by Carla Kelly
They spent the morning over the washtub, scrubbing the soiled clothing with yucca root and stirring the shirts, dresses and stockings in the boiling water before dipping them in the cool water in the bateas to soak. The work was hot and hard, but Maria did not tire. She was growing accustomed to the drudgery of the river kingdom. As she squeezed the water out of Diego’s clean shirt, she thought of her mother, who never in her life did anything more strenuous than embroider altar cloths.
You would never know me, Mama, Maria thought as she piled the clothes into a Pueblo basket. She felt no bitterness against her parents, only resignation. She had thought for a time that there might be a place for her in the upper colony of the Rio del Norte, but her sister’s rejection and Diego’s words about land and nails and fence posts sealed her fate. As much as she abhorred the calculation of his words, she could not fault his honesty. She possessed nothing of worth to tempt him, and he had never given her any reason to hope.
Erlinda leaned over the batea. “Maria, your face is so solemn. Of what are you thinking?”
Maria rested her hands in the cool water. “Of nails and fence posts,” she replied quietly, her eyes on Diego’s shirts floating in the rinse water.
Erlinda’s eyes went to the water, too, and she made no reply.
They left for Santa Fe before the sun was up the next morning. The full moon was still big in the sky, so it was an easy matter for the Indian servants to hitch the oxen to the four-wheel cart. Diego lifted his sisters and Maria into the wagon and mounted his own horse. They moved slowly down the road from the hacienda, the wagon creaking and rumbling, guided by the Indian servant who walked alongside with a long whip.
The little girls hovered on the edge of sleep. Luz leaned against Maria with her eyes closed as Erlinda finished braiding her hair. As soon as her hair was done, Luz plopped her head down in Maria’s lap and Erlinda swung the child’s legs up onto the hard seat.
Maria leaned against the side of the wagon, her head resting on her arm. Erlinda finished Catarina’s hair, tying the ends deftly with a small piece of lace. “Ah, Maria,” she said, “you look so low.”
Maria glanced up. “You cannot imagine how tedious that entrada was from Mexico City to Santa Fe. I suppose I suffer from remembrance.”
“We will be in Santa Fe by noon,” replied Erlinda, plaiting her own hair. She wound her hair on her head, securing it with pins. “Perhaps you wonder why we use such a cart?”
“I do,” answered Maria. “I have seen no proper coaches since I left Mexico.”
“It is impossible to bring such a thing so far,” Erlinda explained, raising her voice to be heard above the squeaking wheels. “And no one has the skills here—or the time—to make one.” Erlinda reached across and covered Luz with the end of Maria’s light cloak. “Papa did try to bring one here. He wanted Mama to have a fine coach.” She giggled like a young girl at the memory. “He managed to get as far as Chihuahua before the whole thing fell apart.”
Maria laughed and Erlinda continued. “Papa was like that. He would try things no one else would. I suppose it has given us a local reputation for eccentricity, but we do not care.”
“What was he like?”
“Papa? Oh, like me, like Diego. You would have enjoyed him, Maria. He has been gone from us more than five years now, but I still miss him with intensity.” She looked at Diego, riding to the front of the wagon. “Life would have been different for Diego, had Papa lived. ”
“How do you mean?” asked Maria, gentle in her intrusion. Erlinda did not often speak of the past.
“Diego always wanted to go to the university in Mexico City. The plans were made, that summer of his fourteenth year. Then Papa became ill, so ill. When it looked as if he would not get well, Diego sent our little brother Francisco in his place.” Her eyes clouded at the memory. “Dear Francisco. He was only thirteen. He cried all the way to Santa Fe, begging Diego to go in his place. But Diego could not, even though he wanted to.”
“And what did your father look like?” Maria asked.
“Much like Francisco and me,” she replied. “Tall and blond, with big feet,” she laughed. “As Diego will remind me forever!” She leaned forward in confidence. “Did you know that Diego still keeps Papa’s boots in one corner of his room?”
“I have noticed the boots there when I get the journal for your mother,” Maria replied. “I thought they were Diego’s.”
“Oh, no. Diego has never spoken of them, but they are his reminder.”
“That he must fill them?” said Maria.
Erlinda nodded solemnly and looked at her brother. He had spurred on ahead to greet an early riser from the Gutierrez hacienda just beyond Tesuque. “There is no finer man in all the Rio Arriba than my brother,” Erlinda said, her eyes on Maria again. “The day Papa died, Diego became a man. I do not think he has ever resented his duties, no matter how hard they are. I do not suppose he even regrets Mexico City anymore.” Erlinda reached over and touched Maria lightly on the knee. “Besides, the crickets probably do not sing New Mexican songs there, and who can ever vouch for frogs?”
Maria joined in Erlinda’s gentle laughter, then turned serious. “Were it not for him, I would not be here.” She did not tell Erlinda the rest. How morning after morning, even in Luz and Catarina’s room, she would wake to find Diego’s sword across the foot of her bed, a cold reminder of restless sleep, restless ghosts and warm protection.
The dreams came to her now dimly in a troubled night, but she must still cry out in her sleep, because Diego would be there, sitting on the floor by her bed until she passed into deeper sleep. His sword in the morning was the only reminder. And after she left her room for her early morning duties in the kitchen, he would reclaim his sword before Luz or Catarina woke. She knew because once she had seen him, but she did not understand the meaning of his actions.
Erlinda closed her eyes and leaned back, then sat up suddenly. Maria could scarcely hear her voice above the noise of the wagon’s wheels. “Maria, take good care of them,” she said.
Maria leaned forward, too. “What do you mean, Erlinda?” she asked.
“I do not know,” said Erlinda, embarrassment in her voice. “It is a feeling I have, nothing more. And look now, I have startled you. Forgive me.”
She was silent then, and soon her eyes closed in sleep. Maria pulled Luz closer to her, wondering at the impulsive words. The morning air took on a chill that she felt all the way to her shoes. She thought then of the third person in her dreams, a person dimly glimpsed, as through a haze of smoke. A person tall and black with yellow eyes.
Unlike Father Efrain and Carmen de Sosa, the demon of Popeh pursued her in daylight as well as sleep. He was a sudden sound causing her to whirl about, her heart hammering against her rib cage. He was never there, of course, but he lived in her mind. Having seen Popeh once, she dared not dismiss him. She looked at the sleeping Erlinda. “I will take care of them, all of them,” she whispered, then crossed herself. She looked toward the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, a gloomy heap to the east that darkened further as the sun rose slowly behind them in glorious contrast.
The journey to Santa Fe took six hours. Diego relieved the tedium of travel for his little sisters by taking turns holding them before him in the saddle, laughing and singing old songs, some of which were familiar to Maria from her own childhood, others of which were Tewa Indian songs, learned long ago from his Indian servants.
Diego could make even the solemn Luz chuckle, her hands before her mouth like a proper Spanish lady. Luz sang almost as loudly as her brother, sitting close to him, holding the reins in her hands. Tirant ignored her tugging and sawing on the reins, responding instead to the pressure of Diego’s legs and spurs. Maria laughed to watch Luz, who thought she controlled the black horse of Spain.
“How much alike they are,” said Maria to Erlinda.
“Yes. Luz looks like Diego and Mama,” said Erlinda. “I wish we had more time for this. Luz and Catarina see him so seldo
m.”
Soon there was Santa Fe to watch for. Even Luz abandoned her efforts with Tirant to look for the red-brown villa that seemed to appear out of nowhere, the color of the adobe blending so well with the earth that they were almost upon the town before anyone realized it. Smoke curled from the chimneys into the startling blue and white of the noonday sky.
Maria watched the smoke rising. “What will you do here?” she asked.
“Ordinarily, we would go to the shops,” answered Erlinda. “It takes several months for the goods from caravans to reach the shelves. They must be unpacked, counted and taxed.” She chuckled. “And then taxed again, I vow! Of course, there was no caravan this year, so there is nothing on the shelves we have not already seen. But we go. It is a good time to visit.”
“Where do you stay?”
“At the-home of my parents-in-law, Marco’s family. We have always stayed with the Castellanos. Even before my marriage. Things are different now since ... Well, they are different now, but still we visit. ”
The oxcart followed Diego into a quiet side street and stopped before a low adobe building. It was built like all the other houses in town, great or small, with a windowless wall on the street’s edge, broken only by a stout door. The door was open, and Maria saw a welcome glimpse of courtyard and flowering plants, then people coming out with smiles and exclamations of greeting.
The Castellanos met them on the street, greeting Erlinda with cries of delight. They embraced her, Luz, and Catarina in welcome. Maria remained by the wagon, aching with a loneliness she had not experienced since the death of her own parents. She watched the Castellanos and the Masferrers and was filled with a yearning to belong to someone of her own again. She felt a great lump rising in her throat and she would have turned away, but Diego was prodding her forward.
“And this is Maria Espinosa de la Garza,” he introduced her to the Castellanos. “She has been honoring Las Invernadas with a visit these past months.”
Don Reynaldo Castellano extended his hand and drew her toward him. “Then our home is yours.” He touched his chest with his other hand.
Only Diego’s hand resting lightly on Maria’s shoulder kept her tears from falling. “Thank you,” she managed, “thank you.”
“You must excuse Señorita Espinosa and me,” Diego said to Don Reynaldo. “We have a matter of business to attend to. Do not wait dinner for us.” Don Reynaldo and his wife protested, but bowed to them as they left the courtyard, La Señora Castellano promising to keep something hot for them to eat later.
“I am sorry,” Diego said as they crossed the street. “We did not mean to make you sad.”
She shook her head. “It is nothing. I was homesick for a moment, sad about not belonging.”
“I think of you as such a part of my own household that I do not call it to mind anymore.”
It was a gracious thing to say. Cristóbal would have called his words another example of Diego’s acquisitiveness, but Maria could not agree. She glanced at Diego shyly. “Thank you, Señor.”
“Watch where you are going,” Diego warned as he steered her around a pig rooting in the street. “This is not a large city, but it is the only one I know, and I have learned to look out for pigs.”
They crossed the street. Another block, walked in silence, took them to the plaza fronting the palace of the governors. Maria stopped, in spite of herself. She remembered La Doña Margarita and her reception and could not bring herself to go any closer.
“Come, Maria,” said Diego. “I will not leave you alone this time. We must speak to the governor about Popeh.”
The plaza’s midsummer color was fading already into the brown of drought, but the fountain bubbled with water from the acequia close by. Women stood around the water with their large jars, gossiping with each other and watching the passersby. Several of the older women greeted Diego, stopping him to ask about his mother. He paused to exchange a few words with them. The young women eyed him with slow, sidelong glances.
Maria looked toward the governor’s palace. Indians were selling food and notions on the wide portal that shaded the walkway around the building. They squatted, their goods displayed on blankets in front of them. Though they looked asleep, they came to life with surprising swiftness when a browser knelt to examine their wares.
After bowing to the ladies, Diego took Maria’s arm and they walked toward the wide, open zaguan of the palace that led to the large interior courtyard. The entrance was guarded by two brass cannons, both of which showed visible signs of neglect.
“I think these weapons have not been fired since Noah’s flood,” Diego said.
Her glance was attracted to the outside walls. There were rows and rows of curious brown circles, misshapen and shriveled. She walked closer, then gasped, turning back to Diego for explanation.
“Apache ears,” he said. “Did you not notice them the first time you came here?”
She shook her head, thinking of Cristóbal and the woman softly crooning to her baby in the Tesuque pueblo. But, of course, they were good Indians, not Apaches.
“I have tacked a few there myself,” he finished, carefully overlooking the tightness around Maria’s mouth and eyes. “Apache, Maria, remember that. And now, shall we go inside? I cannot see any guards to stop us. In fact, I cannot see any guards at all. ”
The courtyard was the same. Maria could almost see herself sitting on the far bench, eagerly waiting for her sister, La Doña Margarita. It seemed so long ago, but it was only a few months, the time of the early planting, when Maria had sat there, expecting her sister to make things better.
She followed Diego inside the palace. The wide corridor was cool and smelled of pine and wax. Diego went to an open door, peered inside, then rapped on the wooden frame.
Governor Antonio de Otermin was seated behind a large desk writing. He looked up in surprise when Diego entered, then half rose from his chair and extended his hand across the desk. Diego kissed it as Maria dropped a curtsy.
The governor seated himself carefully, folding his hands in front of him. “Diego Masferrer,” he began, fixing Diego with a stare that made Maria move uneasily from one foot to the other. “Diego Masferrer. I have been expecting you. Indeed, I have.” He motioned toward the chair in front of his desk and they sat down.
“How is this, my lord?” Diego asked. “I did not know you wanted to see me.”
“Oh, I do. I do. We have a small matter to discuss.” The governor eyed Maria and she drew back involuntarily. “This small matter,” he continued, watching her.
“But first.” He looked back at Diego and then at his desk. “For Father Pio, in Tesuque,” he said, handing a small book to Diego. “Would you see that he gets it?”
“Of course, your honor,” Diego replied, pocketing the book. He started to say something else, but the governor interrupted.
“And I have something more for you, Diego. Of a more serious nature. Except I wonder if you will think it serious. I wonder if you Masferrers think like the rest of us.” He held out a sheaf of papers, bound with red cord and sealed with red wax.
Diego frowned and did not reach for the document. “Take it, Señor, indeed you must,” the governor insisted, holding the papers, “although I do not wonder at your hesitancy. Take it!”
Diego reached across the desk, his gloved hand closing around the paper, the seal crunching in his grip. He took off his gloves, pulled the string from the paper, flattened it out and read.
Maria stirred uneasily in her chair as the veins in Diego’s neck stood out and his face darkened. “What is the meaning of this?” Diego spoke softly, and Maria’s uneasiness increased. She knew that tone of his.
The governor had gone back to his writing, his pen scratching on the paper. He looked up leisurely. “Unless residing in this dusty kingdom has completely deranged me, Señor, I suspect that someone has issued a warrant for your arrest.”
As Maria rose from her chair, Diego motioned her to sit down, but she continued to stan
d. The governor gave her a curious glance. “It is from your sister, La Doña Margarita Espinosa de Guzman.”
When she continued to stare at the governor, the color draining from her face, he went on, looking this time at Diego. “She calls you all manner of dreadful things, Señor Masferrer.” He leaned across the desk in a conspiratorial manner. “I enjoy the part where she says you are a lecher and a womanizer, ready to take advantage of a lonely orphan and a poor, helpless widow. Have you come to that part yet?” Diego raised his eyes to the governor, and Otermin looked away. “Poor, helpless widow indeed!” murmured the governor. “How grateful I am that I do not have two in my kingdom like Margarita Guzman.” His glance rested on Maria again. “You look like a ghost, child. Sit down, do.”
When she had lowered herself into the chair again, Otermin spoke to Diego. “But the presence of Maria Espinosa in your company does require some explanation. I am willing—nay, I am eager—to listen to your side of it. I fully suspect it will prove to be as interesting as La Viuda Guzman’s story, and it has been a dull summer.”
Diego rose so abruptly that his chair fell crashing against the dirt floor. He leaned across the governor’s desk, his eyes boring into the governor’s. Then he deliberately ripped the arrest warrant in pieces.
“Now, Diego,” said the governor, less assurance in his voice. “You know I have copies in triplicate, perhaps even quadruplicate. Our country runs on red sealing wax. I insist that you sit down and tell me of this little—shall we call it—adventure of yours. You hardly seem the womanizing type, although the Widow Guzman would persuade me otherwise.”
Diego pounded on the governor’s desk, overturning the inkwell which spilled onto the floor.
The governor frowned, but did not move. “I think you go too far, Masferrer.”
“Not I,” replied Diego in that quiet, rock-hard voice that Maria dreaded. “The Widow Guzman goes too far, and she will hear from me before the sun sinks much lower. But first, Maria, will you tell this man how you came into my household? One moment, Maria. Governor, perhaps you should call in your scribe to take this down. I see him peeking around the door there.”
