The Five Acts of Diego Leon Read Free Page A

full of magic, of battles, of spirits that robbed people’s souls, of animals that could speak. There were brave warriors and wise priests with the ability to see into the future, to look to the stars and predict tremors and eclipses and droughts. There were noble kings who ruled the lands from large temples, their stone steps leading up to the heavens where the gods lived. There were marketplaces under vast blue skies, and everywhere there was peace and no one ever went hungry. Everyone had what they needed. She told of Curicaueri, the god of fire, how he and his brother gods settled along the shores of Lake Pátzcuaro, how the P’urhépecha were the descendants of these spirits who taught them how to shape clay, how to weave, how to carve wood, and when to plant and harvest. These, she said, were his people, his kin.
    And he saw them come to life. In his fevered dreams, his ancestors were men with scaled skin, eyes yellow as corn, wearing robes adorned with bright feathers and shells, with jewelry made of iron and brass and gold on their necks and arms and fingers. They werebeautiful and, as Elva spoke, he watched them form a circle around his bed and dance and chant, and they called him “son” and “brother” and blessed Diego and swore to protect him.
    “Here,” Diego said, pointing. “They’re here. I can see them. Standing near you, Elva.”
    “Yes,” she said, soothing him, her hand pressed on his forehead. “The spirits are here. They want you to see them. They want you to know they will be with you. Always.”
    She talked on well into the night, as his fever climbed higher and higher, his skin grew hotter, his eyes peering into that world of the spirits, of the ghosts of his past. Elva held a candle up to her face. She told of the fierce P’urhépecha warriors who were so strong they fought back and beat the Aztecs, the most hated of all the tribes in the years before the Europeans arrived. She told of Cortez and the Spaniards, who came on ships, destroying everything, laying waste to the great cities. She told of Eréndira, the young princess and daughter to the last ruler of the P’urhépecha, who trained an army of men to ride horses and fight against the invaders.
    “This is what you’re made of,” Elva said just as he felt the fever consume him. He saw flames surrounding his bed, and the spirits stood watch, whispering, pointing at Diego, beckoning him to come, to join them in the darkness.
    “Your blood is the blood of the gods,” he heard Elva’s voice say as he drifted away, further and further.
    He was many things, she said. So many wonderful things. Then her voice faded away, and he heard only the roar of the unseen fires.
    The fever broke a few days later and didn’t return. When Diego was strong enough to lift his head, he asked for his mother.
    “She fell ill right after you did,” Elva explained. “You were too sick to notice, and even if I had told you, you wouldn’t have understood. Your fever was so high. You were hallucinating. Seeing spirits.”
    “But where is she?” he asked, glancing around.
    “It was terrible. So many people … Your mother …” she said, pressing his head to her chest, gripping his hand. “She’s gone. She died.”
    He didn’t understand. How could this happen? Diego wanted to scream and cry and shout out her name, but he still felt very weak and tired. Instead he closed his eyes and let Elva hold him in her arms and rock him back to sleep.
    A few days later, when Diego was stronger, Elva told him to get dressed. He wore the socks and shoes his mother had bought him the last day they went to the marketplace in Pátzcuaro even though he had already outgrown them. Elva bundled him in blankets and led him by the hand to the cemetery. A handful of crooked crosses jutted up from the ground as they made their way to a fresh mound of earth adorned with bouquets of carnations and lilies. A marker was staked in the ground, and his mother’s name