Bless Me, Ultima(56)

On the bed of the wagon rested the casket. It was a basket woven from pliant cottonwood branches, so that as the weight of the body inside shifted the coffin seemed to groan. A strong, rotting odor filled the air as the wagon passed by.

At the head of the procession rode Tenorio. He was dressed in black and sat humped on his saddle. He wore a dark, wide-brimmed hat pulled low to cover a black patch over his eye. His spirited horse pranced nervously and tossed its head from side to side.

The sky was blue and quiet. Our gazes followed the groaning wagon down the dusty street, past the saloon, to the front of the church. There the procession stopped and waited for the priest to appear. When he came out of the church Tenorio spoke to him and the priest answered. He held his arms out as if to bar entrance to the church and nodded his head. He was refusing the mass for the dead and holy burial in the campo santo. The air grew tense. There was no telling what Tenorio would do at this insult; everyone knew he was crazy enough to assault the priest.

But Tenorio was beaten. The entire village was witness to the excommunication. The priest’s refusal meant the church was taking its stand and that the evil ways of the Trementinas were known to all. Tenorio had not thought the priest would stand against him. For a long time there was silence, then Tenorio turned his horse and the procession came back down the street. He would have to bury his daughter in unholy ground, and without the saving grace of the mass her soul was doomed to perdition. But what hurt Tenorio most was that he would no longer be able to rally the townspeople around him; he would no longer be able to hold them through fear. If the priest, who had for so long been unwilling to condemn the Trementinas’ doings, had taken a stand then surely that would lend courage to the villagers.

The sisters slumped in the seat of the wagon as they passed by, and their mournful cries were as much for themselves as for the fate of their sister. They had tampered with a man’s fate and they now knew the consequences. Tenorio, too, leaned forward in his saddle. He had pulled his long, black coat around his thin body and huddled within it as if he hoped to escape the eyes of the villagers. Only when he passed in front of Ultima did he glance up, and in that swift glance his evil eye vowed his revenge on Ultima.

Everyone was subdued by what had occurred, but by afternoon the work of the harvest raised our spirits. Under the watchful eye of my grandfather the bounty of the fields and orchards was gathered. The loaded wagons moved between the fields and the village like ants scurrying to store their seeds. Green chile was roasted and set to dry. Red chile became huge ristras. The roofs of lean-tos were golden with slices of drying apples. The air was sweet with the aroma of boiling jellies and preserves and the laughter of the women. Corn was roasted to make chicos, blue corn was ground into meal, and the rest was stored for the animals.

Then as quietly as the green had slipped into the time of the river, the golden time of the harvest was completed. We had to return to Guadalupe. School was starting again.

“¡Adiós! ¡Adiós!” we called to one another. It was then my uncle Juan took my father and mother aside and whispered the desires of my uncles.

“Antonio has worked well,” he said stiffly. “He has the feel of the earth in his blood. We would be honored if you saw fit to allow him to spend a summer with us—the others,” he said, “did not choose our way of life. So be it. But if Antonio is to know our way, we must initiate him next summer—” The rest of my uncles nodded at this brief speech. My uncles were not men of many words.

“¡Oh, Gabriel!” my mother exclaimed, beaming with pride.

“We shall see,” my father said. And we left.





Catorce


¡Adiós, Antonioooooooo…”

“Adiós, mamá, adiós, Ultima,” I waved.

“You say the damnedest things,” Andrew laughed.

“Respect your teacher! Give my regards to Miss Maestas! Do not bring shame to our name.” My mother’s voice was distant now.

“Why?” I asked Andrew.

“I don’t know,” he answered as I followed his long strides up the goat path, “just the way you turn and wave goodbye to Grande and mamá—beats all.”

“I always turn and look back,” I said, falling into the measure of his walk. I was glad to be walking with him.

“Why?”

“I don’t know—sometimes I get the feeling that I will come home, and it will all be changed. It won’t be the same anymore—” I could not tell him that I wanted the castle of the giants to stand forever, that I wanted the goat path and the hill to be for always. But I had misgivings, I was beginning to learn that things wouldn’t always be the same.