Authors: Rudolfo Anaya
“Anthony! ¡Antoniooooooo!” I thought it was the voice of my dreams and jumped, but it was my mother calling. Everyone was ready for mass. My mother and Ultima dressed in black because so many women of the town had lost sons or husbands in the war and they were in mourning. Those years it seemed that the whole town was in mourning, and it was very sad on Sundays to see the rows of black-dressed women walking in procession to church.
“Ay, what a night,” my father groaned. Today two more families would be in mourning in the town of Guadalupe, and indirectly the far-off war of the Japanese and the Germans had come to claim two victims in New Mexico.
“Ven acá, Antonio,” my mother scolded. She wet my dark hair and brushed it down. In spite of her dark clothing she smelled sweet and it made me feel better to be near her. I wished that I could always be near her, but that was impossible. The war had taken my brothers away, and so the school would take me away.
“Ready, mamá,” Deborah called. She said that in school the teachers let them speak only in English. I wondered how I would be able to speak to the teachers.
“¡Gabriel!” my mother called.
“Sí, Sí,” my father groaned. I wondered how heavy last night’s sin lay on his soul.
My mother took one last cursory glance at her brood then led the way up the goat path; we called the path from our home to the bridge the goat path because when we ran to meet our father after his day’s work he said we looked like goats, cabroncitos, or cabritos. We must have made a strange procession, my mother leading the group with her swift, proud walk, Deborah and Theresa skipping around her, my father muttering and dragging behind, and finally Ultima and myself.
“Es una mujer que no ha pecado…” some would whisper of Ultima.
“La curandera,” they would exchange nervous glances.
“Hechicera, bruja,” I heard once.
“Why are you so thoughtful, Antonio?” Ultima asked. Usually I was picking up stones to have ready for stray rabbits that crossed our path, but today my thoughts kept my soul in a shroud.
“I was thinking of Lupito,” I said. “My father was on the bridge,” I added.
“That is so,” she said simply.
“But, Ultima, how can he go to communion? How can he take God in his mouth and swallow him? Will God forgive his sin and be with him?” For a long time Ultima did not answer.
“A man of the llano,” she said, “will not take the life of a llanero unless there is just cause. And I do not think your father fired at Lupito last night. And more important, mi hijo, you must never judge who God forgives and who He doesn’t—”
We walked together and I thought about what she had said. I knew she was right. “Ultima,” I asked, “what was it you gave me to make me sleep last night? And did you carry me to my room?”
She laughed. “I am beginning to understand why your mother calls you the inquisitor,” she said.
“But I want to know, there are so many things I want to know,” I insisted.
“A curandera cannot give away her secrets,” she said, “but if a person really wants to know, then he will listen and see and be patient. Knowledge comes slowly—”
I walked along, thinking about what she had said. When we came to the bridge my mother hurried the girls across, but my father paused to look over the railing. I looked too. What happened down there was like a dream, so far away. The brown waters of the River of the Carp wound their way southward to the orchards of my uncles.
We crossed the bridge and turned right. The dirt road followed the high cliff of the river on this side. It wound into the cluster of houses around the church then kept going, following the river to El Puerto. To our left began the houses and buildings of the town. All seemed to turn towards the Main Street of town, except one. This house, a large, rambling gray stucco with a picket fence surrounding the weedy grounds, stood away from the street, perched on a ledge that dropped fifty feet down into the river below.
A long time ago the house had belonged to a very respectable family, but they had moved into town after the waters of the river began to cut into the cliff below them. Now the house belonged to a woman named Rosie. I knew that Rosie was evil, not evil like a witch, but evil in other ways. Once the priest had preached in Spanish against the women who lived in Rosie’s house and so I knew that her place was bad. Also, my mother admonished us to bow our heads when we passed in front of the house.
The bell of the church began to ring,
una mujer con un diente, que llama a toda la gente
. The bell called the people to six o’clock mass.
But no. Today it was not just telling us that in five minutes mass would begin, today it was crying the knell of Lupito.
“¡Ay!” I heard my mother cry and saw her cross her forehead.
La campana de la iglesia está doblando…
The church bell tolled and drew to it the widows in black, the lonely, faithful women who came to pray for their men.
Arrímense vivos y difuntos
Aquí estamos todos juntos…
The church rose up from the dust of the road, huge brown granite blocks rose skyward to hold the bell tower and the cross of Christ. It was the biggest building I had ever seen in all my life. Now the people gathered at its doors like ants, asking questions and passing on rumors about what happened last night. My father went to talk to the men, but my mother and Ultima stood apart with the women with whom they exchanged formal greetings. I went around the side of the church where I knew the boys from town hung around until mass began.
Most of the kids were older than I. They were in the second or third grade at school. I knew most of them by name, not because I talked with them, but because after many Sundays of observing them I had learned who they were and a little bit about their characteristics. I knew that when I went to school in the fall I would get to know them well. I was only sad because they would be a year ahead of me and I already felt close to them.
“My ole man saw Lupito do it!” Ernie pointed his thumb in Able’s face. I knew Ernie liked to brag.
“Bullshit!” Horse cried out. They called him Horse because his face looked like the face of a horse, and he was always stomping at the ground.
“¡Chingada! Dah bastard neber have a chance! Pugggggh!” Bones exploded like a pistol. He grabbed the top of his head and toppled on the dust of the street. His eyes rolled wildly. Bones was even crazier than Horse.
“I went to the river this morning,” Samuel said softly. “There was blood on the sand—” No one heard him. I knew he lived across the river like I did, but he lived upriver where there were a few houses just past the railroad bridge.
“I’ll race you! I’ll race you!” The Vitamin Kid pawed nervously at the ground. I never knew his real name, everyone just called him the Vitamin Kid, even the teachers at school. He could run, oh how he could run! Not even Bones in high gear or Horse at full gallop could outrun the Vitamin Kid. He was like the wind.
“Bullshit!” Horse cleared his throat and let fly a frog. Then Florence cleared his throat and spit a nice wad that beat Horse’s by five feet at least.
“Heh. He beat you, damn he beat you,” Abel laughed. Abel was very small, even smaller than I, and he should never have teased Horse. If there was one thing Horse loved to do, that was to wrestle. His long arms reached out, caught Abel before he could move away, and flipped him easily into the air. Abel landed hard on the ground.
“Cabrón,” he whimpered.
“Did he beat me?” Horse asked as he stood over Abel.
“No,” Abel cried. He got up slowly, faking a broken leg, then when he was out of Horse’s reach he called, “He beat you, fucker, he beat you! Yah-yah-ya-yah!”
“My ole man was right in the cafe when it happened,” Ernie continued. Ernie always wanted to be the center of interest. “He said Lupito just walked in real slow, walked up right behind the sheriff who was biting into a piece of cherry pie, put the pistol to the back of the sheriff’s head—”
“Bullshit!” Horse neighed loudly. “Hey, Florence, top this one!” Again he cleared his throat and spit.
“Nah,” Florence grinned. He was tall and thin, with curly blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. I had never seen anyone like him, so white and speaking Spanish. He reminded me of one of the golden angel heads with wings that hovered at the feet of the Virgin in her pictures.
“Cherry pie? Aghhhhhh!”
“—And there were brains and blood all over the damned place. On the table, on the floor, even on the ceiling, and his eyes were open as he fell, and before he hit the floor Lupito was out the door—”
“Bullshit.” “Damn.” “¡Chingada!”
“He’ll go to hell,” Lloyd said in his girl’s voice. “It’s the law that he go to hell for what he did.”
“Everybody from Los Jaros goes to hell,” Florence laughed. Los Jaros was what they called the neighborhood across the tracks, and Horse and Bones and Abel and Florence were from there.
“You’re going to hell, Florence, because you don’t believe in God!” Horse shouted.
“Los vatos de Los Jaros are tough!” Bones gurgled. He wiped his thumbs on his nose and a green snot dangled there.
“Damn.” “Chingada.”
“Come on Florence, let’s wrestle,” Horse said. He was still angry about the spitting contest.
“You can’t wrestle before mass, it’s a sin,” Lloyd cut in.
“Bullshit,” Horse said and he turned to pounce on Lloyd, but as he did he saw me for the first time. He looked at me for a long time then he called me. “Hey kid, come here.”
They watched me with interest as I walked towards the Horse. I did not want to wrestle with Horse; he was tougher and bigger than I. But my father had often said that a man of the llano does not run from a fight.
“Who’z dat?” “Don’t know.” “Chingada.”
The Horse reached for my neck, but I knew about his favorite trick and ducked. I went low and came up yanking at his left leg. With a hard pull I flipped the Horse on his back.
“¡Hiii-jo-lah!” “¡Ah la veca!” “Did’jew see that, the kid threw the Horse!” Everyone laughed at Horse in the dust.
He got up slowly, his wild eyes never leaving me; he wiped the seat of his pants and came towards me. I braced myself and stood my ground. I knew I was in for a whipping. The Horse came up to me very slowly until his face was close to mine. His dark, wild eyes held me hypnotically, and I could hear the deep sounds a horse makes inside his chest when he is ready to buck. Saliva curled around the edges of his mouth and spittle threads hung down and glistened like spider threads in the sun. He chomped his teeth and I could smell his bad breath.
I thought the Horse was going to rear up and paw and stomp me into the ground, and I guess the other kids did too because they were very quiet. But instead of attacking me the Horse let out a wild, shocking cry that sent me reeling backward.
“Whaggggggggh!” He brayed. “The little runt actually threw me, he threw me?” He laughed. “What’s your name, kid?”
The other kids breathed easier. The Horse was not going to commit murder.
“Anthony Márez,” I replied, “Antonio Juan Márez y Luna,” I added in respect to my mother.
“Damn.” “Chingada.”
“Hey, you Andrew’s brother?” Horse asked. I nodded yes, “Well, put ’er there—” I shook my head no. I knew that Horse couldn’t resist throwing anyone who held out his hand. It was just his nature.
“Smart kid,” Bones laughed.
“Shut up!” Horse glared at him. “Okay, kid, I mean Anthony, you are a smart kid. The last guy that threw me was a big fifth grader, you hear—”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. Everyone laughed.
“I know you didn’t,” Horse smiled, “and you’re too small to fight. That’s why I’m going to let you get away with it. But don’t think you can do it again, understand!” The message was as much for me as for the rest of the gang, because we all nodded.
They all gathered around me and asked me where I lived and about school. They were good friends, even though they sometimes said bad words, and that day I became a part of their gang.
Then Abel, who had been pissing against the church wall, called out that mass was starting and we all rushed to get the premium pews at the very back of the church.
T
here is a time in the last few days of summer when the ripeness of autumn fills the air, and time is quiet and mellow. I lived that time fully, strangely aware of a new world opening up and taking shape for me. In the mornings, before it was too hot, Ultima and I walked in the hills of the llano, gathering the wild herbs and roots for her medicines. We roamed the entire countryside and up and down the river. I carried a small shovel with which to dig, and she carried a gunnysack in which to gather our magic harvest.
“¡Ay!” she would cry when she spotted a plant or root she needed, “what luck we are in today to find la yerba del manso!”
Then she would lead me to the plant her owl-eyes had found and ask me to observe where the plant grew and how its leaves looked. “Now touch it,” she would say. The leaves were smooth and light green.
For Ultima, even the plants had a spirit, and before I dug she made me speak to the plant and tell it why we pulled it from its home in the earth. “You that grow well here in the arroyo by the dampness of the river, we lift you to make good medicine,” Ultima intoned softly and I found myself repeating after her. Then I would carefully dig out the plant, taking care not to let the steel of the shovel touch the tender roots. Of all the plants we gathered none was endowed with so much magic as the yerba del manso. It could cure burns, sores, piles, colic in babies, bleeding dysentery and even rheumatism. I knew this plant from long ago because my mother, who was surely not a curandera, often used it.
Ultima’s soft hands would carefully lift the plant and examine it. She would take a pinch and taste its quality. Then she took the same pinch and put it into a little black bag tied to a sash around her waist. She told me that the dry contents of the bag contained a pinch of every plant she had ever gathered since she began her training as a curandera many years ago.
“Long ago,” she would smile, “long before you were a dream, long before the train came to Las Pasturas, before the Lunas came to their valley, before the great Coronado built his bridge—” Then her voice would trail off and my thoughts would be lost in the labyrinth of a time and history I did not know.