Bless Me, Ultima(91)

“We stack the devil’s work in the corral,” Téllez said. “This is the third time the rocks have fallen—”

“But from where,” my father cried, “and how?” Téllez only shrugged. “You have searched around the house, into the hills?” Téllez nodded. “My God!” my father shivered.

“It is the work of the devil, I tell you,” Téllez murmured.

Ultima, who had stood quietly by us, answered. “It is the work of man,” she said. “But let us not waste time while the spirits grow stronger. Gabriel, I want you to erect a platform here.” She pointed to the ground and marked four spots. “Make the holes there. Use some of those cedar posts in the corral, make it this high.” She held her hand above her head. “Place many juniper branches on the platform. Cut many branches because we may have to burn a long time. Have Antonio cut them, he understands the power in the tree—” Then she turned and herded the family back into the house. After that we did not see her for a long time.

My father found an axe in the tool shed and gave it to me. I went into the hills and began cutting juniper branches. Where possible I took dead dry branches because Ultima had said we would be burning them, but when I had to cut into a live tree I first talked to the tree and asked it for its medicine, as Ultima had instructed me to do with every living plant. I dragged the branches to where my father worked on the platform. He dug four holes and placed the cedar posts in them. “Notice,” he said, “it is not square but long, as if it could hold a coffin.” With wire he securely tied some rafters across the top of the posts then we put the juniper branch roof on the platform. When we were done we rested, and looked at the altar that we had erected.

The day was very long. We had not brought food and so the only thing we had was water from the well, which tasted brackish. “That is why they call these the ranches of the Agua Negra,” my father explained. I wondered if the water which flowed beneath this earth connected to the waters beneath our town, the waters of the golden carp.

“Strange that there are no animals around the ranch,” my father said. “The animals sense this bad business and stay clear of it—just as we have stayed clear of those evil rocks.” He pointed to the pile of rocks in the corral. “What we have seen today is incredible,” he finished.

“It is good that we have Ultima to explain it,” I told him, and he only shrugged. We waited. A strange singing, a low chanting song emanated from the house all day long. Finally, at dusk when the nightjars and bats began to fly and the setting sun had passed from orange to gray, Ultima came through the front door of the house. She carried what appeared to be three bundles, and she stepped to the platform quickly.

“You have done well,” she said and placed the three bundles at the foot of the platform. “Place the bundles on the platform and set fire to it,” she commanded and stepped back. My father was surprised when he picked up the first bundle and found it heavy. Ultima had carried the three lightly but he had to strain to lift them up on the platform. There was another strange thing about Ultima as she stood with her arms crossed, quietly watching my father work. The way she stood, the bright sash around her waist, and the two glossy braids falling over her shoulders made me feel that she had performed this ceremony in some distant past.

My father picked up a dry brush of yerba de la vívora and striking a match to it he used it as a torch to set fire to the platform. The fire sputtered at first, but as it found the drier branches it hissed and crackled then whooshed up in a ball of yellow fire. The fragrance of the dry bush had been sharp and tangy, but as the green branches caught fire the sweet, spermy smell of the evergreen filled the air.

“Continue feeding the fire until I return,” Ultima commanded, and she turned and walked back to the house. We piled branches beneath the platform and kept it burning. Soon even the cedar posts were burning. Their popping sound and their sweet scent filled the night air. Somehow the fire seemed to dispel the brooding mystery we had felt since the shower of rocks.

“What is it we burn?” I asked my father as we watched the inferno envelop the bundles.

“I don’t know,” my father answered, “it is all so strange. My father once told me a story about the early comancheros on this llano, and what they learned from the Indians about their burial ceremony. They did not bury their dead the way we do, but they made a platform like this one and cremated the body. It was part of their way of life—”

He paused and I asked, “Are these the—” but before I could finish he said, “I don’t know, but if it will help Téllez be rid of these ungodly things who are we to question old ways—”