MIDMORNING, THE WAGON EMPTIED AND the oxen set to pasture, Thompson crossed the field toward the sumac thicket that sheltered the log-and-plank cabin Upperdine had offered him the evening before. Approaching close, he saw that the roof sagged at the midline but remained intact and sound for the most part. The only window lay open to the weather, the oiled paper covering long since lost to parching sun and scattering wind. The rough-hewed plank door was set on cracked leather hinges but closed true and tight against the jamb, and it resisted his testing of the latch. He forced it open and inside, the dark, abandoned interior seemed well preserved. It smelled of piñon fire and the faint muskiness of tanned pelts. The iron stove was without rust, the floorboards tight, and daylight filtered through mud chinking only here and there. A bed frame of posts and leather straps still looked serviceable. The corners of the room held droppings; squirrels, rabbits, mice. In the far corner, he noticed tight fur balls and small piles of bones, and he heard a scratching from above. There on the center beam an owl perched, ear tufts like the bushy, arched eyebrows of a disapproving judge, implacable yellow eyes following him.
“So,” Thompson said. “Another tenant.” At the sound of Thompson’s voice, the owl took flight, a great swooshing, and then a practiced folding of its wings to fit through the open window frame. Thompson went to the door and watched the owl sweep low over the willows and then rise and alight on a cottonwood branch not thirty yards distant, where it positioned itself to keep watch over its domain. “I meant myself,” Thompson called to the owl. “Not you.”
After sweeping clean the cabin floor with willow switches he’d bundled into the semblance of a broom, and arranging his few possessions, Thompson walked beside the creek collecting firewood and cutting stove length sections from deadfall with a hatchet he’d found hanging from a peg on the doorframe. He stacked the wood and turned toward the placita a quarter-mile distant. His cabin sat on a low bluff above the river and the placita was built on a flat bench just where the land began to rise again from floodplain, and between the two stretched the field cut by the irrigation ditches. The simple act of walking across a ground destined for the plow, and of cleaning out a permanent living space, began to instill in him a sense of place, of belonging, and at once he felt both the yearning to be of this land and a rising guilt at imagining for himself a future here, without Rachel, without the boys. He reached down and took up a handful of dirt, pale, dry as cornmeal, sifted it through his fingers, let the fine grit drift back to the earth. He’d seen Upperdine’s corn, noted the grass on the south-facing slopes above the bottomland. Still, he marveled how anything might take root in this soil.
Afternoon, the sun still high, Thompson walked the path to John Upperdine’s house and from the lean-to storage shed he shouldered a mattock and a spade. When he turned to go, Genoveva came from the house onto the porch.
“Would you care for a cup of water?”
“Thank you,” he said, setting the tools on the ground and taking the ladle from her outstretched hand. “Is Captain Upperdine in?” he asked.
“He’s ridden out to meet a freight wagon.”
“But he’s just in from the trail,” Thompson said, and, realizing his indiscretion, blushed, turned his head.
Genoveva smiled. “It takes a while for him to grow accustomed to home.”
Thompson took stock of the house, the outbuildings, the fields, and it occurred to him that this woman must have managed alone during long stretches of Upperdine’s absence. He looked to the east, a day’s journey, two days, visible in the distance until convergence of sky and earth. He turned to the west where the land climbed gradually in dips and rises. He marveled at Genoveva’s endurance. And now, what of the new arrivals, uninvited? Does she welcome, or merely abide us, he wondered.
SUDDENLY AWARE OF HIS AWKWARD silence, his inner musing, he gestured to the tools. “I don’t suppose he would object to me borrowing these?”
“Of course not.”
“I noticed a small grove of fruit trees downriver,” Thompson said. “Apple I recognized, the other I did not.”
“Pear. A gift to my cousin’s husband.” She smiled. “Perhaps more a bribe. His family had orchards, and I’ve presented him a few saplings to tie him to this place.”
“You will be pleased to have them settled here for good?” Thompson asked.
“Very much so,” she answered. “She is dear. He is a great help to me, and I adore their family. I’ve not seen any except Benito in three years. The little ones so grown, I imagine.”
“They do sprout,” Thompson said.
“You have children?” Genoveva asked.
“No,” Thompson said, and started to add something that caught in his throat, and he bent for the tools without further conversation.
He walked to Benito’s field and stood beside the unfinished irrigation ditch and studied the property, imagined he could understand the Mexican’s design, sense his purpose. The initial rooms on the placita were almost complete. Benito would finish the walls this season. Rooms would be added out from the inner wall as his extended family grew, and this would become home for his children, and his children’s children, generation after generation.
Again, the dull ache of loss began to overtake him. A vacancy of hope. My days are like a shadow that declineth; and I am withered like grass. He let drop the tools and looked at his hands. Hands long rid of the black soil of his farm but stained yet with the blood of his family, and of the Lights’. Hands good only for digging graves. The blackness fell upon him. He took up the pickax and swung it above his head and into the hard earth to continue the irrigation ditch. He swung the ax again. And again, establishing a mindless rhythm until his breathing labored and sweat stung his eyes. He paused to mop his face with his shirtsleeve and then took up the spade to remove dirt he had loosened from the ditchworks with the pick.
“I can dig for you,” Thompson said aloud as he fell back into the cadence of the rise and fall of the pick. “That I can do. I can dig.”
PART TWO
THE VALLEY OF
LOST SOULS,
1858
13
The cart came into view along the river path below the pasture that Thompson was mowing. He glanced up from his work just long enough to take notice. A man guided the burro while two children rode in the cart and two women on foot followed behind. Mexicans, by their appearance: Genoveva’s cousin? The man raised a hand in passing. Thompson did not acknowledge. Face hidden by a widebrimmed hat, the man walked with the cautious, deliberate gait of one older than Thompson assumed the architect of the placita to be, and his slight frame again belied Thompson’s preconceptions. Not much taller than the burro he led, and insubstantial as a shadow, could this be the person responsible for the grand plan of the adobe compound and the irrigation system Thompson had so admired?
The cart and the pilgrims rounded the sweeping bend toward the Upperdine place and Thompson continued mowing. He moved smoothly, cutting the swaths, guiding the scythe with the two-handled snath, passing it close to the ground, curved blade glinting in the sun, grass deposited in neat rows as he walked. Downslope, cuttings from two days earlier had already dried, pale yellow lines running the length of the field. Baked out by a September sun just beginning to lose its summer force. Heat still rose up, but with reluctant intensity, the nights consistently had begun to cool, and afternoon breezes carried just the hint of an edge down from the mountains.
He felt at ease in his labor, a liberation to be lost in motion unforced and effortless and so closely a part of his nature. But, occasionally, that same movement triggered memory, and his mind would wander back to other reaping, other fields, and his rhythm would break, the scythe moving with an uneconomical jerkiness, and he’d find himself hacking at the ground. He’d stop, drop the tool, move his hands to the small of his back, stretch, knead flesh on muscle, attempt to return to the here-and-now, his breath, taking in this air in this place at this time, and after a while, he’d take up
the scythe and continue on.
The sun overhead now, walking in his own shadow, Thompson did not notice Captain Upperdine’s approach.
“Making progress,” Upperdine called out. Thompson laid the scythe across the humped grass and walked to Upperdine.
“Some. Those were Genoveva’s relations?”
Upperdine nodded. “He’s already asking about you. Wanted to know who was mowing his grass.”
“His?” Thompson asked.
“He over-seeded last fall. Thought the field might hold moisture and produce good hay for my stock.”
“Well,” Thompson said. He removed his hat and swiped his forehead with his sleeve. “He was correct. But, I guess if he was worried about his field, he should’ve planned on being here when it needed mowing.”
Upperdine laughed, shook his head. “Genoveva asks that you noon with us.”
Thompson glanced about. “I’ve grass to cut.”
“It’s important to Genoveva,” Upperdine said.
Thompson replaced his hat and pulled the brim low. “I’ll be along, then.”
WHEN THOMPSON ARRIVED AT THE Upperdine house, he washed his face and neck at the trough and cleaned his boots at the scrape. Before entering, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Inside, they were already at the table, chatting quietly in Spanish but apparently waiting on him before eating. He stood awkwardly by the door until Genoveva glanced up.
“Thompson, come,” she waved him over. “This is Señor Benito Ibarra, his wife, my cousin, Señora Teresa Ibarra, their daughter, Señorita Paloma, and los muchachos, Benjamin and Alejandro.” The boys flanked Genoveva and she caressed each in turn as she introduced them.
Thompson bowed slightly to Benito and Teresa. “Pleasure,” he said. Benito rose and returned the acknowledgement. He stood no taller than Thompson’s shoulder, his face etched and furrowed as an arroyo, of indeterminable age, dark hair streaked with silver, his expression courteous but guarded. Teresa smiled at Thompson, her face open and welcome. Paloma kept her eyes fixed on her plate. Her features, what he could see of them, looked finely carved, but the mask of her face was sharp and scowling. Although they had freshened and cleaned the dust from their clothing, the family looked haggard, run-down. Even the boys were sunken-eyed and hollow-cheeked.
“Here,” Upperdine said, waving to a seat beside him, opposite Benito. Genoveva said grace and they all ate in silence and with enthusiasm for a few moments: a stew of chicken with carrots, squash, and onion, spicy eggs cooked with dried beef and chilies, bread, tortillas, and, on the sideboard, a crumb cake sprinkled with cinnamon. When the eating slowed to a more leisurely pace that accommodated conversation, Teresa and Genoveva began chatting quietly at the opposite end of the table. Upperdine fished a chicken leg from his stew. “This man here’s been a whirlwind since we come in off the trail,” he said to Benito.
Benito regarded Thompson with polite neutrality. “Yes, I’ve already seen him at work.” It surprised Thompson that in his presence, the men switched to English.
“Wait until you see what he’s accomplished with your irrigation ditch,” Upperdine said. He gnawed at the chicken leg and then set it on his plate and pointed a greasy finger with emphasis.
Benito’s expression tensed and with great deliberation he sipped at his coffee. Thompson began to understand why Upperdine was so insistent he noon with them. Eliminate surprises, set boundaries, test nascent relationships. He put himself on guard.
“My acequia?” Benito asked. “What do you know of my acequia?” He still held his coffee cup near his lips, sipped, set it down with care.
“Nothing of the mechanical works,” Thompson said. “But you laid out the course, and I just continued from where you’d left off.”
“How far?” Benito asked.
“To the windbreak at the far end of the field. And a start on the secondary ditch, edged out with a spade, maybe a third complete.”
Benito stared at Thompson as if suddenly unable to comprehend his language. He turned to Captain Upperdine. “This is not possible.”
“He don’t sleep much, seems to me,” Upperdine said. “Went over there just after dawn the other day to see about help with the cutting and he was in that ditch, going at it hammer and tongs, lathered up like he’d been digging for hours.”
“When did you return home?” Benito asked.
“Few weeks back,” Upperdine answered.
“But even night and day …” Benito began, and then seemed at a loss for words.
Thompson shifted in his chair, glanced toward the door. “I am restless at times,” he said. “Ill-suited to inactivity. So, I work.”
“I figure we can both use the help,” Upperdine said.
“I have no money to pay,” Benito said.
“Please,” Thompson said. “I ask nothing. I’m just here to lend a hand for a time.”
“You do not intend to stay?” Benito asked.
“I haven’t given it much thought one way or the other,” Thompson said.
Benito appeared to relax. The grip on his coffee cup noticeably eased.
“Forgive me for sounding sharp,” Benito said. “It’s been a tiring journey. It will be good to unpack, settle into the placita.” He smiled wanly.
“The placita, now there’s another story,” Upperdine said, his voice rising. Teresa stopped talking with Genoveva and inclined her ear toward the men’s end of the table. Paloma shot Upperdine a questioning scowl. Upperdine leaned back in his chair, apparently pleased to be the center of attention. “I returned from the trail with many surprises for Genoveva.”
Upperdine briefly recounted the Lights’ travails, the women now openly following his conversation. Benito listened solemnly, did not interrupt. Teresa occasionally clicked her tongue.
“Where is this unfortunate woman and her son?” Teresa finally asked.
“Well, that’s the point,” Upperdine said. “I offered her a room for the winter in your placita.”
The table went quiet. Teresa stiffened. Even the boys knew to still their fidgeting. Thompson studied Benito, could not read his expression. He looked drained, his face gone slack. Thompson sensed his dilemma. The enormous inconvenience of hosting strangers while settling his family into a new home must surely give him pause. But Upperdine was their benefactor and the cost of incurring his displeasure might also prove great. Thompson hadn’t a clue how Benito might manage. In the short time he’d known him, first by the works he’d begun, and now in the flesh, this Mexican had managed to incur his respect, mild ire, and, now, sympathy.
“When is she due?” Teresa interrupted the silence.
“Not long, I think,” Genoveva answered.
Again the silence returned, the room stuffy with tension.
“Only if it is no imposition,” Upperdine added.
“They are welcome,” Benito said, finally, his tone accommodating if overlaid with a note of resignation.
An audible gasp startled them all. Paloma, flushed, pushed from the table with such violence that her chair toppled to the floor.
“Esto es imposible,” she sputtered.
“Sit down,” Benito said. “And speak English in the home of our host and his guest.”
“¡No!” Paloma shouted and continued her outbust until Benito stood and slammed his fist onto the table. His slackened face turned hard, his eyes searing. “You insult our host. And you dare dictate who I might invite into my own home? My home.”
Paloma hurled her napkin to the table and stormed from the house. Benito turned to Upperdine.
“I apologize for my daughter’s outburst. Her behavior is unforgivable.”
“She’s had troubles,” Teresa said.
“Unforgivable,” Benito said.
“Enough,” Upperdine said, raising his hands, palms extended. “The girl’s worn out. Her emotions are frayed. Let’s talk no more of it. Sit. Finish your coffee.”
They sat for a moment, and then Teresa said, “Señor?”
Benito nodded, once, sharply, and Teresa followed after Paloma. Genoveva ushered the boys to the hearth where she produced a box of wooden blocks decorated with colored letters. “Play,” she said. “Write your names for me.” Then she hurried to join Teresa.
“I’d best be to the field,” Thompson said, rising. He went quickly to the door.
14
Upperdine and Benito remained at the table when the others departed. Shortly, Genoveva returned, gathered the boys and led them outside to help feed the chickens and collect eggs. Upperdine watched them go and reached for the coffee pot and poured himself and Benito another cup. “You’ve had a long journey,” he said.
“A long journey,” Benito repeated.
“But uneventful?” Upperdine asked.
UNEVENTFUL? BENITO THOUGHT. A FEARFUL wife sick for home before even losing sight of the Plaza.
From the hilltop, Benito sat on his haunches and looked back across the valley of his ancestors: the Plaza del Arroyo Seco two miles distant rising from the treeless plain; the fields cultivated in wheat and corn; the orchards climbing the slopes in neat rows like misty green clouds against hillsides rusted by the early sun. Beyond, rutted badlands stretched out into the far distances, the gullied flanks of hills, the deep arroyos and wind-carved faces of bare, red rock.
Teresa stood beside him, weeping quietly. Paloma, dressed in black mourning costume already dusted red at the hem, stood away from the others, dour. The two boys played with a scorpion they’d found under a rock, tormenting it with sticks.
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