“He will be well,” Ultima said. She handed me the bowl of blue atole. I ate but I could not hold the food down at first. I gagged and Ultima held a cloth before me into which I vomited a poisonous green bile. My nose and eyes burned when I threw up but I felt better.
“Will I be all right?” I asked as she cleaned away the mess.
“Yes,” she smiled. She threw the dirty rags in a gunnysack at the far end of the room. “Try again,” she said. I did and this time I did not vomit. The atole and the bread were good. I ate and felt renewed.
“Is there anything you want me to do?” I asked after I had eaten.
“Just rest,” she said, “our work here is almost done—”
It was at that moment that my uncle sat up in bed. It was a fearful sight and one I never want to see again. It was like seeing a dead person rise, for the white sheet was wet with sweat and it clung to his thin body. He screamed the tortured cry of an animal in pain.
“Ai-eeeeeeeeeee!” The cry tore through contorted lips that dripped with frothy saliva. His eyes opened wide in their dark pits, and his thin, skeletal arms flailed the air before him as if he were striking at the furies of hell.
“Au-ggggggggh! Ai-eeee!” He cried in pain. Ultima was immediately at his side, holding him so that he would not tumble from the bed. His body convulsed with the spasms of a madman, and his face contorted with pain.
“Let the evil come out!” Ultima cried in his ear.
“¡Dios mío!” were his first words, and with those words the evil was wrenched from his interior. Green bile poured from his mouth, and finally he vomited a huge ball of hair. It fell to the floor, hot and steaming and wiggling like live snakes.
It was his hair with which they had worked the evil!
“Ay!” Ultima cried triumphantly and with clean linen she swept up the evil, living ball of hair. “This will be burned, by the tree where the witches dance—” she sang and swiftly put the evil load into the sack. She tied the sack securely and then came back to my uncle. He was holding the side of the bed, his thin fingers clutching the wood tightly as if he were afraid to slip back into the evil spell. He was very weak and sweating, but he was well. I could see in his eyes that he knew he was a man again, a man returned from a living hell.
Ultima helped him lie down. She washed him and then fed him his first meal in weeks. He ate like a starved animal. He vomited once, but that was only because his stomach had been so empty and so sick. I could only watch from where I sat.
After that my uncle slept, and Ultima readied her things for departure. Our work was done. When she was ready she went to the door and called my grandfather.
“Your son lives, old man,” she said. She undid her rolled sleeves and buttoned them.
My grandfather bowed his head. “May I send the word to those who wait?” he asked.
“Of course,” Ultima nodded. “We are ready to leave.”
“Pedro!” my grandfather called. Then my grandfather came into the room. He walked towards the bed cautiously, as if he were not sure what to expect.
Lucas moaned and opened his eyes. “Papá,” he said. My grandfather gathered his son in his arms and cried. “Thanks be to God!”
Aunts and uncles and cousins began to fill the house, and there was a great deal of excitement. The story of the cure spread quickly through El Puerto. My uncles began to pour into the room to greet their brother. I looked at Ultima and knew that she wanted to get out of the commotion as quickly as possible.
“Do not tire him too much at first,” Ultima said. She looked at Lucas, who gazed around with curious but happy eyes.
“Gracias por mi vida,” he said to Ultima. Then all my uncles stood and said gracias. My grandfather stepped forward and handed Ultima the purse of silver which was required by custom.
“I can never repay you for returning my son from death,” he said.
Ultima took the purse. “Perhaps someday the men of El Puerto will save my life—” she answered. “Come Antonio,” she motioned. She clutched her black bag and the gunnysack that had to be burned. We pressed through the curious, anxious crowd and they parted to let us pass.
“¡La curandera!” someone exclaimed. Some women bowed their heads, others made the sign of the cross. “Es una mujer que no ha pecado,” another whispered. “Hechicera.” “Bruja—”
“No!” one of my aunts contested the last word. She knelt by Ultima’s path and touched the hem of her dress as she passed by.
“Es sin pecado,” was the last I heard, then we were outside. My uncle Pedro led us to his truck.