Free The Jaguar's Children by John Vaillant

Muerte, or blades for the fighting cock, and every kind of mezcal. There is magic here for everyone.
    For César, it is the magic of disappearing. Because running from the federales is a serious thing. These ones will not forget you, they will hunt you like dogs, and if they can’t find you they will find your family. The taxista pulls into the market, past the delivery trucks, nosing in as deep as he can go under the patchwork roof of plastic and canvas and old Sol and Corona banners. There, he stops with the engine running. “Arriba.”
    César lifts his head to see where he is and with his messy hair and careful eyes he looks like he did some mornings at school when he came in late for class. But the moment passes quickly and when he reaches into the top of his sock and pulls out a bill the driver shakes his head. “Next time.”
    César pats his shoulder. “Claro, caballero.”
    Then he gets out of the taxi and disappears into the maze. I follow him—I’m not sure why exactly, but I know I will need to hide for a while also. “Where are you going?” I ask his back.
    â€œTo find a gown for Juquila,” he says without turning around. “She saved me tonight. It is a miracle to get away like that. She saved you too, which is interesting.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œMaybe she has a plan for you.”
    â€œWhat kind of a plan?”
    â€œHow should I know?” he said. “You must go away now.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThat’s not my problem.”
    I am running to keep up with him as he twists and turns through the dark market, down tight walkways between covered stalls and tables, ducking to miss things hanging overhead—piñatas and baskets and leather bags, a plastic tricycle, communion dresses. “It wasn’t me driving the taxi,” I say. “And you ran away. They saw both of us. I can’t stay around here now.”
    I never knew César to be without an answer, but he was quiet after this, just walking fast and swearing to himself. “Nothing’s open. I’m going to have to wait.”
    This is a dangerous thing to do, but César does it because Juquila is a local virgin and he won’t find a gown her size—made only for her—anywhere else in Mexico. When he comes under a light in the market, he notices dust on his right shoulder, the kind that comes from adobe bricks mixed with plaster, and he brushes it away. “Un otro milagro,” he says, shaking his head and crossing himself. Then he looks into a dark corner, finds a table with a cloth over it and crawls under. I crawl under the table next to it. I’m thinking César is bad luck for me, but I don’t know what else to do.
    â€œAfter you find her gown,” I whisper, “where are you going then?”
    â€œIt’s no concern of yours. Now leave me alone.”
    I don’t know how he does it, but he’s asleep in five minutes. I can hear him breathing one meter away, deep and steady in the dark, and it makes me more calm.
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    Sometime after sunrise, I am kicked awake. At first I am confused and afraid, but then I am happy because the foot that is kicking me has no boot on it and belongs to an old lady. But she is not happy and kicks César also. “This is not a hotel,” she says. “Get up.”
    â€œLo siento, doña,” says César. “I need to buy a gown for the Virgin Juquila.”
    â€œNo you don’t,” she says. “You need to go home and sober up. Now get away from here. I’m busy.”
    We crawl out from under the tables and are surrounded by flowers—roses, birds of paradise, gladioli and bundles of orchids from the Sierra. The sight of them there so many and so close makes me think of my abuelo and I feel it hard in my chest. All these flowers we put on his grave. César is already moving away deeper into the market, which is wide awake now.