by Carla Kelly
“Let me carry it for you, Old One,” she said, holding the hides to her.
Without a word, he set off again, moving faster than before, now that his load was lighter. She hurried to keep up with him.
As they walked, he watched her out of darting eyes. “Where are you traveling, Señorita?” he finally asked.
“I really don’t know,” she replied. “To Tesuque, to the hacienda of Diego Masferrer. Do you know him? Am I going in the right direction?”
He grunted, and she tagged along beside him, hard pressed to keep up. The hides were heavier than lead in her arms, and she wondered that he could carry his own pack. The Old One said nothing more. After his initial long, sideways glance, he did not even look at her again.
They climbed steadily for another hour, then two. The moon rose over the mountains and the stars came out. Still they plodded on. Maria’s arms were numb and her mind blank again, this time from weariness. She was beyond hunger, maybe even beyond sleep, so all consuming was her exhaustion. All she desired was to lean against a wall somewhere and remain motionless, not thinking about the future or the past.
While she was convinced that her next step would be her last, the old Indian stopped so suddenly that she nearly fell over him. He threw down his pack and took the hides from her arms, placing them at her feet.
“We are in Tesuque. ”
“We are?” She looked around, squinting in the dark.
Finally she saw the pueblo looming before her, dark and silent. There were no people about, but she could see dogs roaming and sniffing. She stared at the silent creatures. “Why do they not bark?” Her slow journey up the Camino Real had acquainted her with the habits of the snarling, scarcely domesticated dogs that inhabited each Indian pueblo.
The old man shrugged. “Señorita, they do not bark at me.” He bent down by the pile of hides and gestured with his head. “Come with me.”
She drew back. “I dare not,” she whispered. The sleeping pueblo was full of Indians. But the Old One picked up his pack by the ties and dragged it behind him, and she had no choice but to follow him. She snatched up her deer hides and tagged close to his heels as the dogs began to growl at her. She could only trust him.
The Indian climbed a ladder, tugging his hides after him. Maria pushed her pack in front of her up the ladder, hurrying so she would not lose sight of him. He entered a low doorway and Maria followed. She stopped in the doorway and dropped the hides, her hand to her mouth.
The room was alive with moving figures. She leaned against the wall, her heart pounding so fast she feared it would leap from her breast. She forced herself to peer closer to the bobbing and swaying dancers. They were paintings on deerhide. The dancing candlelight and the breeze from the cool night made them appear to be in motion. She rubbed her eyes and brushed her hair from her face.
She recognized Miguel el Arcangel, with his wings and sword. Over by the interior doorway stood San Jose, carrying lilies that looked more like yucca blossoms. And there was Esteban el Martir, pincushioned with arrows and looking heavenward. Several Marias swayed in the evening breeze, each gently rocking a small Indian baby with a halo. The figures were crude, so unlike the magnificence of Mexico City’s religious paintings, but they had a powerful presence.
The old man watched her. The smile on his face was almost hidden by his wrinkles, but his eyes were appreciative. “Do you like my saints?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, tearing her eyes away from a sweat-soaked Christ, his body red and drooping from his moving cross, the agony of centuries reaching out to her in this New Mexican pueblo.
The old man brushed off the front of his homespun shirt. “I am Emiliano, santero to Diego Masferrer. ”
Saintmaker. She looked at him and smiled, extending her hand. When he stared down at her hand, she wondered about the propriety of offering her hand to an Indian, but there was something about Emiliano that measured him as equal. Perhaps it was his paintings.
After a long pause, he took her hand, giving it one brief shake.
“I am Maria Espinosa de la Garza,” she said. “Thank you for helping me.”
He snorted. “You have helped me. If my old woman were alive, she would have called that a lazy man’s load that I carried. But it was too much.” He peered at her face in the dim light. “Do you think I am too old?”
It was a curious question. She looked around her at the figures dancing in slow motion. There was San Antonio, he who finds lost things. Her eyes filled with tears, and she struggled against them. San Antonio, dear San Antonio. He would never retrieve her losses. “No. You will never be really old, not so long as you can make the saints dance. ”
He smiled. “Only another artist would say such a thing. Are you an artist?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. I cannot pretend such a thing. But I like to paint.”
He turned toward the door. “We shall see. But now, let us go. You spoke of Diego Masferrer. Let me take you to Las Invernadas.”
“Where? ”
“Las Invernadas. It is what he calls his hacienda and lands. I will take you to him. ”
They descended the ladder. “Is everyone asleep?” she asked in a whisper.
“Yes. It is late. Besides, no one bothers me. I come and go as I please.”
The dogs still roamed silently. Maria stayed close to Emiliano. Without his burden he walked even faster. She struggled to keep up with him. When he saw how she hurried and noticed her limp, he slowed his pace.
“It is yet another league,” Emiliano said, and she sighed. He peered at her. “Señorita Espinosa de la Garza, you have come this far. Keep walking!”
Her head felt two sizes too large and her vision seemed to sparkle around the edges. Her feet were a mass of scratches, and she had left her broken shoe behind in the santero’s workshop, but she followed the old Indian doggedly.
After an hour of silent struggle, Maria saw Las Invernadas. The hacienda was reddish adobe like the pueblo, but of only one story, long and low in the moonlight. She saw men walking slowly back and forth on the roof, ghostly visions in the waning moon.
“Guards,” said Emiliano. “They are there every night. I will speak to them.”
Maria’s old uneasiness returned. What right had she to lay her troubles at Diego Masferrer’s feet? She should have done as Margarita insisted and thrown herself on the governor’s mercy. Perhaps Margarita would have changed her mind in the morning light. Mama had said she had been changeable as a young girl. Maria stopped in the road, reluctant to move closer.
“Come, come,” said Emiliano impatiently.
She trailed after him to the gate. He called up to the guards now standing still and watchful on the hacienda’s roof. One of them waved Emiliano on and the men resumed their slow walk. Emiliano jangled the bell by the front gate, the noise loud in the midnight stillness. The crickets in the trees stopped singing, but the dogs standing by the massive front door began to bay.
They were enormous dogs, probably descendants of the first mighty dogs that Cortez had brought in armor from Spain. One of them bounded to the gate and stuck his jaws through the grillwork, growling and showing his teeth. Maria drew back, but the old saintmaker stood there, his hand on the bell.
“Who is there?” called a voice. Maria straightened, clutching her dress in tight bunches. It was Diego, and he sounded angry. She should never have come.
“It is Emiliano, my lord,” called the Indian.
Maria could hear several bolts thrown on the other side of the door.
“And what do you want, old man?” Diego called, his voice kinder.
“I have something for you, Señor, that will not keep until morning. Something you must have carelessly left behind in Santa Fe.” For an Indian, Emiliano spoke with great familiarity. Maria wondered at the relationship between the old man she stood by and the lord of the hacienda.
Before Diego opened the door, he called to his dogs. They bounded to him and crouched by his bare feet, watchf
ul.
The ranchero had thrown on a robe and was still tying the sash around his waist. He ran a hand over his curly hair as he walked toward the gate. Maria shrank into the shadows.
“What have you for me, old man, that could not wait until Christians are abroad in the land again?”
The santero smiled and pulled Maria toward the open gate.
“This one, my lord.”
Diego stared at her. “Dios mio,” was all he said.
It was enough. Maria flung herself into his arms, sobbing. Diego put his arms around her, his hand heavy on her hair. “Thank you, Emiliano.”
The santero turned to go. “I will return later.”
Diego and Maria walked slowly toward the hacienda. Maria tried to speak, tried to explain, but her face was muffled against Diego’s robe and she was crying too hard to be understood. They crossed the galeria slowly and went into the house. Diego released her and shut the bolts.
He turned to her then, his face in shadow. Maria wiped her nose on her sleeve. She dropped slowly to her knees and held her hands in front of her, palms up. “I throw myself on your mercy, my lord,” she said.
Quickly he put his hands under her elbows and jerked her to her feet. His face was still puffy with sleep, but his eyes were alive, his color livid. She tried to draw back, but he held her by the elbows.
“La Viuda?” was all he could get out.
Terrified, Maria nodded. “She would not have me,” she managed to say. She had never seen anyone so angry before. Maria started to cry again as Diego held her by the elbows.
Then it was over. He let her go and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “Maria chiquita, I am not angry with you. I am angry at myself.”
She stopped crying, bending down to dry her face on her skirt. He continued, his voice weary. “I should never have left you there. I should have known better. Dios mio, I did know better!”
Maria shook her head. His words were not making sense to her anymore. She needed to sit down, but the room was dark and she could not see any benches. “Please, Señor, is there a place to sit?” Diego appeared to be growing and shrinking, moving from side to side, and again there was that sparkle around her eyes.
“Of course. My pardon, chiquita. I was not thinking.” He picked up the candle from the table by the door and led her to the low outcropping that lined the wall. She sank down gratefully and leaned against the cool adobe wall.
Diego lit a branch of candles on another table nearby and walked to an inside door. “Erlinda! Erlinda!” he called. “Come, my dear!” He turned back to Maria, who sat with her eyes closed. “And what did Doña Margarita say, or may I guess?”
Maria opened her eyes. Diego was standing close to her, hands on his hips, looking down at her. She straightened her tattered, filthy dress and patted it carefully around her legs. Her feet were bare—she had lost her other shoe—and bleeding, her hair a mess, and her dress in ruins, but she sat there, back straight, ankles together, a lady. Maybe the contrast of her present life to her former expectations brought the hard light glittering into his eyes again. She looked away. “She said there was no room for me. She has five daughters.” She paused, the humiliation making her voice scarcely audible. “She was so disappointed when I arrived with no jewels and—”
“I’ll wager she was,” interrupted Diego bitterly. He sat beside Maria, put the candle next to him on the bench and looked across the dim hall to the deerhide painting hanging there, moving slowly in the cool breeze. “I was born here. I have lived here all my life. I do not claim to be very observant, or nearly as smart as my brother Cristóbal, but I have noticed one thing. This country changes those who come into it, Maria chiquita. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. In Margarita Espinosa de Guzman’s instance, it has made her harder than obsidian.”
“But why?” she asked, her voice soft.
“Indeed, I cannot say.” She shifted and their shoulders touched. “She was not married to a good man. Whatever kindness there may have been in her is gone.”
They sat in silence until Maria saw a woman standing in the doorway. She was taller than Diego and fairer, with blond hair and pale skin. Maria sighed with the same pleasure that an artist feels when seeing a lovely portrait. This must be Diego’s wife. She was beautiful. Maria could scarcely bear to think of her own dishevelment in the same room with such a pretty one as this. The woman held her candle high and peered at them. “Diego?” she asked uncertainly.
“Over here, Erlinda. I want you to meet someone.”
He stood, tucking his robe closer around him. Maria got to her feet slowly, wishing that the room would stop moving. She wanted to sit down again, but Diego was holding her hand.
“Yes. You see, my sister got all the height and looks in the family.”
“Oh, Diego!” said Erlinda gently, taking Maria’s other hand.
He laughed. “It is not a matter of great concern to me.”
Erlinda smiled. Maria tried to smile, but suddenly her knees buckled under her. Diego grabbed her and picked her up in one motion.
“Diego,” said Erlinda in her gentle voice. “What kind of host are you? Our company is worn with fatigue and you stand there talking. Follow me.”
She picked up the larger branch of candles and led the way down the hall. Maria tried to speak, to tell Diego to put her down, but the words were not there. I will tell him to put me down, she thought, after I close my eyes for just a few seconds.
Chapter 4
The Masferrers
The sun was high, and the light fell across Maria’s pillow. She tried to sit up, but she ached all over. She propped herself up on one elbow and looked around her.
It was a small, plain room, with white walls and no ornamentation save for a deerskin painting of Santa Ana on the wall. Maria leaned back against her pillow and regarded the painting. It was the work of Emiliano the saintmaker. The figure was tall and blond, and reminded her of Erlinda. Beside the painting was a small altar. Compared to her bedroom at the family estate in Mexico City, the room was bare. And yet somehow it was as friendly as the people who inhabited the hacienda. Las Invernadas, Emiliano had called it. Maria remembered little of last night, except that Diego had set her down on the bed and covered her. She had awakened once before morning and saw him sitting in the window alcove, the moonlight outlining his curly hair. She had gone back to sleep then, comforted, peaceful.
She took a deep breath and stirred. The whole house smelled of piñon wood and the faint aroma of chocolate and cinnamon. Her mouth watered. When had she last eaten? She could not remember.
She was lying in her chemise and tattered petticoat. Her dress was nowhere in sight, but there was a muslin robe at the foot of the bed.
She sat up and put it on. The sleeves hung over her wrists. It must belong to Erlinda.
And then, as if the thought had summoned her, there was a soft tapping on the door. Erlinda opened it and peered in. “I was hoping you would be awake. God’s blessings on you and good morning,” she said. Erlinda carried a tray of food, which she set down on Maria’s lap. There was chocolate, frothy and hot in an earthenware mug, several eggs and a small plate of tortillas, the steam still rising from them. “I would have given you more food,” said Erlinda in apology, “but Diego said that too much at once would not be wise.”
Maria ate every bite, savoring the eggs and wiping the plate clean with the last bit of tortilla. She drank the chocolate slowly, relishing the smooth liquid as it traveled down her throat. If Erlinda had not been standing there, her hands folded in front of her, Maria would have run her finger around the inside of the cup.
Erlinda took the tray when Maria finished. “I am glad to see you smiling. Diego said you were restless last night, calling out for Carmen. I thought your sister was Margarita.”
She could not remember the nightmare, but she thought again of Diego sitting in the window. “No. No. Carmen was just someone ... I knew,” she said, starting to get out of bed.
“Your mother? Your sisters?” asked Maria.
Erlinda opened the door. “Oh, yes. You have not met all of us yet. There are others.” Her voice trailed off and she looked away, occupied for a moment with private thoughts. Then she brightened again. “After you are bathed and dressed, I will take you to Mama.”
Maria spoke up. “My dress is gone. ”
Erlinda put her hand to her mouth to hide a smile. “For that, you must forgive my brother. When he left your room early this morning, he had your dress. I think he tossed it on the fire pit in the back. My sisters and I will find you something to wear.”
Erlinda left then, closing the door quietly behind her. Maria sat cross-legged on the bed until two Indian servants brought in a large tin tub and filled it with steaming water from copper kettles. They left a container of soft soap that Maria picked up and sniffed. It smelled of yucca blossoms.
She stripped off her chemise and petticoat and stepped into the water, standing on one foot, then the other, until she was accustomed to the warmth. Her last real bath had been more than a month ago in a small stream late at night by the side of the wagons, long after everyone was sleeping. She sat in the tub finally and leaned back, closing her eyes. As she sat there, soaking in the heat and comfort, she concluded that this was as close as she would ever get to heaven in this life. Then she picked up a bar of rough brown soap and scrubbed herself until her skin was raw. She washed her hair three times with the soft soap, rinsing it with the pitcher of cool water next to the tub.
Erlinda knocked and came back into the room as Maria was drying herself. “I have found you some clothing, but I cannot find you any shoes that fit. Diego said he would do something about it.”
Maria took the clean chemise and petticoat from Erlinda and dressed quickly. The morning air was cool and she shivered in the breeze from the window facing the interior courtyard. Her new dress was simple homespun, much worn and washed to a whiteness that contrasted with the brown of her skin. She was grateful that the room had no mirror. She did not want to look at her ruined complexion. Not even the lead-white powder that her mother used to put on her face would lighten her brownness.