THE LITTLE ONES
by
Kurt Fillmore
Death in the arms of a lover is best.
Delora had heard those words once from three old women, knitting lamb's wool as they rocked on the front porch of a ranch house. They smiled as they cackled, each one parched and wrinkled like death, so perhaps they knew.
She tugged her black veil down over her forehead against the sun, and trudged away from her life.
Behind her, the village, her family, her friends. Ahead, the grasslands, the brush, the trees and vines of the jungle. She stepped carefully around the potholes, and walked along the edge of the road.
She had set out before sun up, saying goodbye to Lucy and Thea. They alone would understand, and not interfere with her plans.
On her journey, she thought much about death.
I am Delora Enriqueta Raquel Tadeo. I bear no shame.
Still she wore all black, from the heels and laces of her shoes, past her stockings and the straight skirt which hugged her hips, to her blouse and the shawl over her shoulders. Black on black with a veil to cover her tears.
A truck appeared on the horizon, rounded a clump of trees and came towards her through waves of heat. It stopped beside her, brakes grinding and dust rising. She knew the driver, and kept her face turned away.
"Where do you go whore?"
"Leave me alone bárbaro," she said.
He changed gears and rolled the truck backwards to follow her.
"You call me jackass little whore, when I have what you need?" He grinned at her, white teeth and dark gums, beard stubble and graying mustache.
"I will tell my father what you say to me."
"And would he kill me? Like Tomas?"
At this she stopped. The truck gears clanked as the driver braked. Two boys her own age swayed behind the cab.
"Who cares about the words of a puta? You could make my boys men, right now, and pleasure me, and no one would care. No one."
Tears broke out and she ran, off the edge of the road and into the biting grass. Once past the truck she came back to the road and kept running.
Laughter sounded behind her, but they did not follow.
She had lost her virginity two nights ago, in the arms of Tomas Jacquin Padilla, her one true love. They met at their secret place, a pocket where the earth slumped. He ignited fires in her that no other had. Her body became his and he kissed her, touched her, entered her. She gasped his name as he brought her to joy many times.
In the midst of their thrashing Papa and her two eldest brothers had come down the slump, their boots skidding in the dirt, and thrown them apart.
They held up a lantern against the night and Papa proclaimed, "who is this bastard who soils my child?"
Delora screamed and cried. She leapt upon Tomas, begging her father while trying to shield him. The three pulled her off of him, their eyes drawn to her nude body. Her brother spat into her face.
Tomas hit her father, but the brothers grabbed his wrists. Papa's shotgun went into Tomas's crotch and fired. Delora and Tomas screamed at the same time.
She covered her eyes, crying and screaming in a huddled ball on the ground.
The second barrel killed her lover, her one and her only.
The hardest part of the journey had come in the late afternoon when she left the road and trekked down a narrow trail into the jungle. Delora bent low to go under thick vines that branched across the path, then climbed with her skirt hiked, over bulging tree roots.
She reached her destination shortly before dusk. The sun made a half circle at the mountain's peak, and she stood on a broad grassland away from the jungle; El Llano de Vampiros. The land around held many deep caves, and the farmers knew not to graze their stock here after dark. This was the place she sought.
She removed her shoes and placed them side by side. She danced, her arms above her head, singing to her lover. When her breath ran out she hummed, her body swaying from side to side.
The shawl she placed over the shoes, then her skirt and underwear. She eased the stockings down her legs and removed her blouse. She reached behind her back and unsnapped her blouse. Her nipples stiffened as the last rays of the sun touched them.
Now I have no shame. I bare myself to all.
She danced, buttocks moving with each step, breasts shaking. She laughed and could not stop. Finally she fell to the ground beside her clothes.
She reached into the pile and felt for her skirt pocket. From it she removed a knife, blade no longer than a finger. She cut her palm, then rubbed the blood over her chest and stomach.
Sangre de Delora; blood of sorrows.
She lay back on the grass. Her hand went between her legs, touching herself. She stared at the sun, wondering if she had time for this indulgence. The little ones would not come soon, perhaps she would.
Her hand moved faster, her fingers became her lover.
Oh Tomas, Tomas.
Night brought no relief. She itched from sweat, and her palm ached. She lay still, trying not to move. Above her stars filled her sight, making the sky brilliant with a scatter of silver dust on velvet. Sounds of the wild came on the wind, the cry of the jaguar, the hoot of the monkey.
Her thoughts turned again to Tomas and her eyes watered, her lip trembled.
I do not want to live 'o God. Tell me this is no sin.
Then a dark shape slipped by the stars. Followed by another, and another. She watched them, her eyes barely open. Small shadows fought with the stars for ownership of the sky. She waited.
She might have dozed, she didn't know, but finally she noticed one of the little ones on the grass beside her. It stood on all four legs, a mouse with a bulldog's face. She remained still. The little ones were shy, and if she moved, they would fly away.
It watched her, small black eyes, pale, white body.
It hopped sideways twice, and stopped at her bare hip. It turned its head up, looking at her.
She didn't see it move, but it sprung lightly to her hip.
She cried out, and it bolted into the night and was gone. Delora shifted her shoulders and arched her back.
I will not be afraid.
She settled down into the grass and tried to sleep.
A gentle touch on her leg roused her.
Tomas? The hand of her lover?
She eased her eyelids open and saw a little one perched on her thigh. It waited, making no moves. Delora breathed slowly, steadily, and tried not to shiver.
It lowered it's head and it's lips caressed her flesh. Did she feel something? A nick? The little ones' tongue licked out, touching her, lapping.
Soft sounds came from the sky, a rustle of silk on air, faint mewlings, almost like kittens. The stars were blotted out by dancing black shapes.
Delora knew murder was a sin. Her father had sinned. Now she too approached sin.
I loved only my Tomas. I would have been his wife.
She cried, tears running down her cheeks and ears to the grass.
Come my little ones. Come to Delora.
She awoke in a blanket, warm and safe. She opened her eyes, but didn't move from the softness that covered her arms, legs, and body. She felt them, stepping delicately, leaving when fed, as others took their place. Little ones at her thighs, little ones at her ribs. One crawled over her face, its clawed, little foot on her nose as it fed from her eyebrow.
So warm, so soft.
Her body tingled with them; numb tingles.
She sighed, a soft moan that did not disturb them, not now. They knew she had come for them.
The little ones came to feed. They fed at her breasts, but not her nipples. They kissed her mouth, but not her lips. They licked her legs, but not for pleasure.
So many small nicks, so much feeding.
She smiled. In time Delora joined with her Tomas.
Death in the arms of a lover is best.
THE END
© 1998 by Kurt Fillmore
All rights reserved.
