Bless Me, Ultima

by Rudolfo Anaya

  I ran through the brush with only one thought in mind, to get to Ultima and warn her of Tenorio’s intents. The thick brush scratched at my face and arms, but I ran as hard as I could. A long time afterwards I thought that if I had waited and gone to my uncles, or somehow sneaked across the bridge and warned my grandfather that things would have turned out differently. But I was frightened and the only thing I was sure of was that I could run the ten miles to Guadalupe, and I knew that being on this side of the river I would come almost directly on the hills in which our home huddled. The only other thing that I thought about was Narciso’s mad rush through the snowstorm to warn Ultima, and not until now had I ever understood the sacrifice of his commitment. For us Ultima personified goodness, and any risk in defense of goodness was right. She was the only person I had ever seen defeat evil where all else had failed. That sympathy for people my father said she possessed had overcome all obstacles.

  I ran miles before I could run no more and then fell to the ground. My heart was pounding, my lungs burned, and in my side there was a continuous stabbing pain. For a long time I lay on the ground, gasping for breath and praying that I would not die from the pain that racked my body before I could warn Ultima. When I had rested and was able to run again I paced myself so as not to tire myself as I had in the wild, first dash. The second time I stopped to rest I saw the flaming sun go down over the tops of the cottonwood trees, and the thick, heavy shadows brought dusk. The melancholy mood of evening spread along the river, and after the strange cries of birds settling to roost were gone, a strange silence fell upon the river.

  With darkness upon me I had to leave the brush and run up in the hills, just along the tree line. I knew that if I left the contour of the river that I could save a mile or two, but I was afraid to get lost in the hills. Over my shoulder the moon rose from the east and lighted my way. Once I ran into a flat piece of bottom land, and what seemed solid earth by the light of the moon was a marshy quagmire. The wet quicksand sucked me down and I was almost to my waist before I squirmed loose. Exhausted and trembling I crawled onto solid ground. As I rested I felt the gloom of night settle on the river. The dark presence of the river was like a shroud, enveloping me, calling to me. The drone of the grillos and the sigh of the wind in the trees whispered the call of the soul of the river.

  Then I heard an owl cry its welcome to the night, and I was reminded again of my purpose. The owl’s cry reawakened Tenorio’s threat:

  “This very night I will avenge the death of my two daughters! It is the owl that is the spirit of the old witch—”

  It was true that the owl was Ultima’s spirit. It had come with Ultima, and as men brought evil to our hills the owl had hovered over us, protecting us. It had guided me home from Lupito’s death, it had blinded Tenorio the night he came to hurt Ultima, the owl had driven away the howling animals the night we cured my uncle, and it had been there when the misery of the Téllez family was removed.

  The owl had always been there. It sang to me the night my brothers came home from the war, and in my dreams I sometimes saw it guiding their footsteps as they stumbled through the dark streets of their distant cities. My brothers, I thought, would I ever see my brothers again. If my sea-blood called me to wander and sailed me away from my river and my llano, perhaps I would meet them in one of the dazzling streets of their enchanting cities—and would I reach out and whisper my love for them?

  I ran with new resolution. I ran to save Ultima and I ran to preserve those moments when beauty mingled with sadness and flowed through my soul like the stream of time. I left the river and ran across the llano; I felt light, like the wind, as my even strides carried me homeward. The pain in my side was gone, and I did not feel the thorns of the cactus or the needles of yucca that pierced my legs and feet.

  The full moon of the harvest rose in the east and bathed the llano in its light. It had knocked softly on the door of my uncles’ valley, and they had smiled and admitted her. Would they smile when they learned I doubted the God of my forefathers, the God of the Lunas, and knew I praised the beauty of the golden carp?

  Would I ever race like a kid again, a wild cabrito rattling the pebbles on the goat path; and would I ever wrestle the crazy Horse and wild Bones again? And what dream would form to guide my life as a man? These thoughts tumbled through my mind until I saw the lights of the town across the river. I had arrived. Just ahead were the juniper-spotted hills I knew so well. My pounding heart revived at their sight, and with a burst of speed I urged myself forward and reached the top of the gentle hill. From here I could see our huddled home. There was a light shining through the kitchen door, and from where I stood I could make out the silhouette of my father. All was peaceful. I paused to catch my breath and for the first time since I began my race I slowed down to a walk. I was thankful that I had arrived in time.

  But the tranquility of the night was false. It was a moment of serenity, lasting only as long as my sigh of relief. A truck came bouncing over the goat path and pulled to a screeching stop in front of the kitchen door.

  “Antonio! Has Antonio come?” I heard my uncle Pedro shout.

  “¿Qué? ¿Qué pasa?” My father appeared at the door. Ultima and my mother were behind him.

  I was about to shout and answer that I was here and well when I saw the lurking shadow under the juniper tree.

  “¡Aquí!” I screamed, “Tenorio is here!” I froze as Tenorio turned and pointed his rifle at me.

  “—¡Espíritu de mi alma!” I heard Ultima’s command ring in the still night air, and a swirling of wings engulfed Tenorio.

  He cursed and fired. The thundering report of the rifle followed the flash of fire. That shot destroyed the quiet, moonlit peace of the hill, and it shattered my childhood into a thousand fragments that long ago stopped falling and are now dusty relics gathered in distant memories.

  “Ultima!” I cried.

  My father came running up the hill, but my uncle Pedro who had remained in his truck raced past him. The bouncing headlights of the truck revealed Tenorio on his hands and knees, searching the ground at the foot of the tree.

  “Aiiiiiii-eeeee!” he cried like a fiend when he found the object of his search. He jumped up and waved the dead body of Ultima’s owl over his head.

  “No,” I groaned when I saw the ruffled, bloodied feathers, “Oh God, no—”

  “I win! I win!” he howled and danced. “I have killed the owl with a bullet molded by the Prince of Death!” he shouted at me. “The witch is dead, my daughters are avenged! And you, cabroncito, who escaped me on the bridge will follow her to hell!” With his evil eye blazing down the rifle’s barrel he aimed at my forehead and I heard the shot ring out.

  There was a loud ringing in my ears, and I expected the wings of death to gather me up and take me with the owl. Instead I saw Tenorio’s head jerk in surprise, then he dropped the owl and his rifle and clutched at his stomach. He turned slowly and looked at my uncle Pedro who stood on the running board of the truck. He held the smoking pistol still aimed at Tenorio, but a second shot was not needed. Tenorio’s face twisted with the pain of death.

  “Aieee…” He moaned and tumbled into the dust.

  “May your evil deeds speed your soul to hell,” I heard my uncle whisper as he tossed the pistol on the ground, “and may God forgive me—”

  “¡Antonio!” my father came running through the dust and smoke. He gathered me in his arms and turned me away. “Come away, Antonio,” he said to me.

  “Si, papá,” I nodded, “but I cannot leave the owl.” I went to Tenorio’s side and carefully picked up Ultima’s owl. I had prayed that it would be alive, but the blood had almost stopped flowing. Death was carrying it away in its cart. My uncle handed me a blanket from the truck and I wrapped the owl in it.

  “¡Antonito! Antonito, mi hijito!” I heard my mother’s frantic cries and I felt her arms around me and her hot tears on my neck. “¡Ave María Purísima!”

  “Ultima?” I asked. “Where is Ult
ima?”

  “But I thought she was with me.” My mother turned and looked into the darkness.

  “We must go to her—”

  “Take him,” my father said. “It is safe now. Pedro and I will go for the sheriff—”

  My mother and I stumbled down the hill. I did not think she or my father understood what the owl’s death meant, and I who shared the mystery with Ultima shuddered at what I would find. We rushed into the still house.

  “¡Mamá!” Deborah cried. She held trembling Theresa.

  “It is all right,” she reassured them, “it is over.”

  “Take them to their room,” I said to my mother. It was the first time I had ever spoken to my mother as a man; she nodded and obeyed.

  I entered Ultima’s room softly. Only a candle burned in the room, and by its light I saw Ultima lying on the bed. I placed the owl by her side and knelt at the side of the bed.

  “The owl is dead—” was all I could say. I wanted to tell her that I had tried to come in time, but I could not speak.

  “Not dead,” she smiled weakly, “but winging its way to a new place, a new time—just as I am ready to fly—”

  “You cannot die,” I cried. But in the dim, flickering light I saw the ashen pallor of death on her face.

  “When I was a child,” she whispered, “I was taught my life’s work by a wise old man, a good man. He gave me the owl and he said that the owl was my spirit, my bond to the time and harmony of the universe—”

  Her voice was very weak, her eyes already glazed with death.

  “My work was to do good,” she continued, “I was to heal the sick and show them the path of goodness. But I was not to interfere with the destiny of any man. Those who wallow in evil and brujería cannot understand this. They create a disharmony that in the end reaches out and destroys life—With the passing away of Tenorio and myself the meddling will be done with, harmony will be reconstituted. That is good. Bear him no ill will—I accept my death because I accepted to work for life—”

  “Ultima—” I wanted to cry out, don’t die, Ultima. I wanted to rip death away from her and the owl.

  “Shhh,” she whispered, and her touch calmed me. “We have been good friends, Antonio, do not let my passing diminish that. Now I must ask you to do me a favor. Tomorrow you must clean out my room. At sunrise you must gather my medicines and my herbs and you must take them somewhere along the river and burn everything—”

  “Sí,” I promised.

  “Now, take the owl, go west into the hills until you find a forked juniper tree, there bury the owl. Go quickly—”

  “Grande,” my mother called outside.

  I dropped to my knees.

  “Bless me, Ultima—”

  Her hand touched my forehead and her last words were, “I bless you in the name of all that is good and strong and beautiful, Antonio. Always have the strength to live. Love life, and if despair enters your heart, look for me in the evenings when the wind is gentle and the owls sing in the hills. I shall be with you—”

  I gathered up the owl and slipped out of the room without looking back. I rushed past my worried mother who cried after me then ran to tend Ultima. I ran into the darkness of the quiet hills. I walked for a long time in the moonlight, and when I found a forked juniper tree I dropped to my knees and with my hands I carved out a hole big enough to hold the owl. I placed the owl in the grave and I put a large stone over it so the coyotes would not dig it out, then I covered the hole with the earth of the llano. When I stood up I felt warm tears on my cheeks.

  Around me the moonlight glittered on the pebbles of the llano, and in the night sky a million stars sparkled. Across the river I could see the twinkling lights of the town. In a week I would be returning to school, and as always I would be running up the goat path and crossing the bridge to go to church. Sometime in the future I would have to build my own dream out of those things that were so much a part of my childhood.

  I heard the sound of a siren somewhere near the bridge and I knew my father and my uncle were returning with the sheriff. The dead Tenorio who had meddled with the fate of Narciso and Ultima would be carted away from our hills. I did not think that my uncle Pedro would be punished for killing such a man. He had saved my life, and perhaps if we had come earlier we would have saved Ultima. But it was better not to think that way. Ultima said to take life’s experiences and build strength from them, not weakness.

  Tomorrow the women who came to mourn Ultima’s death would help my mother dress her in black, and my father would make her a fine pine coffin. The mourners would bring food and drink, and at night there would be a long velorio, the time of her wake. In two days we would celebrate the mass of the dead, and after mass we would take her body to the cemetery in Las Pasturas for burial. But all that would only be the ceremony that was prescribed by custom. Ultima was really buried here. Tonight.

  Reading Group Guide

  Q and A with Rudolfo Anaya

  1. Which writers do you feel have most influenced your work?

  I was influenced by a variety of writers while pursuing a degree in literature at the University of New Mexico in the early ’60s. I read contemporary and classical literature. As I wrote and found my own voice and style, I realized that the oral tradition of my community also influenced me. Writers are influenced not just by other authors but by a multiplicity of things.

  2. In retrospect is there anything about Bless Me, Ultima you’ve discovered, but didn’t know as you were writing it?

  Of course. This is why it’s fun to read the dozens of Ph.D. dissertations and articles written about it. Each reader brings a new perspective to the novel which becomes a new way of understanding it. These various ways of looking at the novel are helpful.

  3. Did you model Ultima after your own mother?

  No. Ultima is her own person.

  4. What is your own experience with the supernatural?

  The supernatural and ordinary reality are worlds that exist side by side. I don’t believe “the truth is out there,” I believe it’s within. To discover the truth and power within is to walk in the supernatural. There are many rituals, ceremonies, dances, and religious observances which all touch on the supernatural. These events are most effective when they touch the potential within. In New Mexico these ceremonies are happening all the time. We have many good healers (shamans) practicing today. If you need their help they’re there.

  5. Which of your books was the most difficult to write?

  Tortuga. It was painful to recreate the hospital and the suffering of the children. It was difficult to reveal the pain, and yet as writers that’s what we do, reveal.

  6. How do you think your experience as a teacher influenced your writing?

  It didn’t. I have always had my personal themes to develop in my writing and so writing meant revealing my personal path. Of course being around young people and sharing ideas was stimulating, as was publishing anthologies and editing magazines during those years.

  7. What would you like your readers to come away with after reading Bless Me, Ultima?

  I hope they experience a very unique world. I hope they follow Antonio’s journey and “live” with him through his experiences. I hope there is some healing in the process of reading, as there is in the process of writing.

  8. Do you think there’s something different about Bless Me, Ultima than your other novels?

  Each novel is unique. Children born from the same parents are unique. Bless Me, Ultima seems to carry the totality of the community’s beliefs in which the characters and the reader participate. Antonio’s experiences propel the plot, and his dreams add complexity to the childhood story. As writers we strive to compose a universe that we hope the reader can enter and know immediately, no matter how foreign the setting. Readers tell me they are able to enter the world of Bless Me, Ultima and come away strengthened by the emotions they feel while reading.

  9. Your insight into the mind of the child is evident in your novels and
children’s books. Is there a specific reason you are particularly drawn to the child as subject or object?

  When I was a child, I thought as a child. As a writer I wanted to compose that world again. I think it’s that sense of loss and what we experienced as children that leads us to write about childhood. I also realize that reading is very important to people, especially young people. I want to hook them into reading.

  10. What was your adolescence like?

  Raised in the small town of Santa Rosa, New Mexico, on the Pecos River with the Chávez and Gonzáles friends nearby, it was an experience I wouldn’t trade. My family, and most people, were poor, but the setting was perfect for me. The extended family always visited. Playing along the river, attending school and church, experiencing small town incidents, the magic of the storytellers, all were material that later found its way into Bless Me, Ultima. Some say that I romanticized the hard times because my focus was on the magic in childhood. One cannot capture every aspect of a community in a novel, so one writes the themes one has to develop. Economic poverty was there, but the spirit of the people sustained us through the most difficult times.

  11. What has the role of religion played in your life?

  My mother was a very religious person, much like Antonio’s mother in the novel. I grew up completely imbued with the Catholic cosmology. Later I discovered there are many religions in the world, many spiritual paths. These paths are part of our inheritance as Nuevos Mexicanos. They stretch from Mesoamerica to the Indian Pueblos of the Río Grande, but the Catholic church in Mexico and in New Mexico had tried to wipe out the indigenous religions. Bless Me, Ultima begins to uncover the indigenous myths and teachings of the New World. Antonio is learning not only his Catholic Spanish heritage, but through Ultima he is discovering his Native American side. He must bring these divergent views together, i.e., create synthesis instead of opposition. That sense of discovery of a spiritual path has been my life’s work. Readers will find the theme in all of my books.