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.
Dos
Ultima slipped easily into the routine of our daily life. The first day she put on her apron and helped my mother with breakfast, later she swept the house and then helped my mother wash our clothes in the old washing machine they pulled outside where it was cooler under the shade of the young elm trees. It was as if she had always been here. My mother was very happy because now she had someone to talk to and she didn’t have to wait until Sunday when her women friends from the town came up the dusty path to sit in the sala and visit.
Deborah and Theresa were happy because Ultima did many of the household chores they normally did, and they had more time to spend in the attic and cut out an interminable train of paper dolls which they dressed, gave names to, and most miraculously, made talk.
My father was also pleased. Now he had one more person to tell his dream to. My father’s dream was to gather his sons around him and move westward to the land of the setting sun, to the vineyards of California. But the war had taken his three sons and it had made him bitter. He often got drunk on Saturday afternoons and then he would rave against old age. He would rage against the town on the opposite side of the river which drained a man of his freedom, and he would cry because the war had ruined his dream. It was very sad to see my father cry, but I understood it, because sometimes a man has to cry. Even if he is a man.
And I was happy with Ultima. We walked together in the llano and along the river banks to gather herbs and roots for her medicines. She taught me the names of plants and flowers, of trees and bushes, of birds and animals; but most important, I learned from her that there was a beauty in the time of day and in the time of night, and that there was peace in the river and in the hills. She taught me to listen to the mystery of the groaning earth and to feel complete in the fulfillment of its time. My soul grew under her careful guidance.
I had been afraid of the awful presence of the river, which was the soul of the river, but through her I learned that my spirit shared in the spirit of all things. But the innocence which our isolation sheltered could not last forever, and the affairs of the town began to reach across our bridge and enter my life. Ultima’s owl gave the warning that the time of peace on our hill was drawing to an end.
It was Saturday night. My mother had laid out our clean clothes for Sunday mass, and we had gone to bed early because we always went to early mass. The house was quiet, and I was in the mist of some dream when I heard the owl cry its warning. I was up instantly, looking through the small window at the dark figure that ran madly towards the house. He hurled himself at the door and began pounding.
“¡Márez!” he shouted, “¡Márez! ¡Andale, hombre!”
I was frightened, but I recognized the voice. It was Jasón’s father.
“¡Un momento!” I heard my father call. He fumbled with the farol.
“¡Andale, hombre, andale!” Chávez cried pitifully. “Mataron a mi hermano—”
“Ya vengo—” My father opened the door and the frightened man burst in. In the kitchen I heard my mother moan, “Ave María Purísima, mis hijos—” She had not heard Chávez’ last words, and so she assumed the aviso was one that brought bad news about her sons.
“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