“The golden carp will be swimming down the creek today,” Cico whispered. We scrambled up the bank and through the thick brush. We climbed the steep hill to the town and headed towards the school. I never came up this street to go to school and so the houses were not familiar to me. We paused at one place.
“Do you know who lives there?” Cico pointed at a green arbor. There was a fence with green vines on it, and many trees. Every house in town had trees, but I had never seen a place so green. It was thick like some of the jungles I saw in the movies in town.
“No,” I said. We drew closer and peered through the dense curtain of green that surrounded a small adobe hut.
“Narciso,” Cico whispered.
Narciso had been on the bridge the night Lupito was murdered. He had tried to reason with the men; he had tried to save Lupito’s life. He had been called a drunk.
“My father and my mother know him,” I said. I could not take my eyes from the garden that surrounded the small house. Every kind of fruit and vegetable I knew seemed to grow in the garden, and there was even more abundance here than on my uncles’ farms.
“I know,” Cico said, “they are from the llano—”
“I have never seen such a place,” I whispered. Even the air of the garden was sweet to smell.
“The garden of Narciso,” Cico said with reverence, “is envied by all—Would you like to taste its fruits?”
“We can’t,” I said. It was a sin to take anything without permission.
“Narciso is my friend,” Cico said. He reached through the green wall and a secret latch opened an ivy-laden door. We walked into the garden. Cico closed the door behind him and said, “Narciso is in jail. The sheriff found him drunk.”
I was fascinated by the garden. I forgot about seeing the golden carp. The air was cool and clear, not dusty and hot like the street. Somewhere I heard the sound of gurgling water.
“Somewhere here there is a spring,” Cico said, “I don’t know where. That is what makes the garden so green. That and the magic of Narciso—”
I was bewildered by the garden. Everywhere I looked there were fruit-laden trees and rows and rows of vegetables. I knew the earth was fruitful because I had seen my uncles make it bear in abundance; but I never realized it could be like this! The ground was soft to walk on. The fragrance of sun-dazzling flowers was deep, and soft, and beautiful.
“The garden of Narciso,” I whispered.
“Narciso is my friend,” Cico intoned. He pulled some carrots from the soft, dark earth and we sat down to eat.
“I cannot,” I said. It was silent and peaceful in the garden. I felt that someone was watching us.
“It is all right,” Cico said.
And although I did not feel good about it, I ate the golden carrot. I had never eaten anything sweeter or juicier in my life.
“Why does Narciso drink?” I asked.
“To forget,” Cico answered.
“Does he know about the golden carp?” I asked.
“The magic people all know about the coming day of the golden carp,” Cico answered. His bright eyes twinkled. “Do you know how Narciso plants?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. I had always thought farmers were sober men. I could not imagine a drunk man planting and reaping such fruits!
“By the light of the moon,” Cico whispered.
“Like my uncles, the Lunas—”
“In the spring Narciso gets drunk,” Cico continued. “He stays drunk until the bad blood of spring is washed away. Then the moon of planting comes over the elm trees and shines on the horde of last year’s seeds—It is then that he gathers the seeds and plants. He dances as he plants, and he sings. He scatters the seeds by moonlight, and they fall and grow—The garden is like Narciso, it is drunk.”
“My father knows Narciso,” I said. The story Cico had told me was fascinating. It seemed that the more I knew about people the more I knew about the strange magic hidden in their hearts.
“In this town, everybody knows everybody,” Cico said.
“Do you know everyone?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” he nodded.
“You know Jasón’s Indian?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Ultima?” I asked.
“I know about her cure,” he said. “It was good. Come on now, let’s be on our way. The golden carp will be swimming soon—”
We slipped out of the coolness of the garden into the hot, dusty street. On the east side of the school building was a barren playground with a basketball goal. The gang was playing basketball in the hot sun.
“Does the gang know about the golden carp?” I asked as we approached the group.
“Only Samuel,” Cico said, “only Samuel can be trusted.”
“Why do you trust me?” I asked. He paused and looked at me.
“Because you are a fisherman,” he said. “There are no rules on who we trust, Tony, there is just a feeling. The Indian told Samuel the story; Narciso told me; now we tell you. I have a feeling someone, maybe Ultima, would have told you. We all share—”
“Hey!” Ernie called, “you guys want to play!” They ran towards us.
“Nah,” Cico said. He turned away. He did not face them.
“Hi, Tony,” they greeted me.
“Hey, you guys headed for Blue Lake? Let’s go swimming,” Florence suggested.
“It’s too hot to play,” Horse griped. He was dripping with sweat.
“Hey, Tony, is it true what they say? Is there a bruja at your house?” Ernie asked.
“¡A bruja!” “¡Chingada!” “¡A la veca!”
“No,” I said simply.
“My father said she cursed someone and three days later that person changed into a frog—”
“Hey! Is that the old lady that goes to church with your family!” Bones shrieked.
“Let’s go,” Cico said.
“Knock it off, you guys, are we going to play or not!” Red pleaded. Ernie spun the basketball on his finger. He was standing close to me and grinning as the ball spun.
“Hey, Tony, can you make the ball disappear?” He laughed. The others laughed too.
“Hey, Tony, do some magic!” Horse threw a hold around my neck and locked me into his half-nelson.
“Yeah!” Ernie shouted in my face. I did not know why he hated me.
“Leave him alone, Horse,” Red said.
“Stay out of it, Red,” Ernie shouted, “you’re a Protestant. You don’t know about the brujas!”
“They turn to owls and fly at night,” Abel shouted.
“You have to kill them with a bullet marked with a cross,” Lloyd added. “It’s the law.”
“Do magic,” Horse grunted in my ear. His half-nelson was tight now. My stomach felt sick.
“Voodoo!” Ernie spun the ball in my face.
“Okay!” I cried. It must have scared Horse because he let loose and jumped back. They were all still, watching me.
The heat and what I had heard made me sick. I bent over, wretched and vomited. The yellow froth and juice of the carrots splattered at their feet.
“Jesuschriss!” “¡Chingada!” “¡Puta!” “¡A la madre!”
“Come on,” Cico said. We took advantage of their surprise and ran. We were over the hill, past the last few houses, and at Blue Lake before they recovered from the astonishment I saw in their faces. We stopped to rest and laugh.
“That was great, Tony,” Cico gasped, “that really put Ernie in his place—”
“Yeah,” I nodded. I felt better after vomiting and running. I felt better about taking the carrots, but I did not feel good about what they had said about Ultima.
“Why are they like that?” I asked Cico. We skirted Blue Lake and worked our way through the tall, golden grass to the creek.
“I don’t know,” Cico answered, “except that people, grown-ups and kids, seem to want to hurt each other—and it’s worse when they’re in a group.”
We walked on in silence. I had n
ever been this far before so the land interested me. I knew that the waters of El Rito flowed from springs in the dark hills. I knew that those hills cradled the mysterious Hidden Lakes, but I had never been there. The creek flowed around the town, crossed beneath the bridge to El Puerto, then turned towards the river. There was a small reservoir there, and where the water emptied into the river the watercress grew thick and green. Ultima and I had visited the place in search of roots and herbs.
The water of El Rito was clear and clean. It was not muddy like the water of the river. We followed the footpath along the creek until we came to a thicket of brush and trees. The trail skirted around the bosque.
Cico paused and looked around. He pretended to be removing a splinter from his foot, but he was cautiously scanning the trail and the grass around us. I was sure we were alone; the last people we had seen were the swimmers at the Blue Lake a few miles back. Cico pointed to the path.
“The fishermen follow the trail around the brush,” he whispered, “they hit the creek again just below the pond that’s hidden in here.” He squirmed into the thicket on hands and knees, and I followed. After a while we could stand up again and follow the creek to a place where an old beaver dam made a large pond.
It was a beautiful spot. The pond was dark and clear, and the water trickled and gurgled over the top of the dam. There was plenty of grass along the bank, and on all sides the tall brush and trees rose to shut off the world.
Cico pointed. “The golden carp will come through there.” The cool waters of the creek came out of a dark, shadowy grotto of overhanging thicket, then flowed about thirty feet before they entered the large pond. Cico reached into a clump of grass and brought out a long, thin salt cedar branch with a spear at the end. The razor-sharp steel glistened in the sun. The other end of the spear had a nylon cord attached to it for retrieving.
“I fish for the black bass of the pond,” Cico said. He took a position on a high clump of grass at the edge of the bank and motioned for me to sit by the bank, but away from him.
“How can you see him?” I asked. The waters of the pool were clear and pure, but dark from their depth and shadows of the surrounding brush. The sun was crystaline white in the clear, blue sky, but still there was the darkness of shadows in this sacred spot.
“The golden carp will scare him up,” Cico whispered. “The black bass thinks he can be king of the fish, but all he wants is to eat them. The black bass is a killer. But the real king is the golden carp, Tony. He does not eat his own kind—”
Cico’s eyes remained glued on the dark waters. His body was motionless, like a spring awaiting release. We had been whispering since we arrived at the pond, why I didn’t know, except that it was just one of those places where one can communicate only in whispers, like church.
We sat for a long time, waiting for the golden carp. It was very pleasant to sit in the warm sunshine and watch the pure waters drift by. The drone of the summer insects and grasshoppers made me sleepy. The lush green of the grass was cool, and beneath the grass was the dark earth, patient, waiting…
To the northeast two hawks circled endlessly in the clear sky. There must be something dead on the road to Tucumcari, I thought.
Then the golden carp came. Cico pointed and I turned to where the stream came out of the dark grotto of overhanging tree branches. At first I thought I must be dreaming. I had expected to see a carp the size of a river carp, perhaps a little bigger and slightly orange instead of brown. I rubbed my eyes and watched in astonishment.
“Behold the golden carp, Lord of the waters—” I turned and saw Cico standing, his spear held across his chest as if in acknowledgement of the presence of a ruler.
The huge, beautiful form glided through the blue waters. I could not believe its size. It was bigger than me! And bright orange! The sunlight glistened off his golden scales. He glided down the creek with a couple of small carp following, but they were like minnows compared to him.
“The golden carp,” I whispered in awe. I could not have been more entranced if I had seen the Virgin, or God Himself. The golden carp had seen me. It made a wide sweep, its back making ripples in the dark water. I could have reached out into the water and touched the holy fish!
“He knows you are a friend,” Cico whispered.
Then the golden carp swam by Cico and disappeared into the darkness of the pond. I felt my body trembling as I saw the bright golden form disappear. I knew I had witnessed a miraculous thing, the appearance of a pagan god, a thing as miraculous as the curing of my uncle Lucas. And I thought, the power of God failed where Ultima’s worked; and then a sudden illumination of beauty and understanding flashed through my mind. This is what I had expected God to do at my first holy communion! If God was witness to my beholding of the golden carp then I had sinned! I clasped my hands and was about to pray to the heavens when the waters of the pond exploded.
I turned in time to see Cico hurl his spear at the monstrous black bass that had broken the surface of the waters. The evil mouth of the black bass was open and red. Its eyes were glazed with hate as it hung in the air surrounded by churning water and a million diamond droplets of water. The spear whistled through the air, but the aim was low. The huge tail swished and contemptuously flipped it aside. Then the black form dropped into the foaming waters.
“Missed,” Cico groaned. He retrieved his line slowly.
I nodded my head. “I can’t believe what I have seen,” I heard myself say, “are all the fish that big here—”
“No,” Cico smiled, “they catch two and three pounders below the beaver dam, the black bass must weigh close to twenty—” He threw his spear and line behind the clump of grass and came to sit by me. “Come on, let’s put our feet in the water. The golden carp will be returning—”
“Are you sorry you missed?” I asked as we slid our feet into the cool water.
“No,” Cico said, “it’s just a game.”
The orange of the golden carp appeared at the edge of the pond. As he came out of the darkness of the pond the sun caught his shiny scales and the light reflected orange and yellow and red. He swam very close to our feet. His body was round and smooth in the clear water. We watched in silence at the beauty and grandeur of the great fish. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw Cico hold his hand to his breast as the golden carp glided by. Then with a swish of his powerful tail the golden carp disappeared into the shadowy water under the thicket.
I shook my head. “What will happen to the golden carp?”
“What do you mean?” Cico asked.
“There are many men who fish here—”
Cico smiled. “They can’t see him, Tony, they can’t see him. I know every man from Guadalupe who fishes, and there ain’t a one who has ever mentioned seeing the golden carp. So I guess the grown-ups can’t see him—”
“The Indian, Narciso, Ultima—”
“They’re different, Tony. Like Samuel, and me, and you—”
“I see,” I said. I did not know what that difference was, but I did feel a strange brotherhood with Cico. We shared a secret that would always bind us.
“Where does the golden carp go?” I asked and nodded upstream.
“He swims upstream to the lakes of the mermaid, the Hidden Lakes—”
“The mermaid?” I questioned him.
“There are two deep, hidden lakes up in the hills,” he continued, “they feed the creek. Some people say those lakes have no bottom. There’s good fishing, but very few people go there. There’s something strange about those lakes, like they are haunted. There’s a strange power, it seems to watch you—”
“Like the presence of the river?” I asked softly. Cico looked at me and nodded.
“You’ve felt it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then you understand. But this thing at the lakes is stronger, or maybe not stronger, it just seems to want you more. The time I was there—I climbed to one of the over-hanging cliffs, and I just sat there, watching the fish in the c
lear water—I didn’t know about the power then, I was just thinking how good the fishing would be, when I began to hear strange music. It came from far away. It was a low, lonely murmuring, maybe like something a sad girl would sing. I looked around, but I was alone. I looked over the ledge of the cliff and the singing seemed to be coming from the water, and it seemed to be calling me—”
I was spellbound with Cico’s whispered story. If I had not seen the golden carp perhaps I would not have believed him. But I had seen too much today to doubt him.
“I swear, Tony, the music was pulling me into the dark waters below! The only thing that saved me from plunging into the lake was the golden carp. He appeared and the music stopped. Only then could I tear myself away from that place. Man, I ran! Oh how I ran! I had never been afraid before, but I was afraid then. And it wasn’t that the singing was evil, it was just that it called for me to join it. One more step and I’da stepped over the ledge and drowned in the waters of the lake—”
I waited a long time before I asked the next question. I waited for him to finish reliving his experience. “Did you see the mermaid?”
“No,” he answered.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
“No one knows. A deserted woman—or just the wind singing around the edges of those cliffs. No one really knows. It just calls people to it—”
“Who?”
He looked at me carefully. His eyes were clear and bright, like Ultima’s, and there were lines of age already showing.
“Last summer the mermaid took a shepherd. He was a man from Méjico, new here and working for a ranch beyond the hills. He had not heard the story about the lakes. He brought his sheep to water there, and he heard the singing. He made it back to town and even swore that he had seen the mermaid. He said it was a woman, resting on the water and singing a lonely song. She was half woman and half fish—He said the song made him want to wade out to the middle of the lake to help her, but his fear had made him run. He told everyone the story, but no one believed him. He ended up getting drunk in town and swearing he would prove his story by going back to the lakes and bringing back the mer-woman. He never returned. A week later the flock was found near the lakes. He had vanished—”