Against my neck.
I turned, and just below the rock where Alejandro had carved his inscription was a small indention, or cavity, that oddly enough stood at heart level. Didn’t take a genius to realize that the rock in the middle of the cavity was of a different feel than the rock that surrounded it. As I studied the old hammer and chisel marks made in the older rock around the edges, the newer rock stuck out. Smoother. More porous. No chisel marks. Took me a minute to realize that the power and pressure of the mudslide had stopped up the well. Without giving it much thought, I tapped it with the hammer and the drip increased. Another tap and the drip turned to a tiny, solid stream. Ready to be done with this, I reached back and slammed the hammer against the face of the rock.
Bad idea.
Evidently all my pounding had worked the plug loose, and all it needed was one more swing of persuasion. The bowling ball–sized rock shot past my face, followed by a fire hose stream of water that slammed me against the far wall and pressed me against it with such force that I couldn’t budge. My head ricocheted off the rock and the whole world went black. My headlamp was gone, but I was also having trouble staying conscious. Water had filled the cavity and risen to my neck by the time I registered what was happening.
In the dark, I reached up and pulled down hard on the rope, which was followed by a slight delay. Then without warning, it snapped back hard and rocketed me from the water. I sucked in my first deep breath of air in half a minute and held fast to the rope above me. My feet had just cleared the water when something below me snagged and held me to the bottom. The rope tightened, and I was caught in the middle between a force pulling me up and a force that wouldn’t budge below me. The water rose around me, bubbling up with massive force, quickly filling the shaft and rising past me. Within a matter of seconds, I was immersed and the water was shooting past me as I hung suspended in the shaft unable to free myself. It took a second to register that the line attached to the steel spear was taut and would not budge. That meant that the pole itself was lodged and preventing my exit. I groped in the dark, finally finding it braced horizontally across the shaft of the well where it was caught in the narrowing of the shaft. The only way to get it to release was to return down, which was exactly what my long single tug on the rope had told Paulo and Zaul that I did not want to do. They were topside pulling with all their might, thinking that’s what I wanted.
The water had long since engulfed me as I twisted and writhed in the well shaft, caught between those pulling me up and the steel rod holding me down. Somewhere in there the thought occurred to me that I might very well die right there, drowned in that shaft, only to float to the surface days or weeks from now as whatever held me down set me free.
My reaction to that thought was strange. I wasn’t afraid and fear was not my primary emotion. I mean, I’d rather be alive than not, but if I drowned in that dark hole, I can make a pretty sound and fast argument that I deserved it. Anyone with a cursory look across the effect of my life would agree. I was not a good man, had not been, and the effect of me on the rest of the world had not been positive. As the picture of my life played like a fast-forward video across my eyes, I saw more tears than smiles. More anger than laughter. The sin of my life had been and remained indifference, and in that instant, I was indifferent to my own death. Something deep inside me had to be dysfunctional.
The cold shock of the water slowed my movements, and my attempts to free myself were feeble at best. Growing weaker and beginning to need air in a desperate way, my overriding emotion can best be described as sadness, even grief, at how the pain of my death would affect Leena. In her life, I’d be the third person to die in this hole and one more among three thousand to die on this mountain. One more white cross driven into the earth to prick Leena’s heart like a needle.
While I was indifferent to me, I was not to Leena, and if there had been a sleeping giant in me, that thought kicked him out of bed.
In desperation, I pushed my arms outward toward the slick walls of the well shaft and braced myself against the force of Paulo and Zaul. The force pulling me upward had increased, suggesting that more hands had joined in. For reasons I still cannot understand, there was a reprieve from up top, a momentary slackening of the rope. A ripple more than anything else. And in that millisecond, I kicked below me, trying to turn the steel bar like a clock hand. Anything to jar it loose from its midnight hold. As the rope tightened a final time on the tether of my harness with a force greater than I’d yet known, I kicked at the steel rod one more time. The rod loosened, turned vertically, and the opposing force of hands at the other end of the rope shot me toward the surface of the earth. Unable to help and watching a narrowing column of light in my mind, I pulled my arms in and tried to give as little resistance as possible.
My last thought was a memory of the fastest mile I’d ever run. It had been at night on a track all alone. I’d run four minutes, seven seconds in a meet twice but was having trouble with the four-minute barrier. Angry and frustrated, I tied on my spikes, lined up on the starting line, clicked “start” on the watch in my hand, and took off. The first three laps were painful, but nothing like the fourth. I remember coming around the last turn with a hundred and fifty meters to go as the world closed in and the light before my eyes narrowed. I think I ran the last twenty yards in a nearly unconscious state. I crossed the finish line, collapsed, rolled, and only then hit “stop.” Moments later, when I caught my breath, I read the time: 3:58. I remember standing on the track, a bit wobbly, glancing one more time at the faceplate of the watch and then pressing “clear.” I’d done it. That’s all that mattered.
Stuck in the well shaft, as my lungs used the last bit of oxygen in my body, I remembered that moment and that feeling. It was a good memory. A good one to go out on. As the tunnel in my mind narrowed and the light closed in and out, I let go. I’d fought it long enough.
I don’t know how long I was like that because I’m not sure I was there. In a strange shift of perspective, I remember staring down from the mango tree onto Paulo and Zaul and Leena and a dozen other people who were frantically pulling on the rope. Paulo’s hands were bleeding and his face was frantic. Leena was screaming. Zaul was leaning into the rope with every ounce of muscle he had, and I remember thinking, Wow, he’s really strong.
A strange sensation.
I don’t know if I died or just passed out or if my spirit was leaving my body, but I felt a tightness and a compression on my body unlike anything I’d ever known, accompanied by a darkness that I could not explain. Then without warning and without explanation, the well spit me out of its mouth and threw me onto the ground surrounded by nearly four hundred feet of coiled rope and a lot of sweaty people breathing heavily. I remember somebody pressing their mouth to mine and forcing air into my lungs and then somebody standing on my chest. Finally, I remember vomiting and then sucking in the most glorious and sweet breath of air I’d ever known.
As the world came back to me and my senses sent messages to my brain, I heard screaming and laughing and crying, and I remember small hands clutching my neck. Then I remember another face, older, beautiful but similar, pressing against mine.
I remember coming back from that cold, dark, quiet, dirty world to this world of light and sound with Leena pressing her laughing and crying and tearstained and snotty face against mine.
It was a beautiful birth.
Having caught my breath and opened my eyes, Paulo stood me up and I worked feverishly to catch my balance and force my eyes to adjust. He stood in front of me, holding my arms in his powerful and bleeding hands. He brushed me off, nodded, and smeared the mud across his face. He tried to make words but few came. Finally, he waved his index finger in front of my face like a windshield wiper and just grabbed what few words he could. “You no more dig.”
I remember laughing and chuckling and thinking to myself, Agreed.
* * *
The next hour or so around the well was a lot of fun. Even the old peopl
e don’t remember the well ever having the force that it currently displayed. Water rolled out of the cap in an arc across the ground where we stood and created a shin-deep stream that filled the old, dried creek bed where it had once flowed.
Having created an instant water park, maybe a hundred kids appeared, held out both hands for me to hold and then to play and laugh. It was the most glorious fun I’d ever witnessed. Old-timers, those who remembered the well from its former days, approached me with smiles and hugs and handshakes. Leena stood by, translating. Paulo, along with several men from the plantation, worked to secure the well and build a makeshift wooden barrier to keep kids away and out until he could build something more permanent. And while I was grateful for the thanks and the attention, I liked one thing more. Throughout the afternoon, Leena stayed by my side and her hand never left mine.
* * *
Afternoon faded to evening as more and more people showed. A team of adults had been put in charge of the well by Paulo to help create an orderly ingress and egress to the water source and to help the elderly with their buckets. It worked. The mountain—both the people and the dirt—was hydrated. As was I. Matter of fact, I’d be okay if I didn’t drink any water for the rest of the day.
Leena and I stood on the mountainside beneath the trees walking among the tents and hammocks and campfires of those who had come to attend her father’s funeral. If we listened to one story about her father and how he’d helped someone or showed someone kindness, we must have listened to a hundred.
The attention I received as the gringo who “stabbed the earth and brought forth the water” was akin to that given to a rock star. People wanted to touch me, hug me, shake my hand, or offer me theirs in tribute and honor. Around midnight, Paulo drove us down the mountain to the house. Leena asked me if I wanted to bathe, and I waved her off, saying, “I think I’ve had enough water for one day.” Seconds later, I was asleep.
* * *
I woke at daylight to the smell of a campfire, coffee brewing, and the sound of a mango falling on the tin roof. Three of my favorite things. Zaul was asleep close by. He looked better. His color had returned, his hair was growing out, and his general complexion suggested he wasn’t quite so angry at the world. Isabella had softened him. Maybe Nicaragua had, too.
I walked outside, shaky but upright, and found Leena waiting for me. A smile and a cup of coffee. Hidden in the seclusion of her backyard, she had done something she rarely did. She’d let her hair down. Prior to my waking, she’d showered, washed her hair, and now sat brushing out the tangles. It was an intimate window into her life. I knew enough about the culture to know that women here let only a select group into this moment and time, and it was mostly other women, a husband, or a child. It was a reveal shared only by a few. I sat, sipped, and soaked it in.
* * *
Leena had asked that her parents be buried in one coffin but with two crosses. So Paulo, Zaul, and I drove to town later that day, bought the lumber, and built both the coffin and the crosses. I was glad we’d had some practice on Roberto’s coffin as we made a few improvements to this one. The edges were cleaner and the lid sealed better. I think that Hack would have been impressed. Both Paulo and Leena seemed happy and that was all that mattered. When we’d loaded it into the back of the truck, Zaul asked, “You teach me to do that?”
“Sure. You like working with wood?”
“Don’t know. Never done it. But I’d like to try.” For growing up with such privilege, there was a lot Zaul had not done. Evidence that money did not buy experience.
* * *
Somewhere, Leena had found time to buy both Zaul and I long-sleeved white dress shirts, which was the Nicaraguan national dress code for men. We showered, and then the five of us drove up the mountain in Colin’s truck. Since we’d returned here with Zaul for his recovery, he and Paulo had become fast friends. Zaul knew a good bit more about mechanics or how things worked than I had originally thought. Paulo picked up on this and was constantly asking him to help fix something, as there was always something broken in Nicaragua. As a result, the two had become inseparable, and I think Zaul had grown in his appreciation of and affection for the old sugarcane farmer. Driving up the mountain, I sat in the backseat with Leena and Isabella while Zaul sat up front and alternated from looking at the road in front to Paulo driving. His head was on a slow swivel and the slight smile on his face told me he was happy about what he saw. I could see his wheels spinning and I had an idea what he wanted, but I could also see an internal conflict rising. Zaul wanted to give Paulo the truck, but he knew he’d taken so much from his dad that he didn’t have the right to ask or give. Somewhat deflated, he looked out the passenger’s side window and chewed on his lip. I tapped him on the shoulder. “What are you thinking?”
He spoke without looking back. “I’m thinking how I made a pretty good mess.”
“How so?”
“I’ve lost or wasted a lot of money, and now that I want to do something good with it I don’t have any or don’t have the right to ask.”
I leaned forward, smiling as I spoke. I glanced at Paulo. “He looks good driving this truck, doesn’t he?”
Paulo watched the road in front of him; since he spoke only a little English he was oblivious to the conversation about him. Zaul’s nod was accompanied with a frown. “He does.”
I motioned toward Paulo. “Go ahead.”
He shook his head. “I’ve caused enough—”
“I’ll clear it with your dad. Go ahead. Do something right for a change.”
He glanced back at me, then at Paulo. He chewed on this several minutes, until we crested the top of the mountain where it appeared most of Nicaragua had shown up overnight for the funeral. We exited the truck and Paulo was handing the keys to Zaul when Zaul glanced at the truck. “Nice truck?”
Paulo nodded emphatically and wiped the sweat off his brow with a dirty white handkerchief.
Zaul prodded him. “You like?”
Paulo’s hands were raw from yesterday and one palm was oozing from rope burn. “Nicest truck in Nicaragua.” Another nod. “God drive that truck.”
Zaul accepted the keys from Paulo, hefted them, and then tugged on Paulo’s short sleeve as he turned to walk away. Paulo pivoted, Zaul took his hand and turned it over and laid the keys in his center of his palm. “Your truck.”
Paulo’s face told us he didn’t understand. Zaul wrapped Paulo’s fingers around the keys and slowly closed his hand.
“Yours now. You…you keep it.”
Paulo looked at me, then back at Zaul. An uncomfortable smile. “I no—”
Zaul waved him off. “I—” He motioned to me. “We…want you to have it. It’s yours now.” He sliced his hand through the air horizontal to the ground. “Forever.”
Paulo eyed the keys, the truck, Leena, then me. I nodded in agreement. “You should take it.”
Paulo let out a deep breath that seemed to accompany a masked hesitation and wiped his forehead—something he did both when it was sweaty and when he needed time to think. Folding the handkerchief, he placed it back in his pocket and then he put a hand on Zaul’s shoulder. Paulo stared at Zaul several seconds. I could tell his mind was turning, but his lips were silent. Several times he tried to talk, but could not. Finally, he nodded, pulled hard on his frayed hat, slid the keys in his pocket, and walked off toward a crowd of people. Isabella slid her hand in mine as the four of us watched him walk away. Leena put her arm around Zaul’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t know how to say thank you. No one’s ever done anything like that, and it’s more than he can comprehend.”
Zaul was smiling, his teeth showing. It was the first time I’d seen him truly happy in almost a decade. He watched Paulo’s broad shoulders widen as he walked away. “I like giving stuff away. It beats getting it. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’ll take better care of it than I would.”
* * *
Not even the old folks remembered seeing a funeral with as many people
. The line of people strung out behind the coffin was more than a mile long. It took an hour to process from the viewing to the graveside, where Leena drove two more crosses into the mud of Valle Cruces. The church that served the plantation had set up a microphone and huge speakers, allowing her to speak to the crowd, which she did with a grace and composure I’d never witnessed.
At the conclusion of the service, Paulo and I lowered her parents into the hole and Leena—wanting those who had come so far to feel they had a role in her parents’ burial—invited everyone to scatter dirt on the coffin. People waited on into night for that moment of closure. If a mountain can heal, Leena knew that, and as she stood receiving that endless line of mourners, helping them cover her parents in the same mud that killed them, she helped speed that recovery. If the soul of those people had been broken when her mother and father died, the hugs Leena gave sewed it back together. The fissure, the gaping wound, had been mended, and it was Leena who stitched it closed.
Until that moment, I could not articulate why I was drawn to Leena. Of course, she was beautiful. Mesmerizing even. But, that didn’t scratch the surface. There was something else, and as I stood there feeling dark and dirty in the shadows watching one woman heal the soul of several thousand people, of a region, I realized that Leena shined a light everywhere she went. She was a walking headlight. A coming train. A rising sun. Unafraid, she walked into the darkness, and when she did, the darkness rolled back as a scroll.