The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  A mutter ran through the crowd, but it quickly died away and the dark eyes remained downcast. Despite that, Lucita caught glimpses of lingering apprehension and a sense of foreboding rose in her.

  The Indians were still filing out when the bells again began to ring. Following the stragglers, she watched as they split off into several groups. Many started toward the kitchen while others headed away from the mission proper. There was still no sound beyond that of bare feet on earth, an occasional cough.

  "Lucita!"

  Her mother's voice spun her around. Margarita stood braced against the church's exterior wall, her features grim. Laced in with displeasure was a hint of pain.

  "We are here to minister to the Indians' souls, not try to become them," Margarita warned as Lucita offered her arm for support.

  "But..." No, she couldn't say what was on her mind. "Aren't you fascinated by what their lives are like? Where are they heading? What are they going to do with the rest of their day?"

  The answer to that came to her in bits and pieces that made up a whole she didn't want. The Indians had split up after morning mass so the unmarried ones could eat their dipper of atole in the communal kitchen while those who were married ate the same gray porridge made from ground grain in their own huts, which were perhaps an eighth of a mile from the church. Once that was over, the bells called them to the lavanderia and cistern area, where an elderly Indian referred to as the majordomo separated the neophytes into several groups. One made up of men yoked the oxen and drove them toward the fields, and for the rest of the day dust kicked up by digging tools drifted over everything. Still other men were put to work making bricks from clay, straw, sand, and water, and she learned that each worker was required to make forty bricks a day. The same materials were used to mold roof tiles that were then placed in kilns to bake. Those responsible for keeping the kilns hot streamed sweat.

  The women's work struck Lucita as equally mind-numbing. Thanks to the water supply created by an extensive system of aqueducts, clay pipes, reservoirs, and dams, a dozen women were kept busy cleaning the mission's clothing. Others wove either wool into coarse serge or hemp into cloth, their roughened fingers never at rest. Like the men, they had daily quotas to fill. Children as young as six or seven worked; the younger ones were placed under the care of several elderly women.

  To Lucita's way of thinking, those responsible for rendering tallow into soap and candles had the most disgusting job. How could they force themselves to bend over huge metal pots filled with the fat of slaughtered animals while, low fires slowly melted the fat so it could be drawn off and stored in skin bags before being melted again in the large rotating candle dipper?

  She wanted to observe those working the olive crusher and the large whipsaw used to turn trees into boards and processing the hides used as trading goods, but there was only so much she could accomplish in one day, particularly because the bells announcing religious service rang three more times before dark. By then she felt both physically and emotionally drained and wondered how the Indians kept up the pace.

  "How do they do it?" she asked Father Patricio when she spotted the younger padre outside the building he shared with Father Joseph. "Is their work ever done?"

  Father Patricio lifted a goblet filled with deep red wine to his lips and swallowed. "The Lord's work is never done, my child. Surely you know that."

  "Yes, of course. But—"

  "I saw you watching the woman with the newborn twins," he interrupted. "Granted, her lot is harder than most, but her years of service to the Lord are limited. She must give herself to him now so she can assure herself of a place in heaven."

  "But she looks so weak." Lucita nearly pointed out that providing adequate milk for her children was sapping the woman's strength, but she'd never talked to a man about such things.

  "There are many weak and sickly neophytes among us, Lucita. If you have not yet been inside the infirmaries"—he pointed toward a barely visible building on the other side of the aqueduct—"perhaps you do not know the extent of the problem. They fall ill with alarming regularity; many die."

  Instead of admitting that she hadn't yet committed herself to what would be her work here, she asked for an estimate of what he meant by many.

  "We do not count the losses," he informed her. "It is the Lord's way of testing those who once were heathens and might return to that state if those of us who are enlightened do not fill their minds and days."

  She'd once believed that busy hands were preferable to idleness, but that was before she'd looked into the eyes of orphans who had never known what it was to be loved. Yes, the Church put a roof over those children's heads and made sure their bellies didn't go empty. The priests addressed the orphans' religious needs and responsibilities, taught service and penance. What they didn't provide were caring arms and a warm chest. She'd tried to fill the crying need, but her arms could only encompass so many.

  That was what those sweet twins needed, not a mother with bleeding hands and aching back, but one with enough energy to rock them to sleep.

  "But what if that mother dies?" Lucita asked. "What is to become of her children?"

  "They will be given to another with the ability to nourish them."

  A woman who already had her own child, or children, to care for. It wasn't right! What was the harm in decreasing quotas or requiring one less religious service a day or giving them something more substantial to eat?

  Not trusting her ability to speak, she tried to focus on the sky. The dust from the fields had finally settled, giving her a clear view of the heavens for the first time in hours. During the seemingly endless journey from Mexico to Alta California she'd often filled her sleepless nights with stargazing. It wasn't dark enough yet so she could make out that many stars, but the promise was there.

  Father Patricio, his wine goblet now empty, had gone inside. She stood alone, watching as the world around her changed from the one dominated by the sun to something softer, quieter, lonely and yet rich with the opportunity for thought.

  The neophytes were either inside the dormitories—a separate one for girls over twelve years of age to protect them from "insult," she'd been told—or in the straw huts she'd glimpsed. Her father, whom she hadn't seen all day, was undoubtedly with the other soldiers, while her mother had gone into the small chapel in the monastery building. She, alone, remained outside. Maybe.

  Chapter 6

  "There ain't nuttin' to it. All you gotta do is get your hands on one of the gals. After that it's do as you wanna, 'cause there ain't no one gonna stop you."

  The soldier who'd been speaking fell silent with his mouth hanging open when Sebastian entered their sleeping quarters, but it didn't matter because he'd already heard enough.

  "Go on," he challenged. "What were you saying?"

  The speaker glanced nervously at the two who'd accompanied Sebastian to the mission. "Nuttin'. Just educating them on how things is around here."

  "Are you? Well, now it's my turn."

  As he expected, the five men straightened and gave him their undivided attention, at least as much as they could considering the late hour. Their uniforms were a joke, as was their physical condition, but they were all he had.

  "I have additional information about the savage I've vowed to capture," he said. "It doesn't matter to me whether I take him alive or send his head to the viceroy as proof."

  They all nodded agreement, but no one asked how he planned to put an end to Black Wolf—proof to him that they weren't much more intelligent than the Indians.

  "Thanks to the padres," Sebastian continued, "I know who he is, and that he grew up at the mission."

  "He's a neophyte?"

  "He was years ago, but he escaped. The padres tried to convince Corporal Galvez that Black Wolf is capable of entering and leaving the mission at will because he knows it so well, but my predecessor did nothing to either stop or apprehend him. That's how he managed to attack Turi."

  "You mean he could be out t
here right now?"

  "No, of course not," he insisted, although he had no way of knowing. "I'm certain he's aware of my arrival and that will keep him away, at least for a while. However, Father Patricio informed me that he's a curious and cautious creature. He's going to want to know what my presence means, and when he tries, we will be ready for him."

  "How?"

  Although he'd already pondered that while preparing his strategy, Sebastian gave the question additional thought before speaking. "Black Wolf has avoided detection because he knows how to blend in with the neophytes, but some of them, I am convinced, have been helping him."

  That caused the men to grumble among themselves. Sebastian hoped to take advantage of their outrage as a way of making them feel personally responsible for the mission's security.

  "I intend to ferret out those who have knowledge of the savage. They will be 'encouraged' to reveal everything they know."

  "How you gonna do that?"

  By answer, Sebastian touched the hilt of his sword.

  * * *

  Uneasy and yet determined, Lucita stepped inside the infirmary. Exploration of the mission and discussion of her duties and responsibilities with the padres had filled the first two days, but it was time to make good on her vow to utilize the nursing skills she'd learned at the orphanage. The padres had been pleased to learn she had experience working with the ill and injured, although she'd sensed they were waiting for her to prove herself—not that she was surprised. They'd been relieved to hear that she'd been exposed to a number of illnesses but had never gotten sick. She prayed that her good health would continue.

  The only light in the cramped, stench-ridden structure came from two small, high windows. There were six beds, four of them filled today. Someone coughed, a deep, racking sound, and she winced at the thought of the pain that must go with the cough. Whoever was in the bed closest to the door propped him or herself up on an elbow and stared at her. The rest remained motionless.

  Forcing herself, she approached the closest bed and discovered that the patient was a boy perhaps nine or ten years old. He'd lain back down but watched her every movement. Naked, he had a bloodstained bandage around his ankle, and from the knee down his leg looked painfully swollen, the smell made her stomach recoil. When she began removing the wrapping, he offered no resistance, but his fingers and jaw clenched. She wanted to reassure him that she wasn't going to hurt him, but she didn't know how to say it in Chumash. Where was his mother?

  What she saw shocked her so that the question died. The flesh around the wound was so red and swollen that it was difficult to tell exactly what was wrong with it. Forcing herself, she touched his toes, and discovered that they were hot. Looking into his eyes, she saw what she had feared: fever.

  "What happened?" she asked in Spanish. When he gave no indication he understood, she nearly repeated herself, but what was the point?

  Returning her attention to the injury, she took careful note of the ragged flesh and exposed bone. Had he been tilling the soil and injured himself with the tool he'd been using? As she looked around, her gaze settled on the small table that held a bowl and a mound of rags. Thinking the bowl must have water that she could use to wash away the dried blood, she started to pick it up, but the liquid was filthy. Recoiling, she searched for decent water and bandages that hadn't already been used but couldn't find either.

  Appalled, she started toward the door thinking to find Father Joseph, whom she felt comfortable talking to, but she hadn't looked at the other patients yet. With her hands fisted, she approached the bed closest to the boy. The man in it appeared to be sleeping. From the way his facial features had sunken in, at first she thought he was elderly; then she remembered that she hadn't seen any truly old people.

  Did none of the neophytes live long enough to reach old age?

  His breathing was raspy and quick; his thin chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Dark veins stood out on the backs of his slack hands, and although it was her Christian duty to offer him some comfort, she couldn't yet force herself to grasp those useless hands.

  The warrior she'd seen the other night knew what this place looked and smelled and felt like; he had to! No wonder he was determined to keep his people away from this hell.

  Hell. Thinking of what should be a place of healing in such terms should have shocked her, but she was aware that it didn't because it was the truth.

  More determined now, she placed her hand on the man's shoulder, discovering that he had no excess flesh, nothing, it seemed, between skin and bone. His mouth hung open and yet with each breath his lips quivered as he pulled in air through his mouth.

  He was dying.

  Alone.

  None of those in the other beds were in immediate danger of dying, although both of the women were weak and feverish. Perhaps she should return to the man, but if he died today, certainly he wouldn't want her to be the one to watch that happen. If he had family—she hated to think of him without any—they should be here with him.

  Just as the boy's mother should be with her child.

  Awareness of the room's spent air suddenly hit Lucita, making her wonder how she'd managed to remain in here so long without feeling as if she might choke. Hurrying to the door, she flung it open and stepped outside, breathing deeply.

  She couldn't lift the dying man or the two women, but the boy—

  The youth was watching her again, his body angled toward her, eyes too bright. One hand clamped his knee, and she remembered that he hadn't looked at his wounded foot when she removed the bandage. Returning to him, she slid her hands under him and lifted. Groaning, he first tried to lean away from her, and then, when she refused to release him, he wrapped his arms around her neck. He felt so small, a sick child looking for comfort, that she had to fight tears.

  Although she hadn't said anything to him, he seemed to know what she had in mind, because his thin body strained toward the outside before she'd taken a single step.

  Someone had cut down a large tree not far from the door, and she carried the boy over to the stump and eased him onto it. Then she hurried back inside for the scrap of a blanket that had been at the foot of his bed and used it as a pad between his injured foot and the stump.

  When she was finished, he smiled at her, the gesture tentative and fevered. Clamping down on a sob, she ruffled his hair and was leaning over to place a kiss on his forehead when a sound distracted her. Looking up, she spotted her mother.

  "Lucita! What if he carries some disease?" Margarita gasped.

  "He's injured, Mother. The air in the infirmary is horrible. That anyone gets well breathing that is a miracle."

  Hands clasped over her breasts, Margarita took a moment to study her daughter. As always, her first reaction was that she'd given life to one of God's truly beautiful creatures. A child who hears too much praise grows up spoiled; Margarita knew that. Still, surely there was no harm in clutching her sense of pride about her only offspring to herself.

  And what warmed her heart even on the most chilling of days was that Lucita's heart was just as beautiful. Wasn't what she'd just done proof of that?

  "There are not many miracles in that place, Lucita," she made herself say. Although it was morning and she'd slept soundly because her husband hadn't demanded his husbandly rights, she suddenly felt old and exhausted at the thought of her daughter's willingness to enter that world. "I spoke to Father Joseph about that. He says many enter, but few leave the infirmary."

  "No." Lucita sighed. "I don't imagine they do. Have you been inside it yet?"

  "Briefly last night. Lucita, why didn't you wait for one of the padres to accompany you? To even considering tending to the needs of those unwashed alone—"

  "Mother," Lucita interrupted as her parent knew she would. "You know what I told Father, that I was determined to see if I could minister to the neophytes' health needs here. That's what convinced him to let me come."

  Margarita was far from convinced of that, but until she'd had the opportun
ity to speak openly and privately to the corporal, she remained in the dark about the man's true intentions regarding their daughter.

  "Their spiritual needs must come first," she said, the words tumbling easily from their lips.

  "That's your task, Mother." Lucita smiled, then fell silent as she rearranged the blanket she'd placed under the boy's foot. "I would never pretend to have your skills in that regard."

  "It could happen. If you would turn your mind completely to religious pursuits. Although she'd intended to say a great deal more," Margarita let her words fade off. The daughter she loved nearly as much as she loved her God was too worldly for the life she would have chosen for her.

  "You are right," she said instead. "The land here is very different from what we left behind. I thought I had prepared myself for the primitive conditions we would find, but I never thought I would feel so... so alone."

  Disbelief coated Lucita's features, but it was too late for Margarita to take away the words.

  "You, too?" Lucita whispered. Straightening, she pointed toward the horizon. "It is as if there is no end to the nothingness."

  "Are you sorry you came?"

  "What choice did I have?"

  Lucita smiled, but because Margarita had studied her daughter's every expression and gesture from the day of her birth, she knew it was forced.

  A silence that felt both companionable and unfinished stretched between them until Lucita announced that she needed to bring a supply of clean water into the infirmary. Margarita started to insist Lucita order neophytes to do the work, but the creatures appeared so lacking in intelligence that she didn't see how they could understand the simplest of orders. Somehow, soon, she and Lucita would have to learn how to communicate with those they were determined to minister to.

  When she could no longer see her daughter, Margarita walked over to the infirmary entrance, but instead of going inside, she stopped and looked around. The sense of loneliness remained, but only because she'd briefly put earthly concerns before her relationship with God. Lucita was right. Her task at the mission was to show the neophytes the path to salvation. She would begin by...