Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

by Rudolfo Anaya

  After all the years, she still affected a foreign accent. Russian, Polish, Gypsy—no one knew. She could turn it on, like she could turn on the charm and get people with big bucks to contribute to the city symphony, her pet project as an Alburquerque socialite.

  She had raised money for Raven to carry on his crazy plans to stop the WIPP project, but why?

  You and Raven are old souls, she had said. Two old souls she was destined to love in the cycles of time. Her karma.

  Yes. Sonny smiled and poured himself a second shot. She really did love him, and her soul hovered over him, watching, waiting.

  What if Raven was right? The disarming of the nuclear weapons from the Cold War was producing piles of plutonium cores, and the DOE wanted to bury them at the WIPP site at Carlsbad. Or store it at Kirtland Air Force Base. That’s why the base had been spared from closure, because the cores from Pantex were going to be stored in the Manzano Mountains. Ten miles from downtown ’Burque! The city was to become the dump for all the nuclear waste in the world.

  “Qué chinga!” Sonny cursed and stiffened as he looked at the reflection in the kitchen window.

  For a moment the image of Veronica Worthy appeared on the window. He rubbed his eyes, the image shifted. He saw Tamara Dubronsky, a beckoning Tamara, whispering his name, calling to him.

  “Come to me,” she said seductively. “You are the new Raven.”

  Then the image of a man in black appeared, momentarily reflected in the window. Sonny jumped aside, and the bat the assailant swung crashed down on the kitchen cabinet. As he went down, Sonny reached for his pistol, hit the floor, and spun. The man in black struck again. The bat smashed on the floor, barely missing Sonny’s head. Sonny raised the pistol but a kick sent it flying, and the assailant came down on him.

  The man was strong, hooded in black so Sonny couldn’t see his face. They rolled on the floor of the small kitchen, grunting and thrashing, until Sonny was able to land a solid punch and reach again for the pistol.

  Then a second person appeared, and a boot clamped over Sonny’s hand.

  “Raven!” Sonny gasped, at the same time he felt the hooded man hit him hard on the face, then the undulating waves of darkness. The man held him while Raven loomed over him.

  “Where’s the medallion?” Raven’s voice was harsh. “Where is it?”

  He had picked up the pistol and now held it to Sonny’s forehead.

  Through the grogginess from the blow, Sonny heard the words. The fragrance of vanilla touched his nostrils. He groaned, tried to rise, and felt the cold muzzle of the pistol on his forehead.

  “Don’t know—”

  Raven cursed. “Game’s over!”

  Sonny heard the sharp click of the hammer, the cold metal of the nuzzle vibrated against his forehead, and he felt his bladder go weak.

  But the explosion that should have come after the click didn’t follow; his brains weren’t blown from his head.

  Sonny felt everything winding down to slow motion as he looked up into Raven’s face. The entire left side was pink and scarred, a raw slash that had healed by itself, without the attention of a doctor. When Raven fell in the arroyo, the water must have scraped his face along the gravel bottom, against stones and debris, cutting chunks of flesh away. A large scar ran from his forehead down his left eye, making the eye droop, disfiguring the entire side of his face.

  Raven cursed and cocked the pistol, but before he could fire again a roar filled the small kitchen, like thunder during a summer rainstorm, and plaster came crashing down around Raven and his partner.

  Sonny felt his body relax and fall away into darkness; he was dying. He was rising in a gold balloon, the basket in the shape of an Ojo de Dios, like the God’s eye at Tamara’s. Below him he could see people waving good-bye. Rita, his mother, Madge Swenson, don Eliseo and his friends.

  He heard a thunderous voice in the void. It was the ghost of his great-grandfather, el Bisabuelo, Elfego Baca himself, the famed lawman from Socorro County now gazing down at Sonny and scowling. “You fucked up again, Sonny,” the old man said.

  Then he shouted, “Drop it!”

  The pistol clattered to the floor.

  Sonny groaned, saw the shadows of Raven and his friend disappearing. El Bisabuelo had come from cowboy purgatory to rescue his wayward grandson.

  “Thanks, Grandpa,” Sonny groaned, looking up at the figure of the famed lawman standing with his shotgun cradled in one arm. Plaster sprinkled down from the ceiling and covered him with white chalk and pieces of debris.

  “I’m not your grandpa,” don Eliseo said, and knelt beside him. “You okay?” He raised Sonny’s head.

  “Okay.” Sonny smiled. “Ears ringing …”

  “Sonny,” don Eliseo repeated. “Count my fingers.” He held up five earth-worn stumps.

  “Can’t count. I’m dead,” Sonny moaned.

  “No, hijo,” don Eliseo’s strong voice replied. “Not dead.”

  Sonny’s eyes fluttered. “Not dead?”

  “No.”

  “Qué pasó?” he asked, opening his eyes.

  “Those two tried to kill you. I took a shot at them.”

  Don Eliseo had arrived in time, with his vintage shotgun. There was a round hole in the ceiling above him. That was the blast he heard.

  “Where do you live?” Don Eliseo asked.

  “’Burque.”

  “What state?”

  “Nuevo México.”

  “You’re going to be all right,” the old man said.

  “That was close,” Sonny said.

  “Very close,” don Eliseo agreed. “Gracias.”

  “De nada. What are neighbors for?”

  He helped Sonny to his feet, propped him in a chair, wrapped ice in a towel and put it on his chin where he had taken the blow. He fixed some strong coffee and Sonny drank. When the waves of vertigo passed away, they talked.

  “Wanna go to the hospital?”

  Sonny shook his head.

  “A doctor should see that. Maybe you got broken bones.”

  “No, I’m okay,” Sonny groaned, and rubbed the cold ice pack on his neck.

  “Okay,” don Eliseo replied, “but let me feel the bumps while they’re warm.”

  He felt softly and surely along the edge of the bruises, his rough farmer’s hands like the hands of a healer as they searched for broken bones. Sonny winced but sat still. The old man knew what he was doing. He always did.

  “No cracks. You have a hard head,” the old man said.

  “I get it from the Bacas,” Sonny replied.

  “And from your mama?”

  “My good looks.” Sonny smiled, holding the ice pack to his neck, feeling the pain of the blow.

  “The brain is a wonder,” don Eliseo said as he worked, “like the soul. A light burns inside.”

  “Life,” Sonny whispered.

  They hadn’t cracked his skull. There where the occipital and the temporal bones of the skull came together was the fontanelle. The mollera, his mother called it in Spanish; the most fragile of spots.

  When you were a baby, before I put you in the tub to bathe you, I splashed water on your mollera. When you go swimming, first wet the top of your head, she had told him.

  Why? Sonny asked.

  It’s just a custom, she replied.

  For don Eliseo, there at the top of the head, the light streamed in, like a tree receiving light and passing it down the trunk back to the earth. Touching the water to the head before diving in was to equalize the temperature, so the soul would not be shocked. It all made sense. Each little particle of folk wisdom made sense.

  When the old man finished his examination and pronounced there were no broken bones, Sonny spoke: “Remember the story you told me this summer? About el hombre dorado? The man who came looking for the fountain of youth in the Río Grande valley?”

  “Yes,” don Eliseo said. “The evil brujos stole his soul. Then they covered him with a coat of gold. The hombre dorado is a man without a
soul.”

  “Why the fountain of youth?”

  “To live forever,” the old man answered. “To be like God. Those who have sought the fountain of youth think they can fill up their canteens and take it home. Look at it this way, Sonny. Suppose I got here too late. Those two were going to kill you. But if you have that water from the fountain of youth, death cannot touch you.”

  “Raven plays games,” Sonny groaned.

  “Yes. Always remember that. He plays games. You two have been playing games for a long time …” His voice trailed.

  Sonny didn’t ask don Eliseo what he meant. Right now he was just glad he was alive.

  “Alive for the next game,” Sonny whispered. Then to the old man, “Gracias, don Eliseo. You saved my life. Again.” He was grateful for his old friend. No need to call Rita and worry her now; he would tell her in the morning.

  “Ah, it’s nothing,” the old man replied, snapped open his shotgun, and took out the spent shell.

  “You only had one shell?” Sonny asked.

  The old man smiled. “They didn’t know that.”

  “Chingao.” Sonny grinned in surprise. The old man had huevos. He had threatened Raven and his murdering friend with a second shot when he had no second bullet.

  “And you?” don Eliseo asked, and handed Sonny his pistol. Sonny popped the chamber out. Five bullets. The second shot would have killed him. Best carry it empty, he thought and removed the five cartridges and set them on the table.

  “Close,” don Eliseo said.

  “I know.” Sonny nodded, looking down at his pants to see if he had wet them. “How did you—”

  “I know the sound of your truck, hijo. I didn’t hear them, but when I looked out the window and saw you going in the house with your pistol—‘Pues, that’s not good,’ I said to myself. So I took down my old shotgun and came real quiet.”

  He looked at Sonny. The brujo Raven had returned for his revenge. This they both knew.

  “Got here just in time.”

  “For sure.”

  “Ah, that brujo Raven is playing tricks. He knows he can’t kill you.”

  Sonny was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “He can’t kill you with a pistol. No, what he wants to kill is your soul, your alma. That’s why he wants the sign of the sun on the medal you carry. To use its power against you. Bueno, get some rest. See you mañana.” He patted Sonny’s shoulder and walked out, saying, “I’ll get some plaster tomorrow, and me and Toto will patch your ceiling. Buenas noches.”

  “Buenas noches,” Sonny called as the figure of the old man disappeared in the dark.

  Sonny grabbed the bourbon bottle, crept into the front room where he fell into the well-worn easy chair, and drank.

  Lordy, Lordy, he had almost bought the rancho. But what the hell did don Eliseo mean when he said Raven couldn’t kill him with a pistol? You could kill anyone with a well-placed bullet. Except a brujo.

  Me? Sonny thought. He smiled. Yeah, if I keep running with the coyotes. He had learned something today—no, not just the goof he had made in not checking the house carefully. He knew that snafu could have cost him his life. He had learned something about the world of spirits, that world of the soul where Lorenza had taken him.

  He tried to sleep, but he dozed in fits. Disturbing visions floated around him.

  The figure of Death, la Muerte, the skeleton that the penitentes of northern New Mexico kept in the moradas, the old woman with bow and arrow who came in a creaking cart. Her carreta was pulled by the souls of Nuevo Mexicanos who had died. A lot of weary souls pulling the cart of death around the back roads of adobe villages, onto the new interstate highways, everywhere.

  In the cart sat doña Sebastiana, la Huesuda as she was called by the village pícaros whose custom it was to poke fun at death, not fear it. She was a skeletal, grinning old lady, drawing her bow and aiming the arrows of death.

  She aimed at Sonny, and the arrow struck him in the chest, where it would split the sternum so the cavity opened. But the arrow drew no soul. Doña Sebastiana gritted her teeth, squinted. I missed! I never miss!

  She strung a second arrow.

  During all the centuries dona Sebastiana had been claiming the souls of the Nuevo Mexicanos, she had never missed.

  She placed a second arrow on her bow, aimed, and let it fly. This time she was sure she pierced Sonny’s heart, but he did not fall. She cursed again, her bones rattled and ached. Maybe she was getting old. She was hungry for the soul of this man.

  Cabrón! she cursed. You cannot defy me!

  She fired again, and again he did not die. She drew close and looked. The gold medallion had kept her arrows from penetrating.

  Un brujo! she gasped, and drew back. Un brujo poderoso!

  She had met a man who could not die. Quickly she turned her cart away, cracking her whip over the heads of those souls who pulled the creaking carreta, moving away in fury.

  Sonny awakened with a start. Outside he could hear the creaking of doña Sebastiana’s cart. He listened. No, it was the sound of branches scratching the wall. An October wind had risen in the night, sweeping cold air down from the north.

  Where is my soul? Sonny groaned.

  “Tamara!” he cursed, and sat up straight. He pulled the medallion from under his shirt and looked at it. For this he had almost lost his life! And she had put it on him, persuaded him to wear it! Called him the new Raven!

  What if he had given it to Raven? Would that have satisfied him?

  You are the new Raven, Tamara’s seductive voice crooned. So clear he felt she was in the room.

  Come to me, her voice beckoned.

  Doña Sebastiana, Tamara, la Llorona! Seductive voices calling in the October night!

  He grabbed the phone and dialed Tamara’s number. Howard had said she had returned to her home on Río Grande Boulevard. She no longer needed to hang out in the expensive convalescent spa in the Santa Fé hills, cooling her heels while she waited for the trial. Or plotted so there would be no trial.

  Sonny glanced at his watch: 2:00 AM.

  “Sonny,” she answered before he could say hello, pronouncing his name Sun-neee. “Darling, I was just thinking of you,” she said. “I just heard the news. It is terrible. Terrible. I know you want to see me. Come. Please come.”

  9

  He washed his bruised and tender face, put on a clean sweatshirt and his warm leather jacket, poured himself a cup of cold coffee, and drove across Ranchitos Road to Río Grande Boulevard.

  When she answered his call, he had stifled the impulse to ask her how in the hell she knew it was him calling at that ungodly hour. That was her style, to put one on the defensive, to keep one guessing.

  He had said, “Raven’s back,” and listened to her soft laughter. “But of course, darling. We knew he would return, didn’t we? Chief Garcia called me about Veronica. It was a tragic accident. But all is forgiven.”

  Forgiven? Sonny thought. She’s forgiving people! She was free, the DA had no case, so maybe she was in the mood for forgiving.

  “Sonny. Please come. It would be so good to see you. I cannot sleep. The tragic news has upset me. I must see you.”

  He had last seen Tamara early in the morning of June 22, when he went to tell her Raven had been swept away in the arroyo.

  Now Tamara is once again a free woman, Sonny thought as he drove up the driveway to park in front of the huge, rambling mansion set against the river bosque, away from the street.

  The place was spooky. There were a few old Art Deco buildings in the city, but most of the North Valley residents preferred the ranch homes or the new adobes. But Tamara had inherited a real mansion, and Sonny thought it qualified as gothic—especially in the October night with a cold breeze whispering through the huge elms and cottonwoods that surrounded the place.

  An owl called from the bosque, and the yelp of a coyote followed, mixing with the autumn rustle of the wind in the trees.

  Yup, Sonny thought, it’s definitel
y the season of la Llorona.

  Sonny rang and Tamara opened the door.

  “Sonny, I’m delighted to see you. Come in.” She took his hand and drew him into the large foyer. Old Navajo blankets hung on the walls; a large Chimayó rug gave warmth to the brick floor. She closed the door and looked at Sonny. Her green eyes sparkled, a smile played on her lips.

  She hadn’t changed. She wore the same purple polish on her long nails, the same hint of lilac fragrance on her body. She was dressed in a gold satin gown that clung to the curves of her lithe body.

  Holding both his hands, she allowed him to kiss both cheeks, a European protocol everyone followed with Tamara.

  “I am happy to see you,” she whispered. “I just today returned from Santa Fe, and I was sitting here thinking you would call. What a pleasant coincidence.”

  She led him into the large living area. A fire danced brightly in the huge fireplace, candles glowed around the room, no lights.

  “Please sit.” She pointed at the large divan. “Make yourself comfortable. There is so much to talk about. I was having wine. Join me.”

  She poured and offered him the goblet and lightly touched her drink to his.

  “To us.” She smiled, then sat next to him.

  “You knew I’d call.”

  “Of course. You are a wayfarer cast into the night, and I am your Llorona. You are the man I seek.”

  Sonny put his glass aside. “They say la Llorona kills the boys she finds in the night.”

  “Darling, don’t believe those bad things that men say about the crying woman. Men will tell you they’ve seen her, and she chases them. It is their guilt that forces them to see la Llorona on a dark night.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Of course. Our lovely wailing woman is not interested in guilt-ridden men. She is a goddess of love, and she is interested in young men, young souls.”

  “I haven’t heard this version,” Sonny said.

  “Well, doesn’t everyone have a version of this woman of the night, woman of the river? I think she takes the boys she finds home with her. To her lair in the dark bosque.”