The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  Isadora’s pregnancy ran its course, and just before the birth of her child she and Narcisa followed the ways of the women of the Rarámuri. First, the village nahual was summoned to the Santiago cave, where many of the tribeswomen were gathered, squeezing in around the hearth. Isadora knelt in front of the holy man so that he could cure her of any evil that might have been wished on her or her child.

  The nahual raised his sacred staffs over her head, pointing them first toward the east, where the sun and moon rise, then toward the west, where they set. He then thrust his staffs toward the north, where the gods are born, and to the south, where they dwell in the kingdom of the dead after they are finished with their mission. As he did this, he rasped his wands, chanting and murmuring sacred incantations. When this ceremony was completed, the holy man raised his outstretched arms, holding his hands palms down, over Isadora’s head. Again he sang out a litany—this time to cut the invisible thread that bound the child in her womb to heaven.

  After the curing ceremony, Narcisa and Isadora trekked to a place hidden in the sierra, where they found a tree with a branch strong enough to hold Isadora’s weight and low enough for her to grasp. Then they gathered grass and soft bushes, and beneath the branch they built a nest large enough to cradle an infant. Now Isadora was ready to give birth.

  A few days later, Narcisa came to the cave for Isadora because she had seen signs that her time had come. They set out for the place they had prepared for the birth of the child. They took gourds filled with water and bread packed into a morral bag to sustain them as they waited for the baby to make its way out of Isadora’s womb.

  They did not wait long. Isadora began her labor shortly after they arrived at the site. The sun was dipping in the west; nighttime was beginning. With Narcisa’s help, Isadora removed her dress and underclothes. Naked, she clung to the branch with her legs straddling the grassy cradle. Pain shot through her body, covering her with sweat. Her breath came in spurts, and saliva dribbled from her open mouth in silvery strands. As Isadora’s strength began to diminish, Narcisa stood behind her and put her arms around her, bracing her, holding her beneath her breasts.

  Through all of this, both women were silent, until a blinding flash of pain convulsed Isadora’s body, and blackness shrouded her eyes for a few seconds. Then she heard the wail of the babe, and as she looked down she was able to see the child sliding from between her thighs. Narcisa had circled around and was on her haunches, arms stretched out, ready to take the child. When it was in her hands, she looked up at Isadora.

  “It’s a girl child.”

  Narcisa’s voice was filled with music. Isadora slouched down to her knees, then on to one side, balancing herself on an elbow. She lifted her free hand and ran it over the sleek black hair of the child who had just emerged from her body. She was oblivious of her own body, and her pain was forgotten in the wonderment of seeing that the girl’s skin was coppery brown and glistened like a chestnut in the light of the rising sun. Isadora’s heart filled with joy at the mystery that such a child should have come from her body.

  After Narcisa wiped the child of its covering of mucus, she cut and bound the umbilical cord. Then she put the girl in her mother’s arms. Isadora was still naked, and the sensation of the child’s skin against her own made her pulse race. She closed her eyes and felt that her heart would burst of the joy that was flooding it. Although elated, Narcisa had not forgotten her duties. She wrapped the umbilical cord in a cloth; there was yet another ceremony to perform once back at the cave.

  Isadora rested, reclining with the child still on her breast. In a few hours she and Narcisa would begin their return to the village. For a moment she doubted that she would have the strength, but she reminded herself that this was the way of all the women of the tribe.

  She slept. In her dreams she was choosing the child’s name. Jerónimo and she had agreed that if the baby were to be a boy, he would name him; if a girl, the child would bear a name of Isadora’s choosing. In her dreams, names danced in front of her. Rosa, Violeta, Lidia, Iris. Flowers took shape in Isadora’s reverie followed by their names. But after she awoke, she remembered. The girl would be named after the bird that sings sweetly and flies to unknown distances.

  “Her name will be Alondra.”

  Four days later, as is the custom of the Rarámuri, the fiesta in celebration of the birth of a girl child took place in the village center. It was also vital, however, to have the priest baptize the child in the Catholic manner.

  On the day of the baptism, everyone came together before sunset. The men wore ornamental sarapes that they wrapped around their bodies, concealing the loincloths they would later reveal. The women wore long cotton dresses, embroidered with flowers, butterflies, and other intricate designs. Jerónimo, with the child in his arms, made his way through the crowd toward the facade of the church to the baptismal font. He was followed by Isadora, Narcisa, Celestino, Jerónimo’s brothers, and their wives and children, as well as Ursula. The priest, vested in an alb and stole, waited for them with a prayer book in his hands.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

  He traced a broad cross in the air with his right hand. Everyone followed him, making the sign of the cross on forehead, breast, and both shoulders. Then they kissed their fingers held in a cross. The men had removed their sombreros, and the women had covered their heads with shawls. The quiet of the early evening was broken only by the breeze that swept down from the highest levels of the barranca.

  “Who are the padrinos?”

  “Here we are, Padre.”

  Celestino and Narcisa stepped forward when the priest asked for the godparents. His head was bowed, but she looked into the priest’s eyes.

  “What will the child’s name be?”

  “Alondra, Padre.”

  It was Isadora who spoke, and she too looked into the priest’s eyes. He returned her gaze, letting her know that he was aware of her sins of infidelity to her marriage vows, of being El Rarámuri’s concubine, of betrayal of the education given her by nuns and, worst of all, of disrespect for her father. She did not look away; she steadily returned his gaze, and he understood her meaning.

  “It can not be just Alondra. The baptismal rite demands the name of a saint.”

  “María Alondra.”

  “So be it.”

  The priest’s voice was sharp, brittle, but he understood that he could not change all the ways of the people to whom he was supposed to minister. They would call the child what they wished.

  He motioned to Narcisa, who now held Alondra, to bring the child to the font, where he poured holy water over her head. When the chill of the water saturated the baby’s hair, she let out a squeal that made those that heard it smile. The priest went on with the ritual and sacramental prayers, rejecting Satan and all his works. He emphasized the meaning of the words by pausing and nodding his head. He then made the sign of the cross over the child’s head. The ceremony was over. He turned and disappeared into the church.

  As soon as he was out of sight, the fiesta began. The men took off the sarapes and stepped forward, showing their breechcloths. From among them the nahual, followed by the huehues, came forward; a large circle formed around them. The holy man held the sacred rods over the baby’s head, again held by her father, chanting and dancing as the tribe joined in the rhythm.

  From the crowd the Santiago men, women and children stepped forward, then knelt in front of the nahual, waiting for his blessing. He made the sign of the cross several times with incense as he approached Isadora, who was also kneeling. With water which he had taken in his mouth, he blew a cross on her head, thus ensuring her fertility in the future.

  Throughout these rites, the Rarámuri swayed and stomped. The flapping sound of bare feet against the cobblestones added to the tempo of the dance. Jerónimo, the only one not kneeling, also moved in rhythm, turning slowly, facing the cardinal points of the universe, lifting Alondra high over his head as he faced each d
irection.

  The people hummed as the nahual lit a fire in the center of the circle, plucked a twig from the flames, and burned a bit of the child’s hair. One of the huehues handed him four lighted pitch-pine sticks; with these he traced more signs of the cross into the mountain air.

  After this, everyone feasted on goat meat, tesguino beer, and peyote consecrated by the nahual. La Chirimía, a group of musicians who pounded on drums, rattled seed gourds, puffed upon flutes, and scraped at tinny violins, provided a rhythm that engulfed the people’s talk and laughter. The people of the tribe sat on the ground for hours, eating, drinking, and many times getting to their feet to perform a quick, fiery dance.

  As evening turned into night, everyone was transformed by the beer and peyote, until they were ready to dance the dutuburi: The men formed a circle, and began to sway to the beat of drums, flutes and rattling gourds. Then the women formed an outer circle, gyrating in the opposite direction. In the center, Jerónimo, with Alondra in his arms, danced joyfully in celebration of this new child who had been born into the Rarámuri. The rest of the Santiago men then joined him, honoring their brother. Isadora, her eyes fixed on Jerónimo, her head giddy with tesguino beer, danced and laughed. She had never been so happy. Later on in the cave, as she fell asleep, Isadora was at last able to put aside the fears with which she wrestled. It was better to believe in what happened during the moonlit night.

  Chapter 13

  Three weeks later, Isadora sat waiting for Jerónimo in a hollow overlooking the path from the plain up to the village center. The sun was setting, and she enjoyed the soft breeze at her back, ruffling her hair forward. She gazed at the sky, taking in the shades of lavender that blended with orange and pink hues. Above her the sky was still a deep blue dotted by white clouds that scurried toward the horizon, as if being sucked in by the setting sun. She craned her neck in the opposite direction: The moon was new, a transparent crescent.

  She looked down to the sweep of the plain below. She knew where her father’s land began and ended; much of what she was looking at belonged to Hacienda Miraflores. The image of herself, still a girl, riding by her father’s side, flashed through her mind. The memory shook her heart, as if a slight tremor had moved the earth beneath her. She sighed, scanning the distance, taking pleasure from the vastness and beauty of the land. To the north, in the convent school where she had spent her adolescence, other girls were learning and listening, just as she had done. To the west, the ocean rolled with its endless tides and ebbs.

  Suddenly, Eloy flashed before her eyes, and Isadora jerked back, startled by the forgotten and unexpected memory. She thought it strange that she should think of him; she hadn’t in years. She chuckled, wondering what Narcisa would say to this. Was his spirit trying to reach her? Maybe he was dead. She shook her head, trying to clear it of the foolish thoughts going on inside. Then Eloy’s face moved aside, making way for that of Samuel, reminding her of the void left in her heart by his absence. Would he understand when he grew to be a man? She forced herself to think of something else.

  She put her thoughts aside when her attention was caught by a dark speck on the flat land below that moved in her direction. She squinted, trying to focus her eyes on the object approaching her. She sat up when it became clear that it was a Rarámuri runner. He was alone, and not playing at racing; he was pressing himself to his limits of speed. She got to her feet, sensing that the boy carried important news, something out of the ordinary. In minutes, she saw that he had reached the beginning of the ascent and that soon he would be winding past her.

  As the runner rushed up the path, his feet pounded the earth, lifting small billows of dust that trailed behind him. Isadora jumped out onto the pathway, knowing that soon the runner would be where she stood; she wanted to know the reason for his haste. When the boy was close enough to see her, however, he stopped so abruptly that he nearly lost his balance. He wheeled to the side and took another way, deliberately changing his direction.

  The runner’s evasion frightened her, and something compelled her to swing around to look down to the plain. She cupped her hands over her eyes and made out a group of men carting something heavy that made them struggle with its weight. It was now growing dark, but she could still make out the figures. One, two, three, four, five men. As they came closer to her, she saw that it was a bundle they carried, something with the shape of an animal. But the Rarámuri did not wrap what they had hunted.

  She trotted toward the men, gaining speed despite the flapping of her long dress and its tangling between her legs. She was breathing hard, open-mouthed, taking large gulps of air as she made her way down the hill toward the approaching group. Her feet were bare, and though callused, they began to hurt her. Bushes scraped against her legs and arms, slashing, making them bleed, but Isadora was oblivious. The drumming in her head had now become thunderous. When she finally reached the men, she stopped, her chest heaving and her face encrusted with dust.

  Two of the men facing her were Jerónimo’s brothers. She caught the expression in their eyes. She looked to the others and when they turned their faces, avoiding her look, Isadora knew the truth. She did not have to look at the blood-stained sarape to know whose body was within it.

  It was almost dark, and only the upper reaches of the sierra were still showing the last of daylight. No one said anything. They stood as if frozen, as if their bodies were paralyzed. Isadora felt that the air in her lungs had drained, and that her insides were collapsing. The roar in her head grew louder. She stared at the form outlined on the blanket; it was saturated with blood and mud, and she feared that Jerónimo had been mutilated, hacked, dismembered.

  “Undo it!”

  When she mouthed the order, her voice was unrecognizable. Those of the men who knew her were startled by its harshness and its gravelly tone. It was almost the voice of a man.

  “Niña, no …”

  “Undo it!”

  The men looked at one another, unsure of what to do, but they understood that Isadora would not move until they obeyed her. They were still reeling from what they had seen, but they did as she commanded. One of them stepped forward and peeled away the cloth, uncovering the mangled remains. Isadora’s body reeled backward, as if shoved by an invisible force, but she regained her balance in an instant. She stared at what had been the man whom she had loved since childhood, the man who had given her happiness beyond her imagination.

  “Where is his head?”

  No one answered. They heard each other breathing through nostrils clogged with dust and sweat. Isadora looked at them, then knelt by the body to make certain that she was not mistaken. She got to her feet again.

  “Where is it?”

  “It was gone when we found him. The assassins took it with them.”

  “Assassins? There were more than one?”

  “Yes. One man could not have done this. It was two or more of them.”

  Isadora rolled her eyes from side to side, realizing that only her father could have ordered Jerónimo’s murder in that manner. He had been attacked and torn apart by jackals. And it had been she who had demanded that they stay with the tribe. If she and Jerónimo had escaped to another place this would not have happened. She could not scream or cry out. Her throat had closed. She could not even get down on the ground. Her bones had locked; her body was stiff, unbending. At last, silence, she turned in the direction of the sierra to lead the cortege and what was left of her lover up the slope.

  By the time Isadora and the others arrived at the village center, Celestino and Narcisa were waiting. They already knew that their son was dead. Their faces were masks: eyes shut to slits, mouths drooping like upside-down crescents. They stood erect, wordless. There was a throng of people behind them. The silence was complete; the only sound was that of the wind snaking through the crevices and cracks of the barranca.

  Jerónimo’s brothers laid down his remains on the cobblestones, but no one moved until the priest and the nahual approached, shoulder to shou
lder. The face of the priest betrayed his shock. The face of the holy man was expressionless. Both ministers went to the body, and each began to perform the ritual of his belief.

  “Pater noster …”

  “Tata Hakuli …”

  The incantations of the holy men spiralled toward heaven, the priest making the sign of the cross with his right hand, time after time, the nahual thrusting his sacred rods toward the cardinal points of the universe. The mourners surrounding them spontaneously followed the chanting of the nahual, humming mixing with their muffled wailing. Isadora remained silent. Her throat had constricted so severely that it had blocked saliva from wetting her mouth, and tears from flowing through her eyes. She stared at the two ministers as if they were phantoms, and she felt suddenly filled with the desire to be close to Jerónimo. She moved forward and knelt next to the bundle, despite the Rarámuri custom requiring a widow to keep her distance.

  On her knees, Isadora rocked back and forth, swaying with the mournful tones of the grievers. She put her hands on the bloodied mound, trying to pray, but all the invocations she had learned to recite during her lifetime had dried up. Instead, all she could feel was scorching hatred for her father. She forced herself to look around at Jerónimo’s family to see if they hated her for causing this calamity. They continued to stand, eyes closed, as if in a trance.

  Hours passed while the grievers wailed and lamented, but none collapsed or even knelt. Instead, they remained on their feet, their faces upturned toward a sky now black, lit only by a canopy of stars and a young moon that inched its way toward its cradle.

  The priest moved over to Celestino, then to Narcisa. He whispered and patted them on the shoulder, all the while nodding and shaking his head. Isadora knew what he was counseling: Their sons must not be allowed to attempt to take revenge; Don Flavio would be waiting for them. The Santiagos would end up losing all three sons. Through this, Narcisa and Celestino stood unmoving, not flinching even a facial muscle.