“Yes,” I replied.
“It will be hard,” she said.
“I do not mind,” I answered, “I want to help.”
“And if people say you walk in the footsteps of a curandera, will you be ashamed?”
“No, I will be proud, Ultima,” I said emphatically.
She smiled. “Come, we waste precious time—” My uncle and I followed her outside and into the truck. Thus began our strange trip.
“Adiós,” my mother called, “¡Cuidado! ¡Saludos a papá, y a todos! ¡Adiós!”
“¡Adiós!” I called. I turned and waved goodbye.
The drive to El Puerto was always a pleasant one, but today it was filled with strange portents. Across the river where lonely farms dotted the hills, whirlwinds and dust devils darkened the horizon. I had never seen anything like it, we seemed to travel a sea of calmness but all around the sky darkened. And when we arrived at the village we saw the horned day-moon fixed exactly between the two dark mesas at the southern end of the valley!
“The moon of the Lunas,” my uncle remarked, breaking the silence of the entire trip.
“It is a good sign,” Ultima nodded. “That is why they call this place El Puerto de la Luna,” she said to me, “because this valley is the door through which the moon of each month passes on its journey from the east to the west—”
So it was fitting that these people, the Lunas, came to settle in this valley. They planted their crops and cared for their animals according to the cycles of the moon. They lived their lives, sang their songs, and died under the changing moon. The moon was their goddess.
But why was the weather so strange today? And why had Ultima brought me? I wanted to help, but how was I to help? Just because my name was Juan? And what was it about my innocent Luna blood that was to help lift the curse from my uncle? I did not know then, but I was to find out.
A dust trail followed the truck down the dusty street. It was deathly quiet in El Puerto. Not even the dogs barked at the truck. And the men of the village were not working in the fields, they clung together in groups at the adobe corners of houses and whispered to each other as we drove by. My uncle drove straight to my grandfather’s house. No one came to the truck for a long time and my uncle grew nervous. Women in black passed silently in and out of the house. We waited.
Finally my grandfather appeared. He walked slowly across the dirt patio and greeted Ultima. “Médica,” he said, “I have a son who is dying.”
“Abuelo,” she answered, “I have a cure for your son.”
He smiled and reached through the open window to touch her hand. “It is like the old days,” he said.
“Ay, we still have the power to fight this evil,” she nodded.
“I will pay you in silver if you save my son’s life,” he said. He seemed unaware of me or my uncle. It seemed a ceremony they performed.
“Forty dollars to cheat la muerte,” she mumbled.
“Agreed,” he responded. He looked around to the nearby houses where, through parted curtains, curious eyes watched. “The people of the pueblo are nervous. It has been many years since a curandera came to cure—”
“Farmers should be farming,” Ultima said simply. “Now, I have work to do.” She stepped out of the truck.
“What will you need?” my grandfather asked.
“You know,” she said. “A small room, bedsheets, water, stove, atole to eat—”
“I will prepare everything myself,” he said.
“There are women already mourning in the house,” Ultima said and gathered her shawl around her head, “get rid of them.”
“As you say,” my grandfather answered. I do not think he liked to empty his house of his sons’ wives, but he knew that when a curandera was working a cure she was in charge.
“There will be animals sniffing around the house at night, the coyotes will howl at your door—inform your sons that no shots are to be fired. I will deal with those who come to spoil the cure myself—”
My grandfather nodded. “Will you enter my house now?” he asked.
“No. I must first speak to Tenorio. Is he in his dog hole, that place he calls a saloon?” she asked. My grandfather said yes. “I will speak to him,” Ultima said. “I will first try to reason with him. He must know that those who tamper with fate are often swallowed by their own contrivance—”
“I will send Pedro and Juan with you,” my grandfather began, but she interrupted him.
“Since when does a curandera need help to deal with dogs,” she retorted. “Come, Antonio,” she called and started down the street. I scurried after her.