Castizo

Copyright © 1999 by David G. Rasmussen.

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.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 1

Spines sharper than hypodermic needles pricked the fingers of Beneficial Duran as the old man worked his familiar pocketknife around the circumference of the antler-shaped cholla branch. He carefully shaved away a section to be free of those needles so to grip the woody stem and then to carve the branch free.

The place was called ArroyoDel Oso (Gulch of the bear). It was a deep gash on the western foothills of the Sandia Mountains that walled in Albuquerque on the east. Flash floods frequently charged down this gash preventing developers from building on its eroded banks. Beneficio Duran searched hard for such a place. Here he could find the cholla cactus. Such a weed-filled gulch would be the only spot among the immaculate yards of Albuquerque’s Northeast Heights where the despised desert plant would still be found.

Like a grazing deer, ever sensitive to danger, the old man straightened from his task and let his eyes search the arroyo crest. He listened beyond his sight. He sensed no danger.

The sun would not clear Sandia Crest for another half hour and full light, at dawn’s low angle, would not penetrate the ragged depths of the arroyo for another hour. Still, Beneficio felt uneasy for being in this place—doing this thing. This was city land, so he was not trespassing; yet sweat trickled from under the old felt hat and ran behind his left ear. Beneficio did not think that anyone would care if he took a piece of the Cholla, for even the new Anglos from the East did not admire the cholla when they fussed over other cactus plants. The old man’s apprehension, however, was not in the taking the cholla branch. It was in someone asking why he would want the spiny damned thing and to what purpose he would use it.

Beneficio went back to work on the woody interior of the cactus—curling quarter moons with his well-honed knife. Just before finishing the last cut, he opened a large paper bag to catch the spiny branch without touching it as it fell.

The old man closed his knife. He had gotten his cholla.

Feeling out of place on this day, Beneficio Duran knelt at a pew near the back of the sanctuary. Rays of morning sun played through the modern mosaic of glass and across rich wood pews and padded kneeling stands. Only a few parishioners were at this mid-week mass. Most were women who still covered their heads with lace mantas. Several recited rosaries; quietly mouthing the familiar words. The combined sound of the many soft prayers reminded the old man of Penitente services and his reason for being at this particular mass.

A bell tinkled at the back of the sanctuary. All the congregation rose, most stiffly, as the priest followed a single altar boy down the aisle. There was no song to greet the priest.

As the priest recited the mass in Spanish, Beneficio studied his face carefully. It was the face of a man of Hispanic decent. Grey streaked the temples of the thick wavy black hair. He was probably in his late forties. This particular mass had been noted in the paper as being spoken in Spanish. The priest spoke it naturally and well, but Beneficio was disappointed. The words and pronunciations were modern. He was not speaking the ancient Castellano of Nuevo Mejico—of the land grants.

At the conclusion of the mass, still uncertain about speaking with the priest, the old man followed the last of the lace-covered heads down the aisle. Each spoke warmly with the priest as if he were a familiar friend. Beneficio decided to take this chance despite his apprehension. He probably would not find a better opportunity.

"Buenos dias, Padre."

"Buenos dias, Caballero."

Beneficio lost some of his uneasiness as he accepted with the old Castellan greeting and the warm handshake. Father, please, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you some things.

You are the last in line and I do not need to go anywhere for a little while. Please, go right ahead.

Pardon me for asking, but are you a Franciscan?

Yes, I am. Is that important? Curiosity now showed in the eyes of the younger man.

Beneficio felt a flush of embarrassment at his forwardness, but chose to continue. In the past, Franciscan priests were very understanding about what I am about to ask. The old man studied the kind eyes of the priest to gauge whether to continue.

Let’s go into my office. Or shall we go to a confessional?

No, no, right here will be fine. My question will only take a moment. Beneficio again felt uneasy, but continued. Padre, can you help me find a Brotherhood?

"Los Hermanos de La Sangrey La Luz. This is the brotherhood that you want me to help you to find?" The priest’s warm brown eyes changed to an expression of sad concern.

The old man’s gut tightened with what he interpreted in the priest’s eyes. I am sorry to bother you, Father, but I am from the Cebolleta Land Grant. I am a stranger in Albuquerque and do not know who else to ask. The Brotherhood does not meet on the land grant anymore. The brothers have died or, like me, gone away.

Senor ?

Duran, Padre, My name is Beneficio Duran.

Duran, Ah, now that is a proud name in New Mexico.

The priest studied the old man more intently—seeing first the pale blue eyes of ancient Spain, the erect stance of a man not accustomed to sitting or idleness, simple clothes of styles twenty years out of fashion, but clean and pressed, hair only slightly thinned on top. Dark strands were woven through the predominate porcelain white. He noted the permanent copper face below the pale hairline; long protected by hats from the desert sun that had so stained the handsome face. Reflecting to himself, this dignified caballero is Castizo. He may be the last of his kind. I have not talked with a Penitente since before Istarted the seminary. What can I tell him? Can I tell this fine old man that he is a relic, the last of a religious brotherhood that no longer exists, a lay sect that has not been condoned by the Churchfor more than a hundred years?"

Beneficio became uneasy under the gaze of this priest. He knew that the Roman Catholic Church did not recognize the Brotherhood of Blood and Light, but some old Franciscans once took part in the rituals, and he had thought that one might know how to help find the Brotherhood. This one would not, Beneficio concluded. This one only looks at me strangely and says nothing. Beneficio dropped his eyes from the face of the younger man and turned to go. I am sorry to bother you, Father. I will go.

"Perdoname, Senor Duran. Your question left me without an answer. The Brotherhood has not been part of the Church for many years. Even if I knew where an active Morada was, I could not tell you. We priests must discourage rituals like those of the Brotherhood. Physical suffering is not needed to find Christ’s blessings."

Disappointment flooded the old man’s feelings. Disappointment and then isolation. This priest was of New Mexico, yet he was foreign. "Si, Padre. I understand. Me voy."

Please, Beneficio, don’t go yet. Let’s go to my study and talk. I would like to know more about you. Maybe then I can help you find the things that you had in the Brotherhood.

The old caballero straightened the shoulders within the old jacket and walked slowly out the vestibule doors. He did not respond. Words had been spoken. Beneficio had asked his question. He would get no answer. There was not a need to talk more.

Beneficio, please come to our Easter Week services. You may find peace in them. The priest knew that his plea would not now bridge the gap. Sadly, he watched this relic walk away. An opportunity had been lost. Beneficio Duran was not a museum piece or a chapter from a book. He was a living Castizo. An accurate link to the past. To talk with him would be like conversing with a ghost.

The dignity of a Caballero had been breached. Beneficio Duran would talk no more; probably, never again would he talk to him or to another priest about the Brotherhood of Penitentes.

Well, all I can do is pray for Beneficio Duran, the priest spoke softly toward the erect figure passing through the outside doors. "Via con Dios, Don Beneficio. I will pray that you return before you need the last rites."

If I am the last Hermano de la Sangre, then so it is, Beneficio softly spoke to himself. "I will do it. I will do the things myself. I will sing the abados alone. I will use my old azote with its leather strap slit to make five strings. I will tie my cholla branch to the strands. I will whip my shoulders and back so that leathers slap hard and the cholla spines jab deep. I will suffer great pain. I will have a procession alone to the little hill in the park when it is late and no one will be there to see. I will find some boards and I will make a cross and I will carry it to the little hill."

Beneficio suddenly realized that people on the street were giving him strange looks, smiling and shaking their heads. He had been speaking these last thoughts loudly without realizing it. When a man has strong thoughts, he said to himself, they sometimes force his mouth open. "On Good Friday, I will again be a Hermano. I will find great peace and healing on Easter."

CHAPTER 2

"I want to go home, Hijo. I want to go home to the ranch on Black Mesa. I don’t want to stay here no more. I don’t like it here. I don’t want to die here."

Papa, we have been through this before. This home is a good place for you to be. They take good care of you here. You don’t have to do anything. They feed you real good. They are nice people. You can sit and watch TV and not have to go or do anything all day long. Papa, you can go for your walks whenever you want. If you go back to the ranch, there will be nobody to help you. There is no electricity. There is no TV. You would have to chop firewood to cook with. If you get sick again and have pains in your chest, there would be nobody to take care of you and get you the pills or take you to the doctor. Why don’t you just be happy here?

I don’t want to be here no more. I want to go home. I don’t want to die here like Mr. Parker.

Who was Mister Parker?

"Mister Parker, he was in the other bed in my room. He died with needles stuck in him. He died in the room with nothing to see but the walls and the curtains. La Dona Sebastian, she came with her creaky cart to take Mister Parker’s life. She sat by the head of the bed and she waited. The doctor and the nurses, they do stuff to Mister Parker, but the death angel, she just wait on her cart. The people could not help Mister Parker. La Dona, she wait and she get Mister Parker. Nobody make him better. He just die. He choke all up and the people, they do stuff to him and he die anyway. Mister Parker, he couldn’t see the trees or the sky or the mountain. He just lie there and see the white walls."

Philip Duran sat quietly and gazed across the little visiting room at his father. He could not remember hearing Papa say so much at one time. Philip concluded that something deep was bothering the old man to make him so vocal.

Beneficio Duran was seated so that he could see out into the sun-lit patio at the back of the immaculate rest home. He had paused to gauge his son’s reaction and to collect his thoughts before he went on.

Philip said nothing so Beneficio continued, "A man, when he dies in a little white room, Los Viejos, they can’t find him. God, he can’t find him. The Old Ones, they don’t know about little white rooms stuck in a big building in a city. The Old Ones, they can’t find the man and help God to get his spirit. Just the death angel, she can find people anywhere. She can bring her damned creaky cart even into the big city buildings. I want Los Viejos to find me. I don’t want to ride on no damned creaky old cart."

Philip visualized his proud Papa seated in the back of the mythical death angel’s old wooden cart and suppressed his smile. He started to try to reassure his Papa that God and Los Viejos, if there were such spirits, could find a dying man anywhere. Beneficio ignored him and went on.

"The men, they come and they put Mister Parker in a purple bag and they push him down the hall on a cart and they take him out the back door so other people they won’t see him be dead. Pretty soon they put somebody else in the bed and maybe he die too. Maybe I die first. Maybe La Dona Sebastian, she come for me too."

Papa, you are still strong. You will live for a long time if you stay here near the doctor. If you go back to Black Mesa to live, there will be no one to help you. If you have a spell or fall down, there will be no one to take care of you.

"If I fall down, then I get up. If I can’t get up then I die where am.

The old man’s eyes sparked with defiance as they held those of Philip’s. They then softened and drifted back toward the sunny window and the defiance dropped from his voice. "If I die on Black

Mesa, I can see the sky and the trees and the mountain, while I die. God, he can find me on Black Mesa. The spirits, they would be there on Black Mesa too. Your mamma, she would be there on Black Mesa. She would not know about this place.