Bless Me, Ultima (19 page)

“What?”

“Well, the village of El Puerto is small. We have lived there a long time, and we have lived in harmony with the good and the bad. We have not passed judgment on anyone.” He nodded with some finality.

“But you allowed Tenorio to pass judgment on Ultima,” I said, “and if it had not been for Narciso he would have carried out his judgment. Is that fair?”

My uncle started to answer, but held back. I saw his hands grip the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. For a long time he fidgeted, then he finally said, “It does not decrease my shame to say I was a coward last night. We all were. We took our father’s wish as an excuse. Believe me, my faith is bound with that woman for saving Lucas. The next time, and God grant there isn’t a next time, I will not shirk my duty to her.” Then he turned and looked at me and reached out and touched my head. “I am glad you stood by your friend,” he smiled, “that is what friends are for.”

Yes, I had stood by Ultima. And so had my father, and Narciso, and the owl. We would all have slashed out, like the owl, to protect Ultima. It was not easy to forgive men like Tenorio. Perhaps that is why God could not forgive; He was too much like man.

There was a great deal of excitement when we arrived at El Puerto. Of course everyone in the village knew what had happened to Tenorio, and all were waiting for him to return to bury his daughter. We knew the priest would not let her be buried in the holy ground of the campo santo next to the church. But harvest time was a time for work and not for mitote. My uncles were farmers, men who took their only truth from the earth, and so by early afternoon we were out in the fields and orchards and the most important thing became the harvest.

It was good too, because it allowed us to forget what we did not want to remember. We returned from the first day of harvest by the first light of the moon as it came through the portal formed by the black mesas. After a heavy supper we settled in the room of my uncle Mateo, because he was the storyteller. My mother and Ultima kept to themselves, tying the red chile into long, thick ristras. My aunts had been very cordial to Ultima. They treated her with respect because of what she had done for Lucas, but otherwise they kept their distance from her. I think Ultima liked it that way.

“Ay, it is a very bad thing what these Trementinas do,” my uncle Mateo whispered. He glanced down the hall, but my grandfather had already retired. My grandfather would not allow any talk of witchcraft in his presence.

“I talked to Porfirio Baca today,” my uncle Juan said, “and he said the two remaining sisters spent the day making her coffin.”

“Ah!” my uncle Mateo signaled us to listen. “They were gathering cottonwood branches and weaving a coffin. That proves she was a bruja! A bruja cannot be buried in a casket made of pine or piñón or cedar.”

“They say Tenorio returned today. He is blind in one eye.”

“Yes,” my uncle continued, “and tonight they will gather around the dead body and pray from their Black Book. Listen!”

We listened to the howl of the cold wind outside and could hear at intervals the bitter bark of a coyote. In the corral the penned animals milled nervously. Evil was in the autumn night air.

“They will burn sulfur instead of holy incense. They will sing and dance around her coffin, pulling at their hair and flesh. They will slay a rooster and spread his blood on their dead sister. Mark my word, when the Trementina bruja is brought in to church it will be in a basket woven of cottonwood branches, and her body will be smeared with blood—”

“But why do they do this?” someone whispered.

“For the devil,” my uncle answered. “They do it so that the devil himself will come and sleep with the corpse before it is buried—”

“¡Mateo!” one of my aunts cautioned him. She pointed at the children.

“It is true!” he said.

“But why then will they bring her to church?” my uncle Juan’s wife asked.

“Bah! Little do they care about church. That is only to keep up appearances,” my uncle smiled.

“How is it you know all this?” she scoffed.

“Why, my sweet Orotea told me,” he grinned and turned to his wife who sat beside him and patted her good-naturedly. She looked at him and nodded in agreement. We laughed because we all knew that Orotea, my uncle Mateo’s wife, had been deaf and dumb since birth.

Sleep came, and with it came my dream-fate which drew me to the witches’ Black Mass.
I saw all, and it was exactly as my uncle had described it. Then my dream-fate drew me to the coffin. I peered in and to my horror I saw Ultima!

I must have cried in my sleep, because I felt someone pick me up, and after that I felt warm and was at peace. When I awoke it was light outside. The house, which was normally alive and full of creaking, clattering sounds, was still, like a grave. I jumped out of bed, dressed, and hurried outside. The people of the village lined the street. They talked in excited, hushed whispers and craned their necks to look down the dusty street towards the bridge. Then I heard the creaking sound of a heavy, horse-drawn wagon.

I spotted Ultima, standing alone on a rise of the ground beside the house. I ran to her and held her hand. She seemed oblivious to me. Her black shawl was drawn around her head and face so that only her eyes remained uncovered. She watched intently the funeral procession that came up the street towards the church. Everyone was quiet. The still morning air carried the creaking sound of the loaded wagon, and we could hear the snorting mules and the squeaking of their harnesses as they tugged and pulled the wagon carrying the body of the dead woman. On the seat of the wagon sat two thin women dressed in black. Black veils covered their faces, and as they passed in front of Ultima they turned away.

On the bed of the wagon rested the casket. It was a basket woven from pliant cottonwood branches, so that as the weight of the body inside shifted the coffin seemed to groan. A strong, rotting odor filled the air as the wagon passed by.

At the head of the procession rode Tenorio. He was dressed in black and sat humped on his saddle. He wore a dark, wide-brimmed hat pulled low to cover a black patch over his eye. His spirited horse pranced nervously and tossed its head from side to side.

The sky was blue and quiet. Our gazes followed the groaning wagon down the dusty street, past the saloon, to the front of the church. There the procession stopped and waited for the priest to appear. When he came out of the church Tenorio spoke to him and the priest answered. He held his arms out as if to bar entrance to the church and nodded his head. He was refusing the mass for the dead and holy burial in the campo santo. The air grew tense. There was no telling what Tenorio would do at this insult; everyone knew he was crazy enough to assault the priest.

But Tenorio was beaten. The entire village was witness to the excommunication. The priest’s refusal meant the church was taking its stand and that the evil ways of the Trementinas were known to all. Tenorio had not thought the priest would stand against him. For a long time there was silence, then Tenorio turned his horse and the procession came back down the street. He would have to bury his daughter in unholy ground, and without the saving grace of the mass her soul was doomed to perdition. But what hurt Tenorio most was that he would no longer be able to rally the townspeople around him; he would no longer be able to hold them through fear. If the priest, who had for so long been unwilling to condemn the Trementinas’ doings, had taken a stand then surely that would lend courage to the villagers.

The sisters slumped in the seat of the wagon as they passed by, and their mournful cries were as much for themselves as for the fate of their sister. They had tampered with a man’s fate and they now knew the consequences. Tenorio, too, leaned forward in his saddle. He had pulled his long, black coat around his thin body and huddled within it as if he hoped to escape the eyes of the villagers. Only when he passed in front of Ultima did he glance up, and in that swift glance his evil eye vowed his revenge on Ultima.

Everyone was subdued by what had occurred, but by afternoon the work of the harvest raised our spirits. Under the watchful eye of my grandfather the bounty of the fields and orchards was gathered. The loaded wagons moved between the fields and the village like ants scurrying to store their seeds. Green chile was roasted and set to dry. Red chile became huge ristras. The roofs of lean-tos were golden with slices of drying apples. The air was sweet with the aroma of boiling jellies and preserves and the laughter of the women. Corn was roasted to make chicos, blue corn was ground into meal, and the rest was stored for the animals.

Then as quietly as the green had slipped into the time of the river, the golden time of the harvest was completed. We had to return to Guadalupe. School was starting again.

“¡Adiós! ¡Adiós!” we called to one another. It was then my uncle Juan took my father and mother aside and whispered the desires of my uncles.

“Antonio has worked well,” he said stiffly. “He has the feel of the earth in his blood. We would be honored if you saw fit to allow him to spend a summer with us—the others,” he said, “did not choose our way of life. So be it. But if Antonio is to know our way, we must initiate him next summer—” The rest of my uncles nodded at this brief speech. My uncles were not men of many words.

“¡Oh, Gabriel!” my mother exclaimed, beaming with pride.

“We shall see,” my father said. And we left.

¡
A
diós, Antonioooooooo…”

“Adiós, mamá, adiós, Ultima,” I waved.

“You say the damnedest things,” Andrew laughed.

“Respect your teacher! Give my regards to Miss Maestas! Do not bring shame to our name.” My mother’s voice was distant now.

“Why?” I asked Andrew.

“I don’t know,” he answered as I followed his long strides up the goat path, “just the way you turn and wave goodbye to Grande and mamá—beats all.”

“I always turn and look back,” I said, falling into the measure of his walk. I was glad to be walking with him.

“Why?”

“I don’t know—sometimes I get the feeling that I will come home, and it will all be changed. It won’t be the same anymore—” I could not tell him that I wanted the castle of the giants to stand forever, that I wanted the goat path and the hill to be for always. But I had misgivings, I was beginning to learn that things wouldn’t always be the same.

“I know what you mean,” he said as Deborah and Theresa passed us by like two wild goats. “When I came back from the army I felt it had changed. Everything seemed smaller.”

“I’m glad you will be home,” I said. I clutched my Red Chief tablet and my pencil. I was anxious to see the gang. I wondered how hard the third grade would be.

“Ah, I feel like an old man going to school, but it’s the only way, Tony, the only way—”

At the bridge we met the Kid and Samuel. We raced across and as usual the brown, savage figure of the Kid left us behind. At the end of the bridge Andrew hung behind to catch his breath he said, and Samuel and I went on. We passed Rosie’s house and headed towards the school. I told Samuel I had seen the golden carp that summer and he was very pleased.

“You might become one of us,” he smiled his wise, contented smile.

“What did you do?” I asked. “I went for you, but you were gone.”

“My father and I herded sheep on the Aqua Negra ranch,” he said. “You know, Tony,” he added, “I think I will become a sheepherder.”

“My mother wants me to become a farmer, or a priest,” I said.

“There are rewards in caring for sheep, and there are rewards for tilling the soil, but the greatest calling is to be a priest,” he said. “A priest is a man who cares for his people—”

“Yes.”

“I heard about the evil thing they did to Ultima, the story of Tenorio’s blinding was throughout the camps.” He paused and looked at me. “You must be careful, the kids in town will not understand.”

“I will,” I said.

We reached the tumultuous playground and I told Samuel that I had to see Miss Maestas. He understood. I wanted to see Miss Maestas and deliver my mother’s greetings before I got involved with the gang. Miss Maestas was busy with the first graders and so I did not stay long, but she was happy to see me and I was happy to see her. She hadn’t changed much from last year.

Then I ran out and joined the gang at our spot on the playground. “Hi, Tony!” they called, and Horse threw me a pass. I caught it and passed it to Florence. “¡Chingada!”

Florence missed it and shagged. “¡Ah la veca!” “Butterfingers!”

“Who’s your teacher, Tony?”

“Miss Harris or Miss Violet?”

“Don’ know?”

“Miss Violet!” Bones cried out, “we all got Miss Violet! Chingada, I told you!”

“How do you know?” Lloyd asked.

“They give the dumb kids to Miss Violet—”

“All the dumb yellow birds! Yah, yah,” Lloyd mimicked.

“Tony ain’t dumb, he passed two grades!”

“He has a witch to help him,” Ernie sneered.

Ernie was still after me. I still didn’t know why.

“Miss Violet gives all her kids prunes on Fridays!”

“She gets even with our parents for having to guard us all week!” Everybody laughed.

“I ain’t no dumb yellow bird!” Horse whinnied.

“Hey, Tony!” Ernie called, “is it true your brother’s been whoring with the girls at Rosie’s?”

“¡Ah la veca!” “¡Las putas!”

I did not know what the word whoring meant, but I knew Rosie’s was a bad place. I did not answer.

“Knock it off,” Red said, “why pick on Tony! Everybody in town goes to Rosie’s!”

“Yeah-hhhhhhh,” Bones howled, and his eyeballs rolled loose in their sockets, “including Ernie’s old man!”

“¡Cabrón Bones!” Ernie glared, but he didn’t jump Bones. It was stupid to jump Bones. Bones might kill you and not care.

“Ernie’s old man!” Horse shouted and mounted Bones, and everybody laughed. “Hah, hah, hah!” Horse gasped.

“Very funny!” Ernie spit and swung to face me. “But at least we don’t have a witch around our house!”

“Hey yeah! Tony’s got a witch!” “I heard about it this summer!” “¡Chingada!” “¡Ah la veca!”