Under Sacanta’S Shadow: Life and Legends at Ground Level

By Arthur Webster

Manifesto
Confederacion de Trabjadores de Merxico
El Roble, Sinaloa, Mexico
May 2, 1938

Social, Political and Aesthetic Declaration from the Union of agricultural workers of Mexico to the indigenous races humiliated through centuries: to the soldiers converted into hangmen by their chiefs: to the workers and peasant who are oppressed by the rich: and to all those not servile to the rich and powerful.

We stand with those who seek to overthrow this inhumane system within you, worker of the soil produce the riches for your overseers and corrupt politicians, while you starve. While you, the workers on the farm and mill create the harvest enjoyed by the parasites and prostitutes, while your own body is numb and cold. Within which you, Indian soldier, heroically abandon land and give your life in the eternal hope of liberating your race from the degradation and misery of centuries.
Not only the noble labour but even the smallest manifestation of the materials and spiritual vitality of our race spring from our native midst. Its admirable, exceptional, and peculiar ability to endure the hardship of your poverty and unending abuse at the hand of you masters because it surges froth from the people: it is collective, and our social aim is to socialize your labours and to destroy forever bourgeois privilege.
We, hereby proclaim that this being the moment of social transformation from the decrepit to a new order to a new birth of freedom for all that suffer under the heel of your oppressor. Cast off the chains of tyranny and be free.
Gregorio Vasquez Moreno

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503576230

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Arthur Webster.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/12/2015

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

711372

CONTENTS

Acknowledgment

Preface

1 Fire From The Sky

Chapter 1 Fire From The Sky

2 Village Life

Chapter 1 Village Life

Chapter 2 Rich Man, Poor Man

Chapter 3 The Sacred Mound

Chapter 4 The Fun Times

Chapter 5 The Mountain Gods Speak

Chapter 6 Obsession

Chapter 7 Discovery

Chapter 8 Regrets And Restoration

Chapter 9 Atonement

3 Ignacio

Chapter 1 Ignacio

Chapter 2 The New Student

Chapter 3 An Invitation

Chapter 4 A Trip Into The Past

Chapter 5 La Concepcion

Chapter 6 The Hunting Trip

Chapter 7 Deep Valley

4 Hidden Trails

Chapter 1 Hidden Trails

Chapter 2 Rural Hospitality

Chapter 3 Alejandro

Chapter 4 Death Dance

5 All That Glitters

Chapter 1 All That Glitters

Chapter 2 Roberto’s Return

Chapter 3 Miguel

Chapter 4 Discovery

Chapter 5 The Big Dig

Chapter 6 And The Winning Number Is…

Chapter 7 Aftermath

6 Paradise

Chapter 1 Paradise

Chapter 2 The Interview

Chapter 3 Working

Chapter 4 Restoring The Ice Plants

Chapter 5 Let The Work Begin

Chapter 6 All Work And No Play

Chapter 7 The Heirs

Chapter 8 Fast Break

Chapter 9 Fast Break

Chapter 10 Just What I Needed, Another Dog

Chapter 11 Life With Tita And Tito

Chapter 12 Dark Clouds Over Paradise

7 Amado Arroyo Garzon

Chapter 1 Amado Arroyo Garzon

Chapter 2 The Free Spirit

Chapter 3 The Exile

8 Gregorio Vasquez Moreno

Chapter 1 Endless Summer

Chapter 2 Out Of The Wilderness

Chapter 3 Recovery

Chapter 4 Involvement

Chapter 5 Organization

Chapter 6 Moving Against The Target

Chapter 7 The World Turned Upside Down

Chapter 8 The Accord

Chapter 9 The Good Times Are Back

Chapter 10 The Price Of Peace

Chapter 11 Peace, Prosperity, And Treachery

Epilogue

T hese scribblings are dedicated to those many dear friends who made my stay in my adopted village home some of the happiest years of my life. I was amazed that my once closed heart found room for so many.

Most of these friends have passed on to a better life but will always remain young and alive in my thoughts.

This book is also dedicated to my wife, Clementina, in recognition of her many years of struggle to understand my restlessness and my search for that unknowable something that floated just beyond my grasp.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Special thanks to Laura Nan Snow,

for without her encouragement and expert editing,

this book would never have seen the light of day;

and to Lorena Rodriguez, who provided important background and photos.

PREFACE

T he transition from a life at sea to a humdrum life on land, which I had always avoided, came with much foreboding and rebellion. Married and landlocked, I very often regretted my decision to come ashore and wished to run back to the old life of unfettered freedom.

The move to Mexico accomplished the dual purpose of providing me with the excitement of adventure that I needed and a way to preserve our small bank role. I quickly became aware that I was neither fit for much in the way of work nor was I able to adjust to the role of a nine-to-five type. Any friendships forged at sea were, by their very nature, short lived and never carried over into life ashore, so life became one of loneness and feeling out of place.

Mexico provided the cure for all my insecurities and self-doubts. I was accepted for who I was and not because of any preconceived notion on color, wealth, or religion.

There, I found real friendship and a sense of peace among these gentle and loving people.

In essence, the stories in this book are snapshots of their lives and struggles under the ever-watchful mountain god, Sacanta.

PART 1

Fire From The Sky

2.jpg

The sigh of the covenant between the God Sacanta and the ancient tribe

CHAPTER 1

Fire From The Sky

I t had been going on for five days, ever since Kammo, the old chief, died.

Night after night, the sky over the village was filled with orange streaks of fire. In front of every hut, women, with infants hidden under their rebozos, stood furiously beating their sticks, hoping that the angry gods would heed their tearful supplications and put an end to their anguish.

The village elders and Tomado, the shaman, painted their faces black with the oily mud that oozed from between the rocks. They tossed handfuls of this strange substance onto the logs of the fire that burned continuously in the center of the village. Dark black smoke wafted upward toward the place of the gods. Men chanted ancient prayers, while terrified women wailed pitifully and continued to beat their sticks.

It was now seven days since the moon had been eaten by the demon, Tomampo, who, from time to time, came to punish them for their trespasses. In the past, the chanting and beating of the sticks had frightened the demon away. This time it was different. The moon did not appear in the sky above the mountains, and the fire from the sky continued to rain down on the trembling villagers.

Tomado, the shaman, and Loriko, the high priest, stood on top of the old chief’s burial mound. They were chanting ancient prayers to the mountain gods, asking that Kammo have a safe journey to the land of dreams. The old chief was being readied for his eternal sleep, his final conquest, and was being dressed in his warrior’s robes—red and black, feathered, headdress, spear and club at his side. His wrinkled face was painted with the tribe’s colors of red, black, and white. His body was laid out on a deerskin-covered bamboo platform at the very center of the mound that he ordered to be built many moons ago. Thousands upon thousands of stones were hauled up from the river and piled one upon another until the mound reached higher than the tops of the Higueras that surrounded the village. The women packed a mixture of mud and straw between the layers of stone and placed small unbaked clay figures of their gods into the crevices.

The gods will protect the chief throughout all eternity and ensure that his resting place would forever be a sacred place. The very center of the top of the mound was intentionally left flat, and on it, an altar of fired adobe brick was built. The floor of the altar was open in order to accommodate the body of the old chief once his spirit bird had flown and the flesh had deserted his bones.

For three more nights, the sky above the village was alive with the streaks of the gods’ fiery anger. Surely, the panicked villagers thought that someone among them did some evil deed to defy the gods. So now the new chief, Dokammo, eldest son of Kammo, who was considered a great warrior in his own right, demanded answers from the high priest and the shaman. When no answers came from them and the fire still rained down from the sky, he took his father’s magical bow and quiver of arrows that had been handed down from chief to chief from a time beyond memory.

Dokammo climbed to the top of the mound and sat next to the body of the old chief. For two days and nights, he remained there, alternately praying and chanting his songs to the gods. He suppressed his fear and anger, not willing to reveal any weakness or any animosity toward the gods, whom he felt were punishing his people without cause. He shot two of the magic arrows into the sky, hoping that the gods would understand that never again would their people offend them in any way. Soon a sacrifice would be offered up as a sign of repentance. By the end of the second night, the fire no longer fell on the village. The night sky had returned to what it had always been for as long as Dokammo could remember. The millions of lights no longer sped across the sky but held firmly to their usual and familiar places. The moon had freed itself from Tomampo’s grip, and its yellow light reflected on the river and illuminated the fields of ripening maize.

All that night, the women and girls gathered around the fire in the center of the village.

They danced their dance of joy and relief. They gave thanks to their new chief, Dokammo, who, with his prayers and the powerful medicine of the magic arrows, had appeased the gods. Happy now, the women continued dancing and chanting until the first streaks of sunlight topped the mountains far beyond the cornfields. The men stoked the eternal fire and smoked their hemp cigars, not paying any attention to the women, some still unclothed, cavorting, and chanted their songs. Just then, a loud cry filled the air. One of the women was on her knees, pointing to the morning sky. Others began to shout and pointed skyward, some falling facedown to the ground, trembling with fear. Racing through the sky was a large ball of orange fire. Its brilliance blotted out the pale yellow moon and all the flickering points of light in the heavens.

The orange fire scattered the shadows from between the thatched huts and lit the stands of green bamboo trees and fields of corn as if it were noon. The little stick and thatch huts shuddered, and some of their roofs crashed to the ground. Pigs crashed through the walls of their pens and ran in terror into the surrounding forest. The awful rumbling that accompanied the fireball filled everyone’s heart with dread, sure that this was the end of their world.

The speeding fireball came closer and closer to the village, flying directly over the heads of the terrified villagers. The glow from the flaming object cast a blinding light completely over Dokammo’s body as if it were selecting him apart from anyone else. Defiantly, he thrust his arms toward the sky, and the entire village resounded with an unearthly scream. The fireball continued its flaming path toward the village when, magically, it abruptly changed course and arched toward the river. It tore through the tops of the trees and exploded into a million dancing fireflies.

Then a breathless hush settled over everything, such silence that hurt the ears and even blotted out the early morning’s thunder that accompanied the cooling rain that was a blessing from Sacanta, the mountain god. The young chief, standing erect, glowed now with a blinding white light. He appeared godlike, and when he beckoned his still traumatized subjects to stand and thank the gods for protecting the village, they would not approach him. They fell to their knees and prayed to him as if he were the god of salvation. At that instant, Dokammo had become a god.

Some of the huts were on fire, while others had mysteriously survived. The villagers had always understood that mountain gods were, to say the least, fickle. While they showered gifts on others, for no discernible reason, they took great pleasure on inflicting sickness, injury, or untimely death on those in disfavor. It seemed that no amount of sacrificial offerings or pious chanting could ever entice the gods to turn a loving face toward these unfortunate few.

Dokammo, the new village god, called the high priest and the shaman to sit with him by the eternal fire. He wanted to listen to these old and respected tribal leaders. What did the ball of fire indicate to them? Was it another message from the mountain gods that they were still angry, or was it a sign that they were appeased? The old men pondered these weighty questions in abject silence when the shaman took a small leather pouch from beneath his robe and removed a number of yellow mushrooms. He then placed these into a shallow clay dish and placed the dish onto the embers in front of him. From a small gourd that was painted with many strange symbols, he drank some liquid and spit all of it into the dish with the mushrooms. When the liquid began to boil, he covered the dish with the hem of his robe and spoke those magic words that were unintelligible to the other men. With his bare hand, he plucked one of the mushrooms from the bubbling liquid and, without uttering a sound of pain, placed the mushroom into his mouth. He lifted his head toward the heavens and chanted more strange words. Again, he reached into the boiling liquid, and this time he removed two more mushrooms, one he passed to the high priest and the other to Dokammo. Both men placed the mushrooms into their mouths. The shaman stood and swirled his robe over the eternal fire that flared up and shot flames high into the air. He then poured the liquid from the dish onto the flames that, as if frozen, remained pointing toward the heavens. Reaching into his small leather bag, he took out three small black balls. He handed one to Dokammo and the other to Loriko, the high priest. The shaman cast his ball into the middle of the frozen flames and indicated to Dokammo and Loriko to follow with theirs. Again, swirling his robe over the fire, he began chanting and stomping his feet on the ground. Suddenly the frozen spears of flame retreated back into the eternal fire. Then the black balls exploded into flames, releasing three plumes of thick black smoke that shot upward. Loriko again swirled his cape over the fire and cast his arms upward toward the heavens. From the center of the fire, a single fiery shaft leaped skyward. The three shafts of black smoke blotted out the sun, which was now high above the village, and from the darkness came a bolt of lightning, followed by an earsplitting clap of thunder. The thunder and lightning crashed down on the village twice. The shaman threw himself to the ground, spread his robe, and whispered, The gods have heard our prayers.

The three men remained by the fire all that day and into the night, awaiting for a sign that the mountain gods had forgiven the villagers for their trespasses. The shaman repeated the ceremony with the mushrooms and, entering into the dream world, believed that they themselves had become godlike and could now approach the gods as near as equals to assure them of their love and eternal devotion. They begged the gods to protect the village from the fire from the sky and protect the harvest. They promised to make sacrifices to Perucas, the goddess of fertility, whose stone image stood in front of the high priest’s hut.

The time of the harvest was almost upon them. Should Perucas not smile upon the crops and back off the rains, there would be hunger and sickness, especially among the elderly and very young. The tribal elders recalled when so many moons ago, many died of starvation or were killed by raiders from other villages. Were they also being punished by their gods?

For two more days and nights, the three village leaders remained by the eternal fire. On the third night, just before the moon rose over the mountains, the god, Sacanta, came to them while they dreamed and held his arms outward toward the village.

This sign, they understood, was Sacanta’s blessing. They were forgiven. Sacanta then turned, extending his arms toward Dokammo, and spoke to him in a voice that was as thunder.

You, my son, may take your place at the mountain gods’ council fire as did your father, Kammo. Your people shall prosper and grow strong. The earth shook violently, and lightning crashed around them and roused them from the realm of dreams. Sacanta was gone.

The beating of the log drum brought all the villagers to the eternal fire. The sun was making its way toward the great waters, and long shadows were slowly creeping over the fields of ripening maize. Dokammo, dressed in his father’s feathered robe and headdress, now appeared before them. In his hand, he gripped the magic bow, and over his shoulder, he carried the magic quiver of obsidian-tipped arrows. He ascended to the adobe platform that was in front of the high priest’s hut and thrust his arms into the air, thus proclaiming himself their chief. The villagers shouted their approval and swore to honor him forever. Loriko, the high priest, and Tomado, the old shaman, ascended to the platform and stood by Dokammo’s side, adding their support to his right as the village’s new chief.

Dokammo silenced the shouting villagers, and in a voice as strong as the winter winds, he said, I, Dokammo, son of Kammo, bring you greetings from the great god, Sacanta. He waited before he spoke again. He pointed toward the high priest and the shaman and continued, The great Sacanta came to us in the realm of dreams and promised never again to punish our village. We are his children, and he loves us. When he again silenced the joyous shouting, he said, I must now, as Sacanta ordered, ascend to the very top of my father’s burial mound and remain there for three days and three nights without food or water and only to return when the moon is full. He ordered the villagers to return to their huts and burn the sweet-smelling herb as an offering to the mountain gods.

That very night, Dokammo, stripped down to only a loincloth and barefoot, armed only with his father’s obsidian hunting knife, stealthily moved toward the burial mound. There was a hint of rain falling on the village. This, Dokammo knew, was a gift from the god, Perucas. This soft rain would not injure the maize that was ripening in the fields. The pale moonlight lit his path through the village and toward his father’s resting place. He paused at the base of the mound and knelt to offer a prayer that his sacrifice would please the gods, and the promised covenant would be sealed and his village be forever under the protection of the mountain gods.

Dokammo ascended to the mound using the small stone steps on the east side. These steps were placed there to catch the rays from the sun as it climbed out of the darkness of the forest. When he reached the top, he turned toward the river to look out over the valley. The moon had turned the river into a ribbon of silver and the fields of maize an eerie blue.

He could now see far beyond the valley to the purple mountain that lay between the villages and the blue waters where the sun disappeared. From his vantage point, he could also see the fires of the other villages that shared his world. These were the villages of his people’s enemies, and he remembered their raids on his village and how many of the men were killed and women carried off to be slaves. His father’s retaliation was swift and deadly. Things would be different now that he was chief and would sit with the gods at their council fire. Who would now dare attack his village that was under the protection of Sacanta and the mountain gods?

Dokammo approached the bamboo stand that held the body of Kammo, the old chief.

He knelt and almost inaudibly began to chant the sacred song that the shaman had taught him. This song would carry Dokammo to the spirit of his father that was now in the world of dreams. Now he lay down on the bare adobe platform that was at the very center of the mound, crossed his bare arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and entered into a deep sleep.

Dokammo was now in the world of dreams. He saw the spirit of his father. No words passed between them. No words were necessary. There was a deep understanding that one day they would be as one. The bond between father and son, chief and chief, forged by love and respect, would survive throughout eternity. Dokammo now slept secure in the knowledge that the gods would keep their promise, and soon he would bring to his people the proof of the covenant.

Dokammo awoke to the sounds of birds. The sun was already high in the sky. He had slept throughout the night, yet the memory of the visit with his father’s spirit still filled his mind. Again, he heard the sounds of birds, and looking around, he spotted two large birds perched on the edge of the bamboo platform that held the body of his father. He had never seen this kind of bird before. They were as large as the eagles that nested high up on the mountains, but they were more beautiful that anything he had seen before. Their bodies were dark blue, while their wings and tails were flaming red and orange. Their heads were as yellow as the noonday sun, and their eyes were blue as their bodies. Surely, he thought these birds were messengers from the gods. But what was the message? Dokammo slowly approached the birds that, as he drew near, spread their wings as if to welcome him. Then they began to sing. The sound of their singing was more beautiful than he had ever heard. His head began to spin, and a strong weariness came over him. He slumped to the ground, and darkness enveloped him.

When he awoke, the sun was just peeking over the mountain. It was now day two of his vigil. The giant birds were gone. He wondered if they were just a dream when he spotted a large red feather next to his right hand. Another feather was next to his left hand. He picked both feathers and placed them into his father’s headdress. These feathers, he knew, were left as a sign that the gods were pleased with his sacrifice.

Dokammo chanted the ancient prayers that would assure that his father’s spirit would forever dwell in the land of dreams. That night, the final night of his sacrifice, he fell into a fitful sleep. He felt neither hunger nor thirst. His dreams were of his days of youth, when he and his father hunted wild boar in the deep forest. He dreamed of his mother who was killed during a raid by the river people. He dreamed of his meeting with Sacanta and how his body had trembled before the most powerful of all gods. He awoke to the sounds of beating wings.

The sun was hot on his face. He had now completed his three days and nights atop the burial mound. It was now up to the mountain gods to fulfill their promise. He shielded his eyes from the sun and searched the sky. Then something blocked the sun and came to roost on the bamboo railing of the bier. This bird, even larger than the previous black and red birds, was all silver, except for its head that was red and black. It called Dokammo by his name and told him that the gods have accepted his sacrifice and the covenant will be honored. With that, the giant bird lifted off from its perch and flew directly over Dokammo’s head and exploded into a ball of red and silver fire. The blinding flash and the intense heat drove Dokammo to his knees. He could feel his skin being pierced as if by hundreds of sharp arrows. Then all was dark. The fire had consumed the bird, and it fell from the edge of their bier. It was now only a small black ball. The ball rolled over to Dokammo’s trembling body. An overpowering weariness gripped his body, and his mind was swimming and confused. He was again in the land of dreams.

Again, in silence, he spoke to his father. The spirit of the old chief appeared to Dokammo as a young warrior. He was dressed as to go into battle. The spirit instructed Dokammo to return to the land of the living. There, he was to remove the old chief’s remains and to place them in the burial place on top of the mound. There, he was also to place the small black ball that was the sign of the covenant between the village and the mountain gods. The spirit then ordered that never again should anyone be allowed to ascend the mound. The mound was now to be considered sacred for all time. The spirit extended both arms as to embrace Dokammo, but in a cloud of white smoke, it disappeared.

When Dokammo wakened, he was shaking violently. A cold sweat covered his body. He forced himself to his feet, and there on the ground was the small black ball. He picked it. It was cold and extremely heavy. The ball began to vibrate. This frightened Dokammo, but he held on to it. As quickly as it began, the vibration stopped. He then remembered the words of his father’s spirit. He removed the old chief’s bones from the bamboo bier and placed them in the adobe box at the center of the bier. There, he placed the small black ball into the old chief’s left hand, and in the right hand, he placed the obsidian hunting knife. After hours of chanting and praying, he covered the grave with the heavy adobe bricks that were there for that purpose.

He had completed his commitment to the great god, Sacanta. The covenant was sealed. He could now return to his village and gather the elders around the eternal fire to tell them of his dreams and the birds, the messengers of the gods, and how he received the blessings of his father. He assured them that the covenant with the mountain gods was sealed but would never disclose where he had hidden the gods’ sign, the small black ball.

Never again did Dokammo nor any villager ascend the mound. This place was forever sacred. The old chief’s bones and the small black ball would sleep undisturbed for more than two thousand years.

image001.jpg

Sacanta’s covenant with his people

PART 2

Village Life

CHAPTER 1

Village Life

E l Roble was still in the grip night. It was very cold because of the wind blowing down from the mountains that loomed menacingly over the village. Far behind Sacanta, the sky was showing signs of the approaching dawn. Soon the December sun would crawl its way up the rocky spine of the mountain. Then slowly, tentatively, the pale yellow fingers would pierce the shadows that still held captive the stubby pines that clung to the mountaintop, relentlessly marching down the slopes and casting its glow over the red tiled roofs of the rich and the thatched roofs of their less fortunate neighbors, creeping over the rutted dirt streets and now across the uneven fired adobe bricks that masqueraded as sidewalks.

It fell welcomingly on the cluster of shivering men huddled against the wall of the village’s meetinghouse. There, in semidarkness, they waited for the trucks that would carry them to the fields and a twelve-hour day of toil.

Only yesterday, the village celebrated the most sacred of fiestas; The twelfth of December is the feast day of the patron saint of Mexico, Dia De La Virgin De Guadalupe. That day signaled the end of the winter rains, and now it was safe to begin the plowing of the corn and bean fields that lay fallow throughout the long fall. Strings of mules plodded slowly along the streets, dragging their harness chains and snorting their discontentment for having been so rudely dragged from their warm stalls and forced to accept halters and bits. Their owners, just as unhappy, cussed and kicked these poor beasts into resentful compliance all the time, remaining well out of their mules’ kicking range.

The sun moved higher in the lightening sky, and its now yellow rays fell on the line of women waiting in front of the village’s only molino. They were waiting to have their nixtamal ground into masa for the day’s tortillas. Some of them had pots balanced atop their heads, while their hands held other containers filled with freshly drawn milk or small amounts of pork from pigs that had been slaughtered the night before. Shivering children held tightly to the hems of their mothers’ rebozos. The sun lit up their thin little faces, exposing sleepy eyes and yet-to-be-combed hair. It also shone on the faces of the wrinkled and sad-eyed old women. Village life had taken its toll on these women. The continual births and deaths of countless children provided no respite in the grinding poverty, and only their own deaths, usually at a young age, would offer rest.

The sun was now moving quickly beyond the village and down the steep slope to where the city fathers, with money from the Hass family, had constructed a series of lavaderos where the women could wash clothing. These women, with baskets of soiled clothing balanced on their heads and carrying water in converted five-gallon lard cans, would carefully transverse the narrow trail down the slope and to the lavaderos, trying to avoid the thorny undergrowth.

Some village women preferred to make the long walk to the river and scrub their clothes in the old-fashioned method by gathering berries from the wild soapweed plants that grew profusely on the banks of the river.

The sun now filled the entire valley below the village and cast a warm golden light over the yet unplowed fields as it made its way toward the west and the Pacific Ocean. A new day had begun and, with it, a new season of hope for the village. Soon the corn and bean plants would be sprouting from El Roble’s rich soil, and the new shoots of sugarcane would burst up through last year’s fire-blackened fields. Soon the buyers would drift in from Mazatlan to bid on the future crops or to collect their sacks of beans or corn that they had purchased long before last season’s harvest or to demand payment in cash for the farmers’ failure to deliver the promised produce. These viveros made their livings by lending village farmers cash with which to buy seed and fertilizer by contracting to buy the future harvest at a price far below what would be the fair market price at harvesttime. After the harvest, whether it was a good or poor season, they or their agents would appear to claim their sacks of corn or beans. The poor farmer, usually, was left with very little to sell on the current market or to warehouse for his family’s needs until next season. The poverty was, therefore, self-perpetuating.

To be sure that not everyone in El Roble was poor, there was the Viscara family who considered themselves the village’s royal family. The descendants, they claimed, were from Spanish dukes that immigrated to Mexico during the reign of Mexico’s long-serving president, Plutarco Calles. Their family had fallen from its high position because of some dispute with the Catholic Church. They were able to reach Mexico with a fortune in gold and proceeded to enter into the business of lending to farmers and other small businesses. First locating in the old presidio of La Concordia, Sinaloa, they were some of the first to take advantage of the federal government’s offer of free lands in the newly created ejido that included El Roble. Their wealth and white skins and blue eyes set them apart from the majority of their neighbors who made a point of treating them with deference, at least to their faces, but had other things to say behind their backs.

The Viscara family owned the bigger of the two pharmacies in the village, along with a number of rental properties in Mazatlan. They owned some land in El Roble but leased it out to the sugar mill. They had no interest in the farming life of the village, except as a place to invest. Their sons and daughters were sent to California for their educations, but it was difficult to discern just what function they filled in the society as a whole.

The owners of the sugar mill were the Hass clan. Emigrating from Germany in the mid-1800s, they settled first in Mexico City and lived for a number of years amid the extensive Jewish population that had taken root in Central Mexico during the 1600s. This group consisted of refugees from the Spanish Inquisition and others escaping the Russian attacks on their villages and religion. They were able to not only survive in this new and at times hostile land, but they prospered as well. They also heard the message of free lands in the north of the country and made the move to the most unsettled and dangerous area of Sinaloa.

They laid claim to large tracts of free land and went about clearing the area for sugarcane. Fortune smiled, if not their neighbors, on their endeavors, and soon they became wealthy enough to endow a large section of land for the building of the village. Soon the village was filling with others looking for the opportunity to turn their sacrifice and sweat into a better life and to break out of the system that held them captive and exploited their poverty.

It became obvious that El Roble needed a mill of its own. The ever-enterprising Isaiah Hass made a gamble that would either bankrupt him or enshrine him in the hearts of the villagers. With the new mill, the little village soon boasted of having work for hundreds of mill workers and field hands. More and more land was now under cultivation, which then attracted more families to leave their impoverished villages for a new life in El Roble. As the Hasses prospered, they continued to contribute to the welfare of the village. They paid for the building of the town hall and plaza. They paid for the one-cell jail and for the lavaderos. Along with others, they contributed a sizeable amount for the building of the church and rectory. They paid to have the street in front of the church paved with cobble stones, and adjacent to the church, they built a grand two-story home to house their four children. The mill provided the only electricity available for the village. The only places that had electric power were the Hasses’ home, the rectory, the town meeting place, and the three streetlamps that illuminated the street. The rest of the village had to make do with kerosene lamps and flashlights.

Mrs. Hass converted to Christianity, and all four of her children were baptized. Just to the rear of the Hasses’ home was a large field of mangoes; the fruits were available for free to any villager wishing to help themselves to the fruit. Life was good for the Hass clan until the election of the communist Lazaro Cardinas and his misguided policy of land reform. Required to give up nearly half their holdings but unwilling to comply with the central government’s mandate, many of the most powerful landowners resorted to acts of terrorism and even assassinations of the peasants who had received their small parcels. The peasants were forced off the land in fear of being killed by the well-armed night riders. Usually, these paid assassins were some of the same men who lived in the village. Before long, all the land was back in the hands of the previous owners. The Hass monopoly was not only intact but had also grown larger and more powerful. Now not even the government could or would attempt to reign in the family. Money and bullets were now the law of the land.

CHAPTER 2

Rich Man, Poor Man

T here were others, of course, although not nearly as wealthy as those self-designated princes, who were considered by the villagers as los ricos. Many of these ricos were those early pioneers who chose the best parcels and had easy access to the water from the river.

Year after year, these farmers were able to bring in bumper crops and had no need to sell any part of the harvest to the prestadores. Being in a position to warehouse the crops, they were able to sell at a time when the prices were most favorable. Having a history of a secure income, the banks were happy to lend them money for the purchase of new tractors and the best seed. They were able to apply the most modern chemicals to fertilize the crops and the most efficient pesticides to eradicate the myriad of pests that plagued the region.

They built homes of fired adobe brick rather than the more conventional stick-and-mud structures used by the landless peasants. With their profits, they were able to acquire more of the virgin land, thus adding to their already extensive holdings.

Most of the other villagers who had arrived later had to be satisfied with parcels of land that were less fertile and would produce much smaller yields. They had to scratch out a meager living that only guaranteed they would always fall victims of perpetual poverty. Most of these were either forced to unlawfully sell their land or try to find fieldwork with other landowners just to subsist from year to year. The upshot of this arrangement was that the poor farmer was never able to rest the land, so after only a few years of being overworked, his parcel became useless.

You would think that the line between los ricos y los pobres would be tightly drawn, but this was not the case. The only visible distinction might be their homes. They dressed the same, drank in the same bars, and utilized the services of the same women who flocked in at harvesttime. These villagers were so interrelated through marriage or compadreship that it seemed, to the outsider, everyone was just one extended family.

Many of the land-poor or landless men either worked as field hands for the larger landowners or labored in the sugar mill for the Hasses. Their wives and daughters found work as maids or cooks, and many took in laundry. They also tended their young, gathered firewood, did all errands, and gleaned the harvested fields for any corn or beans that might have been overlooked by the owner’s pickers. Hunger was always a visitor at their table.

Sugarcane played a major role in the life of the El Roble. Most of the year, many of the village men were employed in the harvesting of the cane or clearing the burned-off fields for replanting or repairing the barbed wire fences that were continually being torn open by the free-roaming cattle, looking to satisfy their sweet tooth. Others were employed in clearing out the irrigation canals that are so critical to the success of all the crops, including sugarcane.

Those lucky enough to own mule teams and carretas were hired to haul the harvested cane to the mill to be weighed and ground into liquid that later became brown sugar cubes. The fortunate few who found steady employment in the mill did not earn a better salary, but they and their family had access to the plant doctor and a better price on medicines if purchased at the local pharmacy.

Sugarcane harvesttime was a reason for joyous celebration. This was when the mill paid the farmers for the sugarcane they had sold the mill. They presented their weight vouchers to the paymaster and collected their earnings in cash. Local musicians paraded through the streets behind the sometimes drunken farmer who, with a bottle of Maria’s hooch in his hand, shouted unintelligibly to anyone who happened to be passing. Little boys trailed him, hoping to cajole him into tossing some coins into the air just to see the little tykes scramble and fight. These were the good times, and the villagers took full advantage of money that was available to spend on parties and at the small circus that set up its tents in El Stadio. This was also the time when many church weddings took place. There were some receptions, depending on the wealth of the bride’s family, that could go on for days.

Barrels of beer brought in from the Pacifico Brewery in Mazatlan, cases of Bacardi rum, and Coke flowed freely among the men. Women and girls danced together to the scratchy old tunes blasting out from a borrowed hand-cranked phonograph. All the while, a continuous supply of pollo en mole, Spanish rice, and mountains of handmade tortillas and refried beans flowed from the charcoal hornillas. Gallons of hot black coffee brewed in red clay pots stood precariously on rickety tables, along with pitchers of iced tamarindo juice and freshly squeezed lemonade. Half-starved yellow dogs scouted under the tables and between the legs of the whirling dancers, hoping to share in any windfall of half-eaten tortillas and bare chicken bones.

Sometimes there was a wedding cake, baked right there in El Roble. The baker, Don Leon, hovered protectively over the cake, shooing away any dive-bombing flies or marauding young boys intent on plunging their dirty fingers into the sugary icing. The cutting of the cake would have to wait until the priest gave his final benediction to the newlyweds. The affair would be considered a rousing success if no one were stabbed or slashed with a broken beer bottle. Those revelers, too drunk to stagger home over those dark and rock-strewn streets, slept it off in some corner of the patio. They had all day Sunday to sober up before facing another week of labor in the fields or another twelve-hour shift making sugar cubes. So the men sauntered or staggered down the unlit streets to the nearest bar or pool hall, while the women joined in the chore of gathering and washing the dishes and cleaning the debris left by the guests. The remaining food was shared among the women and was quickly carted off to their respective homes. The unusable scraps were to be shared with the pigs and chickens and the always-hungry dogs. The pigs and chickens provided the woman of the house with a separate source of income that she typically hid away from her husband who might, at any time, raid her cache just to lose it at poker or to play the big-shot macho and blow it all on his compadres with free beer and raw oysters.

For the newlyweds, there was to be no stretch limousine to a honeymoon paradise but only short walk to the home of her parents where a secluded place was set aside for their wedding night. Fortunately for the novia, the practice of displaying the matrimonial sheets for the townsfolk to view had long been ended.

It should be noted that only rarely did any of the Hass or Viscara clans attend any of the locales’ weddings unless the ceremonies were between people of their extended families.

With the harvest also came the priest. Although the village boasted of a beautiful church and a well-appointed rectory, El Roble never could support a full-time cleric. Unlike many other areas of rural Mexico, where the church was the center of village life, El Roble was, in this respect, different. Except for a few women who felt it their duty to attend to the itinerant priest’s needs, most of the villagers had neither the time nor the interest to become active in the church. While the priest was in residence, he and his small flock would walk the hot and dusty streets, knocking on doors, asking for donations. Many hid behind closed doors and shuttered windows until Padre Pelici and his entourage made their way down the street.

Sunday morning awoke to the clanging of the church bell, calling the faithful to early mass. Black-shawled women trudged along the crooked streets that led to the church. Each carried with them small parcels of food and baked goods for the visiting priest who stood on the top step to welcome his small