Rain of Gold, Page 2

  Then, one cold, clear morning, Ojos Puros and his Indian wife—he’d married Espirito’s youngest daughter—found the legendary Espirito dead up on the towering cliffs. It was said that Espirito had died of grief because he’d misled his people and brought them to ruin.

  Ojos Puros and his wife buried Espirito where he’d died, so that his soul could look down into their beloved box canyon for all eternity.

  CHAPTER ONE

  And so she, a child of the meteorite, found her true love among the shooting and killing and raping and fire.

  Dreaming, Lupe reached across the bed. Dreaming as she lay there, face down on the lumpy-hard straw mattress, she reached under warm-smelling cotton covers, searching for her mother, but she didn’t find her.

  Opening her eyes, Lupe yawned and stretched, her long thick hair falling about her neck and shoulders in dark, rich curls. Her mother was sitting at the end of the bed, surrounded by long spears of silvery moonlight coming in through the cracks of their lean-to. A cock crowed in the distance, a coyote howled and the dogs in the village began to bark.

  Smiling, Lupe rubbed her sleep-swollen eyes and crawled across to her mother. Coming up behind her, Lupe put her arms around her mother, and snuggled in close to her soft, plump body. Her mother, Doña Guadalupe, stopped braiding her long grey hair and turned about, taking her youngest child into her arms. Lupe was six years old, and she’d been sleeping with her mother ever since her father, Don Victor, had left them to look for work in the lowlands.

  Feeling her mother’s arm around her, Lupe closed her eyes and drifted back into the dream, feeling the cool morning breeze coming in through their open doorway and hearing her mother’s heartbeat against her left ear as she held there, dreaming, feeling, drifting, allowing the miracle of the new day to come to her gently, softly, slowly. Her mother held her in her arms, humming, “Coo-coo rrroo-coo cooo, paloma,” and Lupe breathed deeply, feeling her mother’s great, wonderfully warm breasts against her face and neck and chest.

  Then Lupe’s three older sisters began to stir, too. Carlota, Lupe’s eleven-year-old sister, was the first to come and get in bed with Lupe and their mother.

  “Move over,” said Carlota, snuggling in between Lupe and their mother. “You get to sleep all night long with Mama”

  “Quiet,” said Doña Guadalupe calmly, “There’s enough of me for all of you.”

  She hugged her two youngest daughters close to her heart, and then came María, who was thirteen, and Sophia, who was fifteen, and they, too, got into the little straw bed.

  Outside, the cock crowed again, and the coyote continued howling in the distance. Lupe’s brother Victoriano came inside the lean-to with his dog. He was ten and the only one allowed to sleep outside under the stars, because he was a boy.

  “Buenos días,” he said, not coming near the bed. Victoriano had been trying very hard to act like the man of the house ever since Don Victor had left them.

  “Buenos días,” said his mother and sisters.

  And so the first miracle of the new day had been completed; Lupe and her family were awake and the world was still alive.

  “All right,” said Doña Guadalupe, “now we must all get to work.”

  And saying this, she pushed away from her children like a mother dog disentangling herself from her litter of pups, and stood up. She finished brushing out her long, grey hair and wrapped it into a tight bundle at the nape of her neck. With her teeth, she opened the wooden fork that her son had made for her out of an oak branch and used it to fasten her hair.

  Watching her mother in the starry light, Lupe felt so warm and good that she could still feel the touch of her mother all over her as she slipped on her huaraches and went out of the lean-to to do her chores.

  Walking around the huge, dark boulder to which their lean-to was anchored, Lupe looked up at the stars and moon and pulled up her dress and squatted down on her heels on the steep hillside, facing downhill with her feet apart, and relieved herself in the privacy of her coarse white cotton dress, which was made from the sack that the flour came in.

  Wiping herself with a corn husk that she’d softened by chewing the night before, Lupe stood and looked over the huge boulder to the main part of the village below them, which was just beginning to stir. The American enfencement at the gold mine across the box canyon was still asleep.

  Having cleansed herself, Lupe now knelt, as she did each morning, feeling the greatness of the stars and the moon and she gave her personal thanks to God, completing the second miracle of the day. She continued around to the steep side of the boulder, gripping the huge rock, to get up to the gate of the goat’s pen.

  Seeing Lupe in the pale moonlight, the two big milk goats and their two young ones called to her in tight, forceful voices.

  “Good morning,” said Lupe, gathering up the handful of grass that she’d picked the evening before. “I hope you all slept well and had good dreams of green meadows.”

  The two big milk goats answered her, and she petted them and fed them. The two baby goats in the next pen called out for attention, too. All four of these animals were fine goats, and they were the pride of Lupe’s family. They made cheese from the milk of the two big goats and served the cheese in their kitchen.

  “I hope the coyotes didn’t bother you too much last night,” she said to them. “After all, remember, last night was a full moon, and you know that every full moon the coyotes call to the heavens for the wheel of cheese that the she-fox stole from them and hid at the bottom of the river.”

  The two big milk goats loved Lupe and her gentle voice and ate contentedly. “Good morning to you, too,” said Lupe to the babies in the next pen. “I’ll be with you right after I do the milking.”

  Picking up her two clay pots and the little stool her father had made for her, Lupe walked around to the left side of the first goat and sat down on the stool. She petted the big goat on her rump in long, slow strokes. Then she swept back her own long, dark hair, tied it behind her head, and rested her forehead on the goat’s hard belly. Taking one large rosy tit in each hand, she closed off the top of the tit with her thumb and index finger and rolled down with the rest of her hand, forcing the milk out in a hard-sounding hiss as it hit the empty pot. Humming as she milked, Lupe worked hard and steadily, feeling goose bumps as she now performed the third miracle of the day— work—using the hands and body which God had so wisely given her for making her way in the world.

  Spitting on her hands and rubbing her palms together, Lupe now picked up the rhythm of her milking as she listened to the noises of the night beginning to fade and the sounds of her family beginning to take on life. Her brother chopped wood in front of their lean-to, and her sisters laughed and talked as they helped their mother in the kitchen under the ramada. The stars and night were going and her whole world was coming to life.

  When Lupe was done with the first goat, she went to the second animal, and her two cats and dog came up and she sprayed them in their faces with the milk, laughing happily.

  Finishing up with both animals, Lupe poured out a little milk on a hollow spot on top of the big boulder for the pets, then she walked over to feed the two baby goats.

  The little goats called to her as if she were their mother. Lupe lowered the pot to the ground and dipped her right hand into the sticky warm milk so that the little goats could nurse off her fingertips. They were still too young to drink the milk without having her fingers to suck.

  Finishing, Lupe wiped the goats’ milk from her right hand with her left, remembering her mother’s words that any girl who ever rubbed fresh goat’s milk into her hands every morning would never have wrinkled hands as an old lady.

  Going inside the ramada, Lupe put the milk on the counter and hurried over to the stove to get one of the hot tortillas. Her three sisters were at the long pinewood counter, rolling out the tortillas as their mother cooked them.

  With great relish, Lupe took one hot tortilla off the stove, rolled it and sat down on the
well-swept hard-packed dirt floor alongside the stove that her father had made for them. She ate happily. The freshly made corn tortilla smelled wonderful, but she could also still smell the goat’s milk on her hands. And the smell of the goat’s milk was strong; it smelled of grass and brush and the earth itself.

  “So, yes, that’s right,” Carlota was saying. “We found Lydia practicing her English. She plans to steal Scott, the American engineer, from Carmen!”

  “But Scott is already engaged to Carmen!” said María angrily. Carmen was María’s best friend and María knew how much her friend loved the tall handsome engineer.

  “Oh, I know,” said Carlota, her big green eyes dancing with mischief as she rolled out her tortilla. “That’s why Lydia is doing it!”

  Lydia was Don Manuel’s daughter. Don Manuel was their town mayor, but he also took care of the payroll for the Americans at the mine, so he was the most powerful and wealthy Mexican in their village.

  “Oh, that’s dirty!” said María. “I think I’ll thrash Lydia next time I get her alone!”

  And María could do it. She was tall and strong with a wide, handsome Indian face and huge dark eyes and a big full-lipped mouth. She was one of the most powerful girls in the village.

  “Calm down,” said Sophia, who was older than María but shorter and more delicately made. “She won’t get him, María. What’s wrong with you? Love is more powerful than English or fine dresses.”

  “Oh, I know that!” said María. “But still, it makes me so mad! Why does Lydia even bother to tempt him?”

  Sophia giggled. “Because he’s the only American who doesn’t follow Her Majesty around the plaza like a dog, and it drives Lydia crazy like a tick up a dog’s tail.”

  Lupe and her sisters laughed so hard that the ramada echoed with sound.

  “All right,” said their mother, smiling. “No more. I don’t want the miners arriving and having them overhear my fine daughters talking like cutthroat thieves in the night.”

  Still laughing, Lupe glanced from her mother to her sisters. Oh, how she loved them and their little house and their animals and the smell of their life together. She could smell the chorizo that her mother was cooking, she could smell the smoke from the hard-wood fire in the stove and she could smell the strong, sweet, herb-like scent of the goat’s milk on her hands. She felt rich with the good, full promise of life.

  Finishing her tortilla, Lupe got up and kissed her mother and hurried outside to finish her chores before the men arrived. Ever since their father had left them, she and her family had been making their living by feeding the miners. She had to help Victoriano sweep the ground and water it down. Their mother was a very proud woman; she kept one of the cleanest homes in all of the village.

  Meeting her brother out front, Lupe quickly took the broom made from a bush with small yellow flowers called the Mexican-broom, and swept the hard-packed ground as her brother sprinkled it with water. They didn’t have much time. He, the sun, was already making the eastern sky pale, and the Americans who lived up high on the barren slope across the canyon didn’t tolerate anyone being late.

  Lupe and her brother were just finishing when the first two miners arrived. One was tall and thin and his name was Flaco. The other was short and wide and his name was Manos because of his huge, thick hands. Flaco and Manos were both in their late twenties; they were two of the oldest men that the Americans still employed at the mine.

  “Buenos días, Victoriano. And look at you, Lupe,” said Flaco, touching her hair, “every day I swear that you grow more beautiful!”

  Lupe blushed, saying nothing. And Victoriano stepped aside so the two miners could go inside.

  “Buenos días,” said Manos as he passed by Lupe and her brother.

  Lupe nodded to Manos. She liked Manos better than she like Flaco. Manos never touched her or embarrassed her by saying how beautiful she was. Ever since Lupe could remember, men—perfect strangers—had been stopping her and touching her hair and telling her how beautiful she was. It angered her. She was no dog to stop and pet.

  “Buenos días,” said Lupe quietly to Manos.

  Then, just as Lupe was going to follow the two miners inside to help serve them breakfast, there came the sun, la cobija de los pobres, the blanket of the poor.

  The two miners stopped and took off their hats and gave witness to the right eye of God, Himself, the sun, the greatest miracle of the day. Lupe and Victoriano quit their labor and joined the two men, bowing their heads in greeting. And Doña Guadalupe and her other daughters came out from under the ramada and joined them.

  And here came the sun, reaching up, filling the box canyon with brilliance, and suddenly the whole canyon was alive—every rock and tree and blade of grass. And the birds and people and livestock came to life, too. One moment the canyon had been silent, and the next it was noisy, the birds chirping and the dogs and cats running around looking for something to eat, and the children shouting in the village below, and the goats and cattle were pawing at the ground and the burros and mules braying, filling the canyon with a symphony of sounds.

  Flaco and Manos put their hats back on and sat down at the first table under the ramada so they could look through the vines of the bougainvillea and keep watch on the sun’s progress. Lupe now went in to help her sister Carlota do the serving. Carlota and Lupe were the youngest, so Doña Guadalupe had them do the serving while she kept her older daughters in the kitchen. María and Sophia were just too ripe for the touching of men’s quick hands.

  Bringing Flaco and Manos their hot cinnamon coffee, Carlota joked with the two men. But Lupe didn’t. She was too shy. For as long as Lupe could remember, her sisters and brother had made fun of her because she kept by her mother’s skirts, refusing to talk to anyone.

  “Lupita,” her sisters would say, “someday you’re going to have to talk to people and let go of our mother’s skirts, you know.”

  “No, I’m not,” she’d always say. “I’m going to stay by Mama’s side all my life!”

  “Well, then, what will you do when you marry?” they’d tease her.

  “My husband will come and stay with Mama and me or he can get out!”

  For Lupe, her mother was everything. She was the perfect gift given to her by God.

  Lupe and Carlota were feeding the last of the miners when Old Man Benito arrived. Old Man Benito was the only miner who didn’t work at the American-owned gold mine. He was a strange old man with brown blotches running up and down the sides of his face. He’d never married and he’d searched for gold all his life. Once, long ago, he’d had a gold mine of his own, until the Americans had taken it from him.

  Seeing Old Man Benito coming down the steep trail to the ramada, Lupe quickly poured a full cup of coffee and took it out to him so he wouldn’t have to come inside with the younger miners. He was fifty years old, the oldest man in the village, and many of the young miners had no respect for him. They would tease him and call him a fool.

  “You are an angel,” he said, putting the earthen cup to his lips, blowing on it and drinking in a big air-sucking swallow. “And I swear to it, mi hijita, that as soon as I find gold again, I’m going to give you and your family half so we’ll all be rich!”

  Lupe’s eyes filled with mischief. She loved the way he called her mi hijita, my dear little one. Don Benito had been like a part of their family for as long as she could remember, and this was a little game that they played each morning. “Rich is the cream of the fat cow’s milk,” she said. “Rich is the love of God that we receive each new day! Rich isn’t gold! Gold is only for people that are poor of heart!”

  Don Benito laughed. “Yes, of course, you’re absolutely right, mi hijita,” he said. “But also, believe me, rich is being able to sleep in late if you wish, or not work all day if you’re tired.”

  “That’s not rich,” she said again, eyes dancing happily. “That’s lazy, Don Benito!”

  He laughed, too. “Well, then lazy is richness for these old bones!”r />
  And saying this, they both began to laugh again, but the huge generators from the American enfacement started up and the box canyon was suddenly filled with a low rumbling sound. The lights came on inside the six stone buildings up on the opposite side of the box canyon and Lupe shivered, feeling cold all over.

  “Well, Don Benito,” said Lupe, “excuse me, but I must hurry back inside and finish my work before they blow the horn.”

  “Pass your day with God, mi hijita,” said the old man.

  “Thank you, and you do the same, Don Benito.”

  “Of course,” he laughed. “Who else but God is crazy enough to follow me up to the cliffs where I work?”

  Lupe was just going to go inside when the bellowing horn exploded. Lupe gripped her ears. Quickly, all the miners were up and out of the ramada as fast as they could move.

  Passing by, one of the young miners saw Lupe holding her ears and the old man cringing.

  “Hey, Benito!” he said with his mouth full of food. “Have you struck gold yet?” He was a boy in his early teens.

  “Almost,” said Don Benito. “Just another shovel of rock, and I’ll be rich again.”

  “Rich, hell!” said the young miner, winking at the other miners. “You had it once, old man, and you lost it to drink and women! Lady Luck is never going to give you another chance! Eh, Lupita?”

  Lupe said nothing.

  “All right,” said Manos, coming up behind the young miners, “you heard the bull’s roar! Move your tail!”

  The young man laughed, and he and the other miners started up the rocky pathway.

  Manos shrugged to Lupe and Don Benito. “They’re just young,” he said. “They don’t know that in less than three years, Lady Luck will abandon them. Their lungs will be gone and their hands will be crushed.”