Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [201]
“¡Auxilio!”
He was buffeted by a hot swirl and sparks that enveloped him and struck him down. He crawled upright then stumbled, unable to breathe, to see through the oppressive smoke. He pushed himself up again, called again. Flames surrounded him. The heat was intolerable. He smelled molasses and singeing hair. My own? His mouth filled with sugary burning ash that seared his throat, constricted his lungs. Hot pressure scorched his face. He squeezed his eyes against the smoke and fire, flailed, and cried, and knew he was dying in the cañaveral.
But no, I must get out. I don’t want to die.
Coughing, tugging at his burning clothes, his hair, he crawled in circles trying to find a way from the flames.
“¡Auxilio!”
I want to live. I can’t die now, not here. Not even if my death means freedom—
“¡Mamá! ¡Mamá, ayúdame!”
Above the sizzle, the snapping flames, he heard his name. He pushed himself to his knees, “Help me.” He struggled to open eyes boiling in their sockets. Dogs were howling around him, and he was sure he’d arrived at the gates of Hades. I don’t deserve to die. I wanted to free them, but they wouldn’t let me. He heard his name again, turned toward the voice, and forced his scalded eyes to open. The last thing he saw was a golden-haired man running toward him, as if the flames of hell itself couldn’t touch him.
Ana waited on the casona porch, gripping the stair rail. Below, the slaves chorused the Lord’s prayer and the Ave Maria she’d taught them. She repeated the familiar words mechanically as she peered into the night and resisted her greatest fear. In the intervals between breaths, she begged a God she rarely appealed to. “Please, Lord.
Please spare Severo Fuentes.”
Fulfilling her request, he hurtled from the cane carrying a pile of rags, followed by Conciencia, Efraín, Indio, horses, dogs. Severo raced past the huddle at the bottom of the stairs toward the infirmary. The bundle in his arms didn’t seem real, but Ana discerned the contours of a body. A foreman, Ana thought, a jornalero. She followed them. Severo laid the man on a pallet, and Conciencia hurriedly scissored his clothes. He was so limp and still that Ana was certain he was dead.
“I’m so sorry,” Severo said, putting his arm around her. His face was smeared, and he smelled of embers and charred hair. “He got lost in the cane.”
“Who?”
Efraín hooked an oil lamp on a beam above the pallet so that Conciencia could see better. And although she hadn’t seen her son in nearly sixteen years, Ana recognized Miguel.
“No! No! No! No!”
Severo held her as she looked over his shoulder at her son, his face charred, his hands bleeding. In his dirty white clothes, with his long hair and gaunt face, Miguel looked like Ramón in his last days.
“He’s alive, Ana.” Severo pressed her into his chest, as if to give her some of his strength. Then he let her go. She ran to her son.
“Hijo,” she said so tenderly that she surprised herself.
He tried to open his eyes. A breathy croak came through swollen lips, unrecognizable as a word.
“No, hijo, don’t speak. Let me help you.”
She splashed water over his face, his shoulders, arms, legs. He was a small man, she saw, only a few inches taller than she, which made him look younger than nineteen. He was on a pallet where many slaves had lain, where many had died. She should move him. But where?
“What was he doing in the cañaveral?”
Severo shook his head. “Apparently, he thought you were in danger.”
She looked at Severo’s exhausted face, stained with ash, smoke, and dirt. There had never been anyone she could depend on more than Severo Fuentes. He loved her, and she loved him to the roots of her being. As if he’d heard her, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you for finding him. And bringing him to me—alive.” Her voice cracked.
“I’ve sent Efraín to Guares for the doctor.”
She nodded and gently poured more water over Miguel