Mezcala Island

By Randall Best

In 1812 Mexico, Jose Santana, a twenty-six-year old fisherman, struggles to overcome earlier trauma and to save his village from a world dominated by Spanish brutality. When the Spanish threaten to destroy his village, Jose leads the villagers to an island in the middle of the largest lake in Mexico. There, they battle the Spanish on the land and on the lake, but their native canoes are no match for the great Spanish ships and they are gradually forced to stay on the island during the day and only venture out on the lake at night. In the middle of this conflict, Jose falls in love with a woman who may be a Spanish spy. Surrounded by a Spanish blockade, the villagers suffer starvation, sickness, and constant threat of attack. Eventually, Jose and the villagers must decide whether to surrender and face almost certain death or put their canoes in the water and try to escape in the middle of the night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randall Best
• Release date: Apr 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578607320

Book preview

This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, event, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Randall Best

All rights reserved

Published in the United States by Randall Best

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Randall Best

Mezcala Island: a novel / Randall Best

ISBN 978-0-578-60732-0

MEZCALA ISLAND. Copyright © 2019 by Randall Best. Printed the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information send all correspondence to Randall Best, 111 Falcon Street, Georgetown, Texas 78633 or use the contact address: [e-mail]..

Chapter 1

Mezcala, Mexico

October 1811

SHADOWS FILLED THE small room in Jose Santana's little adobe hut, and dust motes hung like tiny stars in the dim light that seeped into it through cracks in the ancient wooden door.

A muffled sound came from the street outside and then a horse snorted. Moments later, José rolled over on his sleeping mat and opened his eyes to a confusion of barking and growling in the street. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sounds did not help, the noise was still there. Go away, he mumbled. When it continued, he slowly opened his eyes again and looked around the small room for something to throw at the dogs.

Damn! he yelled. Shut up! Go away!

The barking and growling grew louder, echoed in José’s head and filled the room like thunder. There must be a hundred dogs out there! Aye perros! Vayanse!

José closed his eyes again, and put his hands over his ears, but still he heard the dogs snap and bark, and the sound only grew louder.

When a horse whinnied in the street, José's eyes opened wide.

Hooves pounded the hard ground, steel clanged against rock, and a man cursed. Something made a dull hollow sound, and a dog screamed in pain. José threw off the faded serape he used as a blanket, scrambled to his feet, and cracked the door open just wide enough to look out. Soldiers! What do they want, now?

A pack of half-starved dogs barked at three Spanish soldiers on bay horses. Another dog, a big brown male, lay in the dirt whimpering, his legs twitching uncontrollably and the breath rasping in his throat. Blood from a long gash on his side wet his fur and stained the street red.

In the distance, shouts and murmured voices added to the cacophony of sounds while José watched the Spanish soldiers and the dogs and the people in the street.

Several men, women, and children trudged up the street while others were just leaving their brown adobe huts. Men muttered under their breath while wild-eyed women clutched at their husband’s arms. Whining children, rubbing sleep from their eyes stumbled up the street with their parents and hung onto their clothes. Even babies in their parents’ arms trembled and cried out in their sleep.

What’s going on?

A horse and rider slid to a stop in the middle of the street outside José’s hut. A soldier with long brown hair and a full mustache sat easily in the saddle. His white cape fluttered behind a blood-red coat while a black plume shook with even the slightest movement of his head.

Death on horseback! José thought.

Sneering, the man looked into José’s eyes, raised his saber in a white-gloved hand and yelled, "Fuera, fuera! Outside! Everybody outside! Come on, let’s go!"

The soldier rode toward José, wheeled his horse in front of the hut, and kicked. The door slammed into José’s face. He staggered backwards and sprawled on the dirt floor. When he raised his head, the man was leaning over the side of his horse looking at him through the open door. You too! Grab your woman and get out here or I’ll do it for you!"

I don’t have a woman.

Get out here! Let’s go!

The soldier backed his snorting mount away from the building and watched while José came into the street. His knee ached and his head pounded from the door and he limped painfully toward the plaza to join the other villagers. The trooper took his foot out of the stirrup and kicked at José, but his horse shied and he missed. Shaking his head and cursing, he turned his mount and trotted off down the street.

As José approached the plaza, most of the villagers were already standing there in small groups, holding their children close, and talking in low voices that filled the morning light with soft waves of sound. Down the street, the last of the stragglers walked toward the square with horsemen yelling and urging them on.

The leader of the Spanish Calvary, a big man on a bay horse, rode up to the villagers, pulled his mount to a pawing, half-stand, then wheeled around in a circle and stopped. Facing everyone he rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, leaned forward, and flashed a mirthless smile. I am Captain Pedro Martinez from Guadalajara. General De la Cruz sends his greetings and wants you to know that we are here to protect you from the rebels. He knows they are hiding somewhere near here and he wants you to help us find them.

Most of the villagers looked at the ground and shuffled from one foot to the other. Silence was Captain Martinez’s only answer.

The Spanish commander sat up tall in the saddle and pushed his horse through the crowd with the big gray stallion threatening to trample anyone in his path. Captain Martinez glanced from one frightened face to another and finally stopped in front of José’s mother. She lowered her head and looked down at the ground. He frowned. You there! Old woman! I’m talking to you. Where are the rebels?

She shook her head and in a soft voice said, I don’t know.

The officer pushed his horse closer to the woman and turned so he could almost reach out and touch her. José’s father, Alberto, stepped in front of his wife, held up his hands, and motioned for the Captain to stop. Captain Martinez raised his foot and kicked Alberto in the chest. The blow knocked him back into the crowd and he fell to the ground between several men. Then, the Captain tangled the fingers of his left hand in Maria’s long dark hair, spurred his horse forward and dragged the struggling woman into the street. He stopped and jerked Maria’s head up by her hair.

José yelled, No! and pushed his way toward his mother and the Captain.

His mother screamed.

A dagger glinted in the sunlight and in one quick motion, the Captain slashed Maria’s throat. She grabbed it with both hands, and for a moment stood rocking back and forth, her eyes open with surprise. Blood oozed out from between her fingers, spilled down her colorful shawl, and turned the front of her coarse white dress red. Gasping for breath, she lurched forward, took a few staggering steps and sank to her knees. Then, she fell, face down in the street. Her arms and legs twitched, her body jerked in a death spasm, and she lay still. Blood pooled around Maria’s head, soaked into her dark hair, and made little rivulets of red in the dusty street.

José’s father screamed, My God! and lunged toward his wife. The villagers tried to hold him back, but he fought against them, shoving first one and then another in his struggle to reach Maria. Finally, he broke free, collapsed on his dead wife’s body, and lay there sobbing.

Strong arms grabbed José and tightened around him. His heart pounding and blind with rage, he struggled to be free until a voice whispered in his ear, If you want to live, don’t move and don’t say anything.

Captain Martinez turned away from the woman he had just killed and yelled so all the villagers could hear him, Learn from this! When I ask a question, I want an answer. Do you understand?

The villagers were silent. For a moment, the only sounds came from dogs barking in the distance and roosters crowing and birds chirping in the dawn.

The Captain wheeled his horse to face the villagers and yelled, I want an answer! Do you understand?

Most of the villagers hung their heads and looked down at the ground, but a few nodded and said, "Si, we understand."

That’s better. Now, where are the rebels? When no one spoke, the Captain said, Answer me or someone else will die. Where are the rebels?

The Captain frowned at the villagers, drew his saber, and rested the blade on his shoulder. He turned and stared at one of the women who stood nearby. She crossed herself and looked away.

A young girl holding the woman’s hand whimpered, Don’t hurt my mother! Then, she paused and in a very soft voice said, The rebels went to San Pedro.

The Captain smirked, Thank you. You know how to obey. One day you will make some man a good wife. Then, he turned his horse, motioned for the rest of his men to follow and they trotted out of Mezcala on the dusty road toward San Pedro.

As José watched, the soldiers rode down the narrow road and disappeared into the forest. 

He groaned and tears filled his eyes. In a shaking voice, he said, Captain Martinez, I’ll see you in Hell.

Chapter 2

TEARS BLURRING HIS eyes, José stood in the middle of the narrow dirt road, picked up a stone, and threw it at the retreating soldiers. They were too far away, and it landed harmlessly behind them and bounced across the road in a puff of dust.

Damn, he muttered. Damn! Damn! Damn! He threw another stone and then another and another until he stood spent and breathless in the dusty road, a silent, unmoving figure staring into the dark forest where the soldiers had disappeared.

A great emptiness washed over him like the waters of the vast lake that lapped at the edge of his village.

Although people milled around José, he saw no one and heard nothing. His friends and neighbors were only blurs of white, splashes of muted colors, and a confused jumble of brown faces, their voices meaningless murmurs, faint whispers in the soft, morning light. José squeezed his eyes shut and moaned softly. My mother is dead! My mother is dead!

An old woman wearing a colorful reboso over her shoulders startled him when she clutched his arm and her fingers dug into his skin. José! she cackled, You're not a little boy anymore, so stop acting like one. What if your father did beat you when you were growing up. You're twenty-six years old, and it's time to forgive him. He's your father and he needs you. So, go take care of him. With that, she nodded toward a small cluster of people standing in the street where Maria died.

The woman’s loud voice and sudden intrusion brought José back to what had just happened. He wiped away his tears, opened and closed his fists, and buried his rage inside his chest. Then, he slowly walked over to the men and women gathered around his father.

With a loud sigh and a con permisso, José squeezed between the people in front of him. Making little noises and patting him on the back and shoulders, they stepped aside to let him reach his father. Alberto knelt in the street holding his dead wife and rocking back and forth. Ignoring Alberto’s groans, José squatted down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders, not only to comfort his father, but himself.

Stop crying, he whispered, or Mama’s spirit won’t be able to leave.

Alberto sighed and raised his head. Wiping his eyes with his hands, he put Maria down and then looked at her lifeless body lying in the street. His fingers tenderly stroked her dark hair and lingered there for a long moment. Then, he slowly rose to his feet with pain etched deeply on his face.

What next José? What next?

Let us sit over there in the shade. When her brothers have taken care of her, we will go home and see. 

The two men moved to the plaza and found a place to sit on the ground while Maria’s brothers carefully picked up her body and carried it down the street toward her house.

Alberto watched for a long time, then his breath caught in his throat, and he looked down at the ground. His eyes were moist, and he trembled. José put an arm around his shoulders, and held him tight, as much to comfort himself as his father. 

Finally, José said, Let’s go.

As he and his father walked down the dusty street, people they had known all their lives stopped and told them how sorry they were about Maria. As they talked to their friends, Alberto’s trembling gradually disappeared. Many of the villagers had tears in their eyes, but no one cried. It would only make it harder for Maria’s spirit to leave her body and go to the other world.

When they reached Alberto’s little adobe hut, José’s father stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he breathed a long, mournful sigh and entered the one-room, building.

It was much the same as Alberto and his wife had left it that morning when the soldiers came. Dust mites floated in the sunlight streaming through the open door. On the other side of the room, a willow sleeping mat with a serape thrown over it lay empty on the smooth dirt floor. A few clothes and other belongings hung from pegs stuck in the brown adobe walls. A plate of half-eaten tortillas sat on the floor while cold, grey ashes filled the fire-ring by the door. And even with the door open, the faint odor of smoke still lingered in the air.

However, while Alberto was gone, someone had made a cross of lime on the dirt floor and put Maria’s body on top of it because it would make her stay in Purgatory shorter. Then, they put a blanket over her to make her more comfortable. It looked almost like she was sleeping and could open her eyes and sit up at any time. Someone had also cut a hole in the thatched roof to make it easier for Maria’s spirit to leave. 

When Alberto saw Maria’s body, he gasped and put his hand over his mouth. Shaking with an involuntary sob, he quickly turned away. Just as suddenly, he stopped, took a deep breath, and stood erect with his head held high and his shoulders back, a proud, dignified man. For a moment he stood there, clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut as if to hold back tears. Shaking his head, he walked to the other side of the room and took several things from the wooden pegs that graced the rough, unpainted wall; the reboso that Maria had thrown over her shoulders, her straw hat, and her shopping basket. Then, he knelt down and put everything on the floor next to her body.

Maria, you will need these when you get to the other side. After a moment, Alberto stood and with tears in his eyes looked at his wife’s body for a long time as if to say, Good-bye. Turning to José, he said, Take some men to the cemetery and dig a grave for your mother.

If we bury her behind the house she will be with our ancestors.

José, we are Catholics. Your mother goes to the cemetery.

"She is Indian! It is not right to bury her in Padre Castellano’s cemetery."

Alberto frowned, clenched his fists, and stepped towards José, Well, that’s where I want her to be and that’s where she wants to be. Raising his voice, he said, Now, go to the cemetery and dig a grave for her!

José stood there in the dim room shaking his head and scowling at his father. I will not dig a grave for my mother in the Catholic cemetery.

After an uncomfortable silence, a teen-aged boy stuck his head inside the door. The priest is here.

A pale, thin man stooped with age and dressed in black robes blocked the sunlight as he ducked through the door. Once inside the room, he looked at Maria’s body and crossed himself.

José stiffened. He remembered how the priest had been too busy to help the family when Alberto was sick and unable to go out on the lake and fish. If their friends and relatives had not given them food, José and his family would have starved. Father Castellanos did not even come to the house.

The priest extended his hand and said, I am so very sorry about Maria.

Alberto took the priest’s hand, but José only looked at him through narrowed eyes. The Padre did not understand the villagers and did not accept their ways. He even tried to make them forget the teachings of their ancestors and become Catholics. Although he was born in Mexico, both his parents were from Spain and they raised him like a Spaniard. A man like that will never understand us.

José’s face hardened and he raised his voice. "Padre Castellanos, he said, Why are you here? Maria does not need you now."

My son, God loves us and when He calls, we must answer.

God did not call my mother. The Spanish killed her. Why did God let her die if He loves us so much?

God works in strange and mysterious ways.

José grimaced. You mean, you don’t know.

There are some things we must take on faith.

Like God loves us? He let His Son die on the cross, and He let the Spanish kill my mother. Is that how God loves us?

God gave His only begotten Son that—

My mother was a good woman. She did nothing wrong. Why did God let the soldiers kill her?

José, only God can tell you that. Pray to Him for an answer.

The priest turned away, crossed himself, and knelt beside Maria’s body. He bowed his head and said a short prayer in Latin. Amen, he said and stood up.

Turning to José and his father, he held out his hand. Please come to me if I can help you.

José snapped, Can you help me kill Captain Martinez?

The priest looked deep into José’s eyes and shook his head. Then he turned and pushed his way through the curious villagers who crowded around the doorway. José snatched the wooden cross from the wall above his mother’s small altar and threw it at the priest. It flew over his head and landed in the dirt in front of him. Father Castellanos paused, picked up the cross, kissed it, and holding it in his hands, walked on toward the church without looking back.

José heard a sudden noise behind him, and Alberto yelled, That’s enough!

He turned just as his father lunged at him swinging a heavy stick of firewood. He raised his arm to block the blow and tried to duck, but it was too late. A loud thud, and pain exploded in his head. He staggered back and crashed against the wall. Then, he half-heard, half-felt the pain of another blow as it smashed into his head and turned everything black.

WHEN JOSÉ OPENED HIS eyes, shadows surrounded him and hurt filled his head. He choked on the dryness in his mouth and something like blood was caked on the side of his face. A dull pain gripped each aching muscle, and shivering from the cool night air only made it worse.  Someone, probably his father, had dragged him into the street, and left him lying in the dirt. 

José tried to roll over on his stomach so he could stand, but he was too weak and the pain of moving sickened him. He crumpled into the dusty street again.

From where he lay, José could see through the open doorway into his parent’s adobe hut where he and his sister grew up. Inside, candles circled Maria’s lifeless body and the room danced and played in a fiesta of flickering candlelight. The wake for Maria had started and several women sat on the floor around her body talking in low voices. José's father was sitting in a dark corner of the room, a sullen, brooding figure drinking pulque by himself and getting drunk.

Men's voices came from the street behind José. He could smell smoke from a fire and hear it crackling and spitting in the night. He had been to enough wakes to know men were sitting around a fire eating tortillas, sharing food their wives had cooked for them, drinking Pulque and telling stories about the village, their ancestors, and women.

José took a long, slow breath. His eyes closed and the last thing he remembered before drifting into a fitful sleep was loud, drunken singing and the sour notes of a four-string guitar.

During the night, José twisted and turned. Bad dreams and worse memories haunted him and troubled his sleep. In his dreams, monsters chased him, he felt himself falling through the air, and at times, he seemed to be caught by something and held tight like a fly in a spider web. When the dreams let him sleep no more, José’s mind tortured him with memories of his father staggering home drunk from the cantina yelling, You’re no good! and beating him with his walking stick, his belt, and his fists.

During the beatings, José grit his teeth and tried not to cry, but in the end he always did.

Later, in the stillness of the night, pain throbbed with every heartbeat, rejection tormented him, and his welts and bruises were loathsome monuments to his father’s brutality. I will not forgive you José thought, and he vowed to all the ancient gods that someday ...  someday, he would get even.

THE NEXT MORNING, JOSÉ woke with the sun. It was in his eyes, and long shadows stretched across the little village. Roosters crowed, and a mangy brown dog was licking his hand. For a moment he did not remember where he was or why he was sleeping in the street or what had happened the day before. Then, yesterday’s memories crept into his consciousness like a sickness and he immediately regretted their return. His mother was dead, and his father had beaten him again.

Each muscle in his body ached, he was bruised and battered, and his head was a confused agony of grief. José forced himself to sit up and look around. Several sleeping men sprawled around the cold ashes of a fire. The women still sat in the room where Maria’s body lay, but they were no longer talking. His father was nowhere to be seen.

José rose unsteadily to his feet.

Nothing could stop his mother from being buried in Father Castellanos’ cemetery, and now that she was dead, there was nothing to stop José from giving in to his smoldering anger and getting even with his father.

After eating a cold tortilla and some beans, José spent the morning looking for his father, but the man was nowhere to be found. He was not in the little cantina where he often sat with a glass of pulque.. No one had seen him around the village, and he was not out on the lake. The day before, Alberto had pulled his fishing canoe up on the beach, and it was still there where he left it.

Just before the funeral began, the weathered, wooden doors of the church on the north side of the plaza opened and Alberto lurched down the stairs and stumbled toward his house. He must have had too much pulque and passed out in Father Castellanos’ church. It was too late for José to do anything; the funeral was about to begin.  

At his father’s house, José watched six of Maria’s eight brothers wrap her body in a blanket. Then, he followed them with the priest, his father, and most of the villagers as they trudged up the steep hill to the little cemetery behind the church. They did not give Maria a coffin, because then her spirit would have to bring it back when it returned to celebrate The Day of The Dead and be with her family again.

After the men lowered Maria into the grave, Father Castellanos stood beside it in his black habit looking down at her body. He