The Day of the Moon (16 page)

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 people.”

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. Remember, 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.”

Isadora's pregnancy ran its course, and just before the birth of her child she and Narcisa followed the ways of the women of the Rarámuri. First, the village
nahual
was summoned to the Santiago cave, where many of the tribeswomen were gathered, squeezing in around the hearth. Isadora knelt in front of the holy man so that he could cure her of any evil that might have been wished on her or her child.

The
nahual
raised his sacred staffs over her head, pointing them first toward the east, where the sun and moon rise, then toward the west, where they set. He then thrust his staffs toward the north, where the gods are born, and to the south, where they dwell in the kingdom of the dead after they are finished with their mission. As he did this, he rasped his wands, chanting and murmuring sacred incantations. When this ceremony was completed, the holy man raised his outstretched arms, holding his hands palms down, over Isadora's head. Again he sang out a litany—this
time to cut the invisible thread that bound the child in her womb to heaven.

After the curing ceremony, Narcisa and Isadora trekked to a place hidden in the sierra, where they found a tree with a branch strong enough to hold Isadora's weight and low enough for her to grasp. Then they gathered grass and soft bushes, and beneath the branch they built a nest large enough to cradle an infant. Now Isadora was ready to give birth.

A few days later, Narcisa came to the cave for Isadora because she had seen signs that her time had come. They set out for the place they had prepared for the birth of the child. They took gourds filled with water and bread packed into a
morral
bag to sustain them as they waited for the baby to make its way out of Isadora's womb.

They did not wait long. Isadora began her labor shortly after they arrived at the site. The sun was dipping in the west; nighttime was beginning. With Narcisa's help, Isadora removed her dress and underclothes. Naked, she clung to the branch with her legs straddling the grassy cradle. Pain shot through her body, covering her with sweat. Her breath came in spurts, and saliva dribbled from her open mouth in silvery strands. As Isadora's strength began to diminish, Narcisa stood behind her and put her arms around her, bracing her, holding her beneath her breasts.

Through all of this, both women were silent, until a blinding flash of pain convulsed Isadora's body, and blackness shrouded her eyes for a few seconds. Then she heard the wail of the babe, and as she looked down she was able to see the child sliding from between her thighs. Narcisa had circled around and was on her haunches, arms stretched out, ready to take the child. When it was in her hands, she looked up at Isadora.

“It's a girl child.”

Narcisa's voice was filled with music. Isadora slouched down to her knees, then on to one side, balancing herself on an elbow. She lifted her free hand and ran it over the sleek black hair of the child who had just emerged from her body. She was oblivious of her own body, and her pain was forgotten in the wonderment of seeing that
the girl's skin was coppery brown and glistened like a chestnut in the light of the rising sun. Isadora's heart filled with joy at the mystery that such a child should have come from her body.