one final time.

  “Let us go in. Are you tired from your trip? We can talk after you rest?”

  Hector shook his head. He was tired but anxious to understand what caused his grandfather to summon him home. “No. I am fine. I would rather know what has you so anxious.” Hector thought of the walk in. “Is this why the driveway looks uncared for? Have you been so distracted by whatever it is, you have let maintenance go?”

  His grandfather, who turned back into the house, paused and turned back around, looking out over the driveway which stretched away from his home as if seeing it for the first time.

  “
I suppose it has, mi niño, I suppose it has.” He clicked his tongue. “I didn’t even realize I hadn’t been taking care of it.” He looked back at Hector. “No matter. There are more important things to worry about.”

  Hector raised his eyebrows at that statement, and his grandfather smiled a knowing smile. Hector could only shake his head. His grandfather had never been a showman, but he built tension like one.

  His grandfather led him into his private study. It was a room in which Hector had scarcely been allowed to enter when younger. The few times he had been in this room it had been a wonder. Books lined the walls. Tomes ancient in origin, their rich, dark leather bindings spoke to their age. Seldom were books wrapped in such a manner these days, or in many generations.

  An old globe stood perched upon a decorative stand made to hold it. The sweeping crescent arm which pinned the south and the north pole, allowed the globe to spin freely. The orb was dated as it showed countries which had long since vanished or been renamed, nor did it show any of the newer countries which came into existence in the years since its creation.

  A large wooden chest sat in a corner. For years, Hector imagined treasure hidden in the chest, and he had tried to see what was inside, but his grandfather always left it locked, and never answered him when he asked. Leading a young Hector to believe even more, there was treasure in there.

  His grandfather crossed the room and went to sit behind an old oak desk. The brutish furniture had beastly legs, thick and sturdy as if their job was to hold up the weight of the world and not simply a desktop. The top was thick by any desk standards and decorated with scrollwork; the flowing design swirled along the edge. Given the age of the desk, it would have been hand carved, and Hector didn’t envy the crafter who worked on such a painstaking design.