Chapter-7: Boa of Snake Island
Low clouds covered the sierra on the second day of travel to Soldelmar, Jalisco. A rocking breeze pushed sideways against the stagecoach as thunder rumbled in from the south. More wind and the coach heaved up, and double bounced back, and hit another deep ditch in the dirt road.
The lead driver tapped the side of the stagecoach. Amused, he said: “Apologies, señor, that one was avoidable.”
Diego grimaced and rubbed his stomach. Light sweat covered his face as he breathed a metallic taste in the humid air. He ignored the driver.
In the distance, slanted rain poured down in waving sheets of curtains. And, within the same breath, the air changed. Wet dirt, dry grass and burnt corn tortillas mixed in with mesquite wood. Diego’s face tightened and his stomach grumbled at the taste of black charcoal.
Cold sweat slicked down Diego’s neck, forcing him to retrieve his pocket watch. He stared at the time in his hand. And, he coughed.
The left wheels hit a large mound of dirt, lifting the entire stagecoach into a much harder angle than usual.
A memory waved into Diego’s mind and into his bloated stomach. He resisted it and didn’t want to remember it; but, the past insisted—and he allowed the memory to live again. He tilted his head back and stared at the black charcoal clouds, and he remembered a business trip across the Gulf of Mexico.
A flash of lighting covered Diego’s face, and he thunder clapped further back into his memories. Of salty air and of creaky ships, and he flashed back to an earlier time. And, he drifted back and he closed his eyes onto his past.
The ship docked late in the afternoon in port Libertad, near the capital. Diego moved with caution as he stepped off the boat. His stomach continued to twist and flip and bubble up. The voyage from Mexico to Puerto Rico hit him hard. Sea sickness gripped his body within the first ten minutes of departure. He imagined it would take some time to convince his body of land.
Diego shook his legs and paced on the uneven floor boards, and he smiled as his sickness subsided. He scanned the port and looked at the gulls in the sky. And, he listened and he breathed it all in with a deep stretch of his arms.
“Ten more kilometers,” he said, “all I need is ten more kilometers to reach the capitol … ahh … San Juan.”
His sickness of the ocean waning, Diego hailed a horse and cart.
The driver jumped off and helped Diego with his luggage before helping him into the cart. The horse whinnied and the cart moved onto a dirt road.
Diego leaned back and enjoyed all the details. He stared at the heavy clouds that hung close to the island. Thunder clapped and boomed in the distance as lighting branched and flashed behind ominous clouds. The ocean waved in and out in sickening rhythmic rolls and crashes. The air smelled of salt and lemon and sugar cane, and of fried lard. And, all about, palm trees, crescentias and soursops danced in the moderate wind that pushed on the island.
The cart turned onto another dirt road, and Diego drifted in his thoughts, questioning his purpose for being on the island. The trip to Puerto Rico didn’t add up. And, it bothered him, not knowing exactly why he was sent. He wondered,
Why did the bank manager insist on this assignment? Why did it feel as though the bank manager had an ulterior motive? And, why couldn’t the contracts have been signed in Mexico? Is this some sort of a test? Or, is there something else?
Total Consciousness 