by Vella Munn
"Do you remember when you first learned to walk?" He whispered the question. "How angry you got when you kept falling down? How you stuck your arms out and couldn't get your legs to cease moving when you wanted to stop and your mother didn't dare let you get too close to the fire?"
Although Fox Running nuzzled his head against Black Wolf's side, the boy didn't respond.
"You had not yet reached your first birthday when your legs became strong enough to hold you, but you were not content simply to walk. No. You had to run. Everywhere you went, everything you did, you ran."
"Why?"
"Because, little man, because." His wife should be with them tonight. She would have loved to watch and listen, would have laughed with him. "We... we did not know what to call you when you were born. We wanted you to have a name which said who you were, and so we called you many things, but none of them were right until we watched you run and saw how joyful running made you."
"Why?"
"Because parents are like that, little man. We laugh when you laugh, cry when you cry. And..." He'd almost told his son that parents were willing to lay down their lives so their children might live. "From the beginning you ran like a little fox who chases his tail and tries to nip his brothers and sisters and bumps into his parents. We knew then, Fox Running, that you had named yourself."
He readied himself for yet another question. Instead, the boy sighed deeply and once again snuggled against him. When his grandfather became feeble, Black Wolf had had enough time to travel to the sea and search the shore for a whale carcass. He had chosen a rib bone and used that to mark Lame Deer's grave, but he hadn't known his wife was going to die. Tomorrow he would collect stone slabs or maybe carve a wood grave pole to mark her resting place, but tonight he refused to think about that.
His son was falling asleep, muscle and bone turning soft and warm. Although Fox Running insisted he was no longer a baby and refused to be treated like one, Black Wolf began rocking slowly back and forth as he and his son's mother had done when their infant son had difficulty falling asleep.
Fox Running felt so right in his arms. Whenever he looked at the boy, he saw himself and his wife, but mostly he saw a new human life beginning to walk its own way.
He prayed his arms would be enough and that they would always be there for his son, but maybe not even Wolf could protect him from the leatherjackets.
Chapter 21
The smell. And the heat.
Feeling light-headed, Lucita leaned forward and braced her hands on her knees. When she no longer felt as if she might faint, she straightened and lifted a hand to shield her eyes so she could take in her surroundings. A gray haze clung to the horizon and stripped all vibrancy from the sky, trees, and hills. She tried to bring forth the magic and wonder of the time she'd spent at the coast with Black Wolf, but what she'd see when she reentered the infirmary had left her unable to think of anything except how much she hated that place of death.
Midnight was back and in even more desperate straits than before. His older brother had carried him in early this morning, but in spite of her shock at seeing the infection in his once again gaping wound, she hadn't allowed herself to rail against the filthy conditions and exertion that had been responsible for what had happened.
When dizziness again assaulted her, she forced herself to admit that her thoughts and not the heat were responsible. She'd stepped outside because she needed to fetch more water and would return because Midnight depended on her, but it was so hard! The boy's fevered leg continued to burn no matter how many times she soaked it in the coolest water she could find, and now the boy's entire body felt like an oven. Although he could barely swallow, at least she could bathe him and that way give him a small measure of comfort—and hold onto a nugget of hope that he might survive.
"I hate this place! Hate what happens here!"
Shocked by her outburst, she looked around, but from what she could tell, no one had heard. When she clamped her hand over her mouth, she wasn't surprised to find her lips dry and rough. Her skirt had become caked with dust during her endless treks to the cistern, a bloodstain covered much of her right sleeve, and she was in desperate need of a bath.
Picking up her pails, she squared her shoulders and headed for the cistern, determined to do what she could to clean herself—not that the effort would have any lasting benefits. A number of cattle were being slaughtered today, which meant most of the neophytes were engaged in that disturbing and yet necessary task. Father Joseph had sent out a scout early this morning, but he had seen no sign of her father and whoever might be returning with him.
A long, mournful, and yet achingly intense bellow stopped her in midstride. Shuddering, she tried not to imagine what had caused the cow to utter that sound. Once again her throat, her very being, filled with the words she'd uttered a few minutes ago.
She hated La Purisima Mission. Hated Alta California.
All except for—no! She wouldn't allow herself to think about Black Wolf! He belonged to a world she would never understand.
Reaching the cistern, she set down her pails and plunged her hands and arms into the clean running water. Using lye soap, she scrubbed every bit of exposed flesh until she was afraid she'd draw blood, and then she dunked her head into the water so she could wash her hair. Finally, she unlaced her shoes, lifted her skirt, and stepped barefoot into the pool. The water felt heavenly.
She'd reluctantly got out and was waiting for her feet to dry when she noticed a boy with Father Patricio. The padre had his arm around the youth's shoulder and was leaning toward him, speaking into his ear as they walked. By contrast, the boy held himself arrow straight and seemed to be straining against the padre.
The two came toward her, Father Patricio continuing to talk, his words so low Lucita couldn't make out more than the barest murmur of sound. Once they were close enough that she could make out the youth's features, she realized it was Midnight's older brother. Most of the male neophytes had high and prominent cheekbones. Their noses were large, at least larger than she was used to seeing, and their chins seemed to have been carved from stone, but this boy had a girl-like quality to him despite his maturing body. His long, shining hair framed delicate and slightly rounded features, his eyes dominating his face.
"Good day, Lucita." Father Patricio acknowledged her with a quick smile. After patting the boy on the head, the padre stepped away from him and indicated her feet. "I see the filthy conditions here have compelled you to attempt cleanliness. I wish you success. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it is a temporary condition."
"I have to agree," she admitted. "You aren't overseeing the slaughtering?" She was surprised she could say the word without her throat tightening.
Shrugging, he glanced back at the motionless boy. "Everyone knows their assigned tasks and the consequences of slackening; they should, given the countless times this chore has been done. However, you are right—I must return before much longer."
The boy, who wore not so much as a loincloth, stared at the ground. Impulsively she walked over to him and touched his shoulder. "You can come see your brother whenever you want." She spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable and hoping he could pick up at least a little of what she was saying to him. "He's very sick, but I know it would help him to have you there."
Something flitted across the child's features, but he gave no indication he understood a word. She repeated herself, but the result was the same.
"Do not waste your breath, Lucita," Father Patricio warned. Pointing, he ordered the boy to get into the cistern and begin cleaning himself. "No matter how hard Father Joseph and I try, these children are incapable of learning adequate Spanish."
"But... I thought you were talking to him a few minutes ago."
"You are mistaken," he said quickly. "Quite mistaken. That one might as well be deaf for all the good my words do."
She wasn't sure. Hadn't the boy reacted—by trying to pull free?
Drawing on what little Chumash she'd picked
up in the time she'd been here, she held her arms as if she were rocking a baby while repeating what she hoped was the word for "sick" and then placed her hand over her leg to indicate Midnight's injury. As before, something flashed in the boy's eyes, but he remained silent.
"What is that?" Father Patricio insisted. "What are you doing?"
"Not enough, I fear. My Chumash is so inadequate, but I keep trying. I want him to know that his—"
"No!" Stalking toward her, the priest threw back his shoulders. "I forbid it!"
Shocked, she nearly took an involuntary step backward, but for reasons she couldn't fully explain it was important that she stand her ground. "Why not? He cares for his brother." Her throat closed down, briefly making it impossible for her to speak. "He needs to know—"
"Lucita, these children..." He jabbed a finger at the dripping boy. "If we acknowledge their godless ways, they will never understand how misguided they are."
"Learning to communicate with them is hardly condoning godlessness. Besides, if you'd allowed Midnight to take care of his wound for a few more days, this wouldn't have happened."
Red blotches broke out on his cheeks. "I will not argue this with you, Lucita."
She had never seen Father Patricio so upset and would have turned her full attention to trying to understand why if she hadn't noticed the boy's reaction. He seemed to be trying to shrink away from the padre, a natural response to the harsh words of course, but it was more than that. His eyes, which had been so guarded a few minutes before, now burned, not just with fear, but with anger as well.
He understands.
"I... I am sorry," she said because she understood the folly of arguing with him. "This is still new to me. I—"
"Perhaps. I am appalled you even considered learning their language."
She was equally appalled that he wasn't willing to reach out to the neophytes in the most basic of ways. "The sounds they make are so different. I can't help but be fascinated by how they accomplish that."
His frown served as proof that he didn't share her enthusiasm. "Those are inhuman noises, Lucita. Our task is to lift them above their animal-like state. I insist you never forget that."
Father Joseph had never made her feel anything but wanted. Obviously lonely for any kind of communication, he had asked her about life in Mexico City, but although Father Patricio had listened in on a couple of those conversations, he had said little. However, until this moment she'd never had an inkling that he resented her presence.
Her mother was a master at avoiding confrontation, and Lucita had learned a great deal from her, a knowledge she fell back on now. Head lowered in acceptance, she clasped her hands as if in prayer. "I am sorry. I don't pretend to know as much about the neophytes as you do. I simply thought—"
"Yes, yes. Once you have a few more years behind you, you will understand that there are certain levels of intelligence and those who have the ability to reason and lead have the obligation to do so. This one?"—he indicated the boy—"impresses me with his quickness in learning new tasks. I have taken him under my wing with the hope that he might act as a bridge to the others. However..." He sighed. "Perhaps my dedication is ill-founded. As you can see, no matter how much I have given of myself to him, he continues to distrust my motives."
"Have you tried this before?" she asked, choosing her words carefully. "Selecting a neophyte with the hopes that he would make it easier to reach the others?"
"Numerous times, Lucita. If nothing else, I am determined." He crooked a finger at the boy.
"Were you ever successful?"
"Successful?" An emotion she couldn't read settled over Father Patricio's features. "He would disagree, but there was one "
"He?" she prompted, suddenly cold.
"Never mind." Father Patricio waved his hand impatiently. "It was a long time ago and does not concern you. Come, boy."
If it hadn't been for the way the boy's toes curled inward, she wouldn't have guessed Father Patricio's order had any impact on him. The padre's hand snaked out, and he pulled the youngster close to him. He sniffed, then nodded. "It is so hard to get the wild smell out of them," he muttered. "I heard you playing last night. You make that sad old violin sing, and I stand in awe of your talent. Senor Portola will be much impressed. I daresay you have already made a most favorable impact on him."
Although she wondered at the abrupt change of subject, she decided to go along with it. "I love playing. I always have."
"And the neophytes fell right in line. However, by the next time you lead them in God's praises, they will know better than to use their heathen instruments."
* * *
Black Wolf had told her he hated Father Patricio. Because he hadn't explained the reason behind his hatred and she'd been loath to question him, she'd understood little. Today, however, no amount of prayer and pleas for tolerance and understanding removed her own displeasure with the padre.
Last night had been so peaceful, a short hour of calm during which she'd felt connected with the Indians. They'd shared something precious, and now Father Patricio had ruined the memory with his threat.
No, he hadn't, she insisted as she propped open the infirmary door. Only she had control over her memories and emotions, and last night had been good; she refused to let anything change that.
Black Wolf would have enjoyed it. In fact, with his deep voice, he would have provided the perfect accompaniment.
Where are you? Are you all right?
Shaking off the question, she finished bathing the patients and then fed those capable of eating. She was changing the bandage on a woman whose legs had been burned by hot tallow when the bells announcing midday prayers rang. Lucita's first impulse was to use it as an excuse to quit what she was doing because the burned flesh turned her stomach, but so far, the woman hadn't turned feverish. With diligence, maybe Lucita could keep the wounds free from infection. Success in this place of illness was so rare that the woman's being able to walk again might be considered a miracle.
"Father Patricio is wrong," she said aloud, conviction breaking through. "Black Wolf learned Spanish. If he can, so can others."
The woman stopped her moaning and regarded Lucita through narrowed eyes.
"Why I am saying anything?" she continued. "It's just... just that I spend so much time alone. Not alone really, because there are so many people here, but... alone in my heart."
Using a clean wet rag, she dribbled cool water over the woman's left leg. "The nuns used grease whenever one of the orphans burned themselves, but grease made them cry so, poor things. And I didn't see that it helped the healing. But water—especially if it's cold..."
She had to stop chattering. Just the same, when she noticed that some of the strained look had gone out of the woman's eyes, she freshened the cloth and laid it over the wound, muttering that she had hated having to cause the infants and children any pain.
"The orphans had so few needs or wants," she continued. "Some of the older ones were afraid of being touched. I think things must have happened or been done to them to make them like that. But the babies, the babies loved to be rocked."
The woman nodded.
"Do you do that?" she asked around her shock. "Rock your babies?"
"Y-es."
Struck dumb, Lucita could only stare openmouthed at the woman. She started to pickup the cloth, then, remembering she'd just placed it there, let it go.
"How... how much of what I've been saying do you understand?"
The faintest of smiles touched the usually taut lips. "Much."
"But... but Father Patricio says..."
"He does not know. He does not care to know."
What did that mean? "How did you—I mean, are you the only one?"
"Only one?"
"Who understands Spanish."
"No. No." The woman laughed. "Not all words, true, but... but a number."
"Why didn't you say anything before?"
The woman's eyes closed, cutting Lucita off, but Luci
ta waited, and after the better part of a minute, the woman opened them again. "You speak with a woman's heart," the neophyte said. "My woman's heart hears."
On the brink of tears, Lucita clasped the woman's hand. "Thank you for saying that. I—"
"Lucita!"
For one, maybe two seconds she struggled against the march of time so she could return to when her mother hadn't been here. "What?" she asked in the end, because she had no choice.
"Prayers have already begun."
Fearing a lecture, she felt her muscles tense, but to her surprise, her mother said nothing more. Instead, Margarita walked over to where Lucita was standing and looked down at the woman's burns.
Shuddering, Margarita turned away. "How do you do it?" she asked. "I know it is my duty to give of myself in here, and I try. But what I see appalls and sickens me, and I feel so helpless, so inadequate."
Lucita wanted to ask her mother not to speak like that because the patient understood her, but if she did, she would be betraying a confidence.
"I have to keep busy," she tried to explain. "And this is something I can do. Mother, go, please. I'll join you as soon as I'm done."
"Will you? Sometimes I think the last thing you want to do is step inside a church."
Something was different about her mother today. Maybe it was her husband's absence and maybe—what? Whatever it was, Lucita was grateful that, for a few seconds at least, she wasn't being treated like a misbehaving child.
"I don't know how I feel," she said with as much honesty as she was capable of. "These people—" She couldn't call them neophytes, not after what she and the woman had shared. "Their beliefs aren't the same as ours, but they're just as strong. I can't turn my back on that."
Margarita's lips trembled and her eyes became moist. "I know, my daughter," she whispered.
