Serafina smiled. “I will think of your offer as a gesture of concern and—”
She was interrupted by a sound at the door.
“I must go,” Gaspar said, turning to open the door. He was greeted by doña Ofelia carrying a cup of hot chocolate.
“What are you doing in here?” said the old woman, her eyes piercing Gaspar. “A guard should be on duty! Don’t you know your place? Outside! Outside!”
“Sí, señora,” the startled Gaspar mumbled, scurrying around her and out of the room.
Doña Ofelia looked at the tewas Serafina held, shook her head then placed the cup of chocolate on the table.
“He brought you a gift,” she said, turning to Serafina.
“He proposed marriage,” replied Serafina. “Out of concern for my safety.”
“Yes, I’m sure he means well,” said Doña Ofelia, taking the tewas and looking at them carefully. “He comes from a good family. And these are well made. Probably cost him a sheep or two. Ah, the ideas young men get in their heads. What did you tell him?”
“I thanked him.”
Doña Ofelia nodded. “There is only one who can save you, the Governor. He has the power.” She handed the tewas back to Serafina and said good night.
“Thank you for the chocolate,” Serafina relied. “And for the advice.”
The old woman shrugged and went out, leaving Serafina to ponder a new option. What if she married Gaspar? She would then be the wife of a Castillo, and her place in the society would be different. Some of her people had learned so much of the Castillo’s culture they no longer returned to the pueblo way.
She shook her head. I cannot contemplate fantasies, she thought. I have to keep to the course my father and his neighbors have set for the people.
Serafina slept fitfully; nevertheless, she was up at sunrise, offering prayers to the sun that blossomed over the Sierra Madre peaks, its light streaming through cracks in the east wall. A thin ray of light cut across the middle of her face as Serafina prayed. She took the small bag of corn pollen doña Ofelia had given her and offered a pinch of pollen to the light.
Then after a breakfast of corn meal and a tortilla she followed Gaspar outside. He glanced to see if she was wearing the tewas, and when he saw she was, he smiled.
The freeing of the eleventh prisoner went quickly. A cold wind blew from the north, but those gathered at the ceremony did not hurry back to their warm homes. They stood transfixed, watching not the man who was set free, but Serafina.
Now only she remained of the twelve, and tomorrow it was her turn. The trials would end tomorrow, and all present could not help but wonder what it would mean. Would the Governor’s pardons settle the ill feelings of the natives? Or was the gesture too late?
Serafina spent the day working on the colcha. It was nearing completion, but she did not feel satisfied. A loneliness she had not felt before crept into her heart. Now she was alone. Yes, her stories had freed her fellow men, the Governor had kept his promise. But what now?
Perhaps the same mood infected the Governor, for when she entered the dining area for the evening meal, she found him staring into the fire at the fireplace.
When he turned to face her a sigh escaped his lips.
“Good evening, Serafina,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to her chair. “Doña Ofelia tells me you are almost finished with the colcha.”
“She has been most helpful,” replied Serafina, “Bringing me pieces of cloth and thread. And she has taught me new stitches, so it is a bedspread that will last you long after I’m gone.”
“You made it for me?”
“Yes, it is a gift. For the kindness you have shown me. For freeing the men.”
“I will accept the colcha with many thanks,” said the Governor. “In it I will wrap my dreams.”
“May they always be pleasant dreams,” she replied.
“Yes, but truthfully, it is you who freed the prisoners. Your stories have struck a chord in my heart.”
Serafina nodded. “Your people seem to be very emotional. You cry when a family member dies. You show much emotion on Good Friday. I have seen the friars and men flagellate themselves. And, as I understand, you have so many expressions for love.”
“Yes,” said the Governor. “There are many ways to express love and its emotions.”
“Do emotions also come from the books you read?” she asked, looking in the direction of the shelves.
Ah, what a thoughtful question, thought the Governor. “Yes, stories in books stir our emotions. A book can cause joy, anger, despair, or hope. A book can stir patriotism or revolution. Just like the cuentos you tell stir my emotions. What do you feel when you tell stories?” asked the Governor.
“I feel I am passing on knowledge,” she replied.
“Have you ever felt love?” he asked.
“Yes. I feel love for my people.”
“What about my people?”
“I feel kindness for those who are kind. But to give kindness one must recieve kindness. Love thy neighbor, as Christ taught. Now there is so little kindness we are losing hope.”
“Yes, you’re quite right. And so it is our duty to bring that kindness into our lives.”
He understood it was by no accident Serafina had been delivered to him. Her stories had helped him reflect on his situation. Stories give knowledge, she said. And he had learned a great deal. Now he had to save her from the Inquisition. But how could he save her when he was the one who kept her prisoner? He could not be two persons in one.
“Shall I tell you a story?” Serafina asked, breaking the strange revery he had fallen into.
“Yes, that would please me very much.”
“Since I go on trial tomorrow, perhaps this short tale of an Indian lawyer would be appropriate,” she said, and she began the story.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Native Lawyer
After many years of not seeing each other, two friends met at a village fiesta. Manuel invited Rufo to come to his home for breakfast the following morning.
—I will come if you let me buy the eggs, said Rufo. He insisted and gave Manuel twenty-five pesos to buy a dozen eggs.
Manuel bought the eggs, and the next morning his wife boiled them for breakfast. They waited a long time for Rufo to arrive, and finally decided he wasn’t coming, so they ate the eggs.
Manuel didn’t feel right about eating the eggs his friend had paid for, so he went out and bought a dozen eggs.
—Put these eggs under one of our hens, he told his wife. When the chicks are born we won’t sell them, and when they are chickens and lay eggs we will raise more chicks. Half of everything that is produced from this dozen eggs, I will give to my friend Rufo.
A dozen chicks were born and when they were grown they began to lay eggs. Manuel sold some of the eggs and set the money aside. The rest of the eggs he allowed to hatch. Soon he had the most thriving business in the country. And always, he put aside half of his earnings to give to Rufo.
With the money he made from the egg business he bought many ranches, cows, and sheep. He became the richest man in the entire Río Arriba region of the Río Grande valley. He told everyone that all his riches had come from the eggs Rufo had given him, and when he saw his friend again he would give him half of everything he had earned.
Finally the news reached Rufo that Manuel had grown exceedingly rich, and that everything he had earned came from the eggs he had bought for breakfast long ago. He saddled his horse and rode off to visit Manuel.
—I am glad to see you, said Manuel. Do you remember the twenty-five pesos you gave me to buy eggs? I bought them and boiled them, but since you didn’t show up for breakfast my wife and I ate them.
—How did you become so rich? asked Rufo.
—I bought another dozen eggs, and from those I made a fortune. I made a promise that I would give you half of anything I earned.
Rufo shook his head.
—If all this wealth came from the money I gave you, t
hen everything belongs to me.
Manuel was surprised.
—That’s not fair, he replied. I’ve worked hard to accumulate this wealth. I’ll give you half and that way both of us profit.
—No, said an angry Rufo, it all belongs to me! And if you don’t sign it over to me I’ll take you to court!
Rufo went off in search of a lawyer. He found two who said they would represent him in a suit if he gave them half of all he was awarded by a judge. Rufo agreed and the two attorneys brought a suit against Manuel.
Soon the entire region was talking about the case. Everyone thought Rufo would win. Manuel tried to find a lawyer who would represent him, but none were willing.
One day as he sat contemplating his fate, Salvador, an Indian neighbor who lived in a nearby pueblo, walked by.
—How are you, vecino? asked Salvador. You look very sad. Tell me, what’s the matter.
—There’s too much to tell, replied Manuel, and nothing you can do to help.
—I’m your neighbor, maybe I can help.
—What I need is a good lawyer, but I can’t find one. Tomorrow I have to appear in court. I’m afraid I’m going to lose everything own.
—How did this happen? asked Salvador, and Manuel told him the entire story.
—Oh, compadre, I think I can persuade the judge to rule in your favor. How much will you pay me?
Manuel was surprised. How could an uneducated Indian win his case?
—I would pay you fifty pesos.
—No, that’s too much. Give me a bushel of corn.
—If you win you deserve more, said Manuel. Thank you, neighbor.
—Oh, and bring a pot of cooked habas, those beans I like so much.
Manuel thought that Salvador wanted the beans for lunch, so the following morning he was ready. When Salvador arrived he wrapped the pot of fresh baked beans in a serape and off they went.
The courthouse was packed with people. Everyone wanted to know if Manuel had found a lawyer to represent him, but they saw him arrive with only Salvador at his side.
—Is he your attorney? a man asked.
—Yes, answered Manuel.
Everyone laughed, thinking the Indian could never beat Rufo’s two educated lawyers.
When the judge entered he looked at Salvador and shook his head. He asked Manuel if he had a lawyer.
—Yes, replied Manuel, Salvador is my attorney.
Laughter broke out again. Salvador had lifted the lid from the pot and was eating beans. An illiterate Indian eating beans could hardly be a good attorney.
The judge banged his gavel and called for the first of Rufo’s lawyers to present his case, which he did very eloquently. Then the second lawyer rose and finished by saying if all of Manuel’s fortune came from the eggs purchased by Rufo’s twenty-five pesos then the fortune belonged to Rufo. When he had presented the argument he sat down.
All the time Salvador was dipping into the pot and eating beans.
—It is your turn, don Salvador, said the judge sarcastically.
—Father Judge, said Salvador, I ask the court to lend me a piece of land so I can plant a crop.
—Is that all you have to say? asked the exasperated judge.
—Oh, I have to ask Manuel what he did with the eggs he bought with the twenty-five pesos?
Manuel rose and said,
—My wife boiled the eggs and we ate them.
Then Salvador asked Rufo if he had told Manuel to prepare the eggs for breakfast.
—Yes, replied Rufo. I told him to cook the eggs for breakfast.
Salvador turned to the judge. I ask your honor to lend me a piece of land to farm.
—The court is not in the business of lending farmland! exclaimed the judge. I’m tired of you asking the silly question. Is that the only defense you have?
—Yes, your honor. I can only ask the court to lend me a piece of land to farm.
By this time the judge had decided the Indian was crazy, and so it would be best to humor him.
—And what would you plant on the land? he asked.
Salvador reached into the pot and pulled out a handful of beans.
—I would plant these beans, he said.
—You are crazy! replied the judge. Those beans won’t grow! They’ve been cooked.
—Yes, said Salvador, just as the dozen eggs Manuel bought with the money were boiled. Nothing could come from those eggs.
The surprised judge nodded. Salvador had made his point.
—What you say is true. No further product could have come from the boiled eggs, and so I must rule that Manuel keeps his property. The court is adjourned.
Manuel went home with his good neighbor Salvador, leaving everyone in awe of the native lawyer. His common sense had beaten the educated lawyers.
TWENTY-FIVE
“So,” said the Governor, “some of our cuentos are beginning to have a native influence. I like that. Salvador is not the ignorant indio the judge makes him out to be. He has an inbred sense of justice and figures out how to illustrate a point in the law.”
“Perhaps I need Salvador as my attorney,” replied Serafina, smiling.
“Don’t you think Capitán Márquez has served well as a defense lawyer?”
“What would have happened if my friends had relied solely on Capitán Márquez?”
“You have a point,” said the Governor, rising to pace slowly around the table. “I really don’t know how I would have ruled. Still, I’m convinced I’ve done the right thing.”
“I agree, Your Excellency.”
He paused at the fireplace and turned to Serafina. “If Salvador were your attorney, how would he defend you?”
Serafina closed her eyes. The flickering light of the candles played on her face, illuminating her beauty.
“Perhaps he would say I’m like a tree uprooted from its native land and brought to a place where it doesn’t know the soil. The tree might thrive for awhile, but eventually it will die.”
Serafina’s answer pierced the Governor’s heart. His dream that someday she could be his daughter, or like a daughter, was just that, a dream. She had just said that she could never live in the culture of the Españoles.
“You are that tree,” he whispered.
“A wounded body can go on living and hope to recover its health. But a wounded spirit is a different matter.”
“Your spirit needs to be rooted in your pueblo.”
“Yes, that is the center of my world. My spirit needs the teachings of the ancestors. Just as you need your church, I need mine.”
“But you, and your people, have learned to live within our church. You have learned to use our language, our tools, and all of this has been to your benefit.”
“We have learned to survive,” Serafina answered, “but our spirit cries for a renewal of our tradition. We must hold the Kachina dances without interference.”
There it is, thought the Governor, as always. Their traditions and ceremonies create the deep split between our cultures, and the root of our problems.
“Ah,” he whispered, “if only I could pass a law that would solve our differences, bring peace to our land.”
“Why can’t you?” asked Serafina.
He looked at her and felt his shoulders slump.
“Impossible. Laws passed have to be approved by the Viceroy in Mexico, the Council of the Indies, the king … It is a complex legal system that governs all of us. Such a law would involve the church … no, it’s impossible.”
Serafina rose and went to the Governor. “I understand your role as governor is not an easy one. I thank you for freeing the men. You have done the right thing. The leaders at the pueblos will consider this a goodwill gesture on your part. But truthfully, I don’t know if it will solve the discontent we feel. So much more needs to be changed, and as you say, you and the friars do not have the power to change the laws that bind you.”
“The laws that bind,” the Governor repeated, taking her hands in his. “As you said last
night, we are bound by the professions we chose.”
Serafina felt his anguish, but there was nothing she could do. She was the prisoner, and long before she satisfied her own desires she had to keep in mind the freedom of her people.
“I must go,” she whispered.
The Governor nodded. “Tomorrow is your day.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to cook a pot of beans?” he said, smiling, trying to cloak with humor the serious situation they both faced.
Serafina returned his smile. “Or bring a shovel so I may be planted here and take root.”
“Yes,” the Governor said. “A tree may be transplanted and take root. The fruit trees and grape vines our ancestors brought from Spain have taken root and thrived. Las rosas de Castillo bloom in every home. Their blossoms beautify the spring days in all our valleys. Perhaps the earth was foreign at first, but it’s earth nevertheless.”
“Still, a tree is not a woman,” she said sadly. “Good night, Your Excellency.”
“Good night, Serafina.”
“Pleasant dreams,” she said at the door.
“And for you—” The door closed and she was gone.
Because of the worry in her heart Serafina did not sleep well that night, awakening to a morning that dawned clear and cold. She said her prayers at sunrise, then bathed herself with the hot water doña Ofelia brought in a pan. She tied her hair in braids, the chongos some of the women of the pueblos wore. Then she dressed in the dress she had worn the day she was taken captive.
“I washed the white gown,” doña Ofelia said as Serafina ate the breakfast of atole and tortillas.
“Thank you, but today I prefer to wear my own clothes.”
“I think I am more nervous than you,” the old woman said, scurrying around, checking this and that. “Imagine, today you are a free woman. Don’t forget me when you return to your home. Ah!” she exlaimed, picking up the Serafina’s colcha. “But I thought you had finished.”
“No,” said Serafina.
“Look here. The corner you had finished is undone. Who would have—”
She looked at Serafina. She had unraveled her own work. Why?
Serafina's Stories Page 17