Baltazar, the woodcutter, lived in the village of Arroyo Seco at the foot of Taos Mountain. He earned his living by cutting firewood in the forests and selling it in the village.
Each morning, he took his burro up the mountain where he cut dead pine trees and aspen. Then he made his way down the perilous road to sell the wood to housewives. When he made a sale, he went to the village store and bought meat and potatoes for his family. When he didn’t sell the wood, he led his burro back to his adobe home by the stream.
One evening, Baltazar’s wife and ten children saw him returning with the wood still piled on the burro’s back. This summer, the housewives had plenty of wood for cooking, so Baltazar hadn’t sold a load in a week. All knew their supper would consist of corn gruel and yesterday’s stale tortillas.
“No luck today,” Baltazar said as he drew near.
“Don’t worry, viejo,” said his understanding wife. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll have better luck.”
“Sí, there’s always tomorrow,” Baltazar replied. His wife and children didn’t seem to mind the corn gruel, but after eating it three meals a day for the past week, he had grown very tired of it.
“Unload the burro and let it eat grass along the stream,” he told his eldest son. “I’m going to visit my compadre Felipe.”
“Sí, Papá,” the boy answered, and went off to do his father’s bidding.
Baltazar’s wife knew that when her husband went off to visit Felipe, the compadre who long ago had been best man at their wedding, they probably would have a few cups of wine. The two old friends liked to sit and talk in the cool summer evenings, so Baltazar wouldn’t be home till late.
Baltazar’s wife understood that the life of a woodcutter wasn’t easy, so she sighed and went in to prepare a supper of corn gruel for herself and her children.
Baltazar walked down the dirt road to his compadre’s house, and the two sat visiting till it was dark. By the time Baltazar started for home, a full moon had come over Taos Mountain, lighting the path. Baltazar always felt happy after visiting with his compadre, but the good feeling didn’t assuage the growling hunger in his stomach.
He knew only a bowl of cold corn gruel awaited him at home. He sighed and spoke to the moon. “Luna, you are so lucky. You are full and fat and happy. I am happy, but thin and hungry.”
Passing by his neighbors’ home, he saw that one of the hens had been left out of the henhouse when it was locked for the night. The poor hen ran up and down the fence, clucking in fear.
“Pobre gallina,” Baltazar said. “If someone doesn’t put you in the henhouse, an owl or a coyote will surely get you.”
He grabbed the hen, with the thought of putting it into the coop. The hen grew quiet in his arms. Baltazar looked around. His neighbors’ home was dark; everyone was asleep.
Then Baltazar’s hunger overcame his honesty. He hadn’t had a good meal in a week.
“My neighbor has many chickens,” Baltazar said. “He surely won’t miss one. So I will borrow it.”
With the chicken under his arm, he made his way up the mountainside to a clearing. There he made a fire, killed and plucked the thin hen, and put it on a spit to roast. As the aroma of the baking chicken filled the air, Baltazar felt his stomach growl.
For a moment, he thought of his family. Maybe he should share the chicken with them. No, he thought, they are asleep. Why bother them? Besides, the chicken was so small, it hardly made a meal for one person.
He removed the chicken from the spit and was about to take his first bite when he heard someone coming.
God help me! he thought. Even here I can’t be left alone to enjoy myself. Well, whoever it is, I’m not going to invite him to eat!
A tall stranger approached the fire. He was dressed in a flowing white robe, and an aura of light surrounded him.
“How do you do, my friend,” said the noble stranger.
“Buenas noches,” Baltazar responded. “Who are you?”
“I am the Lord,” the man answered. “I have been traveling all day and I am hungry. Will you invite me to eat with you?”
Baltazar looked at the small chicken. Again his stomach growled. If He is the Lord, surely He can find food somewhere else, Baltazar thought. Besides, He hasn’t been too good to me lately. It is His fault I haven’t been able to sell my wood and eat a decent meal. I must think of an excuse.
“No,” he finally said. “I don’t think I’ll invite you to share my meal, and I’ll tell you why. If you were watching over me, you would make sure I can sell my wood. You neglect the poor. You give everything to the rich. You don’t treat us equally.”
The Lord went away, looking sad. Baltazar was satisfied that someone as powerful as the Lord hadn’t given him an argument. Again he held the chicken up, ready to eat, when he heard the sound of another person approaching.
The woman who drew near the fire was beautiful beyond description. She wore a blue robe, and rays of light seemed to emanate from her.
“Good evening, my friend,” said the woman.
“Buenas noches, señora,” the woodcutter replied. “And who might you be?”
“I am the Virgin Mary,” the woman answered. “I have been traveling all day and I am hungry. Will you share your food with me?”
Baltazar scratched his beard and looked at the small chicken. If he gave half away, there would be hardly any bites left for himself. His stomach growled, reminding him of the hunger he had suffered all week. There must be an excuse he could use to satisfy the Virgin Mary.
“No,” he finally said. “I am not going to share my food with you, and I’ll tell you why. I think your son neglects the poor. Since you are the mother of Jesus, you should intercede for us to ask Him to make us all equal. Either we should all be rich or we should all be poor. The way it is now, He makes some very rich and some very poor, and, unfortunately, I am one of the poor ones. For that reason, I’m not going to share my chicken with you.”
The Virgin Mary turned and left without a word.
“Good,” Baltazar said. “She didn’t argue with me.”
He opened his mouth to bite into the chicken, when he heard someone else on the mountain path. When Baltazar looked up, he saw it was Doña Sebastiana, Death herself, who approached the fire. Her skeleton was thinly clothed in rags, and her dark eye pits made Baltazar shiver.
Oh no, Baltazar thought, my time has come. Maybe the Lord and the Virgin Mary have sent Death to get even with me for not sharing my food.
He closed his eyes and began to whisper a prayer. But Death did not string an arrow on the bow she carried. Instead, she greeted him.
“How goes it, friend?” Doña Sebastiana asked.
“Buenas noches,” the woodcutter answered, trembling at the sight of the old hag. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am la Muerte,” Doña Sebastiana answered. “I have been traveling all day and I am hungry. Will you share your meal with me?”
“Yes, you do look hungry!” Baltazar said, eyeing the skeleton in front of him.
Maybe if I share my chicken with Doña Sebastiana she won’t take me, he thought.
“Of course you’re welcome to share my meal,” Baltazar said, motioning to a tree stump where Death might sit. “And I’ll tell you why. You treat us all equally. You don’t play favorites with the wealthy because of their money, nor with the beautiful because of their beauty. Rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, old or young, you treat us all equally. Sit down and share my food.”
Still shivering at the sight of Death, Baltazar tore the chicken apart and offered Doña Sebastiana half. After they had finished eating the roasted chicken, Doña Sebastiana seemed satisfied.
“You are wise to share your meal with me,” she said. “I will reward you. Ask for any favor you desire and it will be granted.”
“Señora,” Baltazar said in his most humble voice, “I just wish I could sell my firewood so I can feed my family.”
“I will help you feed your family,” Death answered. “I am going to grant you a special power. You are to become a curandero, a healer. You will be able to cure all kinds of sickness, and people will reward you with food.”
“Thank you, señora,” Baltazar replied.
“However, there is one time when you must not cure a sick person.”
“When is that, señora?”
“If you go to a patient’s bed and see me standing at the head of it, don’t cure that person, regardless of what his relatives will pay or promise you. That person has no remedy but to die. Do you understand?”
“Yes I do, señora. If you are at the head of the bed, I must not cure the person.”
“But if you see me at the patient’s feet, then go ahead and cure him. Use prayers, holy water, and herbs to help the sick. I assure you your patients will get well.”
Then Death got on her creaking wooden cart and disappeared into the night. When she had gone, a very frightened Baltazar raced down the mountain. Once he tripped and fell and came within inches of rolling off the side of the cliff. Bruised and scratched, he hurried home, climbed into bed, and lay trembling for a long time.
The next morning, he got up late, battered but happy to be alive. He knew no one would believe his story, so he said nothing to his wife. Besides, she had her own story to tell as she served his breakfast of corn gruel.
Cruz Trujillo, a neighbor at the Indian pueblo, had fallen from a horse. He was near death.
“Toña is my best friend,” Baltazar’s wife said. “I will bake some corn bread and take it to her. They will need firewood.”
“Yes, I will take them a load of firewood.”
It was the custom of the neighbors of Arroyo Seco to help one another in time of need, so as soon as the corn bread was ready, Baltazar and his wife went to the pueblo.
When Baltazar walked into the room where the semiconscious Cruz lay, a strange feeling came over him. Without a word, he walked up to the prone man and began to massage him. Baltazar’s wife and Toña were surprised but said nothing.
After a while, Baltazar said, “He is lucky; there are no broken bones.” He made a few adjustments of the compacted bones, and when he was done, Cruz opened his eyes.
“Gracias, compadre” were his first words. Those in the room were astounded. Baltazar had instantly cured Cruz.
The news traveled like a forest fire though the Indian pueblos, then to the Hispanic villages of the Río Grande valley. Everywhere, the message was whispered: “Baltazar the woodcutter is a curandero. He has the power to heal any sickness!”
Sick people flocked to see Baltazar, and he traveled to many villages, practicing his healing craft. Because most of the people he cured were poor, they paid him with what they had at home. If a man raised corn, Baltazar would go home with his burro loaded with corn. Some would give him a side of beef or a cured ham. Women offered eggs from the hens they raised.
Baltazar’s fame spread, and his family prospered. They ate regularly every day and glowed with good health. And Baltazar kept Death’s commandment. He never attempted a cure if he saw the figure of Death, which only he could see, at the head of a sick person’s bed.
One afternoon, Baltazar’s wife spoke to him. “We are doing well, viejo. Look at how happy and healthy our children are. And you are famous. Whoever gave you this gift of healing has done you a great favor.”
“Yes,” Baltazar said, frowning. “I heal people when no one else can help them. But they pay me with what they raise, not money. Doctors and lawyers and undertakers get paid with gold coins, but I get paid with chickens and eggs.”
“The poor don’t have gold,” his wife reminded him. “You provide very well for your family. Remember the days of hunger when you were a woodcutter. Thank the saints for your gift.”
Baltazar didn’t thank the saints. He felt Doña Sebastiana had cheated him. Yes, she had given him a gift, but it didn’t make him any money. He should have asked for a lost fortune. That way, he could have built a big house like a rico. Then he could have sat all day on his porch and done nothing.
The next day, when Baltazar was readying his burro for a trip to Santa Fe, his wife came running. “Don Mateo has sent for you!” she cried, out of breath. “His daughter is very sick!”
Don Mateo was the richest man in Arroyo Hondo, so Baltazar got on his burro and rode along the side of the cliff and down into the valley. Don Mateo and his family lived in a grand house by the curve of the road. A servant led Baltazar into the sala, a spacious living room, where Don Mateo was waiting.
“Baltazar,” he said, “I have heard you are a great curandero. For weeks, my daughter has been ill. She runs a high fever and wastes away. I have taken her to the doctors at Taos and Santa Fe, but they say there is nothing they can do. I beg you to save her life.”
He led Baltazar into his daughter’s room. It was a room fit for a queen, Baltazar thought, noting the fine rugs on the floor and the lace curtains on the windows. The girl’s mother sat nearby, ever attentive to her daughter, who lay on the bed in a coma.
As Baltazar approached the girl, he saw the figure of Death standing at the head of the bed. Baltazar shivered and pulled back.
“I … I can’t,” he stammered.
Don Mateo grabbed his arm. “What do you mean you can’t! We have been told you perform miracles! You must try something!”
Baltazar didn’t have the nerve to tell the distraught father his daughter was dying.
“You must do something!” Don Mateo’s wife said. “She is our only daughter.”
Baltazar shook his head. He had made a bargain with Death not to interfere under such circumstances.
“I will pay you handsomely!” Don Mateo said. “Look!” He opened a chest, and hundreds of gold coins glittered. “It is our family fortune, but it is yours if you cure our daughter.”
Baltazar picked up the gold coins and let them trickle through his fingers. His eyes gleamed. I would be the richest man in Río Arriba, he thought. Yes, for this fortune, I would cheat Death.
“Very well,” he said, turning to Don Mateo. “I will cure your daughter. Please leave the room.”
Don Mateo took one final look at his daughter; then he took his wife’s hand and they left the room.
Baltazar turned and approached Doña Sebastiana.
“You cannot save her!” Death warned, stringing an arrow to her bow. But before she could point it at the girl, Baltazar grabbed her. He spun Death around so fast, she grew dizzy. Then he pushed her to the foot of the bed.
“There!” he cried. “The girl does not die!”
“You win this time, my friend,” Death said, and stalked angrily out of the room.
At that moment, the girl sat up in her bed and called for her mother. Her parents came rushing in and found her completely cured. The healer had performed another miracle.
“We are thankful you have cured our daughter,” Don Mateo said. “I will have my servants load the bags of gold coins on your burro.”
As Baltazar rode home that night, a furious storm came up. Lightning filled the sky and thunder shook the earth. Rain slashed in sheets to the ground, making the footing along the cliff dangerous.
No matter, Baltazar thought. His burro was loaded with gold. Never again would he have to raise his finger to work. He would build a big house and live like a rich man the rest of his life. He would never eat corn gruel again.
Suddenly, the figure of Death loomed before him, an arrow from her bow aimed at Baltazar.
“You broke your promise,” Doña Sebastiana said angrily. “Now you must pay me with your life.”
The burro, too, felt the presence of Death as lightning illuminated the dreadful figure. In terror, it reared up and lost its footing on the muddy road. Then it went tumbling over the side of the cliff, taking Baltazar to his death.
He who had cheated Death could not do so this time. She had come too swiftly. The next day when Baltazar’s family found his body, they placed a small cross by the side of the road where he had died. The gold was never found.