Nuevo dolor de Maria Toledo

Ultima came to stay with us the summer I was almost seven. When she came the beauty of the llano unfolded before my eyes, and the gurgling waters of the river sang to the hum of the turning earth. The magical time of childhood stood still, and the pulse of the living earth pressed its mystery into my living blood. She took my hand, and the silent, magic powers she possessed made beauty from the raw, sun-baked llano, the green river valley, and the blue bowl which was the white sun’s home. My bare feet felt the throbbing earth and my body trembled with excitement. Time stood still, and it shared with me all that had been, and all that was to come….

Let me begin at the beginning. I do not mean the beginning that was in my dreams and the stories they whispered to me about my birth, and the people of my father and mother, and my three brothers—but the beginning that came with Ultima.

The attic of our home was partitioned into two small rooms. My sisters, Deborah and Theresa, slept in one and I slept in the small cubicle by the door. The wooden steps creaked down into a small hallway that led into the kitchen. From the top of the stairs I had a vantage point into the heart of our home, my mother’s kitchen. From there I was to see the terrified face of Chávez when he brought the terrible news of the murder of the sheriff; I was to see the rebellion of my brothers against my father; and many times late at night I was to see Ultima returning from the llano where she gathered the herbs that can be harvested only in the light of the full moon by the careful hands of a curandera.

That night I lay very quietly in my bed, and I heard my father and mother speak of Ultima.

“Está sola,” my father said, “ya no queda gente en el pueblito de Las Pasturas—”

He spoke in Spanish, and the village he mentioned was his home. My father had been a vaquero all his life, a calling as ancient as the coming of the Spaniard to Nuevo Méjico. Even after the big rancheros and the tejanos came and fenced the beautiful llano, he and those like him continued to work there, I guess because only in that wide expanse of land and sky could they feel the freedom their spirits needed.

“Qué lástima,” my mother answered, and I knew her nimble fingers worked the pattern on the doily she crocheted for the big chair in the sala.

I heard her sigh, and she must have shuddered too when she thought of Ultima living alone in the loneliness of the wide llano. My mother was not a woman of the llano, she was the daughter of a farmer. She could not see beauty in the llano and she could not understand the coarse men who lived half their lifetimes on horseback. After I was born in Las Pasturas she persuaded my father to leave the llano and bring her family to the town of Guadalupe where she said there would be opportunity and school for us. The move lowered my father in the esteem of his compadres, the other vaqueros of the llano who clung tenaciously to their way of life and freedom. There was no room to keep animals in town so my father had to sell his small herd, but he would not sell his horse so he gave it to a good friend, Benito Campos. But Campos could not keep the animal penned up because somehow the horse was very close to the spirit of the man, and so the horse was allowed to roam free and no vaquero on that llano would throw a lazo on that horse. It was as if someone had died, and they turned their gaze from the spirit that walked the earth.

It hurt my father’s pride. He saw less and less of his old compadres. He went to work on the highway and on Saturdays after they collected their pay he drank with his crew at the Longhorn, but he was never close to the men of the town. Some weekends the llaneros would come into town for supplies and old amigos like Bonney or Campos or the Gonzales brothers would come by to visit. Then my father’s eyes lit up as they drank and talked of the old days and told the old stories. But when the western sun touched the clouds with orange and gold the vaqueros got in their trucks and headed home, and my father was left to drink alone in the long night. Sunday morning he would get up very crudo and complain about having to go to early mass.

“—She served the people all her life, and now the people are scattered, driven like tumbleweeds by the winds of war. The war sucks everything dry,” my father said solemnly, “it takes the young boys overseas, and their families move to California where there is work—”

“Ave Mariá Purisima,” my mother made the sign of the cross for my three brothers who were away at war. “Gabriel,” she said to my father, “it is not right that la Grande be alone in her old age—”

“No,” my father agreed.

“When I married you and went to the llano to live with you and raise your family, I could not have survived without la Grande’s help. Oh, those were hard years—”
“Those were good years,” my father countered. But my mother would not argue.

“There isn’t a family she did not help,” she continued, “no road was too long for her to walk to its end to snatch somebody from the jaws of death, and not even the blizzards of the llano could keep her from the appointed place where a baby was to be delivered—”

“Es verdad,” my father nodded.

“She tended me at the birth of my sons—” And then I knew her eyes glanced briefly at my father. “Gabriel, we cannot let her live her last days in loneliness—”

“No,” my father agreed, “it is not the way of our people.”

“It would be a great honor to provide a home for la Grande,” my mother murmured. My mother called Ultima la Grande out of respect. It meant the woman was old and wise.

“I have already sent word with Campos that Ultima is to come and live with us,” my father said with some satisfaction. He knew it would please my mother.

“I am grateful,” my mother said tenderly, “perhaps we can repay a little of the kindness la Grande has given to so many.”

“And the children?” my father asked. I knew why he expressed concern for me and my sisters. It was because Ultima was a curandera, a woman who knew the herbs and remedies of the ancients, a miracle-worker who could heal the sick. And I had heard that Ultima could lift the curses laid by brujas, that she could exorcise the evil the witches planted in people to make them sick. And because a curandera had this power she was misunderstood and often suspected of practicing witchcraft herself.

I shuddered and my heart turned cold at the thought. The cuentos of the people were full of the tales of evil done by brujas.

“She helped bring them into the world, she cannot be but good for the children,” my mother answered.

“Está bien,” my father yawned, “I will go for her in the morning.”

So it was decided that Ultima should come and live with us. I knew that my father and mother did good by providing a home for Ultima. It was the custom to provide for the old and the sick. There was always room in the safety and warmth of la familia for one more person, be that person stranger or friend.
It was warm in the attic, and as I lay quietly listening to the sounds of the house falling asleep and repeating a Hail Mary over and over in my thoughts, I drifted into the time of dreams. Once I had told my mother about my dreams, and she said they were visions from God and she was happy, because her own dream was that I should grow up and become a priest. After that I did not tell her about my dreams, and they remained in me forever and ever…

In my dream I flew over the rolling hills of the llano. My soul wandered over the dark plain until it came to a cluster of adobe huts. I recognized the village of Las Pasturas and my heart grew happy. One mud hut had a lighted window, and the vision of my dream swept me towards it to be witness at the birth of a baby.

I could not make out the face of the mother who rested from the pains of birth, but I could see the old woman in black who tended the just-arrived, steaming baby. She nimbly tied a knot on the cord that had connected the baby to its mother’s blood, then quickly she bent and with her teeth she bit off the loose end. She wrapped the squirming baby and laid it at the mother’s side, then she returned to cleaning the bed. All linen was swept aside to be washed, but she carefully wrapped the useless cord and the afterbirth and laid the package at the feet of the Virgin on the small altar. I sensed that these things were yet to be delivered to someone.

Now the people who had waited patiently in the dark were allowed to come in and speak to the mother and deliver their gifts to the baby. I recognized my mother’s brothers, my uncles from El Puerto de los Lunas. They entered ceremoniously. A patient hope stirred in their dark, brooding eyes.

This one will be a Luna, the old man said, he will be a farmer and keep our customs and traditions. Perhaps God will bless our family and make the baby a priest.

And to show their hope they rubbed the dark earth of the river valley on the baby’s forehead, and they surrounded the bed with the fruits of their harvest so the small room smelled of fresh green chile and corn, ripe apples and peaches, pumpkins and green beans.

Then the silence was shattered with the thunder of hoofbeats; vaqueros surrounded the small house with shouts and gunshots, and when they entered the room they were laughing and singing and drinking.

Gabriel, they shouted, you have a fine son! He will make a fine vaquero! And they smashed the fruits and vegetables that surrounded the bed and replaced them with a saddle, horse blankets, bottles of whiskey, a new rope, bridles, chapas, and an old guitar. And they rubbed the stain of earth from the baby’s forehead because man was not to be tied to the earth but free upon it.

These were the people of my father, the vaqueros of the llano. They were an exuberant, restless people, wandering across the ocean of the plain.

We must return to our valley, the old man who led the farmers spoke. We must take with us the blood that comes after the birth. We will bury it in our fields to renew their fertility and to assure that the baby will follow our ways. He nodded for the old woman to deliver the package at the altar.

No! the llaneros protested, it will stay here! We will burn it and let the winds of the llano scatter the ashes.

It is blasphemy to scatter a man’s blood on unholy ground, the farmers chanted. The new son must fulfill his mother’s dream. He must come to El Puerto and rule over the Lunas of the valley. The blood of the Lunas is strong in him.

He is a Márez, the vaqueros shouted. His forefathers were conquistadores, men as restless as the seas they sailed and as free as the land they conquered. He is his father’s blood!
Curses and threats filled the air, pistols were drawn, and the opposing sides made ready for battle. But the clash was stopped by the old woman who delivered the baby.
Cease! she cried, and the men were quiet. I pulled this baby into the light of life, so I will bury the afterbirth and the cord that once linked him to eternity. Only I will know his destiny.

The dream began to dissolve. When I opened my eyes I heard my father cranking the truck outside. I wanted to go with him, I wanted to see Las Pasturas, I wanted to see Ultima. I dressed hurriedly, but I was too late. The truck was bouncing down the goat path that led to the bridge and the highway.

I turned, as I always did, and looked down the slope of our hill to the green of the river, and I raised my eyes and saw the town of Guadalupe. Towering above the housetops and the trees of the town was the church tower. I made the sign of the cross on my lips. The only other building that rose above the housetops to compete with the church tower was the yellow top of the schoolhouse. This fall I would be going to school.

My heart sank. When I thought of leaving my mother and going to school a warm, sick feeling came to my stomach. To get rid of it I ran to the pens we kept by the molino to feed the animals. I had fed the rabbits that night and they already had alfalfa and so I only changed their water. I scattered some grain for the hungry chickens and watched their mad scramble as the rooster called them to peck. I milked the cow and turned her loose. During the day she would forage along the highway where the grass was thick and green, then she would return at nightfall. She was a good cow and there were very few times when I had to run and bring her back in the evening. Then I dreaded it, because she might wander into the hills where the bats flew at dusk and there was only the sound of my heart beating as I ran and it made me sad and frightened to be alone.

I collected three eggs in the chicken house and returned for breakfast.

“Antonio,” my mother smiled and took the eggs and milk, “come and eat your breakfast.”

I sat across the table from Deborah and Theresa and ate my atole and the hot tortilla with butter. I said very little. I usually spoke very little to my two sisters. They were older than I and they were very close. They usually spent the entire day in the attic, playing dolls and giggling. I did not concern myself with those things.

“Your father has gone to Las Pasturas,” my mother chattered, “he has gone to bring la Grande.” Her hands were white with the flour of the dough. I watched carefully. “—And when he returns, I want you children to show your manners. You must not shame your father or your mother—”

“Isn’t her real name Ultima?” Deborah asked. She was like that, always asking grown-up questions.

“You will address her as la Grande,” my mother said flatly. I looked at her and wondered if this woman with the black hair and laughing eyes was the woman who gave birth in my dream.

“Grande,” Theresa repeated.

“Is it true she is a witch?” Deborah asked. Oh, she was in for it. I saw my mother whirl then pause and control herself.

“No!” she scolded. “You must not speak of such things! Oh, I don’t know where you learn such ways—” Her eyes flooded with tears. She always cried when she thought we were learning the ways of my father, the ways of the Márez. “She is a woman of learning,” she went on and I knew she didn’t have time to stop and cry, “she had worked hard for all the people of the village. Oh, I would never have survived those hard years if it had not been for her—so show her respect. We are honored that she comes to live with us, understand?”

“Sí, mamá,” Deborah said half willingly.

“Sí, mamá,” Theresa repeated.

“Now run and sweep the room at the end of the hall. Eugene’s room—” I heard her voice choke. She breathed a prayer and crossed her forehead. The flour left white stains on her, the four points of the cross. I knew it was because my three brothers were at war that she was sad, and Eugene was the youngest.

“Mamá.” I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to know who the old woman was who cut the baby’s cord.

“Sí.” She turned and looked at me.

“Was Ultima at my birth?” I asked.

“¡Ay Dios mío!” my mother cried. She came to where I sat and ran her hand through my hair. She smelled warm, like bread. “Where do you get such questions, my son. Yes,” she smiled, “la Grande was there to help me. She was there to help at the birth of all of my children—”

“And my uncles from El Puerto were there?”

“Of course,” she answered, “my brothers have always been at my side when I needed them. They have always prayed that I would bless them with a—”

I did not hear what she said because I was hearing the sounds of the dream, and I was seeing the dream again. The warm cereal in my stomach made me feel sick.

“And my father’s brother was there, the Márez’ and their friends, the vaqueros—”

“Ay!” she cried out. “Don’t speak to me of those worthless Márez and their friends!”

“There was a fight?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “a silly argument. They wanted to start a fight with my brothers—that is all they are good for. Vaqueros, they call themselves, they are worthless drunks! Thieves! Always on the move, like gypsies, always dragging their families around the country like vagabonds—”

As long as I could remember she always raged about the Márez family and their friends. She called the village of Las Pasturas beautiful; she had gotten used to the loneliness, but she had never accepted its people. She was the daughter of farmers.

But the dream was true. It was as I had seen it. Ultima knew.

“But you will not be like them.” She caught her breath and stopped. She kissed my forehead. “You will be like my brothers. You will be a Luna, Antonio. You will be a man of the people, and perhaps a priest.” She smiled.

A priest, I thought, that was her dream. I was to hold mass on Sundays like father Byrnes did in the church in town. I was to hear the confessions of the silent people of the valley, and I was to administer the holy Sacrament to them.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Yes,” my mother smiled. She held me tenderly. The fragrance of her body was sweet.

“But then,” I whispered, “who will hear my confession?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I answered. I felt a cool sweat on my forehead and I knew I had to run, I had to clear my mind of the dream. “I am going to Jasón’s house,” I said hurriedly and slid past my mother. I ran out the kitchen door, past the animal pens, towards Jasón’s house. The white sun and the fresh air cleansed me.

On this side of the river there were only three houses. The slope of the hill rose gradually into the hills of juniper and mesquite and cedar clumps. Jasón’s house was farther away from the river than our house. On the path that led to the bridge lived huge, fat Fío and his beautiful wife. Fío and my father worked together on the highway. They were good drinking friends.

“¡Jasón!” I called at the kitchen door. I had run hard and was panting. His mother appeared at the door.

“Jasón no está aquí,” she said. All of the older people spoke only in Spanish, and I myself understood only Spanish. It was only after one went to school that one learned English.

“Dónde está?” I asked.

She pointed towards the river, northwest, past the railroad tracks to the dark hills. The river came through those hills and there were old Indian grounds there, holy burial grounds Jasón told me. There in an old cave lived his Indian. At least everybody called him Jasón’s Indian. He was the only Indian of the town, and he talked only to Jasón. Jasón’s father had forbidden Jasón to talk to the Indian, he had beaten him, he had tried in every way to keep Jasón from the Indian.

But Jasón persisted. Jasón was not a bad boy, he was just Jasón. He was quiet and moody, and sometimes for no reason at all wild, loud sounds came exploding from his throat and lungs. Sometimes I felt like Jasón, like I wanted to shout and cry, but I never did.

I looked at his mother’s eyes and I saw they were sad. “Thank you,” I said, and returned home. While I waited for my father to return with Ultima I worked in the garden. Every day I had to work in the garden. Every day I reclaimed from the rocky soil of the hill a few more feet of earth to cultivate. The land of the llano was not good for farming, the good land was along the river. But my mother wanted a garden and I worked to make her happy. Already we had a few chile and tomato plants growing. It was hard work. My fingers bled from scraping out the rocks and it seemed that a square yard of ground produced a wheelbarrow full of rocks which I had to push down to the retaining wall.

The sun was white in the bright blue sky. The shade of the clouds would not come until the afternoon. The sweat was sticky on my brown body. I heard the truck and turned to see it chugging up the dusty goat path. My father was returning with Ultima.

“¡Mamá!” I called. My mother came running out, Deborah and Theresa trailed after her.

“I’m afraid,” I heard Theresa whimper.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Deborah said confidently. My mother said there was too much Márez blood in Deborah. Her eyes and hair were very dark, and she was always running. She had been to school two years and she spoke only English. She was teaching Theresa and half the time I didn’t understand what they were saying.

“Madre de Dios, but mind your manners!” my mother scolded. The truck stopped and she ran to greet Ultima. “Buenos días le de Dios, Grande,” my mother cried. She smiled and hugged and kissed the old woman.

“Ay, María Luna,” Ultima smiled, “buenos días te de Dios, a ti y a tu familia.” She wrapped the black shawl around her hair and shoulders. Her face was brown and very wrinkled. When she smiled her teeth were brown. I remembered the dream.

“Come, come!” my mother urged us forward. It was the custom to greet the old. “Deborah!” my mother urged. Deborah stepped forward and took Ultima’s withered hand.

“Buenos días, Grande,” she smiled. She even bowed slightly. Then she pulled Theresa forward and told her to greet la Grande. My mother beamed. Deborah’s good manners surprised her, but they made her happy, because a family was judged by its manners.

“What beautiful daughters you have raised,” Ultima nodded to my mother. Nothing could have pleased my mother more. She looked proudly at my father who stood leaning against the truck, watching and judging the introductions.

“Antonio,” he said simply. I stepped forward and took Ultima’s hand. I looked up into her clear brown eyes and shivered. Her face was old and wrinkled, but her eyes were clear and sparkling, like the eyes of a young child.

“Antonio,” she smiled. She took my hand, and I felt the power of a whirlwind sweep around me. Her eyes swept the surrounding hills and through them I saw for the first time the wild beauty of our hills and the magic of the green river. My nostrils quivered as I felt the song of the mockingbirds and the drone of the grasshoppers mingle with the pulse of the earth. The four directions of the llano met in me, and the white sun shone on my soul. The granules of sand at my feet and the sun and sky above me seemed to dissolve into one strange, complete being.

A cry came to my throat, and I wanted to shout it and run in the beauty I had found.

“Antonio.” I felt my mother prod me. Deborah giggled because she had made the right greeting, and I who was to be my mother’s hope and joy stood voiceless.

“Buenos días le de Dios, Ultima,” I muttered. I saw in her eyes my dream. I saw the old woman who had delivered me from my mother’s womb. I knew she held the secret of my destiny.

“¡Antonio!” My mother was shocked I had used her name instead of calling her Grande. But Ultima held up her hand.

“Let it be,” she smiled. “This was the last child I pulled from your womb, María. I knew there would be something between us.”

My mother who had started to mumble apologies was quiet. “As you wish, Grande,” she nodded.

“I have come to spend the last days of my life here, Antonio,” Ultima said to me.

“You will never die, Ultima,” I answered. “I will take care of you—” She let go of my hand and laughed. Then my father said, “Pase, Grande, pase. Nuestra casa es su casa. It is too hot to stand and visit in the sun—”

“Sí, sí,” my mother urged. I watched them go in. My father carried on his shoulders the large blue-tin trunk which later I learned contained all of Ultima’s earthly possessions, the black dresses and shawls she wore, and the magic of her sweet smelling herbs.

As Ultima walked past me I smelled for the first time a trace of the sweet fragrance of herbs that always lingered in her wake. Many years later, long after Ultima was gone and I had grown to be a man, I would awaken sometimes at night and think I caught a scent of her fragrance in the cool-night breeze.

And with Ultima came the owl. I heard it that night for the first time in the juniper tree outside of Ultima’s window. I knew it was her owl because the other owls of the llano did not come that near the house. At first it disturbed me, and Deborah and Theresa too. I heard them whispering through the partition. I heard Deborah reassuring Theresa that she would take care of her, and then she took Theresa in her arms and rocked her until they were both asleep.

I waited. I was sure my father would get up and shoot the owl with the old rifle he kept on the kitchen wall. But he didn’t, and I accepted his understanding. In many cuentos I had heard the owl was one of the disguises a bruja took, and so it struck a chord of fear in the heart to hear them hooting at night. But not Ultima’s owl. Its soft hooting was like a song, and as it grew rhythmic it calmed the moonlit hills and lulled us to sleep. Its song seemed to say that it had come to watch over us.

I dreamed about the owl that night, and my dream was good. La Virgen de Guadalupe was the patron saint of our town. The town was named after her. In my dream I saw Ultima’s owl lift la Virgen on her wide wings and fly her to heaven. Then the owl returned and gathered up all the babes of Limbo and flew them up to the clouds of heaven.

The Virgin smiled at the goodness of the owl.

Última vino a quedarse con nosotros el verano que casi cumplía siete años. Cuando llegó, la belleza del llano se desplegó ante mis ojos, y las aguas murmurantes del río cantaban al ritmo de la tierra girando. El tiempo mágico de la infancia se detuvo, y el pulso de la tierra viva presionó su misterio en mi sangre viva. Tomó mi mano, y los poderes mágicos y silenciosos que poseía hicieron belleza del llano crudo, del valle del río verde y del cuenco azul que era el hogar del sol blanco. Mis pies descalzos sentían la tierra palpitante y mi cuerpo temblaba de emoción. El tiempo se detuvo y compartió conmigo todo lo que había sido y todo lo que estaba por venir...

Déjame comenzar desde el principio. No me refiero al principio que estaba en mis sueños y en las historias que me susurraban sobre mi nacimiento, y la gente de mi padre y madre, y mis tres hermanos, sino al principio que vino con Última.

El desván de nuestra casa estaba dividido en dos habitaciones pequeñas. Mis hermanas, Deborah y Theresa, dormían en una y yo dormía en el pequeño cubículo junto a la puerta. Los escalones de madera crujían bajando a un pequeño pasillo que llevaba a la cocina. Desde la parte superior de las escaleras tenía una vista privilegiada al corazón de nuestra casa, la cocina de mi madre. Desde allí vi el rostro aterrorizado de Chávez cuando trajo la terrible noticia del asesinato del alguacil; vi la rebelión de mis hermanos contra mi padre; y muchas veces, tarde por la noche, vi a Última regresar del llano donde recogía las hierbas que solo se pueden recolectar a la luz de la luna llena con las manos cuidadosas de una curandera.

Esa noche me quedé muy quieto en mi cama, y escuché a mi padre y madre hablar de Última.

"Está sola", dijo mi padre, "ya no queda gente en el pueblito de Las Pasturas—"

Hablaba en español y el pueblo que mencionaba era su hogar. Mi padre había sido vaquero toda su vida, una vocación tan antigua como la llegada del español a Nuevo México. Incluso después de que llegaran los grandes rancheros y los tejanos y cercaran el hermoso llano, él y los que eran como él continuaron trabajando allí, supongo que porque solo en esa amplia extensión de tierra y cielo podían sentir la libertad que sus espíritus necesitaban.

"Qué lástima", respondió mi madre, y su ágiles dedos trabajaban en el diseño del tapete que estaba tejiendo para el gran sillón de la sala.

La escuché suspirar, y también debió de haberse estremecido al pensar en Última viviendo sola en la soledad del amplio llano. Mi madre no era una mujer del llano, era hija de un granjero. No podía ver la belleza en el llano y no podía entender a los hombres rudos que vivían la mitad de sus vidas a caballo. Después de que nací en Las Pasturas persuadió a mi padre de dejar el llano y traer a su familia al pueblo de Guadalupe, donde decía que habría oportunidades y escuela para nosotros. El traslado disminuyó la estima de mi padre entre sus compadres, los otros vaqueros del llano que se aferraban tenazmente a su forma de vida y libertad. No había espacio para mantener animales en el pueblo, así que mi padre tuvo que vender su pequeño rebaño, pero no quería vender su caballo, así que se lo dio a un buen amigo, Benito Campos. Pero Campos no podía mantener al animal encerrado porque de alguna manera el caballo estaba muy unido al espíritu del hombre, y así se le permitió al caballo vagar libre y ningún vaquero de ese llano lanzaría un lazo sobre ese caballo. Era como si alguien hubiera muerto, y apartaron la mirada del espíritu