The Gypsy's Dagger

Chapter Four

Talk to me of my mother.

The letter did.

'—think of you, night and day, my son, my Jose. I grieve your absence yet the prospect of seeing you again gives me hope—'

Jose's hazel eyes glided over his mother's words, hungry for them. Too much so to pause and process according to punctuation, letting the news of her sickness settle into him, weighing him down. He was frowning, hunched over the pages, still at that little table at the Cajon. The soft humdrum of the officers' presence kept him company. Most of them had gone off for the day anyway, and those few that were left moved too tiredly to stir any trouble.

Someone, somewhere in the compact puzzle that the guardhouse was, yawned indiscreetly.

His mother's handwriting swirled in inky curls of pleading promises and death, and he couldn't look away, transfixed and terrified. As he flipped through the pages, all overflowing with writing, his heartrate picked up, distressed at the conundrum of words, requests, and promises laid before him. He was still frowning.

'I forgive the choices you made, and I wish I could have made it easier for you somehow. I wish you had never left Marchena. The life of a soldier often consists in taking away the lives of others, Jose. And that hardly counts for one at all. Does it ever feel like you made the wrong choice? Could a quiet life ever be enough for you? I beg you to think that over. It would be more than enough for me. Please. I find solace in hoping you will return. You will hold my hand and embrace me, won't you? Hold me while I go, so I may have peace. I await you, my son; have been since the day you went. All this, little one, I hope will ring as true within you, and I hope you will value it, for honesty is all I have got left. There is no place for falsehoods upon the doors of death.'

He squeezed his eyes shut before continuing; paragraphs filled with bygone days and sweet memories of home, roaring fields and sunflowers and mother, mother, mother.

'—you put back strength and courage into my heart.'

Jose could almost see Marchena again. He rubbed his thumb on his lower lip unconsciously.

'—this last request, I pray you. Please do not deny me this, Jose, all I intent is being certain that you will be all right once I have gone. That you are cared for, consoled; I want to go knowing you are loved.'

Hot tears lurked in his eyes. He gritted his teeth. It was only once he'd finished reading that he let out a sound: a sore groan followed by a shaky sigh. His hands curled into fists, letting the pages fall on the table, soundlessly. The tears fell down his cheeks, and he hated himself for it. He did not want to think of Catalina Garcia, tender, vivacious, joyful Catalina, mom, withering away.

His mother was dying.

He did not want his mother to die. He also did not want to grieve until it had come to pass. He wanted too much.

He wiped the tears on his forest green sleeve, re-reading his mother's last request on what'd be his last letter from her, ever.

"Your son will obey you," he muttered.

'—make Micaela your wife.'

Jose refolded the letter and counted the money in the pouch.

An hour had passed after going through this mother's words, yet the sense of nerves and premature mourning still coiled tightly at the pit of his stomach.

He busied himself flicking through prison warrants at the main office, reading through a few, stacking them neatly and then unstacking them, only to do it all over again. The motion had gone on for long enough to seem mechanical, hands still moving steadily while his mess of thoughts unfurled. He was kinetic.