Then I felt the blood leaving my body and I froze for the second time. I was above the houses of Banderas Valley, the roofs of the little village within arm’s reach as the crowd stood speechless and amazed.
It wasn’t until then that I realized that I didn’t know how to get down. This was my first landing. I hadn’t thought of practicing landing back on Cerro Vallejo.
So close to their hands, I heard them exclaim:
“Holy Mary! What is that thing?”
“It’s trickery!”
“It’s a comet!”
“It’s a witch!”
“No, it’s just Lazy Rutilio with a bunch of ducks!”
That was the second time that I froze. The first time was back on Cerro Vallejo, when I’d tied up the ducks and, clinging to the end of the rope, moved my arms and shouted, “Aha, you dummies!” Scared, they took flight, pulling me with them as if I were a handful of manure.
The takeoff was so violent that I felt my heart escaping through my mouth. I shut my eyes, locked my chin, and squeezed down because I was afraid that my life was going to escape. I felt like I was dying because I had no air. At that moment, the whole story of my existence passed in my mind: the disgrace of my early orphanage, my infamy of being a lazy dreamer, the birth of my first little boy (the reason for this dangerous adventure), and…
At this point, my thoughts got stuck on the memory of the difficult birth last night when, between the moans of my wife and the tricks of the old midwife, I became the happiest father in the world.
I’d spent the night awake helping the midwife, who made me go from here to there. “Rutilio, bring more boiled water! Wash the towels again! Heat up the tea!” And so, by dawn, I was asleep standing up. I walked by memory, exhaustion biting at my calves. I took a misstep and stumbled like a cow that is poorly tied. I went out to the corral so the breeze of dawn would wake me up, but as I sat on the dry trunk of a tree I fell asleep in a flash.
There Guera Manuela found me, and the masculine voice of the midwife reached me and made my ears ring.
“Rutilio! Are you sleeping again? Move! This party’s just starting! Get up and bring food for your wife, who has to feed your son as God orders. It can’t be tortillas and chile as usual – this calls for a hen.”
“Hen? Where am I supposed to get a hen?”
“That’s not my problem, muchacho. Move it!”
I went down the street toward the center of the village, chewing my challenge over and looking at the dawn every now and then. Reaching the plaza, I waited for morning under a hundred-year old tamarind tree. Between yawns and head nods, I distinguished the silhouette of a man coming near on a donkey. It was old Chenchano heading to his cornfield to work.
“Don Chenchano, imagine – my first was just born,” I told him, trying to soften his heart.
“What? No shit? This valley will be filled with lazies like you,” he laughed.
“Don’t make fun of me, Don Chenchano. Look, I need you to give me a hen, and I will pay you with work,” I said.
“With work you will pay me? Look pal, I have no hens. You’d better go to the fields and catch some doves by the tail.”
After saying this, Don Chenchano left with laughter. I stood there, stewing in my anger. Old son of a gun, what is this ‘The valley will be filled with lazies’? When did he have to support us? Doves by the tail? Cheap old geezer.
I was thinking, “Doves by the tail, doves by the tail,” and the Pirulero Ducks from Cerro Vallejo popped into my mind. Don Cuico, an old hunter from Banderas Valley, used to tell me about the big, juicy birds.
“Doves by the tail!” I shouted. I waited for day to come and for Don Mariano Santana to open his store to ask him for help.
“Don Mariano!” I said excitedly to the man. “My son was born and I’d like you and your wife to be godparents for the baptism.”
“So, he is born?,” Don Mariano said. “Congratulations Rutilio. What do you want us to do?”
“Yes, señor. It is our desire that you accompany my son to the pool of holy water.”
“Delighted. Good Catholics cannot deny such a request. When is the ceremony?”
The day of Candelaria. I want to ask you something else, Don Mariano. Would you please let me take some things on credit?”
“Tell me, future compadre.”
“I need a spool of rope, two pounds of corn, and a jar of English salt.”
“A jar? Isn’t that too much of a laxative?”
“No, a jar will be fine,” I said.
I thanked Don Mariano, put the merchandise into my ixtle bag, and walked out of the village toward the cemetery. I knew that the way to Cerro Vallejo passed near San Juan de Abajo because the path by the Huichichila River is very steep. From below, it seems like there is just one peak to the mountain, but once you’re up there you see two peaks united in a valley, and in the middle there is a lagoon.
Although I’d never been to these places, I knew the way because of El Cuico; in his hunting stories, I’d heard details about paths and regions. By his stories I also knew that there were jaguars, but neither jaguars nor snakes could deter me.
In a little creek I filled two gourds. One was to quench my thirst. The other I filled with the laxative, and then threw the corn in. I rested for a little while and then began my walk again. When I finally reached the top, it was almost noon. The fresh breeze that passed through the oak trees welcomed me. I had the feeling of being in another world, of almost reaching the clean blue sky. In front of me was the other peak, the twin of the one I was standing on, and behind me was the deep green valley, with the sea at the bottom like a silver line. Excited, I went down to the prairie.
A sheet of white butterflies flew away as I passed. I reached the lagoon, which was choppy from the wind. It was early still, so I laid down under a guava tree and slept for a couple hours. As soon as I woke up, I started my project.
The Pirulero Ducks began to arrive in waves, beautiful, with black backs and white breasts. “Big and fleshy,” I said to myself, “Here I come!” I took out the rope, and tied a corn kernel soaked in the laxative to the end. I took the rope to an open field at the edge of the lagoon, went back to my hiding place, and waited. Moments later, a beautiful duck came near the corn kernel. In my hiding place, I made an effort to contain the knot of emotions in my chest.
“Peck, little one,” I whispered.
The curious animal got closer, warily lifted his head and looked in all directions. It felt like I had ants in my stomach. Finally, the bird pecked with its beak and swallowed the corn. For a little while, it ran around uneasily. The laxative did its duty and when my prey shit the kernel, it was caught by the rope from beak to tail.
I quickly ran to him, put his wings together, and slid him down the cord to my hiding place. I put a new kernel of corn on the end of the rope. In this way, one by one the ducks fell into my trap. When I’d trapped forty of the little animals, I said to myself, “That’s enough. It’s all I need for my wife’s period of bed-rest.”
I prepared myself for the return, gathering my things. I tied the ends of the rope and laughed, shouting to my flock, “Aha, shitheads!” Scared, the animals took off instantly, taking me on their flight like a small piece of garbage caught in a whirlwind. The swarm started frantically flying in circles over the lagoon like it was painting corkscrews in the air.
Dizzy and about to vomit, I was correct in thinking that the circling was due to the tension on only one end of the rope. I pulled with my right hand and noticed a change of direction.
I was terrified.
“I have to calm down,” I said. Little by little, I gained control of the direction. When they tried to fly to the right, I pulled to the left. I kept myself head-down so I could steer and enjoy the scenery. I separated my legs to avoid spinning. Creatively, I opened my shirt to offer more air-resistance. The shirt was hitting me like a locust’s wings, but finally I’d gotten out of the mess. Without stopping to fly over the lagoon, I started to manage my flock, accelerating and decelerating little by little. As soon as I was more confident, we headed toward the peak that I’d climbed hours before.
We flew over the peak. The immense valley opened in front of me. An infinite sky in a thousand directions revealed itself. Only a dream could be so beautiful, but this was far more beautiful than a dream. How far down the trees were! The giant capomos and hundred-year old ceibas looked like toys. I started playing around with the ducks. I practiced balancing, back-and-forths, sharp turns, and changing directions. I was so delighted with the flight that for a moment, I forgot about everything else – my little boy, my wife, and Guera Manuela.
I was almost asleep when a flock of macaws crossed my route, creating such a ruckus between my ducks that I almost took a dive. It seemed that the macaws were upset and disapproved of my daring. I managed to recover control and fooled the macaws with the sharp maneuvers I’d practiced earlier.
Before heading home, I wanted to enjoy the trip. I directed my flock toward the center of the valley. There, I could admire the Ameca River. Like a mirror, it wound between the mountains like a crystal snake. I followed its windings to the mouth of the river. Far away, I could see the houses of Puerto Las Penas de Santa Maria de Guadalupe. The sea was a red mirror where the sun was bleeding. The day was dying. I remembered my son, my wife, and my friends. I guessed that at any moment, the townspeople would be coming out of the church because it was Sunday. I envisioned the flock looking at my village. I started recognizing the fields, the little rivers, and the houses. I wanted to arrive at the plaza the exact moment that church was letting out so that everyone would know who Rutilio Espiricueta was.
I arrived from the west against the dying light. The crowd didn’t understand what they were looking at. I had to do two circles over the center of the village. I was so close to their hands, and they were shouting:
“Holy Mary! What is that thing?”
“It’s trickery!”
“It’s a comet!”
“It’s a witch!”
“No, it’s just Lazy Rutilio with a bunch of ducks!”
When I wanted to land, I realized that I hadn’t practiced landing. I made several attempts without success, almost smashing myself against the gazebo. I felt trapped between tiredness and desperation. The people had gone from amazement to celebration. Understanding my problem, they tried to help me. I saw some extending blankets, trying to break my fall. I also saw some kids – catechism students – ducking away from Chila Cuevas’ watchful eye and running to climb up trees and roofs, probably to see me closer. Chenchano Encarnacion and Nilo, directed by Carlos Covarrubias, tried to put up four hand nets to fish me in on one of my approaches. El Calero, the skilled cowboy, riding a prancing mule and drunk off raicilla, tried to rope me with his lasso. Chato Ruiz wouldn’t stop giving orders, urging the spectators to do something.
“Be it God’s will,” I said, and dove straight down, targeting the pool full of water in the center of the garden. As I scraped the hundred-year old tamarind tree, I felt my legs and waist grabbed by kids’ hands. All of a sudden, a bunch of kids clinging to my body came out of the tree. The ducks tried to keep flying, but the weight of the kids and their exhaustion stopped them. They stayed suspended for an instant, and then we fell in the pool.
The water stupefied me, and for a moment I was gone. The people broke out in a joyful cheer because of my achievement, scaring the flock, which tried to take off again. But El Calero, timely as ever, caught them with a splendid lasso move and tied them to his saddle.
The people rescued me from the fountain with a lot of attention, and everybody wanted to shake my hand. Loudly, Don Mariano touted me as an example of courage and heroism. He proposed to change the name of the village to Valle de Rutilio, but I refused – I only asked them to stop using my nickname.
They never called me Lazy Rutilio again, but throughout the region, the fame of Flying Rutilio became known.
