“Yes,” promised José Mario, “people can tell us. The Indians will know.”
“God protect us!” Tía Pancha’s dismay hung in the night air as she took out her rosary and flung her prayers into the dark.
During the days that followed, the mountain became less steep and the vegetation less dense. From Umira, they headed toward the lowlands, passing pueblos of mixed population. The first pueblos were inhabited mostly by mestizos, but as they made their way into barranca country the mestizos became scarce. The numbers of Indians grew in comparison as they headed east of the main settlements. These were not primitive Indian villages. They were settlements with fountains in the middle of the plazas, Catholic churches, and stores. The mestizos had won out; in the last settlement before Indian country, José Mario stopped to buy supplies and ask for directions. Trini saw ancianos going into a church and children playing around the fountain. Buti pointed at a lazy cat sleeping on a muro as José Mario asked the storekeeper, “Can we buy supplies from the Indians?”
The storekeeper shrugged. “Depends. Sometimes they sell, sometimes they kill, sometimes they give away. Who understands descalzos!”
Tonio had been sipping away at his sotol. Tía Pancha made a point of it, “He’s going to drive us off a cliff.”
“You’re a cruel woman,” Tonio lamented. “Here, have a drink. It’ll make you kind.”
“You’re shameless!”
“Sure.” Tonio sniffed the air and avoided Tía Pancha’s accusing eyes. A nervous journey for Tía Pancha, for the fear of Indian country and Tonio’s drinking gave her little hope of coming through the journey alive. This had driven her to constant prayer. She made the children kneel and pray with her whenever they camped. During these times José Mario and Tonio would disappear in a hurry, leaving the children at the mercy of Tía Pancha. Hands tightly clasped, head lowered, she would beseech, “Keep us in your care. Save us from the savages, dear Mary . . .”
“Look, Tía,” Trini pointed at a sunset during one of the praying sessions.
“Hush up and pray,” ordered her aunt, still very much in the midst of her fears.
Outside of Carichic, the travelers sat around a campfire cooking atole for an early supper. A few miles back, they had picked apples from wild trees, and the children were slicing them for supper.
“I wish I had a rifle,” Tonio exclaimed.
José Mario shook his head. “The Indians must not see us with weapons.”
“We could kill some game.”
The sun had not yet set as they rested and ate their corn atole and apples. It was cool in the paraje covered with mulberry trees. Next to their camp was a muddy stream where the children waded. Tía Pancha washed her hair with clear cannister water, for at every mountain stream the cannisters were refilled. Tía Pancha was drying her long hair in the sun. Then she began to plait it with quicksilver fingers. Tonio watched her with a smile on his face. “You’re a good looking woman, Pancha.”
“Be quiet, borracho.”
“It’s the truth, mujer.”
Tía Pancha took to braiding her hair more quickly than ever. Trini wished that Tonio wouldn’t tease like that. Suddenly, from the hill, hundreds of birds burst forth, soaring and shining in the face of the setting sun. In a cluster they circled happily, then disappeared behind a bluff as swiftly as they had appeared.
“If only I had a rifle,” Tonio wished again.
Tía Pancha stopped braiding her hair to watch the birds. When they disappeared, there were tears in her eyes. “So sudden, all that beauty, so sudden. Now, it’s gone.”
“If I had a rifle, we’d have some for supper,” Tonio repeated.
Tía Pancha crying like that! It stayed with Trini. Tía Pancha, not so apprehensive, not so much with her saints, but with beauty. Matilda would have cried too, Trini thought.
“If I’m not mistaken, if we go north, we’ll come to Cusihuiriachi.” José Mario was scanning the horizon.
Trini’s heart skipped. “Are you sure?”
“If we keep east of Carichic.”
Cusihuiriachi! It was a deep note, orange-mellow like the sun. Tonio was looking at her curiously. Trini knew he sensed her happiness. He smiled, “Sabochi, eh?”
She nodded, warm in her feelings. He teased, “What does a chavala like you know about love?”
José Mario noticed the dwindling food, and the thought of Indians who hated mestizos made him uneasy. “I hope it’s Cusihuiriachi. We could use Sabochi to guide us out of the barranca.”
The grass-covered crags on the high ground led into a valley, Trini watched a herd of goats grazing. They must belong to someone—who? she wondered. The road had become very narrow, gradually being consumed by a tangled, growing ravine. It was the beginning of a sea of arbustos polvorosos, for the lush fertility of the high mountains was fast disappearing along the river. The caravan, too, was following the river. The settlement or pueblo would be found close to the river, hugging a life force as the sun beat unmercifully on land red and powder-dry.
There were no longer any commissaries, stores, or tienditas owned by mestizos. This was the land of the descalzos, and the caravan had been in the deep barranca for five days. Still no Indian village, only a river that at times narrowed to dry patches surrounded by mud and more arbustos polvorosos, a defeated river giving in to sun and dust.
The journey had taken its toll on the travelers too. The beating sun, silences. The rhythm of the wagon was painful to bodies now numb and cramped, numb to the jolts that shocked the tense stillness of their limbs. The only food left was a sack of corn, half-full. No more water from the river. And before them, as far as the eye could see, the endless red desert. Trini had never imagined Cusihuiriachi as a barren land. So Sabochi had given up the valley for this!
“We’ll see life soon,” José Mario hoped aloud. “We have to buy food.”
“Cusihuiriachi?” That was the only word on Trini’s lips.
“I hope it is.” José Mario’s voice was strained, worried.
That afternoon, in the shadows of the setting sun, they rested in a paraje. They saw a man coming toward them, an old raramuri riding a mule leading two other pack mules. José Mario went to meet the rider.
“Ave María . . .”
“Sin pecado original . . .”
The greeting involving the Virgin Mary was a customary one among Christianized Indians. José Mario breathed a sigh of relief. Christianized Indians seldom had quarrels with mestizos. Perhaps he came from a village that would sell them food and guide them to Cusihuiriachi. Perhaps he was from Cusihuiriachi. The old raramuri looked at them with suspicion.
“You are chaboches?”
“We’re travelers seeking to buy food,” replied José Mario.
“You are brave, traveling through descalzo country.”
The raramuri scrutinized each face, slowing turning from one to the other. His eyes lingered on the children. He finally seemed satisfied.
“I will rest with you.”
With this he took out a pouch full of an aromatic powder; from another pouch he took dry pieces of corn leaves. He filled the leaves with the sweet-smelling powder, handing one to José Mario, another one to