a short story
I know nothing of Anacleto, the Moor, or his life. I know not in what times he lived. Nor do I know when he passed on. By what means. I know little. I only know that he fell.
I’ve toyed around with what this blunt information could mean. It’s been a breeze, slithering into my ear. Cold as gold and soft as sand. The gentle thump of a leather drum. The whistle of white fabric in the wind.
Anacleto fell.
Anacleto… fell.
Anacleto fell.
He fell from a horse, perhaps. That would reveal plenty of things.
It would unmask his impatience. His desire to shoulder his fellow men. It would show his boldness. His carelessness. His longing for life.
He may have thirsted for the coldness of the wind, thinned by the speed of steeds. He may have opened his mouth and sucked in the delicious freshness of the air. He would have squinted at the sky and tried to squish the Sun between his fingers like a grape. He would have been reckless and childish. He would have fallen. The sand would have broken, like water, around him, and glittered in the naked desert light. He would have drowned in the cool, grey shade.
Anacleto fell from a horse. He fell on his back and sank into the pools of sand underneath him.
Anacleto fell.
Anacleto fell.
He fell to his knees.
He surrendered. This action must have been much frowned upon by those he knew. They would have found him cowardly. Unworthy.
And this is how it happened:
He felt the muscles soften under his garments. He felt the pain melting down his face, his features relaxing. He let the silver blade caress the stone flooring. The little sounds were coarse and bloodcurdling.
A sudden exhaustion weighed down upon him. The maroon fabric thickened at his back. His knees weakened and he dropped upon only one of them. A piercing coldness wrapped around his chin and his face lay in the frame of cloth around his head, naked and wet. He lifted his gaze and looked at they who he humiliated himself for. He waited.
Anacleto fell to his knees.
Anacleto fell.
Anacleto fell.
He fell in love.
The woman he chose brought envy to all. She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Neither did she spark much interest in those Anacleto knew, until the moment he took her in his arms and murmured her name into the crazed mound of curls under her veil. When she smiled her teeth shone, royal blue, against her face, and the water glistened in her large black eyes.
She looked ravishing in red and pink and crimson. She was beautiful in his company.
They were happy together. Maybe someone felt embittered by this peace. Or maybe the relationship, like flowers, dried into thin, crispy petals overtime. I do hope that didn’t happen. But if he did fall in love, then he must have felt some sort of pain, at some point. For it hurts to break one’s soul in half and gift it upon another, then watch them do the same. And it hurts to speculate. To fear. To not be sure if what one’s feeling is madness or providence.
So Anacleto may have fallen in love.
Anacleto fell in love.
Anacleto fell.
Anacleto fell.
Anacleto fell for a lie.
A betrayal… A broken promise…
Not from his wife. I do hope not.
But, then again, coming from a friend. A companion. A comrade. None of them are preferable alternatives.
A betrayal, caused by envy. Bitterness. Debt. Or anger. Simple anger. One cannot easily explain things like these.
So I won’t. I don’t think I want to. Let us just consider that Anacleto may have fallen for a lie.
Anacleto fell for a lie.
Anacleto fell.
Anacleto fell.
He fell…
He fell from grace.
That is the only real answer there is.
Because I know nothing about him. I never will, most likely.
Maybe I never even learn that his name was something other than Anacleto.
Or that he never married.
Or that he never rode.
Or that he never fell.
That he jumped.
Took a leap. A risk. Made a choice.
And, as a writer, as a storyteller, the sourest of tastes plagues my mouth at just the thought of it.
It’s similar to finding a blank notebook on which only the last page has ink. I have an ending, but no beginning. No journey. No real diversion from the finality of it all. No distraction from the blunt reality that Anacleto fell. Anacleto fell. What of it? What purpose would any prelude serve? I already know what becomes of him. I know. I know…
And it saddens me to think that my only thoughts of Anacleto the Moor stink of death. That I only regard the life of this man as a road with no divergent paths, all barreling down to an inevitable drop.
Never will I know what he was thinking about when he was going down. When the air thickened at his back and the sounds of the world buzzed in his ears like flies and the sun brightened above him in an attempt to blind him before he died, so as to spare him the awkwardness of witnessing his own death.
I’m only most certain that he fell backward. Not forward. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling.
THANK YOU FOR READING!
This is my first published short story. I hope you like it. I certainly had fun working on it. Anacleto is the most interesting design I’ve made and it didn’t even take up much time to get the facial structure figured out. So yeah. I’m satisfied with this. But, again, I hope you like it as much as I liked making it.
Thank you, and take it easy. See you next time!
Copyright © Blanca Parga 2020
Eleven of Spades 