Mono Craters

The people of the village were a hardy bunch, though their lives tended, when compared to others, to be as short as the season of planting and harvesting in this high mountain valley.  It was a beautiful place as beautiful as God did make a place, but, like the diamond its edge was hard and sharp and formidable.  It was really no place for the mere mortal to live, with its panorama's and vista's and soul burning sunsets over the Jemez, as if one could or should live directly in the glory of God. Yet, for over three hundred years few had been able to leave his presence, despite the cost of toil and hardship He imposed.

This winter had been exceedingly harsh.  Snow had drifted over ten feet and the cold was such as no viejo could remember.  Four times, so cold that the entire village huddled together, men, women, children and the few horses, in the thick walled adobe church.  They built a fire on the hard packed floor before the altar and prayed to God, shoulder to shoulder, blanket to blanket, that he not freeze them to death in the night.  The incense of this Mass fragrant juniper, pinon and cedar.  Many he blessed with another sunrise over the Truchas but many were taken to his bosom in cold peaceful sleep.

And so it was on the 7th of June, 1858, or so the priest said the date had been when he finally ambled into the village in the late spring, that Victor's mother had died peacefully in the cold in God's house surrounded by her people.  The priest surmised that she was 37 or 38 years old as only the record of her baptism, July 20, 1824, existed and she was already 3 or 4 years old before the old, old, old priest, that is three clerics before him, had made his way to the village.  Dates and times mattered little to these people in this timeless valley.  Even Victor was not sure of his age, perhaps, twenty, maybe even twenty-one, did it matter?

The written word, too, had little meaning, only Lebaya Martinez, who ran a little general store, more a village trading post, could read and write and he was want to share his knowledge.  He did bother to help his patrons learn their initials and rudimentary numerals and arithmetic, so that they could mark their debits and credits on many time used tally sheets.  

Only Lebaya knew of the outside world, and the priest of course, with his travels and trades.  Few travelers made their way to the village on their way to Taos or Santa Fe so news was rare.  The lanterns and fires of San Juan and Espanola seen far distant in the valley below were, especially during the nine months of winter, sometimes the only reminder that they were not the only people left on earth.  Victor spent much of his time listening to his primo Lebaya's tales of the great pueblo's of Taos, Espanola, and the great city of Santa Fe.  He would go there and do great things too.

Why? Lebaya  would ask him.  Here he lived in near paradise, there was no greed, little lust, they did not have much, but then usually they had enough, true they often suffered; but didn't God himself for our sins? and wasn't their suffering in God's name?  He, Lebaya, had seen the world, it was not such a great place, be happy Victor, you are here with your loving people and the grace of God.

The priest began his work, he would be in this village for nearly four days.  It took time, the masses, the recording of births and deaths, baptisms, marriages, the list of his tasks seemed endless...blessing of the fields, blessing of the animals, and lengthy confessions.  He always began with the confessions so that communion would be untainted.

The priest unpacked his burrow and placed his belongings in the vestibule attached to the rear of the church.  It was sparse but pleasant.  Just a cot, a cross, an armoire and a wash stand, it was familiar because the furnishings and room were exactly the same in every village.  A blanket was hung for a door tacked to the lintel, he would talk with Lebaya, it was time he had a proper door.  He pulled a dusty cassock from his traveling bag, "hmmm".  He walked out on the plaza with the garment and looked about, "Juanito, come here."

"Yes, Father?", the boy ran to him.  Holding the cassock up to the youngster, "You shall be my acolyte, mijo." handing the cassock to the boy.  "Go dust this off and get dressed, sandals  too.  Get the cross and call me, we shall begin the procession at Lebaya's."  "But, Father I don't know the words." worried Juan.  "No bother, mijo, you will be inspired or I shall help you." smiled the priest. "Trust God you are chosen for this day".

The priest then went to the well at the corner of the plaza.  With exaggerated  ceremony and quite loudly he blessed its waters.  He took a cruet from his pocket and filled it with these now Holy Waters.  The rest of the village on this signal began preparations for their parts in this annual ritual.  Jose Apodaca went to get the carved crèche of the Holy Family, women gathered their finest shawls, no head would be uncovered, the priest went to get his "travel" bell, all would be as it should be. 

Juanito stood before the priest beaming in honor, he had by himself taken the church's crucifix and placed it on the processional pole.  Behind little Carmen Gallegos tottered with the santo de San Raphael the patron of her village.  The priest sprinkled them with Holy Water and they walked down to Lebaya's.  Soon he would ring the bell and the village would assemble to make their way with great dignity to the church.

Confession went along in its usual manner.  Sin here was usually conceptual, and seldom had material manifestation except the spilled seed of young men or the occasional theft of some candy by a little girl from Lebaya's counter.  Sin though could be quite dark with questions jeopardizing the immortal soul, absolution was necessary, requested and granted.  The priest had purpose.

"Bless me..." prayed Victor as he recited the litany and bared his misdeeds.  Upon completion the priest began, "Victor, Victor, these are the sins of a child, you have committed far worse.  And worse yet, you do not see them.  As a man, your sins, unless you are truly evil, will be those of omission not commission and you have sinned grievously." 

"Tomorrow we shall hear your mother, dear Rosita's name, recited as we ask intersession and her granting entry to heaven.  You her only son, did you honor her as required by God himself?  I think not, at her last confession she asked of God guidance so that you would marry and bring her grandchildren...she thought this a sin of greed that she should desire to see her angels.  And did you Victor? Did you grant your mothers only request? No Victor.  But your sin is worse, as a strong son of this village with sheep and property, you are not fulfilling your duty to your people and God himself.  Do you see this, can you see through your sin of pride in your dreams of golden lands?" 

Victor knelt silent, but visibly shaken.  He was evil incarnate, a walking devil, how could anyone treat their mother so?  He pictured her smiling, basting eggs in lard, morning sun beams on the kitchen table...he was a terrible person.

"I have never 'till now felt the need to evoke such a hard penance, but Victor I feel your soul can be saved.  There is a small village to the south, about two days walk, called Chimayo.  The chapel there, Oratorio de San Buenaventura, a true santuario de esquipulas, is also I believe a place where one can pray for healing of the crippled heart as well."

"You shall go there, a foot, no horse and pray for your soul and His guidance.  Your absolution will be granted by God with the completion of this penance."  The priest chanted the absolution. "Go with God in peace, my son."

Only this piece of blackest obsidian and a small ring of stones, his last light, remains of Victor Ortiz.  His headstone, V.O. 1860, carved by his frozen hand chiseling with a broken gun butt and with his last breath, the only and ultimate mark of his being of this earth; being a man.