Читать книгу Trini - Estella Portillo Trambley - Страница 11

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Sabochi

“Chihuahua belongs to the Indians,” José Mario was telling Sabochi, his eyes distant, his voice solemn. “But then the white man came . . .”

“Not to Cusihuiriachi,” laughed Sabochi.

“Long ago, the Indians in this valley looked upon the light in the barranca as the sacred ground of gods. Over there, near the mines.” José Mario pointed to the mountain east of the valley. “There was a pure light shooting up from the gash.” He sighed. “Turned out to be gold, only gold.”

They were sitting and smoking on the high terraced milpas where the whole family had come to seed the cleared land. Clearing it had taken two weeks. The seeding was easier, for plowing the milpas in Bachotigori was not necessary. The tropical climate on high ground made the earth giving and rich. The people of the valley planted after the winds of February, everyone sharing the crops for miles around. No one person owned the land. José Mario’s family had planted lentils, beans, and, around the hill where Sabochi’s cave was, they had planted chile piquín.

The children sat in a rock enclosure on the edge of a ravine. A patch of sun touched Trini’s face as she looked over to where her papá and Sabochi sat deep in conversation. Since his return, Sabochi had been the children’s “mother.” But, more importantly, the gate was no longer locked. Sabochi often took them to explore the hills, following paths that led to streams making their way to the mother river. Sometimes they would come across sweet smelling clusters of wild herbs. The most exciting thing to Trini was discovering silent, shadowy recesses of mountain similiar to Sabochi’s cave. The whole valley was theirs when Sabochi was home.

“Times are changing,” José Mario was saying. “There’s no more gold now. Water is seeping into the mines. The gods have left the valley, Sabochi. Now, you watch the alemanes and the americanos leave Batopilas. The mountains will again belong to the descalzos. But it is a different mountain now.” José Mario, his small, thin frame leaning against a rock, closed his eyes to visions past and future.

That evening Sabochi had his own news as he prepared huacavaques for the family. José Mario stirred the white pozole while Sabochi cut tripe. Trini mashed red chile into a pulp.

“I will be leaving for Quirare,” Sabochi was saying as he expertly and rhythmically cleaved a knife into the long strips of tripe. “Isidoro came to my cave last night, all the way from Cusihuiriachi. My father is very ill. I must go back.”

“For a long time?” There was dismay in Trini’s question.

“I cannot say, pollito. I’ll be back if . . .”

It hung in the air. “If . . .” He’ll come back. I know he’ll come back, Trini assured herself. He always comes back.

“Who’s going to be our mother?” Buti asked. Trini felt impatience with his question. She ordered, “You and Lupita set the table now.”

Lying on her petate that night, Trini stared into the darkness, restless, her pores alive to the balmy air of a coming spring. She whispered in the darkness, “I don’t want you to be my mother, Sabochi. Not any more.” She choked back tears, feeling a darkness enfolded in a deeper dark.

* * *

The sky lightened after the rain. The dark margins of the hills were now clearly bright. The scent of rain invaded the darkness at the entrance of the cave. The center of the cave itself was not dark, for to one side was another opening leading to the other side of the hill where chile piquín shone red. Large boulders served as a natural ladder out of the caracol. All shadows here were eaten by the funnel of light that poured into the cave. In the center of the cave was Sabochi’s petate, while on wooden shelves built by him were canoas holding piñones, cacahuates, sunflower seeds, and sugar cane. He had cut, whittled, polished and varnished the round bowls himself. There were pots and some blankets stacked neatly in a corner. Sabochi was back. But he had come only to bid them “goodbye.” The ahau, his father, had been released from breath. The pueblo of Cusihuiriachi had lost its chief. Sabochi was going back to the village in the Barranca del Cobre to take his father’s place. He would no longer come to the valley to live in his cave. The world without Sabochi . . . Trini could not imagine it. Anguish burned in her blood. How can I bear it? How can I bear it? The thought pounded.

“I’m going to live here forever,” Buti promised enthusiastically as his total concentration became a shelling of peanuts. He filled his mouth until he could hold no more. Every so often, he would hand some shelled peanuts to Lupita, who had taken a blanket and spread it out on the ground. She was lying on her stomach looking out with fascination at the piece of sky visible and blue from the funnel opening. The ground in the cave was covered with leaves that had blown in. The cave was full of a splendid shadowy silence. Sabochi was finishing some wooden animals he had made for them while Trini watched the deft, swift movements of his gentle hands working with the wood. His profile against light and shadow aroused strange new feelings in Trini, a tenderness that suffocated. Again the restlessness. Trini stood looking at the light coming through the funnel. She climbed the granite steps leading out of the caracol, feeling a need to be alone. Glorious dragonflies swarmed the thinning sun as Trini sat outside and looked at a wet world. The funnel’s mouth led up to the side of the hill along terraced milpas that rose in linear symmetry. Around the hill was the dark ravine where the sound of water grew as if from a river of great depth. She felt strange new magical feelings. Sabochi called out:

“Pollitos, ready!”

Trini went back into the cave where Sabochi held the wooden animals on his lap. He handed each of them one, a horse, a snail, and a turtle, all with sleepy eyes.

“They look like Buti,” laughed Lupita.

Solemnly, each accepted an animal and kissed Sabochi for his gift. The new feelings brightened in Trini as her lips lingered on his cheek. How feelings swim into one another! She wanted to hear the honey of his voice, the wisdom of his world.

“Tell us about the universe,” Trini asked softly. She was the child again, full of wonder. Sabochi’s voice, like surging gentle air, made nature gods quite real, and all distant things came near. She wanted him to speak of the wild wind, the one that woke the trees and made its path along the deep ravines and hillsides, the one that spoke to her at night. “Tell us about the wild wind.”

“Gods speak through the wind. They speak of freedom, change, timelessness. They tell us to touch things lightly as the wind does.”

“The wind howls and whips everything. It scares me,” Buti complained. Sabochi nodded.

“There are times when the wind gathers in violence,” Sabochi agreed. “It balances the wind’s dancing touch.”

“The wind hugs me sometimes.” Trini’s eyes were dark with excitement. “Sometimes the wind grows inside me.”

“It grows inside,” Sabochi nodded. “A feeling with things to be, not things gone.”

“Is that a riddle?” Lupita asked. “I don’t understand.”

“Hush!” admonished Trini. She understood Sabochi’s words, for she felt the words as she sometimes felt the wind’s gentle touch.

“The wind moves without feeling.” Sabochi spoke the words as if they were just for her. But she questioned silently. Move without feeling? She felt a stab of sadness as she stated, more than asked, “You’re not coming back, are you?”

“I’m the ahau of Cusihuiriachi now, pollito. It is my father’s turn to roam. We have exchanged places.” He said it softly, urgently.

Trini wanted to throw her arms around him, to keep him from leaving her. Instead, the child in her made her lean her head against his chest to feel his warm safety.

“What shall I do without you, Sabochi?”

“Live!” Sabochi laughed.

“The wind doesn’t feel, but I do.” The plea fell from Trini’s lips, half-caught in a sob. There was a need for silence as the gloom of early evening spread. With the darkness growing in the cave, Sabochi said, “It is time to go home.”

“Are you coming home with us?” Buti asked.

“No.” Sabochi’s voice was final, wistful. “I have things to do before tomorrow. I shall come get you tomorrow morning. We shall all climb the hill to El Camino Real.”

We shall walk with him for the last time, the last time, thought Trini. It was so hard to accept. Buti pulled at her hilpa. “I wanna stay here with Sabochi.”

So do I! So do I! her heart said, but she spoke in a grown-up, practical tone, “No, we must get home before dark.” Sabochi walked with them to the path that led down to the valley. Trini took Buti and Lupita by the hand, leading the way down the winding way worn by sheep tracks, turned red by a setting sun. Buti was persistent.

“Why can’t I live in the cave by myself?” He suddenly sat down on the ground, refusing to budge. “The cave will be lonely,” he insisted, his voice beginning to break.

“It won’t be alone,” coaxed Trini. “El Enano will probably come live in it. That’s what Sabochi told us, remember?” She was trying to pull him up off the ground. He still did not move.

“You’re a baby,” accused Lupita, threatening in the same breath, “We’re going to leave you here in the dark.” She tried to push him. He sat still, refusing to move. Lupita warned, “El Enano won’t come live in the cave if you don’t mind Trini.”

“He will too, won’t he, Trini?” Buti asked Trini, half-convinced.

“Might not.”

“Why did Sabochi say he would?”

“He was supposing.”

“Is that like lying?”

“Of course not,” Trini explained. “It’s like wishing.” She pulled at the reluctant Buti one more time. Everybody knew what wishing was. Buti got up, apparently convinced.

Scattered carpets of violets happened along the descent until they came to the cauterized palos verdes, already budding, clustered along the path leading to the valley. At the bottom of the hill, they followed the willow trees, still bare. Buti, tireless, rolled himself down a slope, ran up again, then rolled down, again and again. A sadness still hung over Trini; they would say “goodbye” to Sabochi in the morning.

* * *

Isidoro was to meet Sabochi in Quirare to escort the new ahau back to his people. It was tradition among the Tarahumaras. Still, to Trini, the thought of the world without Sabochi was dark and ominous like the breaking storm that threatened. They were standing on the edge of the path that broke into the Camino Real. The air was scented with the coming rain. Such a smell had always filled Trini with a luminous excitement. But not today. She was solely aware of the thunder and the darkening sky. Sabochi sensed her mood.

“I will come back, pollito.”

She did not answer, but listened for a while to his sure steps beside her. Tears came, slowly at first. She looked straight ahead at the haze of heavy clouds in the sky. There was another clap of thunder. With the instinct of a child, she reached for the nearness of Sabochi. He brought her quickly to his side. The clouds were hastening in the sky, covering the sun. Sabochi’s voice broke softly into her ear. “The storm is just beyond the hill.”

He pointed to the dark sharpness of the hill ahead. Trini felt a heaviness in her breath. “The storm is inside me, inside me.” It was a thunder inside her that spoke of things to be lost. “Don’t leave me, Sabochi!”

The words opened a flood of disbelief in the children, and they ran and wrapped themselves around Sabochi’s legs. They began to cry.

“Here, here,” Sabochi’s voice was firm. “That’s not the way to say goodbye for a little while.”

“When will you be back? When?” the children demanded with begging sobs. “When?”

“When my heart is hungry to see your faces.”

“I don’t believe you!” Trini felt a lostness in her own voice. Sabochi drew her to him, demanding softly, “You must believe.”

The neighing of the horses struck their ears. They sensed the nearing storm. Sabochi led the way with wide strides, holding the horses with a sure hand. The path opened onto a wide area of trees leading to the main road into Batopilas, away from the valley of Bachotigori. They could see the valley below them cast in the greyness of the storm. Lupita began to cry openly as Buti ran to Sabochi, clutching the bottom of the tilma that covered Sabochi’s groin. The little boy was begging. “We go with you, please, please.”

The thunder and lightning were now directly overhead. Sabochi picked up Buti, looking into the little boy’s face, “Be strong, little man.” He put Buti down, then picked up Lupita, putting his cheek against the little girl’s hair. “Mind your sister, pollito.” Lupita hugged and kissed him. He put her down, urging, “Go, go now!”

He stirred them down the path and watched them run. The sound of the little ones’ voices came back in chorus as thunder struck again.

“Goodbye, Sabochi; goodbye, Sabochi; goodbye, Sabochi!”

The children ran and slipped, and picked themselves up on the path, still calling out, “Goodbye, Sabochi; goodbye, Sabochi; goodbye, Sabochi,” almost as if the echo of their voices would drown out the thunder itself. Trini did not follow the children. There was a ringing of her senses that touched every fiber of her body. She threw her arms around his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, holding him without words, until the lightning flamed behind the ravine across the way. She looked up into his face, wishing to find something…

She wanted to shout at him, “I’m a woman! A woman! Take me with you.” She ached with the wanting. But there were no words. She touched his face, thirsting not to forget—line of jaw, the gentle mouth, the eyes so full of the universe. He had filled her life with wonder, and now he would be gone. She closed her eyes with the torment of the thought and let her head fall on the warmth of his chest. There she stopped to capture the new sensations she felt. She looked up again, wishing to find a revelation on his face, but saw only concern, kind and full of the love he felt for all of them. She had been his child for too long. His face told her that. But something in the tremble of his touch as he took her face to look into her eyes spoke of an unreached promise, a feeling growing . . . Was she imagining? Tasting her new sensation, she whispered:

“I love you, Sabochi. I love you so.”

He held her close against his heart, his eyes clouded in a new confusion. His voice was sad, without passion. “I know.”

What did he know? Where was the man wanting a woman? Sabochi was speaking to the child that he loved. She pulled away almost in anger, shouting against the thunder, “I love you like a woman loves a man!”

Again, the new confusion filled Sabochi’s face. But it was full of pain, of question. All was unripe, untested. He could not accept. He was not ready to believe. His voice was serious, “What can I say?”

“Tell me that you love me, Sabochi, the way I love you!”

“I have always loved you, pollito.”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” The savagery of her voice made him draw her to him. Her breath came short in the tightness of his grasp. He held her close and she would not let go until the lightning struck dangerously near.

He held her at arms length and whispered to the rhythm of rain torrents, “Grow in stillness, little woman, grow in stillness.” Then he turned her away from him and bid, “Go, go now.”

She could do no more. She started down the path and did not look back. Her body staggered, her heart staggered as lightning charged the sky one more time. The rain was falling hard. Its excitement was her excitement. She opened her mouth to breathe in the wetness of the world, the discovery of herself, the greyness of a world empty of a Sabochi that would always be the thunder and the lightning in her life. The excitement grew as if the world were opening up to strange, terrible things, with such beauty! A gash of some glorious, bright wound, magestic, free.