“Do you think the mermaid took him?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Tony,” Cico said and knit his brow, “there’s a lot of things I don’t know. But never go to the Hidden Lakes alone, Tony, never. It’s not safe.”
I nodded that I would honor his warning. “It is so strange,” I said, “the things that happen. The things that I have seen, or heard about.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“These things of the water, the mermaid, the golden carp. They are strange. There is so much water around the town, the river, the creek, the lakes—”
Cico leaned back and stared into the bright sky. “This whole land was once covered by a sea, a long time ago—”
“My name means sea,” I pondered aloud.
“Hey, that’s right,” he said, “Márez means sea, it means you came from the ocean, Tony Márez arisen from the sea—”
“My father says our blood is restless, like the sea—”
“That is beautiful,” he said. He laughed. “You know, this land belonged to the fish before it belonged to us. I have no doubt about the prophecy of the golden carp. He will come to rule again!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What do I mean?” Cico asked quizzically. “I mean that the golden carp will come to rule again. Didn’t Samuel tell you?”
“No,” I shook my head.
“Well he told you about the people who killed the carp of the river and were punished by being turned into fish themselves. After that happened, many years later, a new people came to live in this valley. And they were no better than the first inhabitants, in fact they were worse. They sinned a lot, they sinned against each other, and they sinned against the legends they knew. And so the golden carp sent them a prophecy. He said that the sins of the people would weigh so heavy upon the land that in the end the whole town would collapse and be swallowed by water—”
I must have whistled in exclamation and sighed.
“Tony,” Cico said, “this whole town is sitting over a deep, underground lake! Everybody knows that. Look.” He drew on the sand with a stick. “Here’s the river. The creek flows up here and curves into the river. The Hidden Lakes complete the other border. See?”
I nodded. The town was surrounded by water. It was frightening to know that! “The whole town!” I whispered in amazement.
“Yup,” Cico said, “the whole town. The golden carp has warned us that the land cannot take the weight of the sins—the land will finally sink!”
“But you live in town!” I exclaimed.
He smiled and stood up. “The golden carp is my god, Tony. He will rule the new waters. I will be happy to be with my god—”
It was unbelievable, and yet it made a wild kind of sense! All the pieces fit!
“Do the people of the town know?” I asked anxiously.
“They know,” he nodded, “and they keep on sinning.”
“But it’s not fair to those who don’t sin!” I countered.
“Tony,” Cico said softly, “all men sin.”
I had no answer to that. My own mother had said that losing your innocence and becoming a man was learning to sin. I felt weak and powerless in the knowledge of the impending doom.
“When will it happen?” I asked.
“No one knows,” Cico answered. “It could be today, tomorrow, a week, a hundred years—but it will happen.”
“What can we do?” I asked. I heard my voice tremble.
“Sin against no one,” Cico answered.
I walked away from that haven which held the pond and the swimming waters of the golden carp feeling a great weight in my heart. I was saddened by what I had learned. I had seen beauty, but the beauty had burdened me with responsibility. Cico wanted to fish at the dam, but I was not in the mood for it. I thanked him for letting me see the golden carp, crossed the river, and trudged up the hill homeward.
I thought about telling everyone in town to stop their sinning, or drown and die. But they would not believe me. How could I preach to the whole town, I was only a boy. They would not listen. They would say I was crazy, or bewitched by Ultima’s magic.
I went home and thought about what I had seen and the story Cico told. I went to Ultima and told her the story. She said nothing. She only smiled. It was as if she knew the story and found nothing fantastic or impending in it. “I would have told you the story myself,” she nodded wisely, “but it is better that you hear the legend from someone your own age…”
“Am I to believe the story?” I asked. I was worried.
“Antonio,” she said calmly and placed her hand on my shoulder, “I cannot tell you what to believe. Your father and your mother can tell you, because you are their blood, but I cannot. As you grow into manhood you must find your own truths—”
That night in my dreams I walked by the shore of a great lake. A bewitching melody filled the air. It was the song of the mer-woman! I looked into the dark depths of the lake and saw the golden carp, and all around him were the people he had saved. On the bleached shores of the lake the carcasses of sinners rotted.
Then a huge golden moon came down from the heavens and settled on the surface of the calm waters. I looked towards the enchanting light, expecting to see the Virgin of Guadalupe, but in her place I saw my mother!
Mother, I cried, you are saved! We are all saved!
Yes, my Antonio, she smiled, we who were baptized in the water of the moon which was made holy by our Holy Mother the Church are saved.
Lies! my father shouted, Antonio was not baptized in the holy water of the moon, but in the salt water of the sea!
I turned and saw him standing on the corpse-strewn shore. I felt a searing pain spread through my body.
Oh please tell me which is the water that runs through my veins, I moaned; oh please tell me which is the water that washes my burning eyes!
It is the sweet water of the moon, my mother crooned softly, it is the water the Church chooses to make holy and place in its font. It is the water of your baptism.
Lies, lies, my father laughed, through your body runs the salt water of the oceans. It is that water which makes you Márez and not Luna. It is the water that binds you to the pagan god of Cico, the golden carp!
Oh, I cried, please tell me. The agony of pain was more than I could bear. The excruciating pain broke and I sweated blood.
There was a howling wind as the moon rose and its powers pulled at the still waters of the lake. Thunder split the air and the lightning bursts illuminated the churning, frothy tempest. The ghosts stood and walked upon the shore.
The lake seemed to respond with rage and fury. It cracked with the laughter of madness as it inflicted death upon the people. I thought the end had come to everything. The cosmic struggle of the two forces would destroy everything!
The doom which Cico had predicted was upon us! I clasped my hands and knelt to pray. The terrifying end was near. Then I heard a voice speak above the sound of the storm. I looked up and saw Ultima.
Cease! she cried to the raging powers, and the power from the heavens and the power from the earth obeyed her. The storm abated.
Stand, Antonio, she commanded, and I stood. You both know, she spoke to my father and my mother, that the sweet water of the moon which falls as rain is the same water that gathers into rivers and flows to fill the seas. Without the waters of the moon to replenish the oceans there would be no oceans. And the same salt waters of the oceans are drawn by the sun to the heavens, and in turn become again the waters of the moon. Without the sun there would be no waters formed to slake the dark earth’s thirst.
The waters are one, Antonio. I looked into her bright, clear eyes and understood her truth.
You have been seeing only parts, she finished, and not looking beyond into the great cycle that binds us all.
Then there was peace in my dreams and I could rest.
Doce
Ultima’s cure and the golden carp occupied my thoughts the rest of the summer. I was growing up
and changing. I had plenty of time to be by myself and to think and feel the magic these events contained.
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 m
other 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.