Teresa of the New World

by Sharman Apt Russell

  21

  The raven led the way along the path Teresa had already made in the earth. First they passed under the spring where Teresa had left her leather skirt, sandals, half-chipped cutting tool, and hard heart. They glided below the place where she had taken and then returned the two Opata hunters, gone now along with the cotton shirt Pomo had been wearing and the tinderbox knitted inside. Soon they were passing under the Opata village, where Teresa could hear footsteps, the pulse of hearts beating through bare feet.

  Past the village, she listened for horse hooves although she had little hope of ever seeing Horse again. By now, without Plague to control him, he could be anywhere—west to the sea or east to the mountains or even back across the desert to his master’s house.

  On and on they flew through the earth, under the thorn forest. Teresa listened and heard at last the sound of water, small tumbling streams, water rushing over pebbles and stone. The rainy season had started. The thin-leafed thorn bushes were green and growing, and soon the forest would be full of food, the tall cactus with red and yellow fruit like that of the prickly pear, the dark mulberries and crunchy mesquite beans, the roots of nut-grass and agave, herbs for flavoring, and ocotillo flowers for a sweet tea. Teresa’s mouth began to remember. Yes, it would be good to eat again.

  On and on, following the raven, she held Pomo tightly against her chest. Teresa doubted now that she would have ever found the wise woman’s house on her own. There was so much land, so many Opata villages, and rather more than one fang-toothed mountain.

  At one point she called out—wait, stop. What if someone lives in your house now? The raven slowed just a bit, so they could talk.

  No one would dare, the bird scoffed.

  You said you got the sarampión soon after my father’s visit, Teresa reminded the wise woman. A long time has passed.

  The bird caw-cawed and gurgled in a way that was somehow reassuring. Perhaps, indeed, no one would dare.

  On and on they flew, and Teresa did not tire—although she was perhaps just a little bored—until finally the raven slowed again. Finally they had reached the strangely alive, loudly talking hill Teresa had once climbed to the wise woman’s crumbling adobe with its flat space for a garden and white bluffs falling to a view below. She had let the Moor and Dorantes and her father move ahead, gesturing as they walked. The plants here were nothing unusual, catclaw and prickly pear, humped cactus and tall cactus, yellow grass and white daisies, purple asters, orange poppies. But on this hill, they chimed like the bells her father had once given her grandfather. Even now, circling below, Teresa could hear them, could hear the animals thinking in their dens and burrows and tree holes, could feel the magic rippling. “Teresa!” her father had called from above. “Come on, precious girl. Stay in my sight.”

  Come on, the raven said and briefly stalled, flapping her wings hard and then flying straight up through the skin of the earth.

  Once more Teresa followed, gathering her thoughts into a single force and breaking the surface, half-in, half-out, Pomo clutched to her chest.

  As before, the world exploded in light. This time, though, Teresa propelled herself still upward so that her heels rested on the ground and her toes dug into dirt. For a brief moment, she stood straight, staring at a landscape of green-leafed trees and thorny bushes obscuring the edge of an adobe wall, a black hole for a door, a grass roof fallen in. The air smelled of rain and leaves, tannin from a scrub oak—with just a hint of yarrow, a touch of rosemary, a tang of wild mint. She had forgotten about smell! All those lovely odors!

  Almost immediately then, her knees buckled, and she and Pomo fell, tilting sideways. Teresa’s shoulder caught most of the blow while a terrible weight pressed down on her chest and every part of her body. She couldn’t lift a finger. Even her teeth felt thick and big. Sprawled on the ground, she looked up helplessly at a gray thundercloud.

  From the corner of her eye, Teresa could see the raven also knocked to the ground. Pomo whimpered and heaved and woke. Teresa opened her mouth slowly. The words came slowly, too, like the first heavy drops of rain.

  The boy had trouble understanding Teresa’s explanation. She couldn’t blame him. He had been sick and feverish in the desert and now he was suddenly somewhere else. Now he was somewhere very different in the middle of the rainy season. With more ambition or strength than Teresa had, Pomo sat up and stretched and stared at the falling-down adobe house. He stared at the mesquite tree—where an owl once lived, Teresa remembered—and at the raven struggling to get on her feet, black feathers askew.

  “Where are we? What’s wrong with you?” he asked Teresa, who still lay in the dirt moving feebly. Like a beetle, she thought, overturned on its back. This was the weight of living in the world.

  But Pomo was recovering much faster than she, perhaps because he had been asleep the entire time or perhaps because he was younger. Cautiously he stood and took a few steps and announced he was thirsty.

  There’s a spring behind the house, the raven said to Teresa. The bird’s words were clear although she still lay on her side, beak gaping.

  “There’s a spring behind the house,” Teresa repeated out loud.

  “You have to come with me,” Pomo said and squatted beside her, putting his brown hand on her hand, patting her shoulder in encouragement and then giving her fingers an impatient tug. Naturally he was afraid to go alone in this strange place. His cheekbones jutted prominently now in his thin face, and the skin under his eyes had darkened. Teresa sighed and began the painful process of reclaiming her arms and legs, first rolling up and over on all fours, and then standing with the boy’s help. She tottered toward the back of the house feeling weak and a little nauseated.

  The garden and field were a tangled mess, locust trees and cacti growing up amid bean plants and maize stalks that had seeded wild. Further toward the white bluffs, the spring trickled from a profusion of leafy herbs, mint and watercress, rosemary and yarrow, the water seeping cold and clear. A spring like this was a gift from the earth.

  Teresa felt a pang. You won’t come back soon, the earth had said, and she knew this was true. She had done extraordinary things. She had dragged grown men through veins of copper. She had swum through a monster with a gleaming eye. She had commanded, “Move!” and the rocks had moved. Now it was like a dream, quickly receding. Perhaps she would never be able to return.

  Teresa put her hand on the wet mud near the spring and tried to listen. Silence but for the sound of water flowing. Silence but for the raindrops spattering—a storm in the air—and Pomo’s voice in her ear, “I’m hungry.” The rich-smelling earth was silent. She couldn’t even hear the singing hill, the loud flowers and animals in their burrows. Coming back to her own life had drained her.

  She regretted the loss of the tinderbox. There was nothing yet to eat in this neglected garden, although there would be roots in the thorn forest and some nuts from last year. Perhaps she could find a rabbit or lizard. But meat required fire, and she had never learned to use a fire stick.

  She regretted the loss of her leather skirt and cotton shirt and yucca sandals. She was naked, and this bothered her. She remembered how her mother and aunts had gone naked, as had most of the tribes along that difficult mosquito-filled coast, and how her father had criticized them. Later in their journey, he had often mourned his own lack of clothes, for his skin peeled easily and the sores blistered worse on him than anyone else. Teresa understood these feelings better now than before. In the summer sun, her clothes had shielded her. In the coolness that followed a rain, they provided warmth. As well, they were useful for knotting up things, a handful of herbs or piece of obsidian.

  Moreover, if she were to meet an Opata man or woman from the nearby village, she wouldn’t feel as strong or as competent in her nakedness. This was something she had learned in the Governor’s kitchen, from the housekeeper and Fray Tomás. Now she didn’t want to unlearn it. She would rather have clothes.

  “I’m hungry,” Pomo said again.
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br />   Food and clothing and shelter from the rain. How much easier it had been living in the earth with nothing to do all day long! Teresa nodded at Pomo and went into the adobe house, looking for something to salvage there.

  And how strange that the room looked much the same as it had so many years ago, with clay pots of all sizes lining the walls and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The air smelled dank, dim, and mysterious, despite the hole in the roof letting in light. Just as the wise woman had said, no one had dared enter her house or steal her things. Here was a knife on a low wooden table and a tinderbox on a wooden shelf, neither so nice as the ones Teresa had before. Here on the floor was even the leather skirt the wise woman had been wearing when she sickened and nearly died and shifted into a black raven. Teresa put on the skirt with a sense of relief. Now she looked more like the Opata women in the village.

  But where was the jaguar skin she remembered? Turning around, Teresa saw Pomo holding it, his expression unreadable. Quickly she went and took the skin away, folding and putting it high on one of the shelves. She would deal with the skin later. Pomo said nothing but came to lean against her leg. She gave him a hug.

  Oddly, Teresa was beginning to feel cheerful. Something about this house made her itch to get it clean. She yearned to find a broom and clear the cobwebs, scorpions, and spiders from the walls and ceiling. Then to sweep the floor. To count the clay pots. To gather firewood for the adobe oven outside. To fix the roof. To take down the old dried herbs and put up new fresh-smelling plants. Thyme and oregano for cooking. Lavender and balm for scent. To find some maize. To make tortillas!

  She went to the front door. The wood of the frame had cracked and splintered so that the door was also cracked and fallen to the ground. Outside she could see the raven, upright now, wings still askew. The raven had been under the earth for so long. Teresa wondered when the shape-shifter would regain her strength to fly into the trees. Idly, she watched the bird stagger and hop. Hop, hop, hop. There was work for Teresa to do now, so much work, but still she stood at the front door as if she had a reason to be there, as if she were waiting for something to happen.

  Here I am! Horse heralded, coming in at a gallop.

  The animal shouted like a war steed, his mane waving, his nostrils open. You have been desolate in my absence, but now I am returned to the bosom of our companionship. Fair friend! We are reunited!

  Pleased at the drama of his appearance and speech-making, the horse didn’t notice the raven on the ground, or perhaps he only expected the bird to flap up as birds do at the last minute. Instead there was a sqwaaak and kro-aack and flutter and confusion around the horse’s hooves. Oh, no! Teresa thought and ran to see. Horse was dancing back, and Pomo was suddenly in the middle of everything. Teresa shrieked at the boy to get out of the way and for Horse to be careful. No, no, she thought, but then the raven was hop-hop-hopping, gathering lift and half-flying, half-leaping to the nearby mesquite, where she clung to a branch with unsteady feet, shaking her head, and cawing furiously.

  Everyone was angry now, Pomo because Teresa had yelled at him and the horse because his grand entrance was spoiled and the raven because she had almost been killed.

  “You said you would get food!”

  I’ve traveled leagues. This is my welcome?

  Stupid beast of burden! Murderous Spanish cow!

  Teresa felt like laughing but prudently did not. Horse had found them! How had he managed that? It was a miracle. And she had a knife now. She had a tinderbox. She would gather some prickly pear pads to bake, some watercress from the spring. She introduced the wise woman to the gelding—whom she was so happy to see! Slowly, gradually, everyone calmed down, although feathers were still ruffled, the raven occasionally bursting out in a tlok-tlok and Pomo eyeing the horse, remembering the bite on his arm and the way the big horse might suddenly push against him.

  Teresa let the boy into her lap while she sat and Horse told his story, how the earthquake had frightened him more than anything had ever frightened him in his life, more than battle, more than Plague’s wall of smoke. As the ground soft-ened under his hooves, he had reared up and felt the release of Plague’s grip on the rope. He had not seen Teresa rise from the earth, but he had heard her shout, “Run! Run!” and the next thing he knew he was galloping fast, very fast, until he could go no further. Only then did he stop to think and remember how Plague had confused him in the shape of his old master.

  I went back for you, Horse said. I went back for the boy.

  We were safe, Teresa assured him. We were gone by then.

  The raven listened, too, and sometimes gurgled. Sometimes Teresa spoke out loud for Pomo to hear.

  I had to find water, Horse continued. I returned across the desert to the spring. I stayed by your sandals, thinking you would return for them. Finally I came here as we had planned. I’ve been waiting nearby. I have pined for this moment.

  As was his habit, the horse began to graze, nibbling the grass grown up by the house and neglected yard. Soon he would lose interest in talking. But Teresa wondered still how he had come to this place without directions or guide.

  That was Plague, the horse said. He had to boast to someone, and he couldn’t tell the Opatas. He was so proud of tricking you, of using the wise woman to make you come north. He remembered this old woman with great fondness. He spoke with unfettered glee of how he had brought her the gift of sarampión through a wandering Opata hunter. He exulted at how she had sickened and suffered, the inflamed sores, the bloody ears. As Plague talked on and on, I could see this very house, these mountains, this view. It was as though I had been here myself on the day she died.

  Ridiculous, the raven said. He saw me shift. Such a liar.

  Not you, Teresa told the horse.

  I should hope not! Horse blew out air.

  Plague is an old enemy, the raven mused, ignoring the Spanish war steed. He kills people. I heal them.

  “I’m a healer, too,” Teresa spoke out loud, surprising herself. “I took care of the other servants at the Governor’s house.”

  Saying these words—the way they hung in the air, the way they took shape like something solid in the air—Teresa felt a stirring in her chest.

  Am I a healer? she asked the raven.

  Of course. The bird sounded impatient. She had not been a patient woman, either. Isn’t that why you are here?

  “I’m hungry,” Pomo said for the third time, and the raven explained to Teresa that she shouldn’t hunt the animals on this hill, for they spoke too loudly and their thoughts were too strong. The hill and the spring were a gift from the earth. Soon enough, the bird went on, they would be receiving presents of food from the village, rabbit and turkey and hindquarters of deer. Soon Teresa would be growing maize and beans in the garden, and they would have plenty to eat.

  So, Teresa thought, that was one question answered—why she was here in this house near these Opata people. She would become their healer. She would learn from the wise woman, and she would learn the Opata language, and she would sweep the floor and make tortillas, too. She would put up fresh herbs for cooking and scent and also for fever and pain, for helping women give birth, for the stiffness of old age. She would look after Pomo and take care of Horse.

  In her excitement, Teresa stood up, tumbling Pomo to the ground as she counted up what was answered now. Her mother and sister were dead. The earth had spoken to her again. Her father had loved her, and her father had left her. Her father was never coming back.

  Then there were the questions not yet answered. Would she ever be able to return to the earth? Would Pomo learn to control the jaguar inside him? Would the boy grow up to be a responsible hard-working man? Would Plague come to this Opata village? And how would she protect herself without her hard heart? Would she marry someday? Would she have children?

  Rain began to fall in earnest. The raven flapped and flew to the hole in the grass roof. Water was greening the thorn forest, water rushing to sea, a power, a magic ru
shing through everything, everyone and everything, each day bringing its own amazement.

  The raven caw-cawed. The horse snorted. Teresa picked up the complaining Pomo and took him inside.