Bless Me, Ultima

  These were the people of my father, the vaqueros of the llano. They were an exuberant, restless people, wandering across the ocean of the plain.

  We must return to our valley, the old man who led the farmers spoke. We must take with us the blood that comes after the birth. We will bury it in our fields to renew their fertility and to assure that the baby will follow our ways. He nodded for the old woman to deliver the package at the altar.

  No! the llaneros protested, it will stay here! We will burn it and let the winds of the llano scatter the ashes.

  It is blasphemy to scatter a man’s blood on unholy ground, the farmers chanted. The new son must fulfill his mother’s dream. He must come to El Puerto and rule over the Lunas of the valley. The blood of the Lunas is strong in him.

  He is a Márez, the vaqueros shouted. His forefathers were conquistadores, men as restless as the seas they sailed and as free as the land they conquered. He is his father’s blood!

  Curses and threats filled the air, pistols were drawn, and the opposing sides made ready for battle. But the clash was stopped by the old woman who delivered the baby.

  Cease! she cried, and the men were quiet. I pulled this baby into the light of life, so I will bury the afterbirth and the cord that once linked him to eternity. Only I will know his destiny.

  The dream began to dissolve. When I opened my eyes I heard my father cranking the truck outside. I wanted to go with him, I wanted to see Las Pasturas, I wanted to see Ultima. I dressed hurriedly, but I was too late. The truck was bouncing down the goat path that led to the bridge and the highway.

  I turned, as I always did, and looked down the slope of our hill to the green of the river, and I raised my eyes and saw the town of Guadalupe. Towering above the housetops and the trees of the town was the church tower. I made the sign of the cross on my lips. The only other building that rose above the housetops to compete with the church tower was the yellow top of the schoolhouse. This fall I would be going to school.

  My heart sank. When I thought of leaving my mother and going to school a warm, sick feeling came to my stomach. To get rid of it I ran to the pens we kept by the molino to feed the animals. I had fed the rabbits that night and they already had alfalfa and so I only changed their water. I scattered some grain for the hungry chickens and watched their mad scramble as the rooster called them to peck. I milked the cow and turned her loose. During the day she would forage along the highway where the grass was thick and green, then she would return at nightfall. She was a good cow and there were very few times when I had to run and bring her back in the evening. Then I dreaded it, because she might wander into the hills where the bats flew at dusk and there was only the sound of my heart beating as I ran and it made me sad and frightened to be alone.

  I collected three eggs in the chicken house and returned for breakfast.

  “Antonio,” my mother smiled and took the eggs and milk, “come and eat your breakfast.”

  I sat across the table from Deborah and Theresa and ate my atole and the hot tortilla with butter. I said very little. I usually spoke very little to my two sisters. They were older than I and they were very close. They usually spent the entire day in the attic, playing dolls and giggling. I did not concern myself with those things.

  “Your father has gone to Las Pasturas,” my mother chattered, “he has gone to bring la Grande.” Her hands were white with the flour of the dough. I watched carefully. “—And when he returns, I want you children to show your manners. You must not shame your father or your mother—”

  “Isn’t her real name Ultima?” Deborah asked. She was like that, always asking grown-up questions.

  “You will address her as la Grande,” my mother said flatly. I looked at her and wondered if this woman with the black hair and laughing eyes was the woman who gave birth in my dream.

  “Grande,” Theresa repeated.

  “Is it true she is a witch?” Deborah asked. Oh, she was in for it. I saw my mother whirl then pause and control herself.

  “No!” she scolded. “You must not speak of such things! Oh, I don’t know where you learn such ways—” Her eyes flooded with tears. She always cried when she thought we were learning the ways of my father, the ways of the Márez. “She is a woman of learning,” she went on and I knew she didn’t have time to stop and cry, “she had worked hard for all the people of the village. Oh, I would never have survived those hard years if it had not been for her—so show her respect. We are honored that she comes to live with us, understand?”

  “Sí, mamá,” Deborah said half willingly.

  “Sí, mamá,” Theresa repeated.

  “Now run and sweep the room at the end of the hall. Eugene’s room—” I heard her voice choke. She breathed a prayer and crossed her forehead. The flour left white stains on her, the four points of the cross. I knew it was because my three brothers were at war that she was sad, and Eugene was the youngest.

  “Mamá.” I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to know who the old woman was who cut the baby’s cord.

  “Sí.” She turned and looked at me.

  “Was Ultima at my birth?” I asked.

  “¡Ay Dios mío!” my mother cried. She came to where I sat and ran her hand through my hair. She smelled warm, like bread. “Where do you get such questions, my son. Yes,” she smiled, “la Grande was there to help me. She was there to help at the birth of all of my children—”

  “And my uncles from El Puerto were there?”

  “Of course,” she answered, “my brothers have always been at my side when I needed them. They have always prayed that I would bless them with a—”

  I did not hear what she said because I was hearing the sounds of the dream, and I was seeing the dream again. The warm cereal in my stomach made me feel sick.

  “And my father’s brother was there, the Márez’ and their friends, the vaqueros—”

  “Ay!” she cried out. “Don’t speak to me of those worthless Márez and their friends!”

  “There was a fight?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “a silly argument. They wanted to start a fight with my brothers—that is all they are good for. Vaqueros, they call themselves, they are worthless drunks! Thieves! Always on the move, like gypsies, always dragging their families around the country like vagabonds—”

  As long as I could remember she always raged about the Márez family and their friends. She called the village of Las Pasturas beautiful; she had gotten used to the loneliness, but she had never accepted its people. She was the daughter of farmers.

  But the dream was true. It was as I had seen it. Ultima knew.

  “But you will not be like them.” She caught her breath and stopped. She kissed my forehead. “You will be like my brothers. You will be a Luna, Antonio. You will be a man of the people, and perhaps a priest.” She smiled.

  A priest, I thought, that was her dream. I was to hold mass on Sundays like father Byrnes did in the church in town. I was to hear the confessions of the silent people of the valley, and I was to administer the holy Sacrament to them.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Yes,” my mother smiled. She held me tenderly. The fragrance of her body was sweet.

  “But then,” I whispered, “who will hear my confession?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I answered. I felt a cool sweat on my forehead and I knew I had to run, I had to clear my mind of the dream. “I am going to Jasón’s house,” I said hurriedly and slid past my mother. I ran out the kitchen door, past the animal pens, towards Jasón’s house. The white sun and the fresh air cleansed me.

  On this side of the river there were only three houses. The slope of the hill rose gradually into the hills of juniper and mesquite and cedar clumps. Jasón’s house was farther away from the river than our house. On the path that led to the bridge lived huge, fat Fío and his beautiful wife. Fío and my father worked together on the highway. They were good drinking friends.

  “¡Jasón!” I called at the kitc
hen door. I had run hard and was panting. His mother appeared at the door.

  “Jasón no está aquí,” she said. All of the older people spoke only in Spanish, and I myself understood only Spanish. It was only after one went to school that one learned English.

  “¿Dónde está?” I asked.

  She pointed towards the river, northwest, past the railroad tracks to the dark hills. The river came through those hills and there were old Indian grounds there, holy burial grounds Jasón told me. There in an old cave lived his Indian. At least everybody called him Jasón’s Indian. He was the only Indian of the town, and he talked only to Jasón. Jasón’s father had forbidden Jasón to talk to the Indian, he had beaten him, he had tried in every way to keep Jasón from the Indian.

  But Jasón persisted. Jasón was not a bad boy, he was just Jasón. He was quiet and moody, and sometimes for no reason at all wild, loud sounds came exploding from his throat and lungs. Sometimes I felt like Jasón, like I wanted to shout and cry, but I never did.

  I looked at his mother’s eyes and I saw they were sad. “Thank you,” I said, and returned home. While I waited for my father to return with Ultima I worked in the garden. Every day I had to work in the garden. Every day I reclaimed from the rocky soil of the hill a few more feet of earth to cultivate. The land of the llano was not good for farming, the good land was along the river. But my mother wanted a garden and I worked to make her happy. Already we had a few chile and tomato plants growing. It was hard work. My fingers bled from scraping out the rocks and it seemed that a square yard of ground produced a wheelbarrow full of rocks which I had to push down to the retaining wall.

  The sun was white in the bright blue sky. The shade of the clouds would not come until the afternoon. The sweat was sticky on my brown body. I heard the truck and turned to see it chugging up the dusty goat path. My father was returning with Ultima.

  “¡Mamá!” I called. My mother came running out, Deborah and Theresa trailed after her.

  “I’m afraid,” I heard Theresa whimper.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Deborah said confidently. My mother said there was too much Márez blood in Deborah. Her eyes and hair were very dark, and she was always running. She had been to school two years and she spoke only English. She was teaching Theresa and half the time I didn’t understand what they were saying.

  “Madre de Dios, but mind your manners!” my mother scolded. The truck stopped and she ran to greet Ultima. “Buenos días le de Dios, Grande,” my mother cried. She smiled and hugged and kissed the old woman.

  “Ay, María Luna,” Ultima smiled, “buenos días te de Dios, a ti y a tu familia.” She wrapped the black shawl around her hair and shoulders. Her face was brown and very wrinkled. When she smiled her teeth were brown. I remembered the dream.

  “Come, come!” my mother urged us forward. It was the custom to greet the old. “Deborah!” my mother urged. Deborah stepped forward and took Ultima’s withered hand.

  “Buenos días, Grande,” she smiled. She even bowed slightly. Then she pulled Theresa forward and told her to greet la Grande. My mother beamed. Deborah’s good manners surprised her, but they made her happy, because a family was judged by its manners.

  “What beautiful daughters you have raised,” Ultima nodded to my mother. Nothing could have pleased my mother more. She looked proudly at my father who stood leaning against the truck, watching and judging the introductions.

  “Antonio,” he said simply. I stepped forward and took Ultima’s hand. I looked up into her clear brown eyes and shivered. Her face was old and wrinkled, but her eyes were clear and sparkling, like the eyes of a young child.

  “Antonio,” she smiled. She took my hand, and I felt the power of a whirlwind sweep around me. Her eyes swept the surrounding hills and through them I saw for the first time the wild beauty of our hills and the magic of the green river. My nostrils quivered as I felt the song of the mockingbirds and the drone of the grasshoppers mingle with the pulse of the earth. The four directions of the llano met in me, and the white sun shone on my soul. The granules of sand at my feet and the sun and sky above me seemed to dissolve into one strange, complete being.

  A cry came to my throat, and I wanted to shout it and run in the beauty I had found.

  “Antonio.” I felt my mother prod me. Deborah giggled because she had made the right greeting, and I who was to be my mother’s hope and joy stood voiceless.

  “Buenos días le de Dios, Ultima,” I muttered. I saw in her eyes my dream. I saw the old woman who had delivered me from my mother’s womb. I knew she held the secret of my destiny.

  “¡Antonio!” My mother was shocked I had used her name instead of calling her Grande. But Ultima held up her hand.

  “Let it be,” she smiled. “This was the last child I pulled from your womb, María. I knew there would be something between us.”

  My mother who had started to mumble apologies was quiet. “As you wish, Grande,” she nodded.

  “I have come to spend the last days of my life here, Antonio,” Ultima said to me.

  “You will never die, Ultima,” I answered. “I will take care of you—” She let go of my hand and laughed. Then my father said, “Pase, Grande, pase. Nuestra casa es su casa. It is too hot to stand and visit in the sun—”

  “Sí, sí,” my mother urged. I watched them go in. My father carried on his shoulders the large blue-tin trunk which later I learned contained all of Ultima’s earthly possessions, the black dresses and shawls she wore, and the magic of her sweet smelling herbs.

  As Ultima walked past me I smelled for the first time a trace of the sweet fragrance of herbs that always lingered in her wake. Many years later, long after Ultima was gone and I had grown to be a man, I would awaken sometimes at night and think I caught a scent of her fragrance in the cool-night breeze.

  And with Ultima came the owl. I heard it that night for the first time in the juniper tree outside of Ultima’s window. I knew it was her owl because the other owls of the llano did not come that near the house. At first it disturbed me, and Deborah and Theresa too. I heard them whispering through the partition. I heard Deborah reassuring Theresa that she would take care of her, and then she took Theresa in her arms and rocked her until they were both asleep.

  I waited. I was sure my father would get up and shoot the owl with the old rifle he kept on the kitchen wall. But he didn’t, and I accepted his understanding. In many cuentos I had heard the owl was one of the disguises a bruja took, and so it struck a chord of fear in the heart to hear them hooting at night. But not Ultima’s owl. Its soft hooting was like a song, and as it grew rhythmic it calmed the moonlit hills and lulled us to sleep. Its song seemed to say that it had come to watch over us.

  I dreamed about the owl that night, and my dream was good. La Virgen de Guadalupe was the patron saint of our town. The town was named after her. In my dream I saw Ultima’s owl lift la Virgen on her wide wings and fly her to heaven. Then the owl returned and gathered up all the babes of Limbo and flew them up to the clouds of heaven.

  The Virgin smiled at the goodness of the owl.

  Dos

  Ultima slipped easily into the routine of our daily life. The first day she put on her apron and helped my mother with breakfast, later she swept the house and then helped my mother wash our clothes in the old washing machine they pulled outside where it was cooler under the shade of the young elm trees. It was as if she had always been here. My mother was very happy because now she had someone to talk to and she didn’t have to wait until Sunday when her women friends from the town came up the dusty path to sit in the sala and visit.

  Deborah and Theresa were happy because Ultima did many of the household chores they normally did, and they had more time to spend in the attic and cut out an interminable train of paper dolls which they dressed, gave names to, and most miraculously, made talk.

  My father was also pleased. Now he had one more person to tell his dream to. My father’s dream was to gather his sons around him
and move westward to the land of the setting sun, to the vineyards of California. But the war had taken his three sons and it had made him bitter. He often got drunk on Saturday afternoons and then he would rave against old age. He would rage against the town on the opposite side of the river which drained a man of his freedom, and he would cry because the war had ruined his dream. It was very sad to see my father cry, but I understood it, because sometimes a man has to cry. Even if he is a man.

  And I was happy with Ultima. We walked together in the llano and along the river banks to gather herbs and roots for her medicines. She taught me the names of plants and flowers, of trees and bushes, of birds and animals; but most important, I learned from her that there was a beauty in the time of day and in the time of night, and that there was peace in the river and in the hills. She taught me to listen to the mystery of the groaning earth and to feel complete in the fulfillment of its time. My soul grew under her careful guidance.

  I had been afraid of the awful presence of the river, which was the soul of the river, but through her I learned that my spirit shared in the spirit of all things. But the innocence which our isolation sheltered could not last forever, and the affairs of the town began to reach across our bridge and enter my life. Ultima’s owl gave the warning that the time of peace on our hill was drawing to an end.

  It was Saturday night. My mother had laid out our clean clothes for Sunday mass, and we had gone to bed early because we always went to early mass. The house was quiet, and I was in the mist of some dream when I heard the owl cry its warning. I was up instantly, looking through the small window at the dark figure that ran madly towards the house. He hurled himself at the door and began pounding.

  “¡Márez!” he shouted, “¡Márez! ¡Andale, hombre!”

  I was frightened, but I recognized the voice. It was Jasón’s father.

  “¡Un momento!” I heard my father call. He fumbled with the farol.

  “¡Andale, hombre, andale!” Chávez cried pitifully. “Mataron a mi hermano—”

  “Ya vengo—” My father opened the door and the frightened man burst in. In the kitchen I heard my mother moan, “Ave María Purísima, mis hijos—” She had not heard Chávez’ last words, and so she assumed the aviso was one that brought bad news about her sons.