The mythology of such beasts was described by Sir James George Frazer in his massive nineteenth-century magnum opus, The Golden Bough, one of my father’s favorite and most closely studied works. Frazer described the golden fleece of the sacred ram sacrificed to Zeus, given by Phrixus to his wife’s father and nailed to an oak tree, where it was guarded by a dragon that never slept. In Beowulf, also read by my father, a ferocious fire dragon occupied a lair under the cliffs at the edge of the sea, guarding a great treasure hoard.
This theme would later become central to Frank Herbert’s Dune, a world in which massive, fire-breathing sandworms guarded the greatest treasure in the universe, the spice melange. As in The Dragon in the Sea, the treasure was beneath the surface of a planet.
Oil and melange were alike, because whoever controlled the precious limited resource controlled the known universe, as described in each novel.
There were no banks in Tlalpujahua, so we banked in El Oro, seven miles away by dirt road. This was fitting, since El Oro meant “The Gold.” We also did some of our shopping there, particularly for medicines, which were in short supply in Tlalpujahua.
Many times Mom went to El Oro alone on the second-class bus while Dad stayed home and wrote. The bus passengers frequently carried live chickens or turkeys onboard, and even pigs, going to or from the market. In her travel journal, my mother described what the front of the passenger compartment looked like from the inside:
The bus was loaded, but a comparatively elegant 50 year old specimen. Above the driver’s head were decals of bombers, pictures of the virgin, and a painted replica of a sway curtain on the top of the windshield (imitation of purple plush with gold fringe).
To that I would add my own memory of Mexican bus drivers, who had an unnerving habit of crossing themselves in the Catholic way, touching their forehead and each shoulder, and then pressing the accelerator pedal all the way to the floorboard, as if the fate of the bus and passengers depended solely upon the will of God and not upon the skill of the driver.
On a regular basis at our house, my parents conducted an English class for local adults. The brightest student was twenty-one-year-old Jose (“Pepe”) Muñoz, who was fast becoming a close friend of our family. Pepe wore white tee shirts and stood around 5'7". A muscular man, he had long black hair and a round, Tarascan Indian face. He smiled often and easily, had a pleasant manner and a good sense of humor. Like many people in town, he was “muy catolico” (very Catholic). A master woodworker, he was exceedingly honest in a number of financial dealings with my parents.
I spent a good deal of my time playing marbles in the streets, and was outdoors so much that townspeople referred to me as “El Vago de los Calles” (“The Tramp of the Streets”). The friends I made were not to my mother’s liking. Her journal entry of November 9, 1955, reported:
This morning the tailor stopped Frank to tell him that the kids Brian is playing with are very grosero* and are teaching him horrible words in Spanish which he shouts at the top of his lungs. The children described attend the government school here….
Went to the plaza with Frank and discovered Brian shouting Señorita Panchita has a big fat stomach (in perfect Spanish). Had a talk with him.
Initially our family was not well-accepted by the community. Dad wrote in “God’s ‘Helping Hand’ Gave Us 5,000 Amigos” and “The Curate’s Thumb,” both unpublished first-person accounts, that the villagers were independent and inclined to form their own opinions. These were clannish, proud and fiercely nationalistic mountain people. Americans were considered a bad influence upon the local youth. Adults ignored my parents or spoke about them in whispered tones. Some children were forbidden from playing with me or with my little brother.
In October, the valve caps were stolen from our hearse tires, apparently by someone who did not fear the vengeance of God for tampering with a vehicle bearing chapel doors. A short while later the side mirrors were also taken. All of this was a surprise and a disappointment to us in view of the religious upbringing of the people.
Elsewhere in town, interesting events were occurring. It was a story my father told many times at dinner tables in ensuing years. His two unpublished versions of it (“God’s ‘Helping Hand’…” and “The Curate’s Thumb”) differed in minor details.
The most important man in town was the Catholic curate, Francisco Aguìlar. Known as “Señor Cura,” he was in his seventies. With more influence than a parish priest, his jurisdiction covered Tlalpujahua and five smaller nearby villages, including Tlalpujahuilla (little Tlalpujahua). The village mayors always visited him in his large home for approval before making important decisions. He stood 6'6", weighed 275 pounds and had a pock-rutted face, from an earlier attack of smallpox. The curate suffered from diabetes, and had to watch his diet closely. Consequently, the local physician, Dr. Gustave Iriarte, checked in on him regularly.
“Doctor Gus,” as he was known affectionately, stood under five feet tall, weighed a hundred pounds and wore large eyeglasses, giving him a scholarly appearance. He had a feisty, combative nature.
While I was playing on cobblestone streets, Dad was across town. He had encountered Señor Cura on the street, and was talking with him. The curate had his hand wrapped in a dirty rag. When Dad asked him about it, he was told it was only a small scratch caused by a thorn. Frank Herbert asked to see the hand.
Slowly, grimacing with pain, the holy man unwrapped it. My father nearly gagged when he smelled the putrid odor of gangrene, an odor he had smelled two decades before and had never forgotten. The hand was swollen to nearly double its normal size, with an ugly, infected gash running between the thumb and forefinger. Dad told the curate he was in danger of losing the hand and perhaps his life from infection, and that he needed immediate medical attention. The curate’s condition, my father knew, was complicated by diabetes, which created a number of potential problems. Since Dr. Gus was in Mexico City, Dad offered to drive him to El Oro to see a doctor, or even to Toluca, farther away, where better medical care was available.
The offer was declined. “God will take care of me,” Señor Cura said.
Dad wondered if the curate considered the hearse an improper mode of conveyance under the circumstances, a sacrilege. In any event the elderly gentleman was adamantly opposed to getting in it. The curate also expressed an aversion toward doctors, which may in fact have been fear. Besides, he insisted, he wasn’t convinced his wound was that serious. After all, it was only a little scratch from a thorn bush.
Señor Cura rewrapped his hand.
“Would you permit me to apply some medicines?” Frank Herbert asked. “I have a medical kit with antibiotics, to make you feel better.”
The old man thought for a moment, then consented. Something in the manner of this Norte Americano was reassuring.
My father was taking a tremendous risk, for he could be charged with negligence and sent to Mexican prison if the curate died. But he tried not to think about that. Señor Cura was brought to our house, and at the dining room table, Dad brought out his medical books and supplies. After comparing instructions in the books, he soaked the wound in hot water with Epsom salts. This reduced the swelling. He then covered the cut with sulfa and put on a clean bandage. He also administered a shot of penicillin, after calculating the necessary cc’s based upon the curate’s weight.
At the curate’s house, Dad gave the housekeeper two bottles of Terramycin (oxytetracyclene) antibiotic pills, telling her to make absolutely certain the old man took the pills six times a day, with plenty of water.
Dad was so worried during ensuing days that he could hardly write. The first thing every morning, he hurried over to the curate’s house. There he inspected the hand, applied more sulfa and changed the bandage. After two days, the swelling diminished substantially, and the wound showed definite signs of improvement.
When Dr. Gus returned and heard what happened, he went to Señor Cura and shouted, in Spanish, “Stupid man! I’ve told you about infections! Señor
Herbert saved your life!”
The following day, my father was amazed to see me playing marbles in the street with several boys. When I looked up and saw him, I asked, “Is it true what they’re saying, Dad? You saved Señor Cura’s life?”
After a moment of astonishment, he broke into a broad smile and said, “Well, I did help out a little.”
Soon we learned that Dr. Gus had been telling everyone in town about the heroics of my father. In the middle of the night, someone reattached the mirrors to our hearse and returned the valve caps. For the first time my brother and I were invited inside the homes of neighbors to play with their children. Quite suddenly Frank Herbert became a renowned wise man in those parts. Villagers consulted him on important matters and referred to him affectionately as “Don Pancho.” We were invited to parties and picnics. Dad joined the village men’s club. Just before dawn on his Saint’s Day (a Roman Catholic feast day in honor of St. Francis of Paola), dozens of villagers carrying candles serenaded him from the street in front of our house with a cheerful good morning song, “Mañanita,” accompanied by a mariachi band. My family stood in the doorway in robes and pajamas, smiling and waving.
In her journal, my mother wrote:
Fiesta at night with music and the upper and lower classes of town. First guests to arrive—the town’s three prostitutes. Left right away. Killed whole sheep for fiesta…plenty of beer and refrescos.* Finally had to isolate more solid citizens of town in the dining room. Tequila—Aguacaliente beer—dry mutton—more Aguacaliente. Successful fiesta—Mike and Frank passed out! Pepe—official bartender—tucked two gringos into bed. All guests went to door of Frank’s room, serenaded him. He waved, feebly.
With his background in farming and the assistance of U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) reference materials he’d mailed home under senatorial franking privileges while working in Washington, D.C., Dad showed Señor Cura the proper method of pruning and spraying his orange, lemon and peach trees. Word spread, and soon Dad began advising villagers on gardening and farming techniques. He became, as he wrote in one of his unpublished pieces, the “unofficial farm advisor” for the region, covering all the villages in the curate’s jurisdiction.
Local nuns requested my father’s expert assistance at their convent, where the fruit trees were barren. Mom was quite amused by them:
The nuns were charming—they fluttered helplessly around—told him they had complete confidence in his tree surgery—watched in fascination as he cut off excess shoots. Even hung speechless on his words on pollenization!
While he lived in Tlalpujahua, Frank Herbert translated key sections of USDA books and pamphlets into Spanish. The church mimeographed this information, stapled copies together and distributed them to farmers. The future author of an ecological masterpiece then visited farms to provide further advice, and wrote to the USDA for additional information.
Farm tracts in the region were known as milpas, which were jungle areas cleared by burning, then farmed for a few years and ultimately abandoned when the soil no longer contained the nutrients to sustain good crop yields. To inhibit soil erosion and control water runoff, Dad told the farmers to minimize the use of fire for land clearing, since that robbed the soil of important nutrients. He instructed them in contour plowing, terracing, water diversion systems, and in the planting of grasses, trees and shrubs. These methods were especially useful in a region of heavy tropical rains. Soils hit by deluges could not absorb water nearly as well as they did in slow rains. Soil instability caused by rains hitting inadequately planted areas had resulted in mud inundating the old village, and in continuous damage to planting areas over the years.*
Generally, Dad was in high spirits during our stay in Tlalpujahua, and my brother and I received less severe discipline from him than usual. I understood, as did the rest of my family, that my father did not like to be interrupted when he was writing. Others failed to get the message. This included our only American friend in town, Mike Cunningham. Frequently when Mike wanted to talk with Dad, he couldn’t get through, since Dad was invariably in his study behind a closed door, connected to his typewriter as if it were an extension of him. When Frank Herbert was writing he was in a different universe, and no one could get through to him except my mother…his “moat dragon,” as he liked to say.
Our gardener, Beto, despite repeated warnings, interrupted my father once too often, and my mother reported the aftermath:
Frank…exploded (justifiably, I believe) at Beto’s interruptions when he wanted to write. Frank was in a purple pet and got me so upset I felt like crying.
In punishment for his many interruptions, the gardener was forced to prepare a sign for the study door. The sign warned anyone who came near, in Spanish, not to touch the door while the master of the house was working.
One of the worst disruptions occurred late one afternoon while Dad was in his study reading his manuscript to Mom. She emerged to take care of the problem, and found several upset people, including our friends and the household help. The center of controversy was our cook, who was accusing the maid of purchasing inferior lemons from the market.
Dad was frustrated trying to write in Mexico, and not only about the lack of quiet time in which to work. He also became sick with dysentery on a number of occasions. Following one such attack, he commented to my mother, “Maybe it’s cheaper not to come to Mexico—because of work days lost through illness.”
She reported other physical problems experienced by my father:
Said altitude too high for much exercise. The altitude here—almost 8,000 feet, is too much for Frank—a little exercise wears him out completely—wants to settle closer to sea level.
Late in 1955, under a contract of three hundred pesos a month from my father, Pepe Muñoz removed the gaudy chapel siding from the hearse and built plywood panels in their place. This reduced the vehicle weight by five hundred pounds, thus improving fuel efficiency. He then brush-painted the entire hearse a creamy tan color, further removing evidence of its somber past.
Dad finished his second novel, Storyship, and mailed it to Lurton. The agent said he liked it, particularly suspense elements and characterizations, but Doubleday turned it down. John Campbell didn’t want it for Astounding Science Fiction, either, asserting it was more detective story than science fiction, a historically unsuccessful combination in the publishing world. Rejections followed from other publishers, some of whom thought the yarn had too many science fiction gimmicks, with an inadequately organized plot and too much preaching. He was being pedantic, having crossed the fine and dangerous line between moral instruction and entertainment.
Mom couldn’t seem to overcome the problems with her own novel, primarily involving the organization of material. She found herself losing enthusiasm for it, with an increasing belief that she could never make it as a novelist.
Writing sales were supposed to finance our extended stay in Mexico, but now we were once again nearly out of money. Mom made arrangements to borrow from her Aunt Ruth and Uncle Bing, and Dad borrowed from his favorite aunt, Peg Rowntree. Just enough money came in to get us back to the Pacific Northwest.
One piece of good literary news reached us in Mexico. The New York Times ran an excellent review on The Dragon in the Sea in their book review section. This did not, however result in the instant funding we needed. A movie producer was still interested in the book, as he had been for several months, but thus far had made no offer.
My parents liked Pepe Muñoz so much that they wanted to sponsor him in the United States, bringing him into the country as a new citizen. Although Dad made repeated, glaring errors in raising his children, he could be extremely generous with friends. No idea was too wild for him. He was impulsive and childlike. The commitment to bring Pepe to the United States, so like Frank Herbert, was made on the spur of the moment, without considering details, without worrying about problems. No matter the red tape required to complete the task, and it was considerable, involving a number of delays and unce
rtainties in Mexico City. No matter our lack of funds and lack of prospects. No matter bald tires on the family car. We were about to drive more than three thousand miles north, on yet another adventure.
Just before we departed from Tlalpujahua in early 1956, the villagers staged a big daytime fiesta in honor of my father. In gratitude, Dad and Mom put on a big party of their own that evening, held in our courtyard. A mariachi band played from the covered walkway overlooking the garden.
A few days later we pulled out of Tlalpujahua and headed north, with Pepe sitting in the front seat between my parents. The tires on our hearse were in bad shape. We only had a little borrowed money, not enough for contingencies. Luck would have to be with us, or we wouldn’t make it.
Pepe hung a silver Virgin of Carmen medal on the dashboard, a medal that had been blessed by Señor Cura. This, the curate said, would protect us on our long journey. Despite this, the tires on the hearse went flat constantly from rough road conditions, and Pepe and Dad used the jack and star wrench repeatedly. We limped from gas station to gas station, patching the beaten-up old skins and heading out again. I remember sitting in the back of the hearse as we drove along a high mountain road and looking out the window on my mother’s right at a sheer drop-off. It was a long way down, at least a thousand feet.
I was only mildly concerned. The drop-off held my attention, but I was only a kid and hadn’t lived long enough to really get frightened. I hadn’t learned how many things could go wrong. As far as I was concerned, Dad was invincible. Nothing could overpower him. As long as he was at the wheel, we were okay. Of course I didn’t know about suicide knobs on steering wheels then, how they could get caught in long shirt sleeves and cause terrible accidents. One day they would be made illegal for this reason.
Dreamer of Dune Page 12