Bless Me, Ultima (32 page)

Bones would not come near. He stood away, a dry, rattling sound echoing from his throat. He was vomiting and the vomit ran down his chest and stomach and dirtied his swimming trunks. He didn’t know he was vomiting. His wild eyes just stared at us as we pulled Florence on the sand.

I looked across the lake and saw the high school boys pointing excitedly toward us. Some were already convinced something was wrong and were sprinting up the path. They would be here in seconds.

“Damn!” Cico cursed, “he’s dead for sure. He’s cold and heavy, like death—”

“¡Chingada!” Horse muttered and turned away.

I dropped to my knees beside the bronzed, wet body. I touched his forehead. It was cold. His hair was matted with moss and water. Sand clung to his skin, and as he dried little black sand ants began to crawl over him. I crossed my forehead and prayed an Act of Contrition like I had for Narciso, but it was no good. Florence had never believed.

The lifeguard was the first one there. He pushed me aside and he and another high school boy turned Florence on his stomach. He began pushing down on Florence’s back and a sickening white foam flowed from Florence’s mouth.

“Damn! How long was he under?” he asked.

“About five or ten minutes!” Bones growled through his vomit.

“You fucking little bastards!” the lifeguard cursed back. “I’ve told you guys a hundred times not to swim here! Two years I’ve had a perfect record here—now this!” He continued pushing down on Florence’s back and the white froth continued to flow from his mouth.

“Think we should get a priest?” the other high school boy asked worriedly. Quite a few people were already gathered around the body, watching the lifeguard work, asking, “Who is it?”

I wasn’t looking at Florence anymore, I wasn’t looking at anybody. My attention was centered on the northern blue skies. There two hawks circled as they rode the warm air currents of the afternoon. They glided earthward in wide, concentric circles. I knew there was something dead on the road to Tucumcari. I guess it was the sound of the siren or the people pushing around me that shattered my hypnotic gaze. I didn’t know how long I had been concerned with the hawks’ free flight. But now there were many people pushing around me and the sound of the siren grew louder, more urgent. I looked around for Cico, but he was gone. Bones and Horse were eagerly answering questions for the crowd.

“Who is he?”

“Florence.” “He’s our friend.”

“How did he drown? What happened?”

“He dove in and got caught in the wire. We told him not to go swimming here, but he did. We dove in and pulled him out—”

I didn’t want to hear anymore. My stomach turned and made me sick. I pushed my way through the crowd and began to run. I don’t know why I ran, I just knew I had to be free of the crowd. I ran up the hill and through the town’s quiet streets. Tears blinded my eyes, but the running got rid of the sick feeling inside. I made my way down to the river and waded across. The doves that had come to drink at the river cried sadly. The shadows of the brush and the towering cottonwoods were thick and dark.

The lonely river was a sad place to be when one is a small boy who has just seen a friend die. And it grew sadder when the bells of the church began to toll, and the afternoon shadows lengthened.

I
n 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—”