Chapter 8

 

 

Two days later, Tony ventured out of the Mission infirmary on crutches.  The doctor, and of course, the priest had insisted that he not put any weight on the leg for another week, despite the fact that the injury was healing phenomenally well.  Doug attributed it as much to regular sleep and meals as to the twentieth century medicines and the Spanish American doctor’s good skills.  He had also pointed out, much to Tony’s irritation, that many Spanish doctors, almost up to the middle of the eighteen hundreds still practiced some of the medieval arts, such as bleeding, and that Tony had been very lucky to have met up with one who had more progressive ideas.  Don Diego de la Vega had been there during that conversation and had agreed with Doug, although his wry smile had shown that Tony was never in any danger of that medical procedure.  It was some of de la Vega’s clothes that he was wearing at the moment, the calzoneros being unbuttoned up the side of the injured leg.  Tony felt downright royal in the ruffled shirt and decorated pants.

The young caballero was an enigma to Tony. There was something he felt he should know about him, but he couldn’t figure what it was.  Somehow Diego had managed to convince everyone from the comandante on down that the carnosaurs were gone without detailing just why he knew that. Tony shook his head.  He enjoyed de la Vega. The man was marvelously well informed for someone living in a colonial society and there was nothing pretentious about him either.  And the curiosity!  The man was curious about anything having to do with his and Doug’s background, asking questions that even went into the realm of the scientific theory behind the tunnel.  At times Tony had been hard pressed to explain some of those theories in a way that an enlightened nineteenth century mind could understand, but always the young don had listened politely and had much of the time even shown a great deal of understanding. 

Diego de la Vega was at the Mission today, having arrived before the evening vespers to talk with he and Doug and to help Father Felipe prepare for the evening posada, the first of nine.  This one was being held at the Mission; the last would be held at the de la Vega rancho.   Tony was interested/not interested in a strange sort of way.  His interest mainly revolved around simple curiosity.  He had never experienced a Spanish American posada.   He went into the chapel where the children were practicing a few songs and recognized that not all of them related to the Navidad.  His aunt, with whom he had stayed after his father’s death, had been Catholic and Tony recognized a Latin celebration song, one that was normally sung as a response at Mass.   A few of the words were different, but as the junior priest continued to practice with the children, Tony picked them up, remembering the rest pretty much as they had been sung during his childhood. 

As he stood in the shadow of a thick pillar, Tony began to softly sing the words he hadn’t voiced in almost twenty years.  And though the translation of the words had been mostly forgotten over the years, he felt a kind of comfort in them.  Tony continued to sing with the group, watching the young boys’ eyes sparkle.  Whether it was anticipation of the posada or a sense of their own accomplishment, he didn’t know, although he suspected that it was the former.  And the picture in his mind of all these children enjoying the days ahead with their parents touched a melancholy chord in his heart.  He stopped singing and just stood watching. 

“You have a fine voice, Tony.  You would rival Sgt. Garcia, in a different sort of way, of course,” Diego said.  

Tony started, not having heard the caballero approach.  The man was almost catlike in his walk.  Tony turned and nodded his greeting, not wanting to say anything at the moment.  

Diego gestured in the direction of the choir.  “They sing well, too.  Father Martín has worked hard with them.”

“I would imagine their parents are proud of their accomplishments,” Tony finally said. 

“I would imagine that, too, except that they are all orphans,” Diego replied. He gazed intently at the traveler and though there was very little outward response, Diego had come to read people well and knew that his revelation had made an impact.  He remembered what Doug had told him two days earlier. Tony was also an orphan; an orphan of war. 

“I had no idea….” 

“Yes, but Fathers Felipe and Martín have helped them to adjust and to be happy,” Diego explained. 

“They have no relatives?” Tony asked, realizing that while he had missed his father fiercely, he had at least had the benefit of his loving aunt and uncle during his growing up years.  He had understood this fact for years on a more intellectual level, but still, it was not something that his heart had acknowledged.  Now as he watched the twenty boys happily singing the songs, he felt something he had not felt for a long time.  It was a feeling that all was right—contentment?

“No, or at least no relatives that could take them in.”  Diego paused a moment. “I think they are going to try that song one more time.  Should we blend our voices?”

Tony didn’t answer, but when the priest began again, he had two adult voices behind him, accompanying the boys.  Judging by the looks on the boys’ faces, they were delighted.  Before the song was over, Doug had joined them.  He looked at Tony in astonishment.  “You have talents that you’ve been hiding these past few years,” he said with a wry smile.  “I know this is a religious song, but did anyone ever tell you that you sound like Frank….”

“Yeah,” Tony said with an embarrassed grin, having heard that all through his college days.  It pleased him then, and it did now, but he didn’t want to admit it. 

Diego looked puzzled, but didn’t ask what they were talking about.  “I hope you have a few Navidad songs to sing at the Posada.  If not tonight, then at our hacienda on the last night,” Diego said. 

Tony and Doug looked at each other and then at Diego.  “We never know how long we will be anywhere,” Doug said.  He sounded tired all of a sudden. 

“Do your people have some control over this tunnel?  Or are your travels completely at the whims of fate?” Diego asked pointedly and then continued before either man could answer.  “It would seem that you are in a safe place where you can have rest.  Why would anyone say that you would have to leave before you have recovered?”

“There seems to be little control over where we go, but most of the time the actual transfers are initiated by the tunnel personnel,” Doug pointed out. 

“When the tunnel is working properly,” Tony added dryly. 

“Well, if your fellow scientists are listening, then perhaps they will understand that you need to rest, to enjoy what this time and place can do for you.”  No one said anything for a moment.  “Regardless, I would like for the two of you to spend Navidad at the de la Vega hacienda.”

“I think I would like that, Diego,” Tony said with a smile.  Doug echoed his friend’s sentiment.

That night Tony understood just why the children were excited.  He and Doug watched fascinated as the procession made up of a pair of very young children playing the part of the Mary and Joseph, along with other children following and singing, made their way along the front of the Mission to the main door of the enramada, (an open area to the side of the chapel), where they knocked and begged for entrance.  A boy of about ten years of age rejected them gruffly, telling them there was no room for them.  The couple asked again, but were rebuffed once more.  Then as the children turned away in pretended sorrow, the voice on the other side of the door relented, and allowed the two youngsters in.  After the priest had blessed the group, the merry celebrations began.  Previously, tables of food and drink had been set up, lanterns hung from tree limbs, and several huge piñatas had been hung from the limbs of a large pepper tree.  There were several men with a variety of instruments, mainly guitars, violins and flutes.  As the children came into the enclosure, laughter swelled and the musicians began to play a variety of songs. 

More guests arrived, including several soldiers from the pueblo.  Diego was surprised to see Capitán Luvisto among them.  He had been told that the comandante did not partake in festivities of any kind, but here he was and seemingly enjoying himself, in a reserved, shy sort of way.  A local señorita was standing nearby and after what Diego took to be hesitant deliberation, the comandante approached her.  Soon they were dancing with several other couples.  Luvisto smiled, the first such exhibit of pleasure Diego had seen from the capitán.  Diego also smiled; it was amazing what small miracles happened during the Navidad.  

Tony also watched Luvisto.  The comandante had visited him the day before to express his thanks to the American, and with the background that Diego had given him, Tony felt that Luvisto was emerging from the fog of a very bitter past.  It gave him something to ponder.  Tony next turned his attention to Sergeant Garcia.  The man ate and drank, and in between helpings he sang.  Now Tony understood what Diego had meant about the sergeant’s voice.  It was a deep, rich voice, a low tenor at times, bass at other times.  The man would have been a good opera star. 

Tony ate some of the food, watched the children play and take turns trying to break open a piñata in the shape of a star.  Doug was recruited to help swing the piñata.  When his leg began to ache, Tony looked for a bench to rest on, but as he gingerly sat down in the dimness where the lantern light didn’t penetrate, he found that he was not alone.  A soft sigh startled him.  “Who’s there?” he asked. 

“I am sorry, Señor Newman,” a small voice said.  “I can leave.”

“No, there’s plenty of room.  I just wanted to know who I am sharing the bench with,” Tony responded hastily.  The voice sounded sad—and young.

“Miguel,” the small voice said. 

“Miguel who?” Tony coaxed.

“I do not know, señor,” Miguel said. 

Tony was astonished.  How could someone not know his own name?  Then it dawned on him.  The boy had most likely been orphaned when he was very small and placed at the orphanage anonymously.  He had heard of that in third world countries and it appalled him.  “Why are you here instead of enjoying the party?” he asked, trying a different track.

“I was feeling sad.”

Insight borne of experience made Tony ask, “Miss your parents?”

“I do not remember my father.  I remember my mother a little bit.”  There was a pause.  “Yes, I miss them.”

“I miss my parents, too, Miguel,” Tony responded.  “Especially this time of year.”

“You do?” Pablo asked, his voice astonished.  “But you are grown up.”

Tony couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Miguel, I miss them.  Even though it has been more than twenty-seven years since my father died and longer still for my mother, I miss them.”

“Then you are an orphan, too,” came the small voice.

“Yes, but I have learned to be happy even though I miss them.” And it was true, Tony realized.  He had, and still was, learning to be happy.  There was no response from Miguel.  “When I am sad, I try to think of happy memories with my folks.”  And Tony realized that was true, too.  His most bitter moments as he had grown up had been tempered by the thoughts of the good times he had enjoyed with his parents, especially his father. It was ironic; his bitterest memories were of the loss of his mother and father, and yet his happiest memories were of them, too.  “Miguel, come closer, please.”  Tony heard the boy rustling closer on the bench.  When the boy had settled, Tony reached out and touched him, drawing him a closer, hoping to comfort him.  The child appeared to be about eight, not much older than he was when he lost his parents.  “What do you remember the most about your mother?” he asked. 

“Her singing.”

“What did she sing?”

“I remember her singing a song about birds,” Pablo said, leaning against Tony’s side.  “It was a song of Navidad.”  And he began to sing/say the words, as though he was unable to fully sing them.

“En veure despuntar                                

El major illuminar

En la nit mes joiosa;

Els ocellettes cantant a festejarlo van,

Amb sa veu melindrosa.

Els a celletes cantant

A festejarlo van

Amb sa veu melindrosa…