Bless Me, Ultima(8)

And I was happy with Ultima. We walked together in the llano and along the river banks to gather herbs and roots for her medicines. She taught me the names of plants and flowers, of trees and bushes, of birds and animals; but most important, I learned from her that there was a beauty in the time of day and in the time of night, and that there was peace in the river and in the hills. She taught me to listen to the mystery of the groaning earth and to feel complete in the fulfillment of its time. My soul grew under her careful guidance.

I had been afraid of the awful presence of the river, which was the soul of the river, but through her I learned that my spirit shared in the spirit of all things. But the innocence which our isolation sheltered could not last forever, and the affairs of the town began to reach across our bridge and enter my life. Ultima’s owl gave the warning that the time of peace on our hill was drawing to an end.

It was Saturday night. My mother had laid out our clean clothes for Sunday mass, and we had gone to bed early because we always went to early mass. The house was quiet, and I was in the mist of some dream when I heard the owl cry its warning. I was up instantly, looking through the small window at the dark figure that ran madly towards the house. He hurled himself at the door and began pounding.

“¡Márez!” he shouted, “¡Márez! ¡Andale, hombre!”

I was frightened, but I recognized the voice. It was Jasón’s father.

“¡Un momento!” I heard my father call. He fumbled with the farol.

“¡Andale, hombre, andale!” Chávez cried pitifully. “Mataron a mi hermano—”

“Ya vengo—” My father opened the door and the frightened man burst in. In the kitchen I heard my mother moan, “Ave María Purísima, mis hijos—” She had not heard Chávez’ last words, and so she assumed the aviso was one that brought bad news about her sons.

“Chávez, ¿qué pasa?” My father held the trembling man.

“¡Mi hermano, mi hermano!” Chávez sobbed. “He has killed my brother!”

“¿Pero qué dices, hombre?” my father exclaimed. He pulled Chávez into the hall and held up the farol. The light cast by the farol revealed the wild, frightened eyes of Chávez.

“¡Gabriel!” my mother cried and came forward, but my father pushed her back. He did not want her to see the monstrous mask of fear on the man’s face.

“It is not our sons, it is something in town—get him some water.”

“Lo mató, lo mató—” Chávez repeated.

“Get hold of yourself, hombre, tell me what has happened!” My father shook Chávez and the man’s sobbing subsided. He took the glass of water and drank, then he could talk.

“Reynaldo has just brought the news, my brother is dead,” he sighed and slumped against the wall. Chávez’ brother was the sheriff of the town. The man would have fallen if my father had not held him up.

“¡Madre de Dios! Who? How?”

“¡Lupito!” Chávez cried out. His face corded with thick veins. For the first time his left arm came up and I saw the rifle he held.

“Jesús, María y José,” my mother prayed.

My father groaned and slumped against the wall. “Ay que Lupito,” he shook his head, “the war made him crazy—”

Chávez regained part of his composure. “Get your rifle, we must go to the bridge—”

“The bridge?”

“Reynaldo said to meet him there—The crazy bastard has taken to the river—”

My father nodded silently. He went to the bedroom and returned with his coat. While he loaded his rifle in the kitchen Chávez related what he knew.

“My brother had just finished his rounds,” he gasped, “he was at the bus depot cafe, having coffee, sitting without a care in the world—and the bastard came up to where he sat and without warning shot him in the head—” His body shook as he retold the story.

“Perhaps it is better if you wait here, hombre,” my father said with consolation.

“No!” Chávez shouted. “I must go. He was my brother!”

My father nodded. I saw him stand beside Chávez and put his arm around his shoulders. Now he too was armed. I had only seen him shoot the rifle when we slaughtered pigs in the fall. Now they were going armed for a man.

“Gabriel, be careful,” my mother called as my father and Chávez slipped out into the dark.

“Sí,” I heard him answer, then the screen door banged. “Keep the doors locked—” My mother went to the door and shut the latch. We never locked our doors, but tonight there was something strange and fearful in the air.