—No, I will only watch. I want to hear all about you.
Belda told him all about herself, but the beast revealed very little of his past.
Eight days passed, and each day the beast would come and sit with her while she ate. The beast was falling in love with Belda, and her admiration for his kind ways and pleasant conversation was also turning into love.
On the eighth day he asked her if she was sad.
—I am not sad when I am with you, she replied. But I grow sad because my father and sisters think I am dead, and yet I am enjoying everything in this palace.
—Would you like to visit your family? asked the beast, knowing that if he let her go he would die.
—Oh yes, said Belda.
—Will you marry me? he asked.
—I cannot till I speak to my father.
—Put on this magic ring, he instructed. It will take you to your loved ones. But don’t forget me; if you do I will die.
—I will never forget you, Belda said. I have grown to love you while I have been here. But I do want to see my family.
She put on the ring and in an instant she found herself back home. Her father was overjoyed to see she wasn’t dead. He wanted to know all she had done at the palace and how the beast had treated her.
—Were you happy there? her father asked.
—Yes, she replied. I fell in love with the beast. He said if I forget him he will die. What should I do?
—It must be the poor beast is under some kind of enchantment, her father said. If you truly love him, then you must return to him.
She closed her eyes and saw the beast sitting in the flower garden. He looked sad, and she knew he was dying. She ran to her room, put on the ring he had given her, and instantly she was by his side.
—Belda, he whispered, you’ve returned.
—Yes, she replied. When my father asked me if I was happy with you, I realized I was happier here with you than ever before. I will marry you.
The minute she said these words the evil spell was lifted from the beast. He was a handsome prince that had been enchanted by an evil sorcerer.
—Only the love of a maiden could free me, he said. I will take care of you forever.
—And I will love you forever, replied Belda.
TWENTY-ONE
“Ah, a story of the beauty and the beast,” murmured the Governor. “A delightful children’s story. I heard several versions when I was a child. The prince has been enchanted; he is a frog or an ugly monster, and only the princess’s kiss can lift the spell.”
He looked thoughtfully at Serafina. Am I the beast? he thought. Has the difficult life in this godforsaken kingdom of la Nueva México made me a beast? I go to church, I confess my sins, I listen to music. I have read the few books in my library, I am a civilized man.
But the prince, too, was a civilized man once upon a time. What incantation turned him into a beast? And why? I don’t believe in such things, but perhaps we all have the capacity to be beasts. Yes, that’s it. Even an enlightened man can turn away from goodness and beauty and become a beast.
Perhaps my life as a soldier turned me away from beauty. I am constantly on guard against the Apaches and the Pueblos, and so I have forgotten to see the beauty of the land and the people. Now, through Serafina’s eyes I see beauty again.
“Why does Belda fall in love with the beast?” he asked. “After all, he is hideous in all aspects, and she doesn’t know he is an enchanted prince. Is true love blind?”
Serafina smiled. “Love is not blind,” she replied. “On the contrary, it can look deep into the souls of those we love. True love doesn’t look at the surface; it looks within.”
“So a beautiful person can fall in love with an ugly person?” said the Governor.
“There is no such thing as ugliness,” she replied. “We believe every person has a place in nature.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” mused the Governor.
“Nature is not ugly,” Serafina said. “Everything has its purpose.”
“It is we who name this person ugly and that one handsome. But isn’t there a consensus on what is ugly and what is beautiful?”
“Not in my world,” replied Serafina.
An interesting notion, thought the Governor as he leaned back in his chair. As Cervantes belittled the writers of knightly love with his Quijote, each one of us can choose not to join the crowd that labels one person ugly and the other beautiful.
“Everything in nature has a purpose,” he said, “and nature does not make ugly things.” He looked at Serafina. “But the story tonight was so short. Can you tell me another story?”
“Some stories are short, but they may carry the importance of one of the longer novels on your shelf.” She glanced toward the Governor’s books.
The Governor rose and picked up the book. “Ah, the adventures of don Quijote. Written by a man who would have understood your philosophy. My mother taught me to read. She loved fables, fantasies, and romances. Here I read to free myself from the pressures of the day. Your stories do the same.”
“Yes, some stories provide a respite, a rest from the day’s work,” she agreed. “We have stories about tricksters that make us laugh. But your cuentos seem to be more of a mirror in which you see yourself.”
“Yes, the stories are mirrors,” said the Governor.
“Now I must excuse myself,” said Serafina, rising. “Tomorrow the priests from Santo Domingo will question me.”
The Governor frowned and also stood. All evening he had kept at bay the nagging predicament. He didn’t want Serafina to fall into the hands of the Inquisition, but he was helpless to stop the interview.
“You know I must let them question you. I could run them out of the villa and quote the law that says the natives are not subject to the Inquisition. But that would only serve my enemies. They would raise a cry of protest. I believe it is better to let them ask you a few questions, satisfy themselves, and that will be the end of the matter.”
“I understand,” Serafina replied, and in her tone the Governor wondered if she was blaming him for allowing the agent of the Inquisition to question her.
He reached out and took her hand. “Trust me, the session will be short. If I refuse to let them interview you it could be the final rift between the civil and religious authorities. It would split the colony. I can’t allow that. I must walk a tightrope. I have made it clear to Fray Mateo that you are my prisoner. I will keep you out of their clutches.”
“I trust in your judgment,” Serafina answered, weighing his words carefully. “Now I must wish you a good night.” She bowed and left the room, leaving a very perturbed Governor mulling over the choice he had made.
The next morning a cold wind blew in from the north, sweeping gray clouds over the mountain peaks, threatening another storm. A sullen mood pervaded the trial of the tenth prisoner.
The charges were read, the defense presented, and the Governor freed the man. Now only two prisoners remained, Serafina and a man from the pueblo of Taos. The Taos man was escorted back to the stockade, and the Governor motioned for Fray Tomás to bring Serafina forward.
“I will accompany you to the interrogation,” he said, and she and the friar followed him into the Governor’s residence.
Early that morning doña Ofelia had lit a fire in the fireplace so the room was warm. Two young friars, members of the committee sent to interrogate Serafina, stood by its warmth. The third, Fray Mateo, sat at the table. He rose to greet the Governor.
“Good morning, Your Excellency. Thank you for your hospitality, but we would have preferred to interview the prisoner at the church. In these matters it is best—”
“Good morning, Fray Mateo,” the Governor interrupted. “You and your assistants are my guests. As I explained to Fray Tomás, I insist that the questioning be done here. I have agreed to this interview as a matter of courtesy. There is no one in the villa who thinks the girl is guilty of a crime that merits the attention of th
e Inquisition. As you know the young woman and the men were arrested under my authority. But even those charges are being dropped for lack of substantial evidence.”
The Governor’s demeanor drew the ire of the wrinkled and stern friar Mateo. “On the contrary,” he countered, his voice harsh and commanding. “We have the written testimony of witnesses that leads me to believe that we are dealing with a very dangerous heretic.”
His cold look penetrated Serafina’s calm demeanor, and she shivered.
“Please sit,” he commanded, and Serafina took a seat at the table. The two friars hurried to take seats opposite her. One took up a quill pen to record the proceedings.
The Governor scoffed. “A dangerous heretic? The young woman known as Serafina? I have known her for some time, and I assure you, there is nothing heretical about her.”
Fray Mateo stepped to the table and lifted a sheath of papers. “We have the written testimony of witnesses—”
“What are the accusations?” exploded the Governor, losing his patience. “Witchcraft? That’s nonsense. Fray Tomás has questioned the girl and found her innocent. Tell them, padre!”
A nervous, cowed Fray Tomás stepped forward and mumbled, “Yes, I questioned the girl. I absolved her. She attends mass, she knows all the prayers …” He stumbled and looked for understanding from the two young friars. They remained quiet, but Fray Mateo spoke up.
“Fray Tomás may be well meaning, but he is inexperienced. There are many ways the Devil tempts the weak.”
“Yes,” agreed the Governor, “the Devil works in many ways, perhaps even by clothing himself in the robe of a friar. But there are no specific charges here, and my hospitality is growing thin. Serafina is my prisoner. I am in charge of deciding if the Devil has tempted her or not, and I will not have her falsely accused to satisfy your whims.”
“These are not whims!” shouted Fray Mateo, striking the table. “There are specific charges the church commands me to investigate through the Holy Office of the Inquisition!”
“What are those charges?” asked Serafina, and all turned to look at her.
Fray Mateo’s lips parted in a thin smile. “Your father is the leader of a clan. The clan uses the cactus fruit called peyote. Your people consider the peyote to be a god. They speak to it as if were a god. The reports I’ve read say the peyote brings you visions. These are visions from the Devil. We have a witness that swears you have participated in those pagan rituals.”
The Governor looked surprised. This was an accusation he had not expected. Yes, he knew the natives held many secret ceremonies, and among them the use of peyote was the one the friars worked to stamp out. Peyote induced visions, so the friars had labeled all such practices the work of the Devil. As far as the church was concerned, the practice was the most heinous form of devil worship.
Fray Mateo loomed over Serafina. “You must acknowledge that you have participated in such ceremonies where the Devil was present! You must denounce the Devil! But first, you must denounce your father for his use of peyote!”
“I denounce the Devil, but I will not denounce my father!” Serafina replied.
“Do you admit your father takes part in rituals where the peyote is ingested?” shouted the friar.
“The ceremonies of the clan are none of your business,” replied Serafina.
“You must answer the question! Have you taken part in such rituals?”
“Of course I take part in rituals of my clan, but—”
“There! She has confessed!” cried Fray Mateo, looking around the room triumphantly.
“But we do not worship the Devil as you say,” answered Serafina. “We pray as our ancestors taught us to pray.”
“You should pray to the saints,” commanded the friar.
“The saints are your ancestors, and we honor them. Your saints are like our Kachinas. We pray to the saints at church, and we have our ceremonies to honor the Kachinas.”
Fray Mateo shook his head. Changing his tactic, he lowered his voice and placed a hand on Serafina’s shoulder. “My dear child, you cannot pray to the saints and to your pagan gods in the same breath. We know the friar at your pueblo taught you the catechism of the church. There is only one God. You must renounce all the false gods of your people.”
“I cannot renounce my ancestors,” replied Serafina. “I cannot renounce the cloud people who bring rain to our fields, or the Corn Mothers who sustain us. I have become a Catholic according to the teachings of the friars, but I keep the path of my people.”
“If you do not renounce that path, as you call it, I have no choice but to conclude you are under the spell of the Devil.” Fray Mateo turned and looked at his two young assistants. “Do you agree?”
Both glanced at Serafina then nodded.
He turned to the Governor. “I must remove the young woman to Santo Domingo, where we can conduct a full hearing, with witnesses for both sides, and—”
“I forbid it,” the Governor interrupted.
“You can’t,” sputtered the friar.
“I forbid Serafina’s removal from my jurisdiction. Until she is tried under my authority she remains my prisoner.”
Fray Mateo had suspected the Governor would fight the removal of the girl, but the Governor was playing it safe. By insisting the girl must first be tried by the civil authorities he had won the legal argument. At least for the moment.
“Very well,” answered Fray Mateo, acknowledging the Governor’s finesse, “you have a point. When is her trial date?”
“Day after tomorrow,” replied the Governor.
“Then we shall wait,” said the friar, looking at Serafina and smiling. “Once you have tried her and she is released you have no further jurisdiction over her. Then it will be our turn. I am sure Fray Tomás will grant us the hospitality of his residence for two days. We will wait. Come,” he said, and the two friars at the table gathered their papers and followed him.
“Good day, Your Excellency,” said Fray Mateo as they swept out of the room, an embarassed and wistful Fray Tomás following in their wake.
“Damn him!” the Governor cursed as the door shut. “What impudence! What ignorance!” He controlled his anger and turned to look at Serafina. “Forgive my words of anger. But the actions of friars like Mateo only serve to drive your people to insurrection.”
“Perhaps they have already created a gulf which a bridge cannot span,” she replied.
“What do you mean?” asked the Governor.
Serafina sighed. “Perhaps our worlds are already so divided that only—” She paused and looked into the Governor’s eyes. “If a father treats his son as a slave, the son will revolt.”
What is she saying? thought the Governor. That the revolt we fear is imminent? That my freeing the prisoners as an act of goodwill is too late? That the natives will no longer bear the rule of the father? I am the father, I am the civil authority.
“Is it too late?” he whispered.
Serafina did not answer.
“Poor child,” he said, He took her hands and she rose. “You are tired. You must rest. One thing you must believe, I will not hand you over to them.”
He looked at her and realized how much she had come to mean in his life.
“You should rest. And don’t trouble yourself with this matter. You are safe as long as you are with me.”
He called for doña Ofelia and the old woman appeared at the door.
“Ay, Dios mío,” doña Ofelia whispered as they made their way to Serafina’s room, “what a day. The cold chills my bones. I am old, and the old smell death. It hovers over the villa like a shadow. The Indios say they have seen the Virgin floating on a cloud. A woman dressed in blue, they say. She has come to tell the Españoles to leave this land. What are we to do?”
She paused at the door. “I fear for you,” she told Serafina, and Serafina saw worry etched on the face of the old woman. “I will pray that the good friars do not take you away.” She turned and disappeared.
Sera
fina took up her colcha and began to stitch. Outside, the wind moaned and tore at the mud roof of her room. Vigas held latillas on which dirt had been packed. With the snow the dirt grew wet and heavy, and leaks appeared.
In the hills wolves called, their mournful cries frightening the horses in the corrals behind the Governor’s residence.
A strange power was loose in the world, nature’s warning.
Why do they want me to leave my church, the way of my ancestors? Serafina wondered. Am I the lamb to be sacrificed? Do they want to make a lesson of me? Don’t they know that such a trial would be the spark that ignites the wrath of our people against their rulers?
That day not even the hardiest souls stirred from their homes. Blizzard winds blew over the villa, making travel impossible. The howling wind drove the snow into drifts, and the villa seemed to disappear from the face of the earth.
That evening when Serafina joined the Governor for dinner she could tell he was trying to be joyful. Doña Ofelia had swept and dusted every corner, and she had prepared a special dinner, a broiled turkey and sweet empanadas. Dozens of candles burned, their smoke scenting the room.
“We must endure the storm,” the Governor said as he greeted Serafina. “We need the snow; it has been so dry. Maybe this means the drought is breaking.”
All through dinner he masked his true mood by relating affairs of state, plans for laying new irrigation ditches, a new road, and a grand scheme for uniting the pueblo natives against the marauding Apaches that constantly swept down on the Native and Hispanic villages.
“The Apaches are our common enemy,” he said. “They raid your villages and ours. They steal our children, drive off flocks of sheep, destroy our corn fields. If we can unite against this enemy, we can survive.”
He talked about his plans as if he were talking to a trusted confidante, sharing his ideas and plans with Serafina. But when dinner was done he sat back, took out a cigar and made himself comfortable.
“Ah, it has been a long day,” he said. “Tell me a story.”
TWENTY-TWO
El Picaro
In times long past there lived a princess who never laughed. She was beautiful, but she was always frowning. No one, not even her parents, had ever seen her laugh.
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