IMMIGRANT’S REVENGE: A creative adaption of the song “The Mariner’s Revenge” by the Decemberists

By Brandon Riddle

The blackness migrated from the flame of her small lighter. Her resulting shadow wrapped over the weathered face behind her, unconscious under the overpass. She stood for some time flicking the lighter off and on, off and on, dimly revealing the desert around her. The imposing figure on the sloped riverbed below raised its feathered arm, and with an open palm, pointed towards the old man beside her. He was awake.

"We are two bad people, you know." The young woman's voice spoke with the detached tone of a dining room dinner.

"That rumbling above, those cars? They are our heartbeat. The rotten weeds below? Our unfortunate past. Yet," she said, "Here we are."

The moonlight lay stagnant in the starless night.

"There are no cars, joven. Quién es usted?" The rasp of a voice under a lifetime of liquor and drugs rose from the old man like thick scum from the bottom of a barrel.

"No, no, amigo. You do not want to disgrace my language today."

"Who are you?" He tried to squint his eyes through the tears of blood and sweat that dribbled from his head.

"It is a crime in itself that you do not remember me. Though, I was a very small girl at the time so I can forg"

"Mi hija?" The old man growled with laughter the way a thunderstorm approaches a town. "If that's what this is, you should know I have no daughter." He found his hands bound behind him; his shoulder creaked up to wipe the bodily liquids that dangled from his splintered lips.

"No. God forbid you have any blood on this Earth that isn't under you as we speak."

"Then cut these ropes so that I may be free." The old man nudged her leg with his elbow and expectantly looked up at her. She lowered herself to sit next to him, making no motion toward his freedom.

"If you are keeping me here, then tell me of my guilt so I may judge you as well." The old man attempted to shift his feet but they, too, were bound by rope. He eyed the young woman. "Joven, talk."

The young woman flicked her lighter on, revealing the faintest outline of the being below. The old man craned his neck but said no words. The two people, and figure beneath, breathed the same air.

"It does not tell me what it is." She lowered her brow and tried to judge the figure under the overpass. It was big, though its height was difficult to judge at this angle, in this dark. "You should ask it."

The old man glared into the black, illuminated only by the faint whisper of the moon and struggling flame of the lighter. "No."

"I think you should. I'm curious myself."

A few moments of hesitation, then the old man tried to yell down, but only a rusty cough laced with streams of his own voice corrupted the air. His lungs filled back up and he waited for a response. The figure meticulously raised its right leg, stopping as if perched on a table, and stomped down with a force that caused the bells on its side to rattle with such clamor that the old man bellowed in fright. The lighter flicked off.

"You see, that is all I get out of it, too." she said, watching the old man attempt to hide his head between his knees. "But come, amigo. This is not about that thing, no. There is a girl in your past. Anna was her name."

The old man raised his head to look at the thing below. The outline of a giant with too large of a head. "You do not like it? I do not like it either. Let me speak and you will be free of it. A premonition has told me it will leave once my time with you is done. So please, escúchame." The old man nodded his head and relinquished his eyes from below, muttering, “Rápidamente.”

The young woman spoke as if narrating her own dream. "When I first saw you, you were just another hired hand for some cartel. Spending all your dirty money on drugs and girls, I'm sure of it. My father had just passed- of what I cannot say."

A warm breeze slid under the nostril of the young woman, causing her to cough briefly. "Yet there you were that Easter day. The life of the party. So lively and dashing. Not one person did not admire you, the stranger that some forgotten cousin brought along." She glanced down at the old man and stroked his hair, soaked with fluids.

"She took you in that night. Bless her soul, she was frightened and alone, and you," she said, "You were full of promise to her." The old man spoke with a smile and eyed the young woman, though his voice spat with fear of the thing below. "I was full of promise to many young women."

"Not like this one." She trailed off in a distant memory. "Not like her." The figure again raised its leg and rattled the ground below, prying the young woman from her trance.

"My mother took you into our home. My home. The home of my father. Her bed still lingered with his scent. I wonder if you could feel him there with you. You would not have liked it very much." She paused momentarily.

"As the days passed, you proved to be just another scoundrel from the streets, promising my mother freedom from the cartels." She looked at the old man and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Her face absolutely glowed from your false hope. I knew it even then, but she was so sure, so hopeful of escape."

The old man pressed his arms close to his body, rocking his torso slightly.

"Yes, now you're remembering." The young woman said. "One night you and my mother planned it all out: how to escape the country and live without fear. I stood holding my poor mother's hand, clutching at it, trying to save her from your evil." The old man tilted his head toward her, but did not look at the young woman. "Selling everything we owned for cash, we were to follow your cousins for free - out of the love of your heart, no doubt. The three of us as a family." The daunting figure below rattled once more.

"The desert was hot and full of unsavory creatures." She let her phrase drift. "Your cousins never arrived, but no matter. You knew the way and my mother believed in you. I have no doubt you knew the paths, already well-tread. The gallons of water were too heavy for my little arms to bear, and we were soon down to only three. But that did not matter to you. You never planned for a life with us, did you?" The young woman picked up a small stone and gently tossed it in the air, catching the tiny rock on its plummeting return.

"I p-promise you, La Famiila was us" The old man stopped as the young woman brought her arm around his neck and put her finger over his lips. The old man tried to squirm within his bonds, but she held tight. "Yes, yes, I know. They were using you for the small fortune that my mother owned. All what? Not more than a few hundred pesos I should think. Though, I imagine even cartels need money for shoelaces every now and again." The young woman drew him in closer. She clenched her index and thumb around his cracked lips and slowly twisted.

"My sweet and innocent mother did not sense your danger. Even if she had, what was she to do? You could have used her any way you saw fit. She was walking to her El Dorado. Fresh fields and new family. We would live again. But your mind was not with her." She released the old man's lips.

"My mother, your lover, fell to her knees in the heat. Groveling at your feet for your water. You did not even look at her. You cabrón. And do you remember what you did to her? I think you do. Say it. Tell me what you did so you may be judged."

"I... I left."

"You left? You left? No, amigo, you spat on her and said 'aquí está tu agua'. Here is your water. You took her money from her pocket and then you left her, patting me on your way."

The imposing figure from below stomped its leg yet again. The rattling of bells crawled within the desert air like the quiver in the old man's spine. The young woman withdrew her arm from the captive.

"I lay with her for two days, trying to chase the sun away with brush and clothing, using the gallon of water you did not bring with you to try and make her better. The water merely trickled out of her mouth. She was dead when you left her."

"The second night I curled up next to her body. Asleep, she came to me in a dream. I did not see her, no. Only her voice wandered through the halls of eternity. I knew it was her and not my dream. Call it instinct, miraculous, or a lie, but I heard her. The voice pulled me in close and whispered in my little ear, 'Daughter of mine. You must find him. You must crack him. You must boil his blood as he did mine and leave him choking on the dirt of his cursed grave.'" The young woman flicked on the flame of her lighter. "Her voice was lost in agony. She is not happy where ever she is."

"Left to die motherless and hopeless, I wandered the desert on the third day. Mostly to avoid the awful odor that had started, I do admit. But I survived your execution," she said. "How thoughtless of you." The old man swallowed dry spit.

"I was found by a religious humanitarian group north of the border. The Breath of God, they called themselves." She flashed a smile. "They gave me food and water. A place to heal, physically and spiritually. I pointed them in the direction of my mother. I never asked if they found her. They did not have the heart to deport me so I stayed with them, finding others who were left to die in the desert. I think the survivors found my face a comfort. Though your name often reached my ears."

"For nine years I worked and lived with the group. Different faces and different skins passed but I remained. Picking up information on you and your kind. Despite the care of these saintly people, not a single night passed when I did not hear the words of the mother's cry."

The young woman bowed her head so that her forehead was pressed against the old man's temple and whispered, "You must find him. You must crack him. Boil his blood as he did mine and leave him choking on the dirt of his cursed grave."

She listened to the soft wind flowing beneath the overpass until it ceased. "One day I found a man tattered and confused. He pleaded for help, so of course I took him in. I began speaking to him and in his delirium he confessed that he was a coyote, a human smuggler. After I eased his thirst he realized his mistake and tried to explain. Though only in my company, I calmed him. Then," she said. "I joined him."

The eyes of the old man fell from both the figure and the young woman, and he curled his knees into his body.

"I must have lead hundreds of people across the border in hopes of working with you just once. I helped many reach their wanted lives, yes. I left many people behind to their deaths, yes. Such is the life of a coyote. To find you, I became you: cruel and merciless. Humanity has little place in my tale." The being below filled the void left by the wind and rattled its bells once more.

"I lived with the other coyotes, walked as one of them. They were surprised to see a girl lead but I knew the land better than anyone and they respected that. Many were not bad, not like you at least, just struggling to get by - hardly better off than the people they were smuggling. Some, however, were wicked. After four years I came across two men with familiar faces.

"Hermanos." The old man whispered.

"Brothers, yes. They said you disappeared from them some time ago."

The old man stared off in agreement.

"Nine nights ago our friend here stood over me in my sleep amongst my fellow coyotes. It was as silent as it is now, and it studied the camp for some time. It stepped right over me, the foot barely lifting off the ground, and with one in each hand, it silently plucked your brothers and ran into the desert with such a speed. The thing crossed over me in its dash and I saw the two men. The fear on their faces was like Lucifer himself had come for them." The young woman felt the body next to hers tremble as the figure below slammed its foot.

"I lay awake until sunrise, watching the horizon for signs of the giant. Then, before the sun woke the others, it appeared next to me, pointing toward the east. I do not know what God it belongs to, but it is not mine. Why I trusted it, I cannot say. Still, I followed its directions that day and every night it altered my course. Yet for eight days I came across food, water and shelter. And every night I had visions. Awful things."

The old man peered into the figure, the fruitless abyss. It stared back.

"On three high mesas stood three proud villages alive with hard working people. At the crest of night, giant beings stomped the roads. Some had heads of large horns with the faces of mutilated pigs. Some had heads of eagle with ears as sharp as knives. Others were knotted planks of wood with slits for eyes. All however, caused the homes to jump and the bells on their legs rattled with more poison than any snake's tail I have ever heard. These giants moved like every joint was crumbling rock, yet the speed was incredible. They traveled in the villages, pulling out certain people and carrying them away. Those people did not look like kind people. You know," she mentioned, "you do not look like a kind person."

The old man thought he saw the figure inch carefully closer.

"I awoke from these dreams with my clothes soiled, but still trusting the giant," the young woman said. "When the sun was at its height today, I sought refuge under this bridge and I found you curled up like a filthy present just for me. It has stood there ever since." The young woman looked into the eyes of the condemned. "You are not from my country, are you?" she asked.

"My father was Hopi." The old man's voice strained. "Tales of the Kachina. I am sorry for what I've done."

"His blood flows in you."

His voice trembled. "Kachinas live within us. They know," he said. "You must believe me! I am sorry! I am sorry for your loss, for your life! Please, créanme!" The young woman flicked her lighter on and exhaled a short laugh.

"Find him."

"Forgive me!"

"Crack him." The being marched up the slope as if it were a thousand year old tree that suddenly remembered its own limbs. The ground bent mercilessly to its will.

"Joven, you must believe me!"

The young woman brought her lighter down to the old man's shirt. "Boil his blood as he did mine." The shirt erupted in flames that were hardly doused by his sweat and blood. The young woman saw the reflection of the figure in the old man's eyes. Red. Black. Yellow. Green. The kachina was all of these.

"Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos santificado.” The old man roared with the same intensity as did the bells rattling from the figure.

"Hoy el pan de este día y perdona nuetras." The roar simmered into a whimper and the being's reflection grew too large for the eye.

The young woman backed away from the heat and found herself next to the kachina. They watched the flames boil the old man’s blood. When the tongue of the flames vanished and all but a few embers blew away, the old man's chest went up, then down. Hardly noticeable, but there it was. He was alive.

"He is all yours, Señor," she said. The kachina reached for the old man and scooped him from the sloping ground with one arm.

The kachina paused for the young woman to whisper the last words the old man would hear. "Leave him choking on the dirt of his cursed grave."

The old man's eyes searched her face for a brief eternity. The kachina rolled the old man in his hand and leapt into the starless night. The desert shook, the moon-filled sky went black, and the bells of the kachina were replaced with the wails of a thousand wicked men. The young woman climbed onto the overpass above and began walking south, awaiting atonement from her own God.