by Vella Munn
Unable to ignore the pain in her mother's voice, Lucita embraced her. "You can't do my living for me, Mother. Only I can."
"I know." Margarita reached out and pulled her daughter into her embrace. Her heart felt not heavy but full as she absorbed her daughter's strength.
* * *
The Indian woman had fallen asleep while Lucita dribbled water over her burns. Well aware of how little sleep she had got since her accident, Lucita decided not to disturb her by re-dressing the injuries. Instead, long after her mother had left for services she remained beside her patient and fanned the air with her hand.
Finally her arm grew so tired that she took a chance on stopping. To her relief, the woman didn't stir. Silence permeated the infirmary, and Lucita felt assaulted by it. Instead of forcing herself to the heart-sickening task of checking to see if Midnight had lapsed into unconsciousness, she walked outside.
A little of the endless haze had lifted, with the result that her world appeared more colorful than it had for days. A rumble of voices served as notice that mass was over and the Indians had gone back to work.
Not knowing what, if anything, she had in mind, she started toward her quarters, but she hadn't covered half the distance before sudden movement to her left stopped her.
Black Wolf, she thought before she could stop herself.
No, not him.
The boy she'd seen earlier with Father Patricio had burst out of the padre's quarters and was running as fast as his legs would carry him. She couldn't tell what his destination was, just that Father Patricio was charging after him.
"Stop!" Father Patricio screamed. "Stop or I will beat you within an inch of your life!"
Horrified, Lucita stared. The boy, as unencumbered by clothing as he'd been before, was the swifter runner. However, instead of watching where he was going, he repeatedly looked over his shoulders at his pursuer. Neither of them seemed aware of her presence.
Glancing around, she determined that except for a couple of excited dogs, no one else was close enough to see. Of course Father Patricio's shouts—
"Stop! Damnation, stop!"
The boy kept running, long hair flying out behind him. This wasn't any of her concern. Hadn't Father Patricio made it clear he resented her presence?
But the boy—
Acting on instinct, she sprang in front of the youngster, snagged him around the waist, and clutched his struggling body to her.
Chapter 22
The boy fought her with every ounce of strength in his young body, and Lucita came within a heartbeat of being forced to release him, but he looked so terrified that she refused to give up.
"No, no, no," she chanted. "It is all right. Nothing is going to hurt you. I promise, I promise."
It didn't matter whether he understood or if she could make good on her vow. Right now the important, the only, thing was getting him to relax.
Still, he twisted away from her and kicked, nearly succeeding in freeing himself. Teeth clenched against the sudden pain in her calf, she clamped her arms around him and pulled him tight against her. She concentrated on not letting her legs get in the way of another blow.
"God in heaven!" Father Patricio gasped. "How dare you!"
Pressing forward, he cocked his arm and slapped the boy hard against the side of his head. The child staggered and for a moment sagged in Lucita's arms. She saw the padre raise his arm again and without thinking spun her prisoner away from him. As a result, the blow landed on her shoulder. Although it was a glancing strike, she cried out, desperate to get the padre to come to his senses.
"Stop it!" she gasped. Her heart beat so loudly that she could barely think beyond the sound. "Do not hit him; please."
"He disobeyed me!" Father Patricio insisted. "He knows what is expected of him, and yet he disobeys—"
"Father Patricio! That is enough."
Out of the corner of her eye Lucita glimpsed Father Joseph hurrying toward them. If the two of them opposed her, what would she do?
"What is going on?" Father Joseph demanded, his cheeks unnaturally red.
"This is none of your concern!" Father Patricio shot back. "I do not interfere in your affairs. I expect the same of you."
Lucita had never seen anything approaching animosity between the two men and could barely believe this was happening. In truth, they put her in mind of dogs fighting over the same bone. She wanted to steer the boy to someplace safe but wasn't sure the padres would let her or whether anywhere represented safety.
"Your so-called affairs are my concern because of the way you conduct yourself." Father Joseph spoke through clenched teeth. "To have this take place in public—"
"Nothing has taken place except that this... this creature is defying me. And she insists on protecting him."
An argument pressed against Lucita's lips, but she wisely kept quiet. The boy had stopped struggling. His hot body trembled, and reacting to his emotion, she continued to hold onto him. If he'd been an infant, she could comfort him, but things had happened to him that she couldn't begin to understand.
"I am sorry you had to be part of this, Lucita," Father Joseph said, belatedly acknowledging her. He started to shift his weight but wound up gripping his knee. "It is—I do not want you to for a moment to think that Father Patricio and I are not of the same accord, but..."
His words trailed off and he looked around as if trying to remember where he was and what had brought him here. "It is this place," he muttered. "There are times when the isolation... When..." He stared long and hard at Father Patricio. "I am not the only one who feels this way."
"No, he is not," Father Patricio admitted, making Lucita wonder how long they were going to continue speaking to her and not each other.
"I understand," she said finally, not because she did but because the silence was making her uncomfortable.
"I pray you do." Releasing his knee, Father Joseph folded his slender fingers together, the knuckles immediately turning white. "There is no intellectual stimulation here, no one of a like mind to converse with, no diversion from the everlasting—the unappreciated work of making the mission succeed."
Instead of saying anything, she warily watched as Father Patricio stepped toward the boy. The child drew away, a nearly inaudible sob oozing from him. She wasn't sure whether his trembling was in reaction to his fear or because he was exhausted. Perhaps it was a little of both.
"Release him to me, Lucita," Father Patricio ordered as she placed her body between him and the child. "Life's lessons are not always what one would wish, but that does not change the necessity."
What lessons? She could understand reluctance to do certain tasks about the mission, but this was deeper and beyond her comprehension. "He doesn't want to be with you. What is so important that—"
"That is not your concern, Lucita! Release him, now!"
"No."
Glowering, the padre reached for her. However, before he could grab hold of her, Father Joseph stepped between them and took Father Patricio's wrist.
"Not now." Father Joseph's voice remained as soft as it always was, but there was no mistaking his determination.
For a moment Father Patricio stared at his trapped wrist; then he tried to tug free, but Father Joseph only increased his grip.
"Not now," Father Joseph repeated. "Lucita, take the boy with you."
"No!"
"Enough!" Father Joseph's voice equaled Father Patrick's in intensity. "You and I must speak, alone."
Holding the boy tight against her side, feeling his emotion and wondering if he could feel hers as well, Lucita spun away. She readied herself in case the child tried to free himself, but he now seemed willing to do whatever she wanted. Apparently a number of neophytes had heard the commotion, because although she couldn't concentrate enough to focus on her surroundings, she knew she was being watched. Her mind felt as if it might explode from the pressure of unanswered questions, but there was no one she could turn to.
Stopping, she tried to look be
yond this moment. A dry wind was blowing today, with the result that dust skittered and whirled about and had coated everything with a fine layer of gray The heavy mission building walls that had once impressed her with their durability pressed around her, trapping her. The everlasting haze clung to the sky, turning the sun a dull orange and stripping the blue from the heavens. The hills that rose on all sides stood like sentries determined to prevent her from escaping.
"I won't let him hurt you again," she vowed. Then, as a rush of love washed through her, she released the boy. For a moment he looked up at her with bright and beautiful eyes and she remembered his compassion and concern for Midnight, and then he ran.
After indecision that went on for too long, she headed toward the infirmary because there was nowhere else for her to go, not now at least. Midnight needed her to help ease what she'd finally come to accept was his dying, but she didn't have the strength for that, yet.
At first glance, the Indian woman she'd spoken to earlier in the day seemed to be asleep, but she opened her eyes as Lucita came closer.
"How do you feel?" Lucita asked.
"All right."
"Good." Weak, she dropped to her knees beside the woman. "What is your name?"
"I call myself Feather."
"Feather. That's beautiful. I am Lucita."
"Lu-cita?"
"Yes. That's right." She took a deep breath, then let it rush out. "I hate in here, the stifling heat, the smells. You must, too."
"Yes."
How simple and yet heartfelt Feather's answer was. "If you want, after dark I will take you outside."
"Outside?"
"Yes. Would you like that?"
The woman's eyes glistened. "Very much," she whispered.
"Of course you do," she whispered. Then, beyond weighing the wisdom of her words, she began telling Feather about what had just happened but had got no further than describing the boy running out of the padre's quarters when the door opened, revealing her mother.
"I heard." Margarita spoke in a low whisper. "Oh, Lucita, you angered Father Patricio. Why?"
Her mother's first and maybe only concern was that her daughter had displeased a man of God. She shouldn't be surprised, but on the heels of what had happened today, she ached for something different. Not leaving out anything, she told her mother everything.
"I wouldn't stand back and watch a child be mistreated," she finished. "I couldn't."
"Lucita, ours is not to question the ways of our priests and padres. Their relationship with God is much closer than ours ever will be."
"That doesn't make what he did right," she protested. "You didn't see that boy. He was terrified."
"Because he is a savage. Lucita—"
"No!" she interrupted. "He's a human being."
Although she'd been intent on what she and her mother were saying to each other, she now realized that Feather was taking in everything. Would, Lucita wanted to ask her mother, a "savage" understand what this argument was about?
To her surprise, Margarita pressed a hand over her eyes, a ragged breath tearing at the air. "I was once like you," she muttered. "There was a time when I questioned."
"What did you question?" she asked, incredulous.
"It was so long ago, so long. And my parents did to me what I am doing to you." Sighing, she blinked back tears. "Their answer was always for me to immerse myself in prayers, to beg God to show me the way"
"And did he?"
"Yes. Of course."
Her answer had come too quickly, too softly, as if she was trying to deny that it could ever be anything else. "I wish," Lucita whispered, "I wish we could talk to each other. Really talk."
"We do. All the time."
"No, we don't."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "Maybe nothing."
"You don't belong here." Margarita, too, was whispering. "I pray Senor Portola will return soon."
Lips pinched and pale, Margarita spun on her heels and stumbled out of the room. Through blurred vision Lucita recorded first her mother's figure as a solid, gray shadow and then nothing.
* * *
His eyes little more than slits as protection against the sun and windblown particles, Black Wolf studied the small group of men making their way toward the mission. He could have slipped closer and still not risk detection, but he didn't need to see more than he already did. Lucita's father had returned, bringing with him four other men. Four seemed such a small number to protect the mission against what Corporal Rodriguez believed was an Indian uprising, but it was still more than had been before, and all of them were well armed.
No, not all of them, he realized. The man riding beside Rodriguez wasn't wearing the heavy leather padding the others did. He carried himself like a man who had spent much of his life on horseback. After studying him a little longer, Black Wolf realized it was the merchant who'd been at La Purisima a couple of weeks ago and had spent a great deal of time with Lucita.
Nearby movement distracted Black Wolf, and he saw he'd disturbed a beetle that was trying to find a way into the ground. He watched, both amused and filled with admiration, as the small, dark creature dug at soil and pebbles until it managed to cover itself. Was the beetle a sign, a message from Wolf that he should hide from his enemy?
The too-familiar taste of hate filled him and clenched his fist. Two days ago he had held his son in his arms and made a vow to always be there for him. Nothing about that vow had changed, but the shock of his wife's death had begun to lift and was being replaced by reality.
The leatherjackets were here. More of them meant even more repression for his trapped people and more danger for those who had managed to remain free.
The enemy had killed his wife! Their diseases had found her and snuffed out a life, leaving a boy to grow up without his mother!
Despite the effort it took, Black Wolf willed his fingers to straighten. Then he reached for his spear and lifted it over his head, the stone point aimed at Corporal Rodriguez's heart. This man, this enemy, lived to destroy the Chumash. If he could, the corporal would murder old women and children—Fox Running included.
But if this spear found Rodriguez's heart, the killing might end. The padres spoke of serpents. That was what Rodriguez and the other leatherjackets were: serpents. But if he cut off the snaked head—
No, he couldn't do that, because the Spanish were serpents without end and killing one would only bring others. His ancestors had followed the path of revenge when necessary, but that was when the enemy was no stronger than the Chumash. The old order no longer existed.
His throat filled, almost choking off his ability to breathe. Not fighting the sensation, embracing it, he threw back his head and howled.
As the sound reached the soldiers, Rodriguez straightened and scanned his surroundings. Black Wolf! He was sure of it!
His new troops looked at him, obviously expecting an explanation. Even Senor Portola, who'd accepted Rodriguez's offer of protection during the trip back to La Purisima, turned in the saddle, but all he did was nod.
Black Wolf!
"Soon," Rodriguez hissed under his breath as he again took inventory of the fighting men he'd been given. "Soon."
* * *
Lucita knew her father had returned long before she spotted him and the others riding into the valley. Ever since Black Wolf had killed Mundo, at least one soldier was always posted on a rise above the mission, and it had been that man who'd brought word.
Now she stood next to her mother as several neophytes rushed out to take charge of the horses. Despite Margarita's prayers of thankfulness that her husband was safe, Lucita sensed the woman's tension. The soldiers were an unsavory lot; none of the three had shaved or otherwise tended to their personal needs in what looked like weeks, and Lucita hoped she wouldn't have to get so close that she could smell them. She couldn't tell much about the other man because he wore a large-brimmed hat that shielded his face.
From th
e way they stumbled about after dismounting she guessed they'd come all the way from the presidio without stopping to sleep. She should feel sorry for them and make sure they had something to eat and drink, but these men represented increased danger to Black Wolf. And her father—what would he say to her; what would he do?
"Go to him," Margarita insisted. "He is your father."
"He's your husband," she said before giving herself time to weigh the wisdom of her words.
"I mean little to him. You know that."
Surprised by the unexpected honesty, she stared at her mother, but Margarita didn't meet her eyes. Although the last thing she wanted to do was speak to her father, Lucita, still the dutiful daughter, stepped forward and waited for him to acknowledge her.
"There you are!" he said in his booming voice, his expression unreadable. "Come here. Come here."
She did as she was ordered, wincing only a little when he grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the man with the large hat. Recognizing Pablo Portola, she could only gape. His lively eyes caught hers, and in that moment she knew he was glad to see her.
"You're back," she managed.
"At last."
He smiled and she felt as if she'd been enveloped by a warm blanket. "It has been a long time, Lucita. Too long. Unfortunately, nothing goes as smoothly as one would hope. You've been well?"
"Quite, thank you." She didn't remember him being a particularly large man, but there seemed to be more substance to him than before. Either that or her need to have someone to lean on was greater than she wanted to admit.
"Is that all you have to say to him?" her father insisted. "Don't you realize the sacrifices he's made and the effort he has gone to in order to return so soon?"
"Please," Pablo insisted. "There were few sacrifices."
"You must be exhausted," she said in an effort to change the subject. The padres stood off to one side, not looking at each other, tension heavy between them. "I wish we'd known you were coming today. Hopefully there will be food to your liking."
"Yes, yes," her mother agreed. After a glance at her husband, she went on. "We want to do all we can to make you comfortable. Senor Portola, I hope you will tell us what you have been doing since we last saw you."
