by Carla Kelly
The air was filled with screams. La Señora’s joined with her daughter’s. Gulping back her own tears, Maria climbed the bank, gathered up her sodden skirts and ran into the cornfield.
What now? She sank down between the rows of corn. She did not know where to find Diego, where to seek help. She looked south over her shoulder. There was no fire at the Nuñez hacienda. Diego had said that they had gone to Santa Fe, but surely not everyone in the large family had made the trip. Perhaps one or two of the family’s sons remained. Perhaps they would take in her and the children.
She stood up and took one last look at the Masferrer hacienda. Flames licked around the chapel end, spreading toward the rest of the building. She started for the old Taos road where she had last seen Diego.
The road was deserted. She crossed it running and jumped into the brush beside the trail. Staying in the undergrowth, she followed the road toward the Nuñez holdings, half a league distant. She picked her way carefully around the scrub brush and dry tree limbs, thinking of other saints resting in cottonwood limbs along the nearby creek bed. “Then intercede for me now,” she said out loud as she skirted the bare limbs, “and for my girls.”
As she approached the Nuñez hacienda, instinct compelled her to stay in the shadows off the trail. All appeared calm. She saw small lights flickering in one of the barred windows and smiled with relief. Not everyone had gone to Santa Fe.
But as she watched, the lights turned into a blaze that roared up along one entire wall. Maria shrank farther into the shadows. Coming from the hacienda was the whole Nuñez family. That could not be. Her hand to her throat, she watched.
The younger Nuñez daughters were followed by Pueblo braves dressed in the clothes of their parents. Maria blinked back her tears. By the light from the burning building, she saw blood on the girls’ faces where their eyes had been. They were led stumbling and silent to the road. The older child tripped and fell, and the Pueblos were upon her, tearing her clothes as she blindly tried to fend them off with her fists.
Maria turned away, sickened, as the other girl was tossed from spear point to spear point. She thought of Luz and Catarina and buried her face in her hands.
“Señorita Espinosa!” a voice whispered.
Maria froze. A hand reached out for her, touching her hair. She turned slowly.
An Indian woman leaned toward her. Maria peered closer. Another figure crawled from the shadows of the deep underbrush. Maria drew in her breath in sudden recognition.
“You are the girl from the cornfield!” she exclaimed, then looked around in fear of being overheard. The Indians by the hacienda were paying no attention. One of the Nuñez sons was now in flames, impaled on the gatepost.
She turned back and put out her hand tentatively to the older woman. “And you are the mother,” she whispered. “I remember.”
The Indian woman watched Maria for a long moment, weighing her, measuring her, then spoke to her daughter.
“Señorita,” the young girl said, “we have been following you. We have known of this thing for several moons now. My mother could not forget what you did for my small sister.” She paused, looking back at her mother. “We have told no one. We would both die if our people knew.”
The woman spoke to her daughter, who inched closer to Maria. “Come with us. We can keep you safe.”
Maria crawled toward them and they drew her farther into the brush. “But where?” she asked. Her head throbbed from the screams and laughter of the Indians on the trail.
“To Tesuque.”
Maria shook her head and tried to draw away, but the Indian mother took her hand.
“You will be safe,” the girl said. “It is the time of my mother’s uncleanness, and no man enters our quarters. My mother says perhaps we can get you to Santa Fe.”
Maria looked around her at the tree limbs and thought of Diego and the saintmaker in one aching rush. Her San Francisco was in Tesuque. But Santa Fe? It seemed so far away. She nodded and followed the Indian women away from the road.
They kept to the streambed east of the road, walking carefully over the stones. Maria was grateful for her moccasins. She hurried after the others, her eyes on the clouds over the Sangre de Cristos as they turned pink with the threat of dawn.
They were approaching Tesuque when Maria realized someone was following them. It was only a feeling at first, a feeling that someone’s eyes were on her. When they stopped, Maria whirled around quickly and glimpsed a flash of white on the higher bank. She pulled the knife from the waistband of her dress and walked faster, hurrying to keep up. Whoever it was made no pretense of silence but strode along with arrogance.
They hurried into the cottonwood trees before the pueblo. The ladders from the upper levels had been let down, but she saw no one.
“Walk between us, Mother says.”
Maria obeyed the girl, matching her steps to those of the two women, hoping for some trick of fading moonlight to blend her bloody Spanish dress into their cotton tunics. They crossed the plaza and climbed the ladder, the mother pulling her up and leading her quickly into the welcome darkness.
The room was dimly lit with one small torch. Maria felt her way to the pile of blankets in one corner. “Tell your mother that your father’s blankets are still without equal. ”
The young girl smiled and whispered to her mother, who ducked her head in shyness, then sat down beside Maria.
“We will rest here a moment and then think,’’ the girl said.
Maria leaned against the wall. She looked at the Indian mother, who had turned to her still-sleeping baby in another corner. I have no right to endanger their lives, she thought.
Maria leaned forward to speak to the girl, to tell her that she would have to leave, when a voice like a snake hissed at her from the dark doorway leading to the pueblo’s interior.
“Maria. Maria.”
That was all. Maria closed her eyes and held her hands tight against her stomach. The mother crawled away from her sleeping baby and looked at Maria, her eyes pleading, sorrowful. Without a word, Maria rose and ran out the door she had come in.
The voice hissed again, then was silent. Waiting. Maria climbed down the ladder, panic close at her heels. Ahead of her was Father Pio’s church. The sun was rising. It was time for Mass, but she knew there would be no Mass this morning. Perhaps there would be no Mass in this land ever again. She hurried toward the church. Diego had said that he would go to Father Pio if there was time. Time. She spit the word out of her mouth like venom. And if only Father Pio were there, at least she would not be alone.
She slipped inside the chapel, then fell on her knees in homage to terror.
The chapel was filled with Indians, Indians painted like Cristóbal, Indians wearing the tall, feathered headdresses of the kachinas, Indians dancing and swaying to a rhythm only they could hear.
They did not see her. All eyes were on the altar. Maria stared up at the large crucifix above the altar, the one Father Pio was so proud of, and blinked her eyes in disbelief.
Father Pio hung from the wooden cross above the altar, dressed in the robes of this holy day, San Lorenzo Day, the red of the martyrs. But there was another red as well. His stole and alb dripped with blood from a hundred knife wounds. Even now the Indians standing around the altar were throwing knives at him, while others stood naked below the cross, raising their arms to the droplets of blood that fell in a gentle shower.
Maria raised her eyes to Father Pio. She could not tell if he was alive or dead. His tonsured head drooped over his chest. His hands were riveted to the cross by spears, but his feet dangled free.
Clutching Diego’s knife in one hand, Maria crawled out of the chapel. She huddled in the doorway until two Indians in the plaza disappeared into one of the lower openings. She forced herself to walk slowly and deliberately across the plaza toward Emiliano’s workshop. She started to skirt carefully around what appeared to be a woodpile, but stopped short, her breath coming in little gasps.
It was Tirant, lying twisted and stiff with a gaping chest wound. Maria knelt by the black horse and ran her hand over his hide. As she patted Diego’s horse in the killing silence of Tesuque pueblo, she knew that dawn was coming on a more terrible day than she had ever known. And she was alone.
Where was Diego? Still Maria crouched by the horse, telling herself to think, to reason her way through the horror that threatened to block her very breathing. She sat back on her heels. If I cannot find Diego alive here, she decided, I will go back to the acequia and stay there with my girls until the Indians find us. I cannot leave them to die alone.
She stood up with unexpected resolution and walked to the ladder. A loud roar rose suddenly from the chapel, and she looked back to see the first flickers of fire at the church’s high windows. Indians were pouring from the chapel now, carrying Father Pio’s clothing and vestments and smashing the plaster saints in the plaza.
Maria reached the first terrace. Crouching low, she ran toward Emiliano’s workshop. She stumbled over Emiliano, lying dead in the doorway, his eyes open, staring blindly at the lightening sky.
“Oh, Dios,” Maria whimpered. She picked herself up and groped for Diego’s knife, which she had dropped. She looked up then and saw her San Francisco, still standing where she had left him in the santero’s window, his arm extended. Emiliano had hinged on the other arm, but it was unpainted, waiting for her to finish. She crawled into the workshop and sank down on the dirt floor. Great gulping sobs escaped her. She reached up and pulled San Francisco off the window ledge, hugging him to her. She thought of Luz and Catarina and rose to her knees. She must go back to them.
She heard a rustling noise in the corner of the santero’s workshop and turned toward it, her hand tightening around the knife. A figure rose out of the pile of buffalo skins, white and moving slowly. Without a sound, Maria pitched forward on her face, unconscious.
Chapter 13
Day of Death
She came to consciousness only a few minutes later. She had been pulled into the corner near the hides. Someone was stroking her hair and saying her name over and over. The voice was familiar, but she feared to open her eyes, feared to look on one more nightmare.
“Maria chiquita,” the voice pleaded, “look at me!” His fingers tapped her cheek in a familiar gesture. She opened her eyes.
Diego Masferrer wiped her face with the scarf he usually wore, dabbing gently at her tears. His face was as grim as her own, with the same dazed look, the same curious blankness. A large bruise started at his temple and ran down to the point of his jaw. She reached up and touched his face. He winced and drew back slightly, then gathered her closer to him.
“Diego.” She had so much to tell him, but she could say nothing more.
“It has begun, Maria,” was all he could say in return. He hugged her closer to him and she put her arms around his neck.
“Diego,” she finally whispered, “I have been searching for you.” She touched his face again, and he held her hand to his cheek.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “Tell me. I must know now. What of my family? What of Las Invernadas?”
She started to cry, and he was silent until her sobs subsided against his chest.
“What of them, Maria?” he asked quietly. His eyes were full of tears, and she could not bear to look at him. She turned her gaze toward the hide painting of San Pedro on the opposite wall.
“I woke to the sound of Indians killing your servants in the chapel. They must have surprised the guards on the roof and let themselves down some way. I only had time to grab Luz and Catarina and hide them. Erlinda and La Señora would not come.” The words were wrenched out of her. “Dios mio, Diego, they sacrificed themselves to save us. ”
“Hush, Maria,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
She had told him what had happened, but she knew she would never tell him how Erlinda had called his name over and over, pleading for his help, though she would remember it always.
“We heard the Indians behind us, so I hid the girls in their play tunnel in the acequia. Then I went for help.” She burrowed closer into Diego’s shoulder. “But there is no help,” she sobbed.
Diego put his hand to her face and held her tight against his chest, pulling her farther back into the gloom of the workshop. The sun was up now, but the room was still deep in shadow. In answer to her unspoken question, he began.
“I arrived in Santa Fe around noon, as you would have thought. The governor would not see me. Refused me, Maria. Dios, he will pay someday. So I sat there with my Indians—Dios, my Indians—in his anteroom until close upon three o’clock, watching others come and go. Finally I bashed in his door and threw the Indians into his office.”
Her hand went to his face, and he kissed her fingers.
“Ah, Maria! I forced him to listen to me. It appears he had received other warnings, one from Santo Domingo, another from the south and west. But he had no troops to spare. He must guard Santa Fe. Even Santa Fe is in danger. My mission was futile.
“I rode Tirant hard, and, fool that I am, I thought Tesuque would still be safe. I thought we had four days. I went to Father Pio and tried to convince him to join me at Las Invernadas. ‘Oh, my son, these are my Indians, my little children’ ” he mimicked. Maria put her fingers to his lips again, and he stopped. “Ah, querida, I once spoke the same way, but they are not our Indians. Emiliano was right. Pobre Emiliano. Well, Father Pio would not leave, so I ran to Tirant and tried to leave the plaza.”
He stopped, pulling her closer, reliving the moment. “I suppose they were hiding in the shadows. The Indians felled Tirant with an ax. I was thrown off onto my face. But I killed those Indians. Then I ran in here. Emiliano was already dead, and his workshop ransacked, but I am thinking now that it might be the safest place in the whole river kingdom.”
“Not quite, my brother.”
In a single motion, Diego tumbled Maria off his lap and leaped to his feet. Cristóbal stepped out of the shadows, laughing softly. He was dressed as Maria had seen him last, in loincloth with white paint on his body. His legs were red from the knees down, as if he had waded through a river of blood. Maria rose up on her knees, her hands clenched in tight fists. She knew whose blood he had waded through, and who had followed her from the burning hacienda.
He looked at her, his head tilted to one side in his characteristic pose. “Maria, how clever you are! Who else would have thought to hide my little sisters in the ditch?”
Maria jumped up and lunged toward Cristóbal, but Diego held her back. She leaned over Diego’s outstretched arm, all fear dissolved by terrible anger. “If you have touched them, Cristóbal ...” she hissed.
“You’ll do what?” He held his hand up as if to ward her off. “I would never bother them now. I will wait until they are good and hungry, and then I will go back.”
“Cristóbal , you really are a bastard,” said Diego slowly.
“Oh, we always knew that, Diego mio,” Cristóbal replied quickly. “But do not fear for the little ones. They are still young, young enough to learn the Indian ways. I will keep them as mine—just as you kept me as yours, Diego. Now, Erlinda, ah, Erlinda, she is a different story. Erlinda ...” He paused, his eyes on Diego. “Diego, she was still calling for you when my Indians—my Indians—ripped off her arms.”
Maria sank down on the buffalo hides and covered her face with her hands.
“What about my mother, Cristóbal? Could you find enough ways to hurt her, she who helped raise you?”
Cristóbal stalked closer to his brother. “I thought of something entirely fitting. You are not the only clever one.”
Without another word, Cristóbal threw Diego against the wall and stabbed him in the arm, digging his long dagger into the adobe, pinning his brother to the wall. “And now you will hold still, my brother,” Cristóbal commanded. “You will die last, after you have watched me kill your chiquita.” He looked at Maria, a smile on his face, “Or whatever it is I finally decide
to do to her.”
Diego wrapped his fingers around the knife, trying frantically to yank it from the wall. His face was a mask of pain. “Cristóbal, you will die for this!” he shouted, and Cristóbal laughed and turned to Maria.
She backed up against Emiliano’s workbench, feeling behind her for the small carving dagger he kept there. Her hand brushed across the table but she could find nothing. She felt a piece of broken pottery jab her leg and she clutched it just as Cristóbal turned around suddenly and kicked Diego. The writhing, bleeding man swore at him in Tewa.
His back was to her for only a heartbeat, but Maria lunged at Cristóbal. He half-turned when he heard her, but she raked the sharp piece down his bare back. Twice she dragged the broken shard down his skin before he slammed her away and put his hand to his back. Maria leaped to her feet and yanked the knife from Diego’s arm.
Diego gasped with pain and threw himself on Cristóbal, jumping on his back and wrapping the scarf he still carried tight around his brother’s neck. Cristóbal clutched at his throat, clawing at the silk scarf. In a frenzy, he backed up against the wall and shoved hard, trying to shake off Diego, who pulled tighter. His hand was slippery with his own blood, but he hung on, tightening his grip with every second that passed, desperate beyond calculation.
Maria scrambled to find Emiliano’s dagger, pawing among the broken pots and bits of splintered wood. In a frenzy she grabbed Emiliano’s small pot of gypsum and pounded Cristóbal over the head with it. The white paint oozed over his head and mingled with the blood from the wounds on his back, turning an incongruous pink. Cristóbal gasped as he struggled to breathe. The blood vessels in his eyes broke as Diego hung on grimly.
Then Cristóbal fell to his knees, his face turning a dark purple. He tried to rise again, but he could only lurch from side to side like a wounded animal, his head drooping lower and lower.
In one brisk movement, Diego got off Cristóbal and stood up, planting his knee firmly in the middle of the swaying man’s back. With one sharp crack that made Maria retch and turn away, Diego snapped his brother’s spine. Cristóbal went limp, paralyzed. His hands flopped to his side and he hung from the scarf that Diego continued to tighten around his neck.
