by Carla Kelly
Erlinda watched them both, a frown on her face, but she made no comment.
The journey home was a silent one, each of them occupied with private thoughts. Maria found a long piece of string and the girls played cat’s cradle. Diego rode ahead of the wagon, his back as straight as ever, seldom looking behind.
They arrived at Tesuque as the sun was setting. The sky was still light in the west, the underside of the few clouds tinted a delicious pink. Diego directed the teamster to lead the wagon through the pueblo’s plaza.
As they rode into the plaza, Diego reined in his horse suddenly and sat motionless. The wagon creaked to a stop behind him. Erlinda and Maria stood up, then the young widow sat back down heavily on the wagon seat, her hand at her throat. “O Dios,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “The Indians are dancing!”
Chapter 10
La Afortunada
Maria sat down slowly on the wagon seat, watching the spectacle before her. The Indians had come out of their hidden kiva and were dancing in the plaza to the slow beat of drums and the rattle of gourds. Their feathered headdresses swayed with a grace and beauty that made Maria catch her breath.
There was none of the smoke and the fear of the kiva where she had first seen Popeh. There was instead a terrifying majesty about the stately movements of the kachina dancers. Most of the men were painted white. They turned slowly and gracefully, naked except for their white cotton loincloths and enormous headdresses. They were like spirits rising from troubled graves on All Soul’s Eve, wheeling and spinning until Maria felt dizzy and disoriented. She was afraid to watch, afraid to look away.
Luz whimpered and slid toward Maria. She pulled the child closer, speaking softly in her ear. “All will be well, Luz, querida mia, my darling. Diego will not let anything happen to you.” Luz nestled closer and shut her eyes.
Diego remained on his horse, watching the dancers. Maria could not see his face, but she could tell by the sudden stiffening of his back and the careful way he moved his hand to his sword that he was alert.
A black figure ran toward the wagon. For one terrible moment, Maria thought of Popeh and his compelling eyes. She clung to Luz, shielding the child with her own body. But it was Father Pio. He ran to Erlinda, who was sitting like a statue, her hands clenched in her lap. “Señora Castellano,” he managed, “you should not be here.”
Diego looked around at Father Pio. Slowly he dismounted and walked toward the priest, his spurs making a firm ringing sound in the sudden quiet of the pueblo. Maria clung to Luz with one arm, and pulled Caterina down on the wagon bed with the other, forcing her to sit on the straw-covered floor.
“Father Pio,” said Diego, his quiet voice sounding like the roar of a mountain lion in the stillness of the pueblo. “What is the meaning of this?”
One of the dancers took off his headdress and approached Diego quietly. Maria whispered to Diego, “Behind you.”
In one motion, Diego whirled and drew his sword. The blade gleamed for a second as it caught the last rays of the sun. The Indian stood still.
“Diego, put away your sword,” Cristóbal spoke, his face dripping wet, his eyes dark pools in his handsome face, the Indian standing behind him.
Diego immediately sheathed his Toledo blade. “Cristóbal,” he said. As the Indian came closer, he stood there with his weight on one leg, his head to one side, in unconscious repetition of Cristóbal’s stance.
Maria’s palms were wet. She kissed Luz’ hair and twined her fingers in the dark curls, covering the child’s ears with her hands. Luz burrowed into her lap like a small animal seeking shelter.
The Indians all moved closer. Maria closed her eyes, her mind leaping back to the burning caravan, the circling vultures, the terrible carnage.
Cristóbal stood facing his brother. They were very close to each other, but Diego would not back away. They stood boot to toe in the silent plaza.
Father Pio spoke. “They have been dancing since early morning after you left, Señor Masferrer.”
Diego did not turn around. Still staring at his brother, he addressed the priest. “And where are the soldiers garrisoned here? Two of them? What of them?”
“I do not know, my son.”
“I will tell you where they are, Diego,” said Cristóbal. “They fled.”
“Cristóbal , you know this is forbidden,” said Diego.
“These are my people,” Cristóbal replied. “We are dancing for rain.”
“Only God brings rain,” countered Diego.
Cristóbal laughed and spoke in Tewa to the Indians crowding around them. They hooted and banged their drums. Luz whimpered again. “Hush, querida,” Maria said.
Cristóbal leaned even closer to his brother. “God and Mary have done us no good, my little brother.”
“I am not your little brother, Cristóbal,” snapped Diego, breaking off each word. “You go too far, son of my father.”
“I do not go far enough, Diego. We will dance if we choose.”
“You will not,” said Diego. “It is an abomination before God and the saints, and it is forbidden. I would remind you of that.” The Indians moved about restlessly, whispering to one another.
Diego stepped away from his brother and walked alone into the center of the pueblo’s square. He spoke in Tewa, his voice firm, his tone reasonable. Maria looked toward Father Pio. “Father, what does he say?”
“He tells them to remember whose Indians they are, and to go to their homes.”
Diego stood where he was. Then Cristóbal was beside him, speaking to the dancers. The Indians left the plaza, quickly climbing the ladders into the pueblo. In seconds, the square was deserted.
Cristóbal turned to his brother. “They go only because I tell them to.”
“Be not so sure, Cristóbal,” Diego replied, turning on his heel and striding back toward his horse. “I will speak to you later.”
“We have nothing to say, Diego.”
“You owe me an accounting,” said Diego, his voice rising.
“An accounting!” shouted Cristóbal. “For what? For the sheep and the cattle I cannot have? For the horse that is not my own? For the woman you keep from me? I owe you nothing. I am not your Indian!” He raised his hand to strike Diego. The Indians in the pueblo had come out to the terraces again and were watching in eerie silence.
Diego stood where he was, his feet wide apart in the sand of the plaza. “Strike me and you are a corpse, Cristóbal,” he said.
Cristóbal’s hand remained upraised for another long moment, then he lowered it to his side and turned on his heel. He looked around suddenly, and Diego started, in spite of himself. “There is a time coming, Diego! A time when the angels of your heaven will turn their backs on you.”
“And how is this?” asked Diego, his voice steady.
“You will see, my brother, you will see.” Cristóbal disappeared into the gloom of the pueblo.
When he had gone, Diego heaved a sigh and walked to the wagon. Maria pulled Catarina up to the seat and brushed off her dress. “You made me miss the best part!” the child scolded, even as her hands trembled.
“Hush, Catarina,” Diego said. “Maria only wanted to protect you. Come, Luz, come. It is over now.”
Maria sat back on the wagon seat with Luz still in her lap. As the little girl began to cry, Maria rocked her back and forth, her hands still entwined in the curly black hair. Absently, Diego picked the straw off Luz’ serge dress, his hand shaking like Catarina’s. Maria looked away, the fear in her growing greater. It was as Cristóbal said, they had much to fear.
“Father Pio,” said Diego, “what has been happening here?’’
The father pressed his hands together. “It has been a terrible day,” he began. Diego smiled faintly and nodded. “Truly a dreadful day,” continued the priest, unable to interpret Diego’s expression.
“You were not harmed?” asked the ranchero.
“No. Never,” the priest assured. “They are my little flock. They would never r
aise a hand to me. They are as little children.”
“I wonder,” Diego mused, ruffling Luz’s hair. His hand touched Maria’s.
“Indeed they are, Señor,” continued Father Pio. “They are upset, as we all are, by the continued drought. And there have been disturbing elements in the pueblo of late. But he is gone now.”
“Who?” asked Diego quickly.
“I do not know his name. A large Indian, quite black of face, with curious light eyes. To look into them—ah, it is hard to tear one’s glance away. But he is gone now, and I think all will be well, especially if you do not go to Santa Fe again soon.”
“Our governor expressed the same hope to me only this afternoon,” Diego said, then hesitated. “But I will not bore you with the details now. I fear you would require a confession, one I am not yet ready to give.”
Erlinda reached inside the wagon and handed Father Pio the package from Governor Otermin. “Are you sure you would not rather stay with us a few days, Father?” she asked.
He accepted the small package with a smile and a shake of his head. “No, no, my child. I am quite safe here.”
“Very well then, Father,” said Diego, “we will continue our journey. ”
“Go with God, my son,” replied the father, making the sign of the cross. “Come to see me when you can make that confession.”
“In time, in time,” replied Diego, mounting his horse and taking a last good look around. He laughed then, the sound echoing in the deserted plaza. “Be of cheer, Father. There are always other sins.”
Erlinda sat facing Maria in the wagon. As they approached the hacienda she leaned forward and touched Maria lightly on the knee. “Remember what I said this morning, Maria. My brother and sisters need your special care.”
When they drew up to the hacienda, Diego sprang from his horse and raced into the house. Maria glanced around the property. There were no guards.
La Señora sat in the darkening hall, an old sword resting in her lap. Diego knelt by her side. “Mama, what is it?”
She groped for his hands and held them tight within her own. “Drums, Diego. I have been listening to them all afternoon.”
“It is over now, Mama,” he said, then looked around suddenly. “But what of my servants? Is no one here?”
“No one, my son. Only I.”
Diego leaped to his feet and turned toward the main hall. “Juvenal!” he shouted. “Pablo! Endalecio! Come at once!”
There was only silence. He looked back at his mother. “What has happened?”
“I have heard no servants,” she replied, reaching for Diego’s hands again. “And yet there was one, someone I do not know. Large. Striding through the rooms, as only a big man can. He came into my room.”
“Dios mio, Mama,” Erlinda breathed, sitting down close to her mother on the bench, her face white. “Who was it?”
“I do not know. He did not speak. I could only hear his breathing. He walked around my room. I heard him walking around all the rooms. As if ...’’ She paused, raising her hand in a helpless gesture. “As if he were measuring the place for his own.”
Diego drew his sword and walked through all the rooms of the hacienda. Maria sat down on the earthen ledge where she had sat on her first night at Las Invernadas, holding Luz and Catarina close to her. Even Catarina was silent for once, her eyes big, one finger in her mouth.
After what seemed like hours, Diego returned, his sword sheathed again. “There is no one here now.”
But even as he spoke, they heard voices coming from the direction of the kitchen. Without a word, Diego slapped his dagger in Maria’s hand, wrapping her fingers around the handle.
“Use it if you have to,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. He took off his boots and pulled his sword slowly, silently from the sheath again. Then he was gone, his feet noiseless on the dirt floor.
Maria followed him to the archway where the hall branched off toward the kitchen. She stood in the shadows with her back against the wall, watching him go and feeling an emptiness that made her practically hollow. Erlinda thrust Catarina and Luz behind her as she crouched by the front door. La Señora’s hands tightened around the sword in her lap, and her lips moved in prayer.
Maria gripped Diego’s knife. The handle was well-worn and smooth in her hands. She held the knife with both hands raised to chest level. Luz began to cry again, a thin wailing sound, full of all the fear in the world. Maria wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but she dared not move.
There was a rustle of clothing. Maria stiffened and grasped the knife tighter. She heard loud voices now, coming toward them. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.
The voices stopped in surprise at her sudden appearance. Then she heard Diego’s words. “It is well, Maria, Erlinda. Mama, be at peace. The men are back. Are you all right, Maria?” She sagged against the wall and dropped the knife. She could only nod, still leaning against the wall. Cold all over, she hugged her arms to her body and looked at Diego. Their eyes met and held for several seconds. “Thank you, Maria,” was all he said.
Erlinda and her sisters rushed to Diego, who put his arms around them. “Where was everyone?” Erlinda asked.
Diego gestured to the men behind him. “They were tricked out of the hacienda, perhaps by that someone Mama heard. They said they went in pursuit of him.” He glanced at his men. “We will talk in the morning.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Never again will this hacienda be left unguarded, not for a moment.”
The men bowed to him and left, speaking softly among themselves. “Where are the women?” La Señora asked as Diego took the sword off her lap and leaned it against the wall.
“They fled when the men ran to chase whoever—or whatever—was in the rooms. They are coming back now. My men do not know what they saw. Someone large, someone black.” Diego glanced quickly at Maria. “I suppose by morning it will have sprouted wings and grown a tail. Who is to say? Hush now, Luz, I am here.”
I am here. The quiet words were loud in Maria’s ears. How we depend on him. She looked at La Señora, who still sat with her hands folded in her lap. It is a wonder that Diego can bear all that we put on him.
“And now, Maria, if you will take Luz and Catarina to their room and help them change for dinner, we will get on with things. Go now. I will help my mother.”
But Luz would not let go of her brother. As Erlinda helped her mother, Diego picked up the child and followed Maria and Catarina down the dark hall. Outside the door to their room, Diego paused with his hand on the latch. “Would you have used that knife, Maria?”
“I think so—yes—why do you ask?”
“I just wondered.” He shouldered the door open and went into the room, sitting on the bed with Luz in his arms while Maria lit the branch of candlesticks by the altar. “Erlinda would not have used the knife, or so I think. But you would?”
Maria looked beyond Diego to the saint on the wall, its inward smile calming her. “When I came here, even before I left Santa Fe,” she said, choosing her words with care, “I told myself that I would live.” She stopped, looking down at Diego. “I could not give up easily. Not now.”
“I called you La Afortunada—the lucky one—then, did I not?” Diego said, his eyes on her face. “I have wondered—perhaps we all have—if you are our gift from God.” He paused and looked down at his little sister resting in his arms. “I treasure the care you take of my sisters, and the love you have for my mother. For them, I thank you.”
He said no more, but sat Luz on her bed and left the room. Maria closed the door after him and leaned against it. He had thanked her for her kindness to his women, but he said nothing of himself, or of the words he had spoken in the governor’s office.
Perhaps I should have stayed with my sister, she thought, looking at Luz and then helping her off with her travel-stained dress. But she knew she could not stay with her sister. She did not belong there, not as a sister or as a servant.
“Where do I belon
g, Catarina?” she murmured out loud, going to the chest and helping the older sister pull out another dress.
“Here, of course, where we love you,” Catarina replied, almost brusque in her appraisal of a question that really needed no answer.
Her words startled Maria, who did not realize she had spoken out loud. “Do you really?” she asked in surprise.
But Catarina would say no more. She blushed and smiled at Maria.
Such shy people we are, Maria thought. We never say what we think or feel. As she buttoned up Luz’s dress, she hummed an Indian tune she remembered Diego singing that morning. On impulse, she kissed Luz on the top of her head. Luz looked around in surprise, the same pink glow covering her delighted face.
Dinner was a silent meal. Luz and Catarina were unusually quiet, eating without having to be reminded by Erlinda to chew with their mouths closed or to use their napkins. Diego rose more than once and went to the kitchen window. The shutters were still open and he listened to the night sounds that ordinarily never would have caused him to leave the table. Erlinda watched him, her eyes big, her fingers tight around her fork. She only pushed the food around her silver plate, toying with it until she felt Maria’s eyes on her. She put down her fork. “I am not hungry tonight, Maria.”
“But you always tell us to eat everything, Erlinda,” said Catarina, running a tortilla around the salsa on her plate. '
“I know, my dearest, I know. I will be better in the morning.”
Catarina turned to Diego, who was leaning on the table with both elbows, running the rim of his earthenware cup along his lower lip, but not drinking. “Diego, Juanita Castellano says that you are in trouble with the governor. What does she mean?”
He sat up straight then, looking sideways at his little sister. “Ay de mi, Catarina, why are your questions always so ... piercing?”
Erlinda laughed and Catarina plunged on, encouraged by her brother’s smile. “Juanita whispered that Maria has got you into trouble. How could Maria get anyone in trouble?”