Wrapped in Leaves

(Part eight, of “The Loro Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)


Angel of El Tambo, a moment before death



As soon as death came, so did darkness, and a moment before death, came a nightmare, presumably a nightmare, a trial of, or for the dead…
a profound darkness seeped into his existence—Angel, he was dying—left on the hilltop plateau of a coffee orchard, in Villa Rica, Peru, after raping a young woman and killing her by the name of Katita (or so he thought he killed her).
Steadily and quietly, there was nowhere for him to go, his nostrils flaring through the new found darkness.
He ran for an hour without direction, then suddenly he stopped with a thudding mind—sounds followed them, sounds of drums.
A stranger appeared, he offered Angel some raw meat wrapped in leaves (as if it was his last meal, perhaps trying to take his mind off the moment, or perchance trying to occupy it), then the sounds of drums encircled him, but still at a distance—but closing in. Angel sat down and ate a portion of the meat, and then wrapped it back up with the leaves, “You have twelve-hours,” said a voice, as he started to stand from a squatting position, his knees trembling.
“Wish I was with the gang again…” he said aloud, looking about, in a stupor.

Again he ran into the darkness surrounding him, howling like a mad and lost hound. Something behind him was trailing him (he didn’t think about the girl he had rapped, tortured, it was now like before, all self-interest, if anything he would learn, dying, death or living, nothing changes at the last second before death—in most cases that is, and now his mind was preoccupied with his surroundings, and other elements that he was facing.)
There was two worlds surrounding him, it was as if he was being hunted, “Twelve-hours,” he repeated to himself (not knowing exactly what for, but if he was to guess, it would have been before the two figures behind him caught up to him.)

He was running, and it came to mind, he had run almost half a day, some forty-miles (the last thing he remembered was that he was puking up and out his guts, dying, and was this what dying is all about, his subconsciously, tried to analysis, another voice tried to intervene, but he wouldn’t listen).
He saw a sunset before his eyes, lying in front of him, now there was two shadows chasing him, behind him: ‘henchmen,’ he murmured. He had caught a glimpse of them, they looked as if they had come out of the middle-ages, and then came sounds again, those drum sounds, closer and closer, and the two men behind him had chains and a battle axe, under their arms.
He really didn’t expect death to come so soon, nor have these visions or nightmares or whatever they were from whatever dimension they came from, he figured death was just darkness, and silence, and everything fainted from his mind, gone forever.
His life flashed in front of him, like a movie, especially his last act of violence, of Katita, the one he pulled off the bus, rapped.
He was completely naked now—except for the meat and leaves he still held in his hands, the last taste of food he’d ever have, that was in itself a death warrant.
The closer he got to the sunset, the closer the two henchmen got to him, as if they were in a race, and time was of the essence. Before him now, out of nowhere came a million cottonmouth moccasins, as if to block his bath to the sunset, and accordingly, he did have to slow down, lest he lose his balance and fall into the clutches of the moccasins, now slipping and skidding on them anyhow. The drums were now louder and faster than before, and they appeared to be closing in on him. It was a few minutes to his 12th hour (in real time, it perhaps was minutes or seconds), and the next thing he noticed was that he no longer needed air to survive, and the sunset was gone, and he was completely dead, and the two henchmen chasing him, were really, real.