Sand Dollars: VI

    Magda’s hair, however, rustled and rushed like the sea in a tempest.  Her hair read her thoughts.  You may have seen mothers go to great lengths to save a child in danger, and Magda was no different.  As her body stood statue still her hair took on all her fury, and it weaved around Alvaro as an advancing Terciopelo goes after prey.  With the strength of a bull it rushed toward The Old Hermit. 
    The Old Hermit turned to leave, his brow full of sweat, his legs wobbling.  “I’m sorry Alvaro.  You broke the agreement.”  He ran to the door.  “Good-”
    Magda’s hair reached him.  It encircled his stomach and neck.  It cradled their child and laid him to rest on the floor.  He still cried.  And then it lifted the Old Hermit off his feet and tightened around his neck.
    “No, Magda, I will die!”  Alvaro faced his wife and pleaded with her.  “Put him down!  Please!  You can’t even…” but something inside him told him to stop.
    A mother does not listen to reason when her child is endangered, she can only respond.  The fury and madness of such a woman is a sight to behold, the animal strength, the resolute and fiery eyes.  And her hair, passed down through countless generations, its immortality obvious in her son’s hair, its strength drawn on a raging love, snapped the neck of The Old Hermit.  His face was contorted.  His eyes upturned.  He slumped to the ground, holding that same expression. 
    Magda slumped to the ground, exhausted.  Her hair had the strength to cradle the child, which stopped the crying.
    Alvaro took his son from the now limp hair and walked over to his wife. 
    “Magda.  Magda.  Magdalena.  Wake up,” he pleaded with her.  Jose Paolo started to cry again.  Alvaro ran to get some water and splashed it on her face.  Magdalena stirred.  He kept shaking her.  Finally, after minutes of unconsciousness, she came back.  She wrapped an arm around Alvaro and cradled Jose Paolo with the other.  “We are safe.  We are safe.  We are safe.”
    *    *    *    *
    Alvaro did not tell her right away that he was dying.  They spent the day together with their new child, watching him sleep, remembering their courtship, and they even walked out to the sea, hand in hand, and looked as far as they could in the distance.  Maria Serva stayed with the sleeping child.  Staring at the sea, a warm breeze on their face Magda finally mentioned what Alvaro had been trying to all day.
    “You’re going to die, aren’t you?”
    Alvaro nodded.  “I was bit by a Terciopelo.  The Old Hermit said he would completely heal me after he healed Jose Paolo.  He was going to take him until his 17th birthday.  Magda,” he looked into her olive eyes, his hand on her almond skin, “it was the only way to save both of us.  I suppose my luck has brought my end.”
    Magda smiled through tears beginning to run.  “Your luck has come to an end.”
    The next day, which was Friday, Alvaro went back to the Hermit’s cave.  Magda stayed home.  He sang the whole way.  The trip took a little longer than last time; Alvaro had felt a cold in his feet the night before and could not get them warm all that day.  But he reached the cave and took the sand dollar candles and a few small statues.  He also found another room hidden behind another dark linen sheet that looked like a cave wall.  The room was full of barrels filled with fermented sand dollar juice.  He drank as much juice as he could, and filled up his canteen.  He hoped to find a great book, full of magical incantations, but the only paper he discovered was a tattered letter hidden between the barrels.  It read:

Brother,
    You have your wish.  I used my gift to create, and I created the ocean current you desired.  From now on, the sand dollars will wash to the Great Piedras River, no more to our humble town.  For this, I ask that you spare this town and don’t send on it the destruction you have threatened.  Do not send the Terciopelo attacks.  There is no need to worry about me, I have used the last of my creating powers to change the very fabric of the ocean.  Since I cannot affect life, it is the best I can do.
    I don’t see why you don’t live here with us.  Your popularity would exceed mine; I can only bring wealth, you can bring life.  Life is always better than wealth.  I ask you one last time to leave your solitary life and do good with the gifts our father gave you.
    I am going upriver now.  But, if I do hear of Terciopelo attacks, knowing that although I cannot kill you, your life will be nothing but pain until the end. 
    You can always do good, though.
Your Blood,
Ibrahim Ormidas de Terce

    Alvaro gave the letter to his wife upon returning home, along with the candles and statues and the cup of juice left in the canteen.
    The following day Alvaro could not warm his hands or his feet.  He spent it with his son and his wife, sleeping and talking and laughing.  He dusted off the piano, revealing its black finish, and played it for an hour that evening.  The whole town, hearing the music, came out into the street.  Some ran home and brought back their guitars. Dancing and music filled the streets for the first time in years. 
    The next day he was stooped down by blankets, struggling to keep warm.  But he played the music again, and Magda sang, and the town came out.  They danced as only people can dance who haven’t done so in years, with heart and soul and desire.  People smiled at each other and slapped each other on the back.  As it grew dark, Alvaro set out a sand dollar candle, and it lit the whole street like midday.  There were shouts and laughter.  Jose Paolo made an appearance, carried around for the last time by his father.  The town was alive again.
    Alvaro died the following evening.  The cold had eaten away at him, but he did not die alone.  His wife and son were next to him, and The Priest delivered his last rites.  Magda wept when he finally closed his eyes for the last time. 
    The evening that Alvaro died was the last time the town did not dance at night in 17 years. 
    At his burial they sang the old, sad Spanish song. 
    Jose Paolo is a young man himself who now pursues young women and will probably decide soon to marry.  Magdalena is a beautiful widow, who, though she has more wrinkles and has lost the luster of her youth, still makes men catch their breath with her grace and dignity.  Her hair, still active, has never come back to what it was before The Old Hermit came to their house that night.  It now boasts flecks of gray and doesn’t require such constant trimming.  But it lives on with Jose Paolo’s wild hair, as it will with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. 
    Magda is on the second-to-last candle for dancing at night, and wonders what will happen when they are finally gone.  She looks almost daily now at the old letter that Alvaro left to her, and even with her motherly protective instinct, wonders if she should show it to Jose Paolo. 
    The town now lives off the making of guitars, the finest of which are strung with Magda’s famous hair.  The guitars ship all over the country, and up the Great Piedras River to young musicians, the grandchildren of great artists, who live in the capital.  There is not as much wealth as in the days of the sand dollars, but no one seems to mind, or is even aware.  For there is more life.