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

by Rudolfo Anaya

  And always, the homeless roaming the streets, like the silvery minnows of the river with no still waters in which to rest. There were shelters and food at the Baptist church on Broadway and at Joy Junction, and various other places, but a spring restlessness drove them through the streets, lonely and often desperate fish in the stream of life.

  And even they could say at end of day, all’s well that ends well.

  Sonny drove around downtown then back onto Fourth, past the new modern courthouses. Visions for the new Alburquerque took the form of steel and concrete, and the movers and shakers of the city smiled. The City Future was on a sailor’s holiday, heady with growth, building, singing, playing politics, hustling for money, all the necessary trappings needed to define itself in the new century. Four flags had flown over the city in the past: Spanish, Mexican, American, Confederate. The fifth yet to be designed would emblazon the logo, City Future, in a glorious, rising sun. Five flags over Burque.

  A sense of relief washed over Sonny as he drove up the familiar street. The day was done. The coming night was a welcome relief His stomach growled for a hot plate of enchiladas, refried beans, and rice, all covered with Rita’s red chile, and piping-hot, puffy sopaipillas that melted in his mouth, and perhaps a beer with dinner.

  But here’s the tricky part. An adventurer about to touch on the shore he left long ago at once welcomes the sight of the port where loved ones wait, and at the same time wonders if the future yet holds another journey, images of tantalizing places he has not seen.

  So Sonny wondered. He had gone into the four seasons in search of Raven, explored the four quadrants, entered the fourth dimension and learned that in other universes there might yet be eleven or twelve more dimensions to explore, depending on who did the defining. But for now, four was the parameter, the cosmology that maps a man’s life, his heart, his humors, his family, his neighborhood, the city, the country, the universe.

  If the four quadrants are laid to rest on a flat plane then the Tree of Life, that same tree where Adam and Eve met the charmed snake and began their adventures, rests right at the center. But a flat geography does not satisfy the adventurer. Curve the flat surface and the picture becomes clearer. There is always someone coming from or going to ill-fated Ilium. America becoming Latino. Chinese. Korean. America becoming Woman.

  When will is not enough, destiny pushes the adventurers forward to describe their needs and geography. And in every man and woman there is a call to approach the tree and test the branches that stretch into the heart of heaven, the zenith, and, if need be, to explore its roots into the pit of the underworld, nadir of the soul.

  Perhaps Sonny yet had to climb the tree, unify the four directions with the fifth, the up and down, climbing upward into the branches where, as if climbing a family tree, he would meet the damnedest ancestors and the role they once played in his coming into being. And he would descend into the roots, the four main tap roots, each with its tentacles digging into the dark earth, the blood of his body that nourished him. Like Dante descending into inferno, he might search the bowels of soul for meaning, and likewise, also meet there the damnedest ancestors.

  That’s what the whole chingadera was about, as far as Sonny could make out. Make unity of light and shadow, unity of self.

  Perhaps there was another season. A fifth season, the call to understand the Tree of Life, the middle, unifying ground. Everyone should know by now that the tree is anchored in the soul. To climb or descend is to explore the psyche, one’s inner self, the essence that in daily life most hardly notice, until life presents an overwhelming trauma. Then the injured pilgrim must ask, Who am I? Is this my soul that speaks to me? Why had I not seen this tree before? Why have I not run up and down its fatherly trunk, like a child, exploring the secrets and knowledge it holds of my true self? If this tree planted in my heart is fed by my blood, why am I a stranger to it?

  Ah, so many questions left unanswered in one day’s story. Many would be disappointed, perhaps want their money back, for a private investigator was supposed to solve hard-core crimes, answer all the questions, not indulge in speculation of life’s journey. Such questions are for philosophers, or the idle, or the inocentes of the world. Had one day in the life of a PI been twisted too far? Was this for simpler minds, therefore, unacceptable? Who, out in that wide flat world that stretched only as far as his front yard, would be satisfied?

  Sonny thought. Yes, the fifth season might prove even more phantasmagorical than today’s adventure. Best leave it at that. Best do our daily work in the here and now, but work consciously, praising the Light that arrives each morning with the rising of the sun, praise the saints and kachinas, praise the Lords and Ladies of the Light. Bless all of life.

  Ah, he moaned, what a day, and only Rita’s arms would make right the day’s adventure.

  He was tired. It had been a long journey homeward. Not even the glitter of the street aroused him. He only thought of Rita. Perhaps this was his last great adventure, as he had promised the last time. Maybe when the cops or whoever was in trouble with Raven called the next time he would say no, and mean it. He would stay home, helping Rita, the small cafe would become their bonding place, a place where they could work together, build a life together. And later there would be children, their own or adopted, lots of kids to run around the cafe and grow strong on New Mexican food: frijoles, maize, calabacitas, menudo, carne adovada, tortillas, sopa, natillas, huevos rancheros, tofu and plenty of greens if some became vegetarians.

  They would name the cabroncitos after the food they ate. Girls would be Maize and Natillas, boys would be Menudo and Carnitas. The strong boy would be Tortillon, the gay child Sopaipilla.

  Happiness is what mattered.

  A man cannot help but dream, he thought as he pulled into the parking lot of Rita’s Cocina. Usually he parked in the back, but tonight he had to enter through the front door to face the home-boys, the suitors, don Eliseo called them, who had hung around too long. They would feel his fury, smell the blood of the sow on his colorful jacket, smell the muddy river ooze on his boots.

  What weapon to use? The battered and torn dreamcatcher, of course. He picked it up. Yes, better than bow and arrows, he could whip a hundred with the magic in the dreamcatcher. Make every mother’s son regret he thought Sonny was dead and Rita was ripe for the picking.

  He gathered Chica in his arms and walked to the door. The place was rowdy, loud and noisy with the braggarts as they munched on Rita’s pastelitos de manzana and washed them down with coffee. They were tired of waiting because it was past six o’clock and, even if the governor was dead, the bomb hadn’t blown and the cell phones were working. But still no trace of Sonny Baca.

  These were young men Sonny knew. Electricians, plumbers, roofers, guys who worked for the city or the telephone company, a teacher who taught at Taft, a lawyer, and two off-duty cops, all refusing to go home until Rita admitted Sonny wasn’t coming, closed up the cafe, and said, yes, one of you can drive me home.

  Movida time, the Chicanos called such an opportunity. If you’re young and horny and Rita’s man is not coming home, then you don’t waste time. Put the pressure on. Make her say yes. She can’t go on stalling them with her sweet apple pies and her blend of coffee that stimulates the blood.

  Are you coming with me? he asked the old man.

  No, the old man replied. You have new companions. He nodded toward the two spirits who stood by Sonny.

  We’ll be at your side, father, the girls said in sweet unison, their auras lighting the way.

  He looked at his spirit daughters. They stood before him as beautiful and innocent as the bloom on a rose, so harmless they couldn’t hurt a fly, but walking at his side they were the courage he needed, uplifting his soul as only a child can do. He felt like crying. Would it never end, this gift life had given him? Was every man so lucky to feel the presence of love at his side, guardian angels protecting every step?

  Well, the old Greeks had Athena or Artemis, Zeus and the se
a god Poseidon, or other gods to help in time of need. Other people had Thor. Desert people had prophets full of words they took from the mouth of God. The Aztecs had the Winged Serpent, El Señor Quetzalcoatl, he who brought wisdom, and dozens of lesser gods. Dream Time spirits. Kachinas. Catholics had their saints. On and on it went. All the traditional people from every corner of the world had their guardian spirits.

  Was this so new? No. Perhaps the uncertainty came because the present age of disbelief had killed the spirit. Science had erased the angels from the monitor screens, forgotten that transformation of the spirit is as important as conquering the physical laws.

  Sonny straightened his shoulders. Come then, he said, let us go and make our visit.

  He opened the door of the cafe, and all inside turned to look at him.

  26

  “Sonny?” the one closest to the door gasped, looking up as if he’d seen a ghost, questioning in his mind the appearance of the weary hero, eyeing the dreamcatcher that Sonny held like the jawbone of an ass. Was he going to smite the suitors?

  The boisterous group were no Chaldeans, no soothsayers whose language the world has forgotten. These were the common laborers of the city who turned to look at the battered and bruised Sonny Baca, the ghost of an ancient mariner risen from the cosmic sea, a man who had washed his sins in the Ganges, trailing seaweed and algae he had returned, one eye nearly closed from a blow received at war, a Greek hero returning home from Troy, if Jemez Springs can be conceived as Troy, and Burque as his Ithaca, and if the world would allow a Chicano to be as heroic as those who fought on the fields of Ilium.

  The old men of the northern New Mexico pueblos would say Yes! Seguro que sí! Goddamnit que sí! Porque no? Because in their youth their grandfathers had been at the battle of Embudo, fighting Kearney’s Army of the West, and some had been at the deposing of Governor Bent in Taos. Deposing? Well, those first Chicano heroes along with some Taos Pueblo natives did Bent in. Later, their grandchildren had been with Tijerina fighting to keep their land grants, and so went the forgotten battles for survival and for love.

  Love? Yes, for as young men these viejitos of el norte had scoured the mountains and the valleys, from Gallina to Tierra Amarilla to San Ysidro to Cabezon and Bernalillo, down to Belen and Socorro, after a hard week’s work they rode their horses or drove their old model-T’s to the country dances in the most out-of-the-way villages where they courted young women as beautiful as Helen, but more virtuous, brown-eyed Mejicanitas and Inditas who lived in those mountains and whose mestizo heritage engendered them with a beauty born of the earth and sky. Ah, las Inditas de los Pueblos, the way they danced and lifted their skirts to show their ankles made a young man’s mouth water. Chicanitas as succulent as a bowl of warm chicharrones.

  That’s why New Mexican kids came in all colors, some with red hair and blue eyes, some morenitos and dark as the earth, because at this crossroads, at the heart of the quincunx, the bloods had mixed, creating a larger-than-life familia, nature’s way of fulfilling her secret destiny.

  Yes, Sonny, those elders would say. Goddamnit que sí! You’re as good as those who fought at ill-fated Troy. Puro Chicano, you gave it your best shot. Y mañana is another day. And you’ve got your Rita of the dancing eyes, deep brown eyes whose irises radiate the sacred light of the Zia Sun. It may be you will find the Zia Stone, then again time may scar and humble you and even unto your death you will still be searching. But you gotta keep fighting those cabrones who deny the message of the Sun Stone! You gotta believe the earth is worth saving!

  Surprise was too mild a word for the strange looks that crossed the faces of the suitors who all day had argued with each other as to who would drive Rita home. Frowns mixed with gazes of gratitude, scowls because they knew Rita would have no other man at her side, smiles because he was alive, and after all, he was a friend they had known for many years.

  Rita turned to look at her Chicano Ulysses home from the war. He sure looked banged up, dressed in his colorful jacket but splattered and reeking of the strange and regenerative blood of the pig, and his boots and pants were caked with mud that smelled of the ooze of the river. He stoutly held the dreamcatcher at his side, the one don Eliseo and the old men of Sandia Pueblo had made for him.

  She stood immobile behind the counter, as beautiful after a long day’s work as she had been in the morning when he last kissed her and whispered he’d be back. She felt a tremor, her heart suddenly romping to a new beat, a frozen cry in her throat.

  Sonny! Gracias a Dios, you’re home. Virgen de Guadalupe, gracias. San Judas, gracias.

  Perhaps beautiful was too cheap a word to describe her, for those who have felt love deep in their souls know the beloved is like a prism that reflects the soul of the lover, a beacon in the dark that guides home the most weary seaman.

  If, as the poet says, the eyes are windows of the soul then the bond between the lover and the beloved is a golden cord that cannot be cut; not even the third fate’s final scissor snip can separate the two.

  Even those blinded by life, those whose sight has been clouded over by the gods so they may experience with their other senses a deeper essence of life, feel this cord of light, and their love is expressed in touch.

  Don Eliseo said: If you shrink from human touch, then you are the lost one. Go forth and touch those you love, a smile, a friendly wave, cómo estás, órale, good to see you, a handshake, a high five, a squeeze, a bear hug, un abrazo.

  The caress of the soul is as profound as the orgasm of the flesh.

  “Sonny!” Rita cried. I knew, of course I knew.

  She started forward, but his look told her to pause and await the outcome of the homecoming.

  Chica didn’t wait, she jumped from Sonny’s arms and dashed to Rita, a bullet whizzing across the floor that Rita caught and held close, feeling in her throbbing heart the dread she and Sonny had been through.

  For a long time it seemed as if nobody spoke, then the guy nearest Sonny stood and faced him. The carpenter with his carpenter’s belt strapped so it hung low on his waist, like the gun belt Shane strapped on in the movie when he finally had to take up the pistol and face the bad guys.

  Okay, he thought, let’s get this over with.

  He walked up to Sonny and stared him in the eyes, every move guarded, as if measuring his next move.

  Then he smiled, and said, “Hey, Sonny, you’re back. Good to see you, bro.”

  Hesitantly he stepped forward and jabbed Sonny on the shoulder. “Hey, you did good, ese. It’s in the news. Everything’s back to normal.”

  These were the men of normalcy, and they knew in their hearts, they were no match for Sonny.

  The carpenter looked at the dreamcatcher, then back at the other men lined up along the counter and those at the tables.

  “Hey, I gotta hit the road. Work tomorrow,” he said, threw some bills on the counter to pay his fare, then with head bowed he walked past Sonny and out the door.

  “Let’s hear it for Sonny,” a second man said, a young buck at twenty-five, but tough from construction work, who was always daring Sonny to arm wrestle, trying to beat him in front of Rita and the other vatos, but to date he hadn’t.

  All clapped and cheered, then one by one they tossed bills on the tables to pay for the pies and coffee, and they began to file out, carrying the tools of their respective professions, each one acknowledging Sonny’s presence.

  The schoolteacher coughed and made an excuse. “I have to get up early. Kids to teach, gotta grade papers, you know. They might cancel classes because of the governor. Who knows?”

  “Governor or no governor, tomorrow’s another day,” the electrician said. “Gotta wire that new parking lot the city’s building. Good night, Rita,” he called, secretly cursing his luck, as they all did.

  “I gotta help my primo with his roof,” the roofer said.

  One by one they went out.

  “Órale. Ay te wacho.”

  “Take care, bro. Good to see you. You’re
the man!”

  “Hey, Rita, your lover man’s back,” one joked, and laughed.

  “Did Chica have any dreams today?” another asked. Subdued laughter again.

  “How’djuget the black eye? Looks bad.”

  “Yeah, take care of it.”

  “He’s got his curandera,” one answered, glancing back at Rita, sighing, and walking out.

  “Better fix that dreamcatcher, or you won’t catch any dreams,” one said, trying to be cute, touching the tattered totem as a defrocked priest might touch one last time the chalice on the altar.

  Sonny acknowledged all with a nod, as a triumphant warrior might look at those beaten in battle, equals in the fray but diminished in the loss.

  Perhaps it was the thin smile on Sonny’s lips that disconcerted them, for the cars pulling out of the parking lot squealed and burned rubber as the aspirants of the day headed home to one more night of bachelorhood, sadly aware that Rita would rest in Sonny’s arms.

  Sonny’s gaze had never left Rita. Let his friends leave, yes, tomorrow was another day and they’d be back for breakfast, Rita’s huevos rancheros, red chile con carne, huevos con chorizo, and homemade tortillas were to die for, manna from heaven, hearty meals to satisfy a man during the long day’s work, and her image was one to take away in the heart and compare to other women the lonely bachelors might meet during the day.

  “God, Sonny, you’re the luckiest guy in the world,” the last to exit whispered, glancing furtively at Rita, then ducking out.

  A peaceful silence settled into the café; the only sound was the refrigerator’s hum, the same mysterious hummmm that had bugged the people of Taos many summers past.

  Rita placed Chica on the floor and ran across the room to be gathered in Sonny’s arms and held close, both feeling relief from the troubled day, feeling the separation had been too long, longer than the cotidal day, which speeding around the sun had turned into spring. The first day of spring.