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Authors: Rudolfo Anaya
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Indian homes. Aztlán, the Chicanos said, land of the Hyperboreans, lost tribe of antiquity. Our home, said the Tiguex pueblos, fearful of the barbarians camped on the west side of the river.
It was winter, the time of storytelling. But time had been disrupted. White men with coarse hair flowing from their faces walked the earth, muttering in a strange tongue. These were not the kachinas who came to bless the villages, these were strange creatures who demanded buffalo blankets and corn. Men lusting for the warmth of women.
Sonny crested the rise and got his first view of the blue Jemez. The softly rounded volcanic peak wore a scarf of last nightâs snow. The equinox sun was entering the space of the mountain, the first quadrant of the day. Overhead a striated bank of clouds ribbed the blue sky, the remains of last nightâs storm, now streaking east toward Texas.
There were distinct parts of the road Sonny enjoyed. The drive to San Ysidro was breathtaking, a panorama of flesh-colored, sandy hills dotted with juniper and chamisa. To the north the long, flat blue mesa, to the south Cabezon Peak, in front of him the first view of White Mesa.
At San Ysidro he would turn into the red canyons that crawled like wrinkles down the face of the mountain. And dominating the landscape, the gentle Jemez Mountain, the ninety thousand acres at the top of the collapsed volcano known as the Valles Caldera National Preserve.
Ages ago when the volcano blew its top it scattered ashes as far away as Kansas. The huge crater became a lake. Now it was a vast grassy meadow that fed the largest herd of elk in the state. Lucky visitors sometimes ran into the herds crossing Highway 4, a sight to inspire wonder.
The mountain was also home to mule deer, black bears, mountain lions, dozens of species of birds, and streams replete with trout. An animal paradise.
For the Jemez Pueblo people the mountain was a place of sacred sites. Some twelve thousand years ago groups of hunters and gatherers had walked on Redondo Peak, the second-highest peak of the mountain. In the mid-nineteenth century parcels of the mountain were granted to the Cabeza de Vaca family. Sheep roamed the meadows. A century later the mountain was heavily logged.
In the warm sunlight that filled the cab, Chica squealed, perhaps dreaming of August when the purple sage blossomed in the sandhills and frantic honeybees gathered the sweet sage nectar, refining it into a honey that old men from Belén sought as an aphrodisiac. Sonny had made the drive hundreds of times, and still the view filled him with peace. He belonged here. From the moment he bought the cabin he felt he had been here before, long ago. Transmigration? Did he believe? He had been reading a lot lately, trying to figure it out. Don Eliseo laughed at him.
It ainât in books, mijo, itâs in front of your face.
A glisten of scales on the side of the road caught Sonnyâs vision. He pulled over and slowly backed up. Most of the traffic on 550 was flowing south, into Burque.
He got out and stood looking at the large rattler that lay crushed, writhing as it died, scales shining in the morning light.
âDamn,â Sonny muttered. He looked around, sniffing the air. The sharp metallic smell of death touched his nostrils. There was another scent, a feral scent.
A crow perched on a juniper called. Not good, Sonny thought. The snake had come out of hibernation to lie on the warmth of the asphalt and had been run over. Or it had been rushed out of its damp, underground home by someoneâs need. Whose?
There were no marks from scavengers on its body, but he knew he couldnât leave the snake on the side of the road. The crows would tear it apart; the snake spirit would become a burden.
Gotta take Señor VÃvora so he gets a proper burial, he thought. He took his leather gloves from the truck, carefully picked up the snake with the shovel, and placed it on the bed of the pickup.
A coyote
It was winter, the time of storytelling. But time had been disrupted. White men with coarse hair flowing from their faces walked the earth, muttering in a strange tongue. These were not the kachinas who came to bless the villages, these were strange creatures who demanded buffalo blankets and corn. Men lusting for the warmth of women.
Sonny crested the rise and got his first view of the blue Jemez. The softly rounded volcanic peak wore a scarf of last nightâs snow. The equinox sun was entering the space of the mountain, the first quadrant of the day. Overhead a striated bank of clouds ribbed the blue sky, the remains of last nightâs storm, now streaking east toward Texas.
There were distinct parts of the road Sonny enjoyed. The drive to San Ysidro was breathtaking, a panorama of flesh-colored, sandy hills dotted with juniper and chamisa. To the north the long, flat blue mesa, to the south Cabezon Peak, in front of him the first view of White Mesa.
At San Ysidro he would turn into the red canyons that crawled like wrinkles down the face of the mountain. And dominating the landscape, the gentle Jemez Mountain, the ninety thousand acres at the top of the collapsed volcano known as the Valles Caldera National Preserve.
Ages ago when the volcano blew its top it scattered ashes as far away as Kansas. The huge crater became a lake. Now it was a vast grassy meadow that fed the largest herd of elk in the state. Lucky visitors sometimes ran into the herds crossing Highway 4, a sight to inspire wonder.
The mountain was also home to mule deer, black bears, mountain lions, dozens of species of birds, and streams replete with trout. An animal paradise.
For the Jemez Pueblo people the mountain was a place of sacred sites. Some twelve thousand years ago groups of hunters and gatherers had walked on Redondo Peak, the second-highest peak of the mountain. In the mid-nineteenth century parcels of the mountain were granted to the Cabeza de Vaca family. Sheep roamed the meadows. A century later the mountain was heavily logged.
In the warm sunlight that filled the cab, Chica squealed, perhaps dreaming of August when the purple sage blossomed in the sandhills and frantic honeybees gathered the sweet sage nectar, refining it into a honey that old men from Belén sought as an aphrodisiac. Sonny had made the drive hundreds of times, and still the view filled him with peace. He belonged here. From the moment he bought the cabin he felt he had been here before, long ago. Transmigration? Did he believe? He had been reading a lot lately, trying to figure it out. Don Eliseo laughed at him.
It ainât in books, mijo, itâs in front of your face.
A glisten of scales on the side of the road caught Sonnyâs vision. He pulled over and slowly backed up. Most of the traffic on 550 was flowing south, into Burque.
He got out and stood looking at the large rattler that lay crushed, writhing as it died, scales shining in the morning light.
âDamn,â Sonny muttered. He looked around, sniffing the air. The sharp metallic smell of death touched his nostrils. There was another scent, a feral scent.
A crow perched on a juniper called. Not good, Sonny thought. The snake had come out of hibernation to lie on the warmth of the asphalt and had been run over. Or it had been rushed out of its damp, underground home by someoneâs need. Whose?
There were no marks from scavengers on its body, but he knew he couldnât leave the snake on the side of the road. The crows would tear it apart; the snake spirit would become a burden.
Gotta take Señor VÃvora so he gets a proper burial, he thought. He took his leather gloves from the truck, carefully picked up the snake with the shovel, and placed it on the bed of the pickup.
A coyote
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