Doce
Ultima’s cure and the golden carp occupied my thoughts the rest of the summer. I was growing up and changing. I had plenty of time to be by myself and to think and feel the magic these events contained.
Things were quiet at home since the departure of León and Eugene. My father was drinking more than usual. It was because he felt that they had betrayed him. He would come home, black from the asphalt of the highway, wash himself out by the windmill, then spend the rest of the afternoon doing small, odd jobs around the rabbit pens. I didn’t have to worry much about keeping the animals fed because he did all the work. He kept a bottle of whiskey out there and he drank until suppertime. I went to call him to supper one afternoon and I heard him muttering in the dusk.
“They have forsaken their father,” he spoke to the gentle rabbits which gathered around his feet, “they have left me. Oh,” he moaned, “it was not their fault. I am the fool! I should have known that the Márez blood in them would make them restless. It is the same blood that set me to wandering when I was young! Oh, I should have known. I was proud that they would show the true blood of the Márez, but little did I realize that same pride would make them desert me. Gone. We are all wanderers. And I am here alone—”
“¿Papá?” I called.
“¿Qué?” he turned. “Oh, it is you Antonio. It is time for supper, eh.” He came to my side and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Perhaps it is true the Luna’s blood will win out in the end,” he said, “perhaps it is better that way
—”
My mother, too, was very quiet. She tried to cheer herself by saying Andrew was still home, but Andrew worked all day and was usually in town at night. I only saw him for a few moments at breakfast and at suppertime. Mamá teased him that he had a girl in town and that soon she
and papá would have to go and speak to the girl’s parents, but Andrew remained silent. He would not be drawn into conversation. Of course my mother had Ultima to talk with during the day, and that was very good for her.
Ultima and I continued to search for plants and roots in the hills. I felt more attached to Ultima than to my own mother. Ultima told me the stories and legends of my ancestors. From her I learned the glory and the tragedy of the history of my people, and I came to understand how that history stirred in my blood.
I spent most of the long summer evenings in her room. We talked, stored the dry herbs, or played cards. One night I asked her about the three dolls on her shelf. The dolls were made of clay and shellacked with candle wax. They were clothed, and lifelike in appearance.
“They look familiar,” I thought to myself.
“Do not touch them,” she said. There were many things in Ultima’s room that I instinctively knew I should not touch, but I could not understand why she was so blunt about the dolls.
“One of them must have been left in the sun,” I said. I looked closely at one doll that sagged and bent over. The clay face seemed to be twisted with pain.
“Come here!” Ultima called me away from the dolls. I went and stood before her. Her clear stare fixed me to the spot and made me forget the dolls. “Do you know the man Tenorio?” she asked.
“Yes. He is the man who threatened you at El Puerto when we went to cure my uncle Lucas.”
“He is a wicked man,” she said. “When you are out alone, fishing along the river, if you see this man Antonio, you are to keep away from him. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I nodded. She spoke very calmly and so I was not frightened.
“You are a good boy. Now come here. I have something for you.” She took her scapular from around her neck. “Next spring you will start your catechism, and when you make your first communion you will receive your scapular. It will protect you from all evil. In the meantime, I want you to wear mine—” She took the thin string and placed it around my neck. I had seen my sisters’ scapulars and knew that the bit of cloth at the end had a
picture of the Virgin or St. Joseph on it, but this scapular held a small, flattened pouch. I smelled it and its fragrance was sweet.
“A small pouch of helpful herbs,” Ultima smiled, “I have had that since I was a child. It will keep you safe.”
“But what will you use?” I asked.
“Bah,” she laughed, “I have many ways to keep me safe—Now promise you will tell no one about this.” She tucked the scapular under my shirt.
“I promise,” I answered.
Another thing I did that summer was to confirm Cico’s story. I followed the line of water Cico said was drawn around the town, and it was true, the entire town was surrounded by water! Of course I did not go to the Hidden Lakes but I could see the obvious truth nevertheless. The town was ringed by the river, the creek, the lakes, and numerous other springs. I waited many an afternoon to catch sight of the beautiful golden carp as it swam by, and while I waited in the sun I pondered over his legend.
And there were good times too, gay times before the awful storm that broke over our house. When the people of Las Pasturas came to town for supplies, they always came to visit with my parents. When they came my father was happy, not only because they were his people, but because they were a happy people. They were always laughing, and the men’s eyes were always bright with the sting of whiskey. Their talk was loud and excited, and there was a song in it. They even smelled different from the people of the town, or my uncles from El Puerto. My uncles were quiet and the odor around them was deep and quiet, like damp earth. The people from Las Pasturas were like the wind, and the fragrances they carried on their clothing shifted as the wind shifted.
The people from Las Pasturas always had stories to tell about the places where they had worked. Sometimes they talked about picking cotton in east Texas and about running whiskey into the cottonfields of dry counties.
Sometimes they talked about picking broom corn, and as they talked and laughed I could see the rows of green broom corn and I could smell the sweet scent it left in their sweaty workclothes. Or they would speak about the potato fields of Colorado, and the tragedy that befell them there. They left a son in the dark earth of Colorado, crushed into the tilled earth by a spilled tractor. And then, even the grown men cried, but it was all right to cry, because it was fitting to grieve the death of a son.
But always the talk would return to stories of the old days in Las Pasturas. Always the talk turned to life on the llano. The first pioneers there were sheepherders. Then they imported herds of cattle from Mexico and became vaqueros. They became horsemen, caballeros, men whose daily life was wrapped up in the ritual of horsemanship. They were the first cowboys in a wild and desolate land which they took from the Indians.
Then the railroad came. The barbed wire came. The songs, the corridos became sad, and the meeting of the people from Texas with my forefathers was full of blood, murder, and tragedy. The people were uprooted. They looked around one day and found themselves closed in. The freedom of land and sky they had known was gone. Those people could not live without freedom and so they packed up and moved west. They became migrants.
My mother did not like the people of the llano. To her they were worthless drunkards, wanderers. She did not understand their tragedy, their search for the freedom that was now forever gone. My mother had lived in the llano many years when she married my father, but the valley and the river were too ingrained in her for her to change. She made only two lasting friends in Las Pasturas, Ultima, for whom she would lay down her life, and Narciso, whose drinking she tolerated because he had helped her when her twins were born.
It was late in the summer and we were all seated around the kitchen table making our plans to go to El Puerto for the harvest when my mother with strange premonition remembered Narciso. “He is a fool, and he is a drunkard, but he did help me in my hour of need—”
“Ay yes, that Narciso is a gentleman,” my father winked and teased her. “Bah!” my mother scoffed, and went on. “That man didn’t sleep for
three days, rushing around getting things for Ultima and me, and he never touched the bottle.”
“Where was papá?” Deborah asked.
“Who knows. The railroad took him to places he never told me about,” my mother answered angrily.
“I had to work,” my father said simply, “I had to support your family—” “Anyway,” my mother changed the subject, “it has been a good summer
at El Puerto. The harvest will be good, and it will be good to see my papá, and Lucas—” She turned and looked thankfully at Ultima.
“This calls for a drink of thanksgiving,” my father smiled. He too wanted to preserve the good spirits and humor that were with us that night. He was standing when Narciso burst through the kitchen door. He came in without knocking and we all jumped from our seats. One minute the kitchen was soft and quiet and the next it was filled with the huge figure of Narciso. He was the biggest man I had ever seen. He wore a huge mustache and his hair flowed like a lion’s mane. His eyes were wild and red as he stood over us, gasping and panting for breath; saliva dripped from his mouth. He looked like a huge, wounded monster. Deborah and Theresa screamed and ran behind my mother.
“Narciso!” my father exclaimed. “What is the matter?”
“Teh-Teh-norio!” Narciso gasped. He pointed at Ultima and ran and kneeled at her feet. He took her hand and kissed it.
“Narciso,” Ultima smiled. She took his hand and made him stand. “¿Qué pasa?” my father repeated.
“He is drunk!” my mother exclaimed anxiously. She clutched Deborah and Theresa.
“No! No!” Narciso insisted. “Tenorio!” he gasped and pointed to the kitchen door. “Grande, you must hide!” he pleaded with Ultima.
“You don’t make sense,” my father said. He took Narciso by the shoulders. “Sit down, catch your breath—María, send the children to bed.”
My mother pushed us past Narciso, who sank into my father’s chair. I didn’t know what was happening, nobody seemed to know, but I was not about to miss the action simply because I was a child. My mother’s first concern was to rush the frightened Deborah and Theresa up the stairs to their room. I held back and slipped into the darkness beneath the stairs. I huddled down and watched with anticipation the drama that unfolded as Narciso regained his composure and related his story.
“Grande must hide!” he insisted. “We must waste no time! Even now they come!”
“Why must I hide, Narciso?” Ultima asked calmly.
“Who is coming?” my mother added as she returned to the kitchen. She had not missed me and I was glad for it.
Narciso roared. “Oh my God!”
At that moment I heard Ultima’s owl hoot a danger cry outside. There was someone out there. I looked at Ultima and saw her smile vanish. She
held her head high, as if sniffing the wind, and the strength I had seen when she dealt with Tenorio at the bar filled her face. She, too, had heard the owl.
“We know nothing,” my father said, “now make sense, hombre!” “Today Tenorio’s daughter, nay, his witch died. The small evil one died
at El Puerto today—”
“What has that to do with us?” my father asked.
“¡Ay Dios!” Narciso cried and wrung his hands. “Living on this cursed hill, away from town, you hear nothing! Tenorio has blamed la Grande for his daughter’s death!” He pointed to Ultima.
“¡Ave María Purísima!” my mother cried. She went to Ultima and put her arms around her. “That is impossible!”
“You must take her away, hide her until this evil story is ended—” Again I heard the owl cry, and I heard Ultima whisper, “It is too late—” “Bah!” my father almost laughed, “Tenorio spreads rumors like an old
woman. The next time I see him I will pull his dog-beard and make him wish he had never been born.”
“It is not rumor,” Narciso pleaded, “he has gathered his cronies around him at the bar, he has filled them with whiskey all day, and he has convinced them to burn a witch! They come on a witchhunt!”
“¡Ay!” my mother choked a sob and crossed her forehead.
I held my breath at what I heard. I could not believe that anyone could ever think that Ultima was a witch! She did only good. Again the owl cried. I turned and stared into the darkness, but I could see nothing. Still I felt something or someone lurking in the shadows, else why should the owl cry?
“Who told you this wild story,” my father demanded.
“Jesús Silva has come from El Puerto. I spoke to him just minutes ago and came running to warn you! You know his word is gold!” Narciso answered. My father nodded in agreement.
“¡Gabriel! What are we to do?” my mother cried. “What proof does Tenorio have?” my father asked.
“Proof!” Narciso roared, he was now nearly out of his mind with the deliberateness of my father. “He does not need proof, hombre! He has filled the men with whiskey; he has spread his poisonous vengeance into them!”
“We must flee!” my mother cried.
“No,” Ultima cut in. She looked at my father and measured him carefully with her intent gaze. “A man does not flee from the truth,” she
said.
“Ay, Grande,” Narciso moaned, “I am only thinking of your welfare.
One does not talk about the truth to men drunk with whiskey and the smell of a lynching—”
“If he has no proof, then we need not be concerned with the stories a wolf spreads,” my father said.
“All right!” Narciso jumped up. “If it is proof you insist on before you hide la Grande, I will tell you what Jesús told me! Tenorio has told the men who would listen to him that he found la Grande’s stringed bag, you know the kind the curanderas wear around their neck, under the bed of his dead daughter!”
“It cannot be!” I jumped up and shouted. I rushed to my father. “It could not be Ultima’s, because I have it!” I tore open my shirt and showed them the stringed scapular. And at the same time we heard the loud report of a shot and running men carrying burning torches surrounded our house.
“It is them! It is too late!” Narciso moaned and slumped back into the chair. I saw my father look at his rifle on the shelf, then dismissing it he walked calmly to the door. I followed closely behind him.
“¡Gabriel Márez!” an evil voice called from beyond the dancing light of the torches. My father stepped outside and I followed him. He was aware of me, but he did not send me back. He was on his land and as such would not be shamed in front of his son.
At first we could see only the flaring light of the piñón torches. Then our eyes grew accustomed to the dark and we could see the dark outlines of men, and their red, sweating faces by the light of their torches. Some of the men had drawn charcoal crosses on their foreheads. I trembled. I was afraid, but I vowed I would not let them take Ultima. I waited for my father to speak.
“¿Quién es?” my father asked. He spread his feet as if ready to fight. “We have no quarrel with you, Márez!” the evil voice called out, “we
only want the witch!”
My father’s voice was tense with anger now. “Who speaks?” he asked loudly. There was no answer.
“Come, come!” my father repeated, almost shouting, “you know me! You call me by my name, you walk upon my land! I want to know who speaks!”
The men glanced nervously at each other. Two of them drew close to each other and whispered secretly. A third came from around the house and joined them. They had thought taking Ultima would be easy, but now they realized that my father would let no man invade his home.
“Our business here tonight is not with you, Márez,” the voice of Tenorio squeaked in the dark. I recognized the voice from the bar at El Puerto.
“You walk on my land! That is my business!” my father shouted.
“We do not want to quarrel with you, Márez; it is the old witch we want. Give her to us and we will take her away. There will be no trouble. Besides, she is of no relation to you, and she stands accused of witchcraft—”
“Who accuses her?” my father asked sternly. He was forcing the men to identify themselves, and so the false courage the whiskey and the darkness had lent them was slipping away. In order to hold the men together Tenorio was forced to speak up.
“It is I, Tenorio Trementina, who accuses her!” he shouted and jumped forward so that I could plainly see his ugly face. “¡La mujer que no ha pecado es bruja, le juro a Dios!”
He did not have a chance to finish his accusation because my father reached out and grabbed him by the collar. Tenorio was not a small man, but with one hand my father jerked him off his feet and pulled the cringing figure forward.
“You are a cabrón,” he said, almost calmly, into Tenorio’s evil, frightened face. “You are a whoring old woman!” With his left hand he grabbed at the tuft of hair that grew on Tenorio’s chin and yanked it hard. Tenorio screamed in pain and rage. Then my father extended his arm and Tenorio went flying. He landed screaming in the dust, and then scrambling to his feet he ran to find refuge behind two of his coyotes.
“Wait, Márez!” one of the men shouted and jumped between my father and Tenorio. “We did not come to fight you! There is no man here that does not hold you in respect. But witchcraft is a serious accusation, you know that. We do not like this any better than you do, but the charge must be cleared up! This morning Tenorio’s daughter died. He has proof that it is Ultima’s curse that killed her—”
The rest of the men nodded and moved forward. Their faces were sullen. They all held hastily made crosses of green juniper and piñón branches. The light of the torches danced off crosses of pins and needles they had pinned
on their coats and shirts. One man had even run needles through the skin of his lower lip so that no curse might enter him. Blood trickled down his lip and dropped from his chin.
“Is that you, Blas Montaño?” my father asked of the man who had just spoken.
“Sí,” the man answered and bowed his head.
“Give us the witch!” Tenorio shouted from behind the safety of his men.
He was raging with insult, but he would not approach my father. “There is no witch here!” my father answered and crouched as if to
await their attack.
“Tenorio has proof!” another man shouted.
“¡Chinga tu madre!” my father retorted. They were going to have to fight him to take Ultima, but there were too many for him! I thought of running for the rifle.
“Give us the bruja!” Tenorio shouted. He urged the men forward and they answered as a chorus, “Give us the witch!” “Give us the witch!” The man with the crossed needles on his lip waved his juniper cross towards the house. The others waved their torches back and forth as they slowly approached my father.
“Give us the witch!” “Give us the witch!” they chanted and moved forward, but my father held his ground. The hissing of the torches frightened me, but I took courage from my father. They were almost upon us when they suddenly stopped. The screen door banged and Narciso stepped forward. Instead of a bumbling drunkard there now stood in the path of the mob a giant man. He held my father’s rifle casually in his hands, as he surveyed the mob.
“¿Qué pasa aquí?” his booming voice broke the tense silence. “Why are farmers out playing vigilantes when they should be home, sitting before a warm fire, playing cards, counting the rich harvest, eh? I know you men, I know you, Blas Montaño, Manuelito, and you Cruz Sedillo—and I know you are not men who need the cover of darkness to hide your deeds!”
The men glanced at each other. The man they considered the town drunk had shamed them by pointing out the lowliness of their deed. One man took a drink from a bottle he held and tried to pass it on, but no one would take it. They were silent.
“You shame your good names by following this jodido Tenorio!” Narciso continued.
“Aieeeee!” Tenorio groaned with rage and hate, but there was nothing he dared to do.
“This cabrón has lost a daughter today, and for that El Puerto can sleep easier now that her evil-doing is gone to hell with her!”
“Animal!” Tenorio spit out.
“I may well be a beast,” Narciso laughed, “but I am not a fool!”
“We are not fools!” Blas shouted back, “we came on an errand that is a law by custom. This man has proof that the curandera Ultima is a witch, and if it is her curse that caused a death then she must be punished!” The men around him nodded in agreement. I was mortally afraid that Narciso, like my father, would anger the mob and we would be overrun. Then I knew they would take Ultima and kill her.
Narciso’s throat rumbled with laughter. “I do not question your right to charge someone with witchcraft, it is so in custom. But you are fools, fools for drinking the devil’s whiskey!” He pointed at Tenorio. “And fools for following him across the countryside in the middle of the night—”
“You have insulted me, and for that you will pay!” Tenorio shouted and waved his fist. “And now he calls you fools!” He turned to the men. “Enough of this talking. We came to take the witch! Let it be done!”
“¡Sí!” the men nodded in agreement.
“Wait!” Narciso stopped them. “Yes, I called you fools, but not to insult you. Listen my friends, you have already violated this man’s land—you have come and created much bad blood when you could have done this simply. You have the right to charge someone with witchcraft, and to discover the truth of that charge there is a very simple test!” He reached forward and pulled the needles from the man’s lips. “Are these needles holy?” he asked the man.
“Sí,” the man answered, “blessed just last Sunday by the priest.” He wiped the blood on his lip.
“I call you fools because you all know the test for a bruja, and yet you did not think to use it. It is simple. Take the holy needles and pin them to the door. Put them in so they are crossed—and in the name of God!” he roared. “You all know that a witch cannot walk through a door so marked by the sign of Christ!”
“¡Ay sí!” the men exclaimed. It was true.
“It is a true test,” the man called Cruz Sedillo spoke. He took the needles from Narciso. “It is legal in our customs. I have seen it work.”
“But we must all abide by the trial,” Narciso said. He looked at my father. For the first time my father turned and looked at the kitchen door. In the light were the two huddled figures of my mother and Ultima. Then he glanced at Narciso. He placed his faith in his old friend.
“I will abide by the test,” he said simply. I crossed my forehead. I had no doubt that Ultima could walk by the way of the holy cross. Now everyone turned and looked at Tenorio, for it was he who had accused Ultima.
“I will abide,” he muttered. He had no other choice.
“I will place the needles,” Cruz Sedillo said. He walked to the door and stuck the two needles in the form of a cross at the top of the door frame.
Then he turned and spoke to the men. “It is true that no person of evil, no bruja, can walk through a door guarded by the sign of the Holy Cross. In my own lifetime I have seen a woman so judged, because her body burned with pain at the sight of the cross. So if Ultima cannot step through the threshold, then our work tonight has just begun. But if she crosses the threshold, then she can never again be accused of witchcraft—we call God as our witness,” he finished and stepped back. All the men made the sign of the cross and murmured a prayer.
We all turned and looked at the door. The fire from the torches was dying, and in fact some of the men had already dropped their smoldering torches to the ground. We could see Ultima plainly as she walked to the door.
“Who is it that accuses me?” she asked from behind the screen door. Her voice was very clear and powerful.
“Tenorio Trementina accuses you of being a witch!” Tenorio answered in a savage, hate-filled voice. He had stepped forward to shout his accusation, and as he did I heard Ultima’s owl shriek in the dark. There was a rustling and whirling of wings above us, and all the men ducked and held their hands up to protect themselves from the attack. But the owl sought only one man, and it found him. It hurled itself on Tenorio, and the sharp talons gouged out one eye from the face of the evil man.
“Aieeeeeeeeeee!” he screamed in pain. “I am blinded! I am blinded!” In the dying light I saw blood spurt from the dark pit and bloody pulp that had
once been an eye.
“¡Madre de Dios!” the men cried. They cringed in fear around the screaming, cursing Tenorio. They trembled and looked into the dark sky for the owl, but it was gone.
“¡Mira!” one of them cried. He pointed and they turned to see Ultima.
She had walked through the door! “It is proven!” Narciso cried.
Ultima took a step towards the men and they fell back. They could not understand why the owl had attacked Tenorio; they could not understand the power of Ultima. But she had walked through the door, and so the power of la curandera was good.
“It is proven,” Cruz Sedillo said, “the woman is free of the accusation.” He turned and walked to the hill where they had left their trucks and several of the men hurried after him. Two stayed to help Tenorio.
“Your evil bird has blinded me!” he cried. “For that I curse you! I will see you dead! And you, Narciso, I swear to kill you!” The men pulled him away. They disappeared out of the dim light of the sputtering torches and into the darkness.
“¡Grande!” It was my mother who now burst through the door. She put her arms around Ultima and led her back into the house.
“Ay, what a night,” my father shrugged as he looked after the men who had slunk away. Up on the hill we heard their trucks start, then leave. “Someday I may have to kill that man,” he said to himself.
“He needs killing,” Narciso agreed.
“How can I thank you, old friend,” my father said turning to Narciso. “I owe la Grande my life,” Narciso said, “and I owe you many favors,
Márez. What are thanks among friends.”
My father nodded. “Come, I need a drink—” They walked into the house. I followed, but paused at the door. A faint glitter caught my eye. I bent down and picked up the two needles that had been stuck to the top of the door frame. Whether someone had broken the cross they made, or whether they had fallen, I would never know.
