Bless Me, Ultima Page 3

  “Chávez, ¿qué pasa?” My father held the trembling man.

  “¡Mi hermano, mi hermano!” Chávez sobbed. “He has killed my brother!”

  “¿Pero qué dices, hombre?” my father exclaimed. He pulled Chávez into the hall and held up the farol. The light cast by the farol revealed the wild, frightened eyes of Chávez.

  “¡Gabriel!” my mother cried and came forward, but my father pushed her back. He did not want her to see the monstrous mask of fear on the man’s face.

  “It is not our sons, it is something in town—get him some water.”

  “Lo mató, lo mató—” Chávez repeated.

  “Get hold of yourself, hombre, tell me what has happened!” My father shook Chávez and the man’s sobbing subsided. He took the glass of water and drank, then he could talk.

  “Reynaldo has just brought the news, my brother is dead,” he sighed and slumped against the wall. Chávez’ brother was the sheriff of the town. The man would have fallen if my father had not held him up.

  “¡Madre de Dios! Who? How?”

  “¡Lupito!” Chávez cried out. His face corded with thick veins. For the first time his left arm came up and I saw the rifle he held.

  “Jesús, María y José,” my mother prayed.

  My father groaned and slumped against the wall. “Ay que Lupito,” he shook his head, “the war made him crazy—”

  Chávez regained part of his composure. “Get your rifle, we must go to the bridge—”

  “The bridge?”

  “Reynaldo said to meet him there—The crazy bastard has taken to the river—”

  My father nodded silently. He went to the bedroom and returned with his coat. While he loaded his rifle in the kitchen Chávez related what he knew.

  “My brother had just finished his rounds,” he gasped, “he was at the bus depot cafe, having coffee, sitting without a care in the world—and the bastard came up to where he sat and without warning shot him in the head—” His body shook as he retold the story.

  “Perhaps it is better if you wait here, hombre,” my father said with consolation.

  “No!” Chávez shouted. “I must go. He was my brother!”

  My father nodded. I saw him stand beside Chávez and put his arm around his shoulders. Now he too was armed. I had only seen him shoot the rifle when we slaughtered pigs in the fall. Now they were going armed for a man.

  “Gabriel, be careful,” my mother called as my father and Chávez slipped out into the dark.

  “Sí,” I heard him answer, then the screen door banged. “Keep the doors locked—” My mother went to the door and shut the latch. We never locked our doors, but tonight there was something strange and fearful in the air.

  Perhaps this is what drew me out into the night to follow my father and Chávez down to the bridge, or perhaps it was some concern I had for my father. I do not know. I waited until my mother was in the sala then I dressed and slipped downstairs. I glanced down the hall and saw candlelight flickering from the sala. That room was never entered unless there were Sunday visitors, or unless my mother took us in to pray novenas and rosaries for my brothers at war. I knew she was kneeling at her altar now, praying. I knew she would pray until my father returned.

  I slipped out the kitchen door and into the night. It was cool. I sniffed the air; there was a tinge of autumn in it. I ran up the goat path until I caught sight of two dark shadows ahead of me. Chávez and my father.

  We passed Fío’s dark house and then the tall juniper tree that stood where the hill sloped down to the bridge. Even from this distance I could hear the commotion on the bridge. As we neared the bridge I was afraid of being discovered as I had no reason for being there. My father would be very angry. To escape detection I cut to the right and was swallowed up by the dark brush of the river. I pushed through the dense bosque until I came to the bank of the river. From where I stood I could look up into the flooding beams of light that were pointed down by the excited men. I could hear them giving frenzied, shouted instructions. I looked to my left where the bridge started and saw my father and Chávez running towards the excitement at the center of the bridge.

  My eyes were now accustomed to the dark, but it was a glint of light that made me turn and look at a clump of bull-rushes in the sweeping water of the river just a few yards away. What I saw made my blood run cold. Crouched in the reeds and half submerged in the muddy waters lay the figure of Lupito, the man who had killed the sheriff. The glint of light was from the pistol he held in his hand.

  It was frightening enough to come upon him so suddenly, but as I dropped to my knees in fright I must have uttered a cry because he turned and looked directly at me. At that same moment a beam of light found him and illuminated a face twisted with madness. I do not know if he saw me, or if the light cut off his vision, but I saw his bitter, contorted grin. As long as I live I will never forget those wild eyes, like the eyes of a trapped, savage animal.

  At the same time someone shouted from the bridge. “There!” Then all the lights found the crouched figure. He jumped and I saw him as clear as if it were daylight.

  “Ayeeeeee!” He screamed a blood curdling cry that echoed down the river. The men on the bridge didn’t know what to do. They stood transfixed, looking down at the mad man waving the pistol in the air. “Ayeeeeeeee!” He cried again. It was a cry of rage and pain, and it made my soul sick. The cry of a tormented man had come to the peaceful green mystery of my river, and the great presence of the river watched from the shadows and deep recesses, as I watched from where I crouched at the bank.

  “Japanese sol’jer, Japanese sol’jer!” he cried, “I am wounded. Come help me—” he called to the men on the bridge. The rising mist of the river swirled in the beams of spotlights. It was like a horrible nightmare.

  Suddenly he leaped up and ran splashing through the water towards me. The lights followed him. He grew bigger, I heard his panting, the water his feet kicked up splashed on my face, and I thought he would run over me. Then as quickly as he had sprinted in my direction he turned and disappeared again into the dark clumps of reeds in the river. The lights moved in all directions, but they couldn’t find him. Some of the lights swept over me and I trembled with fear that I would be found out, or worse, that I would be mistaken for Lupito and shot.

  “The crazy bastard got away!” someone shouted on the bridge.

  “Ayeeeeee!” the scream sounded again. It was a cry that I did not understand, and I am sure the men on the bridge did not either. The man they hunted had slipped away from human understanding; he had become a wild animal, and they were afraid.

  “Damn!” I heard them cursing themselves. Then a car with a siren and flashing red light came on the bridge. It was Vigil, the state policeman who patrolled our town.

  “Chávez is dead!” I heard him shout. “He never had a chance. His brains blown out—” There was silence.

  “We have to kill him!” Jasón’s father shouted. His voice was full of anger, rage and desperation.

  “I have to deputize you—” Vigil started to say.

  “The hell with deputizing!” Chávez shouted. “He killed my brother! ¡Está loco!” The men agreed with their silence.

  “Have you spotted him?” Vigil asked.

  “Just now we saw him, but we lost him—”

  “He’s down there,” someone added.

  “He is an animal! He has to be shot!” Chávez cried out.

  “¡Sí!” the men agreed.

  “Now wait a moment—” It was my father who spoke. I do not know what he said because of the shouting. In the meantime I searched the dark of the river for Lupito. I finally saw him. He was about forty feet away, crouched in the reeds as before. The muddy waters of the river lapped and gurgled savagely around him. Before the night had been only cool, now it turned cold and I shivered. I was torn between a fear that made my body tremble, and a desire to help the poor man. But I could not move, I could only watch like a chained spectator.

  “Má
rez is right!” I heard a booming voice on the bridge. In the lights I could make out the figure of Narciso. There was only one man that big and with that voice in town. I knew that Narciso was one of the old people from Las Pasturas, and that he was a good friend to my father. I knew they often drank together on Saturdays, and once or twice he had been to our house.

  “¡Por Dios, hombres!” he shouted. “Let us act like men! That is not an animal down there, that is a man. Lupito. You all know Lupito. You know that the war made him sick—” But the men would not listen to Narciso. I guess it was because he was the town drunk, and they said he never did anything useful.

  “Go back to your drinking and leave this job to men,” one of them jeered at him.

  “He killed the sheriff in cold blood,” another added. I knew that the sheriff had been greatly admired.

  “I am not drinking,” Narciso persisted, “it is you men who are drunk for blood. You have lost your reason—”

  “Reason!” Chávez countered. “What reason did he have for killing my brother. You know,” he addressed the men, “my brother did no one harm. Tonight a mad animal crawled behind him and took his life. You call that reason! That animal has to be destroyed!”

  “¡Sí! ¡Sí!” the men shouted in unison.

  “At least let us try to talk to him,” Narciso begged. I knew that it was hard for a man of the llano to beg.

  “Yes,” Vigil added, “perhaps he will give himself up—”

  “Do you think he’ll listen to talk!” Chávez jumped forward. “He’s down there, and he still has the pistol that killed my brother! Go down and talk to him!” I could see Chávez shouting in Vigil’s face, and Vigil said nothing. Chávez laughed. “This is the only talk he will understand—” he turned and fired over the railing of the bridge. His shots roared then whined away down the river. I could hear the bullets make splashing noises in the water.

  “Wait!” Narciso shouted. He took Chávez’ rifle and with one hand held it up. Chávez struggled against him but Narciso was too big and strong. “I will talk to him,” Narciso said. He pushed Chávez back. “I understand your sorrow Chávez,” he said, “but one killing is enough for tonight—” The men must have been impressed by his sincerity because they stood back and waited.

  Narciso leaned over the concrete railing and shouted down into the darkness. “Hey Lupito! It is me, Narciso. It is me, hombre, your compadre. Listen my friend, a very bad business has happened tonight, but if we act like men we can settle it—Let me come down and talk to you, Lupito. Let me help you—”

  I looked at Lupito. He had been watching the action on the bridge, but now as Narciso talked to him I saw his head slump on his chest. He seemed to be thinking. I prayed that he would listen to Narciso and that the angry and frustrated men on the bridge would not commit mortal sin. The night was very quiet. The men on the bridge awaited an answer. Only the lapping water of the river made a sound.

  “¡Amigo!” Narciso shouted, “You know I am your friend, I want to help you, hombre—” He laughed softly. “Hey, Lupito, you remember just a few years ago, before you went to the war, you remember the first time you came into the Eight Ball to gamble a little. Remember how I taught you how Juan Botas marked the aces with a little tobacco juice, and he thought you were green, but you beat him!” He laughed again. “Those were good times, Lupito, before the war came. Now we have this bad business to settle. But we are friends who will help you—”

  I saw Lupito’s tense body shake. A low, sad mournful cry tore itself from his throat and mixed into the lapping sound of the waters of the river. His head shook slowly, and I guess he must have been thinking and fighting between surrendering or remaining free, and hunted. Then like a coiled spring he jumped up, his pistol aimed straight up. There was a flash of fire and the loud report of the pistol. But he had not fired at Narciso or at any of the men on the bridge! The spotlights found him.

  “There’s your answer!” Chávez shouted.

  “He’s firing! He’s firing!” another voice shouted. “He’s crazy!”

  Lupito’s pistol sounded again. Still he was not aiming at the men on the bridge. He was shooting to draw their fire!

  “Shoot! Shoot!” someone on the bridge called.

  “No, no,” I whispered through clenched lips. But it was too late for anything. The frightened men responded by aiming their rifles over the side of the bridge. One single shot sounded then a barrage followed it like the roar of a cannon, like the rumble of thunder in a summer thunderstorm.

  Many shots found their mark. I saw Lupito lifted off his feet and hurled backward by the bullets. But he got up and ran limping and crying towards the bank where I lay.

  “Bless me—” I thought he cried, and the second volley of shots from the bridge sounded, but this time they sounded like a great whirling of wings, like pigeons swirling to roost on the church top. He fell forward then clawed and crawled out of the holy water of the river onto the bank in front of me. I wanted to reach out and help him, but I was frozen by my fear. He looked up at me and his face was bathed in water and flowing, hot blood, but it was also dark and peaceful as it slumped into the sand of the riverbank. He made a strange gurgling sound in his throat, then he was still. Up on the bridge a great shout went up. The men were already running to the end of the bridge to come down and claim the man whose dead hands dug into the soft, wet sand in front of me.

  I turned and ran. The dark shadows of the river enveloped me as I raced for the safety of home. Branches whipped at my face and cut it, and vines and tree trunks caught at my feet and tripped me. In my headlong rush I disturbed sleeping birds and their shrill cries and slapping wings hit at my face. The horror of darkness had never been so complete as it was for me that night.

  I had started praying to myself from the moment I heard the first shot, and I never stopped praying until I reached home. Over and over through my mind ran the words of the Act of Contrition. I had not yet been to catechism, nor had I made my first holy communion, but my mother had taught me the Act of Contrition. It was to be said after one made his confession to the priest, and as the last prayer before death.

  Did God listen? Would he hear? Had he seen my father on the bridge? And where was Lupito’s soul winging to, or was it washing down the river to the fertile valley of my uncles’ farms?

  A priest could have saved Lupito. Oh why did my mother dream for me to be a priest! How would I ever wash away the stain of blood from the sweet waters of my river! I think at that time I began to cry because as I left the river brush and headed up the hills I heard my sobs for the first time.

  It was also then that I heard the owl. Between my gasps for air and my sobs I stopped and listened for its song. My heart was pounding and my lungs hurt, but a calmness had come over the moonlit night when I heard the hooting of Ultima’s owl. I stood still for a long time. I realized that the owl had been with me throughout the night. It had watched over all that had happened on the bridge. Suddenly the terrible, dark fear that had possessed me was gone.

  I looked at the house that my father and my brothers had built on the juniper-patched hill; it was quiet and peaceful in the blue night. The sky sparkled with a million stars and the Virgin’s horned moon, the moon of my mother’s people, the moon of the Lunas. My mother would be praying for the soul of Lupito.

  Again the owl sang; Ultima’s spirit bathed me with its strong resolution. I turned and looked across the river. Some lights shone in the town. In the moonlight I could make out the tower of the church, the schoolhouse top, and way beyond the glistening of the town’s water tank. I heard the soft wail of a siren, and I knew the men would be pulling Lupito from the river.

  The river’s brown waters would be stained with blood, forever and ever and ever…

  In the autumn I would have to go to the school in the town, and in a few years I would go to catechism lessons in the church. I shivered. My body began to hurt from the beating it had taken from the brush of the river. But what hurt more was th
at I had witnessed for the first time the death of a man.

  My father did not like the town or its way. When we had first moved from Las Pasturas we had lived in a rented house in the town. But every evening after work he had looked across the river to these barren, empty hills, and finally he had bought a couple of acres and began building our house. Everyone told him he was crazy, that the rocky, wild hill could sustain no life, and my mother was more than upset. She wanted to buy along the river where the land was fertile and there was water for the plants and trees. But my father won the fight to be close to his llano, because truthfully our hill was the beginning of the llano, from here it stretched away as far as the eye could see, to Las Pasturas and beyond.

  The men of the town had murdered Lupito. But he had murdered the sheriff. They said the war had made him crazy. The prayers for Lupito mixed into prayers for my brothers. So many different thoughts raced through my mind that I felt dizzy, and very weary and sick. I ran the last of the way and slipped quietly into the house. I groped for the stair railing in the dark and felt a warm hand take mine. Startled, I looked up into Ultima’s brown, wrinkled face.

  “You knew!” I whispered. I understood that she did not want my mother to hear.

  “Sí,” she replied.

  “And the owl—” I gasped. My mind searched for answers, but my body was so tired that my knees buckled and I fell forward. As small and thin as Ultima was she had the strength to lift me in her arms and carry me into her room. She placed me on her bed and then by the light of a small, flickering candle she mixed one of her herbs in a tin cup, held it over the flame to warm, then gave it to me to drink.

  “They killed Lupito,” I said as I gulped the medicine.

  “I know,” she nodded. She prepared a new potion and with this she washed the cuts on my face and feet.