The Lastoc of the Annumpi: The Storm Breaks (Part 9)

With a guiding hand on the small of Maria’s back, Mrs. O’Brien lead her out of the shed. A gust of wind tore the flimsy door from her hand, slamming it into Pau’s upthrust palm. He called for Declan, then pulled the door closed. The women drew their shawls tightly over their heads to protect themselves from the   blowing debris swept before the storm. In the east, great black clouds turbulently tumbled through the heavy sky. Wild gusts combed through the tall grass. Green waves rippled under the black sky as the winds parted the sea of grass then danced onward scattering seeds and tearing at long, thin spears of leaves. A shimmering beetle was tossed it the air and landed on Maria’s back. It struggled trying to burrow into a fold of her shawl, but another gust flicked the tiny gem into the air, sending it tumbling in the wind. The beetle rode on the edge of the wind, a tiny herald jeweled herald announcing the coming of the storm.

Maria slipped her arm in Mrs. O’Brien’s and gently tugged. The older woman was looking around and Maria wanted to get moving. “Where is Declan?,” asked Mrs. O’Brien, yelling to be heard. 

“He must have gone home,” called Maria, leaning close to Mrs. O’Brien to be heard. “He was angry at being sent outside.”

“That must be it,” said Mrs. O’Brien, as she began to move toward the manor. “At least I hope he has as much sense. The storm is coming much faster than I expected.”

The two women clung together for support, their heads almost touching as the struggled to hear each other. They both had things they needed to say privately. 

“Mrs. O’Brien, at the shed you referred to our guest as a hermit. So did Lucinda earlier. It sort of slipped out when she was talking and she seemed embarrassed.” Maria did not have to ask the question.

“Lucinda did not want to bring trouble for anyone. To our hermit or to you perhaps. We have known of him for at least four years. Ethna saw him hiding in the grass and watching the house. several of the older boys decided to spy on him to see what he was up to. They quickly realized that he was not dangerous. He just seemed curious. At first we thought he was a madman, but Rose saw him in the odd robe he wore some days and decided he was a hermit. She took to leaving old clothes and food where he could easily take them without being seen. 

At first, he wouldn’t take anything. I think he was so lonely, he just wanted to see people, to see a family. I don’t know. We pretended not to notice him and I think he never suspected we knew of him. I am not sure that he is not a mad man, or simple, perhaps.Eventually he began to take the clothes and food, but only small amounts. We had to work to find places to leave things that would not let on we knew about him. Rose and Ethna were the best at this. A few times we found lost toys were we’d left food. The only things he ever stole were the old file and the hatchet he used to free that beast of yours. I still don’t why he did that crazy thing. He must be mad.”

The winds died down as they were nearing the house. It felt as if the storm was holding its breath. Fat raindrops began to lazily pockmark the dust. “Lemuel thought Eugusto was a spoltal. I think that’s what he called it, at least. Does spoltal mean anything to you?,” asked Maria.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. O’Brien curtly. “It means that either the hermit finally lost his mind or he was cruelly mistaken.

Before she could elaborate, lightening flashed a short way to the east, followed almost instantly by a crack of thunder. The women broke into a run and briskly covered the final thirty yards to the storage shed outside the kitchen. They pressed against the wall to catch their breath shielded by the overhang, while rain cascaded off the roof in a waterfall that swept the roof clean and quickly cut a gully in the hard packed earth around the shed.

The kitchen door was about ten yards away. Maria looked at Mrs. O’Brien, raised wide open eyes and nodded toward door. Lucinda was standing in doorway holding a large towel and waving at two children who were yelling and screaming as they waved their arms wildly and stomped through the deepening puddles that had quickly ringed the house like a chain of small lakes.

“Wait,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Just a moment. I need to catch my breath. Let’s wait until Lucinda gathers in those wild things.” She paused for a bit and then said in a quiet voice that Maria strained to hear above the hammering of the rain on the overhang, “Why you think why Kevin and Jose were attacked?”


Maria was confused by this unexpected question. The answer was obvious. They were part of the group that beat Cupido. Before she could answer, Maria felt Mrs. O’Brien’s arm slip from hers and she saw her bent over, her shawl pulled tightly over over her head, held in place with both hands, running through the rain to the open kitchen door.

Maria nearly slipped on the wet tile as she ran into the kitchen behind Mrs. O’Brien. Lucinda stopped drying the squirming children and let the large towel drape over them like a collapsed tent. The giggling under the towel rose in volume as the ersatz tent flopped over onto its side. Lucinda gathered two more towels from the laundry basket and handed them to the women. She took their shawls and hung them on a line in pantry. “Go and change,” said Lucinda. “We’ll have tea when you ready.”

The women declined saying that they’d be fine after they dried off a bit. They sat by the stove, while Lucinda hustled the squealing children out of the kitchen, so she could prepare tea in peace. She efficiently filled a tray and carried it to Maria and Mrs. O’Brien. Maria thanked her and poured a cup for Mrs. O’Brien, Lucinda, and herself. 

Mrs. O’Brien had already helped herself to a slice of spice cake and was staring intently at the storm though a kitchen window. Maria replaced the teapot on the tray and, drawn by Mrs. O’Brien’s attention on the storm,  turned so she also faced the window. She turned in time to see two men, one on horseback, the other driving a small cart pulled by two mules. They rode far more swiftly through the rain than Maria thought wise. She could not understand why they were leaving the grounds instead of seeking cover from the storm. They passed out of view and Mrs. O’Brien shifted in her chair. She noticed that Maria had witnessed the scene.

“That was Eduardo and Victor, Miguel’s brother,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “The storm will cover their departure and wash away their tracks. They have business they would rather not have known. It’s best not to talk about it.” Her tone and the look in her eyes made it clear that no more would be said. Maria was wise enough to let the matter pass.

Lucinda finished at the stove and sat down to her tea. The women talked of the storm, of tonight’s supper, of family matters. Maria was mostly silent, responding when addressed, and then only slightly. She was waiting to see what Mrs. O’Brien would say, but the old woman seemed to be automatically responding while her mind was working on private matters. 

When the women finished their tea and cake, Lucinda, relieved at being freed from carrying the conversation single-handedly, began gathering the dishes. Mrs. O’Brien returned from her thoughts and gently grasped Lucinda’s wrists. “Leave it, my dear” she said to her daughter. “Maria and I will clean up. Take some tea to Rose and the hermit, to Lemuel, I should say. We shall be up soon. If we all march in on him at once we might scare him to death.”

Lucinda laughed and then went to prepare a tray. “Shall I see if Don Hernando would like tea in the library?,” asked Lucinda.

“No,” answered her mother. “I will look in on him.”

Maria motioned for Mrs. O’Brien to stay seated and she took over gathering up the dishes. When she had cleaned and stored the tea things in their proper places, Maria said that she was going to check on her father.

“No, child, you sit a moment,” said Mrs. O’Brien rising from her chair. “I need to speak to your father.” With that, Mrs. O’Brien left the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind her. Maria looked around the kitchen and wondered when it was that she was last alone in the normally bustling center of the house. She couldn’t remember.

After only a few minutes, Mrs. O’Brien returned. “You father is sleeping, though how he can sleep through this storm is beyond me,” she said. “Come. It’s time we visited our hermit.” Maria stood up and noticed that Mrs. O’Brien had a thick book thrust into one of the large pockets stitched into her dress.

*******

The storm caught Ethna unawares. She and her young cousins, Marial and Fiona, were squeezed together in the tiny hut carefully filling two crates with the odds and ends they found there. Ethna was amazed at how few clothes there were and how many books. She was also worried about the small jar of dark liquid she had carefully taken away from Fiona and tucked into her pocket. The jar had been hidden behind some books. On it someone had painted a crude skull and crossbones.

When the storm hit, the girls tried to pull the small handcart they’d brought with them into the shelter, but it would not fit. They quickly unloaded the half full cart and stacked the crates by the door. Ethna lit a small fire that was already laid, and the girls pressed against the rock wall at the back of the shelter to stay dry as the wind shook the reed walls and tore at the thatch roof. The wind drove rain through the walls and roof, but the slight overhang kept the girls dry. Ethna noticed that the bookshelves had been placed so that even in this dreadful storm no rain could reach them.

Ethna could see that the young girls were frightened to out in the storm. She would never admit it to anyone, but she was a little frightened as well. The three were huddled together in the tiny shelter. Ethna wrapped her arms around the younger girls and said, “I promised you an adventure, remember?” The girls nodded. “Well, it looks like we’re going to have a better adventure than I imagined. What do say I tell you a story while we wait for this little drizzle to pass?” The girls beamed. They loved Ethna’s stories. Ethna began telling them the story of Robinson Crusoe, but Defoe would not recognize Ethna’s version. Her version had a young woman as the shipwrecked hero and completely left out all the theological rumination. The heroine was much more self-sufficient and whined a great deal less than did Crusoe. She managed to build a out-rigger and sail to freedom after having exciting adventures in the South Seas. The little girls hung on every word. Ethna was proud to pass the story on. She’d learned it from Miss Maria when she was no older than her cousins. She’d even added a few adventures. 

*******

Mrs. O’Brien and Maria reached the attic room and saw Lucinda leaving, carrying a basket of old bandages. bed linens, a nightshirt, and used washcloths and towels. “I’m not going to stay,” she said. “I think all four of us will be too many for him.”

“As you like,” said Mrs. O’Brien. 

“Besides I am worried about the children. I want to check that they’re all inside,” added Lucinda as she stepped aside so they could pass her on the narrow landing.

Mrs. O’Brien squeezed past Lucinda and Maria followed. Lucinda began to maneuver the basket down the steep attic stairs. The women waited until she had cleared the turn in the stairs, then Mrs. O’Brien knocked on the door. They waited until Rose called for them to enter.

The hermit greeted the women with a cautious smile. Rose formally introduced them to Lemuel. He did not speak, but only nodded. Maria sensed that he was fighting the urge to run. Lemuel was sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows. His bed had been shifted so that he was facing the door. Now he could easily see people sitting around the table and join into conversation with them. There was no sign of the extra linens used to bind him to the cot.  Rose had placed a chair by the bed and he was using it as a table. An empty tea cup and a small plate dotted with a few crumbs rested on the chair. Rose was putting another sandwich on his plate. She reached for the teapot to pour him another cup of tea. He looked at the sandwich hungrily, but did not reach for it. 

Mrs. O’Brien spoke in a soft, comforting voice. “Go ahead, young man. We have had our tea. You need to eat.” Lemuel nodded his thanks and began eating the sandwich.

Once again, Maria sensed that he was struggling to control to his fears. She had so many questions, but knew that she would have to wait until he was ready. She had treated his wounds and they had given him food. Now they must for him to trust them. Maria suddenly realized that she was using the methods she learned to capture her specimens. She was a little embarrassed to think that she was treating a man as a specimen. Oh well, it is what I know how to do, she thought, and I’ll bet that it works.

While Lemuel ate and drank another cup a tea, Rose told Mrs. O’Brien and Maria that Lemuel’s injuries were healing nicely. His fever had broken and his mind was sound. He was weak, of course, but perhaps in a few days he would be able to walk with a cane. Lemuel sat listening to these reports with disinterest. Instead he stared at at Maria. He would quickly look away when she met his eyes, so Maria concentrated on Rose’s narration. 

When Rose finished, Lemuel spoke. Looking first at Mrs.O’Brien, he said, “Mrs. O’Brien, thank you for all that you and you family have done for me. I am grateful.” It sounded like a prepared speech, but an honest one, sincerely delivered. Rose smiled like a teacher watching a student’s performance in the school play. Mrs. O’Brien was clearly pleased and waved the thanks away to signify that she had noting worthy of such gracious thanks.

Lemuel turned to Maria and began another prepared speech. “Miss Valenzuela, Rose tells me.” He trailed off, while continuing to starie intently at Maria. His eyes flicked quickly over her dress as if he was comparing an image from his memory against this one before him. “It is you,” Lemuel said so softly the women drew closer. “You are the woman in the, the odd clothes. The one who shot the man who tried to kill me. Rose says you saved my life. You shot him, You sewed up my wounds.” His voice broke and agitation contorted his face. A tremor spread down Lemuel’s arms setting off a quivering motion that he could not suppress.

Rose quickly stepped over to the stricken man and placed a cool, damp cloth on his brow. She began running her hands lightly down his shaking arms, as if smoothing the wrinkles in his nightshirt. Maria could hear she was speaking to Lemuel, but she could only hear soothing tones, she could not make out what Rose was saying. Perhaps she wasn’t saying anything. Perhaps the soothing sounds were all mattered. Maria could see that Lemuel was silently crying. Lemuel saw her looking at him and he buried his face in a pillow. 

Mrs. O’Brien had stood up and moved over to Maria without the younger woman noticing. She drew Maria’s attention away from Lemuel by laying a hand on her shoulder. Maria looked up and saw Mrs. O’Brien gesture toward the door. Mrs. O’Brien came over to Maria and slid her hand under Maria’s arm, then she lead her gently from the room as if guiding a sleep walker back to bed.

Mrs. O’Brien pivoted Maria onto the landing, then leaned against the door as she pressed it closed. “It was too much for the poor man,” she said watching Maria closely. “He is still weak, but he will come around. You noticed how his appetite has returned?”

“What? Um, yes, his appetite. I did notice. Yes,” Maria stammered. She was shaken by Lemuel’s reactions to her. She had thought she had calmed him so that he would come to her, but she had misjudged. It seemed that Lemuel would be a difficult specimen.

The women were almost at the bottom of the stairs when they heard Rose calling to them. Maria turned and ran toward the attic. She was convinced that something had gone terribly wrong. Mrs. O’Brien cried out for her to wait, to calm down, but Maria would not listen. The incident in the yard, the angry men, the violent storm, the threat from Cupido’s gang, and Lemuel’s agitation had all swirled together to unsettle the normally unflappable Maria.

Rose met Maria half-way down the attic stairs. Maria tried to rush past her, but she threw out her arm to block Maria’s way. Rose had seen the panic in Maria’s face and would not allow her to burst wildly in on Lemuel. “Calm yourself, Miss Maria,” she ordered in a commanding tone borrowed from her mother. “You will frighten the poor man to death barging in on him looking like you do.”

Maria stopped and pulled herself together. She responded automatically to that voice that had chastised her many times in her headstrong youth. “Is he alright?,” she gasped between drawing in lungfuls of air. 

“Calm down. All is well,” assured Rose. “Lemuel asked me to call you back. He wants to apologize for his behavior.” She lowered her arm and turned around to lead Maria up the stairs. Maria could hear Mrs. O’Brien on the second floor landing talking to Lucinda, but their words were indistinct. 

The two women reached the door attic door and Rose tapped gently upon it. Maria heard a muffled sound and saw Rose smile encouragingly at her as she opened the door and motioned Maria through. Lemuel was once again sitting up in bed. The pillows that had been knocked off the bed were neatly piled behind him propping him up. He looked paler, but he was otherwise restored to his earlier state. Rose sat by him on the chair that had held his tea. Maria noticed that her arm was resting on his. Mrs. O’Brien had caught up to them and sat down at the small table. She slid her chair closer to Maria and rested her hand on Maria’s arm.

Lemuel swallowed hard and began to speak, haltingly at first, but with increased strength and vigor as he went on. “Mrs. O’Brien, Miss Valenzuela, and of course, you too, Rose, I owe you all an apology for my unmanly behavior. My only excuse is my weakened state, although it is true that the many years I have lived in solitude have left me unprepared for the whirlwind into which I have stumbled. I am a house made of reeds battered by this terrible storm that rattles these windows and drums on this roof so close to our heads. This will not do. It will not do.” A worried Rose patted his arm, but he did not lose control. Another speech, Maria thought, but this one could not have been planned. It must have spontaneous, indeed it had much more feeling in it. Then another thought drove those considerations out of her head. You are studying him again, Maria thought. You are treating him like a specimen.

Mrs. O’Brien broke the silence. “Young man, you have been through a great deal recently. We all understand that these things are difficult for you as they would be for anyone. The best we can do for you right now is to let you rest. Tomorrow we will see if you feel like talking. I’m sure you have many questions for us and I am certain we have many questions for you.” Lemuel briefly looked panicked at this proposed discussion, but he mastered his emotions and indicated that he agreed.

Maria picked up the cue and rose to leave. Mrs. O’Brien waved her back into her seat. “I wish this could wait, Lemuel,” Mrs. O’Brien tentatively, “I don’t know if this the right time, but I am afraid my hand is forced.” She paused and looked briefly at Maria, indicating with her glance that her words were addressed to Maria as well. Rose looked anxiously at her mother, carefully titling her head so Lemuel could not read her anxiety.

Mrs. O’Brien turned backed to Lemuel and continued. “Something bad has started. It was smoldering for years, but the shootings fanned it. Things will get bad.” She turned a long look first on Maria and then on Lemuel. “And you and Maria at the center of it.” Waiting a few beats for her words to sink in, Mrs. O’Brien then stood up and walked out.

Lemuel jerked back, stunned by Mrs. O’Brien’s words. Maria watched him. unsure what to do. She stumbled getting out of chair. As she was walking to the door, Lemuel called out, “Stay. Don’t go. We must talk. I must know what is going on.” 

Rose looked at the two and said quietly, “I should go.” She made to to leave, but Lemuel grabbed her wrist. “Rose, Rose, please do not go. Please stay,” he implored. Rose and Maria exchanged glances that questioned and reassured in turn.  Both women returned to their seats.

Maria gave a deep sigh, sat back in her chair, and said, “So why don’t you tell us who you are, Lemuel Hawkins, and how you came to be the hermit of the grass?”