La Revolucionaria.

La Revolucionaria

The  relentlessly hot sun was a remorseless killer. It burned what few plants there were to brown crispy, shrivelled remnants. It dried out the water troughs and fountains each day long before noon and turned the dusty air into a blistering, skin peeling scourge as the hot wind rushed to try, hopelessly, to find the cool. A man, known only as The Revolutionary survived here. The town, long forgotten by all but the most diligent of cartographers, was called El Olvido. The town was aptly named and in the Revolutionary’s mind a place called ‘The Oblivion’ was as good a place to be as any.

The Revolutionary’s real name was long ago buried beneath layers of whisper and rumour. He was known only as ‘ El Revolucionario.’The good people of El Olvido, beaten down by poverty and oppression, spoke of him in hushed tones, always with eyes darting, searching out hidden dangers and onlookers. Fearful that even the walls had ears. But even so, he remained present, forever on the periphery of consciousness.

Wraith-like, he moved through ramshackle streets. His very existence feeding a rhythm of discontent, awakening dormant seeds of rebellion. The town, suffocating in despair, yearned for a saviour, a rescuer from oblivion.

The Revolutionary made no grand gestures or flamboyant speeches. A person of silent action, methods as subtle as a dust devil stirring the footsteps on long untrodden roads. He had a network of shadows within shadows, carrying out his will without question. They, too, existed in the margins, utterly overlooked.

The first indication that he had been stirred into action at last was the sudden disappearance of the town's so-called mayor. A man so wealthy as to be untouchable, so corrupt as to be beyond reproach and a man whose cruelty was a byword of daily life.

The news spread like wildfire, whispered, reaching the ears of the oppressed like a forbidden secret. The Revolutionary's justice was swift, his methods unknown. No one mourned the mayor’s sudden disappearance. Not his wife. Certainly not his teenage daughter and most definitely not the citizens of El Olvido.

For a time, there were no new ‘mayors’ stepping into the old mayor’s shoes. No other impossibly rich, incredibly corrupt, heartless or cruel contenders for the position. The vacuum was not mysteriously and suddenly filled by another of equal appalling, grasping greed. Not immediately, anyway.

A new equilibrium emerged, like a fragile flower pushing through a desolate dry riverbed. People felt, for the first time, a flicker of hope. The Revolutionary became a symbol of defiance against a system that long held them under.

It didn’t take too long, of course, for someone to decide to simply reach out and pluck that fragile flower. Men came with very large cars and very large guns and suddenly, the air was thick with tension, crackling with the static of impending change back to the status quo. El Revolucionario's network moved, striking with precision, leaving oppressors dead. There was no mercy shown to the powerful oppressors.

But more came. And then again still more.

And each confrontation left scars of a silent war waged in shadows. But the conflicts escalated, the town became a canvas painted in shades of rebellion and repression. The poorer people began to be killed ‘in retaliation’. Eventually, the Revolutionary was branded a terrorist by the oppressors. They said he masterminded a terrorist organisation. Ordinary people were surprised to find that they too, who had only that morning been goat farmers, were now also terrorists.

The Revolutionary, seemingly always one step ahead, led a resistance that refused to be drowned out by townspeople's despair. His actions spoke louder than words, a language understood by those suffering in silence. The town stood at the crossroads of its destiny.

They got him, of course, in the end. He turned out to be a she. She became the wearer of a Columbian necktie one bright clear morning. The act was carried out in the town square, under the statue of Saint Laura of Saint Catherine of Siena, for all to see. The townsfolk all agreed that she, La Revolucionaria, was a martyr, but then, what use is a martyr? A martyr won’t feed the children.

The oppressors, having crushed the rebellion, appointed a new mayor and simply returned to their ways. They spent a little time trying to erase the memory of defiance that lingered in the blistering streets and sweaty bars like a bitter aftertaste. But not too much time - they didn’t really care anyway. The town retreated into reluctant silence, embers of rebellion smouldering uselessly beneath a silent despair.

It would be nice to think that, In quiet desperation, the townsfolk found solace in the knowledge that, for a brief moment, they had dared to challenge the status quo. But it would be a mistake. El Revolucionario, ignited a spark that for a short time refused to be extinguished. Some, whispering in the shadows talked of a possibility, that one day, the town might rise again from ashes, its spirit unbroken, its people unyielding. But they were just the usual - the young, the dreamers, the drunks. The ordinary folk just got on with their lives. Poor, miserable and unthought about. That was their lot. That was, after all, what Oblivion is all about.