CHAPTER 17: "Lip-Reading and Sign Language, Nightmares and Flashbacks"
"Run, Felipe!"
Felipe gaped at his mother in horror. She gestured toward the pushcart. "We got to get out of here! Run, mijo! Get in the pushcart!"
Juan appeared just as Felipe and his mother reached the pushcart. With a grunt, he lifted the boy up and set him in the cart. "Push!" he ordered his wife.
Felipe scanned the environment. Soldiers and terrified peasants darted everywhere. Rifle and musket shots and cannonblasts rang in Felipe's ears. Thick clouds of dust covered the area, choking Felipe. He coughed and coughed.
"Mommy!'" Felipe turned toward his mother. "Where are we goin'—"
Boom!
"Mommy!" Felipe screamed. "Papá!"
Felipe shot up on his reed mat and screamed soundlessly, his eyes squeezed shut. No, Papá! he thought. Please don't be mad at me! I'll be good. Por favor, don't hurt me!
A second later, arms clasped him to a chest. Hands patted his back, as the arms rocked him back and forth. The now-familiar clean, spicy smell wafted toward his nose.
I hate these awful dreams, Felipe thought, crying. They scare me!
Gradually, Felipe's terror subsided. He opened his eyes to see who was comforting him. Don Diego smiled at him comfortingly and kissed his forehead. The crescent moon hung suspended above them in a sky dotted with glittering stars.
The little boy sighed in relief. So far, none of the three men had ever scolded or punished him for having a nightmare. They just held him tightly and rocked him, as Don Diego was doing now.
Don Diego kissed the boy's soft cheek. Felipe closed his eyes and nestled against the kind don. As Don Diego rocked him, sleep gradually overtook Felipe.
Suddenly, Felipe opened his eyes. Señor Spencer was shaking his shoulder. Don Diego had taught Felipe the names of his two companions the evening after they had left the refugee camp, a week before. Ever since, all three had been teaching him to lip-read, and to communicate with them. Felipe knew, now, that the older man was not Felipe's father, but taught him lessons (whatever that meant).
"Wake up, Felipe." The gentleman spoke slowly so Felipe would understand him. "Time to get up, muchacho."
Felipe nodded and rose to his feet. For a moment, he yawned and sleepily rubbed his eyes. The orange sun had just risen above the horizon. The little boy rolled up his sleeping mat and carried it to the wagon.
Don Diego picked up a twig and approached Felipe. He handed Felipe the twig. "Firewood." He touched the twig. "Fetch firewood. Go get some wood." He spoke slowly.
Felipe fixed his attention on Don Diego's lips. As the caballero repeated his request, the boy understood. Oh, he thought. He wants me to get some wood. Felipe nodded and turned around.
Twigs and branches lay scattered underneath the tree he had slept under. He bent over to pick some up. When he had gathered up a bundle, he lugged the twigs toward the campfire and handed them to Jose. The driver nodded, smiled, and patted his shoulder.
Felipe leaned against the tree to watch the men. While Jose arranged the firewood, Jonathan Spencer picked up several tortillas. Don Diego filled the canteens with water from the river they were camping next to.
I wish I could still hear and talk, Felipe thought ruefully. Why can't I? Will I ever be able to talk and hear again? He sighed and looked down at his bare feet. His worn-out sandals had fallen apart two days before. He slid down the tree till he had plopped on the ground. For a moment, he ran his fingers through the soft dirt, then leaned against the trunk to watch the men fix breakfast. The trunk's rough bark pressed his cotton shirt against his back.
From the day they'd left the refugee camp, Felipe had been determined to learn to understand these men. If he could learn to read their lips, at least he wouldn't be so cut off from human contact as he had previously been. Slowly, he was learning to understand speech again by watching lips. Often, the men had to repeat their questions and rephrase them repeatedly before he could understand them, but he was slowly acquiring the skill.
Felipe was also learning to communicate without talking. He had learned that if he used gestures and facial expressions to say what he wanted to say, sometimes his companions would understand him. Unfortunately, there was precious little, as yet, that he could say with signs, so most of his thoughts had to stay hidden in his breast. The three men spent a great deal of time communicating with him when they weren't on the road. (The only exception had been when they'd stopped overnight in a village to visit the local priest, and to buy food and other supplies for the peons in the camp they'd left. During the day and night they had spent in that pueblo, they'd been too busy to talk to Felipe.) No doubt, they would speak to him again very soon.
I like Don Diego, Felipe thought. He sure is a lot nicer than Papá. And Don Esteban! The little boy mulled that over. He's like Godfather Lopez. He's nice, like him.
Don Esteban de la Curillo, his parents' patrón, had been mean-spirited, snobbish, high-and-mighty, and supercilious. The little boy had heard many horror stories of Don Esteban's treatment of his peons. The caballero had exploited, overworked, underpaid, and abused them all. He had cared nothing for their welfare. The other caballeros in San Miguel weren't much better, if any. Until meeting Don Diego and Señor Spencer, Felipe hadn't known that any dons could be kind and good. Certainly, he wouldn't have imagined that a don would take pity on peons and take action to ease their suffering, as these gentlemen had done for the refugees in that camp! Or, for that matter, for Felipe himself.
Felipe thought about some of the horror stories he had heard in the past...how Don Esteban would order his overseer to whip an uncooperative peon...how he would refuse to let a struggling peon have any food...how he would sometimes visit peons' families for the the sole purpose of assaulting and ravishing the women and older girls...and how Don Esteban would sometimes have a peon jailed for no good reason at all. He had done that to Juan, once, the year before.
Even Mommy, Felipe thought, shivering. He tried to hurt her, once. Before I was born.
Felipe remembered a talk his mother and godfather had once had about that incident, months before...
"Don Esteban's a cruel man." Godfather Lopez shook his head. "He treats us like dirt, then turns around and acts like he's doin' us a favor, just lettin' us live." He pursed his lips and shook his head. For a moment, he gazed at the new stalks of corn just rising out of the ground. The two families were sitting outside the Lopez hut, enjoying the early-spring weather and chatting.
Consuela sighed. "He tried to ravish me once, years ago. Before Felipe was born." She glanced at her son as she spoke. "Thank Heavens I was able to escape and hide till he left!" She brushed back her long hair as she spoke.
Paco touched her arm. "You were lucky. There've been so many women who didn't get away."
"I know." Consuela glanced down at Felipe as she spoke and shuddered. Felipe leaned against her side and scratched his neck.
Juan pressed his lips into a tight line. "Good thing he's never been back to us since. I hope he never does!" He spat on the ground, to show what he thought of Don Esteban.
Felipe looked at Rafael and shuddered. He hoped Don Esteban never would either...
A hand gently touched his shoulder. Startled, Felipe raised his head to see who had come up to him. Don Diego smiled as he bent over.
"It's time for breakfast, muchacho." Don Diego spoke slowly. "Do you understand me?"
Felipe nodded. He followed Don Diego toward the campfire, where the group asked the blessing. Silently, Felipe prayed, Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, amen. Making the sign of the cross, Felipe raised his head.
"Felipe, how old are you?" Señor Spencer spoke slowly, handing Felipe a tortilla and a cup of hot chicken broth as he did so.
Felipe understood the question. He laid his tortilla on his leg and set his cup on the ground, then slowly counted his fingers. He held up seven fingers for the men to see.
"You are seven years old?" Don Diego held up seven fingers of his own. Felipe nodded, then picked up his tortilla. As he munched on it, he glanced down at his clothes. At the mission they'd stayed at, the priest had ordered Felipe's clothes washed, and those of the three men he was traveling with. He and the men had taken baths while there, the second baths they'd had since leaving the peons' camp. His clothes were wrinkled and threadbare, but at least, they were cleaner than before, and he smelled much better now.
The men and Felipe ate silently. After breakfast, they repacked the wagon and left.
As the days turned into weeks, they traveled farther and farther north. The large areas of grass and trees disappeared, to be replaced by endless stretches of bare dirt and sand, cactuses, and Jericho trees. Often, Don Diego sat in the wagon with Felipe and the horse followed the wagon. During those times, Don Diego would talk to Felipe, to develop his lip-reading and sign language abilities. As a result, Felipe's proficiency in both skills improved steadily.
Once a week, they stopped to wash their clothes. On those days, they would bathe in the river, using bars of soap Felipe had never seen before. They also made Felipe bathe as well, using those same soap bars. Felipe would sniff it at those times; the soap smelled so good!
"My father and Señor Spencer and I use this soap," Diego explained, slowly and carefully. "We use it to clean our bodies." Felipe nodded.
When Felipe had developed enough lip-reading skills to be able to understand his companions' speech, for the most part, Don Diego told the boy that they were going to take him to California. Felipe remembered the story Padre Pablo had told him and Rafael about Fray Junipero Serra.
"California is a territory north of Mexico. My father and I live there. When we arrive in California, we're going to find someone there to take you in," Don Diego said. It was the siesta hour, and Felipe was sitting on the kind caballero's lap. Rain clouds were slowly approaching their campsite. "To love you and raise you." Don Diego smiled affectionately.
Felipe gazed at him, raising his eyebrows. Who?
Don Diego smiled ruefully. "I don't know, amigo." He ruffled the boy's hair. "We'll just have to go from village to village and mission to mission, to find out."
Felipe fidgeted. The mere thought of having to live with total strangers in an unfamiliar place made him uneasy. He glanced up at the gathering storm clouds.
Suddenly, a fork of lightning streaked through the sky. In the next instant, the ground jumped. Felipe screamed soundlessly and clutched Don Diego's neck. In that instant, he was transported back to that awful battle in his mind's eye.
Soldiers surrounded him, firing their rifles and muskets. He just froze on the battlefield, terror-stricken. "Mommy! Papá!" he screamed.
Arms enfolded him, clasped him tightly to a chest, and lifted him in the air. Who was that? Mamá? Was she carrying him away from the battlefield?
Lips pressed against his cheek. Arms rocked him in a soothing rhythm. Gradually, Felipe remembered where he was. He was not at that battle, and his parents were dead. He was with Don Diego and the other two men. Slowly, slowly, Felipe relaxed. Finally, he nestled against the caballero's chest. He burrowed his nose into a ruffled, finely-woven linen shirt. Its light, clean, spicy scent filled his nostrils.
A moment later, Felipe opened his eyes. Don Diego smiled, relief evident in his blue eyes. "You're safe, amigo." He kissed the boy's forehead. "There's no battle here. It's going to rain, soon, so I want you to sit right here with me, all right? I'll do my best to keep you dry." Felipe nodded his acquiescence.
Diego kissed his soft cheek. "You're a brave boy, Felipe. My tutor and Jose and I have all seen that."
Felipe smiled his appreciation of the caballero's praise. It comforted him to know that he could be brave. He'd been forced to draw on his courage throughout his horrific ordeal. He still had to do so, to deal with his nightmares.
Don Diego caressed his cheek. "Felipe, pay careful attention to what I'm saying. Señor Spencer and I will do everything in our power to ensure that the people we give you to will be kind, good people. You have our promise."
Felipe nodded. He didn't like the idea, but he had no choice. He had known from the beginning that he couldn't live with these people. Why, they were caballeros--criollos!
Felipe smiled wryly as he glanced down at his trouser-clad legs and his dirty bare feet. Until these men had found him lost on the desert, he had never been so close to a caballero in his life. None had even talked to him or his parents, let alone touch him. He wouldn't have dared to even approach one, let alone talk to him. Needless to say, he himself had never touched the clothes of a rich gentleman--now he was touching them every day! Now, one would hold Felipe in his lap, hug him, kiss his forehead, pat or shake his shoulder, and touch him in other ways.
Felipe ran his fingers over Don Diego's fine woolen charro jacket, then fingered the ruffles on the silky-smooth linen sleeve. The cloth of both garments felt much smoother and softer, and looked prettier than the clothes he, his parents, and his godparents had always worn. They smelled different, too--unlike the clothes of a peon, the clothes Don Diego and Señor Spencer wore had a clean, light, spicy scent. It was a fact of life that caballeros and peons dressed differently, Felipe knew. Are caballeros in California different from them in San Miguel? he wondered.
Unfortunately, that was not the last time Felipe had a "day-mare." It hit him again and again, when he wasn't expecting it. If he saw a passing soldier on horseback, a desert plant, a lightning bolt during a rare thunderstorm, he would suddenly re-experience the awful battle in his mind again. While it happened, he could almost hear the deafening cannonblasts, the gunshots, the shouts, the terrified screams. In his mind, he could hear his own voice, too, as he screamed shrilly for help.
Gradually, he would become aware of arms around him--arms enfolding him, clasping him to a chest--hands gently patting his back. Felipe would then become aware of a rocking sensation. He would press his nose into a ruffled shirt, as the gentleman, whether it was Don Diego or Señor Spencer, rocked him in an effort to bring him back to reality. Eventually, Felipe would pray silently, asking God to help him to not be afraid.
When Felipe had recovered from his terror, Don Diego would tell him stories of his own boyhood and of his father. To his delight, Felipe discovered that Don Diego was as talented a storyteller as Godfather Lopez.
The caballero told him stories of his own mother, Doña Elena Felicidad de la Vega, daughter of a Spanish nobleman and a distant relative of the King of Spain, Ferdinand VII. She had died some years before. Diego would tell the little boy stories of his own father, Don Alejandro, who was himself a friend of the King and the Spanish royal family, a respected elder in Los Angeles and the leader of the caballeros, and a kind, good man. About Señor Spencer and how he had taught Diego everything in the books from the time Diego was seven years old. About his uncle's recent fatal illness and death, and how Diego and his two companions had happened to run into the battle that had killed Felipe's parents. Felipe always paid attention to Diego's stories with rapt interest, fixing his eyes on Don Diego's face so he would understand what the don was saying.
Don Diego tells stories as good as Godfather Lopez, the little boy thought. He sure is different from Papá!
Every day, during siesta, while Felipe petted the horses, Don Diego would pick up what appeared to be a book, dip a quill pen into what Diego had once told him was ink, and start writing on one of its crisp white pages. Felipe would wonder what he was writing. When Diego put the book and quill pen down, he would pick up another book, thumb through its pages till he found the section he wanted, and read it. Felipe would wonder what the book said. Felipe had never been taught to read or write, nor had his parents or godparents. Neither the Cortezes nor the Lopezes had ever had any books or writing materials.
Why does Don Diego like to do that stuff? Felipe wondered. Why does he like to read and write? It can't be no fun. Can it? He wrinkled his nose at the thought.
Every night, after supper, Felipe would draw out his rosary and silently say his prayers. The men would follow his lead. When it was time to sleep, Felipe would kneel on his sleeping mat and silently say his bedtime prayers.
All the while, Don Diego worried and worried about whether it would be possible to find Felipe a home. Sometimes, he would glance at his tutor, and would see that Señor Spencer was worried, too.
One afternoon, during siesta, Señor Spencer sighed. Don Diego glanced down at Felipe, who sat next to him, and told him to get up.
"I need to speak with my tutor, Felipe." With a nod, the boy scrambled to his feet and approached the horses.
Don Diego rose to his feet and approached Jonathan. "You look worried."
Jonathan nodded. "I hate to say this, Diego, but it's going to be quite difficult to find the boy a home. Any home." He sighed. "He has several strikes against him. For one, he's seven years old. Most people prefer children much younger, preferably babies. For another, he's been sick, and he's still frail. That will make it difficult for him to engage in farm work."
The tutor paused, shaking his head. "Then there's his handicap and his illiteracy. He can't speak or hear, read or write. That's going to discourage others from trying to communicate with him. On top of all that, Felipe has frequent nightmares and flashbacks. Whoever takes him in will have nights of interrupted sleep and times spent during the day trying to bring him out of a flashback. All that is going to make it quite hard to find someone who will be willing to take on the responsibility of raising him." He reached into his inside coat pocket for his linen handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face.
Don Diego sighed and nodded. In his heart, he could only agree. "Nevertheless, we have to try. It won't be long now before we reach California; surely by then, we'll have had the time we need to build Felipe's strength up and increase his communication skills." He scratched his arm. "In the few weeks we've had him, look how much stronger and more proficient he's become. He's so gentle, affectionate, devout..." Diego's voice trailed off.
Jonathan nodded. "He is, indeed. He's very easy to love, as you and Jose and I have discovered. But those who don't know him are going to blinded to his good qualities by those other factors."
Don Diego nodded. "What do you suggest, then?"
Señor Spencer shrugged. "The only thing we can do. Go all over California, if we have to, and pray hard. The first order of business is to reach California. We'll cross that other bridge when we come to it. If we have to, we'll leave him at a mission or an orphanage." He smiled. "I didn't mean to discourage you, Diego, or to imply that we should give up. But I do want you to know what we're going to be up against."
Diego nodded again. "Gracias." He gazed at Felipe. "We'll just have to try all the harder, then. And pray as hard as we can." Jonathan nodded agreement.
The two men rose to their feet to help Jose reload the wagon. Silently, Don Diego prayed that God would grant them success.
END OF CHAPTER 17