Isadora now sat up, captivated by the notion. Jerónimo, still stretched out on the ground, crossed his arms behind his head and looked at her silhouette as the last glimmer of light cast tones of silver and green on her. His eyes traced the curve of her forehead and nose. Then his gaze slid down to her lips, chin, throat, breasts. He paused at her bulging abdomen; it was swollen with his child. This thought forced his mind back to that which had been making them grow more apprehensive each day. He shook his head as if to shake off an insect; and he sat up, put the palm of his hand on her stomach, and kissed her. It was growing dark now, so they got up and made their way toward their cave.
As they walked, they put aside the night’s talk, and returned to what had been troubling them for weeks. Don Flavio’s stillness baffled them, the antagonism of the tribe hurt them—and there was also Samuel, who had become despondent as the weeks melted into months. Unlike Isadora, who had dwelled in the caves whenever she could as a child, he could not get used to living there; sleeping on a mat on the ground, eating maize and beans and squash almost every day. He wanted to see his grandfather and keep him company in the stables as he used to before he was taken to the cave. He missed his comfortable room and having servants. Most of all, he resented that his mother slept with El Rarámuri.
Isadora had attempted to soothe Samuel by talking to him, taking him on walks, singing to him. At first, she had told him that his grandfather had gone away, but when she saw that the boy did not believe her, she decided to tell him the truth: Jerónimo was now her husband, and his father. When Samuel heard this, he became even more disconcerted, and he refused to speak, even to her. Not even Ursula could comfort the boy, no matter how many times she tried. Through this all, Jerónimo had tried to make friends with him, but he was rejected by the boy.
Jerónimo and Isadora spoke about Samuel as they walked, pausing, moving cautiously in the waning westerly light. After a while their conversation returned to the reaction of the tribe to Isadora’s presence. Resentment had become apparent when the two had first walked through the plaza of the communal village. People stopped to stare at them. Those on the way to the marketplace paused to get a better look. The talkers cut off what they were saying to gawk at the unlikely sight crossing the cobblestone plaza. The black-robed priest who had just emerged from the darkened portico of the church blinked and took a second look, convinced that his eyes were indeed failing him. A small cluster of old hags stared first at the young Rarámuri, then at the white woman, then at the boy child, then at one another, their wrinkled lips pursed in disbelief, their tiny eyes bright with curiosity.
What at first was an oddity soon became the only topic of conversation and gossip. After a few days, interest became apprehension, and finally the presence of the white woman and her child became a source of fear for most of these people. The men who trekked down the sierra to work each day, especially those paid by Don Flavio Betancourt, asked each other what would happen once the Patrón found out where his daughter was living. Those who were not peons for Hacienda Miraflores either sympathized or heckled Don Flavio’s workers about how they would soon have to find new work.
For the women of the tribe, what Jerónimo Santiago had done was a calamitous offense. Although it was the huehues who dictated the laws of the people, the women made the decisions that counted. They were the custodians of the family and the traditions that bound it. They were the ones who jealously safeguarded who married whom, which households would come together, and what would become of the children from those unions. As they ground the maize, wove wool, dyed cloth, gathered wood, helped the sick and the pregnant, and especially as they gathered water at the well, it was the women who decided what was approved and what was forbidden within the tribe. When Jerónimo Santiago arrived with a white woman by his side, and she with another’s child, tribal women flocked together; they gathered in small groups, finally they crammed into caves in large assemblies. The son of Celestino and Narcisa Santiago had somehow snatched away their right to decide. Such behavior could not be tolerated.
Those who secretly observed the lovers were convinced that Isadora and Jerónimo mocked the tribe with their constant smiling, chatting, and laughing. When her bulging abdomen became obvious, the men and women of the tribe found it intolerable. It was wrong for one of their own to mix with the offspring of the white patrón. Only evil would come of it. So it was that they pressed the huehues to convene and put an end to the danger that loomed for the tribe.
Celestino and Narcisa also talked of what to do. When Jerónimo appeared with Isadora and her son, they were not surprised, thinking that it was another of the visits she had been making since she was a child. But when Jerónimo announced that he was leaving the family dwelling to set up one of his own, it became evident that their son intended to make her his woman, to sleep with her. Narcisa and Celestino, and even their other sons, became alarmed, frightened. Don Flavio was capable of destroying their lives.
Celestino knew that his years of service to Don Flavio would evaporate. They meant nothing. He would become merely the indio in the eyes of the Patrón. His family would become the enemy, his cave dwelling the site of Isadora’s violation, and they would all be ruined. As weeks had passed and Don Flavio did nothing, the lull only frightened him more.
On the other hand, Celestino and Narcisa could not forget that Jerónimo was a good son, and that Isadora was also a good woman; that they had known and cared for her since she was a child. Mother and father wrestled with their apprehensions, as well as with the gossip that had engulfed them. They knew they would soon have to decide between what the tribe determined and what their son had chosen to do.
When Isadora and Jerónimo made their way into their cave that night, they found Narcisa and Celestino waiting for them. As Jerónimo stoked the fire, the others squatted on the earthen floor. Flames leapt up from the hearth, casting shadows on their faces. Only the crackling of the burning twigs broke the silence. Isadora looked around, observing the faces of Jerónimo’s mother and father.
Celestino’s face was a mask carved in mahogany. His forehead was seamed by a deep crevice that started at his hairline and crept down to meet his long, beaked nose. Isadora looked closer and saw that his eyes were half-closed; slanted slits resting above high cheekbones.
Narcisa sat cross-legged, hands resting in her lap. Her still raven-colored hair was parted in the middle and slicked back into tight, thick braids; their blackness was dappled with specks of silver cast by the dancing flames. Isadora was struck by the thought that she had never looked closely at Narcisa’s face. What she now saw was a beautiful picture: almond-shaped eyes cast beneath a high forehead, a short nose, and round, full lips. She wondered if this was what her own grandmother had looked like.
“The huehues have agreed to come together to consider what you have done.”
Celestino’s voice broke the silence, muting the snapping sounds of the fire. He did not utter his son’s name but he looked only at him.
“What do you think, tata?” Jerónimo, too, looked only at his father. The younger man sat cross-legged, his back straight and stiff, betraying the tension that gripped his body.
Celestino wagged his head from side to side. His lips were pursed and he furrowed his forehead, deepening its crease; in the gloom of the cave it looked like the cut of a knife.
Narcisa spoke instead: “It’s not only what your father thinks but what we all feel and talk about, hijo, that has to be considered.
“Niña, we’ve known you since you were a child.” Narcisa continued, scanning those sitting around the fire. “You’re good—we have nothing to say against you. But you are of another people, another blood, and we should not mix. It’s against what our tribe holds most holy. This is why the Rarámuri have survived while the others perished.”
“But Narcisa, Jerónimo’s and my blood have already mixed.” Isadora put her hands, fingers outstretched, palms down, on her belly. Then she added: “My grandmother was of your p
eople.”
Even Jerónimo’s head jerked toward her. He had never heard Isadora say such a thing. His mother and father gawked in astonishment at Isadora. It was Narcisa who finally broke the trance.
“What do you mean? She could not have been of the Rarámuri. Of that we are certain.”
“No, not of your people. She was of the tribes of Jalisco. She was a Cora Indian. My grandfather married her, and together they had my father and his sister, Doña Brígida.”
Celestino, disconcerted, turned to Jerónimo, who remained speechless. Then all three turned to look at Isadora, unabashedly scrutinizing her appearance. If there was a brown grandmother, why was Isadora’s hair golden? How could her eyes be blue? Why was her body so long, so angular? Celestino sighed, unable to say anything further about Isadora’s grandmother. He found it too unbelievable to give it more thought.
“The huehues are going to meet tomorrow night. They have asked me to be present.”
“Tata, I’ll be there too.”
“I’ll be there also.”
Narcisa’s words were emphatic, firm. It was not the tradition for a woman to sit in on the council of the elders, but she had resolved to be present, and Jerónimo and Celestino knew that she was beyond changing her mind. Isadora shut her eyes, knowing that even though she was at the center of the storm, her presence at the meeting would not be tolerated.
A pall of apprehension hung over the tribe the next day. The priest sensed something brewing, but no matter who he asked, where he looked, how much he listened, he met only silence. He was sure it had something to do with the Betancourt woman. He decided to remain in the rectory that night, in case he was needed.
The council was to take place when the moon began to rise, but the early evening stillness of the community was broken before the appointed time by the shouting of angry men and women. Everyone rushed to the plaza, attracted by the commotion. As the throng grew, the priest emerged from his house. The furor escalated until one man stood on the central fountain to gain height.
“Don Flavio has recovered from his illness. We’re sure that he’s going to take away our work!”
Celestino and Narcisa, Jerónimo and Isadora, stood motionless. What everyone had expected for weeks had finally occurred. Now the worst was sure to happen; without work, the probability of starvation loomed before the tribe. Isadora felt her knees weakening. Even though the dark was gathering, she detected fear, shock, and rancor in the eyes of the men and women. She even thought that their stares were aimed at her abdomen, at her child, and she jerked her hands in front of it.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’ll starve without work!”
“It’s happened before when we had to eat lizards and weeds!”
Fear flashed from one person to the other. They mumbled, shook their heads, jabbed their clenched fists at one another in the night air. Children began to cry, and soon even the adults’ voices were tinged with tears.
“It’s their fault!”
The crowd turned to glare at the clustered Santiago family, standing at its fringes. Jerónimo stepped in front of Isadora to shield her.
“People, take hold of your senses!”
The priest’s voice rang out, and Narcisa seized the courage to run to the fountain at plaza’s center.
“Have you been run off Hacienda Miraflores? Has it really happened?”
“No … Not yet …” A voice trailed into the night, and Narcisa turned, making sure that she faced most of the upturned faces.
“Then, why are we acting like frightened beasts? We won’t starve!” Her voice was so shrill that it commanded silence while she moved from where she was and climbed to the highest step of the fountain. “We won’t starve! But even if we are exiled from Hacienda Miraflores, other patrones will give us work. And if they don’t, we’ll march all the way to Creel, or to Los Mochis, or even to the capital. No! We won’t starve!”
“You talk that way because you want us to forget what your son has done!”
Everyone turned to see who had uttered their unspoken thought.
“Who said that?”
No one stepped forward. Only stars now lit the dark sky, and in the east the moon had begun its nightly voyage to the other side of the horizon. A breeze whistled through the crevices and niches of the sierra. Narcisa held her ground on top of the fountain.
“We will find work, I tell you!”
A wave of grumbling and murmuring rose from the people as they swayed from one side to the other. They exchanged glances, wagged heads, sighed. After a few minutes, some muttered that Narcisa was probably right. They would first wait to see if they did lose their work. After that, they would decide what to do. Besides, this was not the first time a patrón interfered in their lives, and it was not the first time that they had to hold their ground.
One by one, or in families, people gradually returned to their dwellings. A few hours later, word spread that the council of the huehues had been canceled until it was known what was to become of the workers. That night Jerónimo and Isadora hardly slept, but they huddled close to one another, whispering, caressing, soothing one another. He begged her to sleep, but when he saw that her eyes refused to close, he cradled her in his arms.
After that night, the men and women of the tribe returned to work at Hacienda Miraflores. Although some were suspicious, in time most of the Rarámuri fears were placated. The men tended the fields and herds of the ranchería, and the women tended to the kitchens, laundries, and bedrooms of the Patrón. A pall of apprehension nevertheless still lingered over the tribe until the day that Jerónimo found work elsewhere. When he returned to the sierra, word spread that he was again going to be able to contribute to the commune. With that, the last shreds of fear and the expectation of revenge melted away. Weeks became months until the day came when most of the Rarámuri were convinced that Don Flavio’s fury must have been dissipated by his severe illness. Sometimes, they told each other, the spirits of evil invade a man, crippling him, making it impossible for him to behave as everyone would expect. Everyone thought this except the Santiago family.
During those days, Samuel became Isadora’s growing worry. His silence, now complicated by his refusal to eat, made her fear for his health. She told him stories, remembering how he used to love her imaginings. Jerónimo took him on explorations, showing him plants and birds. Nothing, however, could dispel Samuel’s sadness. He would say only that he wanted to return to his grandfather’s hacienda. As he grew thinner, Isadora decided that it would be best if she sent him to her father. She cried when she made this decision. She did not want to let go, but her eyes told her that Samuel could not live among the Rarámuri.
It was Ursula who took the boy back to Hacienda Miraflores. When she returned, she brought back news of the hacienda: The Patrón looked very ill; he had aged, and now he looked like an old man. He had not shown signs that he even recognized Ursula. He did embrace Samuel, kiss and bless him, but that was all. There was no fury, no threats, no shouts.
Samuel’s absence made Isadora feel lost, and sometimes she took comfort in speaking to Narcisa. The women often crouched near the hearth, talking, and listening to one another. On one of those occasions, Isadora let her uncertainties slip through.
“I think that what I’m doing is wrong.”
Narcisa, head cocked to one side, looked at the younger woman. Her round face expressed a mix of emotions. “Niña, it is done. Perhaps these days were determined before you and my son were born. No one knows. What I do know is that there’s a new child coming. That is what should point to the future.”
“My father is capable of doing good things, Narcisa, but he’s also able to do terrible ones. I’ve humiliated and offended him, I know, but I could not help it.”
Narcisa was quiet for some minutes, she was deep in thought. She stoked the fire and rubbed her hands, palm against palm.
“Perhaps your father will one day see that some spirits are made for one another. R
emember, Celestino and I were also angry at you. We feared what happens when blood is mixed, when two paths are forged into one. But you now see that we’ve changed. Give him time, niña. It could be that he’ll take you back.”
“At first I thought that way too. I even persuaded Jerónimo to bring me here instead of going to another land. But as time passes, I’m beginning to think that my father is incapable of understanding. I’ve turned my back on all that he taught me. I’ve given up the home he has provided, as well as the privilege. He’s cast me out, Narcisa, and perhaps he’ll never take me back.”
“He’s incapable of accepting that you’ve mixed your blood with ours?”
“I think so.”
“As I said, the Rarámuri are that way also. There are some, especially among the huehues, who say that to mix our blood with that of others will bring evil.”
After a while, Narcisa began to hum, as she sometimes did when she was meditating. At last she said, “Tell me about your grandmother. The brown one.”
Isadora, sitting cross-legged and placidly running her hands over her swollen abdomen, nodded. She wrinkled her forehead after a moment of reflection.
“I don’t know very much, only what Tía Brígida has told me. It’s strange, because that grandmother is almost like a shadow for my aunt, and for me. What my aunt remembers is a woman, who was a native, who was always in the kitchen, and who never spoke. That’s all.”
“That means that your father must also have a memory of her. Has he ever spoken to you about her?”
“Never. Never.”
“How did Doña Brígida know that the woman was her mother?”
“I think that it was her father, my grandfather, who acknowledged it. Or maybe it was the other servants who gossiped about it. I can’t be sure, Narcisa.”
“Then how can you be certain of it?”
“Because my heart tells me that it’s the truth.”
The Day of the Moon Page 12