When they arrived at the van, she was breathing hard and Sonny was grinning. “You win, I buy lunch.”
Lorenza drove them north on I-25 to Taos. Sonny used the opportunity to read the book on top of the stack: Kearny’s entry into New Mexico in 1846. What was called in some history books a peaceful invasion by the Army of the West had not been so peaceful. In various communities the Nuevo Mexicanos revolted against the new American rulers. One reason the Nuevo Mexicanos had been so poorly organized for resistance was that their governor, Manuel Armijo, ran out on them.
“Governor Manuel Armijo was the only turncoat the manitos of New Mexico ever produced,” Sonny said, making a note. “Sold out and retreated to El Paso.”
He was reading interesting passages aloud to Lorenza.
“Surrendered?”
“He didn’t even surrender to the gringos, he just took the money and headed for México.”
“Well, there are bad apples in every barrel. Think of all the Chicanos who have gotten medals for bravery in the wars since then.”
“A lot,” Sonny acknowledged.
The Hispanic population was one of the most decorated ethnic groups in the country. They had more than proven their loyalty to the U.S.A., and yet as late as World War II, a Mexican American soldier killed in combat could not be buried in a national cemetery in Three Rivers, Texas. You were good enough to die, but not good enough to share the earth you fought for.
“Maybe Governor Armijo had a point,” Sonny said. “The New Mexicans were farmers, not soldiers. To have resisted Kearny would have been a bloodbath. A lot of manitos would have been killed.”
He leaned over the counter and made a note: “The New Mexican army, what was left of it, did not confront the Army of the West, and Kearny was free to march through Las Vegas, Tecolote, and San Miguel del Vado and into Santa Fé on August 18.”
Then he laboriously added Kearny’s route to the map he was drawing, a star for the capital, Santa Fé, La Villa Real de la Santa Fé.
Outside, the gray clouds of the storm front swept in from the west, their shadows mottling the landscape. The juniper-covered hills on the way to Santa Fé took on a deeper hue. The winter earth was the color of skin, pink fading into brown, a tawny color of the sere grass, the soft curves of the hills. Like the soft curves of a woman.
At La Bajada red Triassic sandstone and shale ran like a gash up the mesa. The same red rock stratum, Sonny guessed, which north of Jemez Pueblo formed a spectacular small canyon. He had often driven past Jemez Pueblo to the Red Cliffs, where pueblo women sold horno bread to hungry weekend tourists. There the red was crimson, not bright but imbued with light, a light emanating from within the earth. Bright in summer and snow splotched in winter. A sight that always took the breath away.
To the north the blue Sangre de Cristo Mountains loomed more massive and closer to the earth as the clouds hugged the tall peaks, especially snow-covered Baldy. Last night’s storm had left a fresh coat of white on the side of the mountain, so the snowy outline of a greyhound was well defined.
They drove through Santa Fé without stopping and headed north to Española, where they turned toward Chimayó. Sonny knew the Jaramillos, a family that owned the Ranchos de Chimayó Restaurant, so they stopped to eat. The restaurant was gaily decorated for Christmas: a tree sat in the corner of the lobby, and under it a nacimiento. The owner pleasantly greeted Sonny and Lorenza and sat them at a table by the fireplace.
The aroma from the kitchen and the cedar burning in the fireplace created a feeling of well-being, a feeling of home. Sonny sniffed the pleasant food fragrances and thought of his mother. He had called her that morning, trying to assure her he was well, just busy. She worried about him. Armando had told her about the van and she wanted to know why he needed a van. You need to stay home and rest, she said. This Christmas I want all of us to be together. Sonny assured her it would be so, but he wondered if any Christmas would ever be the same again.
He tried to dispel the mood by drinking a beer and attacking the blue corn enchiladas simmering with cheese and red chile. He tore apart the hot, fluffy sopaipillas and scooped up the red chile, rice, and beans.
“Sabroso.” Sonny smiled as he ate, feeling the need for energy. In his bones he still felt the cold from yesterday’s dip in the Río de los Frijoles.
“It is delicious,” Lorenza agreed.
“Panza llena, corazón contento,” he sighed when they had finished eating.
“Y ’hora?”
“Feed the body, feed the soul,” he replied. “You feel like stopping by the Santuario?”
“Why not,” she replied.
The Santuario was timeless. It was the mecca of New Mexican Catholics, the Wailing Wall and the Temple on the Mount all rolled into one. A small, simple church constructed of adobe bricks made from the earth of the valley, it was a holy place of prayer and miracles. Pilgrimages to the Santuario were common. People in need promised a visit, and promesas made had to be kept. People came from all over the world to fulfill their promises.
Here, in the valley of Chimayó, the natives believed that the Santo Niño de Atocha walked at night, caring for the old residents of the valley and ensuring the fertility of their fields. The women who took care of the church changed the shoes on the statue of the Santo Niño often because they claimed he got his boots muddy in the fields.
The deities of the Indians who had lived in the hills before the Spaniards settled the valley also imbued the land. Yes, in these sacred places the kachinas and santos walked the earth, as long ago the gods of the Greeks had walked in bowers near sacred springs.
In the valley of Chimayó the kachinas offered protection, bringing rain for the crops in summer.
Here one could feel harmonious with the land, restore ones energy, heal oneself. Beneath the surface of the Catholic faith ran the abiding belief in the spirits of the place.
Around them, the trees of the valley were winter bare. Cottonwoods along the ditches and the apple orchards rested under a thin winter blanket. A breeze stirred. A family of raucous magpies pecked at the stubble in a cornfield.
The earth lay fallow, resting, the village somnolent except for a boy who raced his horses down the dirt street toward Ortega’s Trading Post. He gave a loud hello as he passed by, the clopping of the horse’s hooves pounding the frozen earth, then all was quiet again.
Sonny guided his chair down the rough path and entered the church. They were alone in the cold, dimly lit building.
“When people get well, they leave a memento of their illness here. I’d like to leave my chair.”
“Make a promise, and we’ll come back.”
“I’ll settle for some of the holy earth. Take it home and rub it on my legs.”
Lorenza entered the small room where long ago someone had dug a hole in the earth floor. Thousands of pilgrims had taken a handful of the holy earth from here, and the hole was constantly replenished. Some said an underground river of earth refilled the hole. Others smiled and said a priest came at night with a bucket of earth to fill the hole.
Around her neck Lorenza wore a small cloth bag on a string. It contained an amulet. She opened it and poured a pinch of earth into the bag, then pulled the strings shut.
“Done,” she said when she returned to Sonny and slipped the bag around his neck. “If this isn’t strong medicine, I don’t know what is.”
“Gracias, am—” He blushed. He had almost said “amor.”
“Amiga,” he corrected himself.
“De nada,” she replied. She sensed the slip but said nothing. She walked behind his chair out into the bright sunlight that suddenly filled the valley. The brilliant winter sun-showers had broken through the clouds, filling the entire valley with light and warmth.
In this respite of light they continued to Taos. Sonny had written down the directions to the Garcías’ home, a narrow road somewhere in front of the Ranchos de Taos church.
It was in Ranchos de Taos that the famous Padre Antoni
o Jose Martínez had set up his school for orphans, educated and trained young Hispanos for the priesthood, and set up the first printing press in the state. It was here, too, that he had his falling out with Bishop Jean Lamy, the Frenchman who arrived in 1851. The cold and distant French bishop had been sent by the Vatican to rule over the faithful of New Mexico.
The independent and well-educated Martínez would not easily bow to the new bishop’s rule. Martínez knew his paisanos well; he knew the yoke of poverty under which they lived. He understood their deep faith, the faith in Cristo and His mother, and their faith in the earth. Padre Martínez also knew the penitentes, the brotherhood of men who assisted at funerals and burials, helped the poor, and conducted a ceremony reenacting the crucifixion of Christ on Good Friday.
Padre Martínez continued to serve the people, even after pressure from Bishop Lamy to collect fees on all church ceremonies Martínez performed. He went on marrying them without collecting fees, openly disobeying the French bishop.
Lamy replaced many of the native priests with Europeans, and so an old pattern repeated itself even within the church: the French colonization of the New Mexican church began, and the separation between the Indian pueblo and the Hispanic village grew. But Lamy could not easily break Padre Martínez. Martínez refused to collect the church tax on the poor who couldn’t afford it, and in the end Lamy excommunicated him. Even that didn’t stop the padre. He went on saying mass and running his school. The energy of the padre could not be contained, and in later years he would even serve in the New Mexico territorial legislature.
Always watching out for his flock, Sonny thought as he flipped a page and made notes. Padre Martínez was born in 1793 in Río Arriba, married, but both wife and child died, and he joined the priesthood. In 1822 he was given the church at Taos. Brilliant, energetic, often domineering, he believed in education for his paisanos. He brought the first press to Taos and printed a newspaper, El Crepúsculo.
Governor Charles Bent, the governor appointed after Kearny’s entry to rule over the New Mexico territory, hated Martínez. Many a historian still wonders if Martínez had a hand in plotting the Taos revolt in which the governor was killed on a cold January night. Indians from Taos Pueblo and Nuevo Mexicanos burst into the governor’s house and murdered him in a bloody battle of resistance against the gringo colonizer.
Actually, many of the terrified citizens of Taos, thinking a widespread revolution and a bloodbath were about to ensue as Nuevo Mexicanos took up arms against American rule, took refuge in the padre’s home that night. Still, some historians accused Padre Martínez of fomenting the revolt.
The Garcías need someone like Padre Martínez now, Sonny thought as he glanced out the window and pointed. “Aquí.”
The García house sat back from the unpaved street. Two leafless apple trees stood in the sere lawn. The flowerbeds where hollyhocks had blossomed over the summer now lay brown and crumpled, the staffs of the flowers heavy with the dry, round pods that held the black seeds.
Alberto García, a man about forty years of age, came out to greet them. He thanked them for coming and invited them into the home.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said, shaking their hands. “Lleguen, lleguen. Está bien frio,” he said, looking up at the mountain where it was snowing.
Sonny and Lorenza were met at the door by Estella García. She greeted them warmly and ushered them into the small living room.
“We’re so thankful you came,” she said, and set about serving them coffee and biscochitos. Sonny studied the cozy living room. On the ledge of the beehive fireplace sat family photographs and two small wood carvings Sonny recognized as the work of Patrociño Barela. In one corner of the room La Virgen de Guadalupe presided over a small altar.
Alberto stood by the woodstove and told them about Catalina’s disappearance. It was very similar to the story the Romeros had told in Santa Fé.
“We do Las Posadas every year,” Alberto explained. “We’ve been doing them since I can remember. The people get together and go out every night. This year Catalina was the Virgin Mary. My compadre Horacio has a burro, so my daughter rode the burro. San Jose, my compadre Cayetano, led the burro down the street.”
“Last night was so beautiful,” Estella said. “There was a light snow. There was a real feeling of Christmas. But I wasn’t feeling well, so we came home early.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Nothing like this has ever happened,” Estella said. “Yes, some of the kids are wild, some use dope. They go out in their lowrider cars and drink. But that happens everywhere.”
Alberto looked at her helplessly and nodded.
“Did you find anything in her room, any clues?” Sonny asked.
“No, nothing,” Estella replied.
“Had she slept in her bed?”
“No.”
“Are you sure she came in?”
“Yes, I stayed up till I heard the door,” Alberto said. “I figured she didn’t want to wake her mother, and just went to bed.”
Estella wrung her hands. “We talked to her friends, and to our compadres. She came home alone.”
“It was below freezing last night,” Alberto said. “If she was alone out there—” He didn’t finish his thought; he didn’t have to. The temperature last night had fallen into the teens, and without shelter a body would freeze.
“May I see her room?” Sonny asked, dreading what he would find.
“Seguro,” Alberto said, and led him down a narrow hallway to the girl’s room.
Sonny looked around. No sign of a struggle. No sign of Raven.
“Is there a back door?” he asked.
“Sí, the kitchen has a door to the back.” He led Sonny and Lorenza to the kitchen.
Sonny opened the kitchen door. There on the threshold lay four dark feathers. Sonny glanced at Lorenza, and she bent to pick them up.
“What does it mean?” Alberto asked, looking at the glistening black feathers.
“Una maldición,” his wife gasped.
A curse.
11
Sonny’s next stop was the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Bernabé Montoya, who became famous in the Milagro Beanfield War many years ago, was now the Taos County sheriff. Sonny hardly recognized the old lawman. He looked beaten, the ghost of the active young man who had played such an important role in the water rights battle in Milagro.
“Sonny, Sonny, cómo ’stás?” he greeted Sonny, drawing himself up, smoothing the front of his somewhat creased shirt, which was spotted with red chile stains.
Sonny had met the sheriff a couple of years back during a state lawmen’s convention. Manuel López, who was then still alive, introduced Sonny, and it turned out Sheriff Montoya knew a lot of stories about Sonny’s bisabuelo, the famous Elfego Baca from Socorro County. Your great-grandfather is one of my heroes, Bernabé told Sonny.
Sonny introduced Lorenza. “Pleased to meet you, señorita,” the sheriff said gallantly, inviting them to sit and asking if they wanted coffee.
“You’re here because of the girl,” the sheriff said when they were settled. “Beto’s daughter.”
“I just talked to them,” Sonny replied.
“I was over there all morning. I’ve been talking to her friends, pero nada. No clues,” the sheriff said, resignation ringing in his husky voice. “The girl’s not the type to run away. No reason. And the kids she knows are good kids. Seems like she just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“Any strangers in the neighborhood? Strange cars, tracks?”
“Nope.” The sheriff shook his head. “The ground is frozen, and even if it weren’t, the dirt road is full of tracks and half covered with snow. I called the state cops and they’re bringing in dogs.” He paused, looking shriveled in his uniform.
“But we won’t find anything,” he said sadly.
“Why?”
The sheriff looked from Sonny to Lorenza. “I’ve been here a long time, probably be here until the Republicans kick
me out.” He laughed. “You want me to tell you what I think?”
“Sure,” Sonny replied. He felt a story coming. The place was alive with stories.
“I think it’s a curse. Spirits,” he whispered.
“And they took Catalina,” Sonny said. The girl’s mother had intimated the same thing.
“I won’t tell this to the papers,” the old sheriff said. “But I know what I feel. There’s enough ghosts around here to fill a novel.”
Sonny looked around. Yes, no doubt many dissatisfied spirits wandered the streets of Taos, gathered in the plaza to curse their fate.
Taos Pueblo loomed as guardian over the area, sitting at the foot of the mountains. Its history was palpable. So was the history of the Taoseños, the Españoles and Mexicanos who had lived for centuries at the edge of the pueblo. These people died and gave their ghosts back to the land. Later the Americanos came, Mabel Dodge Luhan, Dorothy Brett, D. H. Lawrence, the Taos art colony. Later, in the sixties, a new migration, hippies and Hollywood celebrities who moved to Taos seeking communion with the earth and the cosmos.
Taos drew those who sought beauty in the land, an Indian mysticism to guide their lives. But beneath the veneer of the Taos art colony and its descendants, another history existed. As sure as the kachinas of Blue Lake blessed the land and brought rain, the souls of many departed filled the files of the sheriff’s office.
“What do you mean by ‘curse’?” Sonny asked.
“Well, the way I heard the story, a lot of people believe it was some of Alberto’s ancestors, you know, one of his bisabuelos from way back, who was with the rebels who killed Governor Bent.”
“Governor Bent?” Sonny interrupted, and glanced at Lorenza. “But that was in—”
“Eighteen forty-six,” Bernabé nodded, “not too long ago.”
No, of course not, Sonny checked a smile. For the sheriff, as well as for other Taoseños steeped in the tea of history, one hundred years was only yesterday. One hundred fifty years was but a sigh in the memory of the people. History did not happen and then go away for the people of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, it festered and grew into the bones, blood, and soul. It stayed to inhabit the memory, and so the people learned to accommodate the ghosts of the past. People here lived and breathed history. It was all around them. In the mountains, around the plaza, in the adobes of old haciendas, like the Hacienda Martínez. Here the ghosts of the ancient past still walked, appeared, spoke, did mischievous things like the duendes of the forest.
Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring Page 96