Bless Me, Ultima

by Rudolfo Anaya

  Dieciséis

  After Christmas I returned to school. I missed walking with Andrew in the mornings. At first the kids wanted to know about the murder of Narciso, but I told them nothing and soon the news was old and they went on to something else. My life had changed, I thought; I seemed older, and yet the lives of my schoolmates seemed unchanged. The Kid still raced at the bridge, Samuel nodded and walked on, Horse and Bones kicked at each other, and the yellow buses still came in with their loads of solemn farm kids. And catechism loomed in the future for all of us.

  I talked only once to Cico. He said, “We have lost a friend. We shall wait until summer to take the news to the golden carp. He will tell us what to do—” After that I didn’t see him much.

  I kept, as much as possible, to myself. I even lost touch with Jasón, which was too bad because I learned later that he would have understood. Of course, the dreams that I had during my illness continued to preoccupy me. I could not understand why Narciso, who did good in trying to help Ultima, had lost his life; and why Tenorio, who was evil and had taken a life, was free and unpunished. It didn’t seem fair. I thought a great deal about God and why he let such things happen. When the weather was warmer I sometimes paused beneath the juniper tree and looked at the stained ground. Then my mind wandered and my thoughts became a living part of me.

  Perhaps, I thought, God had not seen the murder take place, and that is why He had not punished Tenorio. Perhaps God was too busy in heaven to worry or care about us.

  Sometimes, after school let out in the afternoon, I went alone to church and kneeled and prayed very hard. I asked God to answer my questions, but the only sound was always the whistling of the wind filling the empty space. I turned more and more to praying before the altar of the Virgin, because when I talked to Her I felt as if she listened, like my mother listened. I would look very hard at the red altar candles burning before her feet then I would bow my head and close my eyes and imagine that I saw Her turn to God and tell Him exactly what I had asked.

  And the Lord would shake His head and answer, the boy is not yet ready to understand.

  Perhaps when I make my communion I will understand, I thought. But to some the answers to their questions had come so soon. My mother had told me the story of the Mexican man, Diego, who had seen la Virgen de Guadalupe in Mexico. She had appeared to him and spoken to him, and She had given him a sign. She had made the roses grow in a barren, rocky hill, a hill much like ours. And so I dreamed that I too would meet the Virgin. I expected to see Her around every corner I turned.

  It was during one of these moods of thought that I met Tenorio one afternoon on my way home from school. The blowing wind was full of choking dust and so I walked up the path with my head tucked down. I did not see Tenorio until he shouted into the howling wind. He was standing under the juniper tree at the exact spot where he had murdered Narciso. I was so startled and frightened that I jumped like a wounded rabbit, but he made no move to catch me. He wore a long, black coat and as was his custom, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low. His blind eye was a dark blue pit and the other glared yellow in the dust. He laughed and howled as he looked down at me and I thought he was drunk.

  “¡Maldito!” he cursed me. “¡Desgraciado!”

  “¡Jesús, María y José!” I found the courage to shout back, and I crossed my thumb over my first finger and held it up to ward off his evil, for I truly thought he was the reincarnation of the devil.

  “¡Cabroncito! Do you think you can scare me with that? Do you think I am a witch like your grandmother? ¡Bruja! May coyotes disturb her grave—the grave I will send her to,” he added. His vicious face twisted with hate. I felt my legs tremble. He took a step towards me and stopped. “My daughter is dying,” he moaned, and the wind snapped at his pitiful, animal cry. “My second daughter is dying, and it is because of the witch Ultima. She put the curse on my first daughter, and now she murders the second—but I will find a way,” he threatened me with his closed fist, “I will find a way to get to her and destroy her!”

  Not even when he killed Narciso had I seen so much hate in Tenorio’s evil face. I seemed too small to stand in the way of a man bent upon destruction with such fury, but I remembered that my father had stood up to him, and Narciso had stood up to him, and even Ultima had stood against his evil; and although I was trembling with fright I answered him, “No! I will not let you!”

  He took another step towards me then paused. His evil eye grew narrow as he grinned. He glanced suspiciously into the whirling dust around us then said, “I killed the entremetido Narciso! Right here!” He pointed to the ground at his feet. “And the sheriff did not touch me. I will find a way to kill the witch—”

  “You are a murderer!” I shouted with defiance. “My father will stop you if you try to harm Ultima, and the owl will scratch out your other eye—”

  He crouched as if to pounce on me, but he remained motionless, thinking. I braced to ward off his blow, but it did not come. Instead he straightened up and smiled, as if a thought had crossed his mind, and he said, “Ay cabroncito, your curse is that you know too much!” And he turned and disappeared in the swirling dust. His evil laughter trailed after him, until the wind drowned it.

  I hurried home, and when I could get Ultima alone I told her what had happened.

  “Did he harm you in any way?” she asked when I was through relating the encounter.

  “No,” I assured her.

  “Did he touch you, even in the slightest manner?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “He didn’t leave anything by the tree, anything you might have touched, or picked up?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered, “but he threatened you. He said he was seeking a way to kill you like he did Narciso—”

  “Ay,” she smiled and put her arms around me, “do not worry about Tenorio’s threats, he has no manly strength to carry them out. He murdered Narciso because he ambushed him in cold blood, but he will not find me so easy to ambush—He is like an old wolf who drags around the ground where he has made his kill, his conscience will not let him rest. He returned to the tree where he committed his mortal sin to find some absolution for his crime. But where there is no acknowledgement of guilt and penance done for the wrong, there can be no forgiveness—”

  I understood what she said and so I went away somewhat comforted in the knowledge that at least Ultima did not fear Tenorio’s plotting. But often at night I awoke from nightmares in which I saw Tenorio shooting Ultima as he had shot Narciso. Then I felt relief only after I crept down the stairs and went to her door to listen, to see if she was safe. She seemed never to sleep because if I listened long enough I could hear a swishing sound and then a humming as she worked with her herbs. I had been close to Ultima since she came to stay with us, but I was never closer or more appreciative of her good than those weeks when I was sick and she cared for me.

  Diecisiete

  Aleluya! Aleluya! Aleluya!

  The Holy Mother Church took us under her wings and instructed us in her ways. By the end of March we were well on our way with our catechism lessons. There was no more exciting experience than to be on the road to communion with God! School work grew monotonous beside it. Every afternoon when the school bell rang we ran across the school-grounds and over dusty streets and alleys to the church. There father Byrnes waited for us, waited to instruct us in the mysteries of God.

  The spring dust storms of the llano continued, and I heard many grown-ups blame the harsh winter and the sandstorms of spring on the new bomb that had been made to end the war. “The atomic bomb,” they whispered, “a ball of white heat beyond the imagination, beyond hell—” And they pointed south, beyond the green valley of El Puerto. “Man was not made to know so much,” the old ladies cried in hushed, hoarse voices. “They compete with God, they disturb the seasons, they seek to know more than God Himself. In the end, that knowledge they seek will destroy us all—” And with bent backs they pulled black shawls around their humped
shoulders and walked into the howling winds.

  “What does God know?” the priest asked.

  “God knows everything,” Agnes whispered

  I sat on the hard, wooden pew and shivered. God knows everything. Man tries to know and his knowledge will kill us all. I want to know. I want to know the mysteries of God. I want to take God into my body and have Him answer my questions. Why was Narciso killed? Why does evil go unpunished? Why does He allow evil to exist? I wondered if the knowledge I sought would destroy me. But it couldn’t, it was God’s knowledge—

  Did we ask too much when we asked to share His knowledge?

  “Papá,” I asked, “the people say the bomb causes the winds to blow—” We were hauling the piles of manure we had cleaned out of the animal pens during the winter and dumping it on the garden plot. My father laughed.

  “That is nonsense,” he said.

  “But why are the storms so strong, and full of dust?” I asked.

  “It is the way of the llano,” he said, “and the wind is the voice of the llano. It speaks to us, it tells us something is not right.” He straightened from his labor and looked across the rolling hills. He listened, and I listened, and I could almost hear the wind speak to me.

  “The wind says the llano gave us good weather, it gave us mild winters and rain in the summer to make the grass grow tall. The vaqueros rode out and saw their flocks multiply; the herds of sheep and cattle grew. Everyone was happy, ah,” he whispered, “the llano can be the most beautiful place in the world—but it can also be the cruelest. It changes, like a woman changes. The rich rancheros sucked the earth dry with their deep wells, and so the heavy snows had to come to replenish the water in the earth. The greedy men overgrazed their ranches, and so now the wind picks up the barren soil and throws it in their faces. You have used me too much, the wind says for the earth, you have sucked me dry and stripped me bare—”

  He paused and looked down at me. I guess for a while he had forgotten he was talking to me, and he was repeating to himself the message in the wind. He smiled and said, “A wise man listens to the voice of the earth, Antonio. He listens because the weather the winds bring will be his salvation or his destruction. Like a young tree bends with the wind, so a man must bow to the earth—It is only when man grows old and refuses to admit his earth-tie and dependence on mother nature that the powers of mother nature will turn upon him and destroy him, like the strong wind cracks an old, dry tree. It is not manly to blame our mistakes on the bomb, or any other thing. It is we who misuse the earth and must pay for our sins—”

  “But what is sin?” Florence asked me.

  “It is not doing the will of God—” I ducked my head and gritted my teeth on the fine sand the wind carried.

  “Is it a sin to do this?” He threw a finger.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a bad sign—”

  “But nothing happens when I throw it.” He did it again.

  “You will be punished—”

  “When?”

  “When you die,” I said.

  “What if I go to confession?”

  “Then your sins are forgiven, your soul is clean and you are saved—”

  “You mean I can go out and sin, do bad things, throw fingers, say bad words, look through the peep-hole into the girls bathroom, do a million bad things and then when I’m about to die I just go to confession and make communion, and I go to heaven?”

  “Yes,” I said, “if you’re sorry you sinned—”

  “Ohhhhh,” he laughed, “I’ll be sorry! Chingada I will! I can be the worst cabrón in the world, and when I’m ninety-nine I can be sorry for being such a culo, and I go to heaven—You know, it doesn’t seem fair—”

  No, it didn’t seem fair, but it could happen. This was another question for which I wanted an answer to. I was thinking about how it could be answered when I heard a blasting goat cry behind me.

  “WHAGGGGGGGGGGGHH………..”

  I ducked, but too late. Horse’s strong arms went around my neck and his momentum made us slide ten feet. Half of my face scraped along the thorn covered ground and came up covered with little bull-headed diablitos.

  “Hey, Tony, you missed the fight!” Horse smiled into my face. He still held me in a tight embrace. His horse-eyes were wild with excitement and his big, yellow teeth chomped on something that smelled like spoiled eggs. I wanted to curse him, but I glanced up and saw Florence standing, waiting for my response.

  “That was a real good tackle, Horse,” I said as calmly as possible, “real good. Now let me up.” I stood up and began pulling thorns out of my bloody cheek.

  “What fight?” Florence asked. He dusted my jacket.

  “Roque and Willie, down in the bathroom!” Lloyd came puffing along with the rest of the gang.

  “¡Chingada! You know how Roque’s always teasing Willie—”

  “Yeah,” we nodded.

  “Willie’s your friend ain’t he?” Ernie asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. Big Willie was one of the farm boys from Delia. He and George were always together, they never messed around with anyone. Willie was big but Roque picked on him because Willie never defended himself. He was timid, and Roque was a bully.

  “Roque’s always singing: Willie Willie two-by-four, can’t get into the bathroom door so he does it on the floor—” Bones panted.

  “And he always pushes you when you’re peeing and makes you wet your pants,” Lloyd closed his eyes in disgust. He took out a Hershey bar.

  “Halfers!” Bones growled. Lloyd threw a piece of chocolate on the ground and while Bones retrieved it he stuck the rest in his mouth.

  “¡Chingada!”

  “That wasn’t halfers!” Bones growled, chewing on chocolate and sand.

  “I had my fingers crossed,” Lloyd said haughtily. Then he stuck out his tongue and the chocolate mess in his mouth dripped.

  “Ughhhhhhh!” Bones went wild, leaped on Lloyd and began strangling him. Then Horse got excited again and jumped on Bones.

  “You could be sued for that—” Lloyd threatened as he pulled himself free from the pile. We continued walking and left Bones and Horse behind, slugging and kicking at each other.

  “So why the fight?” Florence asked impatiently.

  “Well, after school,” Lloyd said, “Roque went in and pushed Willie, but Willie must have been waiting, because he stepped aside and Roque almost fell in the bowl, anyway Willie continued peeing, and he peed all over Roque’s shoes—”

  “It was funny as hell,” Ernie said, “seeing Roque standing there, and Willie peeing on his shoes—”

  Horse and Bones caught up to us.

  “And then old Roque slugs Willie—” Lloyd laughed.

  “But Willie just stands there,” Ernie added.

  “And then Willie busts Roque!” Horse cried out.

  “And there’s blood all over the place!” Bones panted, and the thought of blood got them going all over again. Horse whinnied and reared up and Bones was on him like a mad dog.

  “Roque was bleeding like a pig, and crying, and his shoes all wet—”

  “Man, don’t mess with Willie,” Ernie cautioned. “Hey, he’s your friend, ain’t he Tony?” he repeated.

  “Yeah,” I answered. I knew Ernie always weighed friendships. If Willie had lost the fight Ernie would be bothering me about it, but as it was I had somehow gained respect because I was the friend of a farm boy who made Roque’s nose bloody.

  “Hey! How come those guys don’t have to go to catechism?” Abel asked.

  “They’d miss the bus, stupid,” Florence said.

  “Protestants don’t have to go either,” Ernie nodded.

  “They go to hell!” Bones cried out.

  “No they don’t,” Florence defended the Protestants, “Red’s a Protestant, do you think he’ll go to hell?”

  “You’ll go to hell too, Florence!” Horse shouted. “You don’t believe in God!”


  “So what,” Florence shrugged, “if you don’t believe in God then there is no hell to go to—”

  “But why do you go to catechism?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “I wanna be with you guys. I just don’t want to feel left out,” he said softly.

  “Come on! Let’s go tease the girls!” Bones shouted. He had caught scent of the girls who were just up ahead. The others rallied to his cry and they went off howling like a pack of wild dogs.

  “But what if you’re left out of heaven in the end?” I asked Florence. We had both hung back.

  “Then that would be hell,” he nodded. “I think if there is a hell it’s just a place where you’re left all alone, with nobody around you. Man, when you’re alone you don’t have to burn, just being by yourself for all of time would be the worst punishment the Old Man could give you—”

  “The Old Man?” I asked, my question intermingled with a feeling of sadness for Florence.

  “God,” he answered.

  “I thought you didn’t believe—”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he kicked at a rock. “My mother died when I was three, my old man drank himself to death, and,” he paused and looked towards the church which already loomed ahead of us. His inquiring, angelic face smiled. “And my sisters are whores, working at Rosie’s place—”

  The wind swirled around us and made a strange noise, like the sound of doves crying at the river. I wondered if Andrew had known one of Florence’s sisters when he went to Rosie’s. That and the pity I had for him made me feel close to Florence.

  “So I ask myself,” he continued, “how can God let this happen to a kid. I never asked to be born. But he gives me birth, a soul, and puts me here to punish me. Why? What did I ever do to Him to deserve this, huh?”