The cantina in Agua Rocosa was the usual thick-walled adobe building, dimly lighted through small, deep, open windows on three sides. There was one window on either side of the only door, which opened to the east, and two on each wall that raced away from that wall toward the bar.
The bar itself, a heavy wooden affair topped with burnished mesquite, ran along much of the west wall. To the north end of it a single wooden door with a simple wooden latch opened into small back room. The proprietor and bartender, Juan-Carlos Salazár, used the back room for storage. His wife, Ofelia, sometimes used it as a makeshift office.
There was no rear exit from the cantina, except one that might be used in times of dire emergency by persons much smaller than Juan-Carlos. That exit had begun as a small drainage hole near the back corner of the storage room.
But according to Juan-Carlos, who was not only the proprietor of the cantina but the keeper of the tales in Agua Rocosa, a certain older gentleman from a nearby village had engaged a few delinquent youngsters to enlarge the hole over a period of a month or two. Enough so that a thin-shouldered boy of thirteen or so could successfully wriggle through and procure an occasional bottle of tequila for a five-finger discount.
Then the boy and the bottle would disappear through the hole and back to the home of the old gentleman. There both the boy and the old gentleman would be paid handsomely: the boy with a few coins, and the old gentleman with the finest tequila he could procure at no cost.
Today, as he repeated the tale for the benefit of a customers who had not heard it, some of his more frequen regulars moved to the tables scattered across the floor. That left only two men at the bar. Javier, a young vaquero and semi-regular customer from a horse ranch just up the coast, and a young norteamericano who had stepped off the bus and into the cantina this morning.
Javier had ordered a shot of tequila and a León cerveza to chase it.
Juan-Carlos set the bottle on the bar. Javier would want more. But Javier’s desire for tequila had reminded Juan-Carlos of the story.
The norteamericano, who was drinking only Negra Modelo, was dressed in khaki trousers, a white linen shirt and jacket, and slip-on brown leather loafers. When he had come through the door, he looked parched. He had introduced himself as Charlie C. Task.
Juan-Carlos put his hands in the air. “But what can I do, my friends? The old gentleman really is harmless, and he takes a bottle only every month or thereabouts. Oh, and did you know his woman is a witch?” For no reason at all he crossed himself.
He wiped at an imaginary stain on the bar with a rag in which the stains and creases were permanent. The rag had stiffened with the soiled oil of his hands as the moisture had siphoned from it during repeated use.
“Certainly I should not deny the harmless old gentleman his pleasure, which he derives not only from drinking my tequila, but also, perhaps even more so, from the manner in which it is obtained.”
He paused, put the back of his hand alongside his mouth and leaned toward the two men on the other side of the bar. “Although he could well afford to purchase it from me.” He straightened. “The man could even open his own cantina and stock it with much better spirits than I have ever been able to serve in this poor establishment.”
Catching a signal in his peripheral vision from a customer farther along the bar, he yelled over his shoulder, “Ofelia! Can you come help with the bar?”
There was no response.
He turned back to his small but attentive audience. “If you will excuse me, I will return in a moment to continue the tale.” He wandered off to pour a glass for the customer who had motioned for him.
While Juan-Carlos was gone, Javier, nudged the young gringo standing next to him at the bar and grinned. “It is a very good thing that Juan-Carlos is given to storytelling. Otherwise he might have to admit he is drinking his profits himself.” He laughed.
The norteamericano, looked at Javier. “Do you really think so?” He took another cooling sip of his beer.
Even before Charlie had come into the cantina for some quick relief from the heat, he had felt compelled to stay in the quaint village for a few days. But once the cool Negra Modelo had crossed his lips, he was sure he would stay.
Few things are better than the luxury of a cold beer and lime on a scalding hot day. And the business he had come to conduct farther to the south suddenly seemed less important than sitting in this bar enjoying himself with his new compañero.
For a moment, the vaquero only stared at him. Then Javier slapped him on the back and broke into raucous laughter. “Do I think so?” He quickly glanced around.
As Juan-Carlos turned away from the customer down the bar, Javier leaned closer. “For a moment I did not realize you were joking, amigo. But of course, you must have smelled Juan-Carlos’ pickled-worm breath for yourself.” Still grinning, he shook his head. “Do I think so....”
When he had poured the drink, Juan-Carlos set the bottle on the bar so he would not be interrupted so soon again. Then he turned away to return to his story. But he saw that the two men were talking, so he passed them by to preemptively attend to a few customers at tables on the floor.
Javier poured himself another shot of tequila and downed it, then took a swig of his León and looked at the norteamericano. “Como se llama, mi amigo nuevo? What is your name, my new friend?”
The young man straightened and proffered his hand. “Oh, I’m Charlie. Charlie Task.”
“Oh sí. Charlie.” Javier nodded. “It is a good name.”
Charlie frowned. “So what about the drainage hole in the back? Why would the boys expand it if they weren’t coming in to procure tequila for their elderly friend?”
Javier looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged and sipped his beer. “Who knows? Perhaps it was not boys at all.” He waved one hand vaguely about. “This is a very old establishment. Perhaps the sun, parched and dry as it must be, enlarged the hole a bit to gain entry to some refreshment.
“Or perhaps the wind, blowing as it does constantly, became thirsty in its passing. It passes right by here, you know. Surely all that tequila must be an attractive nuisance.
“Perhaps even the water itself, when the skies open up occasionally or when a big storm blows in from the sea, was jealous of the bottled nectar.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps all three conspired to enlarge the hole, the sun and wind in hopes of quenching their thirst and the water hoping to blend the nectar of the agave plant with the heady flavors of the sea.”
Charlie was rapt with attention, though he occasionally glanced past Javier’s shoulder to track the bartender’s progress.
Javier continued, motioning with his cerveza. “I have heard of that process—the sun and the wind and the water combining to wear down even large, heavy fortifications—although I have never seen it in action myself. I think it would take a while longer than I can spare to watch.”
He took a sip of his León. “And I do not know that I would want to witness its secrets anyway. It seems like magic to me. But if they could do that—if the wind, water and sun could conspire to wear down even a strong fortress to low, crumbled ruins—how much less difficult would it be for them to enlarge a hole where there should not have been one in the first place? Not hard, I think.”
He shrugged, then laughed. “And maybe it was the boys after all. Maybe they did it for the old gentleman, or maybe for themselves. I think it doesn’t matter. For Juan-Carlos, it is enough that the story exists and that he is blessed to tell it.
“I promise you, he cares more about stories and their telling than he cares even for his own tequila. And for me, it matters only as an enjoyable way to pass the time on a hot day with tequila and a cold cerveza.” He poured and drained another shot of tequila, then took another swig of his beer.
Charlie raised his Negra Modelo. “Here’s to the stories then.”
Javier grinned as his León bottle clinked against Charlie’s Negra Modelo. “A las historias y nuevos amigos. To the stories and new friends.”
* * *
Juan-Carlos was back with a tray full of empty bottles and a few glasses.
He moved past the two men as they toasted, set the tray on the bar, then dipped two empty glasses into a container of tepid water behind the bar. A soapy rainbow was floating on the surface of the water.
He withdrew the glasses and dipped them into the next container, this one of rinse water, upon the surface of which were the beginnings of its own rainbow. It is well known in certain circles that glass is a conductor of magic from one place to another, especially for rainbows and other visual effects.
He set the glasses on a relatively clean bar towel and looked up. “That sounds like an excellent toast: to the stories, was it?”
Javier nodded. “Sí, sí. A las historias, a nuevos amigos. Y al narrador. For without the storyteller, the stories would not be told.” He raised his bottle toward Juan-Carlos and nodded.
Juan-Carlos quickly dunked two more glasses, rinsed them and set them on the towel. He dried his hands on the large dirty spot on his otherwise white apron. “That earns you a cerveza on the house, my friend.”
Juan-Carlos grinned, reached into the large cooler beneath the bar and withdrew two Leóns. He opened both and set one in front of Javier, then raised the other. “Gracias, mi amigo.” He glanced at Charlie. “Y tu, mi amigo. When you are ready for another Negra Modelo, it is on me.” He glanced at Javier again. “Speaking of the stories, do you remember where I left off?”
Javier shrugged. “It was a good story, but I don’t remember.”
Charlie snapped his fingers. “The old gentleman— you were just saying, in strictest confidence of course, that if he wanted to, the old gentleman could even open his own cantina.”
Juan-Carlos nodded. “I remember. He certainly has plenty of money, judging by the way he goes around in the finest suits and his woman always in the latest fashions.” He sighed, then lowered his voice and leaned closer to his audience. “And you know, nobody knows or remembers where the old gentleman attained such wealth. Or else they have forgotten as a matter of convenience.”
He reached to wipe at the same imaginary spot he’d wiped earlier. “Anyway, I think perhaps enduring the relatively minor inconvenience of ‘misplacing’ a bottle of tequila every couple of weeks is preferable to denying the old gentleman his pleasure.”
He paused. “Did I mention that his woman is a witch?” He crossed himself, then spread his arms, palms out, the stiff rag still dangling from one hand. “What if I filled in that drainage hole all at one time and then discover one morning that the contents of all my casks and bottles have magically spoiled, they having received the full blunt of a spell or curse? How would that be good for what little business I have in my poor little cantina?”
He wiped the spot on the bar again. “I tell you, it would be no good at all.” He tapped his temple with one finger. “We thinking men must consider everything. Not only our business and how to keep it, but how to avoid upsetting any witches or supernatural beings who might be about.”
Upon hearing the words “supernatural beings” a few other locals sidled up alongside the young vaquero and the gringo, who had endured the best telling up to that time of what would eventually come to be known among the town’s jokesters as “The Tale of the Disappearing Tequila.”
Since an audience had gathered, Juan-Carlos lined-up glasses and set two bottles of tequila on the bar. This was the really good stuff so, being a thinking man, he announced with a grandiose swing of his arms, “After each of you have only six drinks—no no, only five—the rest will be half price!”
Everyone applauded his generosity, even though many realized none of them probably would make it past four shots, much less five, of the potent worm-driven stuff. Still, they were courteous and would allow him his moment of false generosity. If only to prove to themselves that they were more generous than he.
With that, Juan-Carlos swung his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “I have another story for you. Perhaps the greatest story ever told in Agua Rocosa. It is about a man who, having never been seen in the region before, suddenly rose up from the mud plain just to the north of town.”
He lay one hand over the center of his chest. “And I was honored and humbled to be among the small crowd who witnessed his emergence that day.” He pointed at the ceiling. “And I witnessed it firsthand.” He paused and looked along the line of attentive listeners, then wagged that same index finger in the air. “Ah, but first you must hear about the rain.”
Charlie, not wanting to make waves as the newest friend at the bar, suppressed a slight frown of the kind that might appear on the face of a man who believes he is being bamboozled, but next to him, Javier said, “But the man who rose from the mud—let’s have that one first.” A few of the other men along the bar murmured their approval.
Juan-Carlos slung his towel over his shoulder and shook his head slightly, as if about to address a wayward child. Again he scanned the line of men at the bar. “My friends, I am the storyteller, charged by all of you and even nature itself to record and convey the stories. The arrival of the man of mud is perhaps the most important event that ever happened in Agua Rocosa.”
He shrugged. “As such, and as the responsibility for the stories falls to me, I believe the story of the man of mud is deserving of a solid foundation on which it can stand. It must be proudly showcased.”
He looked at Javier again and his voice grew quiet. Still, he spoke loudly enough for the other men to hear. Especially since they were leaning forward and breathing silently, without disturbing the air.
“It is part of the craft of the storyteller to know that sometimes—” and he wagged that finger again, “Sometimes, my friends, the stories swirl in together, like tears and laughter stirred into cream. Sometimes they are even lost altogether in the swirl.
“But we are fortunate today, for these stories, the one I am about to tell and the story of the man of mud, stack one upon the other, building in importance. In time I will say the story about the mud man, but first I must lay the foundation.”
Again he lay one hand, his fingers splayed, over the center of his chest. “It is my duty.”
Charlie smiled, took a long swig of his beer and settled his mind for the coming story.
Juan-Carlos said, “My friends, this is the tale of the wind and the rain, very odd bird behavior, and the boarding house.”
A few of the men, including Javier, nodded their tacit approval.
The Wind and the Rain, Very Odd Bird Behavior, and the Boarding House
“Several decades ago, when I was only a very small boy and you were not even a glimmer of lust in your father’s eyes, on an otherwise beautiful morning, an overpowering sense of grief washed ashore from the sea and covered the land. The skies, angered at having witnessed the involuntary influx of such sorrow, turned grey and then brown and then suddenly very dark.
“My friends, this was not the usual darkness of low clouds stretching to all the horizons, but a special kind of darkness. It was a very strong darkness, with a tired, melancholy sadness and even anger about it.
“As we humans tried to get out of bed on that morning, we slogged through the weary oppression seeping from those skies. We seemed almost to have to swim up from sleep, even though it hadn’t begun raining yet. The gloom permeated all of the air, and it forced even the youngest, most carefree among us back beneath the covers.
“For days the massive clouds rippled and roiled like black chili simmering over a low fire for a very long time. The cattle and horses lay in the field or in the stalls, listless. Even the snails and mud turtles withdrew into the dark confines of their houses, which certainly must have contained less-despondent air than filled the sky outside. The cacti and other plants, even the trees, sagged as if despondent and filled with despair.
“And it wasn’t only the actors on the stage whose spirit waned, but the spirit of the stage itself. Those low, dark clouds grumbled among themselves, as if debating whether to scour the whole area and be done with it. Or perhaps to withhold the replenishment of water from even the sea itself in retaliation for the grief it had brought to the land.
“The sun, embarrassed with its inability to push away the sadness and suddenly caught up in its own ego, crossed its arms and sat back, pretending it was in charge.” He paused, and again raised one finger into the air.
“I listened closely in those days, eager to learn all I could. And I swear I heard the sun announce that it would refuse to break the clouds’ blockade from one day to the next, just as if that is what it truly wanted.” Juan-Carlos leaned forward over the bar. “At least that is what it sounded like it said, but as I have said, I was only a boy. With the sun’s usually bright, cheery voice saddened and muffled by the clouds, it was difficult to be sure.” He sighed.
“In any case, we never saw even the glimmer of an attempt on the part of the sun to penetrate the clouds or the gloom that filled the world beneath them. Of course, as you might imagine if you have ever been embarrassed with a failure while trying to impress someone, any attempt the sun made that failed would have served only to prove that it was not up to the task.
“And the wind—” He flung his bar towel over his shoulder and sighed again. “Ah, the wind. As most of you know, the wind has traced the same route since the beginning of time, rushing from the sea to the mountains in the morning and from the mountains back to the sea in the evening.
“But on that fateful day and for possibly the first time in eternity, it seemed confused about which direction to go. Perhaps because with the overcast there was so little difference between morning and evening, and even between day and night.
“Instead of rushing along in the dark, the wind loitered timidly among the rocks and trees, afraid to rush off confidently in one direction for fear it might plunge off the very earth itself and be lost.
“Scraping around among the rocks and trees—all of whom were also variously sad or angry or, at the least, confused and wondering what was going on—the wind manufactured a sorrowful sound. Just as if it was worrying aloud at the possibility of being trapped among those rocks and trees forever.”
He paused. “And you know, some of it was trapped there even when that dreadful week ended. To this day, when you walk among the rocks and trees on the lower slopes of the mountains above the village, you will hear remnants of that frightened windsong. And you will feel nervous bits of it tugging at the cuffs of your trousers and the sleeves of your shirt, hoping you will show it the way out.”
He shook his head again. “It was a dark, troubled time. And then, on the evening of the first day, having apparently decided to scrub the grief from the air with electricity and rinse it with water, the black, roiling clouds released lightning bolts that seemed to split the very heavens. The thunder sent even the most vicious dogs into hiding.
“Then came the torrent of rain, but it was a very unusual torrent. It was composed of the massive raindrops that you see in a sudden, short-lived downpour. The sort that occurs when a gigantic container that has the appearance of a cloud but carries far more liquid than any cloud could carry suddenly bursts and drops the entire load all at one time and all in one place.
“You know the kind of downpour I mean: it lasts for only a half-hour and is soaked immediately into the thirsty earth, yet it drowns even frogs and fish in its passing.
“Like the raindrops in that kind of downpour, the smaller of these raindrops were an inch across, and most were much larger. And it began all at once. Again as in the kind of downpour with which we are all familiar. But it kept coming and coming and coming for the whole week. And instead of falling all in one place, it fell everywhere.
“Now, as you might well imagine from the size of those drops, there was very little space between them. They cleared the skies completely of all the birds and flying insects within moments after the rain began.
“The larger birds—say generally anything larger than a kestrel—that needed to get from one place to another simply walked. They held their wings held aloft in a kind of umbrella, no doubt wearing a visage of disgust that only a bird, with its fixed beak and those little beady eyes, could express.
“The smaller birds—all kinds of sparrows and wrens and even the smaller owls—found a place to hide and latched on for fear of being washed away.
“And the bats—Well, we all know the bats stayed safe and dry in the upper reaches of wherever they were hanging when the rain began. And my friends, after a long week of that kind of rain—”
“What about the insects?” The question had come in the scratchy voice of the thin, bespectacled Ernesto at the end of the group at the bar.
Juan-Carlos looked at him. “¿Que?”
Ernesto’s adam’s apple bobbed. “The insects—What about them?”
At 5’7” Ernesto weighed less than 110 pounds. His eyes appeared to bulge behind the thick glasses balanced on his flat, bulbous nose. His leathery skin appeared to have been stretched over his narrow chin and his high, sharp cheekbones.
That plus his thin, long, antennae-like moustache and his spindly arms and legs perhaps belied a greater than usual appreciation for our six-legged friends. “You said the larger birds scowled and stomped through the streets, and that the smaller birds and the bats remained hidden, but what about the insects?”
Juan-Carlos nodded. “Ah, of course, of course. Gracias, Ernesto.” He turned back to the others. “Yes, yes, the insects—My friends, I can tell you there were no bugs anywhere. None flying in the air, none crawling or hopping along on the ground or in the trees. Not even grasshoppers jumping on screen doors to annoy the people in their houses. If I had to make excuses for them, I would say they didn’t want to run the risk of encountering those angry, larger birds who were stomping around the village looking for something on which they could take out their frustration and their sore feet.”
The small group of men joined Juan-Carlos in healthy laughter for a moment. When it died down, he resumed the serious tone with which he’d conveyed the earlier part of the story. “And so it went, the rain coming down in sheets, twenty-four hours a day without a single break for a solid week.
“In that week alone, the few trees we have in the village and the surrounding area, having shaken from their despondency with the coming of the rain, grew an average of two feet. And those few folks who had the foresight to plant a few seeds saw the plants sprout, come to majority, produce vegetables and die off. All in that one week!
“I mentioned earlier that I was only a child, but I would bet those people and those in their good graces ate very well for the next month or so.”
A couple of the men snickered and shook their heads, to which Juan-Carlos raised both hands. “I know, I know. This story is less believable than most you hear in my poor little cantina, but consider, I do not charge a fee. I tell them only because they must be told.”
He topped off a few of the men’s glasses and set a couple more beers on the bar. “At any rate, I am too honest to ask you to believe me. When you travel again to the capital, you can check the records for yourself. Botanists and other agriculture types came from the university to study the phenomenon, and they took their recorded results back to the capital.” A glimmer crept into his eyes. “And many of them stayed right here in the village.”
José, who owned a small fishing fleet and usually sat alone at a table in the back corner of the cantina to conduct his business, was sitting at the bar on the end near Ernesto. He took the bait. “Who did they stay with? Maybe those who put them up could fill in more of the story.”
Juan-Carlos wiped the imaginary spot on the bar again. “Yes, yes. Let’s see. Do any of you remember the small lodging house just at the north end of the village? It was the only all-wooden structure in the village for a very long time.”
The men all shook their heads, as Juan-Carlos knew they would.
“Ah, well.” He nodded. “The woman who ran the boarding house was very old even then, and as I have mentioned, I was only a very young boy. Of course, I was old enough to know numbers and amounts. And I remember that she must have made very good money that week as all six rooms at her place were filled with all the scientists and other important people who came from the capital to study the phenomenon.
“In fact, I delivered some borrowed blankets to the boarding house. I saw with my own eyes that she had put the visitors three to a room, with two sleeping head to toe in the same bed and the third sleeping on a pallet on the floor.” He stopped, sighed, and seemed disheartened for a moment.
“Unfortunately, just as if it were our fault that we had received an overabundance of rain, we had no rain at all the whole next summer. In fact, the sun and wind actually seemed to deduct moisture from us as restitution to whomever is in charge of rainfall.
“Each day was hotter and drier than the last, and one scalding afternoon that boarding house burst into flames.
“And do you know, because both the structure and the old woman inside had been leached so thoroughly of moisture, the whole thing burned to the ground and blew away in the wind.” He snapped his finger. “It was over just that quick. It was gone before the men could find a bucket or any water to carry in it.”
A few men laughed quietly and shook their heads, and Juan-Carlos seemed to take offense.
He pointed his finger at them. “You laugh, and I understand. I really do. But I have proof, my friends. Tomorrow, but please come in the coolness of the morning, meet me here and I will walk with you to the former location of the lodging house.
“There, even if you get on your hands and knees with a glass that makes an ant look the size of a horse, you will see for yourself with your very own eyes that not so much as a trace of that boarding house remains.” He nodded and put one hand on his chest. “I will do that for you because you are my friends. I want you to know you can trust me.”
The men had stopped laughing, though a couple were still grinning as they suddenly found their boots of great interest.
* * * * * * *
About the Persona
Gervasio Arrancado was born in a small shack in Mexico and raised in the orphanage at Agua Idelfonso, several kilometers, give or take a few, from the fictional fishing village of Agua Rocosa.
He is fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Augustus McCrae, Hub and Garth McCann, El Mariachi, Forest Gump, The Bride (Black Mamba), Agents J and K, and several other notables. To this day he lives at that place on the horizon where reality just folds into imagination.
About the Author
Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.
Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly. He has written and published over 75 novels, 9 novellas, and over 230 short stories. He has also written 16 nonfiction books on writing. and he’s compiled and published 30 collections of short fiction and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.
To see his other works, please visit HarveyStanbrough.com.
For his best advice on writing, see his Daily Journal at HEStanbrough.com.