Bless Me, Ultima(49)

Ultima and I continued to search for plants and roots in the hills. I felt more attached to Ultima than to my own mother. Ultima told me the stories and legends of my ancestors. From her I learned the glory and the tragedy of the history of my people, and I came to understand how that history stirred in my blood.

I spent most of the long summer evenings in her room. We talked, stored the dry herbs, or played cards. One night I asked her about the three dolls on her shelf. The dolls were made of clay and shellacked with candle wax. They were clothed, and lifelike in appearance.

“They look familiar,” I thought to myself.

“Do not touch them,” she said. There were many things in Ultima’s room that I instinctively knew I should not touch, but I could not understand why she was so blunt about the dolls.

“One of them must have been left in the sun,” I said. I looked closely at one doll that sagged and bent over. The clay face seemed to be twisted with pain.

“Come here!” Ultima called me away from the dolls. I went and stood before her. Her clear stare fixed me to the spot and made me forget the dolls. “Do you know the man Tenorio?” she asked.

“Yes. He is the man who threatened you at El Puerto when we went to cure my uncle Lucas.”

“He is a wicked man,” she said. “When you are out alone, fishing along the river, if you see this man Antonio, you are to keep away from him. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I nodded. She spoke very calmly and so I was not frightened.

“You are a good boy. Now come here. I have something for you.” She took her scapular from around her neck. “Next spring you will start your catechism, and when you make your first communion   you will receive your scapular. It will protect you from all evil. In the meantime, I want you to wear mine—” She took the thin string and placed it around my neck. I had seen my sisters’ scapulars and knew that the bit of cloth at the end had a picture of the Virgin or St. Joseph on it, but this scapular held a small, flattened pouch. I smelled it and its fragrance was sweet.

“A small pouch of helpful herbs,” Ultima smiled, “I have had that since I was a child. It will keep you safe.”

“But what will you use?” I asked.

“Bah,” she laughed, “I have many ways to keep me safe—Now promise you will tell no one about this.” She tucked the scapular under my shirt.

“I promise,” I answered.

Another thing I did that summer was to confirm Cico’s story. I followed the line of water Cico said was drawn around the town, and it was true, the entire town was surrounded by water! Of course I did not go to the Hidden Lakes but I could see the obvious truth nevertheless. The town was ringed by the river, the creek, the lakes, and numerous other springs. I waited many an afternoon to catch sight of the beautiful golden carp as it swam by, and while I waited in the sun I pondered over his legend.

And there were good times too, gay times before the awful storm that broke over our house. When the people of Las Pasturas came to town for supplies, they always came to visit with my parents. When they came my father was happy, not only because they were his people, but because they were a happy people. They were always laughing, and the men’s eyes were always bright with the sting of whiskey. Their talk was loud and excited, and there was a song in it. They even smelled different from the people of the town, or my uncles from El Puerto. My uncles were quiet and the odor around them was deep and quiet, like damp earth. The people from Las Pasturas were like the wind, and the fragrances they carried on their clothing shifted as the wind shifted.

The people from Las Pasturas always had stories to tell about the places where they had worked. Sometimes they talked about picking cotton in east Texas and about running whiskey into the cottonfields of dry counties. Sometimes they talked about picking broom corn, and as they talked and laughed I could see the rows of green broom corn and I could smell the sweet scent it left in their sweaty workclothes. Or they would speak about the potato fields of Colorado, and the tragedy that befell them there. They left a son in the dark earth of Colorado, crushed into the tilled earth by a spilled tractor. And then, even the grown men cried, but it was all right to cry, because it was fitting to grieve the death of a son.

But always the talk would return to stories of the old days in Las Pasturas. Always the talk turned to life on the llano. The first pioneers there were sheepherders. Then they imported herds of cattle from Mexico and became vaqueros. They became horsemen, caballeros, men whose daily life was wrapped up in the ritual of horsemanship. They were the first cowboys in a wild and desolate land which they took from the Indians.