Fiction by Michael Nava

IT WAS A mild winter morning in December, 1910. A division of Mexican soldiers had returned from scouring the countryside for Yaqui. The soldiers had erected pens near the meeting places of the governors and separated the captives into four groups: all males over 12; all women of childbearing age and any infants; all children; and the old. In the children's pen was nine-year-old Mateo and his sister, Tomasa, who was 12. A half dozen soldiers guarded the children. The children were hungry, thirsty, and terrified but, in the manner of the Yaqui, remained silent and kept their faces expressionless.

As the morning wore on, the soldiers disposed of their prisoners as prescribed by the Mexican governor of Sonora, Rafael Izabal. All the able-bodied men over 12 were chained together and marched out of the village. They would be taken to the train depot, herded into freight cars, locked inside without food or water, and transported to the Yucatán peninsula at the southern end of Mexico. Those who survived would be sold as slave laborers on henequen plantations. Those males who were not able-bodied were shot. By 10 in the morning, only their bodies remained in the pen where the men had been held. The old, also, had been shot and their bodies left to corrupt in the warming sun.

Now it was time for the women. Governor Izabal's orders were clear and emphatic: all Yaqui women of childbearing age were to be hung. "We don't want any more soldiers coming out of those Indian whores," he had explained to the commander of the Mexican army in Sonora when he signed his decree. A half dozen nooses were draped around the trees that shaded the governors' benches, and the benches had been moved beneath them. There were 27 women in the pen and seven infants. A group of soldiers invaded the pen and tore the infants from the mothers. The mothers kicked, punched, and bit but none called for mercy because they knew better than to expect it from the Mexicans. Shots were fired and three women dropped to the dust. Once the infants had been removed, the surviving women were marched out of the pen, six at a time, their hands bound behind them. They wore long calico skirts and high-necked long-sleeve dresses; their long hair was dusty and their faces were streaked with silent tears. They were lifted to the benches, the nooses were placed around their necks and tightened, and then the benches were kicked out from beneath them. None of them died immediately but, after a time, their bodies went limp, and they looked for the last time at their church and their children. The blouses of those who had been nursing were stained with milk. Then they were cut down and the next group of women were prepared for the kill. The infants were taken deep into the brush and left there for the animals; the more merciful soldiers killed them first.

Mateo felt his sister's fingernails dig into his skin as they watched the body of their mother, Chepa, dangle from the palo verde tree. Tomasa clawed so deeply into his flesh that he felt the trickle of blood, but he felt no pain. He looked at his mother, who only yesterday had sung for him his favorite song about the little horny toad. Her mouth gaped open, her eyes bulged out of her head. He looked at her and loved her. He was so filled with love for her that he was not afraid or horrified. He looked at her and he saw their hut by the river, the little garden where she grew pumpkins and melons, the frond-covered ramada where she cooked over an open fire. He saw, with great clarity, the two of them sitting one night outside their hut. He again heard her gentle voice as she pointed to the heavens and explained to him how, when a yoeme dies, the soul of that person travels the road of the naposwisa'im – the great spray of stars that surrounds the night sky – and at the end of the journey becomes a new star. And then he saw a light burst out of her heart, brighter than the sun. He was enveloped in its brightness and he felt a warmth and happiness so profound that it was as if he had been returned to her womb. When the light faded, he was blind.

After the last woman had been killed, the soldiers came for the children. Mateo's sister had discovered he was blind and she struck him in anger and desperation and whispered to him harshly to conceal his blindness from the soldiers because they would kill him. The soldiers gave them water and a few moldy tortillas to eat and then they, like their fathers and older brothers, were marched out of the pen to the next town, Vicam, where they were to be put up for adoption by Mexican families or sold into servitude. The children were not chained and, once outside Potam, the soldiers became gentler. Mateo shuffled along behind Tomasa and tried not to stumble. Midway to Vicam, the soldiers stopped to rest and fed the children out of their own provisions of food and water. As the soldiers were preparing to resume the march, a band of Yaqui warriors, led by Don Sacramento, came out of the tall banks of reeds and slaughtered them. They gathered the children quickly and silently and took them deep into the Bacatete mountains.

The first day was terrible for Mateo. The men were harsh, harsher than the Mexican soldiers, and he became separated from his sister. Three times he fell. Each time he fell, he was jerked up from the ground by his collar and cursed at. He was hungry and thirsty and the frightening reality of his blindness began to settle in his mind. Above all other senses, his had been the seen world and it was through what he saw that he knew who he was in that world. Now there was only darkness and in that darkness his sense of himself began to disappear. The fear chilled him, so much so that, even in the heat of the day and the heat of exertion as the warriors marched the children upward into the mountains, his skin was cold and his teeth chattered. After many hours they stopped. The warriors gave the children a few bites of tortilla and some water and told them to rest. Tomasa found Mateo and asked him if the men had discovered yet that he was blind. He said no. She told him he must continue to conceal his blindness or surely the men would leave him behind.

"Where are we, sister?" he asked her.

"In the mountains," she said.

"Where are we going?"

She struck him. "Be quiet. Say nothing. Do nothing that makes them notice you."

"Yes, sister," he said.

She turned away from him and fell asleep. After a few moments, he, too, slept.

In sleep he could see and what he saw was his mother. She came to him as he lay on the ground, shivering, and bent down and spoke to him in a quiet voice. She told him that he must now see with his heart. He said, "I am afraid, mother." She said, "When you are afraid, reach out your hand and I will guide you."

After a few hours' sleep, the warriors roused the children, gave them water, but no food, and resumed the march. Mateo discovered he was more aware of his surroundings than he had ever been when he had sight. He could smell the dust and the leaves of the cottonwood trees and feel the tiniest pebble beneath his feet. He heard the swoop of a hummingbird's wings as it passed before his face. He felt himself, the thrum of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breathing, the weight of his arms and legs. He had become real again. Once or twice, he felt the fear chill the blood in his veins but when he did as his mother had told him and reached out his hand, he felt her hand fold around his and lead him forward. When he turned his head, he saw in the darkness the luminous outline of her body. As the group moved upward into the mountains, he felt the curiosity of the animals who watched them branch and burrow. Even the earth beneath his feet was conscious of their passage, and it welcomed them and gave them a good road. He felt the determination of the warriors and the exhaustion and fear of the other children. He felt his sister's grief behind a wall of icy fury. He was hungry and thirsty and weak, but he was no longer frightened.

They stop to rest. Mateo found a warm boulder and sat in the sun, letting its warmth flow over and through him. He heard the faintest movement of light feet upon the ground and then felt the sensation of warm breath against his face. At first, he thought it was his sister, but the breathing was deeper and stronger than that of a child.

"What is your name, little brother?" It was a man's voice that spoke.

Mateo lifted his eyes in the direction of the voice and, in the back of his mind, heard his mother say See with your heart. His first impressions of the man – age and strength and severity – frightened him, but he heard his mother again telling him to see with his heart. As he gazed sightlessly at the man, he became aware that, like his mother, this man was also luminous.

"My name is Mateo," he said.

"Are you blind?"

Remembering his sister's warning, he hesitated, but he knew this man could not be deceived and so he spoke truthfully.

"Yes, achai," Mateo said.

The man asked, "Whose hand do you hold when you are walking and there is no one beside you?"

"I hold my mother's hand," he replied.

"There are no women among us," the man said. "Where is your mother?"

Mateo told him everything. The man listened intently but when Mateo finished, all the man said was, "Rest now, little brother. We still have far to go."

The man departed as lightly as he had come but even after he left, Mateo could trace the outline of his body in the fading luminosity.

Michael Nava is the author of the award-winning Henry Rios novels. "See with Your Heart" is excerpted from his novel in progress, The Talking Tree.