Bless Me, Ultima (7 page)

We wandered on and found some orégano, and we gathered plenty because this was not only a cure for coughs and fever but a spice my mother used for beans and meat. We were also lucky to find some oshá, because this plant grows better in the mountains. It is like la yerba del manso, a cure for everything. It cures coughs or colds, cuts and bruises, rheumatism and stomach troubles, and my father once said the old sheepherders used it to keep poisonous snakes away from their bedrolls by sprinkling them with oshá powder. It was with a mixture of oshá that Ultima washed my face and arms and feet the night Lupito was killed.

In the hills Ultima was happy. There was a nobility to her walk that lent a grace to the small figure. I watched her carefully and imitated her walk, and when I did I found that I was no longer lost in the enormous landscape of hills and sky. I was a very important part of the teeming life of the llano and the river.

“¡Mira! Qué suerte, tunas,” Ultima cried with joy and pointed to the ripe-red prickly pears of the nopal. “Run and gather some and we will eat them in the shade by the river.” I ran to the cactus and gathered a shovelful of the succulent, seedy pears. Then we sat in the shade of the álamos of the river and peeled the tunas very carefully because even on their skin they have fuzz spots that make your fingers and tongue itch. We sat and ate and felt refreshed.

The river was silent and brooding. The
presence
was watching over us. I wondered about Lupito’s soul.

“It is almost time to go to my uncles’ farms in El Puerto and gather the harvest,” I said.

“Ay,” Ultima nodded and looked to the south.

“Do you know my uncles, the Lunas?” I asked.

“Of course, child,” she replied, “your grandfather and I are old friends. I know his sons. I lived in El Puerto, many years ago—”

“Ultima,” I asked, “why are they so strange and quiet? And why are my father’s people so loud and wild?”

She answered. “It is the blood of the Lunas to be quiet, for only a quiet man can learn the secrets of the earth that are necessary for planting—They are quiet like the moon—And it is the blood of the Márez to be wild, like the ocean from which they take their name, and the spaces of the llano that have become their home.”

I waited, then said. “Now we have come to live near the river, and yet near the llano. I love them both, and yet I am of neither. I wonder which life I will choose?”

“Ay, hijito,” she chuckled, “do not trouble yourself with those thoughts. You have plenty of time to find yourself—”

“But I am growing,” I said, “every day I grow older—”

“True,” she replied softly. She understood that as I grew I would have to choose to be my mother’s priest or my father’s son.

We were silent for a long time, lost in memories that the murmur of the morning wind carried across the treetops. Cotton from the trees drifted lazily in the heavy air. The silence spoke, not with harsh sounds, but softly to the rhythm of our blood.

“What is it?” I asked, for I was still afraid.

“It is the
presence
of the river,” Ultima answered.

I held my breath and looked at the giant, gnarled cottonwood trees that surrounded us. Somewhere a bird cried, and up on the hill the tinkling sound of a cowbell rang. The
presence
was immense, lifeless, yet throbbing with its secret message.

“Can it speak?” I asked and drew closer to Ultima.

“If you listen carefully—” she whispered.

“Can you speak to it?” I asked as the whirling, haunting sound touched us.

“Ay, my child,” Ultima smiled and touched my head, “you want to know so much—”

And the
presence
was gone.

“Come, it is time to start homeward.” She rose and with the sack over her shoulder hobbled up the hill. I followed. I knew that if she did not answer my question that that part of life was not yet ready to reveal itself to me. But I was no longer afraid of the
presence
of the river.

We circled homeward. On the way back we found some manzanilla. Ultima told me that when my brother León was born that his mollera was sunken in, and that she had cured him with manzanilla.

She spoke to me of the common herbs and medicines we shared with the Indians of the Rio del Norte. She spoke of the ancient medicines of other tribes, the Aztecas, Mayas, and even of those in the old, old country, the Moors. But I did not listen, I was thinking of my brothers León, and Andrew, and Eugene.

When we arrived home we put the plants on the roof of the chicken shed to dry in the white sun. I placed small rocks on them so the wind wouldn’t blow them away. There were some plants that Ultima could not obtain on the llano or the river, but many people came to seek cures from her and they brought in exchange other herbs and roots. Especially prized were those plants that were from the mountains.

When we had finished we went in to eat. The hot beans flavored with chicos and green chile were muy sabrosos. I was so hungry that I ate three whole tortillas. My mother was a good cook and we were happy as we ate. Ultima told her of the orégano we found and that pleased her.

“The time of the harvest is here,” she said, “it is time to go to my brothers’ farms. Juan has sent word that they are expecting us.”

Every autumn we made a pilgrimage to El Puerto where my grandfather and uncles lived. There we helped gather the harvest and brought my mother’s share home with us.

“He says there is much corn, and ay, such sweet corn my brothers raise!” she went on. “And there is plenty of red chile for making ristras, and fruit, ay! The apples of the Lunas are known throughout the state!” My mother was very proud of her brothers, and when she started talking she went on and on. Ultima nodded courteously, but I slipped out of the kitchen.

The day was warm at noonday, not lazy and droning like July but mellow with late August. I went to Jasón’s house and we played together all afternoon. We talked about Lupito’s death, but I did not tell Jasón what I had seen. Then I went to the river and cut the tall, green alfalfa that grew wild and carried the bundle home so that I would have a few days of food laid in for the rabbits.

Late in the afternoon my father came whistling up the goat path, striding home from the flaming-orange sun, and we ran to meet him. “Cabritos!” he called. “Cabroncitos!” And he swung Theresa and Deborah on his shoulders while I walked beside him carrying his lunch pail.

After supper we always prayed the rosary. The dishes were quickly done then we gathered in the sala where my mother kept her altar. My mother had a beautiful statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe. It was nearly two feet high. She was dressed in a long, flowing blue gown, and she stood on the horned moon. About her feet were the winged heads of angels, the babes of Limbo. She wore a crown on her head because she was the queen of heaven. There was no one I loved more than the Virgin.

We all knew the story of how the Virgin had presented herself to the little Indian boy in Mexico and about the miracles she had wrought. My mother said the Virgin was the saint of our land, and although there were many other good saints, I loved none as dearly as the Virgin. It was hard to say the rosary because you had to kneel for as long as the prayers lasted, but I did not mind because while my mother prayed I fastened my eyes on the statue of the Virgin until I thought that I was looking at a real person, the mother of God, the last relief of all sinners.

God was not always forgiving. He made laws to follow and if you broke them you were punished. The Virgin always forgave.

God had power. He spoke and the thunder echoed through the skies.

The Virgin was full of a quiet, peaceful love.

My mother lit the candles for the brown madonna and we knelt. “I believe in God the Father Almighty—” she began.

He created you. He could strike you dead. God moved the hands that killed Lupito.

“Hail Mary, full of grace—”

But He was a giant man, and she was a woman. She could go to Him and ask Him to forgive you. Her voice was sweet and gentle and with the help of her Son they could persuade the powerful Father to change His mind.

On one of the Virgin’s feet there was a place where the plaster had chipped and exposed the pure-white plaster. Her soul was without blemish. She had been born without sin. The rest of us were born steeped in sin, the sin of our fathers that Baptism and Confirmation began to wash away. But it was not until communion—it was not until we finally took God into our mouth and swallowed Him—that we were free of that sin and free of the punishment of hell.

My mother and Ultima sang some prayers, part of a novena we had promised for the safe delivery of my brothers. It was sad to hear their plaintive voices in that candle-lit room. And when the praying was finally done my mother arose and kissed the Virgin’s feet then blew out the candles. We walked out of la sala rubbing our stiff knees. The candlewick smoke lingered like incense in the dark room.

I trudged up the steps to my room. The song of Ultima’s owl quickly brought sleep, and my dreams.

Virgen de Guadalupe, I heard my mother cry, return my sons to me.

Your sons will return safely, a gentle voice answered.

Mother of God, make my fourth son a priest.

And I saw the Virgin draped in the gown of night standing on the bright, horned moon of autumn, and she was in mourning for the fourth son.

“Mother of God!” I screamed in the dark,
then I felt Ultima’s hand on my forehead and I could sleep again.

¡
A
ntoniooooooo!” I awoke.

“Who?”

“¡Antonioooooo! Wake up. Your uncle Pedro is here—”

I dressed and raced downstairs. Today was the day we went to El Puerto. My uncle had come for us. Of all my uncles I loved my uncle Pedro the most.

“Hey, Tony!” His embrace lifted me to the ceiling and his smile brought me safely down. “Ready to pick apples?” he asked.

“Sí tío,” I replied. I liked my uncle Pedro because he was the easiest one to understand. The rest of my uncles were very gentle and kind, but they were very quiet. They spoke very little. My mother said their communication was with the earth. She said they spoke to the earth with their hands. They used words mostly when each one in his own way walked through his field or orchard at night and spoke to the growing plants.

My uncle Pedro had lost his wife long before I was born and he had no children. I felt good with him. Also, of all my uncles, my father could talk only to my uncle Pedro.

“Antonio,” my mother called, “hurry and feed the animals! Make sure they have enough water! You know your father will forget them while we are away!” I gulped the oatmeal she had prepared and ran out to feed the animals.

“Deborah!” my mother was calling, “are the bags packed? Is Theresa ready?” Although El Puerto was only ten miles down the valley, this trip was the only one we ever took and it meant a great deal to her. It was the only time during the year when she was with her brothers, then she was a Luna again.

My uncle Pedro loaded the bags on his truck while my mother ran around counting a hundred things that she was sure my father would forget to do while we were away. Of course, it never happened that way, but that is how she was.

“¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!” my uncle called and we clamored aboard. It was the first time Ultima would go with us. We sat quietly in the back of the truck with the bags and did not speak. I was too excited to talk.

The truck lurched down the goat path, over the bridge and swung south towards El Puerto. I watched carefully all that we left behind. We passed Rosie’s house and at the clothesline right at the edge of the cliff there was a young girl hanging out brightly colored garments. She was soon lost in the furrow of dust the truck raised. We passed the church and crossed our foreheads, then we passed the El Rito bridge and far towards the river’s side I could see the green water of the dam.

The air was fresh and the sun bright. The road wound along the edge of the river. At times the road cut into the cliffs made by the mesas that rose from the river valley, then the river was far below. There was much to see on such a trip, and almost before we had started it was over. I could hear my mother’s joyful cry from the cab of the truck.

“There! There is El Puerto de los Lunas!” The road dropped into the flat valley and revealed the adobe houses of the peaceful village. “There!” she cried. “There is the church of my baptism!”

The dusty road passed in front of the church, then past Tenorio’s Bar and into the cluster of mud houses with rusted tin roofs. Each house had a small flower garden in front and a corral for animals at the back. A few dogs gave chase to the truck and in front of one house two small girls played, but for the most part the village was quiet—the men were in the fields working.

At the end of the dusty road was my grandfather’s house. Beyond that the road dipped towards the bridge that crossed the river. My grandfather’s house was the biggest one in the village, and it was rightly so, because after all the village had been largely settled by the Lunas. The first stop we made was at his house. It was unthinkable that we stop anywhere else before seeing him. Later we would go and stay with my uncle Juan because it was his turn that my mother’s family visit with his and it would slight his honor if she didn’t, but for now we had to greet our grandfather.

“Mind your manners,” my mother cautioned us as we got down. My uncle led the way and we followed. In the cool, dark room which was the heart of the house my grandfather sat and waited. His name was Prudencio. He was old and bearded, but when he spoke or walked I felt the dignity of his many years and wisdom.

“Ay, papá,” my mother cried when she saw him. She rushed into his arms and cried her joy out on his shoulders. This was expected and we waited quietly until she finished telling him how happy she was to see him. Then came our greetings. In turn we walked up, took his ancient, calloused hand and wished him a good day. Finally, Ultima greeted him.

“Prudencio,” she said simply and they embraced.

“It is good to have you with us again, Ultima. We welcome you, our house is your house.” He said our house because a couple of my uncles had built their houses against his until the original house spread into a long house with many of my cousins living in it.