American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [99]
Our little band ran through the neighborhood day after day after school, enacting the Spanish side of the story. I marched out to the empty lot with cardboard strapped around my knees, a tin pot on my head, a garbage cover in one hand, a strong stick in the other. I was Don Pedro the Cruel. I was Boabdil. I was El Cid, ready to die, hungry for revenge.
It was hard work, this autoindoctrination. This ad-lib curriculum in power. Often, I just scraped by. One of my lions broke out of its cage one day, surprising me and my men. I had been sleeping by the fire, sated with rum and skewered heart. The roar was faint at first, like the rumble of a distant huayco—rock grinding on rock—and then I woke to see the animal coming at me through the hall. He was massive, blond, padding across the tile with his shoulders churning. His head hardly moved at all.
I snatched my cloak and wrapped it tight around my arm. My guard staggered back, a fringe of straight hair flopping against her forehead. She fell into an empty vat. The clatter awoke my minister, who stood and dusted off his robes. His eyes widened when he saw the approaching cat, but he didn’t spring out with his bludgeon; he slinked behind my couch like a ferret into a hole, afraid. I went forward to meet the beast, swinging my sword—Tizona—above my head. Then a most magical thing happened. The lion stopped and stared at my advance, as if my very form were mesmerizing. He snorted once, raised his magnificent brow, and sent his eyes from side to side.
I strode up, grasped him by the mane, led him back to his cage in the adjoining hall, and thrust him in. When my brother rattled in with his armor clanging about him, ready to defend me, I turned and raised two fingers to signal that I had been blessed by the shield of God. Then I slapped the fur from my hands.
We went into the desert after that, in search of the counts of Carrion. They had committed dastardly acts against me and their wives. Me, they had betrayed with talk, with oily, insidious promises they had never made good. Their wives, they had nearly killed. They had lured them out to a meadow, offering words and wine. But once there, they had kicked them, lashed them, stripped them, and left them there to die. I had heard of these cowardly deeds from my scribe, who read me the news from a scroll of blood-smudged parchment.
I rescued the wives and bound their wounds while George rode on to give the fleeing counts their due. He found them just outside Valencia, sniveling by the retaining wall, seeing the reflection of their absurd little selves in the shine of their conqueror’s eyes. They threw their hands over their heads. When I galloped up in my chariot with their women huddled against my legs, they surrendered to my chains.
I died some days later, but not before I made plans. I gathered my men. Embalm me, I told them. Find Clam-Hand Wooten, bring him here in the silver bullet with the flying dogs on the sides, tell him to fix up my face, scarred now from so many battles. Then strap me to Babieca. They balked at this, thinking my horse would sense that I was dead and buck me into the dirt by the side of