The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  Taking her cue from her mother, Lucita nodded but said nothing. Spittle formed at the comer of Sebastian's mouth as it so often did when he spoke, not because his emotions had brought him to the brink of self-control, but because a knife wound had severed some of the muscles there. That limp side, so at odds with the rest of him, held her attention.

  "There is much at stake for me here, much I am determined to accomplish," he said after wiping his mouth with a practiced gesture. "I have decided to sleep with my men so they will understand that we must function as a unit. I realize it is of little consequence to you and your mother and you would rather I didn't burden you with the details of my position, but none of us have a choice in this."

  Her father wasn't a man who felt sorry for himself. Neither, however, did he hold back if he felt his knowledge was superior, which he obviously did tonight, like so many times before.

  "Nothing would do but your mother accompany me. I tried to educate her as to the hardships and dangers, but that didn't matter to her, only her damnable promises to God."

  "Sebastian!"

  He acknowledged his wife by spearing her with a sharp look.

  "I know all about the vows you made to convert the heathens; how could it be otherwise, thanks to your constant reminders? I have never stood between you and what you believe is your mission, but neither am I going to remain silent while you and your daughter risk our lives."

  The savage had spoken of his people, calling them Chumash. Maybe he had a wife and children, parents and brothers and sisters. When he returned to wherever they lived, was there ever animosity between him and the others? Maybe savages were incapable of complex emotions, but—

  "Lucita? Are you listening?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Yes, you are." Sebastian sat on one of the two beds, but his body remained as ramrod straight as it had been all day. "Must I remind you that a soldier was wounded here in a way which demonstrates the greatest depravity? His attacker must be hunted down and punished, or other savages will believe they can get away with such an atrocity. Control of the savages is essential to the success of the mission system, and to the glory of Spain. I accept the challenge; it's what my whole life has been about. The viceroy did not send me here so I could look after the safety of two women."

  "I never asked—," Lucita began.

  "Certainly not! The last thing I would allow is for my daughter or wife to commandeer one of the sparse troops for their personal use."

  "Do you really believe there will be trouble?" She forced the question.

  He snorted, the unresponsive part of his mouth at odds with the rest of his expression. "There already has been. I will not allow it to escalate."

  "No, of course not."

  "You will know that I am here.... Waiting for the time to speak to you again. And when I do, you must tell me the truth, or your life will end."

  "But... how are you going to find the Indian responsible?"

  "That is none of your concern."

  "Father, please. The thought of you putting yourself in danger..." The words died as she asked herself what his death would mean to her. "Mother and I will be working with the Indians. It is possible we will overhear something that could be of use to you. If we could help—"

  "Help? You? You don't know enough to remain inside after dark."

  She should tell him it wouldn't happen again, but she couldn't. "I... I keep thinking about how vast everything is here. How can you possibly find one man?"

  "Not a man. A stupid, vicious animal. He needs food and water. When he goes after those things, we will be waiting for him. And if he has convinced others that rebellion is possible, they will meet his fate."

  "I prayed to my spirit, and Wolf answered. I am safe, tonight."

  "That is it? You will patrol the creeks?"

  "How little you know! Just stay out of my troops' way." Standing, he stalked toward her. "I want you here. Here! Do you understand?"

  "Sebastian," Margarita interrupted. "Your daughter and I are at La Purisima to minister to the souls of the Indians. We have to have contact with them. The Lord—"

  Sebastian shook his graying head. "I order you not to make my task any harder than it is. Think about every movement you make; weigh the wisdom of it carefully. That is what I am asking of you."

  He might have used the word ask, but there was no question to what he'd just said.

  "Father?"

  His response was to glare at her.

  "I'm not questioning you," she said. "I just need to understand something."

  He shifted his weight, his jaw clamping taut, which made her wonder if the scars he'd received over the years pained him tonight. She wanted to care for him, but he had never shown any weakness and she'd learned a great deal about keeping her feelings to herself from him.

  "I've heard you say that the best way to defeat an enemy is to attack when they aren't expecting," she said. "Do you consider all wild Indians your enemy or just that one?"

  "Lucita!" her mother exclaimed. "Our concern is with the neophytes' souls, not what happens to heathens incapable of hearing the Lord's word."

  "I know, Mother." She'd already asked so many questions about her father's plans that she may have aroused his suspicion. Still, she didn't know enough, not because the savage might demand information of her, but because—maybe because she hoped to prevent any more blood from being shed.

  Choosing her words carefully, she went on. "The neophytes once lived with those beyond our reach. If Father and the others attack the savages, how will the neophytes react?"

  Her mother, so sure of herself when it came to religious matters, opened her mouth but said nothing.

  Slapping his hands together, her father declared, "If only you had been born a boy! What a soldier you would have made. I will never allow a weapon in the hands of the neophytes, never take my eyes off them. Give a wolf back its fangs and it will regain the courage to attack."

  Maybe, but the wild Indian had weapons and freedom and yet he hadn't harmed her. Why that was came to her quickly—a reminder she would be a fool to forget. The Indian had no desire to slit her throat as long as he thought he could learn something from her.

  "The savages here have never attacked, have they?" she asked. "Not like what happened in San Diego?"

  She expected him to dismiss her question as womanly nonsense, but he didn't. "That is because the military presence keeps them in line. My predecessor became complacent and it nearly cost one of his men his life. It will not happen again. Order will be restored."

  By making an example of one savage?

  With a grant that sounded too much like a groan, her father reached the door and then turned back toward her. "If you were a man, we could talk the night away, but I do not have the time to waste discussing military strategy with you: I want to know where you are at all times. I will tell you where you can go and when."

  "I'm not a child. I know—"

  "Lucita," her mother interrupted. "Do not argue with your father. She will do as you say, Sebastian. I promise."

  "I will hold you to that," he said and closed the door between them.

  * * *

  Without bothering to knock, Sebastian stepped inside the padres' quarters. The men of God had been sitting at a table with their heads bent over something Father Joseph was writing. They looked up at the corporal, and then, without saying anything, Father Patricio reached for the jug near his elbow.

  "The soil here produces some of the finest grapes in the country," he explained as he handed the jug to Sebastian. "And our wine is unsurpassed."

  The padre was right. Smooth and yet with the fire Sebastian's belly craved, three swallows passed in rapid succession. "Excellent," he proclaimed.

  "We allow ourselves a nightly drink. It fortifies the blood and helps us sleep. Besides, what little we take for ourselves is not missed," Father Joseph explained as Father Patricio pulled up the only spare chair in the room so Sebastian could sit down.


  "Then you are able to supply the Crown with a wine export which meets expectations?" Sebastian asked although he already knew the answer. His hip ached and his left calf threatened to cramp, but he refused to acknowledge either discomfort.

  "More than meet," Father Joseph said proudly. "No other mission's wine commands a higher price, or is more favorably accepted. In fact, Pablo Portola, the merchant who has been servicing us for several years, has become a wealthy man."

  "You are to be commended," Sebastian said and took another swallow, then placed the jug on the table. Although he would like nothing better than the oblivion of drink, it wouldn't happen tonight because duty came first, not the least of which was recording the name Pablo Portola to memory.

  "Tell me, how often does this merchant visit and what, beyond wine, do you export?"

  As the chattering, hand-fluttering padres launched into an explanation of their efforts to meet the Crown's expectation that the missions be profitable, Sebastian concentrated not so much on what they were saying as on learning all he could about the two. In truth, he cared not at all about the various crops and other goods that Senor Portola bought and eventually took to Spain. Of the two, Father Joseph struck him as less worldly. Everything they accomplished, according to him, was done for the glory to God. Father Patricio, in contrast, had a stronger grasp of what existed beyond the mission and the reality of secular life. He was more likely to speak first, and if he contradicted anything Father Joseph said, the whisper-voiced padre acquiesced. Sebastian recorded his interpretation to memory.

  "I appreciate your attempts to educate me," he said finally. "And doubtless I will want to know more. However, one thing remains foremost in my mind."

  "Of course," Father Patricio broke in. "And let us say, we are delighted to have you here. Delighted. Your predecessor—what can we say? Of course he was humiliated to have the viceroy order him replaced, but the blow to his reputation was not foremost in his mind."

  "Patricio, please," Father Joseph warned. "The corporal is not interested in—"

  "But I am. If I am to succeed where Corporal Galvez failed, I must know what his failings were."

  "Yes, yes." Father Patricio smiled the rat-faced smile Sebastian already loathed. "I was going to say—there is no lack of female companionship here. They are willing, available. Corporal Galvez had a healthy appetite for such things."

  "Which he won't be able to satisfy if he is ordered to sea." Not caring that the gesture showed the marked differences between the sides of his mouth, Sebastian grinned. "I have always maintained that a soldier who is able to satisfy his sexual needs makes a better fighter."

  Father Joseph looked uncomfortable with that, but Father Patricio nodded agreement. If, as Sebastian had surmised, Father Patricio carried more weight here than his companion did, there would be no problem with his troops making use of the females—not that that would have made a difference.

  "You have both been here a number of years, have you not?" he asked. Then, without giving them time to answer, he continued. "I trust that your knowledge of the terrain and conditions is extensive. Beyond that, I believe I can rely on your knowledge when it comes to educating myself about the savages."

  "Of course, of course," Father Patricio said. "Anything you want—"

  "For now, only one thing." He'd been leaning back in the chair in an effort to rest as much of his body as possible. Now he rocked forward. "I had a long conversation with the wounded soldier. He professes to remember little of the incident and insists he was doing nothing to have incurred anyone's wrath. However..." Sebastian paused deliberately. "The nature of his injury leads me to believe otherwise."

  Father Joseph dropped his gaze but not so Father Patricio. "When he was found, his pants were down around his knees."

  "So perhaps Senor Turi was expending himself inside someone's wife and that neophyte took exception to his actions?"

  "No. No."

  "How can you be certain?"

  "Because no neophyte would do what that creature did." Father Patricio held up a fisted hand. "They know better."

  "Hm. But someone wielded that knife."

  Not breaking eye contact, Father Patricio reached for the wine jug, wiped the neck and lifted it, but didn't drink.

  "It is my understanding that Turi suffered so from blood loss and pain that he lapsed into unconsciousness and thus was unable to supply any information beyond the obvious."

  "True, true," Father Joseph said. "I argued to have him remain here until he was fully recovered, but when the corporal received word that he was being relieved of leadership here he insisted on leaving immediately and taking Senor Turi with him."

  Sebastian already knew that. However, he believed that more could be learned by listening and observing than by flaunting one's knowledge. However, the time had come for him to reveal what he'd uncovered. He explained that his conversation with Turi had been profitable, not only because Turi had begun to remember more about the incident, but also because he was more willing to share those memories with Sebastian than with his commander.

  "Something was described to me." Sebastian spoke slowly and deliberately. "I hope this particular detail will expose the savage's identity."

  Father Patricio licked his lips; Father Joseph looked decidedly uneasy.

  "Turi remembers a mark, a scar on the back of the hand holding the knife. He has no doubt that it was a wolf's head."

  Both padres sucked in their breath, and something passed between them that Sebastian didn't, yet, understand but vowed to.

  "Black Wolf," Father Patricio hissed.

  * * *

  The harsh noise sliced through Lucita's dream of standing in the dark while even darker eyes stared back at her. Springing up from the uncomfortable bed, she struggled to remember where she was and how she'd got there.

  When the inharmonious clanging was repeated, she looked over at her mother, who appeared just as confused, then hurried to her feet and stared out the window. She couldn't see the church but surmised that someone was ringing the three campaigner bells. Dawn had just begun to slide past the night, and now that her heartbeat was returning to normal, all she wanted was to crawl back into bed.

  "Prayers," her mother announced. "Hurry and dress yourself."

  By forcing herself not to think beyond the act of slipping out of her nightgown and into the dress she'd worn yesterday—a necessity, because she hadn't yet unpacked the rest of her limited wardrobe—Lucita managed to be ready by the time her mother was. Yawning, she stepped outside.

  A ragged current of human movement flowed past; she estimated that nearly two hundred Indians were heading toward the church. Not sure whether she was expected to join them, she let her mother lead the way.

  Margarita, head bowed under her mantilla and hands clasped over her chest, paid no attention to the still-ringing bells that topped the solid church. The double front doors were open to let the Indians in, but Margarita touched Lucita's shoulder indicating she should follow her to the side entrance. Once inside, she found herself in the sacristy, where Father Joseph sat on a wooden bench, a trio of heavy candles in a recessed shelf behind him illuminating one side of his face.

  "Welcome, ladies." Father Joseph's delicate smile took years off his age. "I wondered if you would be too weary for morning prayers after your long journey."

  "A child of God is never too tired for devotions," Margarita replied. "Giving praise washes away earthly concerns."

  Nodding, Father Joseph rose and walked over to the arched cloth-covered opening leading to the worship hall. He drew the curtain back a few inches, and Lucita could see the silent Indians, men and boys on one side, women, girls, and babies on the other. There were no benches, and everyone knelt on worn tile. Despite the many bodies, the silence was eerie, a sense of tension palatable. Only when the church was full did Father Joseph step into the room. At her mother's prompting, she fell in line behind the padre and took her place to the left of the reredos, where she, too, knelt.


  The sermon, spoken in both Spanish and Chumash, wandered from denouncement of one earthly sin to another and went on for more than an hour. After giving heartfelt thanks for a safe journey through a land alive with so much beauty, Lucita's mind wandered. Her knees first ached and then became numb, and she worried her mother wouldn't be able to stand afterward. From time to time a child or infant began to cry, but he or she was immediately silenced by fingers clamped over a tiny nose and mouth, which effectively prevented the crier from drawing breath. Upset by such harsh treatment, she vowed to ask Father Joseph about it afterward. In the meantime, she took in impressions. Like the neophyte who'd approached the padres yesterday, many of the men wore only skimpy diaper-like garments. In contrast, the women had on blouses and skirts that rendered them modest by any standards. No one wore shoes. Hair length appeared to be according to personal preference, since many women had cut theirs short while a number of men let theirs flow over their shoulders. Although she'd occasionally glimpsed the Indians of Mexico, she was surprised by how dark the neophytes' skin was. Even her tanned arms didn't come close.

  What first and then relentlessly made its impression on her was that no one in that stale-smelling, cramped space returned her gaze. She tried to tell herself that they were lost in the sermon, but as far as she could determine, nothing Father Joseph said elicited any reaction from them. Maybe it didn't matter to them. And maybe they didn't dare exhibit emotion any more than they dared let their babies cry.

  At long last Father Joseph appeared to run out of breath, because he abruptly extended his arms in a gesture that gave everyone permission to rise. The blandness, the nothingness, was gone, replaced by—she'd seen fear in the eyes of the orphans she'd tried to comfort and knew that emotion all too well. It was here now, alive and overwhelming.

  "My children, I am certain you realized there was no confession this morning," Father Joseph said, speaking in Spanish for the first time. "No penance for sins. In celebration of the arrival of God's new agents, you are excused."