The Day of the Moon (18 page)

On her knees, Isadora rocked back and forth, swaying with the mournful tones of the grievers. She put her hands on the bloodied mound, trying to pray, but all the invocations she had learned to recite during her lifetime had dried up. Instead, all she could feel was scorching hatred for her father. She forced herself to look around at Jerónimo's family to see if they hated her for causing this calamity. They continued to stand, eyes closed, as if in a trance.

Hours passed while the grievers wailed and lamented, but none collapsed or even knelt. Instead, they remained on their feet, their faces upturned toward a sky now black, lit only by a canopy of stars and a young moon that inched its way toward its cradle.

The priest moved over to Celestino, then to Narcisa. He whispered and patted them on the shoulder, all the while nodding and shaking his head. Isadora knew what he was counseling: Their sons must not be allowed to attempt to take revenge; Don Flavio would be waiting for them. The Santiagos would end up losing all three sons. Through this, Narcisa and Celestino stood unmoving, not flinching even a facial muscle.

When the moon was nearly above them, the men who had discovered Jerónimo again picked up his remains. Hoisting their burden onto their shoulders, they began the trek leading higher up the sierra, to where a bier had by then been constructed for the cremation of the body. Isadora, Narcisa, Celestino and Jerónimo's brothers followed. After them came Ursula with Alondra. Next came the children of the Santiago family, then the priest and the
nahual,
and finally the entire tribe.

They trekked upward in darkness, lighted only by pine pitch torches held by some of the men. It was a slow climb, dangerous
because of the sheer cliffs on which the mourners crept. The throng, led by Jerónimo's remains, scaled the heights of the sierra to the rhythm of incantations uttered by the priest and the
nahual,
and to the dull shuffling of bare feet on the rocky surface of the mountain.

Isadora walked stiffly. Love collided with hatred; the memory of Jerónimo crashed into the image of Don Flavio. The face of her lover became overshadowed by the gigantic silhouette of her father. So lost in thought was Isadora that she did not realize when the cortege arrived at its destination and the body was laid on the pyre. Before her unseeing eyes, pitch was smeared at the base of the bier, and flame was thrust into it. Isadora's mind returned only when the pyramid was engulfed by fire and the bundle that had been Jerónimo exploded in a ball of blue-red flames. Then she was keenly aware of what was happening. She heard the crackling of logs and bone. She smelled the stench of pitch and burning flesh.

The tribe returned to the village center to begin the rituals that would usher Jerónimo's spirit into the kingdom of the dead. Isadora knew the ceremonies: three days of food, drink, peyote, and uninterrupted talk about the one who had just begun the trip to the underbelly of the world, where he would dwell with the gods. There would be dancing as well as weeping. When the days of mourning came to an end, the Rarámuri would be satisfied that they had done all they could to accompany Jerónimo on his trip to join the others who had gone before him. When the men and women of the tribe returned to their caves after the three-day ritual, they knew that Jerónimo would be with them each night, when it was the day of the moon.

During those three days, Isadora did as she was expected to do as a widow, and she remained in seclusion without food or water. She accepted this obligation because what she desired was to be alone. Alondra was cared for; she slept with Ursula. During those days of abstinence and nights of insomnia, Isadora's mind drifted in a mist of her life's memories, especially of those times she had spent with Jerónimo. She saw him as a boy, running, his hair a blur
of black feathers waving behind his head. Then he appeared to her on a horse; he was now an adolescent, with the shadow of a sparse mustache over his smiling lips. Then she saw him on the day of her birthday race, when looking at him had aroused her. After that she relived their love, their year together, and Alondra. These memories took a full circle and returned to the present, to the sight of his mutilated body.

Isadora was bewildered by the mystery of Jerónimo's life with her. He had been with her until his last morning. They had eaten, laughed, spoken, embraced, lain together. She had felt, seen, and heard him. She shuddered, thinking that in a matter of seconds his existence had been snuffed out. Where did he go? Where was he? Was he watching her, sitting next to her in the gloom? She wanted to believe that he would return to her during her nighttime dreams, when the moon appeared, but her mind rejected such a possibility. The loss of Jerónimo loomed in front of Isadora, filling the cave, leaving her anguished and enraged because he and she had been robbed, cheated of life. It was at this point that her thoughts returned to her father.

Isadora began to plan what she would do at the end of the mourning period. She became obsessed with the scheme, perfecting it as she repeated it over and again, constructing and reconstructing every step, every move, every detail. Her intentions were confirmed when Ursula informed her that Jerónimo's brothers had been tied to trees so that they would not attempt to kill Don Flavio, and that Celestino had succumbed to a strange spirit that kept him crouching, huddled against a wall in their cave, paralyzed and mute.

When the mourning days were over, the tribe returned to its ways and Isadora prepared to leave. Ursula was with her, following as Isadora moved about in the cave.

“Where are you going,
niña?”

“You know where. Come here.”

Isadora took Ursula by the arm, bringing her to sit next to her. When they sat side by side, Isadora whispered in a husky voice. “If
I don't return, swear to me that you will care for Alondra and Samuel. That you will do so until you die.”

“If Jerónimo's brothers have been forbidden to do it, why should you? You'll bring a curse on your head and that of your children.”

“I'm already cursed.”

“No! You must live. That is your obligation. It is your father who is cursed by the blood on his hands. Do you want the same for yourself?”

Ursula's words nearly unnerved Isadora, who moments earlier was committed to revenge. But the thought of a lifetime without Jerónimo flooded her, making her return to her resolve.

“Are you going to swear or not?”

“I swear. But …”

Isadora stood up and helped Ursula to her feet. It was early morning, and the fire in the hearth had died out, but light was trailing in from the entrance to the cave. Isadora looked around, remembering, wondering if she would ever return to the place where she had loved and known happiness.

“I'll return soon,
vieja.
Remember, you've taken an oath to care for my children.”

Isadora took nothing with her except a gourd of water. She wore the long dress of the tribeswomen, a shawl, and
huaraches.
As Isadora made her way out, Ursula took her in her arms. It was an embrace that lasted only a few seconds.

Once on the pathway down toward the plain, Isadora walked briskly, then trotted, accelerating her speed until she was running. She was sure-footed. She had not eaten or slept; a spirit had possessed her body, energizing it. She was a Rarámuri distance runner now; her feet were those of the deer. Isadora ran knowing that her strength would hold and that she would reach her destination by sundown.

She was not surprised that, when she walked by the stables of her father's hacienda, no one stopped her. No one ran to tell Don Flavio of what they had seen; they simply went back to what they
were doing. She was not suspicious when no one said anything as she walked into the house, going through its rooms and corridors, past Brígida's locked door, heading for her father's den. Isadora felt calm, knowing that Samuel would be in the kitchen at that time, away from what was about to happen. She knew also that all the workers were waiting for her to appear sooner or later.

She opened the familiar door, taking a few seconds to run her fingers over its ornate carvings. Once inside the huge room, she saw that it was empty. She looked up at the high, dark ceiling, then she turned her head towards the desk where she had last confronted him. She closed the door behind her. She did not need light. She went to the desk, opened a drawer, withdrew the key and went to the cabinet. It was easy to open its paneled doors. She removed the Remington revolver, checked that it was loaded, and waited, standing in a darkened corner with the weapon clutched in both hands.

The clock on the mantelpiece marked the minutes before Don Flavio entered the room to take his evening chocolate. He was freshly bathed, shaved, and wearing a Stetson hat, as was his custom. He sat at the desk, lit the green-shaded lamp and waited, staring at the darkened window. He seemed lost in thought.

“
Papá
.”

Don Flavio's body recoiled at the sound of Isadora's voice. He swiveled the chair he was sitting in with such force that it nearly capsized. He faced the corner from where he had heard his daughter's voice, but he saw only darkness.

“
Papá
.”

Isadora repeated the word; it was dry, raspy, cutting, like the edge of a rusty knife. When she raised the revolver, holding it stiffly in both hands, Don Flavio finally made her out. His face was stamped with horror and relief. He swung his arms up to shield his face. The first blast sounded out. A second shot followed. The reverberations bounced off the wood-paneled walls, slamming into the stuccoed ceiling. Then another shot rang out, filling the room with the stench of burnt gunpowder.

Isadora flung the revolver at her father's body, which was now sprawled out, face down on the floor. As she turned to leave, she saw a pool of blood seeping from him onto the polished hardwood. She dashed out through the corridor, past the elongated windows now blackened by the night, past the rooms of her childhood, through sitting rooms and chambers, out of Casa Miraflores, to head up to the
barranca.
But as she darted through the last arch-way, arms grasped her, entangling her, lifting her, taking away control of her legs and arms.

“¡Dios Santo!”

“She's killed her father!”

“Get the doctor!”

“Run! Hot water! Bandages! Quickly!”

“Don Flavio is dying!”

The cell was dark. It was lit only by moonlight that spilled in through the wire-netted window in a square. As she sat on the edge of the cot, Isadora felt heat welling up into her throat, flooding her mouth. She knew that what she was tasting were tears of hatred. They had squeezed into her mouth because her eyes had refused to shed them. She tried to calculate how much time had passed since her father had murdered Jerónimo. Was it days? Weeks? It could have been months, even years.

The iron door swung open, flooding the cell with yellowish light from the corridor lamps. Two white jackets loomed in front of Isadora.

“Not in bed yet?”

“Get into bed. Why do you give us so much trouble?”

“What day is it?”

“What?”

“Please tell me what month and year it is.”

“Well! Well! Well! And what else would the great lady want? A personal servant, maybe?”

The door slammed, leaving her in the dark, but she was able to hear mocking laughter and words that drifted back to her. “Tried to escape three times, and she expects special treatment!”

Once she had gotten as far north as Nuevo León before being caught. But now she did not know even the day or month or year. The only thing that she knew was that her father had lived; he had survived three shots. At first he had kept her a prisoner in her bedroom at Miraflores, with a guard to prevent anyone—especially Brígida—from communicating with her. What no one ever imagined then was that Isadora was to be kept in an asylum for the insane. Her father's intention, from the beginning, was to leave her there for the rest of her life.

Los Angeles, 1965

¡Buenos días!
I'm happy to see you. Please, come in. Sit here by me. I hope that you don't mind sitting in the kitchen. It's where I'm comfortable, and no one will disturb us here. Let me serve you a
cafecito.
Black with a little sugar is best. I know you'll enjoy it. I know you have questions. A little coffee makes it all go down better. You saw for yourself; Alondra and I were up most of the night with Don Flavio. He's dying, but he's doing it little by little. Doctor Canseco is with him now.

And look at this rain! Everyone says it never rains in Los Angeles, but it's been raining for days. It's a soft rain, slow and damp, and it makes my fingers ache. It's not like the summer storms that come to the
barranca,
when the rain falls in torrents, filling the canyons and rivers. Up there, one can see fat, gray clouds swelling up, and you know that it's about to rain. Then comes the sudden storm, with thunder and lightning that flashes across black skies. Tata Dios speaks, and the Rarámuri listen. Afterward, the sky becomes blue, and the sierra glistens. But that's the way it is where I was born; here it is different.

Please don't get impatient; we'll get to your questions in a moment. You know that I am Ursula Santiago—that is why you want to speak to me. You're right, these eyes have seen more than anyone would suspect. Tata Dios has placed me in certain places where I've seen and heard what others have missed.

Now, you'll have to help me. You say that too much has been left out. I agree, but I can assure you that it's no one's fault. It was
the way of the family. They seemed to understand each other without saying words. Believe me, many times I was left to wonder what was happening between father, daughter, and aunt.

Doña Brígida was the worst one. She was as silent as an uninhabited cave. I ought to know, because I first met her on the day after she arrived at Casa Miraflores, when I delivered a letter from her brother. And after that it was my duty to make her bed, clean her room, and help her with her bath and other needs.