by Laura Resau
The following day on the mountain, after hours of wandering, I thought I saw Pedro and his goats on the next mountain over. A tiny patch of red and a bunch of white and black dots moved through the brush. For some reason, my pulse quickened. He was too far away for me to call out to. I just squinted at him until he disappeared over the top of the mountain.
I didn’t come across the waterfall, either, but I did find some bluish green mushrooms and tiny snails, which I sketched in my book. The caption read Remember These, Dad? He loved small, unexpected things in nature. He always marveled over the undersides of mushroom caps and squinted for minutes at the smooth spiral of snail shells.
I was wary of scorpions now. I inspected every rock carefully before I sat down. But I did feel prepared, since Abuelita had made me bring along a bunch of garlic to keep snakes and spiders and scorpions away. She said they couldn’t stand the smell of garlic. “In all my years on this earth,” she said, “no creature has poisoned me, and this is why. Garlic! Garlic, mi amor. I go nowhere without garlic.” She wanted me to keep it in my pocket, but I was afraid my jeans would get stinky, so as a compromise we decided I’d keep it in my backpack.
That night, halfway through our hot chocolate, Loro screeched so suddenly we all jumped. “¡Ánimo, Silvia! ¡Ánimo, doña Carmen!”
“Loro is making a demand,” Abuelo said. “A demand to hear more of your grandmother’s story.” He gave a sideways glance at Abuelita.
“Yes! Who are these people?” I asked. “I still don’t know. Silvia, and doña Carmen?”
Abuelita squinted, gazing into the fire, as though it were an old photograph. “Well, first you must know the path that led me to the city…,” she began.
I got comfortable, wrapped my fuzzy green sweater around my shoulders, and tucked my knees under my chin. I watched Abuelita’s eyes turn younger and younger as she talked, until her face became as fresh as a girl’s, her whole life before her.
Helena
SUMMER 1935–FALL 1937
For years, Clara, my life was drenched with aromas of herbs and spices. Day after day I hovered by the fire, tending to pots and stirring with my long wooden spoon. Stirring cinnamon into hot chocolate. Stirring oregano into soup. Stirring lemongrass into tea. Only a few precious hours in the afternoons were mine. I would slip away from my kitchen chores and find Ta’nu. Far into the mountains we walked, to places where the powerful herbs grew. We left gifts to thank the spirits for the plants. Gifts of eggs and green feathers and cocoa beans. Back home, we hung some of the herbs to dry in the rafters. Others we mixed fresh, with mezcal.
The second time I drank the sacred tea was not long after my first soul flight. Ta’nu was out chopping firewood. A neighbor stumbled to our house, crying and carrying his young boy. The child’s skin burned with fever. His eyes could see nothing. His mouth could form no words. His spirit had left his body.
As the tea brewed, I fetched a bucket of cold water at the spring. Back in the kitchen, I poured it into a tin. With his father’s help, I heaved the boy into the water. Then I lit the candles and copal. Sweet smoke spiraled upward as I swallowed the tea. Softly, I chanted. I called on the saints, the spirits, God.
After a time, a table appeared before me. A table with two cups, beautiful cups, shiny silver. And a deep voice, a woman’s voice, said, “Choose which you will drink from, the cup of good or the cup of evil.” I chose the cup of good, and drank down every last drop. It was golden and sweet, like honey, and filled me with light. When I drank that light, I made a promise. A promise that always, I would use my powers for good, whenever I was called upon.
The boy lived. Word spread about my healing powers. As young as I was, people trusted me to heal them. And always, I used my powers for good.
When I was eleven, Ta’nu began to grow breathless at every hill we climbed. Oh, his mind still flowed clear as a stream, and people still came to him for cures, but he had little strength. Only enough to do a few cures a week. More and more often, Ta’nu entrusted me to drink the sacred tea, to make the soul journeys. When I’d return to the hut after rescuing a patient’s spirit, Ta’nu would ask me, “What did you see, Ita? Whom did you meet?” and as I told him, he listened closely, nodding. “Ah, that must have been the swamp spirit,” he would say. “Slimy, isn’t he?” Or “Oh, that was the spirit of the clay cliffs—a tricky one, that spirit.” When I told him how my spirit animal protected me on my journey, his eyes lit up. “Granddaughter, what a mighty spirit, this jaguar.” His own spirit, the deer, was swift and strong and helpful, he said. Yet the jaguar! Oh, the jaguar! Raw power wrapped in silky fur. Only once in a while now did Ta’nu make a soul flight himself. When he did, it left him tired for days. How it pained me to see the deep circles beneath his eyes, to hear him struggle for breath.
Uncle José seemed almost happy about Ta’nu’s weakness. No, I don’t think he wished for Ta’nu to die. But he couldn’t wait to replace him as head of the family.
One evening by the fire, while I was heating the milk, Uncle said something that would change my life forever. He took a long swig of mezcal and turned to Ta’nu. “I’ve decided that Helena will go to the city to be a maid.”
My stomach jumped. I stopped stirring and turned to face them.
Ta’nu sipped his milk. Nothing shocked him, you see.
“She’s useless here,” Uncle insisted. “María and Teresa can do the chores without her.”
I doubted María and Aunt Teresa would agree with that.
“You promised we would take care of her,” Uncle said with a sneer. He pointed his bottle toward me. “But now she’s old enough to leave.”
“True, I made that promise to her mother,” Ta’nu said.
“At the time it seemed that your wife might never have a child of her own. I knew she wanted one. I knew she’d make a loving mother.” Ta’nu’s voice lowered to nearly a whisper. I could barely hear his words. “And, son, I thought it would give you a chance to forgive yourself. To let go of your bad feelings about your brother’s death.”
“What bad feelings?” Uncle cried. He threw his arms up, and some of his mezcal splashed out of the bottle.
“I am too old to argue with you, son.” Ta’nu sighed. Orange light flickered over his face. Already he was turning into shadows. Already fading. “I only hope that someday you will be at peace with Ramón’s death—and with his daughter,” he added, glancing at me.
I lowered my gaze to the foaming milk. Rarely did people dare to mention my father’s death. They feared fanning the flames of Uncle’s anger.
“You spoil her, just as you spoiled her father!” Smoke from the kitchen fire moved over Uncle’s face. He tried to blow it away. He swatted the air with his arms, furious. “You take her away from doing women’s work. And why? For nothing, so she can waste time walking around in the hills.”
“Helena is learning to cure, son, to continue my work,” Ta’nu replied calmly. “And she will continue it. She will continue it far better than I ever did. Far better than even my own grandfather. This I feel.”
My face grew warm.
“I don’t see her bringing in any money.” Uncle let out a forceful cough and fought his battle with the smoke. He tried to flick it away with his bottle. Still, the smoke moved toward him in a steady stream.
“Oh, in time she will,” Ta’nu said in a voice full of confidence. But his eyes looked tired, strained.
“She’s a woman,” Uncle pushed. “She’ll stop curing when she gets married anyway. She’s more useful as a maid.”
Ta’nu took a deep breath. Slowly, he let it out. He closed his eyes and leaned back, as though he were preparing to say something important. And then he snored.
My heart sank.
Uncle sneered and shook his head, coughing and laughing. I could tell he felt full of strength. Full of strength now that Ta’nu was losing his. For the first time he glanced over at me. I tried not to let my rage show. I tried to hold it in, but it shot out of my eyes. Like
sparks, it burned into him.
He looked away and mumbled, “Leave.”
I took the pot of milk off the hot coals. As I turned to go, Uncle added, “And don’t look at me again with those eyes. Just like your mother’s. Witch’s eyes.”
No one ever told me the whole story of what happened the day of my father’s death. But I have been able to fit some things together, like pieces of a broken plate. Bits of conversation and stories here and there. People said that from the time he was three years old, my father had a calling to heal. Barely walking, imagine! Ta’nu began teaching him, and soon he was curing neighbors and relatives. Word spread, and soon people knew his name in far-off villages. Soon they spoke of him like a saint, a worker of miracles.
Uncle José was a year older than Ramón. You see, the elder brother should be the more important, yet José lived in the shadow of his younger brother. The kernel of envy grew bigger and bigger inside José, until that was all he was: the jealous brother. People said that he picked on my father every waking moment. Teased him, tripped him, played cruel jokes on him. But no other boys laughed; no other boys joined in. Instead, they leaped to my father’s defense. And this fed José’s black ball of envy even more.
The day after Uncle announced I would go to Oaxaca City, Aunt Teresa and María and I went to gather mushrooms in the forest. Every moment with them felt precious now that I knew I might be leaving. Every moment golden. Since María had heard the news, early that morning, her hand had stayed firmly attached to mine. Hardly a minute passed without her throwing her arms around me, begging, pleading, “Don’t leave, Helena!”
Through the woods we walked, swinging our baskets. Aunt began speaking. “When your mother and I were young girls, Helena, we used to gather mushrooms together. Once we left the village, we’d make up stories. We’d wade in streams and climb trees….”
“Let’s climb trees now!” María shouted.
Aunt laughed and shook her head. “No, love. Your father will be angry if we don’t have our baskets full.”
I waited for Aunt to tell more. Memories of my mother were gems I collected. Precious little gems that I saved for sad times.
“I always wished I could be strong like your mother,” Aunt said. She dropped a blue-green mushroom into the basket.
“Strong?” But I’d thought my mother was weak. So weak that after my father died, she grew sick from grief. So weak that she let herself die. Why hadn’t she found strength to stay alive for me? How could she leave her two-year-old daughter? This was what I had always wondered.
“And brave, and honest…,” Aunt continued. She picked another mushroom from the base of a tree. “One morning, just after breakfast, before the men went out to collect firewood, your uncle José was in a dark mood. Oh, who knows why—you know his moods. José told your father he was more of a burden than a help with the heavy work. You see, your father was smaller than the other men, but he worked just as hard. As always, Ramón let the cruel words slide off him, like water over rocks. He left the table to join the other men, but José stayed behind, drinking the last of the tea. That’s when your mother said to him, in a voice sharper than a machete, ‘You, José, are a weak man. A shameful, weak man.’”
“She said that to Father?” María asked, her eyes wide.
Aunt nodded, smiling softly.
“And what did Uncle do?” I stared at Aunt. The mushroom basket dangled at my side, forgotten.
“He hung his head. He never could look into her eyes again. And he never taunted Ramón again. At least not whenever your mother was around.”
Tingles swept over me, tingles of pride. My mother had stood up to Uncle!
I’d already heard the rest of the story. One afternoon, when I was two years old, a terrible storm struck. They say it was the most violent storm in years. Thunder cracked so hard, the ground trembled. Blinding bolts of lightning crisscrossed the sky. The men ran in from the cornfields, into the nearest house, for shelter. They began drinking mezcal to calm their nerves. Soon a boy burst into the house. Through tears, he sobbed that his goats were running, frightened, toward the river. And the river was rising. My father told the boy not to worry. “I will bring your goats in, child,” he said. “Your goats will not drown.”
They say the other men tried to stop my father. “You’ll be killed!” they cried. But Uncle, drunk by then, said, “If my brother wants to play the hero, let him.”
My father rounded up every one of the goats and led them to shelter. As he ran back across the cornfield toward the house, a bolt of lightning struck him. The goats lived. My father died.
That evening, after Ta’nu finished his chamomile tea, he stood next to me by the kitchen fire. On my shoulder he rested his hand gently, then asked me to do as Uncle said. “In the city, Ita, you will learn Spanish. To speak Spanish is a powerful thing.”
“Why?” I asked.
“When we speak Mixteco the government treats us like squawking birds. In Spanish, they will listen.” He grew silent. Then he added, “And, Ita, I fear your uncle’s tempers. Of how he would treat you if I weren’t here. Maybe it is better that you go. There in the city you will depend on no one. No one but yourself.”
“But what about curing?”
“I have taught you much already, nearly as much as I know. The rest you will learn from other teachers who cross your path. Spirit teachers and human teachers.”
“I don’t want to go to the city, Ta’nu!” I threw down the spoon into the pot of tea. My tears spilled over. Yes, I still had a bit of a whiny little girl in me. But soon that would be gone.
“Who would I work for?”
“At the bar, your uncle met a man from Oaxaca City. Don Manuel García López is his name. His family wants a maid, a quiet girl from the country.” Ta’nu stroked my hair, trying to calm me.
“What will happen to you, Ta’nu?” He was fading, you see. His voice, his breath, fading. Lately his body seemed almost transparent, like fine lace. Like a mist blowing apart in a breeze. And at the bottom, this was my fear: that if I left, I might never see him alive again.
“María will help me with the chores. And soon I will need to stop curing.” He paused. “Will you go to the city, then, Ita?”
I felt a sharp tugging inside, as though a rope held me to the smoky bamboo kitchen. To the mountains whose forms I knew as well as the lines on my own palms. To the stream whose water flowed through my veins. To the cornfields that nourished my body. This land was a part of me, as much as my legs and arms and fingers were part of me.
But if Ta’nu wanted me to go, there must be some reason, some dream he had, some vision, some words from the spirits that told him this was right.
“Yes,” I agreed finally. “I’ll go.”
Three days later, I found myself walking along the path to town with Uncle José. I carried a big basket packed with my other huipil and skirt, a shawl, a blanket, mangoes, tortillas, salt, and limes. In a small sack tucked at the waist of the skirt I wore, I carried my herbs. They were wrapped carefully in dried corn husks, along with a flask of mezcal for making medicine. I hadn’t eaten that morning. My stomach was too full of worries, too full of questions. Where would I make offerings to the gods and my spirit animal, so far away from the caves of my village? How would I find the spirits? How would they find me?
I worried about María and Aunt Teresa. María had cried all morning long. She’d buried her head in my shoulder, and her stream of tears had soaked my huipil. Already I missed how she touched me on the arm as if we were sisters. Already I missed her funny stories, how she imitated the silly things Uncle did when he was drunk. And already I missed Aunt Teresa’s soft, timid face. How she brought bowls of chicken broth to me when I was sick, how she placed her hand on my forehead when I had bad dreams.
Uncle had me wait at the doorway of the darkened bar full of men. Rowdy men, laughing and shouting. I watched him walk over to a man standing in the corner. The man was a head taller than the others and wore an exp
ensive-looking leather hat. He had fine cheekbones and full lips. And a smug smile. The kind of smile that said he knew how charming he was. He strutted toward me and threw back his shoulders. His torso formed a perfect V.
When Uncle introduced us, don Manuel lifted one corner of his mouth. I offered my hand, but instead of touching it lightly, he gripped it. The way a hand clamps onto a chicken just before snapping its neck. His eyes moved over me. I wanted to run out the door and hide behind a tree.
“We’ll be on our way, then,” don Manuel said, touching the back of my neck. I cringed.
For a moment Uncle looked uncertain. He glanced at don Manuel, then at me, then back at don Manuel. Maybe he wouldn’t make me go after all.
“Don’t worry, José,” don Manuel laughed. “She’s a little too young for me.”
Uncle hesitated. I held my breath. Then his face relaxed into a grin. He reached out his hand to shake don Manuel’s. Uncle turned to me, and for a few seconds, he looked as though he might hug me, or at least touch my hand. But he only nodded at me, then disappeared into the bar.
For a moment, I thought about running back home. Instead, I took a deep breath and looked up at don Manuel. He motioned for me to climb into the back of his wagon with the baskets.
I sat on the wood planks. On one side of me was a tall basket of guavas that kept rolling onto my head during the journey. On the other side, a giant sack of corncobs, which I tried to use as a lumpy pillow. Don Manuel’s business, Ta’nu had told me, was buying fruits and vegetables from the villages and selling them in Oaxaca City to market vendors.
I’d never been to the city before, but Ta’nu had said it took a couple of days of travel. At dusk we stopped at a small wooden shelter by a trickle of a stream. Don Manuel said we would sleep there. He gave the horses water, then ate some dried meat and tortillas and drank mezcal. He didn’t offer me anything. This surprised me. You see, in my village there was a saying: We all eat from the same tortilla. This means that everyone should share. Everyone should respect each other, because at the bottom, we are all people.