This is the story of the terrible events I witnessed as
A young boy in Incarnation, Texas, back in October 1918.
Only a handful of people still living know what happened there.
The memory of it has gradually disappeared, like the town itself:
Fields gone fallow, husks of abandoned barns fallen in on themselves.
Years ago I swore a sacred oath never to tell what happened.
I've let my memories, like the town, become overrun with weeds.
However, recent events have forced me to break
That promise for reasons that will become clear.
A writer named Bulgakov once said that manuscripts don't burn.
By that, I think he meant that some stories can't be silenced.
Even if you hide them in a box in the attic or
Toss them on a bonfire, they have a way of being told.
And there are so many stories haunting me from that
Fall, so many years ago Many voices still whisper in my ear.
So, with a trembling hand,
I'll describe the events as I witnessed them.
I won't leave anything out-my fear and my regret at not being
Able to save the ones I loved-except for the location of the town.
For no one must ever go back to Incarnation and risk
Provoking the malignant forces that cost us so dearly.
I don't know if telling this story is the right thing to do.
I just know I have no choice.
May God have mercy on my soul.
I've been sickly since birth, and the burden has fallen on my mother.
While the other boys run and play, I stay inside my hut.
I lie on the dirt floor and look up at the
Ceiling or through the small gaps in the mud walls.
My world is composed of bits and pieces
Of that larger world mother tells me about.
Through the gaps of it, I see fragments of the sun and sky.
I glimpse an ankle from a villager running by,
The blur of a stone kicked by children's legs, agile and strong.
More than these fragments of images, my world is composed of sounds.
Women pounding out roots, whispering to each other.
The crackling of early-morning fires.
Grunts of men stringing bows, sinew and wood tightening,
Slaps on arms and legs to warm
Themselves, getting ready for the hunt.
And the cry of the itsá marking its territory as it wheels and turns,
High in the heavens, and, far away,
The haunting sound of the ndolkahs calling with
Their big cat calls to each other in the hills.
I do not go outside into the light,
Because the dust sickens me even
More than the smoke from the fire inside.
I cast no shadow.
Sometimes, I wonder if I could ever cast one.
I have a constant companion just the same,
Not one of light or darkness but one of sound.
It is the sound of my own breath, gurgling and spitting.
I have always had it.
I am so used to it that if they found some magic way to remove
The fluid that constantly fills my lungs, I wouldn't know what to do.
It would feel like a death in the family.
Today when I awoke,
I heard no more sounds of the
Replacement men, or the villagers, or the children.
No groans, no hacking coughs, no lamentations, prayers or curses.
Today when I awoke, I heard only the rustling of the trees.
By mid-day the animals lost their apprehensiveness.
They began their scratching and
Calling and entered the village common area.
They became bolder still,
And I could hear them licking the pots for leftover food.
Soon, over the sound of buzzing flies,
I heard their growling and yelping as
They began to fight over the corpses.
If I could only lift my body up and crawl to the entrance of the hut
– Something I've never been able to do – I'm sure I would see the
Grass growing tall in the common area,
The corpses strewn here and there,
Skeletons gnawed clean, still dressed in rags.
The shiny stones and dolls, the ball made of leather scraps,
The wooden pestle for pounding roots,
All of them are still and untouched, showing the first signs of rot.
My mother's love for me had been so strong, so consuming,
She had succeeded in killing each and every
Living person in the village, original or replacement.
As I turned to her corpse I kissed her sweet-smelling hair and said, '
Thank-you'.