Popocatepetl's Son

Popocatepetl's Son

NOTE: All sexually active characters and active volcanoes 18+.

This historical romance was inspired by RiverMaya's San Isidro mysteries, my homage to a great writer.

Glossary of Spanish terms at story's end.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mexico City, 1809

The sign over the stable entrance read, "Herrero Y Herrador", announcing this was a blacksmith shop that also shoed horses and mules. A man walked in out of the noonday heat and asked me, "Excuse me, Señor, Are you the man they call El Popo?"

I looked to see an old man, standing next to the anvil where I was pounding out shoes for my landlord's horse. This man was no pale hidalgo, far from it; he was a dark-skinned poor man from el barrio bajo. His fingers were gnarled, his beard was scraggly and grey. His clothes were tattered, with all the patches it appeared to have been mended many times. His sandals were barely held on his feet by bits of rope.

I stopped pounding and, moving the tongs quickly, dipped the red-shoe into the cold water where it sizzled and steamed as it cooled. "Who wants to know?" I growled. I had no friends, only acquaintances, and anyone I didn't know was automatically suspect.

"My name is Francisco Madero. I have been searching the city for many months, in search of this man, El Popo. It is urgent that I find him. My daughter has taken ill, and insists that she speak with him before she dies."

This was very odd. I was hardly a pillar of the community, and few people outside of mi vecindario Santiago Tlatelolco knew me as El Popo, much less liked me. Who on earth would want to speak with me, of all people, before dying? This made no sense at all!

My real name is Enzo Quijano, but I'd gotten my El Popo nickname while living at the Convent of Santa María Rosa de las Rosas orphanage. I earned the name on the day I'd gotten into my first fight at the orphanage, 17 years ago in 1792.

I was only 7 years old on that day, but the 11-year-old orphanage matón who thought he could steal my breakfast instead found himself on the ground with me twisting his arm painfully behind his back, crying while I rubbed his face in the dirt.

On that same day, the volcano Popocatepetl, clearly visible thirty miles south of Mexico City, had erupted. It filled the sky, spewing smoke and ash thousands of feet in the air. Because I'd fought so furiously, the other kids began claiming Popocatepetl was my father.

As I grew, my temper did not erupt often, but like my namesake when it did, things got broken and I frightened people, so in a way that made sense.

When I was 12, the convent's Abbess, Madre María del Pilar, summoned me into a meeting room where she and a very large man were waiting. I immediately noticed his thick muscular arms that ended in gnarled and scarred hands. Madre del Pilar introduced him as Señor Carlos Benedicto Lopez.

I remember everything about her voice that day, the softness of the volume and the gentleness of the tone, as if fearing my temper might erupt at the news she was giving me.

"Enzo, Señor Lopez is a blacksmith. He is looking for a boy to help him run his business."

In a deep and raspy voice, the man asked the Abbess, "He looks small, will he be tough enough?" True, I was not the biggest boy in the orphanage, but as the orphanage bully found out, I was certainly tough.

For the first time ever, I heard Madre del Pilar, always so stern, actually laughed. "I can assure you, Señor Lopez, young Enzo is plenty tough."

She affectionately put a hand on the top of my head, another first. "Of all the boys in the orphanage, he is the one who I've prayed for the hardest. He has a good heart, but a temper as hot as your forge. It's my hope that by you teaching him to work with metal, he'll pound his anger away."

Madre del Pilar had been right about my pounding metal. Fifteen years later, Señor Lopez had retired and I had become a successful blacksmith and farrier in my own right. These days, my temper seldom showed itself. Then again, all the locals still knew of it by reputation, and did their best to avoid provoking my ire.

My mind snapping back to the present day, I responded to this Madero fellow. Suspicious, I asked, "This El Popo you seek is very shy. Why have you been looking for him?"

The old man may have looked frail and elderly, but people's appearances could be deceiving. My own appearance -- a slightly built fellow who could pass for a mild store clerk - was a perfect example of that. I surreptitiously moved my hand closer towards my hammer, in order to grab it in case Madero had approached me for some kind of retribution.

"It is for Adoncia, my daughter," he explained, "two years ago she was attacked by a ladrón on her way to the mercado to buy food for our family. The few pesos she was carrying weren't enough; after taking the coins, the bandit dragged my daughter into an alleyway, ripped off her dress and began violating her."

I shook my head. Mexico City's new newspaper, La Vaz De Mexico, had recently reported the city's population was now in excess of six million residents. So many people meant bandits from the country were coming to Mexico City to steal from easy targets, like women and the elderly. What Madero described was an all-too-common occurrence these days. Usually, stealing a poor young girl's money was enough, but sometimes they'd go further, stealing innocent girls' virtue as well.

Madero continued with his story. "Adoncia's attacker didn't get too far because a good Samaritan stepped in, killed her molester, and freed her. The man helped Adoncia cover herself, then put some of his own money in her hand, enough for several week's groceries. As he turned to run before the authorities arrived, my daughter asked him his name; he pointed at the volcano and said, 'El Popo'."

Hearing this, my memories suddenly came flooding back to that day. The sun was beginning to set as I was walked through the city back to my neighborhood. I'd been visiting Madre del Pilar, who was now elderly. She's been hospitalized for a broken leg after a fall.

I remembered hearing the girl's screams, and rushing into the filthy alley where the sound had come from. Once there, I saw a torn yellow dress thrown into a gutter, and the woman struggling. I remember the image of tman's bare ass moving while violating her. When I heard him laughing as he did this horrible deed, my volcanic temper erupted.

The filthy pig hadn't bothered to undress, of course, merely sliding his pants down around his ankles, along with his gun belt. I ran up and snatched the percussion-cap pistola from its holster. In one smooth movement, I cocked it and lifted it to the brute's chest, pointing upwards just below his heart as I pulled the trigger. His head jerked upwards in shock, then his whole body slumped as his life ended.

Pulling him off the woman, I threw his body down into the filthy dirt of the alley. He was definitely dead; his empty eyes looked upwards as his blood slowly oozed from his chest and pooled in the dirt next to him. With his pants around his ankles and his cock pointing in the air, in death he looked ridiculous. I imagined the Devil would have a good laugh about it when the bastard arrived in hell.

I also spotted two money pouches hanging on his belt, but I did not reach for them. Robbing the dead brought bad luck, and it being stolen money would only double the curse. I wanted none of that. Quietly, I wished the unbreathing brute, "Good luck in spending it, cobarde!"

I placed the pistol a few feet away, close enough to his body to make it look like it had accidentally discharged and killed him. Then, grabbing the torn dress, I turned to the girl and handed it to her. She was now on her feet, clad only in her soiled shift. I heard frantic shouting in the distance; it was time for me to go.

"Cover yourself, Señorita , el policia will be here any minute," I'd told her. "When they ask, tell them his gun fell out of the holster while he was savaging you and went off, killing him, comprender?" The shivering girl nodded, apparently too stunned to say a word.

Then I reassured her, "Don't worry! When the greedy policia see the bandit's money pouches, you'll soon be forgotten! Will you be able to make it home on your own?" Again, the shaking girl nodded without speaking.

Realizing the dead thief had taken her money, I quickly reached into my money pouch, grabbed all it contained and pressed them in her shaking hand. "Vaya con dios," I whispered.

Taking one last glance at her pretty face and long dark hair, I regretted not arriving sooner. Such a lovely desert flower didn't deserve ravishment by such a vile criminal. I was about to turn on my heel and make a hasty escape when she spoke to me for the first time, asking, "Please, Señor, what is your name?"

The shouting was getting closer. Pointing to the volcano on the distant horizon, I responded "El Popo", then dashed away.

Now, miraculously, after hunting me for two years, the girl's father had finally found me. "Your search is at an end, Señor," I told him, "I am El Popo."

Finishing the last of the horseshoes, I left a note instructing my apprentice Manuel -- now 18, and like me a former occupant of the Santa María Rosa de las Rosas orphanage - to put them on my landlord's horse when he came in the next morning. Then the old man and I set off to his home, bringing an end to his two-year quest.

~~~~~~~~~~

After about three hours, we reached the Madero home deep in the barrio bajo. It was a small single story adobe structure wedged in between a donkey stable and a taberna.

The front room had two rickety wooden chairs and a fireplace, with a cross and a small painting of Jesus on the wall. There was a sleeping cot next to the fireplace. When we entered the house, Madera turned to me. "Please wait here, Señor Popo, let me tell Adoncia you are here. If you went in by yourself, the shock might be too much for her heart."

I nodded and looked around closely. The house had a small kitchen off the main room and a tiny bedroom, which Madera entered. I heard his voice call out her name softly, then the tone of a woman's voice responding, although I could not hear her exact words. More quiet words were spoken, then I heard weeping. Unable to contain myself, I walked into the bedroom.

Adoncia was sitting up in bed, sobbing as her hands covered her face. I strained to hear her quiet voice. "Father, I can't believe it's true! I prayed for so long..."

I spoke up, "Your father has answered your prayers, Señorita Adoncia, searching the city until he found me. And now here I am, at your service once again." Not knowing what to do next, I bowed, as I had seen a generous patrón do once, as he was being introduced to Abbess Madre María.

She reached up and ran her bony fingers through her hair, trying to straighten it. She was wearing a simple stained sleeping gown, and by the way it hung on her frail figure I could see she'd lost considerable weight since I'd left her in the alley. Her speech was so soft, I had difficulty understanding it; I had to listen closely.

"I beg your forgiveness, Señor Popo, I haven't been well. I must look terrible."

Her face, although gaunt and much thinner than when Id last seen it, was still beautiful, and I found myself distracted by her large brown eyes. It was then that I felt something stir in me. These were strange emotions, a sense of connection that, as an orphan, I hadn't felt before.

Impulsively, I moved past her father and sat on the edge of the bed. Taking her hand, I tried to be reassuring. "You have nothing to apologize for, my lady. You are as beautiful now as the first time I saw you."

I turned to her father. "When was she last seen by a doctor?"

Madera looked down at the ground and shook his head. "Never, Señor. I could not afford a doctor, it has just been my widow neighbor Teodora and I looking after Adoncia as best we can."

Pulling out my coin purse, I tossed it to her father. "Go fetch a doctor NOW," I barked, suddenly angry.

The old man turned and quickly ran out the door. Knowing my anger had been misdirected, I immediately regretted snapping at the old man. It was not his fault he was too poor to get a doctor to attend to his daughter.

"I apologize, Señorita," I said to Adoncia, "your father did not deserve that. I am angry at the world because you are not well. I will make it up to him."

Adoncia reached up and put her hand on my face, lovingly caressing it. Her faint voice barely had breath behind it. "You do not need to apologize, Señor Popo, I know you meant no harm. I'm flattered that you care."

I was overwhelmed. Except for Madre del Pilar, no woman had ever touched me like that. When the Abbess had done it, all I'd felt was affection. Adoncia's touch made me feel a great deal more. I reached up and covered her small hand with mine.

"Please Señorita," I told her, "Popo is a childhood nickname given to me because of my terrible temper. I could never be angry with you. My full name is Enzo Quijano, so I'd much prefer you address me as Enzo."

She smiled and nodded, whispering "As you wish. My full name is Adoncia Inés Madera, I would ask that you address me as Adoncia." Taking her hand from my face, I kissed the back of it.

"I swear on my honor, Adoncia, I will prove myself worthy of you."

A look of sadness crossed her face, but before I could ask her why, her father came in with the medico, Dr. Rodriguez. Madera ushered me out while Dr. Rodriguez examined the girl. The doctor was with her for about 20 minutes, although it seemed like hours. Finally, he emerged and gave us his diagnosis.

"Adoncia is extremely undernourished, growing weaker by the day. Her muscles have atrophied, her joints are inflamed, and I suspect even her bones are frail. Because of the malnourishment, her monthly has stopped; I suspect her womb has become completely barren. Without proper nutrition and care, she will be gone within the month."

Upon hearing this, Madera reacted as any loving father would. His shoulders sagged as if bearing a great weight, a look of desperation on his face. "Please Doctor, what can be done to save her?" he begged.

Doctor Rodriguez looked around the tiny home, shaking his head. "Aside from decent food and her strength returning, there is nothing that will stop her decline. There's nothing more I can do for her. No medicine I could prescribe would fill her belly or make her strong."

His job done, the physician packed his medical bag and quickly left. I suspected that he wanted to get out of the barrio bajo sooner rather than later. His fine clothes and medical bag indicated he was well-off, making him a prime target for local bandidos.

Madera sat on one of the rickety chairs, slumped over in defeat. "I am just a wood-gatherer," he said to no one in particular. "I barely earn enough to afford the little food we have. It won't be enough to save my Adoncia."

After being reunited with Adoncia, there was no way I would allow her to die in poverty. I knew what had to be done. Going down on one knee in front of her father, I addressed him as if he were an alta burguesía instead of a penniless peasant.

"Señor Madera, your daughter Adoncia is a treasure, one to be protected at all costs. I, Enzo Quijano, the best blacksmith in Santiago Tlatelolco, beg you to bestow upon me the responsibility of her care. With your permission, tomorrow I will take her to my own dwelling and do everything in my power to restore her to health. Will you grant me this honor?"

I bowed my head, waiting for his response. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder, and heard his voice, struggling to speak through his own quiet weeping. "Señor Quijano," he choked, "you have my permission to do whatever is necessary to save the life of my precious Adoncia."

Having obtained Madera's permission, time was now of the essence. I ran through the city, back home to my shop. Using two wheels from a broken ox-wagon, I crafted a two-wheeled wooden carriage with long forward handles, similar to the pull-taxis the Chinese lacayos used.

I finished as the first rooster crowed; exhausted, I laid down and slept until Manuel arrived to stoke the forge, waking me. Then, cart in tow, I made my way back to the barrio, and to Adoncia.

~~~~~~~~~~

Madera had explained to Adoncia that I was coming to take her away. She no longer spoke, but seemed sad to leave her father. The one bright spot was, as I gently lifted her and placed her in the carriage her expression brightened a bit. Compared to the hammers and tongs I hefted each day, despite being a grown woman, she weighed almost nothing. Covering her with a blanket, I impulsively kissed her forehead.

"Have no worries, Señorita, I will take good care of you. You shall be the Princesa of my humble home!" She said nothing, but gave me an enigmatic smile.

On the way over, I'd stolen several cushions from a fancy carriage to ensure that mi Princesa's journey would be as comfortable as possible. If some rich petimetre ended up with a sore ass because of it, that was just too bad. I reasoned that God would forgive me for this particular sin, given I was transporting an angel.

Manuel's eyes went wide as I carried my frail dependent in through the doors of the smithy, taking her into the back room and laying her on my bed. My apprentice followed me, still not believing there was now a woman in my bed. I tossed him a few pesos and snapped, "Run to Señora Aquino's cocina and fetch some soup, rapido!"

The boy did as he was told; when he returned with the soup in a small covered iron pot, I instructed him to fill two bowls, one for Adoncia and one for himself. He was delighted, because Señora Aquino made the best soup in all of the district. After propping mi Princesa into an upright position with the stolen cushions, I sat on the edge of my bed, a bowl of the soup in one hand and a spoon in the other.

As I held a spoonful of the soup, she reluctantly opened her mouth and took it in. "You need to eat, Adoncia," I gently scolded her, "I made a promise to your father that I would take care of you. This is Señora Aquino's sopa de caldo de res, made with beef, corn, and chayote squash. It will make you strong!"

After another reluctant spoonful, Adoncia began accepting her meal, quickly finishing off the rest of the bowl. "Excellent," I told her, "You'll be back to full health in no time, I know it!" Using the sleeve of my shirt, I wiped the remaining drops of soup off the corners of her mouth. Looking in her eyes, I could already see a vitality of light in them. I was delighted.

Then I explained how our living situation would work. "Since I'm uninformed as to the needs of a woman, I've arranged for Sor Inocente from the Convent of Santa María Rosa de las Rosas to come every afternoon. She'll bathe you, and tend to whatever womanly needs you have until you regain your strength to do it yourself. Sor will also bring you a fresh shift and take your soiled one away to be laundered."

Irritatingly, Adoncia maintained her silence, simply nodding in agreement. For some reason I wanted to hear her voice, even if it was just to say, 'yes' or 'no'. I gestured towards the flattened oblong porcelain container on the small stand next to the bed.

"Until you are strong enough to walk to the anexo, use the bedpan. At night, I will sleep on the floor next to you. When you use the bedpan, wake me and I will empty it for you. Is this acceptable?"

Again, no words, just the maddening nod. Frustration was fueling my anger, but I could not lose control, fearing merely the raising of my voice would prove fatal to the frail beauty in my care. The irony was I had only myself to blame, as I had foolishly begged Adoncia's father for this responsibility. At the time I had no idea that shoeing horses was child's play compared to caring for this poor woman. Merely feeding her was just the beginning...