There was unusual activity around the house of Don Pancho, a little
thatch-roof hut of oval shape, possibly fifteen feet by eight. Two
large posts supported a framework of poles on which was laid a gabled
thatching of grass. Only toward the center of the house could one stand
upright, and a strong push would have sent tumbling outside, the stones
heaped in a wall without the use of mortar or mud, which filled the
space between the eaves and the bare ground.
The unwonted stir in the house of Don Pancho did not betoken any
epoch-making occurrence even in the uneventful history of the little
village of Azqueltán which sheltered the remnants of the Tepecano
tribe. It was merely that Don Pancho was awaiting the birth of his
child. And so the women of the immediate neighborhood gathered inside
the hut while the men conversed in low tones without. Francisco alone
passed freely in and out. At last, after a longer pause within, he
slipped quietly out of the door.
“Gracias a Dios! It is a son,” he said quietly and produced from
somewhere a bottle of sotol[8] bought on his last journey to the
nearest “civilized” village against this very event. The men crowded
around him and drank heartily to the health of the newcomer. With true
politeness they congratulated the father and then slipped away into
the darkness toward their own little hovels. Only the squalling of the
infant broke upon the stillness of the mountain air.
Again an air of unusual activity pervaded the village. Word had come
that the cura from the neighboring town would arrive that day to say
mass. The church and the adjoining curato had been opened and aired,
the dirt swept from the floor and the dust from the crude figures of
the crucifixion. For the little church was the pride of Azqueltán. A
generation ago it had been built of adobe brick and stone quarried by
civilized artisans, and its white front faced the torrid rays of the
sun as valiantly as it did the sulphurous flames of hell. The little
courtyard, too, shone with a freshly-swept air, not a blade of grass
nor a speck of green marring its smooth surface.
At last sharp eyes detected a cavalcade slowly descending the tortuous
path. Hastily Francisco climbed the shaking ladder to the roof of the
church and seized the clapper. Well did he realize the importance of
his office as mayor-domo of the church! And never while _he_ lived
would the Sr. Cura arrive without proper greeting! One of the several
bells was still uncracked, and to it Francisco devoted particular
attention. The bells held a place hardly second to the church itself
in Don Pancho’s affections, for had they not been imported at enormous
expense from that far away capital, the City of Mexico? A final clang
and Francisco hastened down the quaking ladder to be the first to kneel
before the jocund padre and kiss his hand. Roused by the pealing of
the bells the inhabitants of the little valley began to wander in.
Reverently they entered the church, kneeling on the brick floor, the
men and women on opposite sides, while mass was said.
The service finished, the Aguilars, Francisco and Julia, his wife,
stood up, bearing the child. Beside them stood Juan Márquez and his
wife, as godfather and godmother. A few drops of water resented, a few
ritual words, and Mother Church had gathered another soul to her bosom.
José María was the name the cura entered in his record.
But had these intervening weeks been entirely uneventful in the life
of little José or Pepe, as he was familiarly called? By no means!
Francisco was too conscientious a man to take any chances with his
son’s welfare. For centuries before the padres had told them of God
and Christ, the forefathers had worshiped Father Sun, Mother Moon and
Elder Brother Morning Star. In fact it was quite obvious that God _was_
the Sun, the Virgin María the Moon and Jesus the Morning Star. For
did not the beautiful picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe hanging in
the church show her standing on the moon? The two religions could not
be antagonistic, but merely supplementary, thought Francisco, as far
as he thought on the subject at all. Nevertheless, there was no use
arguing with the cura about it, for he would not understand. And so,
immediately after the birth of little Pepe, Francisco made four prayer
sticks with little squares of colored yarn attached, and went and
deposited them at secret altars on the hills to east, north, west and
south, breathing a prayer at each place for the health and fortune of
his child.
Little José grew up to boyhood, his status in the world a rather
anomalous one—a little lower than the half-blood Mexican peon on the
rolling country to the south, a little above the pagan Huichol in
the mountains, yet despised by both. Yet that worried him little.
For was he not surrounded by loving parents and friends and a not
ungenerous nature? To north and south stretched the canyon or
barranca of the Bolaños, a great rent in the earth’s crust, carved
out through countless ages by the little silvery rivulet hiding in
its bottom. Hardly more than a brook in the dry season, it swelled
to an impassable, turbulent torrent during the rains. On either side
rose the steep sides of the barranca, those to the east leading to the
rolling, flat country populated by the “neighbors,” the Mexicans, while
to the west the mountains rose higher and higher to form the great
Sierra Madre range in which lived the pagan Huichol and Cora Indians.
Occasionally small groups of Huichol passed by or through the village
on their way to or from their mountain homes, and José peeked at them
from behind the shelter of his mother’s skirts, and wondered at their
strange dress with many little woven bags around the waist, their queer
hats, their bows and arrows.
“When I was your age,” said old Nestor, his grandfather, “we all
dressed as they do now. Then our wives wove us blankets and we made
clothes of deer hide. But Ave María! Now we must dress in white cotton
blouses and trousers and look like Mexicans!”
José never tired of hearing Nestor tell of the glories of the days
gone by, when the Tepecanos were a powerful people and held a great
stretch of territory. But wars and pestilence had done their worst and
the tribe had gradually withdrawn to the great barranca where José was
born. And even there the Mexicans were gradually encroaching. Some
married into the tribe, while the more unscrupulous boldly appropriated
the ancestral lands and recorded the first titles.
José’s earliest impressions, of course, were those of home, to him a
wonderful place, and his parents most remarkable people, omniscient
beyond a doubt! Surely there was nothing in the world they did not know
or could not do! His mother in particular was the busiest person. As
the first rays of the sun dimmed the morning star, she arose and put
wood on the fire which had been smoldering all night under the pot of
beans and under the comal or griddle, and by the time the rest of the
family were well awake the little, round, flat tortillas were toasting.
These little toasted cakes of thin, unleavened corn dough were the
staple food, not only of the Tepecano, but of millions of Mexicans of
the peon class. Torn in half and used as a scoop to carry a mess of
brown beans and chili sauce to the mouth—ah! Who could ask for anything
more savory? Surely not little José. But what a drudgery it meant to
his mother! Not that she considered it drudgery—she knew of nothing
else, and it was the lot of every woman.
And so Señora Aguilar bent all day—or most of it—over the stone metate
grinding the softened, boiled corn into dough. The corn itself, the
typical Indian corn with yellow ears, black ears, red ears and ears of
all these colors, lay husked in a corner of the house. Every day a few
ears would be taken, shelled and put to simmer in a pot with a pinch
of lime to soften it. Then it had to be ground on the metate with a
stone grinder, patted into shape and toasted on the griddle. At almost
any hour of the day could be heard in the hut the sound of the muller
grating against the metate, or the sharp “pat, pat” on the cake. When
night came at last, a mass of dough was always ready to be prepared for
breakfast.
So José watched his busy mother and wondered why she took no time to
play with him. Several times a day she took the great water jar on her
shoulder and walked slowly with him down the long, winding trail to the
little brook which supplied the household—yes, several households—with
water. Occasionally, too, they bathed in the clear waters—in the
summer. But even then the water was cool and soap expensive, so baths
were infrequent. And then the water was full of wonderful animals known
as chanes. No one could see them, of course, except in rainy weather,
when they appeared as great arcs or bows in the sky, striped with
colors, head in one spring and tail in another, as they visited. But
ordinarily they were invisible, though their forms were well known.
They had the bodies of serpents with horns like cattle. They were to
be treated reverently, as they had the power of sickening all who
disregarded them.
“Never drink directly from the spring, Pepe,” his mother warned him,
“or the chan will enter and sting you. Dash the water into your mouth
as your father does.”
Although corn cakes and beans supplied the major part of their dietary,
there were other foods, in season and on a smaller scale, other crops,
tobacco, chili-peppers and squash. Squashes did not keep like corn or
beans, unless they were cut into long strips and dried. More often
the squashes were eaten fresh, at harvest time. A hole was dug in the
ground and lined with stones and in this a fire was lighted until the
stones were hot. Then the fire was removed and replaced with squashes,
and the whole covered and allowed to remain all night. In the morning
the squashes were perfectly baked and delicious. But the best part
of the squash was the seeds which were toasted, cracked open and the
kernels eaten. These were indeed excellent! Occasionally the juicy
centre of a large cactus was cooked in the same way.
But with the advent of spring, that was the joyous time! It was the
coming of the rains after the long dry season. The spring rains are the
most vital factor in the life and economy of the natives of northern
Mexico, and on them all interests settle. Then the parched land springs
into verdure and the streams burst forth anew. Then the nopal, the
“prickly pear” cactus, puts forth new green leaves which can be cleaned
of their spines and boiled to an edible tenderness, and the blue and
purple tunas appear on their leaves. Then the mesquite and vamuchile
trees prepare to produce their fruit. But best of all, it is the time
of the pitahaya, that luscious fruit of the organ cactus.
“The pitahayas are ripe! The pitahayas are ripe!” shouted and sang
José with the other children, while their elders prepared to desert
their villages and repair to the heights where the cacti grew most
abundantly, there to gorge themselves until the season passed. All year
long the great reed poles leaned against the thatched roofs of the
houses, awaiting the joyous spring when they would be used to pick the
pitahayas from their high branches.
Seldom it was that little Pepe tasted flesh of any kind. To be sure
they kept a few chickens, but the Aguilars were too poor to eat many
of them; they were sold to the itinerant trader to take to the larger
civilized towns. Too, the dried corn which the chickens ate meant just
that much less for the family. Nevertheless José knew and relished
the taste of chicken and eggs. A few goats, sheep, pigs and turkeys
were kept in the neighborhood, and occasionally the word was passed
around that one was to be killed. The wealthier families purchased
a few pounds, cut it into strips and hung it up to dry. For a few
days, meat was added to the dietary of the Aguilar family. A very few
cattle and horses were kept by the very opulent, but these were seldom
killed. They represented rather the wealth of the owner and were sold
to Mexican ranchmen. But when for one reason or another—generally by
accident—one was killed, the word was noised abroad for many miles and,
like buzzards, the population gathered to purchase or beg the meat.
“Ah, but it was different in the old days!” exclaimed old Nestor. “Then
the country was full of game. Ave María! So many deer! And rabbits and
raccoons, ducks and pigeons! But now the Gods are angry at us because
we have neglected them and will send us no more deer.”
“Is it really the Gods who send the deer, little grandfather?” asked
José.
“Surely,” replied the old man. “Are they not the pets of our Elder
Brother, the Morning Star? When one wishes to hunt deer he must first
fast seven days and then go to one of the sacred altars with a prayer
stick and beads for payment and recite the old prayer begging Elder
Brother to lend him some of his deer. Then he will be sure to shoot
them. But he must not eat any of the first deer he kills, but must give
it to the other people, and he must be sure to make candles of the fat
and burn them. Of course we always used bow and arrows to shoot them,
as they would be offended and leave the country if they were killed by
other means.”
“How interesting!” murmured little Pepe. “And do the Gods keep other
animals too, little grandfather?”
“Por Dios, no! The deer are their only pets. But the scorpions are
the cattle of the Devil and one must also say a prayer and make a
jícara[9] full of pinole[10] with beads in order to drive them away
from one’s home. And then there are the great serpents which live in
the mountains. One must also recite a prayer to get one of them.”
“Ave María!” ejaculated José. “Did you eat snakes too?”
“Only small ones,” laughed Nestor, “and iguanas. The large serpents
we kept in the houses as protectors. They were brought home and
instructed to hold any one who came to the house to rob, and to give
the alarm by striking the ground with their tails. But they had to be
fed bread every Thursday.” Here old Nestor smiled. “At least that’s
what my grandfather told _me_. I never saw them myself!”
It was many years before little José journeyed from home. There he
played with the stones and the household objects, his dog and cat and
his pet quail, learning the manifold secrets of the world about him.
There were other boys nearby with whom he played; they had their bows
and arrows—weapons discarded by their elders long ago—and their toys
and dear possessions like boys the world over. There were few household
objects for them to break in play, only a few pots and gourds, and,
like all Indians, the Tepecanos seldom or never punished their
children, preferring that they should grow up loving and with their
spirits unbroken. An occasional trip to the nearest Mexican village to
purchase cloth or sugar, or to the house of a relation a few miles away
was the extent of José’s travels. For sweets he had the honey which
might be taken from the hollow logs raised on forked posts outside of
the house.
Gradually José learned to help his parents and, by the time he was
fourteen, he was able to do most of the tasks expected of young men.
He accompanied his father Francisco on trips to the hills in search
of natural products. The leaves of the agave were one of the most
sought-after materials. These they carried home, stripped off the soft
green exterior and put the strong interior fibers to dry. This was
called ixti, and from it all kinds of cord and rope were made. Many
hours José sat, twisting the wheel with which his father made rope. At
other times he helped to make adobe bricks, mixing the mud to a proper
consistency, pressing it into moulds and leaving it in the sun to dry.
His father likewise taught him to weave strong sacks of ixti cord on a
simple loom.
Some of his spare time, too, he devoted to that eternal Mexican pastime
of hunting buried treasure. Of course he never found any, but the
joy of the search was in itself and had he not heard countless tales
of fabulous wealth found in caves where it had been hidden during a
revolution? One could never tell!
By this time José was old enough to wear the typical costume of the
men of the tribe. For a few years he had run naked, but not for long,
and during the greater part of his boyhood had worn clothes of a
nondescript character. But about the time of puberty, his mother made
him a suit of white cotton cloth consisting of blouse and trousers.
These were so much more comfortable than the tight trousers affected
by the civilized Mexicans. Nevertheless, the laws of the nearby towns
prohibited any one’s appearing in the streets in the flowing calzones,
so in each Indian village was at least one pair of pantalones which
were borrowed whenever any one wished to visit town. The trousers were
upheld by a girdle of faja or wool, woven by his mother on a narrow
loom with geometric designs in black and white. A little bag, woven
of the same material, known as a costal, accompanied him wherever he
went, for in this he carried all his little personal possessions and
necessities, such as matches, tobacco and, at times, lunch, as well
as the dozens of little knick-knacks dear to the heart of the boy.
In the same way his forefathers carried their sticks to make fire,
and his grandfathers their flint and steel. But in these enlightened
days sulphur or wax matches were within the reach of even impecunious
Mexican Indians, and José very early learned to smoke cigarettes made
of locally grown tobacco rolled in corn husks. As likely as not he
carried the “makin’s” on the broad brim of his sombrero, an immense
peaked hat of the braided leaf of the agave. Sandals of rawhide
completed his costume. The hat was extremely heavy, but it was the
custom, so José wore it with pride. But his greatest pride was his
machete, that great steel knife carried by every man, which served
every imaginable purpose. No boy was ever half so proud of his first
watch as was little José of his first machete.
José helped his father in the labor of the field. In the winter they
made a clearing by cutting and burning down the trees and brush. This
was not a great task, for the rocky and infertile hillsides produced
few trees or bushes and the cacti and grass were easily destroyed.
Then, after the first heavy rain of the summer, they went to their
field, carrying the seed corn, beads and a jícara full of water in
which corn meal had been mixed. They had already undergone a fast
of five days and an ablutionary bath. It was indeed a very sacred
and solemn occasion, for the success of the yield, if not the entire
harvest, depended upon them. For was not Corn the daughter of Father
Sun? So they reverently placed the beads in the center and four
corners of the field, and sprinkled the pinole water to the cardinal
points of the compass while Francisco, reverently facing the east,
recited the ancient prayer, promising Father Sun that they would guard
well his daughter and cherish her. Then they made little holes in the
ground with sticks, dropped in the kernels and covered them over. But
little attention was required until harvest time. Then the corn was
gathered with great joy, but the twin stalks, the corn plants with
forked stem and two ears known as the milpa cuata, were left standing
until the end. Then father and son solemnly walked around the field
as many times as there were stalks within it, and recited another
prayer, begging permission of Father Sun to carry home his daughter
and promising again to guard her well. These stalks, with the ears
attached, were then gathered in a sheaf and fastened to the ridgepole
of the house, or to a tree. And that evening Nestor told again the
old story of how Father Sun sent his daughter Corn to earth to be of
service to man and how she was wronged by her husband, Toloache,[11]
who used her bounty to support his mistresses, Crow and Badger, so that
at last she returned to her father.
“Therefore it is,” said old Nestor, “that we must pray hard for only
a little corn in place of the plenty which would have been ours. But
Toloache was punished by being fastened head downwards to the rock and
being required to grant us whatever we may ask of him.”
At this story José smiled for he was of the sophisticated younger
generation, and he looked upon it as a pretty fable, but old Nestor
evidently believed it implicitly.
Practically all the efforts of the people were individual or family
affairs. It was only on religious or ceremonial occasions that any
communal interests were attempted. But one day at the height of the dry
season his father said to José:
“Pepecito, to-morrow we are all going to fish in the river and you are
old enough to go along.”
The following day found them trudging toward the little river, their
costales filled with gordas—tortillas made thicker than usual so that
they retained their softness during the day. As they neared the river
they were joined by other parties bound in the same direction. All
paths led to a deep hole in the river above a series of rapids where,
it was suspected, the fish had all congregated. Here all hands set to
work making a tapexte, a weir or mesh of reeds laid together closely
in a plane and tied with cord. One of the long edges was weighted with
stones so that it sank to the bottom, and thus the entire mat could be
dragged up or down the stream, carrying the fish with it. An entire
day was consumed in making the tapexte and at nightfall all returned
to their homes, worn out with exertion. The next day—ah! That was a
wonderful day! Sounds of shouting and splashing filled the air. Dark
skins glistened and sparkled in the sun as the fishermen plunged into
the deep holes and endeavored to seize in little hand-nets the fish
which had been cornered by the great tapexte. And that night fish
boiled merrily in the pots of many happy households.
José was of good physical type, of medium height and slim build. His
hands and feet were small and well shaped, his features large but not
coarse. His eye was dark and sparkling, his hair thick, straight,
long and very black, his mustache, beard and body hair sparse. His
forefathers used to pluck out their beards, considering that it made
them look like the animal world, but he, like the younger generation,
cut and shaved his as fashion dictated. His color was a dark brown.
He was active, keen and bright when necessary, but inclined to
slothfulness. After all, why _should_ he do to-day anything he could
put off till to-morrow? An unpleasant task, if procrastinated, might
settle itself; if a pleasant prospect, why not prolong the enjoyable
anticipation? When life contains so little variety, why do everything
to-day and have nothing to do to-morrow?
José liked to smoke, of course, but any luxury was too expensive for
him to overdo it. And naturally he drank whenever he could get the
various distillates of agave which sold in the neighboring villages
as mescal, tequila and sotol. He drank to excess, for strong liquor
gave him a surcease from monotony—it made him a different person in a
different environment and he was glad to seek the change. Of course
drunken brawls were frequent and machete wounds occasional, but they
were forgiven shortly afterwards and forgotten.
Like all of his people, José was naturally cheerful and from a certain
point of view, honest. He would probably have considered it highly
commendable to steal anything from a Mexican or a Gringo stranger if
he could escape undetected, but he couldn’t steal from friends. He
was given to boasting—when the boast could not be checked up. Always
cheerful, singing and happy, few things worried him. Although very
emotional, like all Indians he considered it weak to betray emotion
before others. His one outstanding quality was his politeness, and this
was of the heart, not a mere outward display; he was always ready to be
of assistance to the helpless, sympathetic to the unfortunate. He could
hardly be called literate though he could, after intense and laborious
cerebration, manage to spell out a message or write a note. What with
this illiteracy, his tendency to procrastination, ignorance of all
trades and indisposition to continued labor, he would have been a
miserable failure in an industrial civilization, although in his native
environment he was a valuable member of society.
One year during the dry season, after the harvest of corn was in,
José accompanied several other young men of the tribe to a nearby
mining town where labor was in demand, and here he experienced his
first contact with “high” civilization. Here with pick and shovel he
could earn half a peso a day—twenty-five cents. Even at that rate
José could save enough to return to the little village in comparative
affluence after a few months, for money of any kind was seldom seen
there, practically all business being done by barter and one was indeed
deeply in debt who owed his neighbor a peso! José’s native boss was
easy-going and the men were not overworked, but the American foreman
was a puzzle to José. Always on the go, he never sat down to rest. And
such queer Spanish as he spoke—principally profanity! Then there were
such wonderful and incomprehensible machines, there, which did the work
of many men, run by steam and electricity: telephones, telegraphs,
automobiles and countless other appliances.
But the most joyous days of José’s youth were those of the fiestas.
Then the natives for miles around, both Indians and “neighbors,”
gathered in the little pueblo. Ave Marìa! What an assemblage! All the
pretty girls with their best petticoats of bright red flannel, their
rebozos[12] covering their sleek, black hair, their bright black eyes
sparkling with excitement and their white teeth shining. All the men
with their white trousers and blouses freshly washed, their hats
freshened up and their machetes polished. All roads led to the little
village, most coming on foot, the more opulent on donkeys, mules or
horses, for none owned wagons, nor could any wagon traverse the rocky
trails. Open hospitality reigned everywhere. Relations who had not
seen each other for months, compadres by the scores, old friends, new
acquaintances, fell on each other’s necks and slapped each other on the
back while the bottle of fiery sotol or tequila circulated freely.
Frequently the fiesta began with some communal work on the church, for
the church was the center of all activity. Possibly a wall had to be
erected and each one helped as he or she was able, the boys and women
carrying single small stones, the men carrying frames on which many
large stones were piled. An hour or so of combined labor and the wall
was built. In the afternoon, sports were the order of the day. Of these
the most popular was that of colando al toro, in which the wealthy
young men endeavored, each on his pet horse, to ride past a bull, seize
him by the tail and overthrow him. How José longed to be able to own a
horse and gain the plaudits of the girls by his prowess!
“I might even,” thought he, “go to the great City of Mexico and learn
to be a famous torero and be the idol of the entire Republic.”
At night there were cuetes exploded in honor of the day, which
delighted José hugely, and dances to the music of the violin. All day
and much of the night the celebration kept up. Little booths and tables
were erected wherever vendors sold dainties, and the air was filled
with the cries of the merchants.
“Sweet oranges! Four for a half-real!”[13]
“Melon seeds! Perfectly toasted!”
“Peanuts! Peanuts!”
“Sugar cane! The very sweetest!”
“Candies! Who wants them?”
Lucky was the boy who had a real to spend at the fiesta, for a goodly
portion of anything would be sold at the standard price of a centavo.
Meanwhile, over in one corner, the men gathered around a Mexican from a
nearby town who was running a gambling game with the cards, while his
partner dispensed bottles of the agave brandy. Soon the inevitable
vicious altercation would arise. To be sure it was limited to a violent
flood of profanity and only reputation and dignity were injured, but
the women shrank away while drunken cries filled the air. A few cool
heads interfered before any irreparable damage was done, but it was not
always thus, as a rude cross or two in the neighborhood of the pueblo,
marking a place where a soul had come to a violent end, mutely attest.
It was the Christmas season that was particularly celebrated at
Azqueltán, for then the old pageant of “Los Pastores” was performed.
For weeks before, the performers, all prominent men of the village,
were engaged in making their costumes of long, white dresses and their
staffs decorated with colored tinsel and tissue paper. The words
and music had been handed down from the days of the first Spanish
missionaries, and depicted the adventures of a group of shepherds
journeying to the nativity. José’s father, Francisco, played the part
of the hermit with a crude mask of wood and an immense rosary of wooden
beads. It was José’s ambition to take the part of Satan, who attempted
to prevent the pilgrimage.
“José,” said Francisco one day, “it is high time you were married.
You are eighteen now and most of the boys of your age are married
already. I cannot afford to support you any longer and you must set up
for yourself. I’ve been hearing a great deal about your affairs with
several girls—yes, and with some of our married women too! And it will
have to cease.”
Here Don Pancho chuckled to himself, for he had a great deal of pride
in his handsome son and enjoyed the gossip of his amours. José had
learned to be a fair performer on the fiddle and the guitar, and would
sit by night with a few other free lances of his own age under the
eaves of some straw hut watching the stars come out in the beautiful
crisp, evening air and singing melancholy love songs. Most of the girls
succumbed to his advances at once, but there was one who rejected them
with affected scorn and she, of course, was the one he most desired.
Consequently he began to hedge at his father’s suggestion.
“But, little father,” said he, “I don’t want to get married
yet,—possibly I never will!”
“What nonsense!” exploded Francisco. “It’s all right for Gringos to
be bachelors; they can hire women to do their work; they can eat in
tiendas. But you! Who’ll make your tortillas? Who’ll make your clothes?
Don’t be a fool!”
José knew it was up to him to get a wife, but he wished a little more
time to press his suit with Josefa, the much-to-be-desired daughter of
Cándido Gonzales. “Give me another month, little father,” he asked, and
Francisco agreed.
So José sought out his grandfather, old Nestor. Bashfully he hesitated
and “stalled” until at last the sly old man suspected the truth.
“Come, come!” he ejaculated. “Speak out! What is it, a girl?” José
presented his case. The old man swelled up with pride.
“Ah! Of a truth you have come to the right man! You knew your old
grandfather was the one to aid you! There is now only one other man
in the tribe who knows how to gain the love of a girl! A week from
to-night at midnight will be the time. We must both fast for five days
before, in order to appease the Gods and María Santísima. Get me a
piece of the girl’s clothing and I’ll find the other things.”
José didn’t relish the idea of a fast, for he was of the younger
generation and took little stock in the superstitions, as he considered
them, of the elders. Nevertheless he was now in trouble and, with the
natural faith of the helpless man, willing to try anything. So he
endured the fast without a whimper and surreptitiously visited the
girl’s house while she was fetching water from the spring and stole a
small article of clothing.
When at last the night came, the old man was in a queer mood of
neurotic enthusiasm and excitement, combined with sober dignity in
contemplation of his important office.
“Have you the clothing?” he asked eagerly. José handed it to him.
“And now a piece of your own clothing!” A short search brought to light
a discarded bit which would serve the purpose.
Carefully the old man made a doll of the clothes of each, one to
represent the boy, the other the girl. Then he produced flowers of
five narcotic plants which he had spent the day in seeking—güizache,
palo mulato, garambullo, rosa maría and toloache—and with these he
decorated the boy doll. When the stars indicated the hour of midnight,
a candle was lighted and the figures were placed in a large bowl of
water, floating. José watched with bated breath. Not that he put much
faith in the outcome, but the spell of the magic, the stillness of the
night and the temper of the old man, who by this time had practically
reached a state of self-hypnosis, had a profound effect. Reverently,
and in a low, tense voice the old man recited the ancient prayer
begging of the Intoxicated Woman and the Flower Man, that the desired
one should be brought to her lover. After this he produced his musical
bow and, placing a bowl upside down on the ground, held the bow on it
with his foot. Striking the string with two small sticks so that it
gave a sonorous twang, he began to sing the old song appropriate for
the occasion. Five times he sang it, and then jumped up and walked
around the bowl with the floating figures, five times. The charm was
then complete. Eagerly he looked into the bowl and found that the two
figures had floated together. With a delighted air he turned to José,
restraining his high-pitched emotion.
“It is well,” he said simply. “The Gods and María Santísima have
answered your prayer.” José felt relieved, for, although at heart
he doubted the efficacy of the charm, the old man’s emotion had a
considerable effect upon him. So it was with greater self-confidence
that in the morning he renewed both his meals and his assaults on the
heart of the delectable Josefa, until he felt that he might confidently
put the matter to the test.
“Father,” said he the following day, “will you speak to Cándido
Gonzales about Josefa for me?” His father chuckled.
“So that’s the way the wind blows! I guess we can settle the matter. It
would be silly of Don Cándido to refuse such a promising son-in-law!”
There were many things to be arranged and the matter of the marriage
of one’s children was too important an affair to be lightly settled,
so old Francisco and Cándido had many long conferences. They debated
the matter from every possible point of view and then all over again
from the beginning. But even matters of greater pith and moment must
eventually be squeezed dry, and at last the time arrived when neither
the fertile Don Pancho nor the equally fertile Don Cándido could
conceive of another topic of discussion, so they considered the matter
formally arranged. The young people would await the next visit of the
cura and then be married.
But right there old Nestor interposed a furious objection. Here he
was, the Cantador Mayor, the Chief Singer or high priest of the old
religion, the keeper of the old customs, doing his best to preserve the
tribe from dissolution and destruction because of the anger of the old
Gods. The young generation were deserting the Gods and the practices of
their forefathers. They no longer attended the old ceremonies, prayed
and sacrificed to the Gods, fasted or made prayer sticks. Even the old
language had nearly perished and the Gods were so angry that they were
permitting the tribe to grow smaller and smaller, yearly. It was only
the fervor of a few devoted conservatives like himself which still
induced the Gods to send their rains in the spring. And would he allow
his only grandson to be married without the practice of the old rites?
Por Dios, no! And besides, he was one of the very few men who still
remembered the old prayer and it was the custom to pay a peso per night
to the one who recited the prayer. He had not the slightest objection
to Pepe’s being married by the cura—the more Gods the better—but he
insisted on his privileges and the observance of the old customs.
So, to please the old man and to keep peace, it was agreed to follow
the old customs, and the next Wednesday night the three men, Nestor,
Francisco and José, journeyed to the girl’s house. Along the narrow,
steep and rocky trail they stumbled, finally arriving at the house
where they were cordially admitted by old Cándido. Seating themselves
by the door, Nestor immediately launched into the prayer which was a
long one and recited with great gravity. He spoke in beautiful allegory
of the creation of the girl in the heavens, and of her long wanderings
before her birth. At last the long prayer came to an end and the party
trooped home again.
For five nights on successive Wednesdays and Saturdays, this was
repeated and on the last night Cándido, who had been ably coached by
Nestor, arose at the end of the old man’s speech and spoke in reply,
gravely, the traditional response which had served Tepecano brides
and grooms for centuries. He admitted that his daughter was lazy and
worthless, but appreciated the honor of having her hand asked, and
closed with an appeal to the Gods for forgiveness from sins and for
health. Then he brought out a white cloth and on it were piled all the
girl’s possessions and her wedding gifts. Then all four, the bride and
groom and their fathers, seized each a corner, raised the cloth, and
the ceremony was complete. José remained with his wife’s people for
several months while he built himself a new house and put his household
in order before taking his bride to her new home. When the good cura
came to say mass the next time, the couple appeared before him and were
united according to the rites of Holy Church.
One day a melancholy figure appeared before the little hut of Nestor
and the old man hobbled out to greet his visitor.
“Enter, enter, little grandson!” he greeted. “Why so sad? What has
happened?”
“It is my wife, little grandfather,” replied José. “She is quite ill.
We have done everything we can for her. All the neighbors have come,
and each one has brought her some delicacy and forced her to eat it,
but to no avail. Can you not help her?”
The old man puffed up with a mixture of self-conceit, anger and
contempt.
“Ah, what could you expect from these old women? They expect to cure
sickness by foods and drugs when it is necessary to appease or overcome
something! Verily you have come to the right man! Let us see what we
can do.” He disappeared within his house, made a judicious selection of
objects, put them within his sack, and over the trail they went toward
the house.
Sure enough, there lay poor Josefa on a mat on the floor of the house.
The civilized physician would have diagnosed her malady as malaria and
suggested doses of quinine and crude oil—the latter to be administered
to the mosquitoes in the pools of stagnant water. A few sympathetic
neighbors were gathered around, begging her to try one or another of
the dainties they had so carefully prepared.
“Truly, I have done my best, grandfather,” lamented José. “I have
sucked at the seat of pain as you have told me, but extracted nothing,
and I have blown tobacco smoke on her and prayed, but without avail.”
“Yes, my son, but one must have practice in such matters and the
confidence of the Gods. Possibly it is the work of one of your enemies.
It is well that you called me, for none else in the tribe has my power
and influence.”
Sending the neighbors home, he questioned José with regard to his sins
of omission and commission, trying to determine the cause of his wife’s
infirmity. Had he or she any enemies who might wish to send sickness
upon them? José knew of none, except possibly one of her other old
suitors. Had he been careful to placate the chanes when he built his
new home? José was compelled to admit that he had ignored this matter
entirely.
“Ah, my son!” lamented the old man, “you young people laugh at us; you
think we are silly, and yet when your own obstinacy leads you into
trouble you come to us for aid! Well, that is ever the way of youth.
Now let’s see what we can do.”
He laid Josefa on her back, standing at her feet. Lighting a cigarette
made of corn husk and tobacco he assumed a serious attitude which
rapidly became almost hypnotic. Taking long draughts of smoke, he faced
the four cardinal points in turn, blowing a puff of smoke in each
direction, and then in a low tense voice recited a prayer, begging that
the illness might pass from her and she be restored to health. Then he
blew five puffs of smoke on her hands, feet and forehead and, falling
on his knees, began to stroke her body rapidly from the extremities
to the seat of pain, at which place he then began to suck vigorously.
Finally arising, he spat into his hand a mouthful of blood. His state
of tense emotion rapidly disappeared as he said gravely:
“This is a serious matter, Pepito. It is not the chan; if it were,
I should have sucked out only spittle. The blood proves it to be
witchcraft!
“It is a matter of the greatest delicacy,” continued Nestor, “and you
are lucky to have one so powerful as I at your service. Even for me it
will require a whole week of fasting and praying to diagnose the matter
correctly. And even for my favorite grandson I couldn’t afford to do it
for less than the standard price of five pesos!”
After a half-hour’s argument the matter was amicably arranged and for
a week the old man bathed, fasted and prayed, and by the end of that
time had worked himself into an exalted state which combined with the
weakness induced by the fast, made him see visions. On the evening of
the seventh day he again appeared before the young man, the gravity of
the business evidently weighing upon him very heavily.
“I have seen it all,” he said simply. “It was a young man. I couldn’t
see him plainly enough to recognize him. But he made a figure from a
piece of her clothing and stuck a pin into it while another old man
prayed that she might sicken and die!”
A wave of hatred passed over José and he cursed the culprit violently.
There was no longer the slightest doubt in his mind that old Nestor
spoke with authority. He had heard all these old tales about ways of
harming an enemy by magical means, but he had never really put any
faith in them. And now he was the victim! He ran over in his mind the
names of those who might be suspected. There was Pablo Hernandez with
whom he had had an argument at the last fiesta, and Pedro Martinez who
claimed he had cheated him over a sale of corn last month. Ah, but
wait. There was Margarito de la Rosa who had been his pet rival for the
hand of Josefa. The more he thought of it, the more certain he was that
it must have been he. All right! He would fix him!
Nestor set about his cure with gravity and self-possession, knowing
like any doctor that the best half of any cure lay in the confidence of
the patient. First he produced his bundle of arrows made of a straight
shaft of wood with a large feather from an eagle or a red-tailed hawk,
hanging from the blunt end. These were the arrows that attacked evil
and sickness. Three of these he stuck in the ground at the patient’s
head and a fourth at her feet. Then he performed a number of motions
with the arrows, which involved changing their positions, pointing them
to the four cardinal points and waving them above the patient’s head to
purify her. Finally he fell on his knees and once again began to suck
at the sorest spot in her body. After several attempts on various parts
he finally arose with great emotion, his face a livid red from the
intensity of his efforts, spat into his hand and showed José—a pin! The
latter gasped with astonishment.
Now without doubt the old man had concealed the pin in his mouth before
beginning to suck, nevertheless he had worked himself into such an
intense emotional state that the fraud was probably quite unconscious.
As for José—had he not seen with his own eyes? The very pin which had
been stuck into the figure representing his wife had been removed from
her body! So that was the game, was it? Very well, it was a game more
than one could play at. From that time on he nursed his revenge.
After he had brooded over his wrongs for a long time he again consulted
Nestor and told him of his suspicions. The old man nodded gravely.
“Most probably it was he,” he assented. “Now that I think of it, the
person I saw in the vision was much like him. Of course! I see him
very plainly now. And the old man who helped him was that shameless
old Heleno Montez who thinks he has more power than I. I’m certain of
that. Very well, we’ll show them!” And so the two conspirators secretly
planned the untimely demise of Margarito and Heleno.
Thus it happened that a few days later they met late one night in a
secluded spot on the outskirts of the village.
“There are several methods of bewitching,” began Nestor, after crossing
himself. “You might as well learn them. One way is to make a figure of
cotton and bury it in the cemetery, light a candle and place it at the
head of a grave at midnight on Monday, after having fasted all day.
Repeat this for five successive Mondays and on the last day get a black
stone from the river and hit the earth above the figure five times.
Then run home before the candle goes out. The corpse will cause your
enemy to sicken and die within five months. But one must fast for the
entire twenty-nine days.”
José shuddered and looked furtively around into the darkness with the
fear of one who dreads ghosts. Neither the method nor the long fast
appealed to him. But Nestor, with the air of a devotee, warmed up to
his subject.
“But a better way is to make a figure of cotton with hands and feet,
head and mouth, wrap it up with the shroud of a dead man and then
pierce the head and the heart with five thorns. Pretty soon the victim
will fall sick of the stomach and his heart will rot and—may God have
mercy on his soul!” Nestor chuckled. “A very pretty way it is, too!
That was probably the method they tried on Josefa. Lucky you had me to
counteract it!”
Again José’s anger rose at the thought of the villainy and he hardened
his heart against the malefactors.
“Another good way,” continued Nestor, “is to make a clay figure and
bury it in an ant hill at high noon. You must fast a day and say the
creed seven times while counting your rosary and light a candle. And
when the candle goes out, the ants will come up and in five days the
enemy will die of boils and hives and fever!”
“That’s a terrible death, little grandfather,” said José. “We can’t do
anything like that!”
“Well, there’s still another way, the best of all. Few men know this,
but I will tell you the secret.” His voice sank to a whisper.
“First you must get a bone from the right hand of a dead man. Take this
and hide it in the thatch of the roof of your enemy’s house when no
one is looking. Then in the night he will see a black phantom and the
following night a terrifying vision lamenting behind the house. Unless
he finds and removes the charm, he will continue being terrified until
at last all the people of that house will die from fear of horrible
nightmares of poisonous animals—rattle-snakes, centipedes, tarantulas,
lizards, spiders and scorpions!”
But José had heard enough, and was on his way home as if all these
noxious creatures were after him. Others might dabble in witchcraft if
they pleased, but it was not for him! His difference with Margarito he
would settle with fist or machete!
This experience brought José more closely into contact with old Nestor.
Besides he was getting on toward middle life and beginning to recover
from the agnosticism of youth and to take an interest in the old
religion and customs of the forefathers. These, he was well aware, were
kept alive by a few devoted old conservatives like Nestor who believed
that it was only their fidelity which kept the tribe from complete
annihilation by the Gods, angry because of the neglect of the younger
people. The younger people regarded the conservatives as harmless old
fools and their religious practices as amusing superstitions. In this
they were encouraged by the padre who was anxious to see all the old
beliefs rooted out. Nevertheless he knew enough of human nature to
realize that little could be accomplished by coercion and force, and
enough of church history to remember that the Church had always found
it better to reinterpret the old pagan beliefs and incorporate them
into the faith rather than to battle against them. Consequently the
conservative group considered themselves perfectly good Catholics and
saw no antagonism between the new and the old religions. Nestor found
José in a receptive mood when he approached him on the topic.
“José,” said he, “it has always been a matter of great regret to
me that my only grandson has not been one of the few who have kept
faith with the ancient Gods of the pueblo. But that is the nature of
youth. I too, up to your age, took little part in the ceremonies,
although at that time all of the elder generation were loyal. But now
you have arrived at the age of discretion; your advice is sought and
your example has considerable influence. I know you no longer laugh
at our beliefs; you have frequently questioned me about them. But you
have never affiliated yourself with us. Delay no longer, dear little
grandson. Father Sun is stretching out his hand toward you to gather
you unto him. This is the fifth of January. To-night we celebrate the
feast of the Pinole. Come and join us!”
There was an air of ecstasy about the old man and of hysterical
emotion, due, as José realized, to the long fast in preparation for the
feast, as well as to the narcotic peyote. José saw that a refusal would
anger the old man and, besides, he felt a curiosity as well as a real
religious interest in the proceedings.
“I will go,” he said shortly.
As the sun sank behind the western mountains José and Nestor followed
the winding trail toward the place where the ceremony was to be held.
Just at dusk they arrived at the patio situated on the top of a small
hill. Of course in his boyhood days José had frequently visited the
patios where the ceremonies of the conservatives for untold generations
had been held. He knew their general form well—a flat circular ground
with a place for a fire in the center, a ring of stones which served
as seats for the communicants, a circular path without this for
the dancers, and a rude altar built of stones to the east. But now
everything assumed a new significance.
On arriving, Nestor and José gravely made the requisite five ceremonial
circuits of the ground, after which they bowed before the altar, while
old Nestor recited a prayer in a low voice. José knew enough of the
old Tepecano language to get the sense of the prayer which begged
permission of the Gods to prepare and decorate their temple. After
this, they set to work and cleared the ground of all growth until it
presented an even surface, swept it smooth and started a fire in the
center.
Nestor then busied himself at the altar for a long time, and José
observed that he had opened his box and taken out many objects of
ceremonial importance which he placed in their proper positions on the
altar. For a long time he busied himself there, carefully unwrapping
every object and giving great care to its placing. José, sweeping the
court and nursing the fire, watched him out of the corner of his eye.
At last the old man turned and called to him.
“Joselito,” said the old man, surveying his work with the pride of a
good craftsman, “it is well that you should understand the meaning of
all our religious objects. Doubtless you have heard malicious gossip
and lies concerning them from the unbelievers of the village. They have
told you that we worship idols here, and are in league with the Devil
in opposition to our Holy Catholic Faith. Lies! All lies! We worship
God here just as we do in the church with songs and prayers. Our dear
cura is the leader of that branch of the church, and I of this. He
needs his chalices and his sacraments just as I need the ceremonial
objects you see here. Just as the blessed images in the church protect
the town from evil, so do these bring us health, relief from sickness,
and rain for our crops. Look here! This white cloth is the tapexte—it
represents the heavens filled with great white rain clouds. These
little square objects of colored yarn on a frame, you know well.
They are chimales, shields, and represent the face of God, the Sun.
Consequently they shield us from every influence and we even fear to
make them until after the rainy season for fear they might keep away
the rains! These arrows you know too. They are our active defense from
sickness and evil and are hung with the feathers of the royal eagle and
the red-tailed hawk.”
“Why only those?” interrupted José.
“Because they are the most powerful, swift and strong; therefore the
arrow will fly fast, hard and straight. It is with these arrows that
people are cleansed from sickness and evil. Then these sticks with
tufts of cotton wound on them are bastoncitos. The cotton, of course,
represents the great rain clouds, and these also serve to cleanse and
purify and to bring the rains for the crops. All of these things you
have seen and know fairly well. But these little objects of great
importance you probably do not know.”
Nestor pointed to the front of the altar where lay six or eight
jícaras. Some of these were decorated with designs made of small glass
beads of different colors set in beeswax on the outer and inner
surfaces, but all of them contained various small objects resting on
beds of cotton. Many of them were natural stones of strange and unusual
shapes and colors, others were little bone carvings and similar objects
made by the ancient populations of this region, and occasionally found
by the present people. A few others were, although neither of the
observers realized it, manufactured objects from other lands.
“These,” said old Nestor solemnly, “are the cidukam which are sometimes
called our ‘idols.’ Of course they are not. But they are very powerful
and rare and are carefully guarded. One finds them here and there,
where they are left by the Gods that those with faith and observation
may find them. They protect him from evil and sickness and bring to
him health, wealth and happiness. I, as Chief Singer, have the largest
number of most powerful ones which protect not only me, but the entire
pueblo. And yet they care so little for it that the people laugh at my
valuables and refuse to attend our ceremonies. But let them beware!
The Gods will not bear with this neglect forever! Already things are
not as they were in my youth. Then the rains were longer and heavier,
the corn grew more bountifully and the deer were more plentiful. While
I last, I will keep the faith, but who will follow me? Not one of the
younger generation knows the prayers, the songs or the details of the
ceremonies! Well, at any rate, I shall have done my best to save them
from the consequences of their neglect.”
“Here,” he exclaimed, pointing to a spherical object resting on a bed
of cotton in a beautifully decorated jícara, “here is the most powerful
object in the collection. There is not another one in the tribe—yes,
there cannot be another like this in the whole world.”
He raised the globe reverently and lovingly from its bed. Now an
American schoolboy would have recognized it as a large glass marble
with the white corkscrew veins in the center. But to Nestor and José it
was a wonderful object, and they feasted their eyes on the beautiful
and regular shape and color.
“This is surely the spirit of the rain,” said the old man softly.
“See! It is transparent like the water and in the centre the whirling
rain descends. Ah! If that should be lost or taken from the country,
the rain would surely follow it and we would all die of drought and
starvation!” He put it back into its place reverently.
“Here is a representation of the moon, white and round; this one is
evidently the spirit of the deer. See how closely it resembles one
with its horns! Here is doubtless an ear of corn, and this one here is
certainly intended for a chimal. And these—but here come more people!”
Into the light of the fire brightly blazing in the center of the patio
came three elderly men. José knew them well, of course, as prominent in
the conservative party. They walked five times around the circle and
stopped before the altar and breathed their prayers before stepping out
to greet the two. From this time on, the communicants arrived slowly,
until by eight o’clock about a dozen had congregated, almost entirely
elderly men. A few women also had come, but these made a fire for
themselves outside the circle and took no part in the ritual.
Presently Nestor brought out a bow of the type used by the hunters of
old, and tightened the string until it gave forth a resonant twang when
plucked. Then, scooping out a hole in the ground in front of his seat,
he inverted a gourd bowl over this and held the bow, string uppermost,
on the bowl with his foot so that it served as a resonance chamber. Two
small sticks were selected and the ceremony was about to begin. First,
however, he called José to him and formally recited to him another
of the old speeches, handed down by tradition through centuries,
delivering to him the care of the fire for the night. Then he seated
himself on his central seat, and on either side sat another old man.
In each hand they held one of the ceremonial arrows which they had
taken from the altar. These were waved slowly, and pointed in turn to
east, north, west and south while the old man recited the traditional
prayer opening the fiesta. This done, he settled himself on his seat
and, taking the two sticks in his hand, struck the bow with a sonorous
twang. Then he began to sing in a low voice to the accompaniment of the
monotonous twang of the bow. José followed the example of the other
men by getting up and dancing around the circle with a solemn, slow
tripping step, stopping to face outwards for a moment at each of the
cardinal points, and particularly to the altar at the east.
And so the long night passed. Around Polaris swung the bright stars,
shining as they can only in the crisp air of high altitudes. All night
long with but brief intermissions the old man sang. Only four songs
there were in all, but these were very long and full of monotonous
repetition. They told of the origin of the Gods and of the world, and
of the coming of the rain to refresh the world with its life-giving
water. José tended the fire conscientiously and danced with the other
men for at least a portion of every song.
At last above the rim of the eastern hills appeared the glowing Morning
Star like a heavenly torch, and all greeted it reverently. Soon the
great sun himself began to spread the light and warmth of his glow
abroad, and finally showed his face radiant above the eastern hills.
Seldom had he seemed more majestic to José and seldom had his warmth
been more welcome, after the chilliness of the night.
About this time Nestor finished his last song to the Sun and the
ceremony was almost over. Once again the other two old men took their
places beside him on the stone seats and once again were the arrows
pointed to the cardinal points while the Chief Singer recited the
prayer to close the ceremony. Then, one by one, all the men approached
the altar where they were given little tamales[14] to eat, while Nestor
purified them of all sickness and evil by waving over them an arrow,
the feather of which had been dipped in peyote water. A few drops of
the water were placed in the hand of each, and then water in which corn
meal had been mixed was sprinkled over every one present, over the
altar and the seats. The sacred objects on the altar were collected and
replaced in their box, all the attendants, led by Nestor, made their
five ceremonial circuits of the patio and the ceremony was completed.
José went home and slept the rest of the day.
Although José still affected to ridicule the beliefs and practices of
the conservatives, yet the ceremony he had witnessed had really quite
an effect upon him. And he began to show a live concern for the old
religion, studying it almost as would a scientific investigator. Many
were the conferences and long talks that he and Nestor held together,
the old man an intensely enthusiastic informant, the young man an
interested listener and keen inquisitor. Of course, like all the
Tepecanos, he already understood the basis of the old religion, how
the trinity of Father Sun, Mother Moon and Elder Brother Morning Star
watched over and protected their people; how Father Sun had sent his
daughter, the Corn, into the world that they might have sustenance,
and how the Gods sent the welcome and necessary rains in the spring
and summer, that the corn might flourish, requiring only that the
people worship them with song and dance, with arrows and chimales. But
all of the minor esoteric details opened a new field of interest to
him. He learned the many set prayers which were enjoined for various
occasions, the ritual songs sung at the four principal ceremonies, that
of the Rain in April, the Ripe-corn in September, the Corn-meal in
January and the Twin-corn in March. He heard of the tabus of fasting
and continence enjoined upon the Chief Singer and, above all, of the
influence and power of the magic peyote which played such a large
part in all observances. He learned to make the various kinds of
arrows and chimales and to know their special powers. He learned the
locations of the altars, and particularly the four principal ones to
the cardinal points, in each of which was a habitant spirit, and how to
each pertained a special color—green to the east, gray to the north,
black to the west and white to the south. He came to realize that the
religion was practically based on the securing of rain, for which the
Gods were petitioned with prayer and song, and placated by sacrifices
and fasting, for rain was the one essential to human life.
José became particularly interested in the little cactus root known
as peyote, that dried, shriveled-up little thing which produced
such a wonderful effect when eaten. Such a feeling of ecstasy and
exhilaration, of joy and insensibility to fatigue, did they produce
that they were certainly powerful instruments of the Gods, if not near
gods themselves.
“It is a kind of corn,” volunteered Nestor of the peyote, “just as the
deer are corn.” By that he meant that it was a food sent by the Gods,
for he knew well that it was the root of a cactus growing in a country
far to the east.
“When I was young,” he continued, “we journeyed far to the east to
gather the peyote root just as the Huicholes do to-day. But now that I
am old and there is no one to take my place, I must buy it from them.”
Then and there José swore that he would accompany the next Huichol
party to the eastern country in search of the strange plant, for he was
still young enough to feel youth’s passion for visiting strange lands.
He had frequently seen parties of peyote-seekers passing through the
village and had struck up an acquaintance with some of them, envying
them their gaudy costumes and long trip. Now he would go with them and
himself bring back the peyote!
“May the Gods be with you, Joselito!” fervently prayed old Nestor.
“Would that I were young enough to accompany you! But I shall fast and
pray for you. When you return with the peyote you will have fulfilled
one of the requirements for the office of Chief Singer, and I will go
to my forefathers in peace, knowing that you will take my place. It is
now October and some of the Huichol men will be about starting out. You
have frequently heard me mention my old friend Benito Torres who left
Azqueltán as a youth to live with the Huicholes, and who has risen to
be one of the most respected men of the tribe. Go to him and he will
befriend you. Go with God!”
It was a bright, warm day in October when José set out for the Huichol
country. Josefa had filled his sack with gordas and his bule[15] with
water. Tobacco, matches, his machete and blanket were the rest of his
equipment. He waved farewell to his wife and started up the hills to
the west. Higher and higher he climbed, now scrambling up a slope of
rock talus, now following a trickling stream up a ravine, now skirting
a fertile hill with the hay still slightly greenish from the recent
rains. The little river in the bottom of the great barranca grew
smaller and smaller, until at last it was lost to sight entirely,
behind the hills of the upper edge. The heat grew perceptibly less as
he climbed and the pine trees appeared singly and then in groups. The
first night he spent by the side of a blazing pine fire on the edge of
the mountain forests, while he listened to the howl of the wolves or
the snarl of a jaguar or mountain lion.
Early in the morning he was off again, still going westward through
the pine groves until at last he began to see the fields and houses of
the Huichol. The houses were much like those of his tribe except that
none was of adobe. They were also arranged in villages, but in every
village was one larger house which served as the temple, in place of
the open-air altars to which he was accustomed. The people looked very
much the same, but their dress was different. They wore scarfs, belts
and little pouches woven in designs of bright colors, wide hats with
feathers, and their legs were bare to the knees. They looked askance at
the traveler in the conventional cotton trousers of the Mexican peon.
One or two accosted him in the Huichol language. It was a queer tongue
to him, with many sounds he had never heard before and was confident
no civilized man could ever reproduce. He replied in Spanish, but was
not understood until one of the middle-aged men who had worked in the
nearby mining town, and there acquired a small Spanish vocabulary,
happened along. From him José learned that Benito Torres lived on a
little ranch a few miles beyond the village. Arriving there about
sunset he kicked aside the snarling dogs which, as everywhere in
Mexico, prowled about the house, and called aloud. A middle-aged man
came out of the house.
“Cafhövan, armano!” Jose greeted him. The man, after a moment of silent
surprise, smiled and countered:
“Cafhövan api! It is a long time since I have heard that greeting in
Tepecano,” he continued in Spanish, “and the language has about failed
me. Enter! Enter! Here is your home! Julia! Bring food and drink for
my brother Waköri!” Waköri is the name given the Tepecanos by the
Huicholes.
“I am called José Aguilar,” said the traveler, “the son of Francisco
and grandson of Nestor.”
“Ah, yes! Francisco and I were boys together, and many pranks we played
on Nestor. He himself was a young man then. How long ago that was!
But when I was younger than you, I saw the way things were going. The
Mexicans were encroaching on our lands, the cura came and built the
church and we were made to give up our communal land and each man take
a piece for himself. As if the Gods ever intended their land to be
owned like a machete or a hat! As well divide up the air and the water
in the river and make the new-born babe pay to breathe and drink! Ave
Maria! And then they began to bring in strong drinks; they wanted us to
put our legs in those long trousers you wear now, to give up our old
language and speak Spanish and to foreswear the old religion. I saw the
way it was going and said, ‘Not for me! Not for Benito Torres!’ And I
took my blanket as you have done and came up here with the Huicholes
where I have spent a long, happy life following the mandates of the
Gods. You are wise to have done likewise. I welcome you!” And he threw
his arms around the younger man in a welcoming embrace.
José was pleased and yet troubled.
“Yes, little uncle,” he replied at last, “it is quite true. There is
little of the old left now in Azqueltán. Only old Nestor and a few of
the other old men keep to the old faith. But I am of the new order.
These are the clothes I have always worn; Spanish is my language,
Catholicism my religion. I cannot change to the old order any more than
you to the new. And yet the new is inevitable; I see it even here.”
Benito nodded a sad acquiescence. “Yes, it is a losing fight. Even
here the old is passing. I have not postponed it for these people, but
only for myself by coming here. In a century or so there will be no
Huicholes, no Tepecanos, no Coras, only Mexican peones of Indian blood.
But why then have you come here?”
José explained his mission, at which the sad face lighted up again.
“It is well,” he said. “I too went with parties several times after I
first came here. But it is a task for young men. You know it involves
harsh restrictions of fasting and great endurance?” José insisted he
was prepared for them.
“Very well, then. In a very few days a party begins the preliminary
fast. I will speak to their leader and you shall join them.”
And so it happened that through the good offices of Benito, José was
accepted among the peyoteros and prepared to take his part in the
work. He adopted the dress and paraphernalia of the party, taking bow
and arrows and several small tobacco gourds. The evening before the
departure he bathed and prayed, as he might not bathe again until the
return from the long journey. There were nine other men in the party,
including a leader who was the only one allowed to make fire while on
the long trip. Several burrows were taken along, to carry tortillas on
the journey and bring back the peyote on the return. Nevertheless they
were expected to fast much of the time, and several men of the party
ate little but peyote during the entire forty-three days they were away
on the journey.
Bidding an affectionate good-by to their wives and families, the
little party started out. Instead of passing by Azqueltán, they struck
eastward down the slopes of the wooded mountains and out onto the
rolling plateau, dry, hot and sandy. Day followed day in monotonous
repetition, night followed night. Generally in single file they
walked, dirty and hungry, but with their minds fixed on the goal before
them—the attainment of the little cacti which would protect their
villages and bring them rain. Across the well known trail they went,
camping each night in a certain place, so that the faithful watchers
at home knew each night exactly where they were. This trail had been
followed for centuries and went along the most inaccessible route, away
from roads and villages, so that the pilgrims were seen by very few
of the Mexicans of even the more inhabited parts of the country they
traversed.
But at one spot when the journey was about half ended, not far from
the great City of Zacatecas, they came to a road which could not be
avoided. It was made up of short logs of wood laid parallel, and on
these were fastened long, snaky iron rails. José, though more civilized
than the others, had never seen anything of the kind before, but one of
the other men who had made the journey before, explained by signs that
an immense monster, dragging behind him houses full of people, ran at
tremendous speed along the road, as a horse drew a cart along a dirt
road. From the description José recognized it as a railroad, as he had
heard about railroads when an open-eyed boy, from an itinerant peddler.
Eastward, ever eastward they pressed, until two full weeks had passed,
when the leader of the party informed them that their destination
was but five days’ journey away and that from that time all
restrictions must be rigidly observed. They were to walk in single file
continuously, and eat nothing but peyote for the rest of the journey.
In a few days José began to see the first little peyote plants, but the
leader affected not to notice them, although as the party pressed on
the plants grew more abundant. At length, on the nineteenth day, when
they had covered about three hundred miles, the leader called a halt.
Trembling with emotion, superinduced by hunger and fatigue, he cried:
“There is the peyote, appearing as a deer!”
At that, all drew their arrows and shot at a peyote plant, taking care
not to hit it. Then from the loads on the burrows various ceremonial
objects were produced—arrows, chimales, bastones and other objects not
used by the Tepecanos—which were deposited as sacrifices to the Gods
and to the peyote. For the next three days all collected the little
cactus roots until the burros were loaded down and the men wore strings
around their necks. On the fifth day after arrival they started their
long journey homeward.
By this time the supply of tortillas had become entirely exhausted and
José, in particular, being more accustomed to regularity of food, and
less accustomed to the diet of peyote, suffered greatly. The others
appeared not to be greatly affected, for they consumed many peyote
roots and walked with the sprightly, springy step that certain kinds of
intoxication produce, though their thin limbs and drawn faces betrayed
the strain upon them. Now and again inhabitants of the country gave
them food, but these were rare occasions and for the greater part they
covered the first fourteen days of the return trip in a daze, sustained
only by the stimulus of peyote and their nerve.
But at last the fourteen days were over and they approached the spot
where, the leader informed them, a party from the village would meet
them, five days’ journey from home, with loads of tortillas. And so
indeed it happened! How good the corn cakes, bone dry after five days
in the scorching sun! With renewed strength they continued their way to
the edge of their pine forests, where they hunted deer for several days
to obtain the meat demanded for the return feast.
A few days later, a body of thin and famished men, their figures only
just beginning to recover from the privations of the long journey,
but their heads high with elation and consciousness of probity and
of duty well performed, their burros laden with sacks of peyote and
deer meat and their necks bedecked with strings of peyote, marched
down the street of the principal village. The tabu upon washing would
not be removed until the great feast, and they presented a bedraggled
and filthy appearance, yet they were heroes to the stay-at-homes in
the village as they entered the temple and deposited their cherished
strings of roots. Then they again began to hunt deer in order to have
plenty for the great Peyote Fiesta in January.
But José was anxious to get home. He felt that he had done his share
and should be excused from the month or more delay in preparation
for the fiesta in which he had but little interest. Benito took his
part also and urged that he be allowed to depart. Many of the shamans
took exception, fearing that such a rupture of all the regulations
of peyote-gathering might anger the Gods and work harm. But finally
Benito’s argument that harm, if any, would fall upon the culprit and
his people in Azqueltán and not on the Huicholes, carried the day, and
José was wished god-speed, loaded with gordas made by Benito’s wife,
Julia, and sent on his way.
How beautiful the great barranca seemed as he first emerged from the
edge of the pine forests and saw the gaping chasm below! What joy to
make out the little cluster of adobe and thatch shacks with the little
white church in the center! As he neared his house, his loving wife ran
out and embraced him. How good it was to be home again, and how much
better were her tortillas than those of any of the Huichol women!
But only a few minutes did he tarry at home in spite of his long
absence, for Josefa said at once: “Old Nestor is sick unto death and
has been asking for you hourly. He has kept track of the time you have
been away, and says you should be home about this time and that he will
not go until he sees you again.”
Hastily José ran along the winding trail which led to the house of
the old man, and as he neared it he heard the doleful wail of an old
shaman singing one of his curing songs. On his blanket on the floor
lay the old man, surrounded by his ceremonial arrows and other sacred
paraphernalia. As José entered, he smiled and motioned to the shaman to
stop singing.
“It is useless,” he said simply. “I know my time has come. Sooner or
later it comes to all of us. But I knew you were coming to-day, my boy.
I dreamt it last night, and I would not go until I saw you. I see you
have brought the peyote for me. Well, it will never benefit me. Stay!
Give me a drink of it now. It will make my head clearer. But the rest
of it you must keep for yourself. You are the only one of the tribe
who has fulfilled the requirement for Chief Singer by going to the
peyote country. And besides, you know all the songs and prayers and all
the intricate details of our ceremonies. And I will leave you all my
cherished valuables, my arrows, my chimales and my cidukam. They will
help you in every need, and while you cherish them the Gods will allow
no harm to befall the pueblo. Francisco! Baldomero! Must he not be
Chief Singer after me?”
“It is true,” spoke Francisco. “José, my son, you are young in years,
but old in experience and knowledge. Will you not do as grandfather
wishes?”
Reluctantly José agreed.
A few days later a straggling procession wound its way to the little
cemetery behind the church while strong hands bore a plain black box
containing the body of old Nestor. The burial customs of old had been
entirely forgotten, and even if they had not, Francisco would have
taken no chances with fate by having the old man buried outside of
consecrated ground. But nevertheless José managed to slip a few of the
old man’s most cherished sacred things into the box with him. Later
José went to the principal altars in the hills to deposit other things,
besides journeying to the seat of the cura to pay to have masses said
for the rest of his soul.
For a year or so José fulfilled his office as Chief Singer dutifully,
but then the restrictions and fasts began to pall upon him, and he
shirked the duties and finally abandoned them altogether. Some of
the conservatives remonstrated with him, but he replied that he
could not see but that they had just as much rain and corn, without
performing the ceremonies, and no more sickness and famine than when
the ceremonies were performed, in which he was certainly borne out by
the facts. And not long afterwards, when a “Gringo” scientist came to
the village to study the language and customs, he was glad to sell all
of Nestor’s sacrosanct valuables at a high price and call it a good
riddance.