Beverly Byrne

by Come Sunrise

  Rick looked at her. The dancing fire was the only light in the room. It showed red highlights in her short, thick hair. The cropped locks framed her face and made her brown eyes more startlingly large. "You look like an elf," he said softly. "A beautiful wood nymph."

  Tears filled her eyes and spilled over. Rick wiped them away, then put his hands on either side of her heart-shaped face. "Don't, querida," he whispered. "Tommy Westerman isn't worth one of your tears."

  She put her hands over his, then pressed his palms against her lips, kissing first one and then the other.

  "That's why I'm crying," she said. "He was once. He's changed. What he is now is my fault."

  "No." Rick shook his head vehemently. "You mustn't fall into that trap. Don't blame yourself, Amy. No one can take responsibility for someone else's conscience."

  "It's a long story," she said as if he hadn't spoken. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry for coming here like this. I just didn't know where else to go."

  "I'm always here," Rick said. "Always. Do you understand me, querida?"

  She did and the knowing burst inside her with a kind of joy that swiftly turned to fear. Amy let go of his hands and stood up. "I have to go. Tommy is away, but Maria will be worried about me."

  "I'm driving you home," Rick said. He ignored her protests.

  Usually Beatriz prayed in the centuries old church of Our Lady of Guadalupe on Agua Fria Street. She did this often because, despite the many taboos that she was willing to ignore, Beatriz was a religious woman. It was natural that she should take to God her problems of the moment. But troubles such as these demanded extraordinary fervor. So on that same October day when Amy saw Rosa Mandago in the plaza, Beatriz was in the nearby cathedral. She had come to ask the guidance of Santa Fe's first lady, La Conquistadora.

  Carved in Spain sometime in the fifteenth century, the small statue of Our Lady of Victory came with the conquistadors to the new world. In 1692she was brought to Santa Fe by Don Diego de Vargas, when he led the reconquest after an Indian revolt. Since then it was the spirit of La Conquistadora that animated the city, and her intercession that sustained it. Each year, on the two Sundays following the feast of Corpus Christi, she was carried through the streets in solemn and glorious procession. Thousands-people of every color-took part. In between those times she could be found to the left of the high altar in the cathedral.

  Today Beatriz knelt at the lady's feet and begged for wisdom. She was utterly confident that her prayers would receive an answer. For one thing, the promise of the gospels was quite clear in this regard; for another, La Conquistadora must feel tender toward the man who had brought her to this place where she was so beloved, and de Vargas was an ancestor of Don Rico. The logic of it all pleased Beatriz; thinking of it almost eased her pain.

  You understand, she told the beautiful lady who was arrayed in jewel-encrusted lace and a green satin cape, I have never fooled myself that I could keep him. It is not to get him back that I come to you. But I cannot bear that he leaves me for one of them. It is neither right nor fair that the Anglos take what is not theirs. First that man Westerman steals from Manuel, and now the woman steals from me. . . .

  It was simple justice that Beatriz craved. The sins of Tommy Westerman cried to heaven for vengeance. He and his wife had come to this place where neither belonged, and they thought they could buy the birth-right of those who did. Westerman had paid Manuel money for his ranch. It was not the amount that the ranch was worth while the treaty was in force, but it was more money than Manuel had ever before seen. Her cousin had come to Beatriz with the check, pushing it into her hands with tears rolling down his cheeks, like a child confessing a terrible guilt. "What am I to do with this?" he'd asked. "What good is it to me if I do not have my land?"

  Beatriz had ignored the second question and answered the first by immediately putting on her hat and going outside to where Manuel's wife Purisima waited with her seven children. One was still suckling. Purisima held the infant to her breast and sat silent in the buckboard. "We must go to the bank," Beatriz said, climbing aboard. Manuel drove them to the plaza.

  In the bank Beatriz took charge of everything. Neither Manuel nor Purisima were idiots; they had after all managed a large ranch. But they were in a state of shock, and they were grateful if someone told them what to do. So Beatriz set aside a small amount of the money for their daily expenses. The balance she put in a savings account. At the last moment she insisted that it be so ordered that the signatures of both Manuel and Purisima were necessary for withdrawals. This precaution was prompted by the look in Manuel's eyes. A man who believes himself cut off from life is not frugal, even if he is a husband and a father.

  Her premonition had been accurate. The sale of the ranch had been completed two months ago. Since then, Manuel moved like a zombie. He lived with his family in a house in the barrio, and supposedly he was looking for another ranch to buy. In truth he did nothing but sit day and night staring at the walls.

  Purisima did her best, but it was hard keeping seven children happy and healthy in the city, after the freedom of ranch life. Purisima was thin and drawn and miserable. When she looked at her cousin's wife Beatriz felt anger burn like acid in her stomach.

  She was not so much a fool as to think everything the fault of the Anglos. She knew instead that it was the particular badness of some Anglos which, brought into confrontation with the particular weakness of some of her own kind, created evil and devastation. Anglos were greedy and their natural instinct was to possess and acquire. Neither did they value sincerity of the heart the way her people did.

  Faced with these things the Manuels and Purisimas of the world retreated to their stoic fatalism, and their belief that somehow manana would be different. It never was, because they did nothing to make it so. Beatriz understood all this because she had learned first-hand about lies and desertion. Indeed, that lesson was the root of her fury-and the reason it had finally affected her reason.

  All this anguish she laid at the feet of La Conquistadora. She did not actually formulate her plan in the lady's presence. When she was in the cathedral Beatriz was still trying to resist the lure of the solution that had occurred to her. But neither did she resolve against it. It stayed like a venemous snake in the back of her mind, coiled and ready to strike.

  She left the church and wandered aimlessly toward the plaza, gravitating there through the ancient habit that informed her blood. Then she saw Amy Westerman walking toward her, heavily pregnant and looking preoccupied with cares. For a moment Beatriz considered speaking to the girl. She would tell her all the evil things her husband did and warn her to leave New Mexico.

  Beatriz felt the words rising in her throat. She craved the release they would bring her.

  She'd almost made up her mind to act when the voice of the mestiza whore, Rosa Mandago, cut across the plaza. Beatriz watched the whole scene. She saw Amy's shock and pain, and when the girl half crawled to her automobile Beatriz followed. She saw Amy set out in the direction of the alameda and knew that she was going to Don Rico. Anger made Beatriz tremble. The Westerman woman had everything; a home, a husband, a child and another coming-yet she was prepared to steal the only thing Beatriz had.

  Still quivering with rage Beatriz went into a cafe and ordered coffee. She sat sipping it, willing herself to be calm, and thinking about the juxtaposition of events. She'd gone to La Conquistadora seeking enlightenment. Immediately after she left the church she'd been confronted with yet more evidence of the wickedness of both Westermans. What did it mean? One answer only presented itself. The snake inside coiled tighter.

  In a few minutes she glanced at her watch. It was past four. She must return home because the neighbor staying with her mother could not remain later than four-thirty. She left five cents on the counter to pay for her coffee and stepped outside. Dusk was roIling down the mountains toward Santa Fe. A sliver of moon shared the sky with the setting sun. "Hola, dona Beatriz," a man said.

  It was
Eustaquio, an Indian from Pueblo Cochiti who supplied her with the turquoise and silver buckles she sold in her shop. Instantly Beatriz understood everything. Scraps of knowledge that she did not realize she possessed fell into place in her head. La Conquistadora had given her answer. "I cannot stay now because my mother is waiting," she said with breathless urgency. "But you are the very man I want to see. Can you come to my shop tonight after dark?"

  The Indian shrugged. "If you wish it," he said.

  "I do. Very much." The death rattle sounded and the snake struck.

  "You know the boy Diego who works at el rancho Santo Domingo, no?" Beatriz asked.

  "He is of my pueblo, I know him," Eustaquio said.

  "Do you count him as a friend?" Her words were tentative, probing.

  The Indian understood what information she sought, but he said only, "I know him."

  Something in his eyes gave her hope. Beatriz unlocked the drawer in which she kept her money. She withdrew a small number of bills and laid them on the table. Later, when more money was needed, she would get it from the savings account of Manuel and Purisima. "I have a friend who feels deeply the needs of the pueblos. My friend is also a believer in justice and is unhappy about much that the Anglos do against the interests of my people and yours, who were here before them."

  "Your friend is wise," Eustaquio said. His brown hand lay on the table next to the money, but he didn't touch it.

  "And rich. Money is available to ease the poverty of Pueblo Cochiti. Do you not think it is only fair that certain actions my friend wants performed be done in return for this money?"

  "If they are possible, yes."

  "Oh, they are possible," Beatriz said. "It needs only courage and determination."

  "Tell me more. I'm listening."

  Beatriz had chosen more wisely than she knew. Aware that religious societies and their rivalries were the true pulse beat of the lives of the Indians, she had hoped that perhaps the old man and Diego belonged to the same one. They did, but the symbiosis was greater than only that. Eustaquio was Diego's 'spiritual father.' Theirs was a sacred relationship, far stronger than ties of blood.

  When the descendents of the Basketmakers left their exquisite aeries to huddle by the Rio Grande they did not recreate the extraordinary homes they'd left behind. The small clustered dwellings the Spaniards encountered when they marched north were mostly single-story adobe huts in which an entire family occupied one room. Coronado and the men of his ilk were unimpressed. These people reminded them of the poorest campesinos of their homeland. The Spaniards called the newfound settlements, villages-in Spanish, pueblos-and their inhabitants, Pueblo Indians. The conquistadors were ignorant of the mighty power which pulsed beneath the surface of the huddled shacks. They didn't know that from the subterranean pits called kivas there came a strength of union which would endure.

  In the wake of the conquerors came the padres. Like their countrymen, the Franciscans and Jesuits and Dominicans were also seeking gold, but of a different sort. The priests wanted souls for Christ. For two bloodstained centuries they preached the gospel with words and swords. Eventually every pueblo had a church and a crucifix and a madonna and a patron saint. Probably none of the Spaniards, cleric or lay-man, wholly understood that the Indians had evolved a synthesis between the old truth and the new. The Most Holy Trinity ruled all, the Indians had learned. Surely that included the gods of the kiva? Nonetheless with the passage of time there occurred a slow but steady exodus from the pueblos. Many of the young adopted not only the white man's God, but his ways and vices.

  Diego, for one, did not go often to the pueblo where he was born. Eustaquio knew this, so he sent a message to Santo Domingo. Four days later he looked up from the piece of silver he was hammering and saw his "son" standing in the doorway. He grunted with satisfaction. Diego had come quickly, so he was not entirely removed from the ancient discipline.

  "You want to see me?"

  "Yes, come in."

  Diego was taller than most of his brethren. He had to duck his head to pass through the door. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, then went and sat on the dirt floor with his back against the rough adobe wall. Eustaquio continued hammering. "You should have better light to work by," Diego said. "Next time I come I'll bring a lantern from the ranch."

  "I need nothing from that place. I have everything I need here."

  Diego bit back a sharp reply. He looked around him and scowled. The room was a primitive pigsty. There was a stack of pots with burned-out bottoms serving as a chimney, no furniture worth noting, and four walls black with smoke. It was enough for the old man, and enough for most of them. Not him.

  By happy accident he'd been spotted by DeAngeles when he was ten and taken to Santo Domingo. From the first Diego had considered the shabby bunkhouse a palace compared to what he had come from. He still thought of it as such, particularly now that Mr. Westerman was making so many improvements. While he watched the old man work he decided that this was the last time he'd come here. He would cut all his ties with Pueblo Cochiti. He was a new breed of man, and this was a new age.

  Eustaquio was busy with thoughts of his own. Ten minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of his mallet. He shaped the soft metal into the form of an eagle with outstretched wings. He would give it turquoise eyes. Eventually some Anglo would pay a few dollars for it. He grunted again and lay down his tools, thankful that there was no need to put them away. Since his wife died and his children married, Eustaquio had lived and worked alone in this room. It was an unusual arrangement for the pueblo, but it was granted him because of his age and skill, and because he ranked high among the priests of his religious society.

  He pondered that holy part of his life and looked at Diego through half-closed eyes. "You know who I am?" he asked finally.

  Diego was startled. "Are you crazy, old man? Of course I know who you are."

  Eustaquio shook his head. "No, you have forgotten." His voice was calm and betrayed no response to the insulting manner in which the boy addressed him. "If you remembered, you would not speak to me so."

  "I remember," Diego whispered. Visions and old claims choked him.

  "Good. Then the poison of the Anglos has not yet destroyed you. I have work for you to do. It is a sacred task and it will cleanse you."

  "What are you talking about?" Diego felt the Keres language of Pueblo Cochiti a strange and oppressive thing in his mouth. "What do you want?" he repeated.

  Eustaquio told him.

  Diego staggered to his feet. "You're crazy," he said in English. "I'm getting out of here."

  The old man sprang ahead of him to block the door. His small form was an impenetrable barrier. Diego could not violate the old taboos and push past him.

  "When you were seven and the kachina-man beat you, was it not I who held your hands skyward and kept you from falling to the ground in disgrace? Would you be a man today if I was not your ceremonial father?"

  Diego doubled over. He was soaked in perspiration, and he shivered as if a cold wind blew through the room. He was back in the firelit kiva confronted by a naked figure painted in black and white stripes who whipped him with the sharpedged fronds of the yucca plant. The sweat pouring beneath his shirt was the blood of his initiation into the ancient ways. He was marked forever. "I cannot do it," he stammered, again in English. "The sheriff ..."

  "Speak your own language!" Eustaquio commanded. "And stand up like a man!" He struck Diego in the face with caculated force. The boy did not recoil from the blow. Eustaquio knew he'd won. "If you are clever, the sheriff will learn nothing. And afterward there will be a reward. Money. You can buy a motorcar and go away," he added slyly. He was not above combining new persuasions with the old.

  "Is this why you want this thing? For money?"

  "No, not only that." Eustaquio looked around and his watery eyes saw more than the room that encompassed his life, or the craft that the Anglos required him to pervert to their taste. He saw a w
hole history, a world infringed and violated. "I have my reasons," he said simply.

  Diego wanted to protest that Westerman had done nothing to any of them. The words died on his lips. He knew too much to speak such a half-truth.

  "We will smoke," Eustaquio said. He went to a shelf in the corner and took down an elaborate pipe. When it was filled and lit he drew a mouthful of acrid smoke into his mouth and exhaled it in the directions of the four winds, the earth, and the sky. Then he passed the pipe to Diego.

  The young man took it with trembling hands. This was the final pledge. After it there could be no turning back. He wanted to run away and deny the old man's claim on him, but he could do nothing. The chains, forged early, were unbreakable. He inhaled and did exactly as Eustaquio had.

  The old man returned the pipe to its resting place and opened a small decorated jar. He removed a pinch of sacred cornmeal and carried it to the entrance, pushing aside the blanket that served as a door. Light streamed in and Eustaquio allowed the pale yellow maize to dribble from between his brown fingers. A sunbeam gilded it gold as it fell. "It is good," Eustaquio said. "You will have success."