by Carla Kelly
“You have my heart, querida, my heart,” he said, his voice low. “I took the time to think last night while I was keeping myself awake.” He touched her face again. “I thought only of you.”
The Indians rose and began to walk toward Diego and Maria. She jumped, and he pushed in front of her and pulled out his sword. The Indians squatted in the dust once more.
“When I mount Tirant again, stand clear, Maria,” he said. “God in heaven, if I close my eyes to kiss you, those Indians would be on us in a moment! Remember that I love you, Maria. God forgive me for discovering it so late.”
He motioned her away then and mounted quickly, jerking the Indians to their feet and keeping the rope taut. He blew her a kiss and tipped his hat.
She stood watching until Diego and the Indians turned the bend in the road toward Tesuque and the river, then walked slowly back to the hacienda.
That day was longer than any Maria had ever lived through, even longer than her wait by the smoldering ruins of the mission supply caravan. She sat in the cornfield in miserable silence until she felt she could face the others. Then with a calmness that amazed her, she told Erlinda about Diego and the Indians. Erlinda extinguished the fire under the wash water and went inside to pack.
Once during the afternoon Erlinda came to her. “Tell me, Maria, do you love my brother?”
“I do,” she said simply, continuing to fold clothing into the trunk. “I love him so much that it is not something I can talk about, not even to you, who are more than a sister to me.”
“Gracias,” said Erlinda. “Does he love you? Tell me that, at least.”
“Yes. He told me so this morning.”
“Then I wish you had left with him,” said Erlinda savagely. Her eyes widened in horror. “We are going to die here, and you will never know him!”
Maria held out her arms to Erlinda. The widow sank into them, and they cried together.
La Señora asked for Maria during the middle of the silent, endless afternoon. She went into the still room, dimly lit by the small candle burning near the bulto of Our Lady.
“What should we read today?” Maria asked, her voice steady, her hands clenched tight in front of her.
La Señora closed her eyes. “You sound so tired, my child. Did you not sleep well?”
“I slept well, Señora,” Maria said, “but we have been busy today with the washing.”
“Maria,” said the woman, her voice taking on a distinct tone of command. “You should not tell lies. You are terrible at it. What is the matter here, and why does Diego not come?”
“Señora,” said Maria, sitting close to her, “he is in Santa Fe. On urgent business.”
“And what of Cristóbal?”
“He is gone. I saw him last night. Only he ... left.” She knew she was not making any sense, but her voice was rising in panic, and she could not help herself.
La Señora groped for Maria’s hands and held them in a surprisingly strong grip. “Maria, calm yourself! We have been through hard times before. I remember a famine when all I had to feed my children was prickly pear and ox hides—the smell of your dress last night brought back memories, my child. I remember when Apaches even breached our walls and killed some of the servants. This is a terrible place we live in, sometimes I think. But we survive.”
Maria covered her face with her hands. “Forgive me, Señora.”
“It is no matter. Promise me this: No matter what happens, keep Luz and Catarina close to you. Erlinda will look after me.” The blind woman patted Maria’s hand. “Perhaps my time would be better spent in prayer this afternoon. But there is one more thing you must do for me.”
“Anything, Señora,” said Maria.
“Anything, is it? How simple you make my task. If, by chance, my son should ask you to marry him, oblige him.”
Maria leaped to her feet. “I could not!”
“Sit down, Maria, for heaven’s sake,” ordered La Señora crisply. “Do you feel that you could not learn to love him? He loves you. He told me.” She paused, making an impatient gesture with her hands. “Of course, I asked. I had to drag it out of him. Dios mio, why are men so reticent these days! It was not so when I was young!”
Maria sat down slowly. “You do not understand, you, of all people. I have nothing to offer him, or any of you Masferrers. Absolutely nothing.”
La Señora made a sound in her throat somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “What is that to any of us?”
“It is everything to me!” Maria burst out. “I see how it is here in the river kingdom. This family marries into that family—to join fields, to expand herds, to build empires. But I have no wealth, no possessions, no family even.”
La Señora held up her hand, waving Maria to silence. “All this aside, I have only one question. Do you love him? Eh?”
Maria looked down at her hands. “I do,” she said simply, “and it is such a wrenching thing. I did not know love could hurt like this.”
Señora reached for her hands again and patted them. “How curious. Diego said nearly the same thing to me.” She rose then and walked to her altar, her step sure. “That is all I wanted to know. Go now, and let me pray. There is work to be done here.”
Maria left quietly and spent the rest of the afternoon on the patio with Luz and Catarina, telling and retelling their favorite story of the foolish prince who fell in love with the poor girl. She was rescued by Erlinda, who pulled the girls away to take the leather buckets and help fill the water barrel in the kitchen.
“She will not even let us play outside at the acequia,” Luz grumbled, “and if there really were Apaches, we would have heard the bell at Tesuque first.”
“Do as she asks, girls,” said Maria, anxious to be alone with her thoughts. Diego should have been back by now. The nine miles to Santa Fe were easily covered by noon, the return by mid-afternoon. As evening approached, she made several trips to the main road, to stand behind the heavy gate, peering south. No one. Nothing.
He is probably in jail in Santa Fe, she finally forced herself to admit. The governor warned him about coming back to town, and they have put him in jail. Her eyes went back to the empty road.
Dinner was a quiet meal, eaten quickly as darkness fell. The Mexican servants returned from their evening chores to report that the sheep in the distant pasture beyond the cornfield had been run off. They had managed to corral the other sheep next to the stable.
The servants spoke to Maria. In some peculiar fashion, Diego’s power had been transferred to her. Erlinda sat, withdrawn and silent, by the fireplace, mechanically stirring the chilies simmering there for Diego. Her expression was inscrutable.
“There is nothing more we can do about the sheep tonight,” Maria said to the men. “Stay with your families again this night in the chapel, and make sure the guards are on the roof.”
“As always,” replied one of the servants.
Madre de dios, thought Maria, what he must think of me! I, who know so little of Indian attacks, telling him! Diego, I am trying to remember everything.
She smiled at the servants, “Let me thank you for Diego Masferrer. Any man would be lucky to have you as servants.”
They nodded to her and looked at one another in embarrassment. The ringing of the chapel bell summoned them.
After evening prayers in the chapel, crowded close together with the families of the Mexican servants, Maria shepherded Luz and Catarina to their bedroom, told them a quick story and tucked them in bed. She kissed them goodnight as Diego would have, and hurried down the hall to his bedroom. She would write an entry in the family journal, recording the events of that endless day for Diego to read later. Holding her candle high, she opened the door to Diego’s room.
She stopped on the threshold, nearly dropping the candle. The journal was lying open on the bed, the pages ripped out and scattered all over the room. The bedding lay in long strips on the mattress, slashed repeatedly with a knife or sword. The pillow’s feathers floated about, mingling
with the journal’s pages. “Oh, Dios,” Maria whispered. She went into the room quickly and shut the door. Forcing herself to move, she crossed to Diego’s wooden wardrobe and flung open the doors. Inside, the folded clothes were slashed and torn, ripped apart by a madman.
She slammed the doors shut and leaned against them, staring across the room to the altar. The deerhide painting of the Madonna was also in shreds, with deep gouges in the plaster behind the picture. The ebony Spanish crucifix over the altar was broken in half, the pieces lying like kindling on the floor.
Maria blew out the candle and went to the door. For one long moment she could not work the latch. Panic overcame her, and she forced herself to stand still and try the door again. It opened and she stumbled into the hall, shivering convulsively in the cool August evening.
They must leave Las Invernadas. But they could not leave at night, alone, without Diego. They could not cross the land on foot in darkness, a pathetic band of women and children. Maria made up her mind. First thing in the morning. They would leave at dawn.
She went to her room. The girls were already asleep, their soft breathing a familiar rhythm in a night that was different from all others. Maria felt under her side of the bed for Diego’s knife, picked it up, and lay down to wait.
If I can just rest a moment, she thought, her eyes already closing, then I will watch until morning and get everyone out at first light. She closed her eyes and slept, the knife dropping from her hand.
Sometime later, Maria awoke suddenly, sat up and listened. She leaned back against the cold wall, listening for the familiar sounds of the guards on the roof, pacing back and forth. There was only silence.
She felt for Diego’s knife, groping by the bed in panic until her fingers wrapped around the bone handle. She slowly swung her legs out of bed. She had not taken off her moccasins, but the floor was still cold under her feet. She padded quietly to the door and opened it, grateful that the leather hinges were silent. Slowly she stepped into the hall, then drew back in horror.
She must have been dreaming, for Carmen de Sosa crawled down the shadowy corridor, coughing softly, lurching toward her on all fours. “Diego, help me,” Maria whispered, “Diego.” This dream was more real than all the others, and he was not there.
Maria forced herself to look down the hall again. Still Carmen de Sosa came, but now she was whimpering, something she had never done before. And as Carmen de Sosa approached, moving more slowly now, but still coming, Maria heard a dripping sound.
The crawling figure came closer. Maria flattened herself against the wall. The figure stopped and tried to speak. It was the gargle of a drowning man. It was not a dream, but something a thousand times worse than any dream that had ever jerked her from sleep.
Clamping her teeth to keep from screaming, Maria knelt on the floor and crawled toward the man who was now swaying in the middle of the hall. She reached out and touched him, her hand coming away wet and warm.
“Quíen es?” she whispered, “Quíen es?”
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could see it was one of the servants who had bedded down in the chapel at the far end of the hall. As he turned toward the sound of her voice, she saw that his throat was slit from ear to ear. The blood glistened in the dim light and splashed to the floor. Maria put her hand on the man’s shoulder again and he fell forward.
Maria crawled back to the chest against the far wall and crouched beside it. Now she heard sounds from the chapel, the screams of children, the muffled cries of women.
So it had begun. Maria crawled back to her room, not trusting herself to stand. The sounds coming from the chapel were muffled, as if the large double doors were still shut. Perhaps the dying servant had crawled out undetected and shut the doors after him. He had bought her a few precious seconds, and she could not waste them.
Her hands shook so badly that she could not light the candle, but it was just as well. Her hands were bloody, and her dress was damp, too, soaked with the blood of the man in the hall. She shook Catarina gently, calling her softly, “Despierta, mi niña, wake up.” She said it over and over, her voice low and soothing, her bloody hand cupped just over the young girl’s mouth in case she should cry out.
Catarina sat up, rubbing her eyes and looking around her. Maria hurried to Luz and shook her awake. Luz cried out, and Maria clamped her hand over her mouth. “Hush, my darling, querida mia,” she said, taking her hand away slowly.
Catarina pulled the blankets up tighter around her and settled back down. “Is it morning, Maria?”
Maria compelled herself to speak calmly, “You have always told me that you are an adventurous girl, Catarina. Is this not so?”
They heard a crash from the chapel. Catarina edged closer to Maria in sudden fear.
“Never mind, my dear, never mind. I want you to come with me. I am going to pick up Luz and carry her to the kitchen. I want you to hold onto my skirt—don’t let go—and follow me. Can you do that?”
Catarina nodded, her eyes wide with terror now. Maria shook her head and put her finger to her lips. “We will find Diego. Should we do that and surprise Erlinda and your mama?”
Catarina nodded again and got out of bed. Maria hurried to Luz and picked up the groggy child. “Now take hold of my skirt,” she told Catarina.
“But Maria, it is wet,” whispered the girl.
“Never mind that, querida. Just do as I say.”
Maria pushed open the door. The sounds from the chapel were still muffled, but as she stood there, the doors slammed back against the wall with a bang that shook the hacienda.
“Diego!” Maria said out loud. She put Luz over her shoulder, stuck Diego’s knife in the waistband of her dress and felt behind her for Catarina. She guided the girl silently down the hall, carefully skirting the corpse in the darkness.
She ran to Erlinda’s room and knocked on the door, which opened before she lowered her arm. Erlinda yanked her and the children into the room. “Por dios,” the widow whispered, her lips to Maria’s ear, “what is this I am hearing?”
“It is the Pueblos. Let us hurry!” Maria tugged at Erlinda’s nightgown, but Erlinda would not move.
“No,” she said, the fear of the day replaced by a strange look of resignation. “No. You will never escape with my sisters if you are burdened with Mama. I will remain here with Mama. Our lives are over. You and the children have not yet lived.” Erlinda kissed her, patted Luz’s dark curls, and shoved them toward the kitchen. “Now go! Find my brother!”
Before Maria could stop her, Erlinda started down the long hall toward La Señora’s room, pausing only to square her shoulders and pat her hair into place. Maria followed with the children in tow. “I know, I know,” said the blind woman, as they opened the door. “I have been listening. We waited too long.”
“Come with me now,” pleaded Maria. “Hurry!”
“I cannot. I will be a burden. You must take the children and flee.”
“Erlinda says the same.”
“We have always been of one mind about the things that mattered.”
“Mama!” Maria cried, forgetting herself.
La Señora smiled. “How good that sounds. But no. I will stay here. Take my girls. They are yours now. Do as I say.”
Maria kissed her, and La Señora caressed her cheek. “Go quickly. Find my dear son. And do not look back.”
Maria ran down the hall, tugging Catarina behind her. She heard menacing cries drawing closer, and then Erlinda screamed. Maria tightened her hold on Luz and did not look back. “Do not let go,” she whispered to Catarina clinging to her skirt.
When she reached the kitchen, Maria bolted the door to the hall behind her, wincing at the scraping of iron on iron. Still towing Catarina after her, she ran to the outside door and opened the bolts. She stood there for precious seconds, too afraid to open the door, too afraid of what might be on the other side of it. Steeling herself finally, she edged open the door and looked into the kitchen garden.
The m
oon was still up, casting its soft glow on the bean vines and tomatoes. She saw the reassuring hump of the beehive ovens, and heard the acequia flowing in the distance. She heard two Indians shattering the doors in the hall with axes.
“Stand here, Catarina,” she ordered, and ran into the pantry, still carrying Luz, who was wide awake now and sobbing. Maria grabbed one of yesterday’s loaves of bread and stuffed it down her dress front.
Catarina stood by the open doorway, her hands covering her ears. Someone within the house was screaming now. Maria pushed Catarina into the garden. Luz cried out, a thin wail that seemed to hang on the night air.
“Hush, Luz! Before God, you must be silent,” Maria exclaimed, and the girl was still, her fingers in her mouth, her eyes filled with shock.
Maria ran through the garden. As she looked back, the chapel end of the hacienda burst into flames. Catarina screamed, and Maria shook her into silence.
She dragged the girls to the footbridge and pulled them into the water. Catarina cried out again, and Luz’s arms tightened like a vise around Maria’s neck. Maria pulled them downstream to the small play tunnel the girls had dug in the side of the ditch. She swung Luz inside, peeling the girl’s arms off her neck.
“Now you, Catarina. Do as I say!”
Without a word, Catarina crawled in after her sister and clung to her, wet and shaken. Maria pulled the loaf out of her dress and put it in Catarina’s lap.
“And now, my darlings, you must be ever so brave.”
The screams were louder now. Erlinda was howling, pleading, crying, “Diego! Diego!” over and over. The girls drew farther back into the cave, crowding against the shallow back wall in their attempt to flee the nightmare.
“Do not leave us, Maria!” sobbed Catarina.
“I must. There is not room for me, too. Now listen to me and do not talk. I am going for help. I am going to find Diego. You must not leave this cave, no matter what you see or hear. Do not doubt that I will return for you. You may get hungry, but do not leave this place.”
Maria reached out for the girls, crying with them. She hugged them, kissed them, made the sign of the cross over them, then wrenched herself away, wading back to the footbridge.
