Daughter of Fortune

by Carla Kelly

Maria did not take it. “Where?” she asked.

  “There are people who wish to meet you. At Tesuque. Let me take you there.” When she still hesitated, he took her hand. “I spoke with Diego.”

  She let him hold her hand. “What did you say to him?” she asked quietly.

  “I did not apologize, if that’s what you mean. And he did not expect me to. We both know we are right.” He looked at her. “Maria, I hate to quarrel with Diego. It’s almost as though I’m arguing with myself. Or at least part of myself.”

  He let go of her hand and looked out the window. “Erlinda triumphant!” he declared, motioning to Maria. She came to the window and he put his hand on her shoulder. “The chickens didn’t have a chance. I hope Diego returns in time for dinner. He likes chicken.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He finished with the beans and said he was going to the north pasture where the sheep are. I asked if he needed help, but he said my hands are too big for lambing.” He smiled. “It is an old joke between us. I am glad he can laugh.”

  Maria moved away from the window and Cristóbal followed her. “Come with me. We will walk to Tesuque. My horse threw a shoe yesterday when we were chasing Apaches.”

  “Is it safe now?”

  Cristóbal shrugged. “One can never tell here. Diego has told me on more than one occasion that he is glad he does not have to worry about the Pueblo Indians.” His face twisted into a peculiar smile. “We are such good Indians.”

  “Let me put away these shirts and return the needle.” She folded Diego’s shirts and took them to his room, where she put them in the wooden chest by his bed. She ran her hand over the altar and knelt for a brief moment on the worn stool in front of it. Then she hurried to put the needle away carefully in the silver cabinet, setting the thimble next to it.

  Erlinda was in the yard, plucking chickens. “We are walking to Tesuque,” Cristóbal said. “I have a matter of business there that concerns Maria.”

  “Very well,” she said, her eyes on the chicken in her lap again. “Do try to return in time for dinner. ”

  “We will, my sister,” he said, watching as she flinched.

  They passed the first mile in strained silence, Maria’s eyes on the ground, her whole being intensely aware of Cristóbal’s presence.

  He cleared his throat. “I think that if you did not stare at the road, you would still know where to put your feet.”

  She looked up and laughed.

  “That is better. ”

  “I took the children home yesterday evening,” Cristóbal said, as if reading her thoughts. “Thank you for what you did, Maria. You could not leave the baby to die. Even if others could.”

  “Be fair,” she said. “I know that for me, it was right to save the baby. But it was also right for Diego to be angry. I disobeyed him.”

  “Can we both be right, Maria?” he asked. “How is this possible?” He slowed down so she could keep up with him better.

  “I don’t know. The whole thing is confusing to me,” she answered. “In your own ways, both of you are right.”

  He was silent as they walked together, a profound, watchful Indian silence. I do not dare pretend with this man, she thought, hurrying to keep up as he unconsciously lengthened his stride again.

  When they came to the river, Cristóbal scooped her up and carried her across. She knew it was useless to protest, so she tightened her arms around his neck and said nothing. He set her down on the opposite bank, pausing while she straightened her skirts around her again.

  “You hardly weigh anything, Maria,” he said, then was silent as they continued the walk to Tesuque.

  The red brick adobe rose before them, handsome against the spring sky. The Tesuque pueblo was unlike anything Maria had seen. She put her hand to her heart and wished with all her mind that she could paint it. She had last seen Tesuque at night, dark and brooding. It teemed with life now on all the levels, as the homely tasks of weaving, pottery and cooking spread out before her.

  “How beautiful it is,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed, “just the way we see it now. Even if there are those who seek to change it.” He tilted his head and surveyed her, his voice earnest. “I realize you are Spanish, but does it not strike you as strange? Although nothing about us has changed in a thousand years, and no one ever complained before, now we must pray to a white man’s God, one who has not wit to decide if he is Father, Son or Holy Spirit. ”

  “Cristóbal!” Maria exclaimed, shocked enough to call him by name.

  He looked as though he wanted to argue with her, but he closed his lips firmly and led her toward the nearest ladder. “Follow me,” he said.

  She gathered her skirts in one hand and awkwardly mounted the ladder. Cristóbal pulled her up when she neared the top. “And now, you must meet a mother who has much to say to you.”

  He led her to the end of the terrace, past men at their looms who turned to watch as she walked by and past children who were suddenly silent at their play.

  “Look out for your head,” he said as he ducked inside one of the rooms.

  She ducked her head, too, and opened her eyes wider to accustom herself to the sudden gloom. The room was small and neat, the cooking pots stacked in one corner and bedding in the other. An Indian mother sat cross-legged, nursing a baby. It was the baby she had pulled from the cornfield yesterday. She smiled at the mother, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

  Gently the mother disengaged the baby from her breast and handed the child to the young girl sitting nearby. The woman arranged her cotton dress about her, then knelt at Maria’s feet. Maria burst into tears, crying louder as Cristóbal’s arm went around her in a tight grip.

  She turned her face into his shoulder. “Oh, tell her not to do that!” she said.

  He rested his hand on her cheek for a moment, then spoke to the woman, who rose and gathered Maria into her arms. The women clung to each other, their tears mingling. The baby began to whimper and the mother released Maria, picking up the child and crooning to it. Maria wiped her eyes on the hem of her dress, smiling through her tears at Cristóbal. The woman spoke to him, and he turned to Maria.

  “She says to tell you of her gratitude.” He wiped her face with his sleeve. “She says all she has is yours.”

  Maria shook her head. “I want nothing. I am only glad I was able to undo something that I caused in the first place. Tell her that. ”

  He did. The woman motioned for them to sit. They did, and Cristóbal leaned toward Maria. “She will offer you food. Please do not accept. They have so little, and they will give it all to you.”

  “Oh, I could not take their food!” Maria exclaimed.

  “Others do,” said Cristóbal. “My brother among them.”

  The woman was speaking again. Cristóbal said, “She wants to feed you. Tell her no.”

  Maria shook her head, stroking the baby’s head and smiling.

  “She says, ‘Very well,’ but she has something more for you,” Cristóbal translated.

  The woman handed the baby to the girl, rose from the floor and went to the corner by the bedding. She returned with a blanket, which she handed to Maria, bowing and then taking the baby again. Maria fingered the blanket, noting the elaborate design, the colors muted and restful in the gloom of the pueblo.

  “Her husband made it. She wants you to have it as a token of her gratitude.”

  Maria held the blanket to her. “Tell her thank you for me.”

  “Tell her yourself,” he replied, and had her repeat the phrase several times until she could approximate the sounds.

  Maria thanked the mother who held the baby close to her. Cristóbal got to his feet and helped Maria up. They stood close together in the small room as the mother began to nurse the baby again. The small sucking noises filled Maria with a contentment she had not felt since before the death of her parents. The flow of life was all around her and she marveled at the peace it b
rought to her soul.

  “Come, Maria, let us be off,” said Cristóbal.

  After patting the baby again, Maria ducked out of the small opening and into the sunlight. She held the blanket in front of her, smoothing it as she admired the design and texture.

  “How curious,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I came here with no possessions except my dress, and Diego burned that. And now I have something of my own, and it is Indian.”

  “I would call that a good sign.”

  They walked the length of the terrace, Cristóbal stopping to speak to the Pueblos at work, touching a child, remarking on the design of a blanket on a loom, accepting a handful of pine nuts. The air was crisp and smelled of cooking and piñon wood. Maria wanted to hold out her-arms and gather it all to her. Instead, she fingered the blanket folded over her arm and watched Cristóbal with his people.

  While Cristóbal squatted by an old man making arrows, Maria remembered Emiliano el santero and continued toward the end of the pueblo, peering in open doorways, seeking the dancing saints on their deerskin hides.

  And there they were. A saint carved of cottonwood beckoned to her from the window ledge. It could only be San Pedro, holding his keys of gold and iron, one to open the gates of heaven, the other to open the gates of hell. Maria looked inside the door.

  Emiliano glanced up from his place on the floor as she peered inside. “Come in, come in,” he said. “I am carving San Pedro’s other arm, so do not fear that he has met with an untimely accident.”

  She touched the statue. “What do you call this?” she asked, walking around to view the saint from behind.

  “It is a bulto. I have carved San Pedro for my own pleasure, but he will probably end up at Las Invernadas. Diego Masferrer is always fondest of those clear-cut saints whose purpose is straightforward. And what is your pleasure, Maria?” he asked. “San Miguel with his sword? Rafaelo and his fish?” Emiliano looked outside at the tall man kneeling by the arrowmaker. “Or perhaps San Cristóbal, he who carried the Christ Child?”

  She blushed. “I do not know, Emiliano.” She looked at the painting of Christ on the deerhide opposite her. The mouth was open in agony, the eyes anguished at the pain of crucifixion. These people know something of suffering, she thought. Their Cristo did not hang bloodless on a cross. He suffered and struggled, even as they did. She turned away.

  “Before you go, Señorita,” said Emiliano. “you want to paint?”

  “Not today, Emiliano.”

  “Come to me when your mind is more settled, Maria, and we shall see if you can look inside a human heart and paint what is there.”

  As she left, her eyes flickered to the agony on the cross, then back to Emiliano, who was whittling again. She went into the sunlight, turning back for a last glimpse of San Pedro.

  Cristóbal waited for her. “1 thought I had lost you,” he remarked, following her gaze to San Pedro. “All those keys. Such a busy man is San Pedro. Almost like Diego.”

  “We should be on our way,” Maria began, then stopped at the sound of shouting. She hurried to the edge of the terrace and looked toward the road they had traveled. A line of Indians walked slowly toward the pueblo, followed by a ranchero on horseback, cursing at them to hurry.

  “Are those Indians returning from Las Invernadas?”

  “No,” he said briefly. “From the land of Lorenzo Nuñez. We passed his place just before the river. Do you not remember?”

  She nodded.

  “The Pueblos from Las Invernadas will be along soon, then the Indians from the Gutierrez estancia, farther to the south and west. The men will eat, if there is anything left here to eat, then they will hurry into their own fields, to race against the sun while they and their women plant and hoe their own crops. And when the harvest comes, Señor Masferrer, Señor Nuñez and Señor Gutierrez will take a share of their crop.”

  “But why?” Maria asked.

  Cristóbal shrugged. “It is the encomienda system. The conquered must give to the conquerors. The children are hungry and they follow you with their eyes, but still the Señores come and exact their tribute.”

  Maria followed Cristóbal down the ladder. “But I do not understand. The encomienda was abolished long ago in Mexico.”

  “But not here. We are too far away from Mexico City. The only ones who complain are the Pueblos, and they cannot write the viceroy.”

  They approached the Indians returning from the fields. “And there is Señor Nuñez himself. I wonder what he wants. He likes young girls. And young boys, some say. When they return from his hacienda, they do not smile anymore.”

  “Oh, Cristóbal!” Maria said, again horrified into calling him by name.

  “I do not lie to you, Maria. Señor Gutierrez is a better man, but I have seen the backs of the children who do not polish Señora Gutierrez’s silver to her satisfaction.”

  Cristóbal stared at Lorenzo Nuñez. “Watch him now. He will march into Father Pio’s church, toss some coins in the poor box, fling himself to his knees and pray, assured that he is a benevolent man, a kind master.” He turned to Maria in sudden anger. “Is your God blind, as well as witless, that he can ignore the blows on the backs of children? And are we to pray to this two-faced being? I marvel, Maria, what you Spaniards expect of us.”

  Maria turned pale in stunned surprise. “And what of ...” Maria could not go on.

  “Diego? I have prayed with him long enough to know that he is an honest man. But you will agree that we eat much better at Las Invernadas than the children do here. I have seen the young ones prowling around our dump out behind the wall.”

  “This is not right!” Maria said. “Let me return this blanket. I cannot take what is theirs.” She made to climb the ladder again, but Cristóbal stopped her.

  “Keep the blanket. It will just go to Nuñez or Gutierrez. We are helpless, Maria.”

  As they walked past the Indians, Lorenzo Nuñez swiveled around in his saddle to watch Maria. Cristóbal cursed under his breath. “And that is what we live with. We used to be masters of the earth, but now we are less than dust underfoot. ”

  On the walk back to Las Invernadas, she saw nothing but the thin children with their hollow eyes and men returning discouraged from others’ fields. She understood now the agony in the eyes of the Cristo in the saintmaker’s shop. Emiliano had painted his own people.

  They arrived at the hacienda just as Diego was returning. “Hola, amigos," he called out. The front of his shirt was stained with the blood of birthing ewes, and the lines on his face were more pronounced than ever, but he was cheerful as he wiped down his horse Diablo and turned him loose in the pasture by the orchard.

  Luz ran from the hacienda to meet Diego. He kissed her and ruffled her hair, then reached into the wriggling sack on the ground by his saddle. “Look what I have for you. A lamb to mother.”

  “How did it go, Diego?” Cristóbal asked as Luz took the lamb carefully from her brother, holding it to her and looking at Maria with delighted eyes.

  “Well enough. A ewe decided that one child was enough, so Luz will see what kind of a substitute she is. What have you, Maria?” She held out the blanket and he fingered it, a smile on his face. “Beautiful. Is it from the parents of the baby?”

  Cristóbal answered. “Yes, my brother. They are grateful to Maria, even if you were not.”

  Diego made no comment. He turned, picked up his saddle and carried it to the stable.

  “Are you coming, Maria?” Cristóbal asked.

  “No. I want to talk to Diego.” She stood where she was, watching Luz nuzzle the little lamb that butted against her stomach and made her squeal.

  “Take it to the cook,” Diego told his sister when he returned to them. “She will show you how to feed it with a rag dipped in milk.”

  Luz staggered toward the house with her burden. Diego laughed. “Catarina got an orphaned lamb last year. It became such a member of the family that it would follow her to evening prayers.” He
peered closely at her face. “But you have not stayed behind to laugh about lambs, have you, Maria? I was afraid this would happen if Cristóbal took you to Tesuque. Out with it. What have I done now to add to my catalog of unforgivable sins?”

  He walked with her slowly toward the house, crossing the footbridge and standing at the top of the garden.

  “There is so little to eat at Tesuque, Señor,” she began, trying to fathom his emotions from his calm expression. “Could you not, perhaps, release the Pueblos of Tesuque from the allotment they must give you this year?”

  “I cannot.”

  “But, my lord,” she burst out, all control gone, “if you could but see the children!”

  “I have seen the children,” he shot back. “I see their big bellies and their deep-set eyes. But Maria, Maria, to stop the tribute they owe their encomendero would be a sign of weakness I cannot afford!”

  She said nothing. The tears welled up in her eyes and Diego turned away.

  “It was never so hard before you came, Maria chiquita,” he said quietly. “You must think I am a wretched person. I cannot begin to express to you the personal agony I feel when I see the children. Although I am their encomendero and bound to exact tribute from them, I am also bound to defend them and protect them. Of late, I have not been doing so well.”

  “Forgive me, Señor,” she said softly. “I do not understand this place.”

  “No, you do not,” he agreed, turning to face her again. “Do not judge me so harshly.”

  He left her and went into the kitchen. She followed a few minutes later. Several chickens roasted on the fireplace spit, revolving slowly as the cook turned them. Maria watched the juices drip onto the coals, hissing and steaming.

  She went to her room, put the Indian blanket at the foot of the bed and sat down next to it. If there were someplace else she could have gone, she would have left Las Inveradas, not out of unhappiness but out of confusion. She felt torn between two rights, between Diego’s vision and Cristóbal’s. But she had no place to go, so she sat where she was, touching the blanket and thinking of Emiliano’s Cristo.

  Chapter 7