Yes, I had stood by Ultima. And so had my father, and Narciso, and the owl. We would all have slashed out, like the owl, to protect Ultima. It was not easy to forgive men like Tenorio. Perhaps that is why God could not forgive; He was too much like man.
There was a great deal of excitement when we arrived at El Puerto. Of course everyone in the village knew what had happened to Tenorio, and all were waiting for him to return to bury his daughter. We knew the priest would not let her be buried in the holy ground of the campo santo next to the church. But harvest time was a time for work and not for mitote. My uncles were farmers, men who took their only truth from the earth, and so by early afternoon we were out in the fields and orchards and the most important thing became the harvest.
It was good too, because it allowed us to forget what we did not want to remember. We returned from the first day of harvest by the first light of the moon as it came through the portal formed by the black mesas. After a heavy supper we settled in the room of my uncle Mateo, because he was the storyteller. My mother and Ultima kept to themselves, tying the red chile into long, thick ristras. My aunts had been very cordial to Ultima. They treated her with respect because of what she had done for Lucas, but otherwise they kept their distance from her. I think Ultima liked it that way.
“Ay, it is a very bad thing what these Trementinas do,” my uncle Mateo whispered. He glanced down the hall, but my grandfather had already retired. My grandfather would not allow any talk of witchcraft in his presence.
“I talked to Porfirio Baca today,” my uncle Juan said, “and he said the two remaining sisters spent the day making her coffin.”
“Ah!” my uncle Mateo signaled us to listen. “They were gathering cottonwood branches and weaving a coffin. That proves she was a bruja! A bruja cannot be buried in a casket made of pine or piñón or cedar.”
“They say Tenorio returned today. He is blind in one eye.”
“Yes,” my uncle continued, “and tonight they will gather around the dead body and pray from their Black Book. Listen!”
We listened to the howl of the cold wind outside and could hear at intervals the bitter bark of a coyote. In the corral the penned animals milled nervously. Evil was in the autumn night air.
“They will burn sulfur instead of holy incense. They will sing and dance around her coffin, pulling at their hair and flesh. They will slay a rooster and spread his blood on their dead sister. Mark my word, when the Trementina bruja is brought in to church it will be in a basket woven of cottonwood branches, and her body will be smeared with blood—”
“But why do they do this?” someone whispered.
“For the devil,” my uncle answered. “They do it so that the devil himself will come and sleep with the corpse before it is buried—”
“¡Mateo!” one of my aunts cautioned him. She pointed at the children.
“It is true!” he said.
“But why then will they bring her to church?” my uncle Juan’s wife asked.
“Bah! Little do they care about church. That is only to keep up appearances,” my uncle smiled.
“How is it you know all this?” she scoffed.
“Why, my sweet Orotea told me,” he grinned and turned to his wife who sat beside him and patted her good-naturedly. She looked at him and nodded in agreement. We laughed because we all knew that Orotea, my uncle Mateo’s wife, had been deaf and dumb since birth.
Sleep came, and with it came my dream-fate which drew me to the witches’ Black Mass. I saw all, and it was exactly as my uncle had described it. Then my dream-fate drew me to the coffin. I peered in and to my horror I saw Ultima!
I must have cried in my sleep, because I felt someone pick me up, and after that I felt warm and was at peace. When I awoke it was light outside. The house, which was normally alive and full of creaking, clattering sounds, was still, like a grave. I jumped out of bed, dressed, and hurried outside. The people of the village lined the street. They talked in excited, hushed whispers and craned their necks to look down the dusty street towards the bridge. Then I heard the creaking sound of a heavy, horse-drawn wagon.
I spotted Ultima, standing alone on a rise of the ground beside the house. I ran to her and held her hand. She seemed oblivious to me. Her black shawl was drawn around her head and face so that only her eyes remained uncovered. She watched intently the funeral procession that came up the street towards the church. Everyone was quiet. The still morning air carried the creaking sound of the loaded wagon, and we could hear the snorting mules and the squeaking of their harnesses as they tugged and pulled the wagon carrying the body of the dead woman. On the seat of the wagon sat two thin women dressed in black. Black veils covered their faces, and as they passed in front of Ultima they turned away.