Bless Me, Ultima(38)

dot. I put one hand to my eyes and with the other I gripped Ultima tightly as we struggled against the wind.

I was thinking about the evil Tenorio and how Ultima had made him cower when I heard the hoofbeats. If I had been alone I would have paid no heed to them, so concerned was I with finding some direction in the strange duststorm. But Ultima was more alert than I. With a nimble sidestep and a pull she jerked me from the path of the black horse and rider that went crashing by us. The rider that had almost run us down disappeared into the swirling dust.

“Tenorio!” Ultima shouted in my ear. “He is hurrying home to warn his daughters. Beware of his horse,” she added, “he has trained it to trample and kill—” I realized how close I had been to injury or death.

As we approached my grandfather’s house there was a lull in the storm. The sky remained dark around us, but the clouds of dust abated somewhat. The women who were already in mourning for my uncle Lucas took this opportunity to place their mantas over their faces and to scurry to their homes before the hellish storm raised its head again. It was very strange to see the women in black hurrying out of the house and into the howling storm. It was like seeing death leaving a body.

We hurried into the house. The door slammed behind us. In the dark my grandfather was waiting. “I grew worried,” he said.

“Is everything ready?” Ultima asked.

“As you ordered,” he said and led us through the dark, quiet rooms of the house. The flickering lantern he held cast our dancing shadows on the smooth, clean adobe walls. I had never seen the house quiet and empty like it was today. Always there were my uncles and aunts and cousins to greet. Now it was like a quiet tomb.

Far in the deep recesses of the long house we came to a small room. My grandfather stood at the door and motioned. We entered the simple room. It had a dirt floor packed down from many water sprinklings, and its walls were smooth-plastered adobe. But the good clean earth of the room did not wash away or filter the strong smell of death in the room. The wooden bed in the room held the shrunken body of my dying uncle Lucas. He was sheathed in white and I thought he was already dead. He did not seem to breathe. His eyes were two dark pits, and the thin parchment of yellow skin clung to his bony face like dry paper.

Ultima went to him and touched his forehead. “Lucas,” she whispered. There was no answer.

“He has been like this for weeks now,” my grandfather said, “beyond hope.” There were tears in his eyes.

“Life is never beyond hope,” Ultima nodded.

“Ay,” my grandfather agreed. He straightened his stooped shoulders. “I have brought everything you ordered,” he nodded towards the small stove and pile of wood. There was clean linen on the chair next to the stove, and on the shelf there was water, atole meal, sugar, milk, kerosene, and other things. “The men have been instructed about the animals, the women in mourning have been sent away—I will wait outside the room, if you need anything I will be waiting—”

“There must be no interference,” Ultima said. She was already removing her shawl and rolling up her sleeves.

“I understand,” my grandfather said. “His life is in your hands.” He turned and walked out, closing the door after him.

“Antonio, make a fire,” Ultima commanded. She lit the kerosene lantern while I made the fire, then she burned some sweet incense. With the crackling warmth of the fire and the smell of purifying incense the room seemed less of a sepulchre. Outside the storm roared and dark night came.

We warmed water in a large basin, and Ultima bathed my uncle. He was like a rag doll in her hands. I felt great pity for my uncle. He was the youngest of my uncles, and I always remembered him full of life and bravado. Now his body was a thin skeleton held together by dry skin, and on his face was written the pain of the curse. At first the sight of him made me sick, but as I helped Ultima I forgot about that and I took courage.

“Will he live?” I asked her while she covered him with fresh sheets.

“They let him go too long,” she said, “it will be a difficult battle—”

“But why didn’t they call you sooner?” I asked.

“The church would not allow your grandfather to let me use my powers. The church was afraid that—” She did not finish, but I knew what she would have said. The priest at El Puerto did not want the people to place much faith in the powers of la curandera. He wanted the mercy and faith of the church to be the villagers’ only guiding light.

Would the magic of Ultima be stronger than all the powers of the saints and the Holy Mother Church? I wondered.