“Adiós,” I called back. I grabbed the suitcase with my clothes and ran out to the truck where my father waited.
“¡Adiós!” they called, trailing after me, “send my love to papá!”
“I will,” I said, and the truck jerked away.
“Ay,” my father smiled, “women take an hour saying goodbyes if you let them—”
I nodded, but I had to turn and wave for the last time. Deborah and Theresa had run after the truck; my mother and Ultima stood waving by the door. I think I understood then what Ultima said about things changing, I knew that I would never see them in that beauty of early-morning, bright-sunlight again.
“It will be good for you to be on your own this summer, to be away from your mother,” my father said after we left the town and the truck settled down to chugging along the dusty road to El Puerto.
“Why?” I asked him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged, and I could tell he was in a good mood, “I can’t tell you why, but it is so. I left my own mother, may God rest her soul, when I was seven or eight. My father contracted me to a sheep camp on the llano. I spent a whole year on my own, learning from the men in the camp. Ah, those were days of freedom I wouldn’t trade for anything—I became a man. After that I did not depend on my mother to tell me what was right or wrong, I decided on my own—”
“And that is what I must do,” I said.
“Eventually—”
I understood what he said and it made sense. I did not understand his willingness to send me to my mother’s brothers. So I asked him.
“It does not matter,” he answered regretfully, “you will still be with the men, in the fields, and that is what matters. Oh, I would have liked to have sent you to the llano, that is the way of life I knew, but I think that way of life is just about gone; it is a dream. Perhaps it is time we gave up a few of our dreams—”
“Even my mother’s dreams?” I asked.
“Ay,” he murmured, “we lived two different lives, your mother and I. I came from a people who held the wind as brother, because he is free, and the horse as companion, because he is the living, fleeting wind—and your mother, well, she came from men who hold the earth as brother. They are a steady, settled people. We have been at odds all of our lives, the wind and the earth. Perhaps it is time we gave up the old differences—”
“Then maybe I do not have to be just Márez, or Luna, perhaps I can be both—” I said.
“Yes,” he said, but I knew he was as proud as ever of being Márez.
“It seems I am so much a part of the past—” I said.
“Ay, every generation, every man is a part of his past. He cannot escape it, but he may reform the old materials, make something new—”
“Take the llano and the river valley, the moon and the sea, God and the golden carp—and make something new,” I said to myself. That is what Ultima meant by building strength from life. “Papá,” I asked, “can a new religion be made?”
“Why, I suppose so,” he answered.
“A religion different from the religion of the Lunas,” I was again talking to myself, intrigued by the easy flow of thoughts and the openness with which I divulged them to my father. “The first priest here,” I nodded towards El Puerto, “he was the father of the Lunas wasn’t he—”
My father looked at me and grinned. “They do not talk about that; they are very sensitive about that,” he said.
But it was true, the priest that came with the first colonizers to the valley of El Puerto had raised a family, and it was the branches of this family that now ruled the valley. Somehow everything changed. The priest had changed, so perhaps his religion could be made to change. If the old religion could no longer answer the questions of the children then perhaps it was time to change it.
“Papá,” I asked after awhile, “why is there evil in the world?”
“Ay, Antonio, you ask so many questions. Didn’t the priest at the church explain, didn’t you read in your catechism?”
“But I would like to know your answer,” I insisted.
“Oh well, in that case—well, I will tell you as I see it. I think most of the things we call evil are not evil at all; it is just that we don’t understand those things and so we call them evil. And we fear evil only because we do not understand it. When we went to the Téllez ranch I was afraid because I did not understand what was happening, but Ultima was not afraid because she understood—”
“But I took the holy communion! I sought understanding!” I cut in.
My father looked at me and the way he nodded his head made me feel he was sorry for me. “Understanding does not come that easy, Tony—”
“You mean God doesn’t give understanding?”
“Understanding comes with life,” he answered, “as a man grows he sees life and death, he is happy and sad, he works, plays, meets people—sometimes it takes a lifetime to acquire understanding, because in the end understanding simply means having a sympathy for people,” he said. “Ultima has sympathy for people, and it is so complete that with it she can touch their souls and cure them—”
“That is her magic—”
“Ay, and no greater magic can exist,” my father nodded. “But in the end, magic is magic, and one does not explain it so easily. That is why it is magic. To the child it is natural, but for the grown man it loses its naturalness—so as old men we see a different reality. And when we dream it is usually for a lost childhood, or trying to change someone, and that is not good. So, in the end, I accept reality—”
“I see,” I nodded. Perhaps I did not understand completely, but what he had said was good. I have never forgotten that conversation with my father.
The rest of the summer was good for me, good in the sense that I was filled with its richness and I made strength from everything that had happened to me, so that in the end even the final tragedy could not defeat me. And that is what Ultima tried to teach me, that the tragic consequences of life can be overcome by the magical strength that resides in the human heart.
All of August I worked in the fields and orchards. I worked alongside my uncles and cousins and their companionship was good. Of course I missed my mother and Ultima, and sometimes the long, gray evenings were sad, but I learned to be at ease in the silence of my uncles, a silence steeped as deep as a child’s. I watched closely how they worked the earth, the respect they showed it, and the way they cared for living plants. Only Ultima equaled them in respect for the life in the plant. Never once did I witness any disharmony between one of my uncles and the earth and work of the valley. Their silence was the language of the earth.
After a hard day’s work and supper we sat out in the open night air and listened to stories. A fire would be lit and dried cow dung put in to burn. Its smoke kept the mosquitoes away. They told stories and talked about their work, and they looked into the spermy-starred sky and talked about the heavens, and the rule of the moon. I learned that the phases of the moon ruled not only the planting but almost every part of their lives. That is why they were the Lunas! They would not castrate or shear animals unless the moon was right, and they would not gather crops or save next year’s seeds unless the moon dictated. And the moon was kind to them. Each night it filled the valley with her soft light and lighted a way for the solitary man standing in his field, listening to the plants sleep, listening to the resting earth.
The bad dreams which had plagued me did not come, and I grew strong with the work and good food. I learned much from those men who were as dark and quiet as the earth of the valley, and what I learned made me stronger inside. I knew that the future was uncertain and I did not yet know if I could follow in their footsteps and till the earth forever, but I did know that if I chose that life that it would be good. Sometimes when I look back on that summer I think that it was the last summer I was truly a child.
My uncles were pleased with my progress. They were not men who were free with their compliments, but because I was the first of their sister’s son
s who had come to learn their ways they were happy. It was the last week of my stay, school was almost upon me again, when my uncle Pedro came to speak to me.
“A letter from your mother,” he said waving the open letter. He came to where I stood directing the waters of the acequia down the rows of corn. He handed me the letter and as I read he told me what it said. “They will come in a few days—”
“Yes,” I nodded. It was strange, always I made the trip with them and now I would be here to greet them as they arrived. I would be glad to see them.
“School starts early this year,” he said and leaned against the apple tree by the water ditch.
“It always comes early,” I said and put the folded letter in my pocket.
“Your mother says you do well in school. You like school—”
“Yes,” I answered, “I like it.”
“That is good,” he said, “a man of learning can go far in this world, he can be anything—It makes your mother very proud, and,” he looked down at the earth beneath his feet and as was their custom caressed it with his boot, “it makes us proud. It has been a long time since there was an educated Luna, a man of the people,” he nodded and pondered.
“I am Márez,” I answered. I did not know why I said it, but it surprised him a little.
“Wha—” Then he smiled. “That is right, you are Márez first, then Luna. Well, you will be leaving us in a few days, going back to your studies, as it should be. We are pleased with your work, Antonio, all of your uncles are pleased. It has been good for us to have one of María’s sons work with us. We want you to know that there will always be a place here for you. You must choose what you will do as a grown man, but if you ever decide to become a farmer you will be welcomed here. This earth that was your mother’s will be yours—”
I wanted to thank him, but as I started to respond my uncle Juan came hurrying towards us. My uncle Juan never hurried anywhere and so we turned our attention to him, knowing something important must have happened. When he saw me with my uncle he stopped and motioned.
“Pedro, may I see you a minute!” he called excitedly.
“What is it, brother Juan?” my uncle Pedro asked.
“Trouble!” my uncle Juan whispered hoarsely, but his voice carried and I could hear, “trouble in town! Tenorio’s daughter, the one who has been sick and wasting away, death has come for her!”
“But when?” my uncle asked, and he turned and looked at me.
“I guess it happened just after we came to the fields. I heard it just now from Esquivel. I met him on the bridge. He says the town is in an uproar—”
“How? Why?” my uncle Pedro asked.
“Tenorio has taken the body into town, and like the madman that he is, he has stretched out the corpse on the bar of his saloon!”
“No!” my uncle gasped, “the man is insane!”
“Well, that is a truth that does not concern us,” my uncle Juan agreed, “but what does concern me is that the man has been drinking all day and howling out his vengeance on la curandera, Ultima.”
When I heard that the hair on my back bristled. I had seen the devil Tenorio murder Narciso, and now there was no telling what he might do to avenge his daughter’s death. I had not thought of Tenorio all summer even though the man lived on the black mesa down the river and had his saloon in town, but now he was here again, plotting to bring another tragedy into my life. I felt my heart pounding even though I had not moved from where I stood.
My uncle Pedro stood looking down at the ground for a long time. Finally he said, “Ultima helped restore our brother’s life—once before she needed help and we stood by idly. This time I must act—”
“But papá will not like—”
“—The interference,” my uncle Pedro finished. Again he turned and looked at me. “We indebted ourselves to her when she saved our brother, a debt I will gladly pay.”
“What will you do?” my uncle Juan asked. His voice was tense. He was not committed to act, but he would not interfere.
“I will take the boy, we will drive back to Guadalupe tonight—hey, Antonio!” he called and I went to them. He smiled down at me. “Listen, something has come up. Not a big emergency, but we must act to help a friend. We will drive to Guadalupe immediately after supper. In the meantime, there are only a few hours of work left in this day, so go to your grandfather’s house and pack your clothes. If anyone asks why you are back early, tell them you got time off for being such a good worker, eh?” He smiled.
I nodded. The fact that my uncle would go to Guadalupe tonight to tell of what had happened with Tenorio lessened my anxiety. I knew that my uncle treated the matter lightly so as not to alarm me, and besides, if Tenorio was drinking it would take a long time before he gathered enough courage to act. By that time my uncle and I would be in Guadalupe, and Ultima would be safe with my uncle and my father there. Also, I doubted that Tenorio would go to our house in Guadalupe. He knew if he trespassed once again on our land my father would kill him.
“Very well, tío,” I said. I handed him the hoe I had been using on the weeds.
“Hey! You know the way?” he called as I jumped over the acequia.
“Sure,” I replied. He was still making light of the matter so as not to arouse my suspicions.
“Go straight to your grandfather’s house—take a rest. We will be in as soon as this field is done and the tools collected!”
“¡Adiós!” I called and turned up the road. Once the road left the flat river bottom it got very sandy. Lush, green mesquite bordered the road and shut off most of the horizon. But in the west I could see the summer sun was already low, hovering in its own blinding light before it wedded night. I walked carelessly up the road, unaware of what the coming darkness would reveal to me. The fact that I would be back home in a few hours excited me, and it put me so much at ease that I did not think about what Tenorio might do. As I walked I gathered ripe mesquite pods and chewed them for the sweet juice.
Half a mile from my uncles’ fields the narrow wagon road turned into the road that crossed the bridge and led into town. Already I could see in the setting sun the peaceful adobe houses on the other side of the river. The river was at its flood stage and swollen with muddy waters and debris, and so as I crossed the narrow, wooden bridge my attention was drawn to the raging waters. And so it was not until the horseman was almost upon me that I was aware of him. The sharp, reverberating hoofbeats that moments ago had mixed into the surging sound of the river were now a crescendo upon me.
“¡Cabroncito! ¡Hijo de la bruja!” the dark horseman cried and spurred his black horse upon me. It was Tenorio, drunk with whiskey and hate, and he meant to run me down! Fear glued me to the spot for long, agonizing seconds, then instinct made me jump aside at the last moment. The huge, killer horse swept by me, but Tenorio’s foot hit me and sent me spinning to the floor of the bridge.
“Hie! Hie! Hie!” the madman shrieked and spurred his horse around for a second pass. “I have you where I want you hijo de la chingada bruja!” he shouted with anger. He spurred the black horse so savagely that blood spurted from the cuts in the flanks. The terrified animal cried in pain and reared up, its sharp hooves pawing the air. I rolled and the hooves came down beside me. He would have forced me over the side of the bridge if I had not reached up and grabbed the reins. The horse’s jerk pulled me to my feet. I hit his nose as hard as I could and when he turned I hit the sensitive flank the spurs had cut open. He cried and bolted.
“¡Ay diablo! ¡Diablo!” Tenorio shouted and tried to bring the horse under control.
The bucking horse trying to throw its tormentor blocked the way towards the village, and so I turned and ran in the opposite direction. As I neared the end of the bridge I heard the clatter of hooves and the wild curses of Tenorio. I knew that if I stayed on the road back to my uncles’ fields that I would be trapped and Tenorio would run me down, so as I felt the hot breath of the horse on my neck I jumped to the side and rolled down the embankmen
t. I fell headlong into the brush at the bottom of the sandy bank and lay still.
Tenorio turned his killer horse and came to the edge of the bank and looked down. I could see him through the thick branches, but he could not see me. I knew he would not follow me with his horse into the brush, but I did not know if he would dismount and come after me on foot. His sweating horse pranced nervously at the edge of the bank while Tenorio’s evil eye searched the brush for me.
“I hope you have broken your neck, you little bastard!” He leaned over the saddle and spit down.
“You hear me, cabroncito!” he shouted. “I hope you rot in that hole as your bruja will rot in hell!” He laughed fiendishly, and the laughter carried down the empty road. There was no one to help me. I was trapped on this side of the road, away from my uncles, and the river was too flooded to swim across to the village and the safety of my grandfather’s home.
“You two have been a thorn at my side,” he cursed, “but I will avenge my daughter’s death. This very night I will avenge the death of my two daughters! It is the owl! Do you hear, little bastard! It is the owl that is the spirit of the old witch, and tonight I will send that miserable bird to hell, as I hope I have sent you—!” And he laughed like a madman, while the crazy horse snorted blood and froth.
It was when he said that the owl was the spirit of Ultima that everything I had ever known about Ultima and her bird seemed to make sense. The owl was the protective spirit of Ultima, the spirit of the night and the moon, the spirit of the llano! The owl was her soul!
Once that thought fitted into the thousand fragments of memory flitting through my mind, the pain of the scratches and the scraped skin left me. The fear left me, or rather the fear for myself left me and I was afraid for Ultima. I realized the evil Tenorio had found a way to hurt Ultima, and that he would do anything to hurt her. Hadn’t he, almost within sight of the village, tried to trample me with his horse! I turned into the brush and fled.
“¡Ay cabroncito!” he cried at the noise, “so you yet crawl about! That is good, the coyotes will have sport when they devour you tonight—!”
Bless Me, Ultima Page 26
