The death of Father Ignacio created more loss, more sorrow, than the tiny community of Las Truchas could contain. The outpouring of affection from so many mourners meant that the tiny sanctuario could not hold all those who wished to attend the funeral mass, and more than a hundred people waited outside the church in the raw, frozen air, slapping the arms of their thick coats and breathing cold vapor clouds until the mass was finished. Even the large churchyard, surrounded by high adobe walls, could not accommodate the throng. Clumps of people huddled together all along the narrow dirt road through the village.
Since I’m used to being out in the cold, it wasn’t the chill that was making me uncomfortable. It was standing for more than an hour in a pair of dress boots that looked good with my long black skirt but did my feet a disservice. That, and the wailing of Las Dolientes.
From the thick adobe walls of the chapel the sound of their cries rose to the rim of the nave and then crept like a fog out the cracks in the mortar, around the seals of the windows and doors, bringing with it the weight of a thousand hearts suffering the ultimate sorrow.
After the mass, Father Ximon Rivera pulled on a long, dark coat as he stepped outside with an elderly woman I presumed to be Father Ignacio’s mother. Two priests dressed in splendid vestments came out. These two waited with the mujer and watched the mourners file out, while Father Rivera followed the pallbearers with their charge to the old wooden horse-drawn wagon that served as a hearse. A group of Carmelitas brought an exquisitely embroidered white cloth and draped it over the coffin. Then the Hermanos came from the church, each carrying a rosary, and they took up positions before the cart.
I stood just inside the dilapidated wooden gates, which sagged open from their hinges in the adobe wall. The arch above them supported the old iron church bell and was crowned with a simple white cross. The morning sun, just cresting the high mountains to the east, cast a long, blue shadow of the rood across the front of the church. As everyone filed forward on their way to the cemetery, the procession came right past me. A group of more than thirty men-mostly elders-dressed in long, black coats from another era, walked together in silence toward the road, the first three of them carrying crosses high above their heads-one a large crucifix, the polychrome figure of Christ distinctively New Mexican. Eight younger men came behind them, also dressed in antiquated dark clothes. Two led the horses, and the six pallbearers remained in formation as they had while carrying the coffin, each with one hand on the cart, the other holding a rosary. Some of them looked like they were having trouble walking. They all wore pained expressions, as if their clothes were hurting their backs. I felt the heaviness of despair in my neck and shoulders as these Hermanos trudged past me.
Behind them came Las Carmelitas. At the front of their group, five Verónicas carried a platform bearing a bulto of Our Lady of Sorrows. In two disciplined rows behind them, Las Hermanas followed, with seven women in a cluster taking up the rear-Las Dolientes.
Los Penitentes led the procession to the campo santo. The long, slow walk through the village seemed to take hours, the cánticos, or chants, of Los Hermanos drawing time out like molten lead, blue-gray with the heavy weight of this gruesome, incomprehensible tragedy. Periodically, the brothers halted the procession and the elderly were directed to sit in the folding chairs that had been set up along the road at each of these descansos, or resting places. Members of the family or friends of the deceased placed small crosses at each of these spots, piling up rocks to support them. Las Carmelitas decorated each of these with white roses that had been dipped in wax, and each time flowers were laid before a crux, it raised a new rash of wailing from Las Dolientes.
At the campo santo, the hermano mayor, the elder or leader of the brotherhood, waited respectfully until the group of priests completed their graveside ceremonies. When they were finished, he began singing in a clear, deep baritone that seemed to well up in his round chest and come out in tones the color of dark beer. He sang an alabado that repeated the phrase adiós al mundo: good-bye to this world.
While the hermano mayor sang, Las Carmelitas came forward with three long, purple satin sashes and handed them to the younger Hermanos, who eased the coffin from the wagon, placing the sashes beneath it as they did so. They held the embroidered ends of the sashes and lowered the coffin into the ground as the banshee voices of Las Dolientes rose in an insufferable wail.
As the hermano mayor sang the final stanza, I tried to translate in my mind from the rich, beautiful Spanish: something about being made from the earth, then about being the earth at last again. Members of the family, Los Hermanos, and Las Carmelitas came forward one at a time and sprinkled a handful of red dirt onto the coffin, the sound like rain splattering on a big drum.
The elderly woman I had identified as Father Ignacio’s mother stayed near the grave to receive condolences, along with the rest of the family. I stood well off to the side, out of the flow of traffic, as the mourners left the campo santo. I watched the river of black coats, capes, and woolen shawls, called tápalos, until it slowed; then I looked back at the grave. The rest of the family had moved on to follow the procession, but the bereaved mother remained before the burial pit, alone but for one companion. A bent old woman was speaking to her, gesturing animatedly. Father Ignacio’s mother made a measurement with her hands, holding them shoulder-width apart. Then she put one hand five or six inches above the other, palms facing, presumably describing the size of an object. They focused intently on one another, talking back and forth, apparently working something out between them. They turned in concert and looked at me, and I saw the bent one gesture, pointing a bony finger at me. Esperanza! She saw the recognition in my face and shook her head, raising a finger to her lips, signaling me not to call out. Then she made like she was pushing me away. She repeated the motion several times, indicating I should stay back. She reached for the shoulder of the other woman and turned her away from me, directing attention back to their conversation, still gesturing with her other arm as she talked. I watched them. Were they talking about me? Why did Esperanza point at me?
They talked for several minutes, each one taking turns listening, then talking. Every once in a while, the bruja would look up at me and make another pushing-away gesture, reminding me to stay back.
Father Rivera’s voice interrupted my confused speculations. “Miss Wild, I see you’ve managed to brave the cold.” He tugged his long wool coat together at the collar, his breath like smoke in the chill.
I was about to answer when the two mujeres approached.
Father Rivera seized the opportunity. “Doña Medina, I’d like you to meet Miss Wild. She was something of an asociada of your son’s. Miss Wild is also writing about Los Hermanos, señora.” He was acting the perfect diplomat, as if we had not had the terse discussion at the end of our last meeting. I noticed that he had chosen to ignore the bruja.
“Con mucho gusto, Señora Medina.” I extended my hand. “Lo siento for your loss. Even though I did not know your son well, I considered him a friend.”