“There you are, my little savages.”
We are savages, thought Trini.
Tía Pancha had stormed into their lives ten months before, well supplied with her plaster saints, religious calendars, crucifixes, scapularies, missals, clothespins, a scrub board, and a huge tina. Never had they seen such a tub.
“In it,” Tía Pancha explained, “we wash and we bathe.”
“Bathe?” asked Buti, unbelieving.
“Every night.”
“Every night!” shrieked Buti in falsetto.
Tía Pancha pointed to a mountain of dirty clothes piled in a corner of the room. “When do you wash?”
“When Papá or Tonio takes us to the river.”
“River! I suppose you spread the clothes out to dry on the rocks?” Tía Pancha glared at them suspiciously. They nodded. Tía Pancha took out her scrub board, sighing in relief. “Well, never again. We wash like civilized people, and your pagan father can string up a clothesline for us.”
It was a marvel to see. Clothes hanging on a line, the wind blowing them every which way. It was their favorite thing to do, hanging out the wash. While they hung out the wash, Buti and Lupita would shout, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. . . .” They had been ordered to learn their act of contrition. Afterwards, they watched the clothes blowing in the wind.
There was the making of bread. The children had never seen or tasted white bread, only tortillas. Now Tía Pancha would knead dough and put it in long square pans, covering it to rise overnight. Trini and the children would scramble out of bed in the morning to see the miracle of risen loaves. They would help Tía Pancha bake, drinking in the smells.
Anticipation of their first communion made the days exciting. Tía Pancha had found a church in Batopilas. Attending Mass was a hardship since the valley of Bachotigori was not within easy walking distance of Batopilas, certainly for early Mass each Sunday. Tía Pancha apologized to the priest for the unchristian behavior of her brother and promised to instruct the children at home in hopes of preparing them for their first communion. In the next breath, she reprimanded the priest for not building a church in the valley of Bachotigori, claiming the Indians needed Christianizing the most. When Tía Pancha returned home she was beside herself. “Descalzos! Pagans! Where is God in this valley?”
“All over the hills,” Trini told her.
“What?”
“The Indians have little gods in secret places. They take flowers and wine and sing to the little gods.” Trini was defensive in her praise of Indian ways. But Tía Pancha loved to be scandalized, “Their gods drink?”
“They like it.” Trini explained.
“Oh, my little ones, I came just in time!”
And she did too, thought Trini. She remembered the expression on Tía Pancha’s face the day she arrived, one of utter dismay. All had been disarray. Now there were baths, a clothesline, and salvation. Funny, thought Trini, they all feel good. She was as excited as the children about making her first communion. “Dos clases de gracia, actual y sacramental . . .” Trini would recite as she washed dishes. Sometimes she would sit around with Buti and Lupita to count sins, for they needed sins for a successful holy communion.
In a moment of confidence, Buti told their aunt about El Enano. Buti assured her, “El Enano is living in Sabochi’s cave. He’s eating all my cacahuates.”
Tía Pancha pursed her lips, her tongue clicking disapproval. “You play with a dwarf?”
“He’s our friend.” Trini felt a pang of loneliness for the little man who never came anymore.
“They bring disease, bad luck!” Tía Pancha warned with a shake of the head.
“He’s wonderful. He’s like . . . like dreams,” defended Trini.
“What do you know, child?”
What do I know? wondered Trini. It seemed as if many things that mattered were being erased from her life, forbidden by her aunt’s beliefs. Even Sabochi. Tía Pancha decided that Sabochi was responsible for their wild ways. They were forbidden to visit the cave anymore. She also disapproved of Tonio, especially when he came home drunk after his weekend spree. Tonio, who was José Mario’s best helper at the mines, ignored the aunt. Now that Tía Pancha was there to take care of them, he stayed in Batopilas for longer periods. He claimed that Tía Pancha’s saints had taken over the house and they were giving him the evil eye.
“Don’t say that, Tonio,” admonished Buti. “It’s a sin.”
Tonio winked, “What isn’t?” But Tonio came less and less to the house, and when he did, he avoided Tía Pancha. Sometimes the children would long for the old way of life. They would sit on the rainbow rocks and hope for El Enano’s return. They watched the wild wind carrying leaves across the valley, scattering seed, bending trees. I am the valley, Trini decided, more than a Christian.
* * *
“I have been offered a job in San Domingo, to work in the mines there.”
The news came brusquely from José Mario one February day. He came home earlier than usual and gathered the family around the table. With head lowered eyes grave, and words that came slow and uncertain, he told them that the mines in Batopilas were to be closed. The pits were submerged in water and the mines were no longer safe.
“Leave the valley?” Trini’s hands shaped a gesture of surprise. The valley was part of her being. The seasons were inside her, the winds, the warm moistures. If they left the valley, what would they become?
“Where is San Domingo?” Tía Pancha asked.
“Past the mountain of Japón, through barranca country,” José Mario told them. Tía Pancha was apprehensive. “Barranca country! So many white people never come out alive from the barranca, José Mario! You want your children killed?”
“Many white people have crossed the barranca.” José Mario spoke calmly.
“Many have not and you know it!” insisted Tía Pancha, then she demanded, “Why don’t you farm the land? Can’t we live off the land?”
“It’s not ours, woman. Whatever grows in this valley is claimed by all the people; it is not enough.” His eyes found light with a wish. “If only we had stock . . .” In silence, everybody wished with him. After a while, he said resignedly, “We have to leave.”
His decision was punctuated by a dry, hacking cough. It bent him over as Trini held his shoulder to stop the spasms. “Papá?” Trini saw her father’s face, wet with perspiration, heavy, like his body, with decision. He seemed so worn, so lost.
Now, a long dangerous trip to San Domingo.
Tía Pancha was adamantly opposed to José Mario’s decision to take Tonio along on the trip.
“We need his wagon and his horses, so hush up.” José Mario never listened to Tía Pancha anyway, so Tía Pancha resigned herself to the inevitable. Chula and all the possessions that could not be taken on the trip were sold. The buckboard and pack horses were loaded with clothing, blankets, cooking utensils, and food for the journey, sacks of chile, cacahuates, piñones, cheese, and dried meat. Tía Pancha’s huge tub sat on the wagon, holding the food and all her saints. José Mario carefully stored bags of seeds under the buckboard seat. Someday, he told Trini, they would own land and plant the seeds; she was one with her father. The seeds were something in the blood, the love of the earth, the ways of the valley.
“The sun will be up any time now. That borracho better get here or we’ll travel in the heat,” Tía Pancha lamented,