Pedro had to set the tables and chairs for the feast, and he put the pine sap on each chair. When the devils were through eating they told Pedro to clear the table.
—I can’t clear the table until we sing “Bendito.” It is our custom to thank the Lord for our food.
—No, don’t sing it! the Chief Devil shouted. In hell they couldn’t stand to hear the name of the Lord. But Pedro sang anyway.
—Bendito, bendito, bendito sea Dios! Bendito y alabado y ave María Purísima! he cried for all to hear.
The devils were outraged. Their ears hurt to hear the holy names. They jumped up, but the chairs stuck to them. In the uproar they bumped into each other. Pedro had locked the doors to hell, so they couldn’t escape.
He shouted louder.
—Ave María Purísima!
One of the devils finally jumped out a window and went to tell St. Peter they couldn’t stand Pedro in hell. St. Peter took the complaint to Jesus.
—Bring him to me, said Jesus. When Pedro stood before him Jesus said, What am I going to do with you?
—Let me go to heaven, replied Pedro.
Jesus shook his head. He knew Pedro would drive the angels crazy.
—I can’t let you in heaven, but you can go to a meadow nearby and take care of a flock that belongs to St. Peter.
So Pedro went to take care of the sheep. In the distance he spied a beautiful city surrounded by a great wall which he tried to scale but couldn’t. Finally he found a huge gate that led into the city, but St. Peter was guarding it.
—What place is this? asked Pedro.
—This is heaven.
—Let me in.
—I cannot, replied St. Peter.
—At least let me peek in to see what it looks like.
St. Peter thought that couldn’t hurt anything, so he opened the door so Pedro could see heaven. St. Peter didn’t know his namesake very well. The minute he opened the door Pedro slipped in.
—Get out! St. Peter ordered him.
—I won’t, replied Pedro. I like it here.
A worried St. Peter went to tell Jesus what had happened.
—Pedro! Jesus shouted, clearly frustrated by the rascal. Get out. You don’t belong here.
—Señor, I won’t get out. Don’t you remember you promised that if I went to a place and didn’t want to leave, not even God could make me?
—Yes, I remember my promise. But I didn’t say in what form you could remain. I am going to make you a rock.
—Very well, Pedro agreed. But please make me a rock with eyes so I can see the angels everyday.
So the Lord made Pedro a rock so he couldn’t get into trouble. But he gave him eyes so he could enjoy the beauty of heaven. And there he sits today, a rascal who through his craftiness connived his way into heaven.
SEVEN
The flames in the fireplace and the candles on the table cast playful shadows on the walls. The Governor smiled and nodded. He had heard the stories of Pedro de Ordimalas. The man was a rascal, a picaro in the Spanish tradition. But he was also crafty like Odysseus, the hero of the Greek epic poem. Pedro thought ahead and laid out his plans.
And the Kingdom of New Mexico was like the world of Odysseus: survival was everything. The Spanish colonists had brought Pedro’s stories with them, and they were popular because even under the worst of circumstances, Pedro laughed and kept hope alive.
“Excellent,” the Governor whispered. “You have taken several of Pedro’s adventures and stitched them together like a tapestry. You are a true weaver of tales, and to keep my promise I will release tomorrow’s prisoner.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” replied Serafina, rising. “That is my only desire.”
What a wonderful young woman she is, thought the Governor. Her only desire is the freedom of her compatriots. The thought of a daughter stirred again in the Governor’s heart. Someone he could care for, someone with whom to share his ideas, his books, his love of horses. And later, when his term was done, someone to return with him to Spain.
The Governor sighed. Ah, these silly thoughts. Serafina and I are too far apart in nature and circumstances. She is a native, and I am the Governor. I have my duty to my people, and she to hers.
“Will there ever come a time when we can live in peace?” he asked.
He thought of withdrawing the question. After all, the Governor should not ask a young Indian woman her opinion. But he felt he could trust her.
“Perhaps,” she replied. “After all, each one of your villages was settled next to one of our pueblos. After so many years of living side by side a few of the Españoles have taken wives from the pueblos. They are not married in the church, but they have children. They plant, irrigate, and harvest as we do. We go to church to honor la Virgen and Jesucristo. Some of your people attend our dances at the pueblos.”
“True.” The Governor nodded. “And yet plots against us, the Castillos as your people call us, keep boiling up.”
“Perhaps we remember the history of the first governor, don Juan de Oñate,” Serafina said, “and what he did to the men of Acoma. Don Juan was a conquerer, and so we live as a conquered people. In our tradition we keep history alive. Our stories tell of the battles we have fought against the Castillos. The Battle of Acoma is one of the most painful. The governor’s cruelty will never be forgotten. It will haunt your people for many generations.”
“But the English and the French have also practiced cutting off the feet of runaway slaves,” said the Governor. “It’s a practice of the colonial to intimidate the native.”
“A practice to keep us enslaved,” answered Serafina.
“Am I right in freeing the prisoners? Will my decisions be seen as a sign of goodwill?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Still, your priests continue to forbid us the practice of our religion. They destroy the kivas and the sacred objects. They do not allow the Kachina dances.”
“Ah, yes,” the Governor said. “The Franciscans are a thorn even in my side.”
He knew it was a question of power, a struggle between the civil and ecclesiastical authorities. The Franciscans wanted to control the lives of the Pueblo Indians. The wanted the entire tierra adentro of New Mexico to be a mission for conversion. The Spanish governors insisted they were in charge. This contention for power tore at the social fabric, affecting the lives of everyone.
The Governor sighed. He didn’t want the mood of the story to dissipate. He was thankful for Serafina’s gift of storytelling. Still, her opinions were well founded, and they disturbed him.
“Thank you for the story. You may go now,” he said abruptly.
Surprised, Serafina raised an eyebrow. Ah, the Governor likes to listen to the cuentos but not to the suffering of my people. Very well. He has his role to play, and I have mine.
She walked to the door and stepped outside. An eager Gaspar was waiting to escort her back to her cell.
“I heard your story,” he whispered as they walked through the narrow chambers of the residence. The candle he held cast just enough light for them to see a few feet ahead.
Serafina paused. She knew the young guard listened outside the door, but until tonight he had never spoken to her.
“Please don’t tell the Governor,” he blurted. “I can’t help myself. I know the stories you tell.”
Serafina nodded.
“Everyone knows the cuentos. My parents recite the stories. But the way you tell them is enchanting.”
“What is your name?”
“Gaspar García, a sus ordenes.” He was so overcome with Serafina’s presence that he almost saluted. When he extended his arm he almost dropped the candle.
“Careful,” Serafina said, steadying his hand. “Sit,” she said, pointing to the wood banco in the hallway. They sat.
“Thank you,” he stuttered. He felt awkward sitting beside her, but grateful for her attention.
“So you know Pedro’s stories?”
“Yes.”
�
�He is a trickster.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You call him a picaro, we call him a trickster. We have many stories about tricksters. Like Coyote. He’s always getting in trouble, but his foibles teach us something about ourselves or nature.”
Gaspar nodded. “Perhaps Pedro de Ordimalas teaches us that people are crafty. Instead of dealing directly with each other we spend more time plotting how to get the best of others. We even try to foil death.”
“Not even a picaro can cheat death.”
“No one can cheat death.”
“Maybe the storyteller can,” Serafina said in a conspiratorial voice.
Gaspar was puzzled for a moment. “Ah, yes, your stories cheat death. The Governor agreed to release a prisoner for each story he enjoys. But the prisoners were not sentenced to death.”
“They were to be sentenced to slavery in Nueva España, to the mines in Durango. To our people it is death to be separated from our families and the earth of our pueblos.”
“I see …”
“The story cheats death in another way,” Serafina continued. “You see, the stories will live long after we are gone and forgotten.”
“Yes,” Gaspar replied.
He looked into Serafina’s face and couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be sitting next to her. Something about her presence made him feel comfortable. He could talk freely with her. He did not know any other young women in Santa Fé who were as easy to talk to.
“Where do you live, Gaspar?”
“Here in the villa.”
“With your parents?”
“Yes.”
“What do they say of the Governor’s release of the prisoners?
“They say it is an act of charity. My father owns a herd of sheep. He knows how hard the Indians—your people—work. He doesn’t agree with the way we treat your people.”
“It is difficult for us,” said Serafina. “When the first governor of the Españoles came he brought new laws. One such law is called encomienda, and so my parents, and every neighbor, must pay tribute. We pay in corn and blankets, and when winter comes we go hungry and freeze.”
“But the encomendero protects you from the Apaches,” Gaspar said.
Serafina frowned. “What about repartimiento, which forces us to work the fields of your people, to build missions—”
“But you get paid for your labor, fed, and protected. And if you are mistreated, by law you have the right to report the man who hires you.”
Serafina sighed. “True, the laws of the Council of the Indies protect us, but the laws on the books are not always followed to the letter.”
“Yes, I know,” Gaspar agreed.
Serafina knew there were others like the young man Gaspar who were sympathetic to the Indians.
“It is difficult for two different cultures to live together,” Serafina said.
“Maybe it would be easier if men didn’t desire power,” Gaspar answered. “The authorities feel they must control the Indians or there will be an uprising. I love this land. But the way it is now, there is too much conflict. I want to change that.”
“Before it’s too late,” said Serafina.
“Perhaps together we can find answers.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed and rose. “Now I must return to my room.”
Gaspar led her to the small room and said goodnight.
The following morning the Governor rose early, ate a hearty breakfast, then ordered that his steed be saddled. He rode hard into the hills east of the villa. He rode until he arrived at the crest of a hill of the piedmont. Here he dismounted and let his well-lathered horse rest. He, too, was sweating from the ride.
He stood and looked down on the villa. The Governor’s residence, offices, the jail, a chapel, and an arsenal were built in contiguous fashion around the perimeter of the plaza. These casas reales included the four sentry towers, two on the north side and two on the south. An impenetrable fortified compound, thought the Governor. Not a stone castle of Spain, but a castle of adobe.
The mud homes of the villagers spread mostly south of the central plaza. There were six vecindades, districts where the people lived. Near each home lay the fallow fields that in the summer were irrigated by the acequia madre fed by the river. Yes, La Villa de Santa Fé de los Españoles had grown since it was founded by then Governor Peralta in 1610.
The homes on the north side of the plaza also had their vegetable gardens, vineyards, and olive groves.
“They would not understand the life we endure here in the court of Spain,” he said aloud. “Not even in Mexico City, the capital of New Spain.”
This was the northernmost frontier of Nueva España, the northern antipodes as far as Spain was concerned. Rough, uncivilized, a frontier like no other.
We must depend on ourselves, he thought. Depend on our neighbors. This is the land of legend, Cíbola. The land the Aztecs of Mexico called Aztlán, their homeland. Now it is ours, for better or for worse.
Ours, all of us, español, indio, criollo, mestizo, castizo, mulatto, chino, lobo, gibaro, zambo or whatever we call ourselves. We must become one people. La raza de la Nueva México.
I do not wish to return to Spain, he thought. I will stay here. I will make this land my home.
Excited by the revelation he looked over the villa, clothed with the light of dawn as the sun rose over the sierra. A new Jerusalem not only for the Sephardics amongst us, but for all of us. A shining Mecca for those of Arabic ancestry. Santa Fé! The capital of the New Continent!
“Sí se puede!” he shouted, mounting his horse, which swirled and reared up, pawing the air, whinnying as if it felt the excitement of its rider.
By the time the Governor rode into the plaza, Capitán Márquez had the prisoners lined up and ready to be tried. A buzzing, inquisitive crowd waited for the proceedings to begin. All were startled by the Governor’s dramatic entrance, his horse wet with sweat sliding into a perfect halt.
The Governor alighted and greeted all present.
“Buenos dias, caballeros. Forgive my late arrival. Let the trial began,” he said to the secretary.
Don Alfonso took quill in hand, dipped it in the inkwell, and called the name of the prisoner.
“The man known as Alonso Catiti from the pueblo of Santo Domingo will step forward.”
A stocky man of about thirty years stepped forward, and the secretary read the charges against him. Capitán Márquez then presented his defense. But the Governor paid scant attention to the words. He looked at the crowd. All eyes were on him, not on the captain’s plea for mercy.
He looked at Serafina. He was startled by the strength of her gaze, an almost defiant stare. She showed no fear. Perhaps the girl has power over my mind, he thought for the first time. He had heard that the natives practiced many kinds of witchcraft. Was it his idea to treat her like a daughter? Or had she put the thought in his mind?
He tried to shake the idea away. I am an enlightened man, he thought. I don’t believe in such things. Still, there was a way to test her.
“What say you, Governor?” don Alfonso asked, leaning toward the Governor.
The Governor rose. “I say we must be merciful. Free this man and send him home with food for his family. Thus I conclude these proceedings. We have other important matters at hand. The Apaches stole some sheep a few days ago. Today we ride to catch the thieves.”
He called his captain and ordered an escort be ready to ride. When the horses were saddled he and ten soldiers rode out of the villa headed north. He left in his wake a very startled citizenry. Loud exclamations and arguments had erupted in the plaza. What was happening to the Governor? Would all the prisoners be freed? And how would this help to stop the rebellion that many feared was imminent?
The Governor cared not for the dissension he left behind. He and the escort rode all day, following the tracks of an Apache raiding party until they lost them, returning to the villa late in the afternoon. The soldiers were exhausted, but the Governo
r seemed full of energy. After writing the viceroy in México an account of the day’s excursion and a dinner of venison, he sent for Serafina.
“Good evening, Your Excellency,” she said as Gaspar closed the door behind her. “You look tired.”
“It has been a long day, but after a good meal a good story would relax me.”
He took a cigar, the kind imported from Hispañola, and lit it at the candle flame.
“The usual agreement,” he said as he sat in front of the fireplace.
“Very well,” she replied and began her story.
EIGHT
Fabiano and Reyes
Once there were two kingdoms whose kings and queens were very good friends. One summer a baby was born to one of the queens, and she and her husband invited the other king and queen to baptize the boy. They christened him Fabiano.
Two years later the other queen gave birth to a baby girl, and the godparents of Fabiano were invited to baptize her. They named her Reyes. The boy and girl grew up together, spending one week at one palace and the next at the other.
The two grew up loving each other like brother and sister. Fabiano was an exceedingly handsome boy, but Reyes was not considered a beauty. When they were old enough they were sent to school to begin their studies. Fabiano took very good care of Reyes, because he loved her beyond compare.
But Fabiano was vain. He began to write love letters to one of the most beautiful girls in school. He shared the letters with Reyes because he totally trusted her.
—Reyes, he said, the girl I wrote to is the fairest in our school, and I will have only a beauty like her. I’d rather be blind than be seen with an ugly girl.
Reyes did not consider herself beautiful, and although she loved Fabiano, his comments made her feel ashamed.
—Dear Fabiano, she said, you deserve a virtuous and beautiful woman. One as handsome as you.
Throughout their school years Fabiano continued to fall in love with the loveliest girls and to despise those he considered plain.
Serafina's Stories Page 6