Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  Mercy paused in front of Zane, her new knowledge of him making her suspect that the coldness of his tone covered relief, perhaps even pleasure.

  “You’ve decided?”

  “I’ve decided.”

  He slipped his hand under her arm and she thought he did it with a sort of possessiveness. “Then let’s give Doña Elena our thanks and good nights. We’ll need an early start in the morning.”

  5

  It was still dark when, bearing a lamp, one of the up-to-now invisible maids brought Mercy a cup of hot chocolate, beaten into foamy peaks and spiced with cinnamon, and a basket with several of the sweet, crisp, flat cakes Mercy had already grown fond of. In spite of the early hour, the maid’s glossy black hair was arranged in a looped knot at the back and adorned with a crimson flower. Her long, loose dress was spotless white cotton with red embroidery at the neck and hem. If that was what Zane thought could pass for daily wear at La Quinta, Mercy was intrigued but doubtful. The garment was so easy and free that it promised wonderful comfort, but such lack of constraints seemed somehow immoral for someone not of the native culture. The girl looked as sweet and fresh as her flower, and she smiled timidly at Mercy’s thanks before she went softly out of the room.

  While Mercy was at the ball, Vicente had stowed her belongings in packs, and before she’d sought her hammock, she had carefully folded and padded the green satin gown Doña Elena had insisted she keep and put it in the pack Vicente had left for her last-minute things. She dressed quickly in her old gray gabardine outfit and was just finishing her hair when Vicente came for the last pack.

  “At least you’re not a drag-back,” Zane said as she entered the hall. “Can you do a long day’s ride and go on next morning?”

  “I will.”

  He glanced at her sharply. “I’m not trying to make a martyr out of you, but I won’t smother you with solicitous questions. It’s up to you to tell me when and if you need to rest.”

  “I love to ride.” Mercy thought sadly of the pretty bay mare Philip had gambled away. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a horse, though.”

  “That can be remedied. If you don’t like the mare I bought for you yesterday, there are several promising young mares at La Quinta.”

  So he’d found her a mount, as well as getting the dress. “I’m afraid I’ve been a lot of trouble to you,” she ventured.

  “I’d gladly have done much more to find a woman for Jolie.” He smiled briefly. “I was beginning to think the only way to get a woman there was to marry her.”

  Mercy’s gratitude withered at its blooming. “Yes, you must be extremely glad you are lucky at cards!”

  “You can’t say you had no choice.”

  “You can’t pretend that you gave me much of an alternative!”

  “Why should I when it’s to my advantage—I hope—to have you at La Quinta? You’ve explained why you feel it’s to yours, so let’s dispense with indignation about the initial circumstances.”

  He opened the door for her and she walked out.

  The straight, stony road was surrounded on both sides by dense, low woods that seemed to cut off any air. Their little caravan of four pack mules, Vicente on his mule, and Zane and Mercy on their horses passed a rich cattle hacienda a few miles from Mérida, but then they had a monotonous time of it till, several hours later, they reached a scattering of thatched huts built around an open square. A few scrawny dogs scampered out to bark, and a woman snatched up her child and ran inside her dwelling, but the half-dozen shirtless Indians lounging beneath a big tree in the middle of the square only stared.

  “Five leagues out of Mérida and it’s a different world,” Zane said, putting Mercy’s thoughts into words.

  “How far is a league?”

  He laughed. “How long is a piece of rope? But we’re about twelve miles from the city. Traditionally, the Spanish league is a thousand steps, but you can see the variations—short legs, long legs, uphill, downhill, on the level.”

  “It’s very … human, though.”

  Zane nodded. “Well, yes, it’s that.” He gave her a swift inspection, as if, Mercy thought angrily, she were one of the pack mules. “Do you need to rest, or can you manage another hour?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Those sidesaddles must be the very devil. I had a hard time finding one, for the ladies here mostly keep to carriages.”

  “It’s a matter of balance,” said Mercy loftily, though her spine ached from the unaccustomed position. She flexed the knee hooked over the projecting sidehorn and shifted her weight as much as possible. “Why is your plantation called The Fifth Direction? Aren’t there just four?”

  “The Mayas don’t think so. From antiquity they’ve paid a lot of attention to the concept of direction. They believed there was a chaac, or rain god, from each quarter and that four other gods supported the sky from the four sides of the world. Red is the color of the god of the east, who was also the bee god, and everything near him was red, even the turkeys, corn, and sacred ceiba tree, with its special bird. The northern god was white; black was the hue of the west; and the south was yellow. Each had a tree, bird, other plants, and creatures. But in the center of all was a fifth direction, where the great green tree of life grew, and in this ceiba perched a quetzal. Green is the color of the fifth direction, and green is the color of corn, which has always been life to the Mayas.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Most of it’s in Bishop Diego de Landa’s history, written in about 1560. It’s ironic that he left such a record of Mayan religion, history, and beliefs, because he burned all of their written records he could find in the church at Mani, which we’ll pass fairly close to tomorrow.”

  “Since I’m to live here, I’d like to learn more about the country. Are there books about it at your hacienda?”

  “I have Diego López de Cogulludo’s seventeenth-century Historia de Yucatán, which was republished in 1843. I remember how amused some of my Mérida friends were that the Mayan batab, or chief, of Tihosuco, Jacinto Pat, had eighteen pesos and nerve enough to buy the book. They didn’t think him such a comic savage when he captured Peto, Tikul, and Tekax, where we’ll attend the fair. “He knew the ladinos couldn’t be permanently and completely expelled, and he negotiated with them, but he was opposed in this and murdered by rival chiefs in 1849.”

  “What a difference it might have made if he’d lived!”

  Zane shrugged. “I doubt it. There was always bitter rivalry among Mayan leaders, and there was never much chance for unity or peace. The same Crescencio Poot who owed his life to my father and who is now the chief Cruzob military commander, or ‘general of the plaza,’ was responsible for the murder of several Mayan generals who were for making peace.”

  “It sounds so bloody! And confusing!”

  “It is, and there aren’t many books to help you with it. Until you can read Spanish, you’ll learn a lot from the travel books of John Stevens. He journeyed through Yucatán and Guatemala in the early 1840s with his English artist friend, Catherwood, who made wonderful engravings of dozens of Mayan sites. Maybe it’ll be interesting for you to learn how the country appeared to an observant New Englander just a few years before the War of the Castes broke out.”

  Mercy was glad there’d be books at La Quinta. Reading had always been her most unfailing refuge and pleasure. “Can Jolie read?” she asked.

  “I taught her to when she was about four. She used to climb up on my lap and get impatient because I was looking at a page that didn’t say anything to her,” Zane said with pride. “She reads Spanish and English equally well.”

  “She’ll end up teaching me!” Mercy wondered what the child would be like, whether she’d resent a newcomer. Zane clearly adored her. Returning to an earlier subject, Mercy asked, “Do the Indians still remember their old religion?”

  “Not the complex rituals celebrated at Uxmal and Chichén Itzá, but the concepts linger. When a Maya plants corn, he prays to the four
directions, and each village has a cross at each corner and another in the center, where there’s usually a tree. Generally it’s the ceiba.”

  Further questions were driven from her head at the sight of church towers. “Tekoh,” said Zane. “We’ll rest ourselves and the beasts.”

  Mercy’s relief changed to horror as she identified the white objects above the gateway of a high-walled enclosure they were passing, and she saw more in niches along the top.

  “Skulls!” Through the gateway she saw a pile of bones and skulls over at the farthest side, and this struck her speechless.

  “It’s the custom,” Zane said, trying to soothe her. “There’s no disrespect intended, but when a family’s plot is full they dig up the older dead to make room for the new.”

  “Is there a graveyard at La Quinta?”

  “Of course. But since the hacienda’s only forty years old, there’s still plenty of room. In your time, unless there’s a plague or massacre, there shouldn’t be a charnel pit.”

  The huts of Tekoh were almost hidden by trees and bushes, but as the travelers came even with the huge two towered stone church on the plaza, several boys ran up and took charge of the horses. Vicente went with them.

  “Let’s go see if the curate is in,” said Zane, escorting Mercy around to the rear of the church. “He has a large region to cover, baptizing, marrying, burying, and holding Mass. And this curate does his best for the people, though Yucatecan priests have been in general a scurvy lot, known for preaching only at Lent, Holy Week, and on their village’s saints’ day. After independence from Spain, the Church was largely supported by a capitation tax or obvention levied on the Indians. When this was finally abolished, many priests tried to recoup by raising marriage and baptismal charges to an outrageous level. During the early days of the rebellion, one of the important things Jacinto Pat—the Maya who bought Cogulludo’s history—demanded that a marriage cost no more then ten reales or ten days of labor, and a baptism three.”

  “And you might add,” came a voice from the other side of the gate, “the answer of several rebel chiefs to the churchmen who were asking for peace: ‘And now you remember that there is a True God. While you were murdering us, didn’t you know that there was a True God?’” The gates opened and a lean, middle-aged priest welcomed them in with a sweeping gesture. “It is grievous that the Indians whose souls we were charged with could say in truth: ‘You were always recommending the name of God to us, and you never believed in His name.’”

  “Padre …” began Zane, reddening, but the priest urged them up the flight of steps leading to a building behind the church.

  “No need to apologize for facts, my son. I will still take pleasure in offering you refreshment.” Serene dark eyes rested on Mercy, and Zane hastily introduced her to the priest as a companion and teacher for Jolie.

  The priest, whom Zane called Padre Martín, obviously knew something of Zane’s situation, for he nodded and said Jolie should benefit from Mercy’s company.

  “Even you might,” he said with a shrewd glance at Zane, who seemed suddenly fascinated with the thick stone walls of the curate’s home.

  He brought them into a comfortable room with several armchairs, a writing table loaded with books and papers, and a round table by a deep-set window where more books were stacked. A stately Indian woman, whose handsome face gave not a hint of her age beyond denial of youth, appeared with a tray, served them all hot chocolate, waited till they had drunk, and then inclined her head at the priest’s instructions.

  “Caterina will take you to a room where you can wash off the dust of travel and rest while a meal is prepared,” said Padre Martín.

  Gratefully, Mercy followed the woman’s swaying white skirt with its embroidered hem down the hall to a small, neat cubicle with a hammock, bench, and washstand. A slight young girl brought a pitcher of water and several coarsely woven towels and filled a copper washbasin. She darted a curious look at Mercy, but she was shooed out by Caterina, who stood in the doorway for a moment, as if to be sure Mercy was content.

  “Gracias,” Mercy said, trying to make up for her lack of Spanish with a warm smile.

  “De nada.” Caterina’s tone was soft, expressionless. She shut the door. Mercy unbuttoned her dress, slipped it off her arms and shoulders, dipped the edge of a towel into the basin, and sighed with the pleasure of getting clean.

  She was dozing in the hammock, her gown still unbuttoned, when there was a tap on the door. “Sí!” she called.

  Hastily righting her dress, she smoothed her hair and proceeded to the priest’s sitting room, amazingly refreshed and so ravenously hungry that her mouth watered when she smelled the beans, tortillas, and eggs filling the three plates on the table.

  The paper-thin tortillas were tender and fragrant, not leathery like the only ones she’d tasted before, in Vera Cruz. She flavored the beans and eggs with the dish of sauce set in the middle of the table and ate with more appetite than she’d had since leaving Texas.

  Zane and the priest had evidently been discussing Mérida’s celebration over the lifting of the siege of Tihosuco. “The government doesn’t celebrate victories anymore, just a simple holding-off of the Cruzob.” Padre Martín’s shrug was philosophic. “For a while it seemed the emperor would send enough troops to subdue them, but from the news that reaches me, he’s slipping rapidly from his throne and has no money or men for Yucatán.”

  “He can’t last long now that Napoleon the Third has abandoned him,” Zane agreed. “I hope he does abdicate and join his wife in Europe while he still can.”

  “And you? With Tihosuco given up as too hard to defend, will you stay on at La Quinta?”

  Zane frowned. “Of course.”

  “Why so stubborn? You’re the only plantation owner I’ve known who’s lived on his lands.”

  “If more had, and had taken an interest in their workers, the rebellion might not have come,” Zane said sternly.

  “That’s as useful now as saying that if some clergymen hadn’t taken over communal lands, forced the Indians into the Church, and scandalized them with carnally licentious living, there would have been no trouble.”

  The two men stared across the table and smiled at each other with rueful admiration. Padre Martín sighed. “I suppose we do what we must as individuals, whatever the sins of our groups.”

  “I’m not foolhardy,” Zane said. “Crescencio Poot, old blood-drinker that he is, seems to remember my father saved him when he found him wounded and unconscious in the brush. He renders some protection to La Quinta Dirección. But you, Padre, are the one who should take care. You should let your distant parishioners come to you rather than going so far into the wilds.”

  “The dying cannot travel. How can I expect the Indians to have faith if I have none?”

  “The rebels killed some priests even before they had their tatich and their Talking Cross. They even macheted a paralyzed curate in Valladolid.”

  “And one priest had a harem of Indian women, and another strapped on spurs and mounted an Indian.” Padre Martín turned grim. “What is the good of matching outrage with outrage? I endure now and pray for better times for all, including those poor Indians who created their own religion when ours failed them.”

  Zane gave a harsh laugh. “Those at Chan Santa Cruz, confident of their cross’s protection and waited on by ladino slaves, wouldn’t call themselves poor. This is the first time since the conquest that a Maya could really hold his head high.”

  The priest sighed. “There you’re right, my son. But pride, anyway, is a snare.”

  “If you had no pride, you’d forget your Indians in the brush.”

  Padre Martín looked shocked. After a moment’s evident soul-searching, he said, “I go to them through the love of our Lord.”

  “Call it what you will.” Zane shrugged, draining his goblet of honey mead before he got to his feet. “I’ll tell you this, Padre—I’m glad the Cruzob have their city and their pride, even if it makes my sle
ep a little lighter.”

  “In time, some boundaries are sure to be agreed on, and peace will come from the Cruzob and ladinos,” said the priest.

  “Only because each side will despair of wiping out the other.”

  Padre Martín shook his head at this, though he couldn’t repress a slight grin. He walked with them around to the front of the church. The boys and Vicente brought over the animals.

  “It’s always a joy for me to perform weddings,” said the priest, glancing at Mercy with a twinkle.

  Zane didn’t smile. “Why, then, I wish you a score this week,” he said, almost tossing Mercy into the saddle. Mounted himself now, he sounded a bit sheepish. “Thanks for your hospitality, Padre.”

  “Always it’s my pleasure. Greet your small daughter for me.” As they started up the long, straight street, he called after them. “Go with God!”

  They waved back. There was hostility in the set of Zane’s shoulders as they rode on, so Mercy refrained from asking him more about the priest and the war, though she’d have been glad of conversation to distract her from aching, long-unused muscles. At least she wasn’t hungry or thirsty now and she felt clean. Drawing all the comfort she could from this, she tried to think of games and lessons for Jolie and put out of her consciousness the broodingly handsome man beside her.

  It was dusk when they rode through the gates of a hacienda and were greeted by the mayordomo, Don Raimundo, a light-skinned mestizo who managed the vast sugar cane plantation while the owner, a friend of Zane’s, lived in Mérida. Great trees shaded the main house, a two-storied white stucco building with graceful Moorish arches and a crenellated top.

  Indians came to lead away the horses and mules and deposit packs on the veranda that stretched the length of the house. This porch was empty except for a few benches, several high-backed, exceedingly uncomfortable-looking chairs, and potted plants. In spite of its grand exterior, the inside of the house was similarly bare. A few chairs, chests, and tables scattered forlornly through the dozen large rooms only emphasized an aura of desertion.