by Carla Kelly
The Awakening Heart
Maria could never put her finger on the moment when she began to love Diego Masferrer. Her feeling was as natural and necessary as the water flowing in the acequia or the moon rising full and gleaming over calm fields. Her love for Diego Masferrer was as much a part of her as her very breath. As she had never known a time when she did not breathe, so now she could not imagine a moment not loving Diego.
He had none of the handsomeness of his brother Cristóbal. He did not go out of his way to help her with small tasks, to see that she was happy, as Cristóbal did. Diego teased her as he teased his sisters. He touched her as he touched them, his hands sure and firm on her shoulders. He did not realize that his careless arm around her became almost painful to Maria, because she knew that he did not love her as a woman, only cared for her as a sister.
He liked and admired her, calling her Maria La Formidable when she stood up to him, or Maria chiquita in moments of fondness, but nothing about him indicated that the well of his soul was filled to overflowing, as hers was. When she knelt to kiss his hand each night after evening prayers, she longed to hold his hand against her cheek, then place it between her breasts, where he could feel the beating of her heart. But she did nothing.
She tried not to think of it, even to herself. She would have continued ignoring her own emotions if Cristóbal had not come courting.
Maria sat in the sewing room one summer afternoon, looking out the window at Luz and Catarina, who sat in the pepper tree playing with their dolls. Cristóbal had hammered a crude platform for them in the tree, over Erlinda’s objections. Maria could watch them from the window, and it gave her pleasure to look up from the darning of endless socks to see them sitting there, their legs dangling over the edge companionably.
Cristóbal knocked and she looked around.
“You seemed to be elsewhere.”
“Just in that pepper tree.”
He came to the window and leaned over her, watching his little sisters at play. “Diego and I had a tree like that. Over by the corral. I could always beat him into it, because his legs are short. But he had more staying power.” He chuckled, resting his hand on the back of the chair. “I would tire long before he was ready to come down. It became a matter of pride to outlast him in the tree, but I never could.” His face was close to hers. “Are your eyes blue or green, Maria?” he asked. “They have the most amazing depth to them.”
She leaned back. He was too close. “They are blue,” she said firmly, “only blue.”
He was holding a shirt. She took it from him, anxious to take his mind off her eyes. “What have you for me?” she asked.
“A shirt. I have pulled off two buttons and it is my best shirt. Can you fix it for me before tonight?”
“Are you going courting?” she teased.
He looked at her quickly. “Yes, I am,” he said with a dignity that made her wish she had not made a joke of him. “It is an important thing I do tonight.”
She was oddly touched by his manner. “You are a lucky man then, sir. Do I know the young woman?”
He hesitated before answering. “Yes, perhaps. But possibly not as well as you think you do.”
“You speak in tongues,” she said.
“It is no matter. If you do not have any buttons, take two off another of my shirts. I must help Diego shoe a horse now. Will you put the shirt in my room when you are through?”
“Yes, of course,’’ she replied, a little awed by his serious manner.
After another look out the window, he left her. She could not find any buttons to match, so she rearranged the remaining buttons to put the two odd ones at the bottom where he tucked the shirt into his breeches. In her mind’s eye, Maria could see Cristóbal sitting in the sala, speaking his heart and mind to the father of the woman he loved. She smiled and lined the buttons up carefully, pleased in some small way to further the prosperity of his cause, which surely in his position must be a different one. He was a Masferrer, but he was also an Indian.
When she was done, she smoothed the shirt with her hands and folded it, carrying it down the hall to Cristóbal’s room. It was even smaller and more sparse than the other bedrooms, with only a bed and chest in it. There was no altar, and only a bare nail over the head of the bed where a crucifix should have been. Maria sighed. Perhaps when Cristóbal had a wife and children of his own, he would come to understand the abundance God had given him.
She met Erlinda in the hall. “I think Cristóbal is going courting tonight,” she said, and told the young widow about the shirt and the buttons.
“It would be a fine thing, Maria,” she said. “The hacienda seems too small these days for both Cristóbal and Diego. They remind me of two stallions, squaring off at each other.”
“Erlinda!”
“Well, they do. They intrude on each other’s territory more and more, and I confess it does not make me easy. And I am happy for Cristóbal—despite our differences.”
She touched Maria’s arm. “You will understand what I mean someday. It was that way with Marco. We had spent time in each other’s company, but suddenly something changed.”
Erlinda pulled Maria out to the patio. “This is not a subject one should talk about, but Maria, I can understand Cristóbal in this matter.” They sat on the sun-warmed bench by the tile fountain. “You can know somebody for years and then one day, instead of seeing Marco Castellano, you see a husband, the father of your children.” She paused in embarrassment. “I can understand Cristóbal. He has reached that moment in his life, and it is a special feeling.”
Maria looked away. I already know that feeling, she thought.
But Erlinda was speaking. “He has not said anything, but I think Diego could be persuaded to see that you are provided for.”
“I cannot expect that,” said Maria, her voice low.
“I do think he will always have your interests at heart,” insisted Erlinda, “for you are one of us now.”
Maria could say nothing. Struggling with tears, she rose and left the patio. She spent the afternoon in the calm of La Señora’s room, reading to her from the book of the saints. As she read the words on the page, her mind traveled in circles. She read of Santa Catarina de Alexandria spurning an earthly crown because she aspired to a heavenly one. Oh, Catarina, you foolish woman, Maria thought. The things of this earth are precious, too.
She was beginning the chapter on Santa Clara when La Señora put her hand over the page. Maria looked up. “Child, your mind is not on what you are reading today,” said the woman. “Are you unhappy?”
Maria shook her head, closing the book. “No, not really. I feel at odds with myself, and I do not know why.” To her horror, she burst into tears.
La Señora patted her knee while she cried and protested through her tears that she did not understand her turmoil. Through her stormy tears she heard the door open. “Not now, hijo,” said La Señora quietly, and the door closed. Maria dried her tears on her dress and blew her nose on the handkerchief La Señora gave her.
As she rose to leave, La Señora rose with her, tucking her arm through Maria’s. “My husband Tomas used to tell me that this time of year is hard on tender young things. I always thought he meant plants and small animals. Perhaps I was wrong. Maria, we love you here. If you wish to talk to me, I am always ready to listen.”
Maria hugged her. “How kind you are, Señora. It must be the weather, or the time of the month. It is nothing that will not pass.”
La Señora smiled. “Are you so sure? Well, never mind. Just remember what I said.”
“I will.” Maria kissed her forehead and left the room.
Cristóbal ate dinner in his usual clothes, then excused himself before everyone was finished. Erlinda leaned toward her brother.
“Maria sewed two buttons on his best shirt this afternoon.”
“And?” asked Diego, holding his fork between the bowl and his mouth.
“He is going courting.”
Diego s
miled to himself. He shook his head and continued eating.
Erlinda picked up the dishes and headed for the sink. “Some men know nothing of the heart,” she said over her shoulder.
Diego laughed and threw his napkin at her.
Maria washed the dishes while Erlinda visited with her mother. Diego still sat in the kitchen, his head resting on his arm, his eyes closed. But Cristóbal came into the kitchen as she swirled the dishwater at the sink.
“Diego, wake up.”
Diego opened his eyes and looked at his brother. “Cristóbal, que guapo! How elegant you look tonight.”
Cristóbal had laid aside his usual leather breeches and was resplendent in black wool. His doublet was black, too, with silver and turquoise beads down the front that winked in the firelight. He wore his best boots pulled high on his legs and polished to a gloss in which Maria could see her face. She noted with satisfaction that the two odd buttons on his shirt did not show.
“Diego, I would speak with you in the sala,” Cristóbal said formally.
Diego shoved away his dinner and stood up. “Yes, of course.”
“You can advise me.”
“Let us go.”
They left the room without a word to Maria. She carried Diego's dishes to the sink and washed them. Erlinda came into the room.
“Did you see Cristóbal?” she asked.
“Was he not superb? He is speaking to Diego in the sala. Diego is advising him in his courting.”
“I would almost risk perdition to listen at the door, so let us put temptation behind us and get far away from this place!”
She dried the dishes while Maria carried the dishpan into the garden and let the water run slowly to the ground by the tomatoes. She set the dishpan by the back door and walked to the acequia. Erlinda joined her with two towels and the soap.
“It is dark enough and the guards have not yet climbed to the roof. If we are in the water, it will keep us from the keyhole!”
Laughing, Maria unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it. Shivering, she hurried out of her chemise and stepped into the water. Erlinda followed, gasping as the water touched her skin. She sank into the ditch. “Turn around, I will scrub your back,” she said through chattering teeth.
Maria did as she was told. The rough soap felt good on her skin.
She sighed. Erlinda flicked water at her and laughed. “You scrub my back now.”
The cold soon drove them from the water. They toweled off rapidly and pulled on their clothes. “Do you think Cristóbal is through?” asked Erlinda, walking ahead of Maria toward the house.
As if in answer, the back door banged open and Cristóbal strode down the path. He was dressed in his everyday clothes again. He said nothing to Erlinda as he passed her, but stopped by Maria, who was hurrying to button her dress.
He made as if to speak, then took both her hands in his. Without a word he kissed her hard on the mouth, released her and ran to the stables. In shock, Maria saw him leave the stable on horseback, take the fence in a graceful leap, and race north on the road to Taos. She stood where she was, her feet rooted to the ground, her hands to her lips.
Suddenly Diego stood in the doorway. “Maria, I would speak with you,” he said. “Come into the sala.”
Numb, Maria wrapped her wet hair in the towel and followed Diego into the sala. “Sit down.”
She sat. Diego faced her. “I do not know how to begin, Maria.” He paused and unwound the towel on her head. “You look silly with that on your hair.”
“But my hair is wet,” she protested.
He ignored her, removing the towel and draping it over the back of his chair. A flush rose to his cheeks and he looked away from her. “Cristóbal asked me for permission to marry you.”
“You cannot be serious,” she said when she found the words to speak.
“Of course I am serious. He says that since I have appointed myself your guardian, I should speak for you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Need you ask? I told him no.”
When Maria said nothing, his tone softened. “Was I wrong?”
“No, you were not wrong,’’ she whispered, and he leaned closer to hear her. “No,” she said again. “I do not love Cristóbal.”
He leaned back in his chair. “He accused me of wanting you for myself. I told him that was ridiculous—you are like one of my sisters —but he just laughed.”
Maria closed her eyes. Diego’s words lashed at her heart, but she said nothing to him.
“I was hasty with him. I suggested that he go away for a while to give himself time to think.” Diego got up, walked to the middle of the room and leaned on the narrow table there, his back to her. “If he still feels the same way, well, perhaps this had better become a matter between you and Cristóbal. He is my brother and I love him, but he is also half Indian and you are a well-bred Spanish girl.” He turned around. “On the other hand, Maria, you are fifteen. You have no dowry. You are a pretty thing, and you have such dancing eyes ....”
He stopped, shaking his head and smiling. “I can provide land for Cristóbal, though as an Indian he is not permitted to own it in his own name, and he has always had a share in the livestock, although I have never told him. Maybe you should think about this. He will return in a month or so. Then you both must act carefully and, above all, wisely.”
Maria rose and walked to the door. “But is this not a matter for the heart?” she asked.
He came to her and leaned against the door. “I do not know. I have never been in love,” he said, “and I know few people who have, Maria. This kingdom has made us calculating. We must plan our every move. To achieve certain aims, I must move in certain directions. If I am to expand my herds, I need land nearby. Lorenzo Nuñez has a daughter. She is young, but she will grow. When she is old enough, I will declare myself to Señor Nuñez. He will slap me on the back, call me a fine fellow, and we will seal the matter between us with wine. Then he will tell his daughter. That is how it is.”
“Let me leave, Diego,” she said, chilled to her bones by his words. He moved away from the door, his hands at his sides. “You do not approve, Maria?” he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion. “We must survive in this harsh land.”
Maria opened the door. “That is what my sister said. Are you no different than she?”
Her words had the force of a slap. Maria left the room without another look at Diego. She went swiftly to her room and sat silent before the altar. When the bell sounded for prayers an hour later, she remained where she was.
Summer brought an uneasy peace to Maria. Life was hard in the river colony of New Mexico, the land all-consuming. There was little time for personal thoughts. There was only the shocking blue of the cloudless sky, the red-brown earth the color of an old wound, the purple mass of mountain and mesa, the brassy yellow of the sun. There was only work.
A dozen times a day, Maria thought of Diego’s words. This Nuevo Mexico was not a place for softness or romance. And yet with each passing day, she fell deeper in love with Diego Masferrer. He was an imperfect human being, even as she was, struggling daily against the harshness of his surroundings and losing. The drought deepened that summer and she watched him walk his fields, measuring the height of the corn against his body with his hands, kneeling by the acequia with desperate prayers. It tore at her heart, but she had no consolation to offer him.
She turned to the saints of Las Invernadas, pleading with them silently as she passed them daily in the halls, pausing also to admire their lines and texture. Diego caught her at it one morning. “So you like our holy ones here?” he commented, coming up behind her as she ran her hand over San Isidro in the hallway.
They had not spoken alone since their confrontation in the sala. She put her hands behind her back like a small child, and he laughed. Maria relaxed at the easiness of his laughter but she knew, with a hollow feeling that emptied her soul, that her love was destined to go no further than her own heart.
; “Truly, I did not mean to startle you,” he said.
“Well, you did.” The last person she expected indoors was Diego Masferrer. He spent his days in the saddle, overseeing his cattle and sheep. And with Cristóbal gone, his work load had doubled.
He was dressed in his usual work clothes, his legs from the waist to knee covered with the kilt-like leather apron all the New Mexican rancheros wore. His calves from the ankles up were wrapped with leather leggings that tied behind each knee. Then she saw it. The scarf he usually wore around his head was held to his forearm, which was covered with blood.
“What happened?” she asked, following him to the kitchen.
“I would prefer not to say,” he began, “but I suppose I must. I fell off Tirant and landed in a bed of cactus.” His eyes smiled at her.
“I hardly think it something to joke about,” she murmured, holding the door open for him.
“Oh, you do not? You should have heard Teruel, my vaquero. I am only grateful that Cristóbal is not here.” He coughed and looked at his boots. “I didn’t mean to remind you. I mean ...”
“Oh, Diego,” she interrupted, unconsciously using his Christian name. “He is your brother, and I have driven him away.”
“So he is,” he replied heavily. He sat down at the table and stretched his arm out in front of him. “Well, I have come on other matters. Can you find the turpentine and pincers?”
Maria hurried into the storeroom for the jug of turpentine. She found the pliers and seated herself at the table next to him. Diego turned to face her on the bench, crossing his legs Indian-style and taking the pliers from her. He began pulling out the thorny spicules, swearing under his breath.
When his hand became slippery with blood, Maria took the pincers from him and pulled out thorns. Some were in so deep that she had to press the skin down with a knife to reach them. “It would seem to me, Señor,” she said, “that everything in this land either bites or tastes bad.”
“I never thought of it that way,” he replied, gritting his teeth.
“Of course you do not. This is your home.”
