Cuentos de la Sierra: La Aguililla

For fifteen years, from 1985 to 2000, I lived in the mountain village of Real de Catorce, in the altiplano potosino of northern Mexico. During that time, I wrote numerous “Cuentos de la Sierra,” about my adventures among the Huicholes and the country people of that region. Over a span of two decades, I narrated many of them on NPR’s Latino USA. This is an edited and slightly expanded version of one of these stories, which seem especially relevant during this time of pandemia and strife.

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On weekends, campesinos from the surrounding ranchitos often came to my house to sell their goods. One Sunday, like many others, there was a knock at the door. As I answered it, I anticipated getting some delicious fresh goat cheese or perhaps some of those wonderful small aguacates with the edible skin. Instead, I beheld Don Pablo carefully holding a full-grown hawk, or aguililla, as they are known in these parts.

I couldn’t bear the thought of a tourist taking the hawk to be a caged pet in the city. So, reluctantly, I bought the hawk. But not before I reproached Don Pablo for buying it in the first place. “This only encourages people to capture more wild birds,” I said. “These brave creatures should not live in captivity. I’m only taking the hawk so I can release it.”

But when I set the hawk down on the roof of my house, it wouldn’t move. That’s when I realized that it was hurt. Its right wing just hung there, limp and useless.

My rustic house in Real de Catorce is old, circa 1800, with thick stone walls and an enclosed patio. I took the aguililla down to the patio to inspect it, and was dismayed to discover that it had been shot: a bullet had grazed the bone of its wing. The injury was serious—I could see exposed bone and dried-up muscle in the animal’s underwing. The hawk appeared to be crippled for life. But I couldn’t just give up hope. Instead, I sought the help of a curandero friend of mine.

Mateo ordinarily works with people, not animals, but—good-natured as always—he was willing to give it a try. While I held the hawk, Mateo would apply sávila to the wound. And it wasn’t aloe vera alone: Mateo seemed to enter a state of heightened concentration as he worked on the hawk’s wing.

For nearly a month, I lived with this hawk tethered to the peach tree in the patio. With its huge talons, and its large head and fierce beak, there was no mistaking its power. The birds that used to visit the yard disappeared. No longer did I awaken to the song of birds, or see lizards or mice in the patio.

Even the cat that used to hunt in the yard was nowhere to be seen. The patio belonged only to this imposing warrior, which never dropped its guard, always staring at me or anyone or anything that moved in its presence.

Mateo visited several times to tend to the wounded hawk. Soon after the first treatment, I could tell that it was going to heal. After one week, it was able to stretch both its wings. After two weeks, it began to “exercise”: every afternoon, it would flap its wings, lifting itself to the full extent of its tether. Finally, it would flap with so much force that I was afraid it would rip its tethered leg off. It was obvious now that it was ready to go.

So one clear afternoon, a couple of friends and I carefully draped a blanket over the aguililla, and placed it in a basket. With our precious cargo in hand, we hiked up to the nearby mountaintop. We set it down on the rocky ground and gingerly removed the blanket. For a moment, the hawk just stood there, taking it all in. Then, effortlessly, instantly, it was airborne. It flew in a circle around us, and then, with a brief final stare toward us, it stretched its wings gracefully into the wind, and flew off.

Back home, tranquility reigned again. A gentle wind blew through the patio. Birds were singing, lizards were darting about. Even the cat enjoyed the scene, as he approached stealthily over the wall.

A few months later, I hiked to the top of El Quemado, a mountain an hour and a half southwest of Real de Catorce. El Quemado is a sacred site for the Huichol Indians, who make a yearly pilgrimage there. I stood on the mountaintop among the palmas chinas, contemplating the desert altiplano to the west. There was a strong breeze coming up from the desert.

Suddenly I felt a presence above me and looked up. There, only a few feet from me, directly above my head, was the aguililla, also facing west, hovering in the wind, keeping me company and enjoying the same view. I knew it was my aguililla because I could see the scar on its wing. The majestic creature remained there for a good while, then turned its wings—and was gone.

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Raised in Laredo, Luis Guillermo Guerra is a painter, sculptor, and storyteller based in Austin, Texas, and Real de Catorce, San Luis Potosí. His work is in numerous museums, including the Smithsonian American Art Museum.