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They first came upon Armando’s home. They saw no light through the windows.
Papa must be out drinking.
Sensing his thoughts, the Shaman said, “Your papa is no more. The Knife Cartel killed him, very publicly. They said he owed them money and did not pay.”
Armando remembered the man’s words. Someone always pays.
As they passed the dwelling, Armando thought he saw Pico, worn from meager meals and ongoing struggle. The dog appeared to be roaming the street, feral. The rope still tied around his neck with the loop where the chicken once hung. But I buried Pico myself. Armando tried to approach the dog, but it only growled. As it turned to run away, Armando saw it did not have the collar he had made from the scraps of cloth left by his mother.
“That is not Pico. I buried him,” Armando said. He thought back to the day his father had tied the dead chicken around the dog’s neck and had no sympathy for the man. He spat and moved to catch up with the Shaman.
“Yes, you are right. That is not Pico. But it seems your father’s sick method of dealing with thieving animals has been passed on.”
Armando scoffed, disgusted at the notion. “Where is my mother?”
“You do not know?” the Shaman asked.
“I tried to find her, asked many people. No one would say.”
The Shaman took a deep breath. “The Knife Cartel traded her to another cartel. They took her to work at a house in the nearby city. After a while, she showed up back here.”
“She did not try to find me?” Armando asked, hurt in his voice.
“No, boy, she did not. She is not herself. She wants only chiba now—the brown devil. She goes from cantina to cantina, offering herself to men for a fix, sleeping where she can.”
Armando said nothing, stopped walking, and hung his head. “Everyone... everything is gone.”
The Shaman knelt and extended a hand to the boy whimpering on the dusty street. Armando reached out and they gripped the pain together like father and son should.
The boy looked up through teary eyes and heard the Shaman say, “When life has been a fight with everyone around you, that’s a type of hell. And a boy raised in hell, when he emerges—if he does—is harder than bolts made of Bolivian tungsten.”
Armando turned away and wiped his eyes. “What is tungsten, Viejito?”
The Shaman gave him an amused look as he stood. “I am not that old.” Still clutching the boy’s hand, he led him away. “I will teach you about tungsten and many other things.”
They made their way through the shadows with sparse conversation. The Shaman explained how and where to move in the night without being noticed. After a lengthy walk, they found themselves back at the dwelling. They settled in and stoked the smoldering fire, adding wood as the flames returned. The boy had a distant look on his face. “There is nothing for me here. Maybe I should just leave.”
“And where will you go?” the Shaman asked.
“Maybe to this city you speak of. I could find work there.”
“Maybe.” The Shaman shrugged. “But these men have wronged you. It is your right to take revenge if you can.”
“I know. I can feel it. I want it. But why is revenge so important to me?” Armando asked. “It feels like a hunger I cannot resist. Why can’t I just run away?”
“It is a matter of pride and respect. These men have been the cause of many wounds in your life. There comes a time when a boy must become a man. To do so, you must make your stand at some point, or you will always run.” The Shaman paused, then added, “There are worse men in the city, I can promise you that.” Armando thought back to the rape tree and wondered what man could be worse than the Cackling Coyote.
Silence for a few minutes, then the Shaman spoke. “You must find your own way in life, it is true. Along the way, you can learn from those older than you, or you can learn by yourself. But I warn you, learning on your own is harder—more painful.”
“Why do you want to teach me?” Armando asked.
“I am not sure,” the Shaman lied. “But I see something in you.”
The boy looked up, hopeful. “How can I have revenge now? I am just a boy. I have no gun, only that damned knife from the desert.”
“That is all you need,” the Shaman growled. “And using their knife for your revenge will make it all the better.”
Armando nodded. “But I do not see a path. They are many and I am one—small and weak.”
“Think about what you did in the desert, boy. You used your own strengths against these men. Killed them, all three.”
“The woman helped me,” Armando said. “In the end.”
The Shaman shrugged. “Maybe, but you have a talent for this. That is what I see in you.”
With that, the Shaman started to murmur. He reached into a nearby bowl for some powder he tossed into the flames. They burst into greater size, a roar of red. Armando reared back and put a hand up.
“Do not fear the flames, boy. They can connect you,” the Shaman said as the evening mist around them thickened.
“Connect me to what?” Armando asked.
The Shaman studied him for a moment, stood, went into the dwelling, and came back with a wooden board and a cloth. He pulled an old crate over and placed it between them. They sat across from each other, legs crossed.
Carefully and with great reverence, the Shaman draped the cloth over the crate, then placed the wooden board on it. Armando looked down at the shiny surface and passed his hands over the letters and numbers. Mesmerized, Armando asked, “What is this?”
“It is a Ouija board.”