Exhausted, lying on the bed that still smelled clean—but unable to sleep because, in the dark, one’s nose sharpens and something that smells bad begins to smell worse—Simonopio concentrated on breaking up the invasive stench. Before long, he was able to make out the individual smells. One by one, he tamed them with his nose in order to ignore them, until he came to the last one—one that, until then, all the other smells in concert had prevented him from detecting: the sweet scent of the enormous honeycomb his bees had built between the roof beams.
Now he felt comforted, because this was the smell that belonged to him. The one that he carried on his skin. The bees were glad of his presence and welcomed him, because he belonged there, too, with them, just like the crystalized honey formations.
For the time being, he escaped the fear he had been filled with. When he closed his eyes and opened not just his nose but also his ears, when he heard the vibration his bees gave off through the ceiling that covered and protected him, he reckoned he had made the right decision to take shelter there.
With his bees for company, he escaped the lingering memory of Espiricueta, the coyote in his story. Of Espiricueta with his stick, with his unfounded grudge, his threats, his dying land. Simonopio knew he would have time to grow and build strength for what would happen between them, and sleeping here was a good start. The next day, he would renew his efforts to follow his bees to the end of their daily journey, because it was important—he knew—that he understood what they searched for and what they would find before turning around to return home before nightfall. He did not know when he would do it, but he challenged himself to go a little farther each day. Guided by his bees, he would reach the end of the road.
Little by little, he forgot his doubts about how effective his blessing had been, because what better blessing could there be than to be under the protection of his bees?
And so, sleeping and growing under a living roof that gradually changed its rhythm and breathing to match his—that was how Simonopio would conquer his fear.
28
A Journey of Thorns
Simonopio began his travels the next day, after resting better than he had managed in months: he would go in search of the treasure that awaited his bees every day of spring.
He knew that he would not find it right away, that it would take him a while to reach it, and that it would require a great deal of effort, for the strength and daring needed for such a journey would not be gained from one day to the next or just by wanting it.
The nearby paths he had explored over time had grown easier, but now he would have to go much farther, discover new trails and places. Make new paths.
What’s more, after three months without exploring the hills as he normally did, he paid dearly for the lost time.
For the bees’ path was not the path of men: while Simonopio took tentative steps, they flew over the thickets and thorns, without caring that there was no open road. The hollows between the sierras were no problem whatsoever for them; the slopes did not tire them; and the canyons—always difficult to negotiate for a two-legged animal like Simonopio—were no obstacle. If it rained on the way, they shook off the water. If the cold caught them unawares before they returned, they knew that, at the end of the day, they would be back in the warmth of their honeycomb, full of energy from their spring honey. They were never afraid, and nothing deterred them from their goal. Only death would stop them, and they did not mind dying in the act of completing their daily mission.
They had to complete the journey in one day, so they had no time to wait for him.
Simonopio, restricted by his human state and his young age, had to find or make passable trails, which slowed his progress. He also tired; he tripped, and when he fell, he cut his knees or hands. The rain soaked his clothes. The cold, when it came, seeped into his bones. The intense heat of summer and thirst made him stumble. The thorns in the undergrowth caught him, and the stones did their utmost to twist his ankles.
The fear that struck him at the sudden realization that darkness was coming and he was far from home made him turn around more than once and return exhausted, defeated, giving Nana Reja explanations with his eyes. She opened her eyes for him, and with them she said: Keep going. Then she closed them again. She had said all she needed to say to him. And the next morning, she said goodbye again with nothing but the movement of her rocking chair.
Little by little, his excursions that spring, summer, and autumn made his feet nimble again; he grew faster, his sense of direction sharpened, and his self-confidence returned and increased. With his daily, constant exercise, he also strengthened his bond with the bees. In doing so—step by step, hour by hour, and day by day—he shook off the fear just like they shook off the raindrops. And he felt stronger.
He knew that he still had time and that time would work in his favor: if he did not manage to complete the journey that spring or summer, he would do so the next or the next. In the end, he would do it.
The bees had been patient with him. They had waited for years for him to be ready to complete the journey with them. At the end of the road, something important awaited him, something they had always tried to share with him, to make him understand.
Soon he would see it. Soon he would know.
29
The Train Passes through Alta and So Does Simonopio
My mama immediately regretted allowing Simonopio to have his own space, because he started vanishing into the hills for ever-longer periods, until one night he returned neither to his bath nor his dinner nor his bed.
Alarmed, my parents summoned the peons for a nocturnal search, which proved fruitless: they spent hours looking for him on the road to La Florida, hoping that Simonopio had reached the estate before night fell.
My papa returned that night frustrated and worried. There was no trace of Simonopio anywhere.
“No sign of him.”
That night, my parents did not sleep. There was nothing they could do except continue their usual routine: wash, change, turn out the light.
“We’ll find him tomorrow, you’ll see,” my papa said to my mama in a comforting tone.
My mama, with the pessimism that comes only when the night stretches out without end, pictured Simonopio at the bottom of a canyon, unable to move, his legs broken, frightened, and surrounded by bears and pumas. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the boy they loved so much utterly forlorn, facing a night that would undoubtedly seem more eternal to him than it did to her. Eventually, she stopped pretending to rest and went to the kitchen to make coffee. She turned on every light in the house and opened the shutters and curtains: if Simonopio was lost, he would see the lights in the distance and find his way home.
My papa, who got up to keep her company with the excuse that he felt like some coffee—a complete lie, because nobody knew better than he how bad my mama’s coffee was—knew that Simonopio was not lost. That Simonopio would never get lost. He was sure of it because Simonopio had always managed to reach him without any help or guidance: if my papa was in the maize fields, Simonopio would find him there; if he was in the sugarcane fields, the boy would find him there as well.
Before that wakeful night, my papa had told my mama he’d been missing Simonopio since the boy’s decision to watch over Nana Reja. Years ago, before Francisco grew accustomed to seeing him appear here and there, emerging from the bushes to meet him, he would ask, Simonopio, what’re you doing here? How did you know where I was? But he soon stopped asking his stupid questions, because Simonopio would never answer him and because the boy’s unexpected visits became part of his working day—the most pleasant part, perhaps.