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Show THE CROSSING The river swung against its black wall, bulging with the traffic of silt like a brown snake. It gulped the sandy gorge, gnawing it to rock with swamps of particle teeth and whispering along the conquered stone of the opposite bank, the broad back of the land varnishing the horizon southward. Juan spread flat-bellied over the cliff and slid carefully to the edge; the grumble of the river rattled his heart and he breathed quickly at the sight of the monstrous torrent so far beneath. He had heard the echo of the river over the plain for eight days that seemed a century, a shadowy sound, deep like the wind over the familiar slapping of the horseshoes and the shouts of the men that became groans. Far below he saw the crouching line of men, Juan Domingo hacking the cliff with his axe, the late morning sun flashing on the blade and the sweaty gold of his skin, Juan suddenly looked down at the pallor of his arm and felt the glossy hairs on his face. Time had shot through him - a river spreading and expanding his limbs and tainting his stomach and loins with a strange ache, watering the skin with fertile oils and smells. His flesh shone in the heat and burned to rose like a serpent cracking from its age to a moist new skin before darting timidly into the shadows. "Thirteen steps," shouted Juan Domingo from below. Thirteen steps cut into rock to saddle the weight of the last few feet to the sheer bank of the ford. The ache spread, a pounding lance in Juan's stomach, a shuddering ache at the thirteen steps to the black water. He saw the brilliant bronze face of Juan Domingo, the belt of whiskers, the crucifix around his neck like a whip; Juan Domingo would surely vault across the river holding him on his back, two glistening reptiles, a great and a small. It would be like skittering over a pond, the heavy brown ice turning to foam under the crashing lungs of Juan Domingo. |