Sacred Ground

by Barbara Wood

  His arm shot out so fast Angela did not see it coming, and he struck her with such force that he knocked her nearly across the room. Then he reached for Marina.

  As Angela struggled to her feet, shaking her head to clear it, her eyes focused on the seamstress’s shears on the dressing table. Angela moved swiftly. The shears were in her hand, rising high in the air, plunging deeply into Navarro’s back.

  He roared like a grizzly bear, turned slowly, and blinked at Angela in frank surprise. Then he fell forward, landing on the floor facedown, still and silent.

  The two women stared at him for a moment, then Marina dropped to her knees and placed her hand on her father’s neck. She looked up at her mother with big, frightened eyes. “He is dead,” she whispered.

  Kneeling at his side, Angela wordlessly went through Navarro’s pockets, finding a handful of coins, which she dropped into Marina’s bag. Then, thrusting it into her daughter’s hands, she said, “Go now. Hurry. Do not let anyone see you. When the Quiñones learn of this, they will ride after you.”

  “But Mamá—”

  Angela pulled her daughter to the door that led to the inner courtyard, through which Marina could escape unseen. “Go, and you must make sure they do not find you.” With tears in her eyes, she added, “You can never come back here, for once you set foot on this road, you must follow it to its end. Your brothers, and possibly the Quiñones, will say you have dishonored our families. But I say it is worse to dishonor one’s heart. When you are safe, my daughter, send word to Carlotta in Mexico and she will find a way to let me know. But your whereabouts must not be known, not for a very long time. Go now. Go with God and with my love.”

  Marina paused to watch her mother draw a chair next to Navarro’s body. “What will you do?”

  “I will wait here until I am certain you are safe,” she said. And she sat down, hands folded in her lap, to wait.

  * * *

  Marina rode like the wind, her way guided by the full moon, her heart galloping in cadence with the horse’s hooves as she prayed frantically that Daniel would receive the message and come for her.

  Her father lying dead on the floor! And Mamá, sitting there, grimly awaiting her fate.

  As she neared the end of El Camino Viejo she followed her mother’s instructions until she found the little canyon and, hidden behind boulders, the cave. Inside, while she waited for Daniel to join her, she sat near the entrance, in a pool of unearthly moonlight, and counted her money in her lap. Coins taken from Father’s pockets— pesos, reales, and an American one-cent piece. Her fingers trembled with fear and her heart leapt at every sound. A cold wind blew through the canyon and rushed into the cave like the icy breath of a ghost.

  The hour grew late and Marina’s fear mounted. What time was it? Had D’Arcy made it to Marquez’s house? Or had he been stopped?

  Suddenly— hooves picking over the rubble outside.

  Marina held her breath.

  A rider dismounted.

  Hastily putting the coins back in her purse, she stood up, a coin falling to the earth along with the spirit-stone.

  “Daniel?” she called out. “Is that you?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darkness.

  Erica couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. Where was she? She tried to remember, tried to assess her situation. Her head felt funny and there was a pressure on her chest making it difficult to breathe. Her hands hurt.

  She realized after a moment that she was slumped on a dirt floor. Then she remembered: she was in the cave. There had been an explosion, a cave-in. Luke buried in the rubble. And she had started frantically digging her way out. That was why her hands hurt. She had cut and torn her fingers. How long had she been lying there unconscious? The air was dangerously thin. How much was left? And how close were the rescuers who were surely digging on the other side of the cave-in?

  She tried to sit up but found herself shockingly weak. So she remained on the floor, the scent of dirt and dust filling her nose. “Help…” she whispered, but there was little breath in her lungs.

  Suddenly she saw someone standing over her, purse-lipped and wagging an admonishing finger. Mrs. Manion. Erica’s fourth grade schoolteacher. What was she doing here in the cave? I must be delirious. Or is my life flashing before my eyes? But doesn’t that only pertain to drowning persons? Other faces joined the teacher, characters from Erica’s past, people who had been both real and fantasized. They were trying to tell her something.

  And then she passed out.

  * * *

  When Erica regained consciousness again she listened carefully. All around was deathly silence. Was no one trying to dig her out? Had they given up?

  More faces materialized, ghostly, beckoning. “No…” she whispered, thinking they had come to escort her to the land of the dead. Or were they taking her someplace else? Back in time…

  His name was Chip Masters and he was one of the Bad Boys of Reseda High. When he invited Erica and her girlfriend to go for a ride with him and some other kids in his dad’s new car, how could she resist? At sixteen Erica chafed against the strict rules of the girls’ home she currently lived in. Chip was mystery and adventure.

  There was beer in the car. Although she didn’t like the taste, she took a few sips, to fit in with the crowd. They took turns driving— Ventura, White Oak, Sherman Way. Onto the freeway. Off at Studio City. It was during Erica’s turn at the wheel that a police cruiser turned on a siren and ordered her to pull over. Erica was suddenly scared. She didn’t have a driver’s license. And then like lightning, the other kids jumped out and ran while Erica, puzzled, stayed in the car.

  At the police station she tried to convince the cops that she hadn’t known the car was stolen. How did she get the keys? they asked. Whose car did she think it was? Who were the companions who ran off when she pulled over? But Erica had learned in group and foster homes the code of teenage ethics that dictated one never ratted on friends.

  She was charged with grand theft auto and sent to Juvenile Hall until her hearing. There she encountered tough kids who told her horror stories about California Youth Authority camps. “You’re pretty and you’re white. You’d better watch out for yourself in the showers.”

  Being in court was not a new experience for Erica. As a ward of the state, whenever her status changed, she had had to face a judge in Dependency Court. Except that now she was in Delinquency Court, and if they found her guilty and sentenced her to CYA, then her “ass was toast,” as the Juvie kids warned.

  It was September, the worst month to be in the San Fernando Valley, when heat and smog were at their peak, and Erica was more frightened and depressed than she could remember. Not only had Chip Masters and the others not come forward in her defense, the woman who ran the group home declared she didn’t tolerate bad girls and refused to offer a good character witness for Erica. She was the most alone she had ever been in her life, and facing a hard sentence behind chain link and razor wire.

  Erica was in one of the hallways at Superior Court waiting for her case to be called. The hearing was to determine if she should be tried as a juvenile or as an adult. A kid ran past an elderly lady and knocked her purse off her arm. Others came to the woman’s aid, helping her up, taking her to the elevator. Erica, sitting on a bench, saw the coin purse that had slid under a chair. She picked it up, looked at the money inside, then ran after the lady, catching her just before the elevator doors closed.

  The hearing had a disastrous outcome. The judge determined Erica to be streetwise and mature and therefore should be tried as an adult. While her social worker was escorting her out of the courtroom, Erica had suddenly gotten sick. She went into the ladies’ room while the social worker waited out in the hall. And it was in the white-tiled bathroom that smelled of disinfectant, while Erica was sobbing her eyes out and thinking that her life had come to an end— for surely, since no one believed her story, she was going to be sent to prison on a felony charge— that a well-dressed lad
y carrying a briefcase came in and asked her what was wrong. Erica blurted out her story and to her surprise, the woman said she would help. “I saw you return that woman’s money to her this morning. You could have kept it. No one was watching you. You didn’t see me on the other side of the newsstand. That tells me something about your character. A girl who returns a purse full of money is not going to steal a car.”

  The lady, it turned out, was a lawyer who was on good terms with the judge. She took Erica straight back into the courtroom and explained to the man on the bench that this minor had been represented by a panel attorney and therefore had had inadequate representation. She asked to be appointed guardian ad litem and sought an immediate rehearing for the girl. The judge looked at Erica, and said, “This person has taken an interest in you. Are you comfortable with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am going to strike my previous order, appoint this woman as your guardian ad litem, and refer you back to juvenile court. You are being given one last chance, young lady. I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

  * * *

  When Erica regained consciousness again she listened to the unearthly silence. Had the rescuers given up? Did they think she had been buried in the cave-in? She felt something in her hand, hard and stonelike. How had it gotten there and why was she clasping it so tightly?

  And then: Sounds! Thumping. Digging. Muffled voices. “Yes…” she whispered with a dry throat. “I’m here… don’t stop…”

  * * *

  “Come on!” Jared shouted. “Hurry up! She’s running out of air!” Erica had been trapped in the cave for nearly eight hours.

  The teams madly dug away at the rubble and earth that had sealed the cave entrance. They used shovels, buckets, hand trowels, and bare hands. Paramedics were standing by.

  “Wait!” Jared said suddenly, holding his hands up for silence. “I thought I heard—”

  A faint sound from the other side of the cave-in. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

  “It’s Erica! She’s alive! Keep digging!”

  Finally: a small opening in the dirt. And then Erica calling weakly, “Can you see me? Jared, is that you?”

  He attacked the earth until he had an opening large enough to reach in and haul her out and help her to her feet. She was badly shaken and covered with dirt. “Luke! Is Luke hurt?”

  “He’s all right. He managed to jump free before the cave-in caught him. But what about you? Are you okay, Erica?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said weakly. She unclasped her fingers and looked in surprise at the small pink statue she had been holding. “I was digging my way out… I don’t know what level it was at— is it Aztec? How did an Aztec god get so far north—”

  Suddenly Jared’s mouth was on hers in a hard, breathless kiss.

  Erica held on to him for a moment, then she went limp.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated.

  “Oh yes. I’m fine,” she said.

  And she fainted dead away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Angelique

  1850 C.E.

  They were auctioning off the women. Again.

  Seth Hopkins thought it a revolting practice. Slavery was supposed to be illegal in California, yet the San Francisco authorities could do nothing about it because the ships’ captains were within their rights to claim unpaid fares, even if it meant selling the female passengers to the highest bidders.

  It seemed to Seth that the number of abandoned ships in the harbor had multiplied since he was last here. As soon as a boat came into port, captain and crew jumped ship and headed for the gold fields. A few enterprising men had hauled some of the clippers onshore and turned them into hotels, but the forest of spars and masts of some five hundred deserted vessels still extended halfway into San Francisco Bay. Which was why the Betsy Lain had had to anchor far out, requiring cargo and passengers to be brought ashore by launch. Seth paused in the packing of his wagon to watch the obscene stampede of men to the Betsy Lain‘s landing stage. Word had spread that the Boston clipper was bringing women.

  After being processed through the customs shed, some of the women left immediately, many of them, Seth knew, to go in search of husbands who had abandoned their families when they caught gold fever. The rest, because they had not paid their fare, would be offered to any person on the dock who would pay what was owed, forcing the unfortunate woman into legal bondage.

  From all over the world the women came to California, as did the men, in the hope of starting a new life. Some were hiding from a husband, some were hoping to catch one. Some came to lose themselves, some to find themselves. In California anything was possible. The land and resources were limitless, and there was gold for the grabbing. Most important of all, there were no social rules to keep a person in his or her place. Here a peasant was as good as a king, if he had money. And here no one asked questions. A man could even, Seth thought darkly, escape the stigma of being an ex-convict.

  Seth watched in disgust as the Lain‘s female passengers were herded like cattle into a roped-off area on the dock, penning them in among cargo bales, luggage, and crates while the growing crowd of men pressed around the perimeter, anxious for the auction to begin. Many were owners of bordellos and fandango houses, gambling joints and dance halls. These would choose the youngest and the prettiest and force them into a life of prostitution until the debt was paid. But there were also decent, hardworking men in the crowd, miners and trappers who were lonely and craved the gentling touch of a female. Honest marriage was what these men offered.

  Seth Hopkins, at thirty-two years of age, had never been married, nor did he ever intend to be. Experience had taught him that the matrimonial state was just another form of bondage. The solitary life was what called to him, with trees and green pastures as far from the Virginia coal mines as he could get.

  He turned away, securing ropes over the supplies piled in the back of his wagon. He disliked the mayhem of the Port of San Francisco, where squealing pigs were being off-loaded, cattle were bellowing and dogs barking, carriages and wagons creaked by, people shouted, argued, haggled, and horses with their loudly clip-clopping hooves randomly dropped manure. Smoke filled the air, as well as the stench of stagnant water and rotted fish, which the midday summer heat made worse. Seth was anxious to get back to the mining camp in the mountains, where the air was clean and pure, and a man could hear his own thoughts.

  The captain of the clipper, a short, stocky man in a blue mariner’s uniform, climbed up onto a block and started the auction. He pointed to the first woman in line, a stout lady in her forties who was looking both angry and frightened. “This one owes fifty dollars. Who’ll pay fifty dollars?”

  Mrs. Armitage, whom Seth recognized as the owner of the Armitage Hotel on Market Street, shouted, “Can she cook? I need a cook!”

  “Got any seamstresses?” another woman called out. “I’ll pay top dollar for anyone who can use a needle!”

  A horse-drawn trolley pulled up and a group of twelve colorfully dressed women, who had been standing off to one side, happily climbed on board. Seth knew they were headed for Finch’s Fandango Club and its upstairs bordello.

  A man with the grizzled look of a forty-niner pushed through, and said, “How much for that blonde! I need a wife and I need her fast!” The crowd roared with laughter.

  The women started to go quickly, as money changed hands and men stepped forward to claim their prizes. Some women went willingly, others reluctantly, a few were even weeping. As Seth was about to climb up into his wagon, his eye caught on a woman who was somehow different from the rest. Refusing to stand in the auction line, she sat primly on her big traveling trunk, hands folded in her lap. Her face was shadowed by the brim of the big feathery bonnet she wore, tied under her chin in a bow. But it was her gown that had caught Seth’s attention. He had never seen silk of such a color before— or rather colors, for it shimmered and changed as the lady moved, or as a breeze from the harbor rippled the fabric. When she b
reathed, the bodice shifted from sea green to turquoise, and when she stood up, the skirt went from aquamarine to sapphire blue. It made Seth think of peacock feathers and butterfly wings or tide pools on a summer’s day. The effect was hypnotic.

  He realized that she was trying calmly to explain something to the ship’s purser, and when the breeze shifted Seth could hear her words, spoken in a thick Spanish accent. “I have said, Señor Boggs will pay my fare.”

  The purser, a red-faced man with a dyspeptic scowl, scanned the crowd. “Don’t see Boggs. Might be outta town. Sorry, lady, I gotta get your fare. I’ll have to let one of these men have you.”

  “What is this, ‘have you’?”

  “Anyone willing to pay your fare gets to take you away. You become his property till you work off your debt.”

  She tipped her chin and Seth caught a flash of dark eyes. “I am not that kind of a lady, Señor, and if my husband were alive, he would challenge you to a duel to defend my honor.”

  The pursuer was unimpressed. “Rules of the shipping line, lady. I gotta collect a full fare for every passenger we carry. Where it comes from is none of my concern. But I gotta enter it in this here ledger.”

  “Then my father will pay!”

  The purser wrinkled his nose. “And where be he?”

  “Well… I do not know just now. He is here.”

  “Where?”

  “In California.”

  He made an exasperated sound. “Look, Boggs ain’t here so I gotta collect the fare from one of these men. That’s the rules.” He took hold of her arm.

  “But you cannot do this, Señor!”

  “Look, I don’t see Boggs and I don’t have time. Gotta have the receipts to the shipping office by noon.”

  “Remove your hand from me!”

  The purser looked at his passenger list. “Your name D’Arcy? Listen up, gentlemen! This one’s a genuine Frenchee. Name of On-zhay-leek. Who’ll start the bidding?”

  “That’s the one I’ve been waitin’ for,” said a man nearby. “Here, girlie,” he shouted. “Lift up your skirt and show us an ankle.”