Read Online Jemez Spring by Rudolfo Anaya - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rudolfo Anaya
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trotted up the wide, sandy arroyo. It stopped to glance at Sonny, as if approving, then disappeared. Sonny got back in the truck and drove on.
At White Mesa the road curved, and he slowed down to enter San Ysidro. The village budget depended on ticketing speeders, and Sonny wasnât in a contributing mood. He turned north toward the pueblo, past the P.O., the village offices, the church.
San Ysidro had fallen on hard times. Every time Sonny and Rita drove through he caught sight of one fixer-upper or another, crumbling adobe homes or double-wides that needed repair.
Fixer-upper heaven. Yeah.
He slowed down as he approached the pueblo, matching his rhythm to a faraway drum beat. The old adobe houses seemed to melt into the earth. Sooner or later everyone and everything had to melt back into the arms of mother earth. Thatâs why the new frame/stucco houses going up on the outskirts of the pueblo looked so incongruous. How do you dissolve wood frame, propanel roof, steel window frames?
The pueblo kept the seasons, each one distinct. Spring was for plowing, the cleaning of the ditches, the running of irrigation water, planting. The cycle of the seed corn described the cycle of manâs life, the cycle of sun and moon. In summer the greening, the cornâs male tassels drooped with male pollen, and the old men went about collecting the sanctifying dust.
In autumn ristras of red chile hung on the walls, the ears of corn were dried or made into chicos, the blue corn ground to make atole. Time of the hunt. And in winter, rest. Time for storytelling.
Wrapped within the seasons were the ceremonies. The outside world knew little of the ceremonial cycle; the Jemez Pueblo kept to its traditional past. Outsiders stopped at the stalls to buy oven bread or visited the homes that sold pottery and jewelry. Outsiders came to the pueblo feast-day dances, and to the Matachines dances on DÃa de La Virgen Guadalupe in December. These dances were shared with the outside world, with the vecinos from the small villages that dotted the mountain.
Sonny and Rita attended the dances, felt the dance energizing the earth, the call of the spirit world, and there had been a few times when he had felt the epiphany of the dance, time becoming space. Those times the spirit entered the earth and its people. Perhaps it was the Indian blood he inherited from his mother. She was the daughter of the genÃzaro pueblos south of Alburquerque, the villages where both Pueblo and Plains Indians had become hispanicized, where the children came in all colors, some blonde and blue-eyed as some of the original Españoles and some brown as the river earth.
The pueblo fiestas were a time to visit, a time to hear the native languages spoken. Navajos from Gallup, folks from all the other pueblos, all uttering the few words they knew of Towa. Those without the language could only watch. The ceremonies of the ancestors belonged to the people, and were kept by the people.
From the road Sonny waved at a group of men at the acequia. Something was going on at the pueblo.
Did they know about the governor? Probably. Did they know about Ravenâs bomb?
On the bare cottonwood branches, the crows spoke volumes.
Only one booth at the Red Rocks rest area was doing business. He and Rita had bought oven bread from Mrs. Cota for years. There she was, tending the fire with fragrant pieces of piñon, the coffee boiling. Lard bubbled in the cast iron pot, ready for the fry bread.
Sonny pulled over and got out of the truck; Chica followed. The late model Subaru parked near the ramada didnât belong to old lady Cota, but there was no one nearby. A sharp breeze stirred, blowing across from the Walatowa store. The dust rose then fell, carrying strange sounds, a wailing from the mesa. Definitely something going on.
He looked up at the red rocks where spots of snow contrasted with the crimson of the cliff, all framed by an overarching blue sky. A striking,
At White Mesa the road curved, and he slowed down to enter San Ysidro. The village budget depended on ticketing speeders, and Sonny wasnât in a contributing mood. He turned north toward the pueblo, past the P.O., the village offices, the church.
San Ysidro had fallen on hard times. Every time Sonny and Rita drove through he caught sight of one fixer-upper or another, crumbling adobe homes or double-wides that needed repair.
Fixer-upper heaven. Yeah.
He slowed down as he approached the pueblo, matching his rhythm to a faraway drum beat. The old adobe houses seemed to melt into the earth. Sooner or later everyone and everything had to melt back into the arms of mother earth. Thatâs why the new frame/stucco houses going up on the outskirts of the pueblo looked so incongruous. How do you dissolve wood frame, propanel roof, steel window frames?
The pueblo kept the seasons, each one distinct. Spring was for plowing, the cleaning of the ditches, the running of irrigation water, planting. The cycle of the seed corn described the cycle of manâs life, the cycle of sun and moon. In summer the greening, the cornâs male tassels drooped with male pollen, and the old men went about collecting the sanctifying dust.
In autumn ristras of red chile hung on the walls, the ears of corn were dried or made into chicos, the blue corn ground to make atole. Time of the hunt. And in winter, rest. Time for storytelling.
Wrapped within the seasons were the ceremonies. The outside world knew little of the ceremonial cycle; the Jemez Pueblo kept to its traditional past. Outsiders stopped at the stalls to buy oven bread or visited the homes that sold pottery and jewelry. Outsiders came to the pueblo feast-day dances, and to the Matachines dances on DÃa de La Virgen Guadalupe in December. These dances were shared with the outside world, with the vecinos from the small villages that dotted the mountain.
Sonny and Rita attended the dances, felt the dance energizing the earth, the call of the spirit world, and there had been a few times when he had felt the epiphany of the dance, time becoming space. Those times the spirit entered the earth and its people. Perhaps it was the Indian blood he inherited from his mother. She was the daughter of the genÃzaro pueblos south of Alburquerque, the villages where both Pueblo and Plains Indians had become hispanicized, where the children came in all colors, some blonde and blue-eyed as some of the original Españoles and some brown as the river earth.
The pueblo fiestas were a time to visit, a time to hear the native languages spoken. Navajos from Gallup, folks from all the other pueblos, all uttering the few words they knew of Towa. Those without the language could only watch. The ceremonies of the ancestors belonged to the people, and were kept by the people.
From the road Sonny waved at a group of men at the acequia. Something was going on at the pueblo.
Did they know about the governor? Probably. Did they know about Ravenâs bomb?
On the bare cottonwood branches, the crows spoke volumes.
Only one booth at the Red Rocks rest area was doing business. He and Rita had bought oven bread from Mrs. Cota for years. There she was, tending the fire with fragrant pieces of piñon, the coffee boiling. Lard bubbled in the cast iron pot, ready for the fry bread.
Sonny pulled over and got out of the truck; Chica followed. The late model Subaru parked near the ramada didnât belong to old lady Cota, but there was no one nearby. A sharp breeze stirred, blowing across from the Walatowa store. The dust rose then fell, carrying strange sounds, a wailing from the mesa. Definitely something going on.
He looked up at the red rocks where spots of snow contrasted with the crimson of the cliff, all framed by an overarching blue sky. A striking,
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