In my dreams that night I saw three figures. At first I thought the three men were my brothers. I called to them. They answered in unison.
This is the boy who heard our last confession on earth, they chanted as if in prayer. In his innocence he prayed the Act of Final Contrition for us who were the outcasts of the town.
Who is it? I called, and the three figures drew closer.
First I saw Narciso. He held his hands to the gaping, bloody wound at his chest. Behind him came the mangled body of Lupito, jerking crazily to the laughter of the townspeople. And finally I saw the body of Florence, floating motionlessly in the dark water.
These are the men I have seen die! I cried. Who else will my prayers accompany to the land of death?
The mournful wind moved like a shadow down the street, swirling in its path chalky dust and tumbleweeds. Out of the dust I saw the gang arise.
They fell upon each other with knives and sticks and fought like animals. Why must I be witness to so much violence! I cried in fear and protest. The germ of creation lies in violence, a voice answered.
Florence! I shouted as he appeared before me, is there no God in heaven to bear my burden?
Look! He pointed to the church where the priest desecrated the altar by pouring the blood of dead pigeons into the holy chalice. The old gods are dying, he laughed.
Look! He pointed to the creek where Cico lay in wait for the golden carp. When the golden carp appeared Cico struck with his spear and the water ran blood red.
What is left? I asked in horror.
Nothing, the reply rolled like silent thunder through the mist of my dream.
Is there no heaven or hell? Nothing.
The magic of Ultima! I insisted.
Look! He pointed to the hills where Tenorio captured the night-spirit of Ultima and murdered it, and Ultima died in agony.
Everything I believed in was destroyed. A painful wrenching in my heart made me cry aloud, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!”
And as the three figures departed my pesadilla they cried out longingly.
We live when you dream, Tony, we live only in your dreams—
“What is it?” Ultima asked. She was at my bedside, holding me in her arms. My body was shaking with choking sobs that filled my throat.
“A nightmare,” I mumbled, “pesadilla—”
“I know, I know,” she crooned and held me until the convulsions left me.
Then she went to her room, heated water, and brought me medicine to drink. “This will help you sleep,” she said. “It is the death of your young friend,” she talked as I drank the bitter potion, “perhaps it is all the things in your mind of late that cause the pesadilla—anyway, it is not good. The strengthening of a soul, the growing up of a boy is part of his destiny, but you have seen too much death. It is time for you to rest, to see growing life. Perhaps your uncles could best teach you about growth—”
She laid me back on my pillow and pulled the blanket up to my neck. “I want you to promise that you will go with them. It will be good for you.” I nodded my head in agreement. The medicine put me to sleep, a sleep without dreams.
When Florence was buried I did not go to the funeral. The bells of the church kept ringing and calling, but I did not go. The church had not given him communion with God and so he was doomed to his dream-wanderings, like Narciso and Lupito. I felt that there was nothing the church or I could give him now.
I overheard Ultima talking to my father and mother. She told them I was sick and that I needed rest. She talked about how beneficial a stay at El Puerto would be. My parents agreed. They understood that I had to be away from the places that held the memories of my friend. They hoped that the solitude of the small village and the strength of my uncles would lend me the rest I needed.
“I will be saddened at leaving you,” I told Ultima when we were alone.
“Ay,” she tried to smile, “life is filled with sadness when a boy grows to be a man. But as you grow into manhood you must not despair of life, but gather strength to sustain you—can you understand that.”
“Yes,” I said, and she smiled.
“I would not send you if I thought the visit would not be good for you, Antonio, but it will be. Your uncles are strong men, you can learn much from them, and it will be good for you to be away from here, where so much has happened. One thing—” she cautioned.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Be prepared to see things changed when you return—”
I thought awhile. “Andrew said things had changed when he returned from the army—do you mean in that way?”
She nodded. “You are growing, and growth is change. Accept the change, make it a part of your strength—”
Then my mother came to give me her blessings. I knelt and she said, “te doy esta bendición en el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y el Espíritu Santo,” and she wished that I would prosper from the instruction of her brothers.
Then she knelt by my side and Ultima blessed us both. She blessed without using the name of the Trinity like my mother, and yet her blessing was as holy. She only wished for strength and health within the person she blessed.
“Your father is waiting,” my mother said as we rose. Then I did something I had never done before. I reached up and kissed Ultima. She smiled and said, “Adiós, Antonio—”
“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 sons 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 embankment. 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—!”
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 Ultima?”
“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.
Q and A with Rudolfo Anaya
- 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.
- 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.
- Did you model Ultima after your own mother? No. Ultima is her own person.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- You have a special fondness for New Mexico. Why?
Economically, New Mexico ranks low, but we know the real treasure lies in the people, the landscape, and the history of its many communities. Here, people have struggled and survived for years, and they have not lost sight of the prize. We believe the region is a spiritual corridor; the earth nurtures us, and our deities can be invoked for the good of the community. Here, Native Americans have been saying prayers and keeping the world in balance for thousands of years. It’s difficult to make a living here, but beneath the daily struggle there exists a fulfilling spiritual sense. This is sacred space for us.
Questions for Discussion
- How many rite-of-passage novels can you name? How does Bless Me, Ultima fall into this category? How does it compare to Huck’s experiences in Huckleberry Finn?
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Bless Me, Ultima has been compared to James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. How does the Catholic religion influence these novels? Do you have to be Catholic to understand the novel?
- How does myth play a role in the novel? Anaya wrote the myth of the Golden Carp, which the young, innocent children in the novel believe as truth. How does he use elements of world mythology?
- There are many symbols in the novel: the juniper tree, the bridge, the river, the sun and moon, the owl. The juniper tree may simply symbolize the renewal of life, but it can also be the tree of life. Do you have to understand the use of such symbols in world mythology to understand the novel?
- Anaya uses numbers in a symbolic way. The number three appears in many ways. How does the use of numbers affect the story?
- What does Antonio’s mother mean when she says her son will lose his innocence? Is this novel about loss of innocence?
- What role do the characters that surround Antonio play in his development? Do the sun and moon, the llano and river, dreams, the Golden Carp, and La Llorona play a role?
- Is the novel a romance, a fantasy, or a realistic portrayal?
- What is the role of dreams in the novel? Why does Antonio seem to slip out of dreams and into reality? Is childhood full of dreams?
- Does the time of the novel, the end of World War II, affect the story?
- How is the owl connected to Ultima?
- Will Antonio become a priest? Or will he become a writer?
- Readers love the humor in the Christmas play. What is the function of the play? Why is it placed before the death of Narciso?
- Anaya tests Antonio many ways. What is the most crucial test Antonio must pass?
- When Ultima walks out the door the needles in the form of a cross fall to the ground. Why did the needles fall?
- Folklore and myths are part of our inheritance as humans. They have conveyed human interpretations of life for thousands of years. Do they play a role in life today?
- Antonio is the son of the Mares (sea) and the Luna (moon) families. How does Anaya use this mixture to from Antonio’s character? What are the tensions involved?
- Do you think most 7-to 9-year-old children have the questions, insights, and conflicts you find in Antonio?
- Are Antonio’s experiences in dealing with death harmful to him or do they make him a stronger character?
- Are the strongest characters male or female?
- The landscape is very important in the novel. Did it seem real to you? Can you describe your own landscape?
- What sensory emotions are raised in the novel? For example, how do food and eating help create the ambience of the story?
- What is the purpose of Antonio’s brothers in the novel?
- What is magic? Does it interest you? Do you see elements of magic in your own life?
- Antonio is free to roam and explore the river. Does this freedom benefit or hinder his ability to cope with life?
- In shamanism certain animals guide or give power to the person. How is this possible?
- The river has a “presence,” that is, it is animated by spirit. Is nature
alive? How have you experienced this?
CRITICS HAIL RUDOLFO ANAYA AND BLESS ME, ULTIMA!
“One of the nation’s foremost literary artists.”
—Denver Post
“Full of sensual dreams, superstitions, unexplained phenomena, and the dark night of Latin American theology.”
—New York Times
“This extraordinary storyteller has always written unpretentiously but provocatively about identity. Every work is a fiesta, a ceremony preserving but reshaping old traditions that honor the power within the land and la raza, the people.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Rudolfo Anaya is the grand master of Chicano literature’s new wave.”
—New York Daily News
“Anaya puts Chicano literature into the forefront.”
—San Diego Union-Tribune
“A Chicano masterpiece.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“Remarkable… a unique American novel… a rich and powerful synthesis for some of life’s sharpest oppositions.”
—America
“One of the great works of Chicano literature…. It doesn’t take very many pages before you realize you’ve encountered a classic…. Children will be
enchanted… adults will recognize its depths of meaning, its haunting cultural lyricism. No reader can ask for anything more.”
—The World & I magazine (Washington, D.C.)
“This universal quest for a clarity of corazon, of heart, will touch every reader regardless of cultural background.”
—Boulder Sunday Chronicle
“The novelist most widely known and read in the Latino community.”
—Newsweek
“One of the best writers in this country.”
—El Paso Times
“Simply one of the great works of postwar North American literature, in any genre…. Bless Me, Ultima is not only fiction at its finest; it’s a breathtaking distillation of the beauty and terror of life itself.”
—In These Times
“A reason to rejoice: the writing is beautiful, the story magical in this never- to-be-forgotten book.”
—Tallahassee Democrat
“The novel has warmth and feeling.”
—Library Journal
“An inspiration to thousands of readers…. Anaya’s novel vividly evokes the imposing Southwestern landscape that surrounds its hero, as well as the wide-open inner landscape of a boy just learning to understand life.”
—Latino
“An unforgettable novel… a classic for its unique story, narrative technique, and structure.”
—Chicano Perspectives in Literature
“[Rudolfo Anaya] is an extraordinary man… and has written a series of extraordinary books.”
—La Presna Centroamericana (Miami, FL)
