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

by Rudolfo Anaya

  Children. He knew he wanted children, and so did Rita. Children would make a familia. His seed coming to fruition in the Río Grande valley.

  “The seed comes to the earth when the time is right,” Rita had said. A gardener’s words; a woman of the valley. She knew the ways of the earth. No wonder she got along so well with don Eliseo and his friends, and with Lorenza Villa.

  Rita called hello from the door, appeared dressed in a white blouse and a colorful Mexican skirt. Sonny kissed her bare shoulder. “You look beautiful, morenita.”

  “Thank you, señor.” She smiled; then her smile changed to concern. “Your face! Qué pasó?” She reached out and touched his bruise.

  They sat on the porch in the sunlight, and he told her about Raven’s attack and about finding Diego’s family.

  “Anyway, I’m okay now. But what do I do about Diego and his familia?” he said at the end.

  “Do you still feel like going to the fiesta?” she asked.

  “I’d like to, but I keep thinking of Diego and his family.”

  “Let’s take them with us,” Rita suggested. “It sounds like they might enjoy the burning of the Kookoóee.”

  Ben Chávez had initiated the building of a giant effigy of el Coco, and now Federico Armijo and a group of artists built it every autumn. El Coco was the bogeyman of many cuentos. Parents warned their children to behave or the Coco might get them. When the kids went out to play, they were told to get home on time or the Coco Man, the Cucúi, might get them.

  Like la Llorona, Sonny thought. If Tamara’s interpretation of la Llorona holds any water, does the Coco seek little girls? Is he the male spirit of the bosque? Llorona/female, Coco/male, two projections of mythic forces that live in the heart.

  Today the giant effigy would be burned at sunset during the South Valley Festival del Otoño, and as it burned, the fears and worries the Kookoóee represented went up in smoke. El Coco was the communal scapegoat. When it burned, the ill luck of the past disappeared, and a new season began.

  “The little girl will enjoy it. There are games for the kids, plenty of food, music.”

  “Why didn’t I think of it?”

  “That’s why you have me.” Rita winked.

  They drove to the river, and Sonny walked to Diego’s camp. When he emerged with the family, they were all dressed in their Sunday-best clothes. Sonny introduced them to Rita; then they piled in the back of the truck and drove south. Cristina sat in front with Sonny and Rita. She was shy, but she had taken an instant liking to them. She sat quietly, dressed in a faded pair of jeans and blue blouse. She wore her dark hair in two braids. Her face shone bright.

  “I have to get them out of there,” Sonny said.

  Rita understood. “I can use Busboy in the restaurant,” she offered. “And I have enough room to keep Marta and Cristina.”

  “I can’t ask you to—”

  “You’re not asking, I’m volunteering.” She put her arm around Cristina.

  “Gracias, amor. That’s a start. Maybe I can get Peter a job at one of the TV stations. Get Diego and Peewee to help don Eliseo. It’s going to work out.”

  The South Valley fiesta was in full swing when they arrived. The day was clear and warm, and hundreds of people swarmed the park. People came from all over the city and from distant parts of the state to enjoy the fiesta. Some came to sell their wares. Students from the South Valley schools showed off their artwork, and in the nearby library they read their stories. At the bandstand PA system, the governor was droning on about how much he had done for the South Valley.

  Families had come to enjoy the autumn harvest fiesta. Valley farmers had set up trucks to sell produce. Old friends met. The Festival del Otoño was organized by volunteers, South Valley residents who were proud of their neighborhoods.

  Sonny parked and led his newly acquired familia from booth to booth, buying food and drinks for all. He had fallen in love with Cristina, and his happiness made him splurge. While they ate, Sonny told Diego and Marta about Rita’s offer. All agreed it wasn’t safe to go back to the river camp.

  When dusk came, they headed for the baseball field where the effigy of the Kookoóee sat. Sonny stopped cold when he saw the giant figure. Its face resembled the face of a raven! The long arms seemed to be two dark wings flapping as they moved back and forth.

  Rita sensed Sonny’s hesitation. “Raven,” she whispered.

  Sonny nodded. Every year the figure of el Kookoóee was different, constructed by whatever artists happened to show up to help. This year the intimation of a black raven was clear.

  Ben Chávez stood by the artists who had built the awesome effigy. He greeted Sonny. “Cómo ’stás.”

  “Time off from writing?” Sonny asked.

  “Oh, no, this is part of writing,” Chávez replied. “Everything is part of writing!”

  The artists around him nodded and laughed. Yeah, everything got thrown into the pot, flavored with creative juices, stirred, and allowed to simmer until the traditions came alive in new form.

  “El Coco looks like a raven,” Sonny said.

  “Maybe,” Chávez replied. “Could just be an old buzzard.” He laughed.

  “No, a raven,” Sonny insisted. Anger rose in him. What the hell was Chávez trying to hide?

  Rita heard the tone in his voice and squeezed his hand. She couldn’t figure out why Sonny had suddenly tensed.

  “So it’s a raven,” Chávez said, his face growing dark in the dusk. “Don’t you know you need all the help you can get! Watch out for Raven. He’s here tonight!”

  Before Sonny could ask him what he meant, the artists pulled Chávez away, like gnomes or imps pulling away Pan, or a brujo. It was time to play, time to announce the burning of the Kookoóee, time to torch the monster. The magic of the evening now centered around the giant effigy, its head turning in the dusk, its arms swinging back and forth.

  Chávez brought el Coco to life, Sonny thought, like he brings his characters to life. The writer was a brujo.

  Sonny felt a tingling along the back of his neck. What did Chávez mean, Raven was here tonight? He looked at the huge crowd gathered around the effigy. Families with children, all smiling, all ready to enjoy the torching of el Coco. He turned and looked at the effigy. Did Chávez mean the evil spirit really resided in the figure? Is that why its look was so fierce and ominous?

  Cristina tugged at Sonny.

  “My father told me stories about the Kookoóee,” she said. “When my father was little, they called Kookoóee ‘el Coco.’ He scared the naughty kids. Now the Coco is the police. If they find us, they make us leave our home. Sometimes they tear down our home. Once they arrested my father.”

  “Why?” Sonny asked.

  “He stole some food for us,” she whispered. “Then my father made a Kookoóee, like that one.” She pointed at the effigy that rose in the dusk, head turning, jaws with big teeth opening and closing, long arms swaying. “But he wasn’t as big. He put it in the path that leads to our home.”

  “I saw it,” Sonny said.

  “I’m not afraid of it,” Cristina said. “It’s supposed to keep out the people who don’t like us. I guess you weren’t afraid,” she said to Sonny.

  “No, I wasn’t afraid,” Sonny said. “I knew I was going to meet you, and we were going to be good friends.”

  “Yes,” she said, and for the first time she drew close to Sonny and Rita.

  At the bandstand someone was singing, “Todos me dicen Llorona, Llorona …”

  Then Ben Chávez interrupted; the burning was about to begin. The children were asked to write their worries on pieces of paper, and the papers were gathered and placed in the Kookoóee’s bag to be burned. Rita held the paper and Cristina wrote: My big fear is not to be with my family.

  “So let’s burn that fear,” Rita said, and they tossed the note in the bag.

  “Señores y señoras!” Ben Chávez called. “Time to burn el Coco! Time to burn the Kookoóee!”

  An exubera
nt cheer went up from the crowd.

  “Look!” Cristina cried, pointing to el Coco.

  A young man with flowing black hair climbed up a ladder and struck the flares in the effigy’s eyes. The Kookoóee seemed to come alive. Flares were started in the Kookoóee’s fingers, so when he swung his arms, the red glow startled the crowd.

  The other artists placed matches to a bundle of grass at the foot of the monster, and the flames rose quickly. The Kookoóee’s head kept turning back and forth, and a voice boomed, “No me quemen! No me quemen!”

  The children shouted with laughter, the parents smiled and remembered all the times their parents had warned them to be good or the Coco would get them.

  The arms of the tall effigy moved back and forth, as if he was trying to escape the fire, and his head turned frantically, but the flames were already licking at his fancy costume. The bogeyman of the Nuevo Mexicanos of the valley went up in flames while the crowd roared its approval. The wood popped as it burned, and a shower of sparks rose into the evening sky. The burning flares lent the Kookoóee a wild appearance. He swung his arms as if in agony. The crowd cheered.

  “Burn, Coco! Burn!”

  Bad news and poverty could be put aside for the moment. It was a time of communal joy. The fears in the bag of the Kookoóee also went up in flames.

  The burning lasted no more than half an hour, but in that time a cleansing took place. Joy spread throughout the crowd. And when the last of the Kookoóee fell into the hot embers, a cheer went up. Families headed home, the young stayed to enjoy an evening dance.

  Sonny drove his newly acquired family back to don Eliseo’s.

  “Entren, entren,” don Eliseo welcomed them. “Just in time for coffee.” He smiled.

  “Y pasteles de manzana,” Concha said.

  “She makes the best pasteles in the West,” don Toto announced, beaming.

  “Toto, you say the nicest things. If you weren’t my best friend, I’d marry you and bake you a pie every day.”

  “For your hot pastelito, I’d marry you tomorrow,” don Toto teased.

  Sonny introduced his new friends, and they were warmly welcomed by the old trio. Concha fussed over Cristina. Everyone received a generous portion of pie topped with slices of cheese. Diego and his family slowly relaxed. It had been a long time since they had been welcomed in a home. They felt safe with Sonny, and now they felt at ease with Sonny’s friends.

  As they sat around don Eliseo’s kitchen table, Cristina told them about the burning of the Coco. The storytelling began, and don Toto told the story of a witch who fell in love with a butcher. In the end she was turned into sausage when one day she disguised herself as a pig.

  “It’s the season of la Llorona,” Concha said. “The kids call it Halloween, but it’s really her season. Now that the earth is resting, it’s time for telling stories.”

  “I remember one my grandfather told me,” Sonny said.

  “Tell it to us,” Cristina begged.

  “My abuelo was Lorenzo Baca,” Sonny began. “This happened to him and his compadre when they were young men. They had been sent to the Rancho de San Martin to look for stray steers the roundup had left behind. The rancho was a deserted place at the foot of La Mesa de los Ladrones. My abuelo Lorenzo and his compadre came upon a gathering of brujos. They were in the form of giant fireballs, jumping and dancing in a circle.”

  “That’s true,” Concha said. “That’s the way they used to gather.”

  “The men turned their horses and rode away, but they were pursued by one of the fireballs. It came leaping across the llano. They rode their sweating, lathered horses as fast as they could. They thought the fireball was the devil. They were grown men, tough vaqueros who had worked on the range all their lives. They had seen death, but till that day they had not known fear. Miles ahead of them lay the village of Socorro, and the church. They knew that was the only place on earth safe for them. They rode the poor, tired horses forward, whipping the reins across the horses’ flanks. The sky grew dark, and the fireball stayed right by them.”

  “Madre de Dios!” Concha made the sign of the cross.

  “They couldn’t outride the fireball. It came bounding across the llano until it was alongside the two vaqueros. My abuelo said the sight made his blood turn cold. He glanced at his compadre. His eyes bulged with fear. They knew they couldn’t outrun the evil that had taken the form of the fireball. My abuelo’s horse, exhausted from the run, finally fell, throwing him. He was bruised, but unhurt. His compadre reined up his horse and called for him to mount. It was no use. Two men on a tired horse would not get far.”

  “You can’t outrace the devil,” don Toto said wisely.

  “He had a pistol, and when the fireball jumped in front of him, he took it from his holster and fired.”

  Concha cringed. As a child she had heard similar stories.

  “The bullet hit the fireball. He fired again. Five times he fired.”

  “Were the bullets blessed at the church?” Concha asked.

  “Quiet, Concha. Let him finish the story,” don Toto whispered.

  “The sun had set, the llano was dark. My grandfather could see the ball of fire plainly. He knew his bullets had struck dead center. The fireball seemed to breathe, to moan, and then it jumped away, leaving the two men alone. The pistol fell from my grandfather’s hand. He was trembling. His body was wet with sweat. He turned to his compadre who held out a hand and helped him mount behind him. Together they continued to Socorro.”

  Sonny paused. He looked at Cristina. “Scared?”

  “No,” she answered. “My dad tells me stories like that all the time.”

  Diego smiled. “I was born in Belén. We grew up with all those stories.”

  “We have a lot of time for storytelling at our home on the river,” his wife added.

  “I’m never afraid,” Cristina said. “My mom and I walk along the river to find firewood. Even at night. As long as we’re together, we’re not afraid.” She held her mother’s hand.

  “Well, storytelling time is done, and it’s time to get you to bed.” Sonny picked her up. “How would you like to spend the night with tía Rita?”

  Cristina looked at her mother and father.

  “Your mom can go with you. Your dad is staying here, because in the morning he’s going to help don Eliseo clean up his garden. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She nodded. She gave Sonny a hug. “Thank you for taking us to the fiesta, to see the Kookoóee, and for that scary story. You know what I would have done if I was your grandfather?”

  “What?”

  “I would have said a prayer. That gets rid of the evil.”

  “Yes.” Sonny smiled, lifting her and handing her to her mother. “That would have done it.”

  11

  Early Monday morning the sun came over the Sandias, illuminating the valley and the ascending balloons. A few wispy clouds drifted across the mountain, but they would soon disappear. The morning air was brisk but calm; it was a perfect day for ballooning. In fact, weatherman Morgan had predicted the whole week would be excellent.

  The balloon games were starting. Today the competition involved piloting a balloon down close enough to grab a key tied to a tall post. It was a key to a new car, and the pilot who grabbed the key won the car.

  Sonny called Francine Hunter who said, yes, she could use a part-time cameraman. Buoyed by the news, Sonny stepped out his front door and shook his head. Madge was crazy to have accepted the story on Veronica’s murder, but what the hell, it was no skin off his nose. He ambled over to don Eliseo’s, where the men were having breakfast. They all greeted him warmly.

  “Siéntate, siéntate,” don Eliseo invited Sonny. “Have some cafe and almuerzo.”

  He served Sonny coffee and a generous portion of eggs, dona Concha’s chile con carne, and hot tortillas.

  “Diego was telling us about his familia. He’s from the Padillas de Belén. I knew his abuelo, don Cipriano. Cipi, they used to call him. That
family was originally from Los Padillas. Used to have a big huerta. Sold chile and maíz from there to Santo Domingo. But during the Depression he lost everything. He, and a lot like him, went north, to Colorado, to work in the betabel or in the mines. He died in a train accident, near Raton. Those poor men used to catch a free ride on the freight trains. Cipi lost a leg, and by the time they got him to a doctor, he had bled to death.”

  Diego nodded. That’s the story he remembered about his grandfather. Don Eliseo knew his family, and his knowledge of Diego’s people helped, for the moment, to restore his sense of belonging. After being homeless the past few years, he had lost contact with old friends.

  Don Eliseo also remembered Diego’s father. He had served in World War II and lived through the Bataan March with the New Mexico National Guard.

  Diego’s father never fully recovered from the hardship of the march. He never had more than a small house in Belén, and when he died, his sons and daughters sold the family place. When Diego returned from Vietnam, there was no home to return to. He found his roots severed, and his wandering began.

  “It’s hard for la gente,” don Eliseo acknowledged. “The políticos get the gravy, y la gente gets the bones. I survive because I farm, but even that is coming to an end. Look around you. The developers are buying all the land. Five centuries we have lived here, since de Vargas returned in 1693. But it’s very difficult now. I used to be able to do all the work on my ranchito, pero este arthritis me tiene bien fregado. Oh, my boys come by once in a while, pero no saben nada. They got an education, and now they work with the pluma, not la pala. I don’t blame them. Working a rancho is hard. I’m proud of them, but I can’t do it by myself. I sure would be glad to have some help. Clean up the place before it gets cold. Maybe put in some firewood for the stove.”

  “We’re ready to work,” Diego said eagerly. “Aren’t we, Pee wee?”

  “You bet, pardner. The weather’s perfect, and I don’t have a date.”