Daughter of Fortune

by Carla Kelly

  She pulled aside the hide flap. The drumming stopped. Unknown hands yanked her into the room.

  Maria blinked in the light. “Salvador santo,” she whispered in terror.

  The sight before her was more frightening than her worst nightmares. Terrified beyond speech she stared up at the enormous figures that stood in front of her, great tall creatures covered with feathers of fantastic colors and masks frozen in vivid expressions of violence, beasts from a long-forgotten age of giants. She looked from one figure to the next,. The demons were covered with a dull white paint the color of dead skin. In the murk of the smoky, stifling room, they seemed to float in the air.

  Indian eyes watched her from behind immobile masks. The dancing had stopped. The dancers came closer, the jingle of copper Spanish ankle bells the only sound in the room.

  In panic Maria dropped to the floor, her legs unable to hold her. She lay in a heap on the dirt floor, staring at the tall figures in front of her.-

  A demon came closer, reached out a hand to her. She shuddered and drew back. The Indian lifted off his headpiece. Cristóbal.

  “You!” she gasped, scrambling back against the wall. His face was filled with anger, his eyes harder than she had ever seen them.

  “I told you to wait for me with Emiliano.” He yanked her to her feet. “Why did you not do as I said?”

  “It is getting late. I must return to Las Invernadas.” She managed to force her words past the growing lump in her throat. He let go of her then, and she knelt in the dirt in front of him.

  The anger went out of him in one sigh. “Maria, it would have been better if you had done as I said.”

  “Please forgive me,” she whispered, her head bowed, her voice scarcely audible. “I meant no harm. Please believe me.”

  He knelt beside her and she drew back unconsciously, regretting her movements as soon as she looked at his face. He had reached out to her, but now he pulled his hand back. “I believe you, Maria,” he finally replied, the hurt betrayed by his voice and his averted face. “I believe you. I only hope the others will.”

  He stood and turned to speak to the other men in masks. The three largest demons retreated to the far side of the room, looking like gigantic birds of prey. They did not remove their masks. The remaining figure took off his headpiece and set it on the ground.

  “This is Popeh,” said Cristóbal to Maria. The man said nothing, only stared down at Maria, his expression unfathomable, his eyes glittering.

  Maria gazed back at him in terror. He was enormous, taller than any man she had ever seen, and burned nearly black by the sun. His eyes were a curious yellow, and they bored into her face without blinking. She stared at his eyes like a bird trapped in a rattlesnake’s trance.

  The Indian spoke to Cristóbal, who answered him after uncharacteristic hesitation. The men argued back and forth in Tewa, Popeh demanding, Cristóbal answering. All the while, Popeh’s eyes never left Maria’s face.

  Suddenly, Popeh stepped forward and yanked Maria to her feet again, ripping her dress under the armpit. He pulled her close as if memorizing every pore and freckle on her face. He shook her off then, like a terrier does a mouse.

  Maria slumped against the wall. Her legs still would not hold her up. Popeh spoke again to Cristóbal, then folded his arms, as if waiting.

  Cristóbal approached Maria again. She did not back away from him this time.

  “Maria, he told me to tell you that members of his own family have died for less than this.”

  Maria straightened, her back against the wall. She clasped her hands in front of her to stop their trembling. “I have done nothing wrong. I beg his mercy and his permission to go.”

  Cristóbal repeated her words to Popeh, who uttered a string of harsh phrases. As he turned away, Maria saw that his back was covered with a mass of scars and welts, as if someone had beaten him. The deep furrows between his shoulders ran with sweat, smearing the white yeso paint. He turned to face Maria again, his eyes on her like a hound harrying a rabbit. She forced herself to look away, to concentrate instead on Cristóbal, who was reaching for her.

  He took her gently by the arm and pulled her toward the opening, speaking in a low voice. “Just keep walking. Do not look back. And hurry when we get outside. I cannot account for Popeh. Not ever. I have saved you for the moment, but the moment may pass.”

  She took a few tentative steps, walking as if in a dream. Cristóbal pulled her out of the room then, snatching up a lighted farol as he ducked through the low doorway. With Maria in tow, he hurried through the empty storerooms, pausing only to listen for pursuers. He loosened his grip on her arm finally. “I hear the drums again, Maria. You will be safe now.”

  They continued in silence from the pueblo’s interior and her fear gradually gave way to confusion. Cristóbal was deliberately choosing the longest way around the Indian maze. Does he honestly think I would ever, ever go back inside there again, she asked herself.

  Back at the santero’s workshop, Emiliano was nowhere in sight, but Maria picked up the retablo still resting on the window ledge. She touched the paint. It was dry. Santa Teresa’s gentle gaze still rested on her folded hands. She had not seen the evil Maria had.

  The sun was nearly below the rim of the horizon. “You must walk back,” said Cristóbal. “I must return to Popeh.”

  Maria shook her head and held onto his arm. “Do not go back there. Please.”

  He shook her hand off his arm, smiling slightly, the smile vanishing quickly. “Look, your fingers are white now.”

  She wiped her hand on her dress. “Cristóbal, please!”

  Cristóbal sighed. “I must go back. It is Popeh’s will.” They descended the ladder. “I will walk you to the edge of the trees,” he said, as if reluctant to let her go. “You know the way to the hacienda.” She walked beside him to the cottonwoods, her legs still shaky but her mind full of Popeh and Cristóbal. They stood together at the edge of the trees. “Cristóbal,” she began, unsure of his reaction, “you do not worship those demons, do you?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “You do not understand.”

  “But what about the True Faith?” she persisted, driven on by demons of her own.

  “Maria, I follow my true faith.” He took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Everyone seems to have forgotten that I am Tewa.”

  “Only part Tewa,” she argued.

  “It is enough,” he concluded. “Go now. You will be back before dark, if you hurry.”

  He released her and after a long look at him, she hurried up the road toward Las Invernadas, holding Santa Teresa tightly to her, as if to ward off the demons of Tesuque.

  Chapter 9

  Cutting the Cloak to Fit the Cloth

  When she was out of sight of the pueblo, Maria slowed to a walk and looked behind her. No one followed. She paused to take a rock out of her shoe, then started walking quickly to Las Invernadas. She knew she should feel comfort in the knowledge of the strength and power of the Masferrer hacienda but, for the first time, she felt none. One look in Popeh’s compelling eyes convinced her that there was no safety in the river kingdom of New Mexico.

  She could still see his peculiar yellow eyes measuring her face, compelling her to look at him. Almost as though he were trying to hypnotize me, she said to herself.

  The hate in Popeh’s eyes had been unmistakable. He hates me because I am Spanish, she thought, stopping in the road and looking down at the serenity of Santa Teresa cradled in her arms.

  She looked back once more, then walked on more slowly. All her life she had taken for granted the servitude of Indians. They were there, those slim, dark-skinned people, to serve her and those around her. In exchange they were rewarded with Spanish ways and the True Faith. They were as little children, looking to their white lords for guidance. But were they really?

  Popeh was not childish. If Cristóbal had not been there, Popeh would have killed her. Simply because I am Spanish. What has gone wrong?


  Diego would tell her that nothing was wrong. He would speak of his land and his Indians, as if they were personal possessions, bought and paid for. And yet even he sensed trouble brewing. Why else had he asked her to keep her eyes open?

  And then there was Cristóbal, equal in all things, according to Diego, except the things that mattered. He can eat with us, pray with us, dress like us, and even ride horses—Spanish privilege, she thought. But he cannot own land, he cannot inherit.

  As Maria stood still in the road, terrified of Tesuque, strangely apprehensive about Las Invernadas, she heard a horse and rider approaching. Instinct drove her off the path and into the cottonwoods lining the road. Then she saw Diego. She returned to the road, her retablo held tight against her.

  “Maria,” he called out, reining in his horse and dismounting quickly. “I have been searching for you. Erlinda said you have been gone since midmorning. I thought it was time to start worrying.” He peered closer at her. “What is the matter, Maria chiquita? Where is Cristóbal?”

  She gestured back toward Tesuque. “He is still there. He told me to leave without him.” She hesitated, unwilling to expose Cristóbal to Diego, and afraid not to. Fear of Popeh was sharp as a knife pricking her conscience to speak, fear for herself and fear for Cristóbal.

  Steadying himself against his horse, Diego removed his spurs, dangling the spiked rowels from his gloved hand as he walked beside her. “Tell me, por favor. Something is wrong, is it not?’’ he asked. When Maria would not answer him, he nudged her shoulder. “Come now, Maria. I must know what is going on. Besides, we shook hands on it.”

  She walked beside him, looking straight ahead. “Do you know an Indian named Popeh?” she asked suddenly.

  “No. He is not one of my Indians.” He waited for her to continue.

  “He is tall and very dark. His eyes are the most curious shade of yellow ...” Her voice trailed off as she remembered those eyes. With an effort, and another nudge from Diego, she said, “His back was covered with scars, as if from a flogging. ”

  Diego frowned. “Is this my Taos Indian?” he asked himself out loud. He stopped walking and his horse nuzzled him. He put up his hand and absently stroked the animal’s nose. “Your description does remind me of something, the more I think of it. It was just before Papa died, about five years ago. He was too sick to travel but the rest of us had gone to Santa Fe for a hanging.”

  “Hanging?”

  “Yes. Sixty or so Indians were caught practicing their old religion. Remember the kachinas I told you about? Three Pueblos were hanged.”

  “And you went to see it?”

  He nodded. “Our governor’s command. He thought such spectacle was educational. I suppose it was. I was never tempted to worship a kachina. As I was saying, they were hanged, and their bodies left dangling between Santa Fe and Analco. A warning. Thirty or forty other Indians were beaten quite soundly and then thrown in prison. I think this Popeh was one of them. It would seem, Maria, that our Taos trouble is moving south.”

  “You’re sure?” she questioned.

  “No more than you are. But I seem to remember that Taos Indian. He was a born leader—and a troublemaker.”

  Maria took a deep breath. “I saw Popeh, and Cristóbal with him. They were wearing enormous headdresses that covered their faces—and they were dancing.”

  Diego stopped again. “Dancing?”

  She nodded. “The room was filled with smoke and there were other Indians chanting and dancing.”

  “Where was this?” he asked quickly.

  “Inside the pueblo. I went in search of Cristóbal, got lost, and there they were.”

  Diego juggled the spurs in his hand. “A kiva,” he said.

  “What?”

  “An underground, circular room where the Indians used to summon their gods. I thought the kiva in Tesuque was destroyed years ago by the missionaries.” They started walking again. “The Fathers have gone to great pains to eradicate all signs of the old ways. I wonder if Father Pio knows?”

  “I do not see how he could,” replied Maria. “Their kiva was in the middle of the pueblo. Cristóbal led me out by such a roundabout way that I know I could never find it again.” She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. “As if I would ever look for it.”

  "You’re sure Cristóbal was there?” Diego asked, his voice colder than the gathering evening. “You saw him?”

  “I told you I did. He was wearing one of the masks and dancing, too.”

  Diego let out an explosive sigh. “Cristóbal! A Spaniard! My brother!”

  She remembered Cristóbal’s words that morning. “Half Spaniard. And half Indian. Also half-brother. He is troubled. Torn.”

  “But still my brother. A Masferrer does not dance at pagan ceremonies. And the Indians are forbidden to dance.”

  “You ask me questions and rage at the answers!” she snapped.

  He turned away and began walking again. She fell in step. They covered nearly a mile in uncomfortable silence. With each step Maria regretted her words more. He spends eighteen hours a day in the saddle, then I keep him awake nights with my nightmares, she brooded. And how much he has done for me. I should not speak harshly to him. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

  “Accepted. And I am sorry.”

  “Accepted.”

  They continued in silence until Maria remembered the retablo she carried. She held it out to Diego and he took it, examining the wooden plaque carefully. He tried to hand it back, but she shook her head.

  “It is for you, Señor,” she said. “Emiliano wanted me to paint it for you. It is supposed to be Santa Teresa de Ávila,” she added, afraid that he would not know who it was if she did not tell him.

  “I can tell, Maria,” he said, tracing his finger around the outline of the poetess-saint. “You have done a good job. Can it be that Diego Masferrer, hacendado of Las Invernadas, encomendero of Tesuque’s Indians, possesses not only a santero, but a santera as well? He is a wealthy man indeed.”

  She could tell that he was teasing her, trying to make her feel better, but his words still spoke of ownership, and they rankled. “I enjoyed painting it.”

  “It shows, Maria, it shows. I will hang it in my room,” he said, putting the retablo carefully in his saddlebag, choosing to overlook the coolness in her voice. They continued in a more compatible silence, walking side by side down the narrow road.

  A breeze freshened from the northwest, and Diego turned to face it. The rustle of the wind in the cottonwoods, mingled with the chirp of crickets and the peep of tree frogs, brought a smile back to his face.

  “Was there ever another place like this, Maria?” he asked, and then laughed at himself, looking down at the ground. “I suppose you think I am now adding foolishness to acquisitiveness on your list of my sins. ”

  So he knew how she felt, even if she had said nothing. “No, never that,” she murmured.

  “We have none of the wealth of the Indies, nothing really to recommend us. The work here will always be harder than we are. But this is my land, Maria chiquita, and I love it.”

  She did not add that it was others’ land too. Instead, she touched his arm lightly in understanding. He looked at her, then glanced away when she blushed.

  When they were in sight of the high walls of Las Invernadas, he cleared his throat. “Maria, I was planning a trip to Santa Fe to take Erlinda and the other girls. We usually go every year at this time. They like to look over the goods that come in on the supply caravan, and visit with friends.” He noted the questioning look on her face. “I realize there is no supply caravan this year, but we are going anyway.”

  “And?” she prompted, when he fell silent.

  “Perhaps you would come with us? I want you to speak to Governor Otermin of what you saw in Tesuque. ”

  “Do you feel there is danger?” she asked, feeling the familiar tightness in her stomach.

  “Oh, no,” he said quickly, then nodded his head. “Why is it that you command the truth in me,
chiquita? It is a feeling I have. I have noticed things, and others have, too. Now you tell me of Popeh and the kiva. I do not want to alarm you, but I believe there may be danger. Perhaps if you and I speak to Otermin?”

  “I understand,” Maria said. “I will go with you. Who stays with La Señora?”

  “The servants. She does not like Santa Fe.”

  When they were at the front gates of Las Invernadas, Diego’s dogs bounded to greet them, nearly knocking their master down in their delight. Diego put his spurs on again and swung into the saddle. “Go on in, Maria. I shall be along later.”

  She went through the gates and into the hacienda, noting with new eyes the thickness of the walls and the strength of the doors that constituted the only break in the wall. Her hand rested on the heavy iron bolts for a moment, then she closed the door, pushing the bolts in place.

  When she entered the kitchen, Erlinda rushed to her. “Maria! I was so worried when the sun got lower and you did not return! Was something wrong?”

  “No,” Maria lied, amazed at the ease of her prevarication. “I became intent on what I was doing at the saintmaker’s and forgot the time.” She said nothing about Cristóbal, hoping that Erlinda would not mention him. She knew how Erlinda felt about her half-brother.

  “Well, you are safe,” Erlinda hugged Maria to her.

  Supper was long over. Maria rolled some cheese and beans in a cold tortilla and sat down at the table. Erlinda poured her a cup of hot chocolate, stirring the steaming mixture until it foamed.

  “Diego found you?” Erlinda asked. “When he saw that you were not here at the table, he got up and left his dinner.”

  “Yes, he found me. He said he would come in soon.”

  He entered through the back door just after she spoke, hanging his hat on the peg by the door. Motioning to Maria to stay seated, he fixed himself some tortillas and beans. Erlinda poured him chocolate, and he warmed his hands on the earthenware cup.

  “There is a chill in the air,” he said.

  “Oh, Diego,” said Erlinda, “it is only July!”