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.
