I Fell Powerlessly to the Ground with Three Children, but When the Ranch Owner Saw the Medallion, the Color Drained from His Face

That day, when my four-year-old child could no longer speak from thirst, I fell to my knees at a stranger’s gate and asked for help.

It was an August afternoon. The ground was so hot, as if fire were hiding beneath the grass. The sandals that had split two days earlier no longer stayed on my feet, and I had left them on the road. Dried blood clung to my soles, but I could no longer feel the pain. Only the weight of Thomas’s small hand reminded me that I still had to walk.

Jacinta was sleeping on my left shoulder. The two-and-a-half-year-old girl’s head rested against my neck, her hair wet with sweat and her lips dry. Against my chest, beneath a brown woolen blanket, I carried a baby who was several weeks old. I had not yet given him a name. After my mother’s death, this blanket was the only thing I had brought from home.

Three weeks earlier I buried Aurelio. My husband was twenty-six years old, but death had emptied his face so much that it seemed I was looking at a fifty-year-old man. He had left debts, a half-paid cart, and three children whose existence he often remembered only when he had run out of drink.

That day I was going to my cousin. At the funeral she had told me, “Come down, I will somehow fit you in.” But promises sometimes wither faster than flowers on a grave.

At the bend in the road, a ranch appeared. A stone barn, a low clay house, dried corn stalks, and livestock standing behind the fence. At the gate, a tall man was repairing a broken section of the fence. He had severe features and an old scar over his right eyebrow.

First he looked at me, then at the children. I instinctively stepped in front of them, as if my thin body could stop the whole world.

“Sir, forgive me,” I said in a hoarse voice. “May I ask for one glass of water for the children?”

The man looked at Thomas. The boy was staring toward the water tank, but he did not take a step in that direction. It was as if even thirst were a crime if he did not have permission.

The man put down the wire he was holding.

“Not one glass,” he told me. “Come in. You will drink as much as you need.”

His name was Donasiano Ibarra. I learned that later. At that moment I knew only that neither irritation nor pity could be heard in his voice. Something heavier was there—as if seeing my children had opened an old wound in him.

I did not move.

“I have no money,” I told him.

“I do not sell water to anyone.”

Donasiano took a clay jug and handed it to Thomas. The boy drank so quickly that he began to cough. I snatched the jug from his hand and pressed it to my chest.

“Slowly, son. Slowly.”

“I want more, Mama.”

At those two words my eyes burned. I turned my head aside so Donasiano would not see me crying.

He brought a clean bucket and set it on the ground.

“Wash your feet.”

“It is not necessary.”

“You are bleeding.”

A new wound had indeed opened on my heel. When I put my foot in the water, the pain contracted my whole body. Jacinta woke up and began to cry. I hugged the baby to my chest, while trying not to move away from Thomas and the girl frightened by thirst.

Donasiano brought them beans, tortillas, and cheese. I took them only for the children.

“Where are you going?” he asked me.

“To my cousin. We will arrive before dark.”

He looked up at the sky. Black clouds were gathering over the distant mountains.

“You will not get there by this road. If rain comes, the ravine will turn into mud.”

“Then you will not leave us here?”

Donasiano looked toward the room.

“There is a small room by the barn. You will sleep there today. You will decide tomorrow.”

I again began to refuse, but Thomas saw an old ball lying beneath a wooden chair. The boy stopped.

“Whose is this?” he asked.

Donasiano’s face changed.

“It belonged to my son.”

He said nothing more. And for the first time I noticed loneliness in the eyes of this stern man.

But then Thomas took a small wooden medallion from his pocket. It had belonged to Aurelio. An unusual sign was carved on its back. The boy put the medallion on the table.

“Mama, this is payment for the food.”

Donasiano looked at the object.

His fingers stopped immediately…

His fingers stopped immediately. Donasiano looked at the medallion as if he had seen an entire past in the small piece of wood.

We stood at the barn door. It was six in the evening, and the first drops of rain were making dark spots on the dust. Thomas was still standing by the table, Jacinta was trying to fall asleep in my lap, and the baby was breathing quietly beneath the blanket.

“Where did your husband find this?” Donasiano asked me.

“It was his.”

“I know.”

His answer frightened me so much that I hugged the baby more tightly.

“Did you know Aurelio?”

Donasiano picked up the medallion. On its back was carved a sign of two crossed grains. I noticed the same sign on a stone, on the fence posts, and on the old door of the barn.

“This sign was carved in the Ibarra family in my father’s time,” he said. “No one else could make it.”

“Aurelio was Ibarra. You can see that too.”

“No. Aurelio was not his name.”

Rain pounded the roof. For several seconds only the sound of water could be heard.

“What are you saying?”

Donasiano put the medallion on the table.

“Your husband should not have carried my surname. Four years ago my younger brother, Mauro, disappeared. He quarreled with our father, had debts, and everyone thought he had fled to a city in the north. He had this sign. Exactly like this.”

I shook my head.

“My husband was not Mauro. His name was Aurelio.”

“Perhaps that is how you knew him.”

His words pierced my heart. I remembered all Aurelio’s lies, but I had never thought that even his name might be a lie.

“Where did you see him last?”

“At the village market. He told me he would return and explain everything to me. That same night he disappeared.”

“And four years later he became my husband?”

“I do not know.”

“You know more than you are telling me.”

Donasiano went to the window. Lightning illuminated his face white for a moment.

“How did your husband come to your village?”

“He came by cart. He said he worked on the roads. At first he was calm. Then he began drinking. When we had children, he disappeared more often.”

“Did he have anything?”

I looked at the brown blanket. In my pocket I had hidden a crumpled paper that I had found in Aurelio’s clothes after his death. I could not read it to the end then, because rain had washed away the ink. Only three words were visible: “If something happens to me…”

“I have one sheet of paper,” I said.

Donasiano looked at me immediately.

“Where is it?”

“Why should I show it to you?”

“Because your husband’s death may not have been accidental.”

My blood froze.

A horse whinnied outside. Donasiano closed the door and slid the wooden bolt across it.

“Is someone coming here?” I asked.

“Those who think this land will soon become theirs come often.”

He checked an old iron box in the corner of the barn. Then he returned to me.

“Mauro’s father left part of the land to his son. If your husband really was my brother, he may have had rights to it. But the documents disappeared.”

“My husband was poor. He never mentioned land.”

“People often hide the things for which they may be killed.”

At these words, the door was struck hard. Thomas pressed against me in fear.

“Donasiano!” a man shouted from outside. “Open up. The lawyer has come.”

Donasiano looked toward me.

“Take the children into the back room.”

“Who is it?”

“Esteban Serrano. He says he has a claim on this ranch.”

A second blow sounded on the door.

“If you do not sign today, you will have nothing left here tomorrow!” the man shouted.

Donasiano looked at the iron box, and I touched the paper hidden in my pocket.

“Remedios,” he told me in a low voice, “if this paper really is what I think it is, you and your children are already in the middle of this story.”

The sound of the lock being broken came from outside, and Donasiano reached toward his weapon…

Donasiano reached toward his weapon, but I grabbed him by the arm.

“Do not shoot in front of the children.”

“I will not shoot anyone unless they come in.”

It was nine at night. Rain struck the roof violently, while the smell of dampness and wet earth filled the barn. Outside, Esteban Serrano shouted with two men. Donasiano did not open the door. At last the sound of horses moved away into the distance.

When everything became quiet, I took out the paper. The sheet was brown and folded, and a small spot of Aurelio’s blood was visible at the edge.

Donasiano opened the iron box and took out a candle.

“Read it,” he told me.

The paper said: “Remedios, if you are reading this, I am no longer alive. My real name is Mauro Ibarra. Donasiano is my brother. Father left the plot of land and the water rights to me, but Esteban stole the documents and is threatening me. If something happens to me, show the medallion to Donasiano. Only he can protect the children.”

My breath caught.

“Mauro…” I whispered.

Donasiano leaned against the wall. His face turned to stone.

“Then he was alive when he came to us?” he asked me.

“I did not know.”

“Did you tell him anything? Did you know his real name?”

“No! I swear to God, no! I only had a husband who came back drunk and sometimes left the children hungry.”

Donasiano lowered his eyes. For the first time I saw the strength of years fall from this man’s shoulders.

“I was looking for him,” he said. “For four years. I thought my brother had abandoned me.”

“Your brother was murdered.”

“We do not know that yet.”

At that moment a stone flew in through the back door. Jacinta screamed. Thomas covered the baby with the blanket, and I pushed the children against the wall.

Donasiano extinguished the candle.

“Esteban knows the document is here,” he said quietly.

“We must hide the paper.”

“It is already too late.”

The next morning we went to a small clinic in the town. Donasiano used his old truck. We spoke almost not at all on the way. The doctor examined the things taken from Aurelio’s corpse, and then the police investigator opened a sealed record.

“The cause of death was not an accident,” he said. “There was a blow to the back of his head. A car was found on the road, but the brakes had been damaged beforehand.”

I gripped the chair.

“Who did it?”

The investigator looked at Donasiano.

“We need documents and a witness. But I will tell you one thing: that night a truck belonging to Esteban Serrano was seen near your brother’s car.”

Donasiano’s jaw tightened.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

“Serrano will return today. He thought we had only one paper.”

The investigator placed a second folder on the table.

“But Mauro left one more thing before his death. An audio recording.”

He turned on a small device. A hoarse voice sounded.

“Esteban, do not touch my brother. If something happens to me, the recording will go to the police.”

Then Esteban’s voice sounded.

“Then no one will protect your wife and children either.”

I covered my mouth. Donasiano closed his eyes.

The recording ended, but the investigator suddenly took out another sheet of paper.

“This arrived this morning. It is a letter sent by Mauro that no one has opened yet. The addressee is you, Remedios.”

My name was written on the envelope. Before I touched it, Donasiano’s telephone rang.

“Esteban,” he said.

Donasiano answered, listened for several seconds, and his face changed.

“What did he say?” I asked.

He slowly lowered the telephone.

“He said that one of the children is his son…”