A Soul Lost in the Wilderness

He ran, he fell, he ran again. The bag hung low around his dark skinny legs, tangling him as he attempted to flee. The desert which burned his skin earlier, had turned cold and he shivered as he ran, wishing for the hot sun he cursed hours before.

How long had it been since he started? How long had it been since his father’s car stalled in the hot Mexican sun. Days? Hours? He had been running for what seemed an eternity, time became a blur.

He tried lifting the duffel bag once more over his head, but his arms gave out. The bag knocked him over once again, but this time he felt a sharp pain as the wind was knocked out of him. His stomach landed squarely on a rock beneath him. As he lay gasping for air, the adrenaline finally began to subside and the pain both physical and mental began to work its way through his body. He felt the pain in his bloody feet, he felt the pain in his torn up hands and his scratched up knees.

He didn’t know what was in the bag. He had guesses, but he couldn’t stop to look. What if he was followed? Every moment up until now was life and death, but now that he had breath, he began to think. The cartel stole so much from his father. He had every right to do what he did, but to kill a man? Was that right? Everything happened so fast, he didn’t have time to think. The shock on that man's face played over and over in his head.

The bag. He knew they moved money at the loading docks, but now much he had, he didn’t know. Ripping it open, the warm surprise he thought he would feel, felt cold. There was money and a lot of it. Must have been twenty-grand US, all in twenties. Enough to be a king in Mexico and enough to start a new life in the US, but it didn’t excite him.

If he got away unseen, if he didn’t have to kill, maybe, but now, what was there. They took so much money from his father, this was for him, but if fleeing was the only option, what was the point? It was his death sentence. If they could trace his family ties, it was a death sentence for his father too.

Right then, something black seemed to catch his eye. In the bag reflecting the pale bright light of the full moon was a little black book. A book of no notable characteristics. It was blank from front to back, except for a small note on the last page. “Para mi amor” was written in bold strokes. “To my love”, he said aloud as the irony struck him. Maybe it was a gift to that man's lover, or some sort of farewell to whomever the money was headed to. He suppressed these thoughts knowing it would only cause more guilt and pain. Taking a pen that he also found in the bag he wrote next to it “para mi padre”, signed his name Alfonso, and placed a $20 in its crevice. Now it was his love letter.

A moment later, intense hunger pains hit him. Slowing down made him realize how much he needed rest and food. He closed his eyes and he jolted back up. Sleep almost took him. It would be safer to move at night and rest during the day. He had to keep moving. He got up and began to meander onward. All of his adrenaline completely drained, each step felt like hurdling over a mountain.

His father once showed him how the inside of the desert cactus contained both fruit and juice and this desert was filled with them. Taking a rock he smashed one open that stood nearby. Several spiky cactus prongs stuck into his hands, as he ripped into it, going unnoticed. Hunger and thirst are great suppressors of pain. He opened one and then another, and another until he felt sick of it. He noticed his bloodied hands and slowly picked out the cactus prongs as he continued on.

The night can play tricks on the mind. Every shadow seemed to be a hidden enemy crouching in the dark and at every rustle of the brush, he imagined a great big snake or some hidden beast ready to pounce. After an hour of walking, it finally occurred to him that he had no idea where he was headed. A strange sense of loneliness overcame him. What direction should he take? He planned everything out so well. He had watched them for weeks on end, clocking their every movement, when they left for home, what time they drank, what time they ate, everything was accounted for and yet, fate had dealt him a cruel hand. He never imagined that his plan would go wrong and he ran to escape without thinking of where he was headed. He ran to survive. He looked up into the sky as if a voice would offer guidance. He was met with silence. As he studied the night sky, he realized that he could find north. Following the outline of the big dipper, he found the north star. He had been heading west.

He couldn’t head home, he already knew that. In the west, he had family, distant cousins he had never met that lived in some small town, a name he had forgotten. If he went, if he found the town, if he found them, what then? Would the cartel not find him there as well?

After some time thinking, he decided to head north. America was his greatest chance of survival. He could seek asylum, maybe rent an apartment with the money. If they didn’t let him in, he’d sneak in maybe even bribe the border guards. It was his only choice. As the sun rose on the first day, he lay under some brush and sleep overcame him. He was headed to America.

Day after day passed and the desert seemed to grow larger in his mind. It appeared to be all there was, all there ever was. Time stood still and despair began to strike. The cactus he relied on for food and drink had turned on him. Diarrhea sucked out his fluids and dehydration sank its sharp teeth. His mind began to see things that weren’t there and his ears began to hear sounds that came from within. On a hill in the dark of night, he saw what he thought was a church and a priest beckoning to him. He looked down and then back up and the vision had disappeared. He had heard his father’s voice call him and when he responded there came no answer, but the cold deafening silence of a windless desert night. The duffle bag which held hope became a weight too heavy to bear. Maybe he should leave the money, maybe he should drop the bag and let the desert sand swallow it whole. He couldn’t.

He saw the vision of a church again. On top of a cliff in the far off distance. He looked down and then back up, but this time the church did not disappear. He thought of his childhood and of the words he learned in church as a boy. Hope arose in him as the closer he came to church on the cliff. He climbed, stumbled and climbed again and the vision stayed.

As he approached the warmth of the church, the sweet smell of burning incense struck him. The doors were opened, but the building lay bare. As he tried to enter, something stopped him. He felt he couldn’t bring himself to enter. He grabbed his bag which lay around his shoulders and put it down outside the church. The weight lifted, he walked in. “Hello, anybody here? I need help.” he said. He repeated it again and again to no answer. In the middle of the room was a fountain overflowing with water. Unable to contain himself, Alfonso ran to it and drank to his heart’s content. Life began to flow in his veins again. He felt human. He thought of his father and how hard he worked. How he struggled to pay the bills, how he raised him alone and how he protected them. How he paid the cartel, not because he wanted to, but because he had to, for his son's safety and for his. Alfonso felt guilt and pain. What great sin he had committed in the name of his father. He cried thinking of his father’s love. He drank more water, laid on the ground in front of a crucifix and drifted to sleep.

When he awoke he found himself on a small green patch of grass near a stream a few feet away in the early morning. The night before bewildered him. Had he dreamt it, or was it a near death vision, he could not say. Near him, he found mushrooms and a large frog that lay bathing in the sun near the stream. Catching the frog and collecting the mushrooms, he had a feast. He never knew raw frog and uncooked mushrooms could taste so good. He was thankful. “He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters.” he said, recalling a verse from childhood.

Suddenly a wave of panic overcame him. The bag. He rummaged madly around, looking from bush to bush. He peered over the cliff. There it lay, some of its money flying in the wind. In a fit, he scaled down the cliff, hungrily grabbed the bag, and sifted through the nearby sand for bills he could save. A good third of it must have been blown away. In anger, he kicked a small rock near him and sent it flying. Scaling back up the cliff with the bag, he drank some more water and headed onwards, determined to reach America and forgetting the vision of the church the night before.

Hours passed and the hot desert sun began to tire and headed towards its evening position. Coming over a hill, Alfonso stood in amazement. Only a few hundred yards ahead lay a fence. The U.S. Mexico border. The fence stretched to the left as far as the eye could see. He looked to the right and far off in the distance, the fence ended where it met a small brown river. His heart leapt for joy. This was his chance. Few steps of this journey had felt so light as this last mile. He had made it. He dreamed of a nice warm bed and food. “What would it be like to be in America?” he wondered. He thought of all the movies he had watched as a boy and the beautiful happy people on screen. America became a mantra. He thought of his father and pain and guilt struck him again. Darkness descended when he arrived where the fence ended and the river began. He took a deep breath and stepped forward. The bag of money suddenly felt heavy again. It felt wrong to step into America with the money, just as it felt wrong to step into the church with the money, but he had no choice. “How could one live in America without money?” he thought.

Just then, a black border car screeched it’s way through the sand towards him with headlights blaringly bright. He shielded his eyes as they stepped out from the vehicle yelling words he did not understand. They pulled their guns and he began to panic. Remembering the money he reached into the bag, maybe he could bargain with them. At that moment, a shot rang out and blood poured over the money. In his last moments, Alfonso saw in the far off distance a Church on a hill.