The second year was a replica of the first. In no time, the abundance of Pete’s garden fed rampant murmurs all over the village. That year there was, however, an added marvel giving further room to the growing rumours. The color of the flowers and the aroma of the fruits attracted birds and insects never seen in those fields.
“He manipulates nature and speaks to animals,” one suggested.
“Perhaps he is a sorcerer,” said another, leaving the doubt hanging from a thin thread of imagination.
“We have to be careful,” said a last, in a sacramental tone, the same tone used in Sunday church to preach about sin and hell.
After all, the townspeople were strong believers in the dominion of God over nature. They were distrustful of anyone who did not attend church on Sundays or the Novena in the evenings, a tradition kept from ancient times, when the first Franciscans, coming with the invaders, forced local natives to follow the cross.
This year, the earlier awakening of Pete’s garden caught everybody’s attention. According to the grandmothers who stay behind after mass sharing gossip and cooking secrets, it had taken less than twenty-four hours for the sand to disappear from Pete’s land; something which, of course, was a gross exaggeration, although it appeared that way.
While the rest of Picaflor was still struggling to get rid off the winter, Pete’s plot was an island of Spring, causing envy and resentment. Plants and trees seemed to grow by the hour. In a few days, shiny leaves appeared in the branches, and colourful flowers began to open the sunrise.
On one of those days, some of the neighbours who woke up at dawn saw Pete already outside filling his bird feeders hanging from the fruit trees already in bloom. There was not a solitary bird in sight in the neighbours’ backyards, but flocks of the most colourful ones kept landing in Pete’s garden to enjoy treats strategically placed everywhere.
More than ever before, as time went by, these sudden happenings fueled the collective anxiety, while the fretfulness grew rapidly. It was, however, only the beginning.
∞
Over the years, there has been a hardly noticeable, but very real, build-up of suspicion about Pete’s abilities and behaviour. The inexplicable abundance of his crops, the multitude of flying visitors, and the infinite variety of flowers he grew, never seen before by the local peasants, contributed to cascading rumours. Making things worse, no one knew where he had come from, or what his past was. After all, in Picaflor there were no secrets. Everyone knew the past, present and in some cases, even the future, of everybody else. However, Pete was different. This made many feel very uneasy.
One day, years ago, he had arrived in town carrying only a small bag and a zampoña, a cane flute, which he often played at dusk while sitting on the ground in the middle of his garden. After getting off the old bus that made weekly trips across the desert, he walked along the only wide street, trying to become familiar with the town.
He rented a small room in the dilapidated motel, located somewhere between the centre of the town and the desert, and began looking for a small house in which to live. It took him a while to find what he wanted. While visiting places, he met many residents with whom he engaged in small talk about life in the desert. Curiosity was the driving force for everyone. The locals had rarely seen a stranger wanting to settle in a town so remote from the rest of the world. They were convinced that, except for the bus driver, the rest of the world had forgotten they existed.
Everyone he met found that Pete was eager to know more about the desert, as the only sand his feet had ever touched was on the wet seashore. The few times he mentioned this, people reacted with surprise. Few knew a beach or, for that matter, where the sea was. Thus, their inability to imagine where Pete had come from contributed to the mystery of who he was.
∞
