by Carla Kelly
Diego carefully matched his speech to the saintmaker’s, the formality of his speech reflecting the importance of the conversation. “Yes, who can say? But tell me, Emiliano el santero, did these ‘friends’ of yours and mine come on horseback?”
“They did—despite your king’s regulations to the contrary.” Diego did not answer right away. He looked at Maria, then down at his boots. “It is curious indeed,” he said in a flat tone that gave away nothing.
Again the saintmaker chose his words with care. “I do not know how to say this, or even if I should. There is great conflict within me, as there is within Cristóbal. He is of mixed blood, I of mixed spirit. But no, say nothing. Only be careful. Do not leave Las Invernadas unguarded for any reason. Not if you value what is within. Not if you value this small saintmaker,” he said, touching Maria lightly on the shoulder. “I will say no more. Go now.”
They climbed down the outside ladder, Maria waiting at the foot while Diego untied his horse. He came back leading Tirant, his eyes on the terraces above. He motioned to her slowly. “Come this way, Maria,” he said in a low tone, “then turn and look up to the third level. To the left there.”
She did as he said. While he leaned against his horse to put on his spurs, she casually scanned the terrace. “Diego, are they men?” she whispered.
“Look away now, Maria. Yes, they are men, such men as we have never seen before.”
She took one last glance at the terrace. Four men stood there, painted white and wearing long white loincloths that reached to their painted knees. Their eyes stood out like black coals on white paper.
“It would appear that we are not the only gatherers of gypsum,” said Diego.
“But what does it mean? Who are they?” She hated the way her voice rose in fear. Diego took her by the arm. When she looked back at the terrace, the Indians had vanished. The pueblo was silent, even the cooking noises hushed. As they stood there, the same pueblo that had appeared so bright in the day’s sun began to take on shadows that lengthened and stretched across the plaza to Father Pio’s church.
“Let us leave, Maria,” said Diego, a note of urgency in his voice. “Where was it that you wanted to go?”
“It can wait.” She felt a strong desire to be back at Las Invernadas.
“No. I will not show fear in front of my Indians. Where is it that you wanted to go?” he repeated.
“Back to the little arroyo where I found the saint in the wood. It should take only a moment.”
“That will be about all the time we have before it will be too dark to see.” He boosted her into the saddle, and she held the reins while he mounted behind her. He gathered the reins in his hands and sniffed her hair. “You still smell of ox hoof.”
“There is always the acequia after dark,” she replied, relieved at his light tone.
“I recommend it. Maybe this is too high a price to pay to become a saintmaker. Mama has some lavender soap she has been saving for a special occasion.”
Maria jabbed him with her elbow, and he laughed, the sound ringing across the deserted plaza.
The sun was setting when they arrived at the arroyo. Maria swung her leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground as Diego reined in his horse. “You needn’t come unless you want to,” she called as she started down the rocky bank to the dry riverbed.
She heard him dismount, and heard the ring of his spurs on the rocks, but she did not look back. She walked carefully among the dry woods, searching. There is was. She picked up a small piece of cottonwood, turning it over and over in her hands.
“What have you there?” Diego called from the bank above.
She held up the piece of wood. “San Francisco’s bird!” she said. “I remembered seeing a piece with wings, and here it is.”
He laughed again, holding up his hand as if to ward off her enthusiasm. “It would be only a piece of wood to me, chiquita,” he said.
“Señor! And I thought you had poetry in your soul,” she chided, picking her way up the rocky path.
“Not I. I am just a river kingdom paisano, an itching, scratching ranchero from más allá de la frontera—the kind of person your family probably joked about in Mexico City,” he said, squatting on the riverbank. “But if you say it is a bird, I would never doubt you, querida mia.”
She paused halfway up the bank, hanging onto a root from the mesquite tree. She must speak to him of his words to the governor. As she stood there looking up at him, she knew it would break her heart if he called her his darling again. Never before in her life had she felt such a longing for someone. She hung there, clinging to the mesquite root, wanting Diego Masferrer as she had never wanted anything before in her life, and knowing that she had nothing to offer him except herself. And in this place, it would not be enough. “Señor,” she began, “I am not your querida.”
He was not listening to her. He was standing up now, leaning forward slightly, looking to the north and up the river valley.
“Señor?” she said again.
“Hush,” he commanded. He leaned down swiftly, yanked her up to level ground, and pushed her down in the concealment of a bush beside him. He sat down slowly on the rock, his face draining of color, his eyes still intent on the distant view.
She got to her feet and sat next to him on the rock, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. She leaned against his shoulder, and he shifted, encircling her with his arm. He put his cheek close to her and pointed with his other arm, whispering, “Mira. Look there. Do you see?”
Intensely aware of his nearness, she looked down the length of his arm, squinting against the setting sun. At first she could see nothing, but as she watched, breathing in rhythm with Diego, she saw.
Six Indians ran along the Taos road. They came slowly, leisurely, as if they had set a pace some distance away that was, by now, second nature to them. They ran with a grace that took her breath away, their long dark hair unbound and swinging from side to side with the rhythmic movement of their legs. She slid closer to Diego, and his arm around her tightened.
“Where are they from?” she whispered in his ear.
“From Taos, I would say,” he answered, never taking his eyes off the magic runners. “That is an old Taos road. I did not think anyone used it anymore.”
They watched the Indians come closer, the running almost hypnotic in its effect. “They will pass behind us, where Tirant is,” said Diego. He rose in a crouch and ran to his horse, pulling the animal into a small, tree-covered gully beside the arroyo.
Maria could not take her eyes off the Indians. As they drew closer, she saw that they were white-painted like the Indians in the pueblo. She sat still on the rock. It was full of the day’s heat, but she felt none of its warmth.
“Hurry, Maria,” said Diego, gesturing to her. She ran to him, and he took her hand and pulled her down next to him on the narrow incline in front of his horse. “Keep your head down,” he commanded, his hand heavy on her hair. He moved his fingers down to the back of her neck, but the pressure remained. He was forcing her to stay down.
She lay with her ear against the ground, and soon she heard the Indians coming, running with the same compelling rhythm that was almost as mesmerizing as Popeh and his dancers. Maria raised her head just enough to see the Indians top the rise from the river’s edge.
Except for their cotton loincloths, they were naked, their arms and legs painted a dull white that was almost phosphorescent in the dying sun’s light. Each man carried a knotted string in his hand, and the cords swung back and forth in rhythm with their dark hair, unbound and floating free.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
“I wish I knew, querida,” he replied.
The Indians were running by the rock Diego and Maria had been sitting on only minutes before. Diego’s hand left her hair and inched down to his waist. She heard him pull out his dagger, which he handed to her handle first, wrapping her fingers around the bone grip. Her knuckles whitened on the handle.
His lips
were on her ear. “If they should stop or discover Tirant, just follow me, and quickly.”
But the Indians did not stop. Without a glance to the right or the left, they ran on, heading down the little-used road toward Tesuque, the motion of their movements unbroken by any suspicion that they were watched.
Five minutes, ten minutes. Diego sat up. He held out his hand and Maria gave him back his dagger. He tapped it on his other hand, watching her. She looked back at him in silence.
“Could you count the number of knots on the strings?” he asked. Maria knelt, facing him. In the scurry her hair had tumbled down around her waist and she ran her fingers through it, working out the snarls. “Five? Four? I could not tell for sure. What do they mean?”
“I think it is some sort of calendar, a time line. I have seen them before in the pueblos.”
“Then something is going to happen in four or five days?”
“Yes. Something.”
They looked at each other. Tirant whinnied in the draw, and Diego got to his feet. He took his red scarf from around his head and tossed it to Maria, who wound it around her hair and tied it at the back of her neck, as he wore it. Diego picked up his hat and put it on. He untied Tirant and mounted, reaching down for Maria and putting her in front of him. They started north.
“Aren’t we going back by way of Tesuque?”
“We are not,” he replied. “We will take the old Taos road until it drops down to the river, then cross my lands that way.”
“Through the cornfield?”
“Yes. And when we get to the cornfield, we are going to dismount and walk. The stalks will cover us.”
“Someone is watching us, intending to harm us?”
“I fear this could be,” he admitted.
He said no more. There was none of the playful talk of the morning. They started out at a walk but by the time they reached the river, Diego had urged his horse into a gallop. They crossed the river without pausing and rode to the edge of the Masferrer cornfield, the rows of corn standing tall in the August evening and rustling with the breeze that came up every night.
Diego helped Maria down, then dismounted, pausing only long enough to yank off his spurs. He slapped Tirant’s rump with the flat of his hand and the horse took off across the field, streaking for the stables.
“That will worry them back at the hacienda,” he said, taking Maria’s hand in a tight grip. “So let us hurry. Pick up your skirts.”
Maria grabbed up her skirt and petticoat and held them draped over one arm. It was dark, and she could not see where she was going, but Diego held her hand, and he knew his land well.
They ran until they reached the acequia. Tirant was at the stable, one of Diego’s Mexican servants currying him. Erlinda was standing at the end of the kitchen garden, calling for her brother, a note of panic rising in her voice.
“We are here, Erlinda. All is well,” he called to her, his breath coming in gasps. He let go of Maria, and she arranged her skirts around her again.
Erlinda ran across the footbridge, her arms outstretched. She grabbed Diego’s shoulders and clung to him. “Diego, how afraid we were! It was so late! And when Tirant came back ....”
“We were right behind him.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked, then shook her head. “But never mind. It is worse than you think. Your Tesuque Indians have all gone.”
They crossed the bridge and walked into the garden. Diego paused and leaned against the beehive oven. “No. Tell me here. I would not frighten the little ones. All my Indians are gone? Válgame, I did not expect that. At least, not yet.”
Erlinda stared at him. When he did not explain, she continued. “I noticed about midday how silent the fields were, and then one of your Mexican servants came running to say that all the work on the wagons had stopped, and the one remaining horse was gone.”
“So we have only Tirant.”
“I thought perhaps the Indians went to look for the horses, but they have not returned yet, and their wives and children have left, too. Thank God the Mexican servants remain loyal.”
Diego was silent. Maria moved to his side, and Diego reached out for her hand, holding it tight.
“I have been thinking about taking Mama and the girls to stay with Lorenzo Nuñez and his family,” said Erlinda, choosing her words carefully.
Diego shook his head. “Don’t you remember? Nuñez always goes to Santa Fe to have Masses said on his name day. They are all gone.”
They walked slowly toward the hacienda. In the kitchen Luz and Catarina were still eating dinner. Luz leaped up and ran to Maria, who held her close. The child quickly moved her face from Maria’s dress, her nose wrinkling. “Maria, you stink,” she said.
Diego laughed. He ruffled Luz’s hair and set his hat on her head. “You should have seen Maria today, Luisita mia,” he said. “She made a saint. Out of a piece of cottonwood. ”
“That is nice,” replied Luz, tipping the hat back so she could look up at her brother. “But why does she stink?”
Diego sat on the edge of the table. “She had to dig around in Father Pio’s smelly old corral for rotten ox hooves and cook them into glue. You would smell, too, if it had been you.”
“Thank you, Señor,” said Maria.
He winked at her. “And now, I am sure Mama has that lavender soap I was praising. Erlinda,” he said, “go to Mama with Maria. That is her only dress. Surely Mama has something that will fit Maria. They are of the same size.”
Erlinda nodded and left the kitchen, Maria following. She looked around her, grateful for the thick walls of the hacienda and the warm, inviting candlelight. She paused before a saint on the wall in the corridor, still and watchful on his deer hide. Perhaps Emiliano would show her how to paint on hide. She remembered her little San Francisco, motioned to Erlinda to wait, and went back into the kitchen.
“Señor, I think I dropped the bird when we were running through the cornfield,” she said.
Diego looked up from his dinner of chilies and cheese and reached into his pocket. “You did, but I retrieved it.” He put the small cottonwood piece in her hand, closing her fingers over the wood. “If you have time tomorrow, you can make some blue bean paint and fashion us a mountain jay.”
She put the wood on a shelf by the door. “And I thought you had no poetry in your soul! A mountain jay, eh? And why not a blue bird?”
“Here? This is not, nor ever shall be, Spain. Now go with Erlinda and change your dress,” he laughed.
La Señora was on her knees in front of her altar, fingering her rosary.
She rose and faced the door when they entered.
“I am sorry, Mama,” apologized Erlinda. “We can come later.”
“No need. Is that Maria with you? Then has my son returned?”
“They are both back, Mama, and Maria needs a dress, if you have one.
The woman sniffed the air and made a face. “Ah, Maria! What kind of scrape did Diego get you into?”
“Emiliano the saintmaker taught me to make a bulto today, and I had to cook ox-hoof glue.”
“That does explain it. Erlinda, look in the chest at the foot of my bed. I am sure there is something there.”
Erlinda found a pale blue dress of homespun serge, soft from many washings. La Señora touched the worn fabric. “This will do, Maria. It is yours.”
“Thank you, Señora.”
“It is nothing. And now, Erlinda, send Diego to me. We have much to say. And something tells me, I cannot say what, that time is growing short.”
“Yes, it is late,” replied Erlinda, closing the chest. “It is almost time for evening prayers. I will get him for you. ”
“One more thing,” said La Señora. “Over on that shelf, Maria, you will find a bowl of lavender soap. Use it as your own,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth and laughing softly.
Maria put her hand on La Señora’s shoulder. The older woman reached up and patted her. “You are a good girl, Maria. I think that each
of us, in our own way, has come to depend on you. And I have wanted to tell you how I treasure the love you have for my Luz and Catarina.”
The words sounded too much like a farewell, and Maria’s uneasiness deepened.
There was a knock at the door and Diego entered. Maria took the lavender soap from the shelf and left the room. Before going to the acequia, she finished the rest of the chilies and cheese still warming over the dying fire. The food tasted good. She had not eaten since before sunrise. Her hunger was gone, but the gnawing fear lingered. She picked up the dress, admiring the mother-of-pearl buttons and tiny tucks down the front. She fingered the material. How like everything in this river kingdom of New Mexico was that dress, simple homespun with mother-of-pearl, almost as an afterthought. It reminded her of eating off silver plates in a dirt-floored kitchen, or painting the glorious Spanish saints on the hides of buffalo and deer.
Maria hurried down the path to the acequia. She untied Diego’s moccasins and stepped out of them, stripping off her dress and shift. She got into the water, shivering in the cold, then took the soap and waded down from the footbridge to the girls’ play tunnel. The water was deeper there. She sank down, and the water came to her shoulders.
First she washed her hair, enjoying the fragrance of the lavender as it drifted around her in the slowly moving stream. She had not used soap like this since her father’s house. She was used to rough household soap now, but it was pleasant to remember how things used to be. Maria closed her eyes and thought of her mother and father.
She sat still in the water, remembering the advice her mother had dispensed. “Not much of it has proved useful, Mama,” she whispered. “I never carry a clean handkerchief anymore, I lost my own rosary, and I cannot flutter my eyelashes behind a fan because I have no fan.”
She stood up in the water, looking over her shoulder at the moon, full and golden, already rich with the promise of harvest. “But Mama,” she continued, “I suppose I have never been more content.”
Maria waded upstream and pulled her towel off the footbridge. She left the water and dried herself quickly, shivering in the night air. She debated whether to put on her shift again and decided against it. The fabric smelled of ox-hoof glue and could be washed on the morrow. She pulled La Señora’s dress on quickly, smoothing the soft material around her hips, then doing up the buttons. She looked around, hunting for Diego’s moccasins.
