One morning while rummaging through trash behind a traveler’s inn, Miguel heard loud talking from inside. He froze, straining to hear and ready to run away if the voices drew closer.
“The order came from the Grand Inquisitor himself,” the loudest voice was explaining, “and the deadline for them to leave has already passed.”
“Good,” another voice said with laughter, “who needed those stinking Hebrews anyway?”
“They are the reason these hard times came upon us in the first place,” a drunken sounding voice chimed in.
Miguel’s heart sank as he crouched low, listening to the chorus of hate emanating from inside. No longer feeling hungry, he crept away quietly, trembling with fear as he tiptoed down the alley.
He wandered the deserted back streets into the afternoon, not knowing what to do or where to go. He reached the edge of the Barrio as the heat of the day was setting in and, utterly exhausted, crawled underneath a low hanging juniper bush for a nap.
The sun was setting when he finally awoke, and his hunger had returned with a vengeance. He visited the stall of a produce vendor that he had traded with before, and begged for a morsel of food.
“Here you go,” the vendor handed him a small carrot after hesitating briefly, “but do not come around here any more, all right? I cannot afford to be seen helping your kind. You should really leave town. You know that, right?”
Miguel nodded, thanked the man, and walked away, slowly nibbling on the carrot in the hopes of making it last.
He wandered in the direction of his rooftop dwelling, planning to reach it before dark.
Just a few blocks from home, he heard footsteps gaining speed behind him. He turned and saw the approaching gang of thugs, just as they began to accost him verbally.
“Ho there, Jew boy!” the leader barked. “Are you out here looking for a beating?”
Miguel answered with his feet, bolting around the corner. The gang followed in hot pursuit, continuing to shout threats and curses.
He intentionally began heading away from his rooftop, not wanting to reveal the location of his home base to the thugs. Still weak with hunger, he knew he could not keep up a long run, so he resorted to the only option that remained.
Over his years of surviving alone on the streets of the Barrio, Miguel had come to learn about the underground caverns. Built by the Moors for cold storage of foodstuffs and other supplies, the network of caves and tunnels was quite extensive.
Miguel knew of several access points, though he dreaded the cold and dank darkness of the underground realm. Only fear of the alternative drove him to take refuge there that night. He sprinted with all his might to put more distance between himself and the gang, and managed to slip into one of the tunnels without being seen.
He felt his way through the total blackness until finding a relatively firm and dry ledge to rest upon. The sound of the thugs’ voices eventually faded away, only to be replaced by the grim noises made by the scurrying and slithering creatures that dwelt in the dark.
Miguel sat there for a long time, unsure whether he was shaking more from fear or from the damp cold. He waited until he was sure the thugs would have given up looking for him before emerging back onto the streets.
The crescent moon was low in the sky when he finally made it back to his rooftop. Only after stretching out on his dry and familiar bedroll, did Miguel finally give in to the tears of despair that had been ready to fall for a long time.
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