The bucket of ice and water poured over his head by Ramon “El Toro” Guerra shocked Tate into consciousness. He gasped for breath, realizing the tight rope around his neck held him to a post behind him. The rough wood dug into his scalp. He felt his hands bound with zip-ties to the post behind his back. He was relieved upon realizing his legs were at least unrestrained, and no bones were broken. When his eyes cleared, Tate saw the tall, muscular Hispanic man who, with two other men, put a pillowcase over his head, hit him multiple times in the face, and threw him into the back of an SUV. “Sí, wake up, Ladrón. Cono.” Tate didn’t speak Spanish but knew he was being insulted. Glancing at his surroundings, Tate surmised he was in a barn somewhere. A single light bulb flickered irregularly. The cold concrete floor he sat upon showed cracks from decades of freezing and thawing. A constant cold draft hit him from behind. He heard footsteps and whispered conversation outside, on the other side of the door. Guerra bent down and grabbed his face with a rough, calloused hand. Powerful fingers pressed into one side of his cheek as an equally impressive strong thumb pressed into the other side. Tate detected the odor of whiskey and tobacco on his captor's breath. The large Hispanic man leaned in, his shadow swallowing the light, and spat in Tate’s face. Tate’s jaw clenched as his breath caught in his throat. A mixture of humiliation, fear, and a hint of defiance burned in his eyes. He could not wipe his face. He couldn’t look away, so he just swallowed hard and forced himself to meet Guerra’s stare even as his pulse hammered against the ties cutting into his wrists and his blood boiled. His captor stood upright, backed away, turned, and walked toward the door, and whoever was talking on the other side.

Guerra, in his early thirties, was promoted from enforcer for a ruthless street gang to sicario for the cartel. He was a massive man who bore scars of violent street fights and vicious prison encounters and was known to be unpredictable and extremely loyal. Though simple in speech, he was not stupid. Though he could not fully comprehend his boss's targeting a man's spirit and will rather than just his body, it puzzled him. He struggled with that level of complex cruelty. He was not one to question any order given and kept his lack of understanding of the purposes of the decisions made to himself.

Tate sat perfectly still, awaiting the tall man's return. Tate listened to every footstep, every door creaking from the wind, bracing for whatever the man brought back. Tate forced slow, steady breaths, trying not to panic, telling himself: Stay conscious. Stay sharp. Don’t give him that satisfaction. Guerra returned not with something, but with someone.

“Mr. Red Cloud, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mateo Castaneda. Some refer to me as “El Escribano.” He stood at Tate’s feet. He, too, was a tall man, not as heavy as Guerra, well-dressed in a dark suit and a black overcoat. He looked like he was in his mid-forties. He held a small leather notebook under his arm. He was a handsome man in his early fifties, with coloring like a vanilla wafer. He was a detective with the Mexican National Police before his tenure as a “fixer” or “problem solver” for the cartel. He was a calm, patient, and mostly expressionless man. He intended to make it clear that he was not after information. Speaking calmly and clearly with perfect English, Castaneda continued, “Let me get to the point of why we are all here, young man. You stole from us. You ran from us. You hid from us. Yet, we found you. And here we are. Yes?” Castaneda turned toward Guerra. Guerra handed Castanada a thick envelope. “I understand your living conditions and wanting to help your family. I know that pain of seeing a sibling, especially a younger one, stumble, struggle, and suffer. I tried to keep my brother away from the gangs. I failed. I tried to protect him. I failed, and now he is gone. Over the years, boy, I have become very detail-oriented. I do not tolerate loose ends, unsettled debts, or brothers who make bad choices. You took what does not belong to you.” Holding the envelope inches from Tate’s face, Castaneda said the envelope contained the amount of money Tate stole, ten thousand dollars. He said that amount was insignificant in the grand scheme, but Tate taking the money was what mattered. He opened the envelope and showed Tate the contents. “Allow me to show you, young man, just how much ten thousand dollars does not mean to my employers.” Castaneda took a gold lighter from his coat pocket and lit the envelope on fire, dropping it into the ice water bucket to burn out. “We are not going to discuss, debate, or go into any back and forth about whether you stole from us. We are about to embark on no form of interrogation. There is nothing you can tell me that I do not know. I am going to show you what it means to steal from the cartel. Mr. Red Cloud, I intend our time together to be an educational experience. I will teach you. Let me first tell you what I know.” Castaneda leaned against the wall and told Tate he knew how much money had been stolen and when it happened. He shared that he knew where Tate and his family live, the names of his three younger sisters, and that the money cannot be recovered. He assured Tate that his employers did not want the money returned. He stole from the Cartel, which is more than just theft. It is an insult. For that, the consequences were severe. “I will leave you to think about all of that.” Tate wanted to speak, but his mouth would not open. He wondered if his jaw was broken. “Ramon here will assist you.” Castaneda opened his notebook and read aloud the notes he had taken on Tate’s siblings, his grandmother, her illnesses, and the onset of dementia. Tate began to feel exhausted and hunted. Fear burned through his veins. Castaneda told Tate, “That page is yours. For now, it is blank. When I close it, your suffering ends. Not before. Your people will hear about what happens to men who steal from us. Your people won’t find you. Pray if you want. Your ancestors don’t hear you.” Soaking wet from the ice water, Tate began to shiver as fear and desperation, mixed with a feeling of complete aloneness, overtook him.

On day two of his captivity, Tate awakened to the sound of someone sweeping. He hears a rhythmic shhh…shhh…shhh. After the fog faded from the little sleep he managed to get, he thought it was his grandmother cleaning the kitchen before dawn. The memory warmed him just long enough to hurt him. The lone light bulb above him flickered again. He saw Guerra standing alone in the middle of the barn, a straw broom in hand, drawing circles in the dust. Guerra didn’t look at Tate or acknowledge that Tate was awake. He kept sweeping. Tate managed to get from a barely open mouth a forced, “What…what are you doing, man?” Guerra stopped. He rested both hands on the broom handle and finally turned his head.

“I’m listening. ¿Qué quieres? What you want?” Tate’s stomach knots. Guerra tilts the broom slightly as if pointing to the ground. “Your fear has a sound. You can’t hear it yet. But I can.” He resumed sweeping. Tate pulled against the tight plastic holding his wrists to the wooden pole behind him. His wrists sting, fingers are numb, but he can’t help it.”

“Why?” Tate mumbles. Guerra chuckles softly. He is not amused. He is not cruel. He is disappointed.

“You stupid American. You still think this is about the money!” He drew one final circle in the dust and stepped back to admire his masterpiece. “It is about understanding who you are estupido.” Guerra crouches low, running a finger around the edge of his dust circle. “I have met many, many men who said they were prepared to die,” Guerra said quietly. “Dozens of men. How many do you think meant it?” Slowly, he looked up and locked his eyes onto the wide eyes of Tate. “None. Ninguno!” Guerra stood, brushing dust from his fingers, then walked toward Tate. Each step was slow, measured as if he was giving Tate time to imagine what was about to happen to him. He stopped inches from Tate. “Tell me something cono. He leans close to Tate. When you call your ancestors, why don’t they answer?” Tate lowered his head and mumbled something incoherent. “Speak up,” Guerra commanded. Tate, angered by the reference to his ancestors, forced out two words.

“They do.”

Guerra shook his head gently as if correcting a small child. “No American. If they did, you would not still be here.” Guerra took a step back, studying Tate like a math problem on a chalkboard. “Do you hear your ancestors now?” he asked. Tate closed his eyes. The pain of his fractured face throbbed. He tried to summon a prayer, a song, a sweet memory, anything. Guerra stood and watched silently, then, with a sigh, said, “Exactly.” Gurrera turned and walked toward the door. Tate heard the barn door creak and felt the rush of bitter cold South Dakota wind. Guerra paused before stepping outside, with his hand on the handle. “Oh,” he said softly, almost like an afterthought. “One more thing.” He looked partially over his shoulder and said, “You aren’t alone in here at night. That is why some men don’t sleep. They think something moves in the dark.” He saw the puzzled look on Tate’s face. “You want to know what moves? I tell you. It is your mind,” he whispered. “And when it finally breaks, it won’t make a sound. When I return, I am going to hurt you very badly.” Guerra turned, exited, and locked the door on the outside. Tate was left restrained to a pole in a barn, miserably cold, staring at the circle in the dust. He stared at a shape in the dust and wondered if his family was still alive. Once again, he was left alone with silence and his fears.

Silence fell over the barn like dust. Tate tried to slow his breathing. His arms ached. His back and neck throbbed. He told himself repeatedly, it’s just the cold. But that night, the cold had a voice. Tate heard a faint scraping behind the wall. It was like a fingertip tracing wood grain. Slow. Curious, He tried to ignore it. He remembered his grandmother smudging the doorway of their double-wide trailer with sage. He remembered his youngest sister laughing while throwing pebbles into a tin can. He swallowed hard. ‘Stop it,” he mumbled. “Just breathe. Just hold on.” Then a different sound came to him. It was a low hum, almost like a person humming through their teeth. His throat tightened. “That isn’t real,” he whispered. He pressed his eyes shut. They don’t get your spirit unless you let them. He repeated that in his mind, like gripping the words with the last strength he had. The dark does’t care about his words. He opened his eyes. The circle in the dust was still there. He blinked hard. The shape distorted, then reformed. He tried to focus on something he knew was real. The humming stopped. Again, he was surrounded in silence. The walls of the barn creaked in a long, low groan. He thought he saw something shift in the corner of the barn. Maybe they were right. Maybe his mind was slipping, into the dust and cold air that surrounded him. His eyes closed again, but tighter this time. “Don’t break,” he whispered. “Don’t give them that satisfaction.” The dark pressed closer, inch by inch, like the barn itself was pressing against his chest. Tate realized something terrified him more than Castenada and Guerra. He was unsure if what he was hearing and seeing was real. He was uncertain if he wanted to know.

A bucket of ice and water poured over his head by Ramon “El Toro” Guerra shocked Tate into consciousness. Looking past the huge Mexican, Tate saw the barn door open and snow falling. Castenada came in, leaving the door open behind him. Guerra brought a bottle of water to Tate’s lips and allowed him a few sips before taking it away. Castenada walked up to Tate and spoke softly. “Tell me, young man, do you know about Lingchi?” Tate shook his head. “Well, I will tell you all about it,” Castenada announced. “The first mention of Lingchi as a capital punishment seems to appear in the Tang Dynasty (AD 618-907), but it was during the later Song (960-1279), Ming (1368-1644), and Qing (1644-1912) Dynasties that it became particularly prominent. Lingchi was a punishment reserved only for the most serious crimes. Lingchi involves cutting. The exact number of cuts applied to a single person could vary, often between 100 and 3,000. The one doing the cutting would then begin by making a series of cuts on the body, starting at less vital areas and then moved slowly to more essential parts. In some accounts, certain parts of the body, such as the heart, were left intact until the very end, while other reports state that limbs were cut off before the cutting began. I prefer to enhance the process by adding lime juice. Unfortunately, in this very remote location, a good bag of limes is challenging to find. So, we will proceed with lemons instead. Ramon, proceed.”

“Sí, jefe,” Gerra replied. Over the course of the next several hours, Guerra made cuts along the chest, torso, arms, and legs of Tate with a box cutter. Sometimes, the juice from a freshly cut lemon would be immediately squeezed over the cuts. Sometimes, Guerra would make several cuts into Tate’s flesh before applying newly squeezed juice. Guerra was skilled with the blade. His precise incisions were made carefully to avoid severing any arteries or veins. Castenada stood silently watching the entire time. At some point, the pain stopped being painful. It became counting. It became a matter not of numbers, but of breaths or heartbeats. Tate thought, this isn’t happening to me. It is happening to a body that looks like me. Tate stopped feeling time moving forward. He allowed his mind to go to a different place, a safe and comfortable space. He saw himself on the prairie at dawn, frost on the grass. He tells himself to be still and calm. Voices drift in and out. Sometimes it would be Casteneda’s voice directing Guerra. Sometimes it was his grandmother. He remembered her telling him about the way of the Akicita. She said Akicita never cried out, no matter how intense the pain or fear was. He decided he would be like Akicita. They could take his body but not his spirit. He would not give them the screams Castenada sought.

At first, Tate thought he was dreaming; the mixture of blood and lemon juice from cuts made to his scalp and forehead no longer burned his eyes. His breathing slowed without his conscious command. Then he heard footsteps. They were not heavy or rushed. The plastic ties still dug into his wrists. The light bulb that hung overhead was off. The darkness had depth. The darkness had layers where none were before. He strained to focus and eventually made out a shape standing just beyond the circle in the dust. It wasn’t a man. It wasn’t an animal. Tate’s heart began to beat so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. “Grandma?” he whispers before he can stop himself. The shape does not move. Then, another shape appeared to the left. Then another. All remained silent and still like figures cut from night itself. They just watched. With a dry, barely opened mouth, mumbles, “I was just trying to-I don’t know.” The figures remain still and silent. “Are you spirits? Do you hear me now?” One of the shapes tilts his head. Tate began to shake. “What are you waiting for? Why aren’t you doing something?” Tate managed to get out in the loudest voice he could muster. The barn creaked. The shapes did not respond. The silence stretched until it felt deliberate. Then he heard the voice of Castenada, not from across the barn or from outside. Castenada’s voice is close. It is right behind him. The voice said,

“They are not here for you.” Tate flinched, pulling violently against the thick plastic ties holding his wrists to the post behind him.

“No, you aren’t real,” Tate mumbled. The shapes flickered a bit. The figures began to fade, thinning like smoke pushed about by a breeze. “Don’t go,” Tate pleaded desperately, unsure who he was speaking to anymore. The last shape lingered a moment longer than the rest. Then it too was gone. Tate gasped. His lungs were burning like his flesh. He was alone again. Maybe he always was. Tate stared at the empty circle in the dust, tears sliding silently down his face. Then, for the first time, he realized what Castenada had been doing along. He was being tortured into questioning his faith, his connection to his Lakota culture. The barn creaked. Perhaps his mind was slipping piece by piece into the same dust that surrounded him. He closed his cut, swollen eyelids as tightly as he could. He told himself not to break. Don’t let Castenada write his ending in his stupid notebook.

The bucket of ice and water poured over his head by Ramon “El Toro” Guerra shocked Tate into consciousness. This time, he did not gasp for breath. He remained motionless. He was still until the business end of the cattle prod touched the sole of his foot. Tate saw Castenada squat down next to him. Castenada asked Tate if he knew what day it was. Tate took the question as rhetorical and offered no response. Castenada opened his notebook and turned it so that Tate could see a page full of writing with Tate’s name in big bold letters at the top of the page. “This,” Castenada said softly, is where your lesson is written.” He told him he was not sure Tate understood what he needed to learn. “The money is not the insult. The insult is that you believed you could do it.”

Pain became distant. It didn’t go away; it just became less important. Tate thought of the land he grew up on, not as a memory, but as a presence. The prairie does not flinch. The prairie endures. He remembered something a medicine man once told him. You are not alone, even when unseen. Tate accepted that the voices he yearned for may not come. He came to believe that what was happening to his body was not what was happening to him. They can cut and beat, but they cannot reach the part given by Wakan Tanka. He felt without question that he was leaving that space. He was not going in fear or defeat. He was leaving in refusal. His breathing changed, and Tate was no longer there for them to touch. All that remained was the body they mistook for the whole man. Then the shadow figure appeared. This time, it did not speak in words the ears could hear. The words went straight into his very being. The calm, steady voice said, “Grandson… You no longer must be strong. It is time for you to rest. Nothing you did took you out of our love. Nothing that was ever said or done diminished it. You were loved before your first breath, and you are loved now- without condition, without end. Lay the weight down. Lay down your fears. We have always been with you. You are safe. You are loved.” Tate closed his eyes gently. He took a final breath, and the notebook closed.

The End