Part 3

Not even giving the boy a passing glance, the man responded, "This place is a sacred place. It calls people to its burgundy banks. Natives used to fear it, they believed that the river calls for blood to fuel its eternal flow."

The man sighed as if releasing a great weight. The boy saw no humor left on the man's blank face. His face was void of all emotion.

Sammy's heartbeat began to thud, hammering away like a man trying to escape.

The man turned from the winding curves of the river to look at the boy with sympathy in his eyes.

In a regretful tone the man began the story, "A Spanish conquistador came to America looking for the streams of eternal life. He dedicated his whole life to the affair. His men were driven beyond their breaking point. They abandoned him, stealing his supplies and leaving him to die. One man stayed with the old conquistador. One man of a hundred, loyal to his cause. This man was his son, who grew up on the adventures his father shared. He vowed to his broken, beaten-down father that he would see it through. The father was proud, knowing that his son would do anything for him. They had been without food for nearly two weeks. They were diseased and their bodies were being consumed by their own insatiable hunger. The adventurers came to this area. For days they had been led to this river. They heard it calling them. Red River, Red River, fresh blood please deliver. This mantra filled their consciousness. They dreamed of red rivers; they trudged forward. Their feet began to bleed, and their skin blistered from the cruel heat. They felt no pain, until similar to us they looked from the banks to see the river of blood below them. Five years later the old conquistador returned alone."

Young Sammy stared at the river in disgust. Entirely shocked that the man quoted the incessant riddle he had been hearing since he fell off his bike. Unable to move, paralyzed by fear the boy asked, "What was that old conquistador's name?"

The man looked at the boy with a sly grin, "Very good, you might be the first one to make that connection. I do appreciate a smart boy. His name was Tomas Bahena."

The boy's jaw dropped, and his bladder let loose. Wetness ran down his legs soaking his shorts. In a barely audible tone, the boy asked, "How did your son die?"

"Bravo! It is quite a shame for such a clever boy to have such a few years of life. You see, eternal life is achievable, but it has such a horrible cost. It is not free. Life for life is the trade. Your life shortened; my life lengthened."

The boy, bike in hand trembling with fear, closed his eyes in resolve.

*

The sun went down on a frantic Laura Nicholson, desperately searching the front yard for her missing son. Phone was in hand to dial the police department, when the concerned woman looked into the darkness and saw a shape.

It was a male figure walking towards her. A sledgehammer beating away from the inside of her chest. The man stepped into the light and with a sigh of relief she noticed it was her son.

She went to embrace him, yet something deep inside her cringed at his sight. He looked the same, if not a bit smeared with dirt, but his eyes stopped her in her tracks. They were hard, the eyes of a man who's seen too much. They looked her up and down and immediately dismissed her.

The boy, in an emotionless tone said, "Sorry mom the chain on my bike broke and I had to walk back home."

Laura looked and saw what seemed to be blood stains on the sleeve of his shirt. She studied the boy's figure; she saw no wounds on him. His unmarred skin shone bright in the pale moonlight. The woman, still holding her son, closed the door, drowning out the steady beating of the river off in the distance.

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