What the Moon Saw (9 page)

I asked myself a question.
Why were you restless in Walnut Hill?
A feeling washed over me: being underwater at night in the woods.
Remember this feeling, Clara.
Abuelita had said that the world before her spirit journey had seemed like reflections on water, and that afterward, she saw what was underneath. Maybe that was what I wanted, deep inside—to see the world that Abuelita saw, the world of spirits and webs of light.

When I bounced into the kitchen that afternoon, the green bird greeted me, “Clara, Clara, Clara!”

“Loro, Loro, Loro,” I sang back.

“How fast he’s learned your name,
mi amor
!” Abuelita said. She was dropping squares of chocolate into the green pitcher of milk on the fire. Abuelo sat at the table, bent over a sandal he was sewing. He glanced up at me and smiled.

“Another pair of sandals for your grandmother.” Then he bent his head down again and threaded the thick needle through the goat hide.

I grabbed an old tortilla out of the basket and tore off a few pieces. Loro carefully plucked them out of my hand. His beak looked ancient, covered with cracks and scars. “Clara!” he called again and again, between his tiny mouthfuls. I felt proud that he had learned my name; I was part of this odd little family already.

Now Abuelita was rolling a wooden stirrer between her palms to make the hot chocolate foamy. It seemed to whip things up just like an electric blender. I liked her strange kitchen utensils—a stone bowl to grind chiles and tomatoes, a clay
comal
to cook the tortillas, and wooden spoons, some as small as my pinkie and others as long as my arm.

“You seem happy about something,
mi amor,
” she said.

“Yes,” I said. I was surprised at the flush I felt coming over my face. “Well, nothing special.” I tried to make my voice sound casual. “I met a boy.” It ended up sounding too melodramatic. So I shrugged and mumbled, “He saved me from scorpions.”

Abuelo looked up from his sewing. “What?”

I blushed. Now I’d made him sound like a heroic prince who’d rescued me.

“Scorpions,” Abuelita said, raising an eyebrow. Not much surprised her besides diet dog food. “Who was the boy?”

“I don’t know. He was about my age. He had a lot of goats with him. He was wearing red pants that were too big for him.” I didn’t say anything about his smell.

“It must be Pedro.” Abuelo glanced at Abuelita. “You think so,
mi vida
?”

She nodded. “Yes, it was Pedro.” She poured hot chocolate into our brown clay cups.

I took a sip, breathed in the cinnamon-chocolate steam. “So, who is he?”

“Past the cornfield, a few hills over is where he lives. With his mother. Only the two of them.” Abuelo knotted the thread and bit off the end with his teeth. “All alone, she raised him.”

“His great-grandmother was a dear friend of mine,” Abuelita said. “Since he was born I have known him. Since he was this tall”—she held her finger at knee level—“he has had the gift of music.”

Music? I wanted to know more but was too embarrassed to ask: How old was he? Why did he wear those shiny old-man loafers? Did he go out every day with the goats? Would I run into him again on the mountain?

As though she’d heard my thoughts, Abuelita said, “Oh, you will see him again, Clara. Of this I am certain.”

The following day on the mountain, after hours of wandering, I thought I saw Pedro and his goats on the next mountain over. A tiny patch of red and a bunch of white and black dots moved through the brush. For some reason, my pulse quickened. He was too far away for me to call out to. I just squinted at him until he disappeared over the top of the mountain.

I didn’t come across the waterfall, either, but I did find some bluish green mushrooms and tiny snails, which I sketched in my book. The caption read
Remember These, Dad?
He loved small, unexpected things in nature. He always marveled over the undersides of mushroom caps and squinted for minutes at the smooth spiral of snail shells.

I was wary of scorpions now. I inspected every rock carefully before I sat down. But I did feel prepared, since Abuelita had made me bring along a bunch of garlic to keep snakes and spiders and scorpions away. She said they couldn’t stand the smell of garlic. “In all my years on this earth,” she said, “no creature has poisoned me, and this is why. Garlic! Garlic,
mi amor.
I go nowhere without garlic.” She wanted me to keep it in my pocket, but I was afraid my jeans would get stinky, so as a compromise we decided I’d keep it in my backpack.

That night, halfway through our hot chocolate, Loro screeched so suddenly we all jumped.
“¡Ánimo, Silvia! ¡Ánimo, doña Carmen!”

“Loro is making a demand,” Abuelo said. “A demand to hear more of your grandmother’s story.” He gave a sideways glance at Abuelita.

“Yes! Who are these people?” I asked. “I still don’t know. Silvia, and doña Carmen?”

Abuelita squinted, gazing into the fire, as though it were an old photograph. “Well, first you must know the path that led me to the city…,” she began.

I got comfortable, wrapped my fuzzy green sweater around my shoulders, and tucked my knees under my chin. I watched Abuelita’s eyes turn younger and younger as she talked, until her face became as fresh as a girl’s, her whole life before her.

Helena

S
UMMER
1935–F
ALL
1937

F
or years, Clara, my life was drenched with aromas of herbs and spices. Day after day I hovered by the fire, tending to pots and stirring with my long wooden spoon. Stirring cinnamon into hot chocolate. Stirring oregano into soup. Stirring lemongrass into tea. Only a few precious hours in the afternoons were mine. I would slip away from my kitchen chores and find Ta’nu. Far into the mountains we walked, to places where the powerful herbs grew. We left gifts to thank the spirits for the plants. Gifts of eggs and green feathers and cocoa beans. Back home, we hung some of the herbs to dry in the rafters. Others we mixed fresh, with
mezcal.

The second time I drank the sacred tea was not long after my first soul flight. Ta’nu was out chopping firewood. A neighbor stumbled to our house, crying and carrying his young boy. The child’s skin burned with fever. His eyes could see nothing. His mouth could form no words. His spirit had left his body.

As the tea brewed, I fetched a bucket of cold water at the spring. Back in the kitchen, I poured it into a tin. With his father’s help, I heaved the boy into the water. Then I lit the candles and copal. Sweet smoke spiraled upward as I swallowed the tea. Softly, I chanted. I called on the saints, the spirits, God.

After a time, a table appeared before me. A table with two cups, beautiful cups, shiny silver. And a deep voice, a woman’s voice, said, “Choose which you will drink from, the cup of good or the cup of evil.” I chose the cup of good, and drank down every last drop. It was golden and sweet, like honey, and filled me with light. When I drank that light, I made a promise. A promise that always, I would use my powers for good, whenever I was called upon.

The boy lived. Word spread about my healing powers. As young as I was, people trusted me to heal them. And always, I used my powers for good.

When I was eleven, Ta’nu began to grow breathless at every hill we climbed. Oh, his mind still flowed clear as a stream, and people still came to him for cures, but he had little strength. Only enough to do a few cures a week. More and more often, Ta’nu entrusted me to drink the sacred tea, to make the soul journeys. When I’d return to the hut after rescuing a patient’s spirit, Ta’nu would ask me, “What did you see, Ita? Whom did you meet?” and as I told him, he listened closely, nodding. “Ah, that must have been the swamp spirit,” he would say. “Slimy, isn’t he?” Or “Oh, that was the spirit of the clay cliffs—a tricky one, that spirit.” When I told him how my spirit animal protected me on my journey, his eyes lit up. “Granddaughter, what a mighty spirit, this jaguar.” His own spirit, the deer, was swift and strong and helpful, he said. Yet the jaguar! Oh, the jaguar! Raw power wrapped in silky fur. Only once in a while now did Ta’nu make a soul flight himself. When he did, it left him tired for days. How it pained me to see the deep circles beneath his eyes, to hear him struggle for breath.

Uncle José seemed almost happy about Ta’nu’s weakness. No, I don’t think he wished for Ta’nu to die. But he couldn’t wait to replace him as head of the family.

One evening by the fire, while I was heating the milk, Uncle said something that would change my life forever. He took a long swig of
mezcal
and turned to Ta’nu. “I’ve decided that Helena will go to the city to be a maid.”

My stomach jumped. I stopped stirring and turned to face them.

Ta’nu sipped his milk. Nothing shocked him, you see.

“She’s useless here,” Uncle insisted. “María and Teresa can do the chores without her.”

I doubted María and Aunt Teresa would agree with that.

“You promised we would take care of her,” Uncle said with a sneer. He pointed his bottle toward me. “But now she’s old enough to leave.”

“True, I made that promise to her mother,” Ta’nu said.

“At the time it seemed that your wife might never have a child of her own. I knew she wanted one. I knew she’d make a loving mother.” Ta’nu’s voice lowered to nearly a whisper. I could barely hear his words. “And, son, I thought it would give you a chance to forgive yourself. To let go of your bad feelings about your brother’s death.”

“What bad feelings?” Uncle cried. He threw his arms up, and some of his
mezcal
splashed out of the bottle.

“I am too old to argue with you, son.” Ta’nu sighed. Orange light flickered over his face. Already he was turning into shadows. Already fading. “I only hope that someday you will be at peace with Ramón’s death—and with his daughter,” he added, glancing at me.

I lowered my gaze to the foaming milk. Rarely did people dare to mention my father’s death. They feared fanning the flames of Uncle’s anger.

“You spoil her, just as you spoiled her father!” Smoke from the kitchen fire moved over Uncle’s face. He tried to blow it away. He swatted the air with his arms, furious. “You take her away from doing women’s work. And why? For nothing, so she can waste time walking around in the hills.”

“Helena is learning to cure, son, to continue my work,” Ta’nu replied calmly. “And she will continue it. She will continue it far better than I ever did. Far better than even my own grandfather. This I feel.”

My face grew warm.

“I don’t see her bringing in any money.” Uncle let out a forceful cough and fought his battle with the smoke. He tried to flick it away with his bottle. Still, the smoke moved toward him in a steady stream.

“Oh, in time she will,” Ta’nu said in a voice full of confidence. But his eyes looked tired, strained.

“She’s a woman,” Uncle pushed. “She’ll stop curing when she gets married anyway. She’s more useful as a maid.”

Ta’nu took a deep breath. Slowly, he let it out. He closed his eyes and leaned back, as though he were preparing to say something important. And then he snored.

My heart sank.

Uncle sneered and shook his head, coughing and laughing. I could tell he felt full of strength. Full of strength now that Ta’nu was losing his. For the first time he glanced over at me. I tried not to let my rage show. I tried to hold it in, but it shot out of my eyes. Like sparks, it burned into him.

He looked away and mumbled, “Leave.”

I took the pot of milk off the hot coals. As I turned to go, Uncle added, “And don’t look at me again with those eyes. Just like your mother’s. Witch’s eyes.”

No one ever told me the whole story of what happened the day of my father’s death. But I have been able to fit some things together, like pieces of a broken plate. Bits of conversation and stories here and there. People said that from the time he was three years old, my father had a calling to heal. Barely walking, imagine! Ta’nu began teaching him, and soon he was curing neighbors and relatives. Word spread, and soon people knew his name in far-off villages. Soon they spoke of him like a saint, a worker of miracles.

Uncle José was a year older than Ramón. You see, the elder brother should be the more important, yet José lived in the shadow of his younger brother. The kernel of envy grew bigger and bigger inside José, until that was all he was: the jealous brother. People said that he picked on my father every waking moment. Teased him, tripped him, played cruel jokes on him. But no other boys laughed; no other boys joined in. Instead, they leaped to my father’s defense. And this fed José’s black ball of envy even more.

The day after Uncle announced I would go to Oaxaca City, Aunt Teresa and María and I went to gather mushrooms in the forest. Every moment with them felt precious now that I knew I might be leaving. Every moment golden. Since María had heard the news, early that morning, her hand had stayed firmly attached to mine. Hardly a minute passed without her throwing her arms around me, begging, pleading, “Don’t leave, Helena!”

Through the woods we walked, swinging our baskets. Aunt began speaking. “When your mother and I were young girls, Helena, we used to gather mushrooms together. Once we left the village, we’d make up stories. We’d wade in streams and climb trees….”

“Let’s climb trees now!” María shouted.

Aunt laughed and shook her head. “No, love. Your father will be angry if we don’t have our baskets full.”

I waited for Aunt to tell more. Memories of my mother were gems I collected. Precious little gems that I saved for sad times.

“I always wished I could be strong like your mother,” Aunt said. She dropped a blue-green mushroom into the basket.

“Strong?” But I’d thought my mother was weak. So weak that after my father died, she grew sick from grief. So weak that she let herself die. Why hadn’t she found strength to stay alive for me? How could she leave her two-year-old daughter? This was what I had always wondered.

“And brave, and honest…,” Aunt continued. She picked another mushroom from the base of a tree. “One morning, just after breakfast, before the men went out to collect firewood, your uncle José was in a dark mood. Oh, who knows why—you know his moods. José told your father he was more of a burden than a help with the heavy work. You see, your father was smaller than the other men, but he worked just as hard. As always, Ramón let the cruel words slide off him, like water over rocks. He left the table to join the other men, but José stayed behind, drinking the last of the tea. That’s when your mother said to him, in a voice sharper than a machete, ‘You, José, are a weak man. A shameful, weak man.’”

“She said that to Father?” María asked, her eyes wide.

Aunt nodded, smiling softly.

“And what did Uncle do?” I stared at Aunt. The mushroom basket dangled at my side, forgotten.

“He hung his head. He never could look into her eyes again. And he never taunted Ramón again. At least not whenever your mother was around.”

Tingles swept over me, tingles of pride. My mother had stood up to Uncle!

I’d already heard the rest of the story. One afternoon, when I was two years old, a terrible storm struck. They say it was the most violent storm in years. Thunder cracked so hard, the ground trembled. Blinding bolts of lightning crisscrossed the sky. The men ran in from the cornfields, into the nearest house, for shelter. They began drinking
mezcal
to calm their nerves. Soon a boy burst into the house. Through tears, he sobbed that his goats were running, frightened, toward the river. And the river was rising. My father told the boy not to worry. “I will bring your goats in, child,” he said. “Your goats will not drown.”

They say the other men tried to stop my father. “You’ll be killed!” they cried. But Uncle, drunk by then, said, “If my brother wants to play the hero, let him.”

My father rounded up every one of the goats and led them to shelter. As he ran back across the cornfield toward the house, a bolt of lightning struck him. The goats lived. My father died.

That evening, after Ta’nu finished his chamomile tea, he stood next to me by the kitchen fire. On my shoulder he rested his hand gently, then asked me to do as Uncle said. “In the city, Ita, you will learn Spanish. To speak Spanish is a powerful thing.”

“Why?” I asked.

“When we speak Mixteco the government treats us like squawking birds. In Spanish, they will listen.” He grew silent. Then he added, “And, Ita, I fear your uncle’s tempers. Of how he would treat you if I weren’t here. Maybe it is better that you go. There in the city you will depend on no one. No one but yourself.”