Los Madrigales(Charles E.J. Moulton) Los Madrigales

A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton

***

The sleeping figure on the porch had not moved for almost three hours now. As peasants wandered by with their goods, loving couples during morning strolls, kids playing with wooden spinning tops, Padre Barrera with his cat Alejandro walking out of the templo with his watering bucket, the costureras of the pueblo sewing their colorful carpets, the man in black remained seated on a wicker chair, his feet up on the wooden railing, hat over his eyes, arms crossed. Why he had arrived there at all was somewhat of a mystery to most. Only a chosen few knew what this really was about. People did not come unannounced here very often.

For some reason, this stranger became the focal point of the town that Wednesday in St. Michaela, a village named after the patron saint of charity from Madrid. Something mysteriously solemn surrounded this hombre nero, but also something truthful, like a promise kept to a loved one. People gazed, silently waiting for the man to move.

"Patrona de la caridad."

The laundry lady that came mid-week to pick up the hotel bed sheets took three steps up to the porch to speak to Jorge, the innkeeper, as to who that man was.

"¿Quién es este hombre extraño sentado en el porche de tu hotel, Jorge? ¿Qué muere quiere?" ("Who is this strange man sitting on the porch of your hotel, Jorge? What does he want?")

Jorge could only say what he knew.

"Mi amor. El hombre apareció de la nada al amanecer, pidiendo un tequila. Se aseguró de que fuera su tipo favorito. Luis Clemente Blanco." (The man had appeared from nowhere at dawn, asking for a tequila. He made sure it was his favorite kind. Luis Clemente White.)

He asked for three loaves of bread from the bakery and would pay handsomely for Jorge to get it for him. He had been riding a very long way through deserts and canyons, he claimed, and needed sleep.
Did he need a room, Jorge had asked.
No, the mysterious man had claimed, a wicker chair was all he needed. That and his hat over his eyes would suffice well enough, thank you very much.

Well, Jorge could not say more than that. But good old Jorge wandered out of the inn every five minutes to see if the man had moved. Every time, however, he was disappointed to see no difference in his position nor the position of his black horse.

Exactly at noon, St. Michaela's small chapel bell rang. It was a hollow kind of bell. A tin-like sound, the kind one would hear from a township citadel that had created a sacred place from the last pesos in the collector's basket. Las Michaelas was very proud of the hundred seat chapel. That and the fact that the local Padre Barrera held seven masses every Sunday to accomodate for all the believers.

The man that had sat in his wicker chair now all morning slowly lowered his feet from the porch railing. Almost right away, his black steed lifted her head, looking beady-eyed at the senor.

One little boy had been sweeping the street for the last half hour or so. He had looked up at the sleeping man with a large smile upon his face. The sandy surface must have been totally exempt of dirt by now, but that didn't matter. The boy wanted to stay outside watching the man before... it... happened. He knew what had happened to his own grandmother's citadel a day's march from here seventy years ago. There had been an unspeakable boom to the city after the visit of the man she had called Los Madrigales. Grandma Consuela had known for years that he would appear again some day. Little Luis had grown up with the story, looking forward to the day when at last he would usher in a new age for Las Michaelas.

The family spoke very little of the matter, the mother and father standing behind the old abuela. They knew. Fernandita really had become the heart of the region seventy years ago, out of nowhere masses of people gathering to receive their blessing. Nowadays, Fernandita was just another medium sized city. Back then, it had become the holy city of Mary Magdalene.

After all, Grandma Consuela remembered taking the three loaves back then into her small hands, noticing the floury rugged texture of the loaves, the smell of freshly baked bread, rich and nourishing.
"And he broke the bread and fed the hungry."
Consuela did so, as well. Everyone got a piece. A small piece enough for one bite, but still a piece. A magic blessing of divine luck.

Luis gazed at the villagers gathering just like the villagers of Fernandita had seven decades ago, speaking about Mary Magdalene, the Archangel Michael and Consuela dozens of times in dreams after that. Who the man in black was. What his mission was, inaugerating new eras, new cycles.

"Consuela," Luis whispered in his boy soprano. "Los Madrigales."

Consuela smiled. It was the half-smile of memory, her life mysterious magic. Antonia, her daughter, lay her hand on her Mama's shoulder, smiling reassuringly, her husband Bernardo laying his arm around his wife's waist. He had known all along Consuela had told the truth.

The man took the one shot of Luis Clemente Blanco in his right hand. It had been waiting there now since dawn. The tequila tasted sharp, as sharp as the Mexican sun. The three loaves of bread were thrown into the little leather bag Los Madrigales had hung on his steed's saddle. The spurs clicked and tingled as he walked down the porch, taking the horse with him, up to the small six year-old, who gazed at the tall man with the look of wonder. Was this a God? An angel? An illusion?

Los Madrigales knelt down, raising his rugged hand to touch the boy's face. "La Reina Espritual, the Spirit Queen, has sent for you," Los Madrigales crooned through his three-day beard.

Luis winced, the balls of desert grass whizzing past the man he called angelic. "For me, Senor? I am but a boy."

Los Madrigales shook his head. "No, Guapo, your soul chose to be here to bring luck to your town."

Los Madrigales gazed behind him, seeing literally the whole town gathered in peaceful throngs of sanctity.

The man reached into his saddle bag, taking out the loaves and handing them one by one to the boy.

"These loaves are for the father, the son and the holy ghost."

Luis felt the vibrations of sanctity in the bread now. It was as if the man had done something to the loaves, injecting holy light into them.

Los Madrigales now stood up, picking up the boy with the loaves, nodding lovingly at him. There was an air of brightness in his iris, his long hair flowing below his hat, twelve sparks of beauty inside his aura. Luis saw himself in a previous incarnation, a boy in the holy land, carried by the same soul. "We shall all remain as holy as children in our hearts," the man in black whispered, his baritone as rich as Monterey wine, as warm as a Spanish Flamenco guitar. "The Queen swore after her beloved Lord transcended to send an angel to bless a child every seventy years that would take his light elsewhere. You are that lightbringer. All children are, you know, Guapo?"

The boy nodded. He put the child down, as gently as if he had been a porcelain doll. Luis skin began vibrating, that sensation transporting from his back to the hairs on his neck. Los Madrigales, he thought to himself, is the messenger of the Queen. But who was the Queen?

"The Queen is making my skin vibrate?"

Los Madrigales nodded. He knelt down, pecking the boy on the shoulder.
"It's called love, Guapo," he whispered.

The little boy looked up at the sky, gesturing toward the heavens. "Is that your home?"

"The home of the high vibration... of love."

Luis laughed. It was the laugh of miracle sensations.

Los Madrigales seemed to be touched by the little boy's spirit. He shook his head.

"It's magic."

He waved his eyebrows, getting the extraordinary look of someone in possession of the deepest and most profound truth.

"The world floats on invisible wings," Los Madrigales sang, his voice as tender as a rainbow, gesturing three times toward Luis chest, "and you are the wind countlessly breathing life into different feathers. Your home is your heart."

Antonia and Bernardo made awe inspired sounds, causing Consuela to chuckle.

"Es un poeta, ¿no es verdad?"

"Si, si, Abuela! Si!" Antonia mused.

"Muy bien."

Bernardo rumbled happily. So often, the Mexican bookkeeper was lost for words. His wife was way more talkative. How he had landed this talkative beauty was a mystery to him. All that he could say was that he felt blessed. Blessed to have a son like Luis, one that continued the Estrada tradition of feeding the poor to create joy. Los Madrigales had appeared to him in a dream three months ago, telling him he would come, just like Gabriel had appeared before Joseph, so he knew that it was all true.
"Muy, muy bien," he repeated, even lower and even more quiet.

Luis looked at the loaves in his hands. Los Madrigales grew quiet, gently looking up at the old woman sitting on the porch. He remembered how inquisitive she had been, how wondrously he saw that curiosity blossom inside her spirit as he smiled.

"I remember you," the old lady nodded, her slightly hoarse voice revealing a hint of nostalgia, dusty memories of the young girl she had once been, long before hard-nosed muchachos had stolen her heart, weather beaten thoughts overblown by a thousand sandy winds, one appearing spectre from the past reappearing to dust off the desert and reveal the spiritual gold inside her heart. She nodded, her half-smile beautifully aged with grace. "You have not changed a bit."

Los Madrigales broke into a sweet smile, his hand on Luis' shoulder, still clutching his three loaves of bread, dust beaten by now. The obvious tender air in Los Madrigales aura now rose a notch, causing the old lady's nostrils to flutter, just like they had seventy years before. He walked up to Consuela, raised his hand, lovely in its poetry, soft in its touch. Her skin a road-map of wisdom. She remembered that touch. How elegant his fingers had been. How long and sensitive, nougat-colored bliss. He now felt her feelings. And how she shone inside. That girl was still inside her. "You, Consuela, have only grown more beautiful."

Grandma Consuela twinkled in her glory, that angel appearing as a stranger. One tear of joy rolled down her cheek. "How is he, Michaelos?"

Los Madrigales nodded. "He is with you every day, even in your present incarnation. Never has he left you, not for two thousand years. You call him your savior, but he speaks of you as his. You and your long hair oiling his feet. Maria Angelicos, he calls you."

Funny, how Consuela had been blessed with memories from her incarnations. Being re-born as a man? Unthinkable. She was a female soul.

"Women shine in the higher stratospheres."

"Warmth," Los Madrigales answered, looking up at the sun. "That is why the Lord chose to appear in Mexico. It is as warm as the female spirit."

Warm deserted Mexico had always remained close to the heart that had been Mary Magdalene. The tequila, the jalapenos, the red dresses, the sandy streets, the sultry sonnets played on old guitars that had been passed on from generation to generation.

"He gave you your nickname, Michaelos," Consuela whispered, the soul of the young maiden blooming out of her old heart like the Malaguena of a Mexican rose.

Los Madrigales remembered. The old lady rocking on the porch did not even have to think for a minute what was going on behind those deep dark brown eyes.

"Swirling bride with dark hair, a twilight-like curiosity, her lovely dancing bridegroom respectful and cordial."

And in their midst, a passionate angel making music and a divine creature, a savior, the singing of mamacitas who took care of their children like the Earth took care of its people. The holy man of the sacred twelve vocalists all joined in the music, singing heavenly music. The conclusion of the improvisation culminating in a soaring lyric.

"Music reaches for love
And love reaches for song,
Within the song,
Is the mother caring for a baby,
Singing a simple lullaby,
We are all of the songs
That our mothers sang to us
As babes.
So the angel playing
Is the focus of all the tunes
In people's hearts,
He is the symphony of all
The madrigals."

As Michael, the King of Song Singing for Mothers, Madri-Gales, the angel Consuela remembered as this man in black, chuckled, thinking of the thousands of human years lived in an instant, and how the loaves of bread and a few songs sent positive shivers down the spines of Mexicans.
He sent Luis the thought and the energy he had given Consuela seventy years ago.
Immediately, Luis began moving in swift swing, something the St. Michaela citizens called, Danza de los Viejitos, the dance of the little old men.

"Remember. These three loaves, Luis, are for the father, the son and the holy ghost," Michaelos, Los Madrigales, shouted, laughing, waving his arms about, watching how the holy ghost inspired the boy to break the loaves into small pieces. "Let everyone in the village have a bite of this prosperous luck."

Los Madrigales began dancing, throwing his hat in the air and laughing.

The villagers gathered in the Carretera Principal, all seven hundred of them, like throngs of roses. They smiled as the boy began dancing about the square, almost caught by some mysterious inner fire, hopping about. Michael remembered Consuela Estrada hopping about just like that. Her name chosen by herself in between lives to prove who she was.

"A consolation that paves the way to divinity. And joy... begat heavenly joy. Music!"

And Luis, the famous champion of name, was only a champion because he fought for what was good simply without weapons, just by dancing and breaking the holy bread.

Where the guitarra came from nobody knew, but as Luis handed everyone a bite, Los Madrigales stood there, his voice golden, his soul glittering and his heart a diamond necklace. His vocalized words were as gorgeous as they had been back at the wedding two thousand years ago. Madrigales, the Archangel Michael, sang and Consuela Estrada fondly remembered.

"Music reaches for love
And love reaches for song,
Within the song,
Is the mother caring for a baby,
Singing a simple lullaby,
We are all of the songs
That our mothers sang to us
As babes.
So the angel playing
Is the focus of all the tunes
In people's hearts,
He is the symphony of all
The madrigals."

"La música busca el amor
Y el amor alcanza la canción,
Dentro de la canción,
¿La madre está cuidando a un bebé, Cantando una canción de cuna sencilla,
Somos todas las canciones
Que nos cantaban nuestras madres Como nenas.
Así que el ángel jugando
Es el foco de todas las melodías en el corazón de la gente,
Él es la sinfonía de todos.
Los madrigales."

The flow of inspiration of the angelic voice flew into Mira, the laundry lady, who had been standing on Jorge's porch all the while. She quickly cast her eyes on the perplexed hotel owner.

"Mi amor," she double-whammied, "como estas, hombre sensual? Bailar con me!"

Jorge's low bass shot up into a high tenor as both rushed onto the sandy estrada. Their rush of energy started a real explosion of light in the small village, 700 Mexicans breaking into song and dance. Little Luis watched all this with awe and delight as he managed to feed all of them, one hour that seemed like a minute, bite by bite. The child could not really understand what power lay behind the fact that the loaves lasted to feed all these people. Maybe it had to do with Los Madrigales, who sang that song all the while. Where did the orchestra come from? And the smell of sweet orchids? It was an awe inspiring feeling that caused the pochito muchacho to run laughing to his parents and abuela, happy tears in his eyes.

"It's... the most... fun I... I've had in my... life," he panted.

Embraced by his family, they distinctly felt the presence of Consuela's deceased husband Julio, whose soul criss-crossed the porch.

Every person with an instrument was out on the street now, playing like they had never played before. Old cans, spoons and laps and fingers used as drums.

Los Madrigales left the party to go to the little boy tapping his feet to the rhythm of the music, his danza de los viejos a regular fuego of joy.

"You see now, pochito, that joy comes from within?"

Luis laughed, a true bouncey burst of bubbly guffaws coming out his mouth.

"Te quiero, Senor Los Madrigales!"

The angel had felt the joy of many a soul on his road through eternity. But the cascade of light from the heart of a child always inspired him most.

"The eternal blessing of love, my boy, is that it enlightens everyone. In fact, you are love."

When Los Madrigales looked up, his gaze met that gorgeous soul he had known in the body of that other woman two thousand years ago.
"Maybe I can be reincarnated as Luis daughter?" the old woman mused. "Then I can pass on the holy light again."

Los Madrigales half-smiled, strolling back down the porch stairs toward his black steed. "There's time to decide that when you return, Consuela," he spoke, tenderly.

In Luis father's eyes, Los Madrigales saw Joseph, the Lord's father. It was the holy light that lived in each soul, laying discovered or undiscovered. There was a modesty there, one not uncommon, but one seldom lived.

"Will he return?" Bernardo spoke in soft tones.

"He never left you."
Los Madrigales threw the saddle bag over the back of his horse, shrugging and smiling at the father. "All you have to do is look in your heart and you will find him."

"Who is he?"

"He is the father, the son and the holy ghost. He is inside all of you. To show you that is why he came here in the first place."

Antonia tilted her head tenderly. "To show us we can be holy?"

"To show you that you are holy."

"What about all the wars, the famine, the cruelty?" Antonia wondered.

"Be compassionate. See the pain and heal it with love without becoming the pain itself."

Los Madrigales took a step forward, pleading for mankind's soul.

"You need no pharisees or clerics or temples to find God. Your Charlamagne said it well. Let my army be the birds in the skies. Let my temple be my heart. The Lord showed you the spiritual power of the individual. Love and compassion are God already. Look at Luis. His truth should be your guiding light."

As the beauty of the music continued to explode across the plains, the angel mounted. The angel gazed at the group of happy villagers, speaking to the family while admiring the gatherers.

"So be tolerant even to the intolerant. Accept even those who have an opinion contrary to yours. For if you cannot be modest, who can be? You are the manifestation of a dream. The truth is inside you. No priest can lead you to love. You have to BE love."

"Senor?"

"Yes, Luis?"

"What should we do when we see someone do the wrong thing?"

"The true change can only come from within, Luis," Los Madrigales answered, "mankind's problem is that it cannot stand differences of opinion. If you go to war to obliterate differences of opinion, all you achieve is to inspire hatred. Killing people to avenge a murder is joining the enemy."

Los Madrigales seemed to drift off into a vision now, one where the Mexican plains became a quantum playground of hope, fixing lost chances, starting over.

"Imagine a battlefield with no soldiers. Wars end that have no soldiers."

He looked back at the family, the rider and the horse one being. A champion of divine mercy.

"Someone has to stop the killing. Find the light. Be the light. Live the light. You cannot force change. You can only inspire it. What you feel will become your reality. So choose love, not anger or fear. Let those who are without sin cast the first stone. You are all God's children, so become the father, the son and the holy ghost. That is the point of this whole operation."

"So there is hope, Los Madrigales?" Luis inquired.

The steed shifted in her step, neighing, as if telling him something was wrong, causing Los Madrigales to realize he must calm Luis nerves by way of an allegory. You see, the horse was by no means by accident a female. Like all females, the horse was the conscience of the male angel. That was the true meaning of Yin and Yang.

"I will tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a farmer. He was modest, kind, hard working and intelligent. In spite of his wife's feisty temper, a characteristic based on worry, he always remained calm. One day, the woman brought a beautiful baby girl to the world. She was the apple of their eye. As time passed on, however, the baby girl started worrying, as well, and began fighting for the farmer's attention. The farmer spent most of his time tending to the needs of his wife and daughter, who sometimes even fought over him, who was going to get her way first or at all. The farmer became more and more distraught because of this, drinking excess amounts of alcohol to deal with the problem. But the problem persisted. Both women were frustrated with each other and with him for not being able to take a stand. But the man could not take a stand because it was like a choice between eating and sleeping. So, he left his family, his power eventually deteriorating. He got lost in a whirlwind of addiction until he woke up one morning in a pool of his own vomit in a stranger's bed. Hitting rock bottom made him realize who he really was, forcing him to take a stand. He returned to his family, telling them not to use him as bait or reason for their fights. He told them he was always going to choose both of them. They were a family and in families everyone is equal. After that, the women solved their issues and harmony returned to the household."

Bernardo let the story sink into his soul, wondering what it meant. Los Madrigales knew that the silent man was just as deep as the soul he had been two thousand years ago.

"Honesty and calm are the cornerstones of peace."

Los Madrigales smiled.
"Your instinct serves you well, but don't forget love."

"We won't, Los Madrigales," Luis added, his gaze drifting across the singing villagers. "How do we keep this luck going?"

"Keep the faith."

Los Madrigales nodded, almost to himself, his horse nodding along with him as if he were the same creature, the steed and the hero one diligent and divine being. His thoughts seemed to wander, seemingly contemplating creation itself.

"Love each other. Multiply the light," he seemed to say.

The horse neighed, standing up upon two legs, the sound of a Mexican guitar in pentatonic scales ringing across the plains.

There was an air of dreamy truth to the landscape that day as Los Madrigales gazed up towards the heavens from where he had come. And then, the family was sure of it, they swore his entire persona changed, transforming into white light. There was no rider anymore, just a beacon of beauty.

Every dancer, every reveller, every singer, they all stopped in their step watching Los Madrigales ascend. Years afterwards, the villagers talked of almost nothing else, they were sure that the rider in black transformed into the initials I.N.R.I. as he rode into the sun.

On the terrace of Casa de Huéspedes Especial de Jorge, two lonely people, a hotel owner and a laundry lady, found love in each other's arms. The kiss felt like a drink of water in a dry desert, like the lost son coming home, the samaritan taking care of a poor man.

"Your kiss is an act of mercy, just like Los Madrigales and his love."

"I heard your call, Jorge."

"Like a cry for help."

As the man looked up at the sky, seeing the initials written in light upon the blue stratosphere, his new love learned against his chest. His love made him realize how calm everyone had become. It was as if the energy of love was connected, love to love, one energy source.

"I am a champion," he whispered, kissing her again.

"A champion of mercy,"

"Mira, mi amor."

"Si, Jorge?"

"Everyone is embracing."

The laundry lady Jorge now could call the one that would do his personal washing, she looked around, smiling. "Oh, Lord, you're right."

"Now I understand," Jorge mused, a spark of light flickering in his eyes.

"What do you understand, mi oso de miel?" Mira mused in a musical lilt that sounded almost like the northern Corrido she had known as a child, her mezzo tenderly husking Jorge with a warm breath. Honey bear, oso de miel, had been her mother's loving nickname for her father. And she stood there, holding a man she had secretly admired for years, she also secretly in her heart knew what he was going to say.

"Where two are gathered in my name, I shall be among them."

Hugs and kisses.
Bernardo hugged Antonia. Consuela hugged Luis. Padre Barrera hugged his cat Alejandro. The head seemstress hugged her twin daughters Isabella and Juana. Everybody had someone to hug.

"Our names," Mira whispered, leaning against his chest, "mean seeing the earth in ancient tongues. Mira and Jorge."

Jorge raised his eyebrows, chuckling hoarsely. "You're a poet."

"And don't I know it?"
The hefty woman, who at last was dealing with the loss of her late husband, giggled in return.
"You want to know something else?"

"Dime lo que quieras."

"The brandname, Jorge," Mira smooched, her eyes wandering about, "means champion of mercy."

On Jorge's table, a bottle of Luis Clemente Blanco resided, a brand, he realized he had never ordered nor heard of before.

"I had no idea," he answered. He looked at her with a look of amazement. "Did you?"

Mira shook her head. "Just thought of it now."

Jorge took a long look at the bottle. There was a dreamy look on his face, one filled with memories of the magic mountains of his youth. He had climbed Pico de Orizaba with his Uncle Julio as a fourteen year-old and been awestruck over the view of the Gulf of Mexico. But the realization that one phrase Mira had spoken just a minute earlier was repeated on the label of a bottle whose origin was unclear, that was an amazing prospect. The prospect of dreams.

And all at once, the embracing and kissing villagers looked up at the sun, viewing it now in a totally different light, absolutely sure that they had seen the Lord.

But then their eyes fell upon a small boy in their midst, so like the young child that had changed humanity in the holy land.

And they wondered if maybe they all could be holy creatures.

---