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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Jan. 14, 1993)
j?Back by Popular Demand I Thiirc TTri Slat ^ R E E G G G G A A E E College Night - Every Monday and Tuesday Night •75# Draws *$3.25 Pitchers *$1.25 Wells & Longnecks Wednesday Nights-Pay What You Weight, lc per pound 1st Pitcher 11435'O'Street 474-21661 You and Your Guests Are Cordially Invited to Attend Fantasia’s Eleventh Annual Weddinj 'air Sunday, January 17,1993 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Comhusker Hotel Ballroom ■ Free Admission ■ Lincoln's largest Wedding Event ■ Door Prizes ■ Free Samples ■ Fashion Shows ■ Over 40 Merchants Provide Displays ■ For the Entire Wedding Partv! I STgJt^Cyy twi*z'<s*cns*.ilAAV-Vl ’-tv • ^ iW^y-VA!_( ■ ' GET BACK INTO THE SWING OF THINGS THURSDAY, JANUARY 14,1993 8.00 PM - MIDNIGHT NEBRASKA EAST UNION UNL STUDENTS WITH ID $2.00 NON STUDENTS $3.00 SPONSORED BY: UPC EAST VOICES COMMITTEE University Program Council Story begins with memories, rain MILAGRO Part one of a serial tale By Mark Baldridge It was a dark and stormy night. The open sewers of Villa Niguna overflowed, a rancid river in thestreel. Rain Hew in the face of Father Able Sanchez, blinding him. "Hell of a night to do your dying in,” he shouted to himself. Shouted to hear himself over the open mouthed roaring of the wind. And he swore an oath against Don MilagroFuentes who had chosen this, of all nights to die. “Never, never!” I'he padre shouted again, meaning there had never been such a storm in all his long memory of Villa Niguna — hot rain, almost hiss ing on the ancient flagstones of the plaza, riding a cold north wind. Steam rose everywhere, from the very dust. Soon everything had been re duced to mud. Father Sanchez on his bicycle was driven by the wind from the muddy road into the muddy fields lime and again as he made his way to the rancho where Milagro F'uentes lay dy ing, possibly dead. Extreme Unction, last rites, usually the padre’s favorite func tion, grew odious at times like these — when the weather made all his bones ache, even by the firedrinkingchocolale, and when the dying man was someone as despised as Don Milagro. "I will have a cold," he mut tered to himself, not caring if he heard, "I will have water in my ears as well, no doubt . A devil of a business!” ’At least he will be no further trouble,” he thought, giving up speech entirely. As he’d grown old the padre had come to dwell more and more upon the past. Finally he’d grown old enough to see his memories clearly, like a motion picture — or so he imagined He had never seen a motion picture himself, though he harbored a secret dream to do so. I lc wished it with all his heart. This wa s t he only vice left him as his body declined: this wish to see a motion picture. Old age had made him almost a saint, who had once been so young and full of fire. Temptations that had burned in him like a brand now held no power over his withered flesh; a fact which he resented bitterly. And so he held in secret to this, his last remaining unraveled strand of hubris. He thought about it constantly. And now he let his memories Clay as a distraction from the itter night and his own discom fort on his wav. Father Sanchez remembered well the day of Milagro Puentes’ christening, now more than forty years ago: a child who seemed more beautiful than others, like an angel on the earth. The boy’s parents were the wealthy heirs of one of the great old families of the region. They had moved to the tiny village and taken up residence in the ancient rancho under doctor’s orders. The young mother, still a girl, was taken sometimes by myste rious fits in which she shut her self up alone in her room and spoke to no one. At such times she went naked, it was said, and thedoctors believed that lifea way from the city would alleviatethcse symptoms of what her husband referred to as her “condition”. A sudden gust took l ather Sanchez by su rpri se and k noc k ed him into the muddy bank of the river that had this-morning been a pleasant lane. He swore like a priest, priests being a notorious repositories of oaths. The child he had christened, who now lay in his death bed, had had the blue Spanish eyes and red hair. His body was smooth and perfect as a plaster saint’s except for one small flaw, almost unno ticed. 11c had six pink fingers on his left hand. Six fingers on his hand! The holy water had been cool and oily to the touch The father’s memory served him even here. F fe felt again the silk of baby skin as he prayed and anointed. F’clt again thesudden fever in the liny body. A fever so great he almost dropped the child in alarm. The water evaporated quickly from • thesmoothuntroubledbrowand left a scent like pomegranates. A r\ s 4 «m /K* 11 r-\r o wnrc wmr** done and the strange and private parents gone, Father Sanchez went back into the cool dark of the church and found the basin of holy water had been turned, it seemed, to milk. It gave off such a strong smell of cream that the pastor nad to dispose of it, not knowing, in truth, whether he had witnessed a miracle or the action of some unholy spirit in the boy. . Finally Father Sanchez reached the great doorway of the rancho, struck the brass and ivory knocker. The door opened a nd a fright ened serving girl lead him in. "Oh Father,” she moaned and fawned on him almost in terror -r-in a way at least that led the Cricst to believe that Don Milagro ad already died "Oh no, Father! He is sitting up in bed demanding breakfast!”
