Kindness in a Time of Turmoil

A historical short story of Colombia by Marisol Cortez

The air in the mountain valley, usually crisp and invigorating in comparison to that of the coast, felt like a shroud of damp wool around Jose. Every breath was a rasp in his throat, every step a deliberate act of will against the leaden ache in his calves and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. He was not wounded, neither by shot nor blade, but the siege of Cartagena had left him hollowed out, a ghost of the fiery youth who had marched down the Magdalena with soaring hopes for a free New Granada.

Now, those hopes were shattered, lying like broken pottery shards along the arduous trail back to Rio Negro. They had lost the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas. Over the space of 105 days, Morillo’s Spanish forces, meticulous and brutal, had reclaimed it. The dream of independence, once a blazing torch, was now a flickering ember, threatening to be extinguished entirely. His uniform, once a proud symbol of a burgeoning nation, was a tattered mockery, sweat-stained and mud-caked, barely clinging to his gaunt frame. His boots, loyal companions through countless leagues of jungle, had given up the ghost somewhere near Cáceres, their soles flapping like injured wings with every miserable shuffle.

The sun and the war had etched lines around his eyes, adding decades to his youthful countenance. He had fought, he had endured, and he had seen men bleed and die for a cause that now seemed utterly futile. All his noble thoughts, his fervent belief in a patria libre, felt worthless, a cruel joke played on him and those who believed in libertad by destiny. He was a defeated boy in a man’s world, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, the weight of a continent’s lost freedom pressing down on his slender shoulders.

The path, little more than a goat track winding through the emerald hills of Yarumal, blurred before his eyes. Towering Spanish cedars and feathery ferns formed a verdant tunnel, their beauty lost on him. He stumbled, catching himself on a thorny bush, a whimper escaping his lips. His vision swam. He needed to rest. He had to rest. Through the shimmering haze, he saw a venerable ceiba tree, its trunk a behemoth of gnarled wood, its broad branches spreading like protective arms. He veered off the path, dragging his leaden legs toward its salvation. With a final, shuddering sigh, he collapsed against its rough bark, the cool shade a balm on his burning skin. His musket, a heavy, inert weight, clattered beside him. With a final, weak heave, he pulled his knees to his chest, curled into a ball, and fell asleep.

He didn’t know how long he had been there when the gentle sound of footsteps, light and rhythmic, pulled him back from the precipice of unconsciousness. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. A girl stood before him, a basket woven from palm fronds resting on her hip. She was perhaps fifteen, a few years younger than himself, with hair the color of polished mahogany braided neatly down her back and eyes as dark and deep as the mountain lakes.

Her gaze, devoid of fear or judgment, swept over him – his tattered uniform, his gaunt face, his mud-caked boots. A faint frown creased her brow, a flicker of pity in her eyes. She saw the young soldier, no more than a boy, who appeared much too old for his age. “Dios mío,” she murmured softly, her voice melodic like birdsong. “You look as though you’ve walked from the very ends of the earth.”

She knelt, surprisingly bold, her eyes still scanning his face as if searching for an injury beyond what was visible. “Are you wounded, muchacho?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.

Jose shook his head, a feeble movement. “No. Just… weary.” The word was a vast understatement.

“You’re a soldier,” she observed, her gaze resting on his faded uniform. “From the King’s army?” She asked it tentatively, almost hopefully, as if seeking confirmation of a familiar banner. This was Yarumal, a stronghold of loyalists.

He hesitated. His tongue felt thick. “No,” he managed, the single word a silent declaration of his allegiance to the other side. A fleeting shadow crossed her face, but it passed quickly, replaced by determination. He expected her to back away, to leave him to his fate. Instead, she reached out a small, sun-browned hand and touched his shoulder.

“You cannot stay here,” she stated in a firm voice. “The night will be cold, and who knows what creature might find you appetizing.” She looked around, then back at him. “My home is not far. My family will help you.”

He wanted to refuse, to tell her he preferred the isolation, the quiet despair. The thought of moving, of another step, was unbearable. And her offer, so simple and genuine, chipped away at the cynical shell he had built around himself, but a warm meal and a place to sleep, basic survival, beckoned powerfully. He nodded weakly.

“I am Catalina Galvan,” she announced with great pride, extending her hand toward him to help him to his feet. She was stronger than she looked. With a healthy tug, she helped him to his feet, her slight frame bracing his unsteady one. He leaned heavily on her, embarrassed by his weakness, but too spent to care. The path, which had seemed impossible moments before, was a little less daunting with her support. She guided him slowly, patiently, her small hand firm on his arm, her presence a quiet comfort.

They traversed a narrow trail, shaded by immense trees dripping with orchids and bromeliads, the air humid with the scent of damp earth and exotic blossoms. Soon, the forest opened onto a series of cultivated fields of cane and corn, carved out among taller plantain and banana plants, the path leading to a cluster of whitewashed buildings with red-tiled roofs. This was the Galvan family hacienda, a modest but prosperous farm nestled in a verdant valley, its tranquility a stark contrast to the chaos he had recently known.

As they approached the main house, a solid structure of thick adobe walls, a man emerged, broad-shouldered and with a stern, kind face framed by a neatly trimmed beard. This was Don Alonso Galvan, Catalina’s father. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, widened slightly as he took in the sight of his daughter supporting a ragged, half-collapsed soldier.

“Catalina! Who is this young man?” His voice was deep, laced with concern and a hint of paternal authority as he moved to take over supporting him.

“Papa, he is a soldier, exhausted. He was resting by the ceiba tree. He is not wounded, just very tired.”

Don Alonso’s gaze swept over Jose, taking in the unmistakable signs of a Patriot uniform, however tattered. A flicker of something akin to disapproval, or perhaps just wary caution, crossed his features. The Galvans were staunchly traditional Spanish. Their loyalty to the Crown was unwavering, a point of pride in a region rife with revolutionary fervor. They viewed the ‘patriots’ as misguided rebels, heretics against the divine order. But as his eyes met Jose’s, full of exhaustion and a quiet dignity despite his wretched state, the man’s inherent compassion won out. Jose was not a symbol; he was just a boy on the cusp of collapse.

“Bring him inside, mija,” Don Alonso commanded, his voice softening. “Doña Isabella, quickly! We have a guest!”

Doña Isabella, Catalina’s mother, was a woman of ample proportions and a gentle, worried face. She clucked sympathetically upon seeing Jose, her hands immediately fluttering to prepare a space for him. He was led to a small, cool room, smelling of dried herbs and beeswax. Within minutes, a basin of warm water, a clean cloth, and a bar of homemade soap appeared. Doña Isabella insisted he wash, then provided him with a clean, rough-spun shirt and trousers – a size too large, but infinitely more comfortable than his own.

A bowl of steaming sancocho was brought to him, rich with yucca, plantain, and chicken, its aroma a powerful temptation. He ate slowly at first, then with increasing hunger, the warmth spreading through his chilled body. He mostly kept to himself, answering questions with brief, polite responses, never volunteering information about his past or his political leanings. They didn't press him. The Galvans, out of respect for his apparent distress and the unspoken tension, chose to focus on his recovery rather than his affiliations. They understood that in these turbulent times, humanity trumped ideology.

The first few days were a blur of sleep and quiet recovery. He rested, ate, and started to regain his strength. Catalina would often bring him water or a small piece of fruit, her dark eyes observing him with a curious intensity. She saw the quiet strength beneath his weariness, the intelligence in his gaze even when clouded by despair. She learned he was a man of few words, but his presence was calming, unobtrusive.

As his physical strength returned, Jose found his hands itching for work. He couldn’t bear to be idle, to be a burden on their generosity. One morning, he rose before the sun, found Don Alonso in the stable, and quietly asked if there was anything he could do to help.

Don Alonso, surprised but pleased, gestured to a pile of rough-cut timber. “You could help with the fence line, muchacho. It needs mending near the south pasture.”

Jose nodded, took the machete offered to him, and set to work. He swung the machete with practiced ease, his movements fluid and efficient despite his recent weakness. He worked tirelessly, without complaint, through the heat of the day. He fixed not only the fence but also noticed a loose hinge on the stable door and quietly repaired it as well before turning to sharpen the dull blades of the farm tools. He scurried up with a machete to help cut down spikes of plantains and bananas, shouldering their weight on his back as he carried them to the shed where they were stored.

Don Alonso, a pragmatic man who valued hard work and a keen eye, began to look at Jose differently. He saw past the tattered uniform and the unspoken political divide, seeing only a young man of exceptional diligence, resourcefulness, and quiet integrity. He observed Jose’s gentle way with the animals, his respectful demeanor towards Doña Isabella, and his polite, if brief, conversations with Catalina. He was not a vagrant, not a troublemaker, but a young man of good character, adrift in a chaotic world. His initial suspicions melted away, replaced by a growing respect, a paternal affection.

Catalina watched him, too, her admiration blossoming like spring flowers. She saw the transformation, the way his shoulders straightened, the return of a quiet fire in his eyes. He helped her carry water from the well, never speaking much, but their shared tasks created a silent understanding. One afternoon, he found her struggling to untangle a particularly stubborn knot in a length of rope. Without a word, he took it from her, his strong, calloused fingers working with surprising dexterity, freeing the knot in moments. He handed it back, a faint, rare smile gracing his lips. Her heart skipped a beat. She began to find excuses to be near him, to observe him, to feel the quiet comfort of his presence. She knew her family’s beliefs and understood that the world she knew was tearing itself apart over these very divisions, but with Jose, those divisions seemed irrelevant, replaced by something simpler, more human.

After nearly two weeks, Jose knew it was time to leave. He was strong again, his skin tanned by the Yarumal sun, his body replenished by the Galvans’ generous hospitality. He could not trespass on their kindness any longer, nor could he forget the ultimate purpose he held to, however distant its hope.

He approached Don Alonso as the sun was rising over the ridges to the east, painting the sky in fiery hues. “Don Alonso,” he began, his voice steady. “I am eternally grateful for your family’s kindness. You have given me life again.”

Don Alonso nodded slowly, his expression tinged with regret. “We have been glad to have you, muchacho. You have a good spirit.”

“I must continue my journey,” Jose said, looking towards the setting sun, towards the vague direction of Rio Negro.

“You need not leave us. Where will you go?” Doña Isabella asked, her voice soft with concern. Catalina stood silently beside her, her hands clasped tightly, her heart sinking.

“To my home,” Jose replied, vaguely. He couldn’t tell them he planned to find others who still believed, however futile it seemed, in la causa.

His gaze fixed on Catalina, he reached into the small, battered leather pouch he still carried and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. It was a hummingbird, its delicate wings spread as if in flight, a testament to hours of careful work. He had carved it from a small piece of fallen Spanish cedar during his quiet evenings, a personal memento.

“Please accept this,” he said, extending it to her. “As a small token of my gratitude to you and to your family.”

Catalina took the carving, turning it over in her delicate fingers. Her brow furrowed in surprise and genuine appreciation. “It is beautiful, Jose. Truly beautiful.”

“It is also a promise,” he added. “I will come this way again someday.”

As Jose turned to leave, a sudden thought struck him. They had never asked his name, and he had never offered it. He couldn’t leave them thinking he was just a nameless stray. He owed them more than that. He turned back to the family, standing together near the doorway, their faces etched with a mixture of sadness and acceptance.

“Before I go,” he said, his voice clear, “my name is Jose Maria Cordoba Muñoz.”

He saw no flicker of recognition on their faces. The name meant nothing to them. Don Alonso simply nodded a polite acknowledgment. Doña Isabella offered a gentle, sympathetic smile.

But Catalina… Catalina’s eyes fixed on him, dark and intense. The name, ‘Jose Maria Cordoba Muñoz,’ echoed in her mind, a powerful cadence. She didn’t know why, but a strange, profound certainty bloomed in her heart. It was a name that had the sound of destiny hidden in it, a name that would someday mean something. She watched him walk away, a slim, solitary figure disappearing from view, with a renewed sense of purpose in his stride.

The wooden hummingbird sat on the mantelpiece in the Galvan home, a silent testament to their unexpected guest. Don Alonso admired its craftsmanship, and Doña Isabella dusted it with care. But for Catalina, it was more than just a carving. It was a symbol. She kept a quiet, secret hope in her heart, not just that he would return to her someday, but that the name Jose Maria Cordoba Muñoz would indeed rise from the ashes of lost causes and become a name that would echo through the mountains, through a land made free. She believed it, with a faith as strong and as unyielding as the ancient ceiba tree where she had first encountered him.

Read more about Colombia’s rich culture and history.

Read Book One in the Belle of Colombia Series, The Birth of a Dream, by Marisol Cortez.