Bless Me, Ultima (17 page)

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.