All of August I worked in the fields and orchards. I worked alongside my uncles and cousins and their companionship was good. Of course I missed my mother and Ultima, and sometimes the long, gray evenings were sad, but I learned to be at ease in the silence of my uncles, a silence steeped as deep as a child’s. I watched closely how they worked the earth, the respect they showed it, and the way they cared for living plants. Only Ultima equaled them in respect for the life in the plant. Never once did I witness any disharmony between one of my uncles and the earth and work of the valley. Their silence was the language of the earth.
After a hard day’s work and supper we sat out in the open night air and listened to stories. A fire would be lit and dried cow dung put in to burn. Its smoke kept the mosquitoes away. They told stories and talked about their work, and they looked into the spermy-starred sky and talked about the heavens, and the rule of the moon. I learned that the phases of the moon ruled not only the planting but almost every part of their lives. That is why they were the Lunas! They would not castrate or shear animals unless the moon was right, and they would not gather crops or save next year’s seeds unless the moon dictated. And the moon was kind to them. Each night it filled the valley with her soft light and lighted a way for the solitary man standing in his field, listening to the plants sleep, listening to the resting earth.
The bad dreams which had plagued me did not come, and I grew strong with the work and good food. I learned much from those men who were as dark and quiet as the earth of the valley, and what I learned made me stronger inside. I knew that the future was uncertain and I did not yet know if I could follow in their footsteps and till the earth forever, but I did know that if I chose that life that it would be good. Sometimes when I look back on that summer I think that it was the last summer I was truly a child.
My uncles were pleased with my progress. They were not men who were free with their compliments, but because I was the first of their sister’s sons who had come to learn their ways they were happy. It was the last week of my stay, school was almost upon me again, when my uncle Pedro came to speak to me.
“A letter from your mother,” he said waving the open letter. He came to where I stood directing the waters of the acequia down the rows of corn. He handed me the letter and as I read he told me what it said. “They will come in a few days—”
“Yes,” I nodded. It was strange, always I made the trip with them and now I would be here to greet them as they arrived. I would be glad to see them.
“School starts early this year,” he said and leaned against the apple tree by the water ditch.
“It always comes early,” I said and put the folded letter in my pocket.
“Your mother says you do well in school. You like school—”
“Yes,” I answered, “I like it.”
“That is good,” he said, “a man of learning can go far in this world, he can be anything—It makes your mother very proud, and,” he looked down at the earth beneath his feet and as was their custom caressed it with his boot, “it makes us proud. It has been a long time since there was an educated Luna, a man of the people,” he nodded and pondered.
“I am Márez,” I answered. I did not know why I said it, but it surprised him a little.
“Wha—” Then he smiled. “That is right, you are Márez first, then Luna. Well, you will be leaving us in a few days, going back to your studies, as it should be. We are pleased with your work, Antonio, all of your uncles are pleased. It has been good for us to have one of María’s sons work with us. We want you to know that there will always be a place here for you. You must choose what you will do as a grown man, but if you ever decide to become a farmer you will be welcomed here. This earth that was your mother’s will be yours—”
I wanted to thank him, but as I started to respond my uncle Juan came hurrying towards us. My uncle Juan never hurried anywhere and so we turned our attention to him, knowing something important must have happened. When he saw me with my uncle he stopped and motioned.
“Pedro, may I see you a minute!” he called excitedly.
“What is it, brother Juan?” my uncle Pedro asked.
“Trouble!” my uncle Juan whispered hoarsely, but his voice carried and I could hear, “trouble in town! Tenorio’s daughter, the one who has been sick and wasting away, death has come for her!”
“But when?” my uncle asked, and he turned and looked at me.
“I guess it happened just after we came to the fields. I heard it just now from Esquivel. I met him on the bridge. He says the town is in an uproar—”