When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

"Farias is back," he said. "And Luis, too."

"Good," said Manuel. "I want to talk to Farias. Where is he?"

"He's at the mill."

Manuel's horse pushed her nose against her feedbox to ward off flies.

"I'll be right along."

"Where's Don Raul?"

"Injured—at Palma Sola."

"Qué malo!"

They walked toward the mill, the flour-skinned fellow behind Manuel, his whites billowing with air as he strode.

Here and there, tiles had crashed during the quake; an adobe hut, where plows were stored, had collapsed, dumping adobes like dominoes. From a distance, the residence seemed to have escaped. Manuel did not question El Cisne. The path led quickly through an orange grove to the mill, an eighteenth century building, with French earmarks, even a few fleurs-de-lis. A Medina had hired a Gascon architect to do both mill and house but the French influence had long ago disappeared from the house, due to quakes and remodelings.