Scorching sun burned Miguel’s bare chest, and his eyes fluttered open. He squinted against the strong light. Dark images of last night’s scuffle flashed into his memory before he remembered where he was.
I’m alive, he thought. I still have a chance to get home. Miguel brushed away a host of swarming flies and felt sticky blood oozing beneath his headband. He gingerly touched a gash at his forehead.
In spite of his wound, he felt a rush of relief. At least Bootless Warrior hasn’t found me. Not yet. The Indé traveled fast, and without Miguel to slow them down, they would move more swiftly. He tried to raise his left arm, but excruciating pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips. His arm hung limply, broken or torn from its socket. With each breath, sharp stabs of pain radiated from his ribs.
Miguel tried to push himself up with his good arm, but the strain of moving overwhelmed him. He slumped to the ground. Slowly, Miguel rolled onto his stomach, cactus thorns pressing into his skin. I’ve got to get out of the sun before it dries up every drop of moisture left in my body, he told himself. And I have to get out of sight. If he didn’t hide, he would be an easy target for Bootless Warrior’s arrows.
Not far ahead, Miguel saw the lime-green bark of a paloverde tree at the base of the mountain. Its pale leaves sheltered a cluster of bushes. If only he could reach it, there would be some shade under its slender branches.
Using one arm, Miguel dragged himself across the gravelly sand and scrubby brush. The desert around him was so silent he could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. After just a few minutes of effort, he had to rest. The tree hardly seemed any closer, but Miguel glanced back to gauge how far he had come. The impression of his body stood out in the sand like the flat trail of a giant snake. The Indé had wiped away every trace of their footprints as they traveled. Miguel’s wide track would be easy to follow, but he couldn’t retrace his path to erase it. He struggled forward another few inches.
After what seemed like hours, Miguel made one final push and curled up against the trunk of the low tree. His skin was raw from dragging himself across the sand, and his sunburned chest felt as if it had been singed over a flame. He closed his eyes in the cooling shade and drifted in and out of sleep.
When Miguel awakened fully, the sun was low and the air was rapidly growing cold. He couldn’t get used to the extreme temperature changes that he had to endure each day. A fit of coughing racked his body, and he moaned with pain. He ran his dry tongue over his parched lips. When was the last time I drank any water?
Miguel sat up, wincing at the barbed cactus thorns that pierced his arms, chest, and back. He tried to grasp the tips of the thin spines, but they slipped through his fingers. Using his fingernails, he gripped them firmly and tugged. He managed to pull out a few thorns. The barbs left small ragged cuts, and Miguel rubbed the tender spots. It would be soothing to wash them in cool water, but he wasn’t likely to find any now. He pictured the well in Tucson where the women filled ollas to the brim. Spilled water splashed at their feet while they laughed. Dear God, he vowed silently, I’ll never again take such a blessing for granted.
A soft scratching sound broke the silence, and Miguel crouched closer to the tree. Peering from his hiding place, he spotted a streaked black-and-white roadrunner scratching at the pebbly sand and pecking at bugs. The bird’s long tail feathers flicked, and the feathers on the crown of its head were as ruffled as hair tousled in the wind.
The scrawny desert chicken was more feathers than flesh, but Miguel thought that if he could kill it he could get moisture and nourishment from its meat. With the barest movement, he picked up a stone. Staring the bird into focus, he took careful aim and hurled the stone at its tawny head. His throw was wide of the mark. Miguel felt bitter disappointment as the startled fowl simply flapped out of range.
I couldn’t have cooked it, anyway, he argued to himself. But he knew he would have eaten it raw, if necessary. Despite the time he spent with the band of warriors, Miguel hadn’t gotten used to eating only once each day. His stomach rumbled. He might survive without food for a few days, but not without water. How had the Indé discovered so many water holes? He glanced at the rocks towering overhead. The last water hole where the warriors had dipped their gourds was high up on the trail.
The path he had traveled was both distant and dangerous. He couldn’t climb with his injured arm, and even if he could, he risked being captured again. He had to find water, but how?
Miguel turned his face away from the setting sun. Purple shadows crept over the rocky crevices and fell in jagged patterns across the boulders. How can I make my way across the desert? He had heard of silver mines outside Tucson. Maybe he’d come across a mining camp. If he was lucky, he might find a wagon trail and meet a caravan of travelers. There was always a chance he would cross paths with a lone peddler like Jacob Franck who would take him home.
A surge of loneliness washed over him, and Miguel realized that the peddler’s companionship would now be welcome. I ran from him and the awful words he read, but what did I run to?
Miguel’s thoughts surged back to his life in Tucson. It seemed so far away. When I helped with Mass, I thought God was calling me to serve Him and the church. Father Ignacio said that one day I would know the right choice in my heart. After all that had happened, Miguel only felt emptiness. Perhaps God was testing his faith. Or worse, maybe He was telling Miguel that he had no place as a priest.
An image of the quiet interior of the dim church filled his head. He saw himself on his last Sunday at Mass, moving toward the Communion railing behind Father Ignacio. He couldn’t get past the sense that he was shadowing the priest so he would one day serve Communion to his own parishioners.
The image persisted like a blurry dream. He could almost hear Father Ignacio ring the silver bells three times, calling the congregants to receive the wafer that represented the body of Christ. Miguel remembered his mother and brothers rising from their pew and coming forward. His mother’s hair was covered by her lace mantilla. As the priest placed the thin, flat bread upon each worshipper’s tongue, he intoned the Latin prayer that began, “Corpus Domini nostril Jesu Christi . . .” Miguel joined in a fervent amen at its conclusion.
Papá hung back that morning. As Miguel held the silver patina close to each person who received a wafer, he noticed Papá looking worried and distant, as if troubling thoughts had brought him far away. As soon as Miguel caught his eye, Papá hurried to the railing, kneeling before the altar.
Had Papá been wondering when he should tell Miguel about their Israelite ancestor? Until the night when the peddler read from the leather diary, Miguel had been secure in his beliefs. With just a few words read from a crumbling book, his life had changed completely. He no longer felt certain of anything—not his family, not his calling, not his very self.
Miguel tried to snap out of the vision that clouded his thoughts. He had to stop daydreaming and start walking. If he observed the desert around him more closely, he might find water. It had been days since he had run from the ranch. By now, they’ve all given up any chance of finding me, he realized. It’s up to me to get home. Only me.
Shadows lengthened and Miguel pulled himself up, clinging to the tree for support. He spit out the dust that coated his throat and staggered forward. Cactus thorns pricked his back and arms with the slightest movement, but Miguel couldn’t stay where he was.
He would keep the mountains on his right and continue traveling south, walking only at night when the desert was cool and darkness would hide him. Miguel reassured himself that the Indé weren’t likely to venture onto a trail at night ever again. He was amazed that the strong warriors who roamed the desert like antelope and endured cold and hunger without complaint were so easily frightened by the screech of an owl.
How many days have I been walking? he wondered. He counted each day on his fingers, recalling the events of each one until the moment when he had been pushed off the ledge. Five days, he realized with a shock. Tomorrow is my birthday. If I make it through one more night, I will be thirteen.
A crescent moon lit the sky, and Miguel’s eyes slowly adjusted. Stars flickered as if someone had tossed a handful of glittering mica into the air. Miguel picked out the brightest as the North Star and carefully kept it behind him.
Papá had often tried to teach Miguel to name the constellations, but the task had seemed boring and useless. Miguel had no interest in learning to recognize the shapes and patterns his father pointed out. If only I’d known that I would need to find my way across the desert by their light, I would have listened, he thought with regret.
He remembered the words Señor Franck had read from the diary. Aharon ben Avraham had used his skills as a mapmaker to chart a path across the desert. He must have been familiar with every constellation in the sky. Miguel had tried to deny his connection to the first Abrano. Now he wished the mapmaker could guide him home before it was too late.
A coyote howled in the distance, and a chorus of yips answered from another direction. Miguel glanced around, straining to see into the distance. With the arrival of night, the desert had come alive with sounds. Insects buzzed and chirped, and dry brush rustled around him. He didn’t know what made the noises or whether they posed a danger. All he could do was push forward.
Suddenly there was a faint clatter of loose gravel from the mountain trail above. Miguel froze. Were the Indé tracking him? Or was a stealthy puma looking for an easy meal? Miguel felt so weak that he had no chance of outrunning anyone—animal or man. The coyotes let out a mournful chorus of howls. As long as he heard them in the mountains, Miguel guessed they were not hunting him. A mountain lion—or a bootless warrior—would stalk him silently.
A cascade of small stones and sand tumbled down the slope. Narrowing his eyes, Miguel thought he glimpsed a moving shape, barely a shadow. Someone, or something, was watching him.
He edged toward a large saguaro, its arms branching upward like a sentinel giving a salute. He might be able to shelter near its thick trunk and disappear from view. He stepped closer to its thorny protection when an excruciating sting blazed through his bare foot. He let out a muffled cry as fiery heat spread rapidly up his leg. He barely glimpsed a small scurrying creature flicking its curling tail over its back before it darted into a hole in the sand.
Scorpion! He had to stop the poison from coursing through his entire body. His foot swelled as quickly as a bubble rising in hot fat. Miguel fumbled to tie his headband tightly around his ankle, hoping to stop the poison’s flow. Then he remembered the pocketknife and pulled it out, struggling to open the blade. Gripping the knife tightly, he slashed his foot where the scorpion had stung. He had to drain the venom before it spread. A hot dizziness swept over him, and Miguel dropped to his knees.