Bless Me, Ultima

by Rudolfo Anaya

  “¡Ay!” I heard my mother cry and saw her cross her forehead.

  La campana de la iglesia está doblando…

  The church bell tolled and drew to it the widows in black, the lonely, faithful women who came to pray for their men.

  Arrímense vivos y difuntos

  Aquí estamos todos juntos…

  The church rose up from the dust of the road, huge brown granite blocks rose skyward to hold the bell tower and the cross of Christ. It was the biggest building I had ever seen in all my life. Now the people gathered at its doors like ants, asking questions and passing on rumors about what happened last night. My father went to talk to the men, but my mother and Ultima stood apart with the women with whom they exchanged formal greetings. I went around the side of the church where I knew the boys from town hung around until mass began.

  Most of the kids were older than I. They were in the second or third grade at school. I knew most of them by name, not because I talked with them, but because after many Sundays of observing them I had learned who they were and a little bit about their characteristics. I knew that when I went to school in the fall I would get to know them well. I was only sad because they would be a year ahead of me and I already felt close to them.

  “My ole man saw Lupito do it!” Ernie pointed his thumb in Able’s face. I knew Ernie liked to brag.

  “Bullshit!” Horse cried out. They called him Horse because his face looked like the face of a horse, and he was always stomping at the ground.

  “¡Chingada! Dah bastard neber have a chance! Pugggggh!” Bones exploded like a pistol. He grabbed the top of his head and toppled on the dust of the street. His eyes rolled wildly. Bones was even crazier than Horse.

  “I went to the river this morning,” Samuel said softly. “There was blood on the sand—” No one heard him. I knew he lived across the river like I did, but he lived upriver where there were a few houses just past the railroad bridge.

  “I’ll race you! I’ll race you!” The Vitamin Kid pawed nervously at the ground. I never knew his real name, everyone just called him the Vitamin Kid, even the teachers at school. He could run, oh how he could run! Not even Bones in high gear or Horse at full gallop could outrun the Vitamin Kid. He was like the wind.

  “Bullshit!” Horse cleared his throat and let fly a frog. Then Florence cleared his throat and spit a nice wad that beat Horse’s by five feet at least.

  “Heh. He beat you, damn he beat you,” Abel laughed. Abel was very small, even smaller than I, and he should never have teased Horse. If there was one thing Horse loved to do, that was to wrestle. His long arms reached out, caught Abel before he could move away, and flipped him easily into the air. Abel landed hard on the ground.

  “Cabrón,” he whimpered.

  “Did he beat me?” Horse asked as he stood over Abel.

  “No,” Abel cried. He got up slowly, faking a broken leg, then when he was out of Horse’s reach he called, “He beat you, fucker, he beat you! Yah-yah-ya-yah!”

  “My ole man was right in the cafe when it happened,” Ernie continued. Ernie always wanted to be the center of interest. “He said Lupito just walked in real slow, walked up right behind the sheriff who was biting into a piece of cherry pie, put the pistol to the back of the sheriff’s head—”

  “Bullshit!” Horse neighed loudly. “Hey, Florence, top this one!” Again he cleared his throat and spit.

  “Nah,” Florence grinned. He was tall and thin, with curly blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. I had never seen anyone like him, so white and speaking Spanish. He reminded me of one of the golden angel heads with wings that hovered at the feet of the Virgin in her pictures.

  “Cherry pie? Aghhhhhh!”

  “—And there were brains and blood all over the damned place. On the table, on the floor, even on the ceiling, and his eyes were open as he fell, and before he hit the floor Lupito was out the door—”

  “Bullshit.” “Damn.” “¡Chingada!”

  “He’ll go to hell,” Lloyd said in his girl’s voice. “It’s the law that he go to hell for what he did.”

  “Everybody from Los Jaros goes to hell,” Florence laughed. Los Jaros was what they called the neighborhood across the tracks, and Horse and Bones and Abel and Florence were from there.

  “You’re going to hell, Florence, because you don’t believe in God!” Horse shouted.

  “Los vatos de Los Jaros are tough!” Bones gurgled. He wiped his thumbs on his nose and a green snot dangled there.

  “Damn.” “Chingada.”

  “Come on Florence, let’s wrestle,” Horse said. He was still angry about the spitting contest.

  “You can’t wrestle before mass, it’s a sin,” Lloyd cut in.

  “Bullshit,” Horse said and he turned to pounce on Lloyd, but as he did he saw me for the first time. He looked at me for a long time then he called me. “Hey kid, come here.”

  They watched me with interest as I walked towards the Horse. I did not want to wrestle with Horse; he was tougher and bigger than I. But my father had often said that a man of the llano does not run from a fight.

  “Who’z dat?” “Don’t know.” “Chingada.”

  The Horse reached for my neck, but I knew about his favorite trick and ducked. I went low and came up yanking at his left leg. With a hard pull I flipped the Horse on his back.

  “¡Hiii-jo-lah!” “¡Ah la veca!” “Did’jew see that, the kid threw the Horse!” Everyone laughed at Horse in the dust.

  He got up slowly, his wild eyes never leaving me; he wiped the seat of his pants and came towards me. I braced myself and stood my ground. I knew I was in for a whipping. The Horse came up to me very slowly until his face was close to mine. His dark, wild eyes held me hypnotically, and I could hear the deep sounds a horse makes inside his chest when he is ready to buck. Saliva curled around the edges of his mouth and spittle threads hung down and glistened like spider threads in the sun. He chomped his teeth and I could smell his bad breath.

  I thought the Horse was going to rear up and paw and stomp me into the ground, and I guess the other kids did too because they were very quiet. But instead of attacking me the Horse let out a wild, shocking cry that sent me reeling backward.

  “Whaggggggggh!” He brayed. “The little runt actually threw me, he threw me?” He laughed. “What’s your name, kid?”

  The other kids breathed easier. The Horse was not going to commit murder.

  “Anthony Márez,” I replied, “Antonio Juan Márez y Luna,” I added in respect to my mother.

  “Damn.” “Chingada.”

  “Hey, you Andrew’s brother?” Horse asked. I nodded yes, “Well, put ’er there—” I shook my head no. I knew that Horse couldn’t resist throwing anyone who held out his hand. It was just his nature.

  “Smart kid,” Bones laughed.

  “Shut up!” Horse glared at him. “Okay, kid, I mean Anthony, you are a smart kid. The last guy that threw me was a big fifth grader, you hear—”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said. Everyone laughed.

  “I know you didn’t,” Horse smiled, “and you’re too small to fight. That’s why I’m going to let you get away with it. But don’t think you can do it again, understand!” The message was as much for me as for the rest of the gang, because we all nodded.

  They all gathered around me and asked me where I lived and about school. They were good friends, even though they sometimes said bad words, and that day I became a part of their gang.

  Then Abel, who had been pissing against the church wall, called out that mass was starting and we all rushed to get the premium pews at the very back of the church.

  Cuatro

  There is a time in the last few days of summer when the ripeness of autumn fills the air, and time is quiet and mellow. I lived that time fully, strangely aware of a new world opening up and taking shape for me. In the mornings, before it was too hot, Ultima and I walked in the hills of the llano, gathering the wild herbs and roots for her medicines. We roamed
the entire countryside and up and down the river. I carried a small shovel with which to dig, and she carried a gunnysack in which to gather our magic harvest.

  “¡Ay!” she would cry when she spotted a plant or root she needed, “what luck we are in today to find la yerba del manso!”

  Then she would lead me to the plant her owl-eyes had found and ask me to observe where the plant grew and how its leaves looked. “Now touch it,” she would say. The leaves were smooth and light green.

  For Ultima, even the plants had a spirit, and before I dug she made me speak to the plant and tell it why we pulled it from its home in the earth. “You that grow well here in the arroyo by the dampness of the river, we lift you to make good medicine,” Ultima intoned softly and I found myself repeating after her. Then I would carefully dig out the plant, taking care not to let the steel of the shovel touch the tender roots. Of all the plants we gathered none was endowed with so much magic as the yerba del manso. It could cure burns, sores, piles, colic in babies, bleeding dysentery and even rheumatism. I knew this plant from long ago because my mother, who was surely not a curandera, often used it.

  Ultima’s soft hands would carefully lift the plant and examine it. She would take a pinch and taste its quality. Then she took the same pinch and put it into a little black bag tied to a sash around her waist. She told me that the dry contents of the bag contained a pinch of every plant she had ever gathered since she began her training as a curandera many years ago.

  “Long ago,” she would smile, “long before you were a dream, long before the train came to Las Pasturas, before the Lunas came to their valley, before the great Coronado built his bridge—” Then her voice would trail off and my thoughts would be lost in the labyrinth of a time and history I did not know.

  We wandered on and found some orégano, and we gathered plenty because this was not only a cure for coughs and fever but a spice my mother used for beans and meat. We were also lucky to find some oshá, because this plant grows better in the mountains. It is like la yerba del manso, a cure for everything. It cures coughs or colds, cuts and bruises, rheumatism and stomach troubles, and my father once said the old sheepherders used it to keep poisonous snakes away from their bedrolls by sprinkling them with oshá powder. It was with a mixture of oshá that Ultima washed my face and arms and feet the night Lupito was killed.

  In the hills Ultima was happy. There was a nobility to her walk that lent a grace to the small figure. I watched her carefully and imitated her walk, and when I did I found that I was no longer lost in the enormous landscape of hills and sky. I was a very important part of the teeming life of the llano and the river.

  “¡Mira! Qué suerte, tunas,” Ultima cried with joy and pointed to the ripe-red prickly pears of the nopal. “Run and gather some and we will eat them in the shade by the river.” I ran to the cactus and gathered a shovelful of the succulent, seedy pears. Then we sat in the shade of the álamos of the river and peeled the tunas very carefully because even on their skin they have fuzz spots that make your fingers and tongue itch. We sat and ate and felt refreshed.

  The river was silent and brooding. The presence was watching over us. I wondered about Lupito’s soul.

  “It is almost time to go to my uncles’ farms in El Puerto and gather the harvest,” I said.

  “Ay,” Ultima nodded and looked to the south.

  “Do you know my uncles, the Lunas?” I asked.

  “Of course, child,” she replied, “your grandfather and I are old friends. I know his sons. I lived in El Puerto, many years ago—”

  “Ultima,” I asked, “why are they so strange and quiet? And why are my father’s people so loud and wild?”

  She answered. “It is the blood of the Lunas to be quiet, for only a quiet man can learn the secrets of the earth that are necessary for planting—They are quiet like the moon—And it is the blood of the Márez to be wild, like the ocean from which they take their name, and the spaces of the llano that have become their home.”

  I waited, then said. “Now we have come to live near the river, and yet near the llano. I love them both, and yet I am of neither. I wonder which life I will choose?”

  “Ay, hijito,” she chuckled, “do not trouble yourself with those thoughts. You have plenty of time to find yourself—”

  “But I am growing,” I said, “every day I grow older—”

  “True,” she replied softly. She understood that as I grew I would have to choose to be my mother’s priest or my father’s son.

  We were silent for a long time, lost in memories that the murmur of the morning wind carried across the treetops. Cotton from the trees drifted lazily in the heavy air. The silence spoke, not with harsh sounds, but softly to the rhythm of our blood.

  “What is it?” I asked, for I was still afraid.

  “It is the presence of the river,” Ultima answered.

  I held my breath and looked at the giant, gnarled cottonwood trees that surrounded us. Somewhere a bird cried, and up on the hill the tinkling sound of a cowbell rang. The presence was immense, lifeless, yet throbbing with its secret message.

  “Can it speak?” I asked and drew closer to Ultima.

  “If you listen carefully—” she whispered.

  “Can you speak to it?” I asked as the whirling, haunting sound touched us.

  “Ay, my child,” Ultima smiled and touched my head, “you want to know so much—”

  And the presence was gone.

  “Come, it is time to start homeward.” She rose and with the sack over her shoulder hobbled up the hill. I followed. I knew that if she did not answer my question that that part of life was not yet ready to reveal itself to me. But I was no longer afraid of the presence of the river.

  We circled homeward. On the way back we found some manzanilla. Ultima told me that when my brother León was born that his mollera was sunken in, and that she had cured him with manzanilla.

  She spoke to me of the common herbs and medicines we shared with the Indians of the Rio del Norte. She spoke of the ancient medicines of other tribes, the Aztecas, Mayas, and even of those in the old, old country, the Moors. But I did not listen, I was thinking of my brothers León, and Andrew, and Eugene.

  When we arrived home we put the plants on the roof of the chicken shed to dry in the white sun. I placed small rocks on them so the wind wouldn’t blow them away. There were some plants that Ultima could not obtain on the llano or the river, but many people came to seek cures from her and they brought in exchange other herbs and roots. Especially prized were those plants that were from the mountains.

  When we had finished we went in to eat. The hot beans flavored with chicos and green chile were muy sabrosos. I was so hungry that I ate three whole tortillas. My mother was a good cook and we were happy as we ate. Ultima told her of the orégano we found and that pleased her.

  “The time of the harvest is here,” she said, “it is time to go to my brothers’ farms. Juan has sent word that they are expecting us.”

  Every autumn we made a pilgrimage to El Puerto where my grandfather and uncles lived. There we helped gather the harvest and brought my mother’s share home with us.

  “He says there is much corn, and ay, such sweet corn my brothers raise!” she went on. “And there is plenty of red chile for making ristras, and fruit, ay! The apples of the Lunas are known throughout the state!” My mother was very proud of her brothers, and when she started talking she went on and on. Ultima nodded courteously, but I slipped out of the kitchen.

  The day was warm at noonday, not lazy and droning like July but mellow with late August. I went to Jasón’s house and we played together all afternoon. We talked about Lupito’s death, but I did not tell Jasón what I had seen. Then I went to the river and cut the tall, green alfalfa that grew wild and carried the bundle home so that I would have a few days of food laid in for the rabbits.

  Late in the afternoon my father came whistling up the goat path, striding home from the flaming-orange sun, and we ran to meet him. �
��Cabritos!” he called. “Cabroncitos!” And he swung Theresa and Deborah on his shoulders while I walked beside him carrying his lunch pail.

  After supper we always prayed the rosary. The dishes were quickly done then we gathered in the sala where my mother kept her altar. My mother had a beautiful statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe. It was nearly two feet high. She was dressed in a long, flowing blue gown, and she stood on the horned moon. About her feet were the winged heads of angels, the babes of Limbo. She wore a crown on her head because she was the queen of heaven. There was no one I loved more than the Virgin.

  We all knew the story of how the Virgin had presented herself to the little Indian boy in Mexico and about the miracles she had wrought. My mother said the Virgin was the saint of our land, and although there were many other good saints, I loved none as dearly as the Virgin. It was hard to say the rosary because you had to kneel for as long as the prayers lasted, but I did not mind because while my mother prayed I fastened my eyes on the statue of the Virgin until I thought that I was looking at a real person, the mother of God, the last relief of all sinners.

  God was not always forgiving. He made laws to follow and if you broke them you were punished. The Virgin always forgave.

  God had power. He spoke and the thunder echoed through the skies.

  The Virgin was full of a quiet, peaceful love.

  My mother lit the candles for the brown madonna and we knelt. “I believe in God the Father Almighty—” she began.

  He created you. He could strike you dead. God moved the hands that killed Lupito.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace—”

  But He was a giant man, and she was a woman. She could go to Him and ask Him to forgive you. Her voice was sweet and gentle and with the help of her Son they could persuade the powerful Father to change His mind.

  On one of the Virgin’s feet there was a place where the plaster had chipped and exposed the pure-white plaster. Her soul was without blemish. She had been born without sin. The rest of us were born steeped in sin, the sin of our fathers that Baptism and Confirmation began to wash away. But it was not until communion—it was not until we finally took God into our mouth and swallowed Him—that we were free of that sin and free of the punishment of hell.