by Vella Munn
"But we must reach out to them," Margarita protested. "It is God's law that all hear and believe in his word."
"Perhaps, senora, you will succeed where we have failed," Father Joseph said after an uncomfortable silence. "Father Patricio and I have differing approaches to discipline, but in truth, neither of us has been entirely successful. Certainly we want to hear your thoughts on how those creatures might be saved from the devil's clutches."
Shade by shade Margarita's cheeks grew redder. "I did not mean—please—it was not my intention to find fault. To have brought this many heathens into the light is proof of your dedication. I simply—"
Father Joseph reached out as if to touch Margarita's forearm but stopped before the contact could be made. "I understand, dear lady. I, too, came here ignorant of the conditions I would find, not the least of which is their persistence in clinging to their heathen superstitions. My soul burned with the need to spread the Lord's word. It still burns and I daily thank him for what we have been able to accomplish, but there are those incapable of accepting the truth."
"We no longer believe we have failed." Father Patricio glanced at the horizon as if seeking something out there, then turned his gaze not to Margarita, but on her daughter. "We now understand that the minds of some of these creatures are incapable of comprehending what gives us our greatest joy."
Lucita wanted to ask if those "creatures," as the padres called them, were ever treated with dignity instead of violence, but she remained silent. Her mother tolerated no argument, no questioning, and Lucita had been a dutiful child. Her father, harsh and rough and unapproachable, intimidated her; it had always been easier not to speak to him. But she'd learned she had the desperate courage necessary to fight to come here instead of marrying a man who had laughed during a horse's final moments of life. That courage, born of what she'd learned about survival while caring for some of the city's orphans last year, continued to boil within her. Someday it might break free, and if it did—
Father Patricio was still studying her. Uncomfortable, she first tried to ignore him and then returned his gaze. The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, giving her yet another glimpse of his teeth.
"Come, come, you must be starving," Father Joseph said. "We would be remiss in our heartfelt appreciation if we didn't properly feed you. We wish living conditions could be more in keeping with what you left behind, but this is not civilized New Spain, or has the name Mexico become official? We are so out of touch here."
"Both are used equally," her mother explained. "I do not concern myself with politics, so you must ask my husband for..." She glanced at Sebastian, who seemed bored with the conversation. "I must ask again. Are our lives in danger?"
Father Joseph seemed to settle within himself, his body looking even less substantial than it had a moment ago. "I would love to give your heart rest, dear lady, but your husband's presence, along with that of the other soldiers, is proof that we dare not become complacent. The military force granted to the missions is far less than we would wish for, and La Purisima is unique among the missions in that it was not built with security as its primary goal. As you can see, there are no walls for fortification. I must caution you and your daughter to always think of your safety."
Father Joseph's speech filled Lucita with the unease she'd begun to master, and she couldn't help looking beyond the cluster of adobe buildings, corrals, and gardens to the shadowed foothills. The world out there was an unknown, mysterious, frightening.
And the warrior she'd seen was part of that world.
* * *
Night seemed to take forever to coat the land during the long, hot days of summer, but Black Wolf waited with the patience of one whose life has always been ruled by the seasons. After slipping a little closer, he contented himself by watching the increased activity and noting the newcomers' weapons. He'd been afraid there might be extra muskets in the wagon but saw no sign of them as the leatherjackets went about unloading it.
Before long, the two women entered the padres' quarters, followed a few minutes later by the leatherjacket's leader. The man's way of walking put Black Wolf in mind of a bull standing watch over its herd. He was dangerous, bold and confident. Because of the activity from the pozolera, or kitchen, Black Wolf knew food was being brought to them. It wouldn't be the bland atole made from grain cooked into porridge that, for days on end was all the mission Indians had to eat.
Anger at this inequality surged through him, but he'd spent much of his childhood with his emotions clamped inside him and knew how to reach beyond them.
With the newcomers no longer in sight—the other leatherjackets had now finished caring for their mounts and had entered the large sleeping room where they would live with those already there—his time for learning through his eyes came to an end.
Taking advantage of the lengthening shadows, he slipped closer, stopping only when he caught the sweet aroma of ripening pears from the trees the first padres had planted. There wasn't much he missed about the mission, but he would never forget the wonderful taste of pears and grapes and other fruits. He smiled as he thought of how many grapes had found their way into his belly instead of the bulky leather sack he'd been given to collect what the padres used to make wine—wine that served as a vital part of what wound up in trading vessels and made the mission prosperous.
Movement in the grasses beneath the chinaberry tree that supplied the padres with the seeds they used for their rosaries caught Black Wolf's attention. A number of chickens must have found something to their liking there, if the small cloud of dust was any indication. His gaze was next drawn to the sheep pen, and his thoughts went back to the bruises he'd suffered while trying to shear the cantankerous creatures. Those bruises were nothing compared to those from the beatings administered by Father Patricio.
Stopping the thought, he traced the wolf outline on the back of his hand, felt strength flow through him, gave thanks to his spirit for freedom.
Someone was walking toward the sheep, a man who moved as if his legs had no interest in or strength for the task. After unlatching the wooden and leather gate, he stepped inside, shaking his head as the animals backed away from him. Still, shuffling, the man—an Indian—stalked the bulky creatures. Perhaps he was so intent on his task that nothing else mattered or he hadn't brought his mind to what he obviously didn't want to do. The reason wasn't important, reality was that he'd left the gate open a crack, and as the sheep continued to evade him, first one and then a few and finally the entire herd left confinement.
Bleating, the sheep ran as if only half-comprehending that their world had suddenly expanded. Most of them remained bunched together, colliding with each other and whirling in aimless directions. A few, however, wasted no time in running as fast as their thin legs could take them.
Instead of trying to overtake them, their tender had stopped to close the gate and was now yelling for help. What adults Black Wolf could see were laughing and looked not at all inclined to offer assistance, but several children obviously saw this as an adventure, since they immediately rushed at the milling sheep and began tackling those they could reach, which only added to the din.
To Black Wolf, the answer to this problem was a simple matter of placing a large amount of grain inside the corral. In a few minutes the sheep would settle down and willingly return to what they considered their home, but was it possible that such a conclusion was beyond the neophytes' comprehension? For many, the years of mission life had robbed them of their ability to live as their ancestors had; had it also stolen from them the gift of thought?
Not all of the children were milling about. One, a boy on the brink of manhood, had taken off after the animals running toward the foothills, toward Black Wolf. He remained where he was until the boy was far enough away from the mission that low-growing oak trees hid him from those below.
Then, his movements slow, Black Wolf stood. "I am unarmed," he said in Chumash.
Pulling to a stop, the boy stared at hi
m. Black Wolf repeated himself, then asked if the boy understood.
"Yes. What are you doing here?"
"Watching. You have nothing to fear from me."
"You... you are not a neophyte, are you?"
"Once, but no longer."
His head cocked to one side, the boy folded his arms over his naked chest and raised his chin in a defiant gesture. "You saw the new leatherjackets, didn't you? That is why you are here."
"Yes." Shrieks and laughter along with the sounds the sheep made cut into the night air. "I cannot leave until I understand what is happening," he said.
After a glance at the now disappearing sheep he'd nearly overtaken, the boy shrugged. "I know of Chumash like you, men, women, and children who hide from the leatherjackets and padres and refuse to accept the Lord."
Black Wolf could have told the boy that their ancestors had always worshiped Sun Spirit and, in turn, Sun Spirit had blessed the land with water and food, but he didn't dare waste time explaining what the child should have begun learning while still an infant.
"You and I speak the same language," Black Wolf said. "The language of our grandfathers and their grandfathers. That makes us brothers."
"But you are wild. An animal."
Whatever the padres' teachings, they hadn't robbed this youngster of his honesty; he should be grateful for that. "An animal does not have the power of speech; I do."
Confusion aged the boy's features. He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and briefly chewed on it. "The padres say that the Chumash who forsake their teachings and refuse to live under the Lord's blanket will spend eternity in hell."
Hell meant nothing to Black Wolf. His grandfather and grandfather's grandfather knew that C'oyinashup, the Lower World, was the home of misshapen dark beings who might cause evil mischief and harm to humans, but there was no fire there, no burning. When he'd taken tolache, the dreaming drink, and found his way to his guardian spirit, Wolf, he'd brought back with him a soul-deep belief in his ancestors' world; hell existed only in the minds of those who called themselves Catholic missionaries.
"We will not speak tonight of the white man's belief," he told the boy. "You have sheep to capture, and I dare not stay. Tell me, quickly, of those who came today. The new leader, is he like the fat corporal before him, lazy and given to drinking much wine? Or does he speak of revenge for what I did to the leatherjacket?"
"You stabbed—"
"He was forcing himself on a Chumash woman. I stopped him."
The boy blinked, and his mouth sagged. "He... the leatherjackets say that he will never again be able to bury himself in a woman."
"Ah. So I succeeded."
What might be taken as a chuckle passed the boy's lips. "The leatherjackets wanted to kill you."
"The one I gelded nearly did." Black Wolf touched his side. "What do you know of revenge talk?"
"Nothing. Nothing. I have not been close to them. I do not want—"
"Perhaps the padres spoke of the newcomers before they arrived?"
"It is my job to scrape hides. The padres seldom come where I am."
Frustrated, Black Wolf mentioned the women. "I do not understand why they are here," he admitted. "Are they to service the leatherjackets?"
"I do not think so. The woman in black? I heard it said that she is married to the new corporal. Surely he will not share her with men who are lesser than him."
"And the younger one?"
"In the women's faces I saw a great deal that was the same. I think maybe they are mother and daughter."
No Chumash mother would turn her daughter over to the enemy. The Spanish women had come willingly; at least, he believed they had. Besides, he had heard that Spanish maidens were much prized. If she mated with many soldiers, wouldn't she lose all worth?
"You know nothing of the women's reason for being here?"
"No. The older one knelt at Father Joseph's feet and kissed his shoes. Perhaps she is here to serve God."
Perhaps, but simply accepting that would leave him ignorant when his life and the lives of his people were at stake. No matter what the risk to himself, he had to learn more.
"I would like to believe I can trust you," he told the boy. "If you learn anything that might tell me whether those I live with will remain safe, will you tell me?"
"The padres do not share secrets with me. Father Patricio is so quick to anger, so—"
"Then leave."
"What? Where would I go? How would I live?"
Stinging words aimed at telling the boy he could never call himself a man if he was afraid to escape this half-existence were on the tip of Black Wolf's tongue, but he remembered the days and nights when fear had held him in chains. Fortunately, his grandfather Lame Deer had understood and done what he couldn't do for himself.
"With me, if that is what you want."
"With—what is it like in the mountains?" The question came quickly. "Is it true that great bears attack and babies starve because there is not enough food for them? I could not—that is not living."
"Khus? Bears? Starvation? Who told you that?"
"The padres."
"They lie!" Before the boy could say anything, Black Wolf went on. "Bears feed on nuts and insects, small forest creatures, and fish. Not once has one threatened my people. To see a grizzly means one will share that grizzly's strength and courage, and blessed be the Chumash who takes Khus as his spirit."
"No children die?"
"Tell me this and then I will answer you. There are many Chumash buried within the cemetery, are there not?"
"Y-es."
"Chumash who die before their time in this world should be over?"
"Y-es."
"What takes them?"
For the length of time it took for Black Wolf to twice pull air into his lungs no one spoke. Then, sounding older than he had before, the boy said, "The padres call what happens by many names: consumption, chicken pox, measles, smallpox, and the sex poison that destroys bone and muscle."
"Before the newcomers came there were no such diseases among the Chumash."
"That is what I heard, but maybe it will not long matter. Maybe soon there will be no more of us."
"Do not say that!" Night had settled itself over them, filling Black Wolf with the need to hold his son in his arms while Fox Running fell asleep. Instead, he grabbed the boy's wrist and pulled him toward him. "Great Eagle, Coyote of the Sky, Sun, Moon, Morning Star—they are the gods which made the Chumash out of fine white rock. Our gods will never turn from us."
"Great Eagle, Morning Star? The padres never let us speak of them. They say... they say these are the words of a disbeliever who will spend eternity in hell."
"The padres' God turns a blind eye while the cemetery fills. I cannot accept that. For me there is nothing except Chupu."
"Chupu?"
"You do not know the name of your ancestors' god?"
When the boy said nothing, only strained to free himself, Black Wolf turned his gaze toward Wotoko, which the padres called west. The ocean waited there, as ageless as Chupu. Maybe this captive would never see the ocean. Maybe he would never join in the festival to honor Kakunupmawa, the sun.
For that he hated the padres and anyone who believed as they did.
Chapter 4
Reactions rigidly clamped into submission, Lucita forced herself to step inside the darkened room lit by two slender candles. After a substantial and surprisingly well-seasoned dinner of mutton, corn, pears, and baked bread, her mother had accompanied the padres to chapel while Sebastian had gone, she supposed, to oversee the soldiers' settling in. However, although her mother wanted her to join her in evening prayers, she needed this time alone even more.
So this adobe box with its high ceiling, cool walls, and stark interior was where she would spend the foreseeable future. The inescapable fact caused her to press her hand over her mouth to stifle a whimper.
Heavy wooden shutters had been set in the too-small windows, and although the heavy coverings
were open tonight, that gave her little sense of space. She hadn't expected the living quarters to be so cramped and lifeless, so stark. Life back home had been a simple existence, not because her father hadn't selected a large, well-built home as befitted his position, but because her mother kept it sparsely furnished, insisting that one's devotion to God's commandments could and must be exhibited in all aspects of life.
The large sums Margarita turned over to the Church had occasionally aroused her husband's ire, but a man dedicated to building a military career knew better than to appear opposed to the Church in any way. As a result, Lucita grew up feeling she had more in common with the poor country farmers than' her prosperous neighbors.
Just the same, this inhospitable room was almost beyond her comprehension. Taking courage in hand, she picked up one of the candles from the wooden table. Blackish smoke billowed out from the flame and had already made its unpleasant impact on the air.
In addition to the table, the room contained two hard, narrow beds, each covered, it appeared, by a single hide blanket. How could she possibly sleep under the skin of something that had recently been alive?
Casting off the morose question, she slowly walked around the room, taking in the rough-finished chairs that accompanied the table, a small, empty bookshelf against one wall, a crude painting of the crucifixion hanging over the bed farthest from the door. Chests had been placed at the foot of each bed, and because there was nothing else, she assumed that the one by her bed was where she would place her personal belongings. At least, everything she owned would easily fit in the small container.
She'd taken note of the different plants, trees, and grasses on the way here, and although they showed the impact of having been without water for too much time, they spoke of life and carried intriguing fragrances. Surely no one would mind if she borrowed one of the wine goblets and used it to hold a simple bouquet.
Cheered by the thought of being able to do something to improve the conditions of the room, she again set about inventorying her surroundings, but it didn't take long enough. In less than a minute she knew everything there was to know about this too-tight place. The floor was dirt-tracked tile. The adobe walls, maybe two feet thick and cold to the touch despite the warm, stale air, were more gray than white. Other than the beds and chairs, there was nowhere to sit. She could only pray the winters weren't too harsh and she'd be able to spend most of her waking hours out-of-doors.