The Surf Guru by Doug Dorst Page A

throw him that gun.
    But El Gris makes no move to escape. He stands still while Séptimo, on the chief ’s command, tightens the noose around his neck. The mayor motions for quiet. “As San Humberto punished evil, so we punish evil in His name. Before you is the infamous outlaw El Gris. Countless people have tried to bring him to justice and have failed. But we have succeeded, we, the citizens of Ciudad San Humberto, especially our good friend Lars Jarlssen and the young and beautiful Ysela María Rivera de los Pozos.”
    Ysela? I think as the crowd roars approval. What have I missed?
    El Gris looks up at my daughter and fixes his eyes on her, as if he wants her to be the last thing he sees. It is possible that his lips move, but I cannot see clearly. As Séptimo reaches for the lever, Vargas squeezes his eyes shut. So do I. First there is silence. Then I hear the trapdoor slap and the rope jerk taut, and then the wood creaking as the bandit swings, dead, and the voices of the city rising all around me.

    Years ago, when Ysela was a little girl, I explained the Festival to her like this: First we impose justice as the Great Codex demands. After the hanging, we divide into four groups and wait at each of the gates for hyenas to be let in. At the sound of the gun, they run, and we run ahead of them. We act as their guides. We lead them to the dead man, and then we watch with joy from high above.
    Why? 2
    It is symbolic.
    Symbolic?
    It is like we are the great saint and the hyenas are us. We lead them to justice, but we do so at great risk to ourselves. And we rejoice when they find it.
    Couldn’t they find the dead man themselves? she asked. Couldn’t they smell him?
    That is not the point , I said. Someday you will understand.
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    We are gathered together in front of the west gate, waiting for the signal. Jugs of dragonfruit wine are passed through the crowd. People drink quickly, in equal parts celebration and fear. Someone says the rabid ones are behind the south gate this year. Someone else says no, they are here behind the west gate, Zorrillo himself told him so. There is still no sign of Rubén.
    I look down the road toward the square; though the sky has darkened, I believe I can make out the shape of El Gris’s body, swaying slightly at the end of the rope. I can hear the hyenas in their cages outside the gate, snarling, throwing themselves against the bars that confine them. I hear teeth on metal, and I realize that I am very frightened, frightened of the hyenas, of Lars, of the people around me. I am frightened that I will never see my son again, frightened that I will never again be a father to Ysela. I am becoming an old man and I am frightened of myself. The more I have learned, the more frightened I have become. The strength leaks from my tired, bruised legs. I drink a large mouthful from a jug but it does not wash away the fear. “I want to go home,” I tell Vargas. “I am too tired to run.”
    A pistol fires from behind the gate. “Too late,” Vargas shouts. He throws the jug aside, grabs my hand, and we run. The gate opens behind us, and I hear the clanks of cage doors and the hyenas’ snarls turning to whoops. The muscles in my legs stretch and burn. I do not look behind me. I keep my eyes forward. My view of the city bounces crazily as my feet pound the earth.
    Past the feed store, past the animal doctor’s, past the bakery, a quarter of the way there. Vargas and I have fallen behind the pack, and he pulls me along with him. The air is filled with dust and with the stink of dirty, murderous fur. My breaths are shallow and I feel like vomiting. I hear the hyenas behind me, front legs long, hind legs hort— ka-thup, ka-thup, ka-thup . Powerful jaws snapping. I have heard these sounds every year of my life. I do not want to hear them ever again.
    Past the tailor, past the barber, almost halfway. Vargas is nearly dragging me. I am