by Ann Rinaldi
"It isn't right, a girl our age going to Colorado. There's nothing there but miners and Indians and saloons and bawdy houses. No real homes or real people."
"My daddy is real people."
"He's too addled to take care of you."
"He's not addled. Anyways, I don't need taking care of."
"You go there, you'll be doing laundry in a tub of cold water. Eating in a saloon. There's no churches, no proper families."
I snuggled into my quilts. "What do you care?"
"No need to be Miss Sassy-Boots. I'm only trying to help."
"I don't need your help, thank you. Now I need to sleep so I can get up early and help put stones on Mama's grave so when we leave the wolves don't get into it."
Elinora made a shuddering sound. "How you can talk so," she said. "You've lost all sense of propriety. My mama's been dead since I was ten, and you don't see me being boorish, do you?"
"I hope, shortly, not to see you at all, Elinora."
"I'm suffering this from you only because you just lost your mama. I'm offering it up."
"You do that."
"You're blasphemous, too. The Sisters will be shocked when they meet you."
"They won't meet me if I can help it."
"You do get over it, you know. Your mother dying. She's in heaven with God. You should be happy for her."
"I'd be happier if she was here, Elinora. God doesn't need her, and I do."
"Oh, sweet Mother of God."
I knew she was crossing herself. She'd come from a convent school in St. Louis. She was all the time saying her beads and showing me pictures of saints with fire around their heads and their eyes cast to heaven. I knew them just from her telling: Saint Theresa. Saint Agnes. And some man saint all pierced with arrows, like he'd been attacked by Comanches.
Worse yet, her last name was St. Clair. Her mama was the Bishop's niece, had gone to school in Santa Fe herself and taken it all so seriously she'd gone and married somebody with a saint's name.
"Of course, your mama's likely in a Methodist part of heaven, and that isn't as good as the Catholic part. But I'm sure she's very happy."
"If you don't hush up, Elinora, I'm going to take those beads of yours and wrap them around your neck!" I meant it. She didn't hush, though. It'd take more than that to make her.
"Did you know that years ago my uncle met Kit Carson?"
I did not answer.
"Did you know there are two witches who live in Santa Fe who dispense love potions?"
I turned over on my quilts, hating her.
"I already know how to make a love potion. You mix herbs, powders, cornmeal, and worms. They can be fried or mashed, it doesn't matter. Then you put some urine of the person you want to love you in it."
"How do you get that?" I demanded.
"What?"
"The urine of the person you want to love you. How do you get it?"
"Well, if you're going to split hairs, Lizzy Enders, when I go to visit the witches in Santa Fe, you can't come with me."
"I won't be there, so you can live with them as far as I'm concerned."
"Don't be so sure that it won't happen."
"What?"
"Never mind. Did you know that my-uncle-the-Bishop once fought off an attack by Comanches? It was just after the war. On his way home to Santa Fe after a trip to Rome, he picked up some Jesuit priests and some nuns in Ohio. Their wagon train was attacked by Comanches along the Arkansas River. Some men traveling with him were killed, but he was right out front fighting, shooting his six-guns, for six hours. And they finally beat the Comanches back."
Well, I thought, then maybe he'll be a match for you.
I heard her turning over in my traveling bed. I never thought I could hate anybody so much in my whole life as I hated Elinora St. Clair that night. My whole body shook with sobs of hatred for her. At least that was what I told myself my body was shaking from. But I buried my face in the pillow so she wouldn't hear me.
3
NEXT MORNING I WOKE to the sound of hammering. Damn, I'd overslept. No, I mustn't let Elinora hear me say damn. I'd learned that word in Independence, from Uncle William. Mustn't let Daddy hear me say it, either. It would give him one more thing to dislike Uncle William for, and he disliked him enough already.
No matter, Elinora was still sleeping. I got up, dressed quietly, and crept out of the wagon.
It was cold. October-morning cold. Grave cold. The sun was only a red promise in the east. To the north the Sangre de Cristo Mountains looked like jagged edges of black tar paper torn off a shack. The kettle was on the fire. Mrs. Wade was bending over a frying pan. I smelled bacon. I was about starved.
Daddy was hammering a rude cross into the ground over Mama's grave. The sound carried, made bigger than it was, like everything else out here. All around us in the vastness were shapes. By the light of day they would likely be stunted cedar trees on a flat mesa. But now they could be witches or crouching Indians. Whatever the mind made them. I shivered. The whole place brooded.
A pile of stones was nestled at my father's feet. I went over to help set them about Mama's grave. A nagging thought clouded my head. No, it was the filmy leftover bits of a dream. What had I dreamed? It came to me in pieces. Something about cutting off the ears of mules. Then I remembered. William Becknell had cut off the ears of his mules to drink their blood when crossing the fifty-mile dry plain. Elinora had told me that story. I shuddered, kneeling on the cold ground, setting the stones on top of Mama.
"Daddy?"
"How are you this morning, Lizzy?"
"I'm right fine, Daddy. How long to Santa Fe?"
"Three or four days now."
"Daddy, I had a dream last night. It sticks in my mind like glue."
"What is it, Lizzy?"
"About cutting off the mules' ears like Becknell did."
"Who told you that story?"
"Elinora."
"That girl does have a sense of drama."
"Daddy, you aren't going to leave me in Santa Fe and go off to Colorado alone, are you?"
He was using a rock as a hammer. He slammed it violently atop the cross. "Don't know what good this soil is for anything out here."
"Did you hear me, Daddy?"
"Yes, I heard you, Lizzy."
"Well, you ain't going to leave me, are you?"
"Don't say ain't. Or I'll have to leave you with those nuns. You've had better schooling. Your mama would turn over in her grave right now if she heard you."
I finished with the last of the stones and stood up. "Then you aren't going to leave me?"
He threw the rock down, shook the top of the cross to test its firmness, dusted his one hand off on his pants, and turned in the direction of the fire. "Now, why would I do such, Lizzy?"
But it wasn't a real question. And it wasn't an answer, either. His voice had taken on that indifferent tone he used when he was lying. I stood there near Mama's grave, watching the others gather for breakfast. The Wades' twin boys were up, jumping around and demanding food. Mrs. French's baby whimpered, and she went off a piece to open her dress and nurse it.
I should help, I told myself. I went to the fire and picked up two tin plates and heaped them with bread and bacon and beans for the Wade boys. I took only some coffee and bread for myself. Somehow I couldn't eat now. Something sat where my stomach should be. And I recognized it for what it was.
Fear. And knowing. The same fear and knowing I'd had when Mama took sick. The kind that finds a home in your bones.
The milk was all gone, so I put extra sugar in my coffee, but I tasted nothing. Mama had wanted to bring a cow along, but Daddy had said no. Once or twice we'd been able to stop at farms and buy some milk.
Elinora came out of the wagon, blinked, rubbed her eyes, and took the coffee and plate of food handed to her by Mrs. Wade. "No milk," Elinora complained. "I hate coffee without milk."
"Likely we'll get some goat's milk the next spread we run into," Daddy told her. She was sittin
g next to him on a blanket. He set down his coffee to put his arm around her shoulder, and she smiled at him. I now felt fear and knowing and nausea, too.
We ate in silence, watching the day lighten. Then everybody but Elinora had chores.
I washed dishes. The Wade boys, though only seven, had fetched the water from a nearby creek and then had gone to get more to carry on the wagon. The Frenches put out the fire and spread water on it. And then from the corner of my eye I saw them spreading underbrush on top of the stones on Mama's grave. The Wades packed the mules. Daddy hitched up the oxen. I watched him. Never could I do anything but stop and wonder the way he did things with just one arm. Then he checked the wagons, making sure the water buckets, the feed box, everything was secure. Then came the "gee" and "haw" and "wo ho" to the animals, and we were off.
If I recollect anything about that day besides the tearing disbelief inside me that I would never see Mama again—that we were really leaving her there under the stones—it was that Daddy scarce spoke to me or looked at me. And every time I happened to engage his eyes, he'd look away.
THE NEXT DAY I carved my name on a rock. We stopped to "noon," as I was told the trail travelers called it. And the rock was there on a mound. Daddy was writing a letter, likely to Uncle William. I took a knife and walked off to the rock and carved my name. LIZZY. OCTOBER, 1878.
"Somebody will think you're buried under it," Elinora said.
So I said, "Let them."
We ran over two rattlesnakes with our wagons that afternoon, and later on in the day I saw some antelope. You could scarce make them out from the desert brush. "I wonder," I told Elinora, "if after you live out here awhile you start to blend into the background like they do."
She scoffed and said we were all made in God's image. "And He doesn't look like an antelope."
"How do you know?" I asked her. She had no reply.
That night, when we were at supper, an Indian walked into our camp. Elinora screamed, but I didn't. It seemed as if I just looked up and he was there, a dark figure against the red and purple streaks of sunset. At that time of night you can look up and expect to see anything, so I was not surprised.
He said he was an Arapaho. He spoke both Spanish and English and looked longingly at our stew pot and bread. My father offered him some food, and he sat right down and ate it, taking care first to take off his quiver of arrows. He wore a striped blanket and beads. He had long sleek hair tied in a piece of red felt. He said he was not looking for trouble, just food. So we let him eat. I felt curiously at peace with him sitting there outlined by the sunset, though Elinora took her food and went into the wagon.
He smiled at the French baby and then looked at me. Several times while I ate I felt his eyes upon me. Then when he finished, he put his bowl down, thanked the grown-ups, and came to put his hand on my head. "This one is wise," he said. "This one has an old spirit. She has been among us before."
I know I should have been frightened out of my wits, but I wasn't. There was a slight movement to my left, and I knew that Elinora was peeking out of the canvas of the wagon. The Indian still had his hand on my head. "She will meet the spirits," he said. "And they will know her for her good heart."
Then he turned and walked off into the deepening darkness of the desert. And it was as if he had never been. Everyone went about their business. Nobody spoke of him. I felt as if I had been in a dream.
THE REST OF THE trip nothing much happened except that, the next day, we saw a mirage.
It was our first, and we all stopped to stare at it.
Then, in the hush, came Elinora's voice. "It's only a false pond. Some say it is attributed to the fact that the sky appears to be below the horizon. Others say it is the effect of gas that comes from the sub-scorched earth."
We continued on our way. Never would I be so glad as to get to Santa Fe and be shut of Elinora.
Just outside Sante Fe, Mrs. French presented me with a new dress and bonnet. I'd seen her sewing them. But then, she sewed all the time, sitting up there in their wagon, when she wasn't reaching over to keep one of the twins from falling beneath the wheels and killing himself.
"I don't know what to say," I told her. The dress was the softest calico, trimmed at the neck with real lace she'd brought from Independence.
She smiled. "You have to look nice for the nuns," she said.
I gripped the dress in my hands, which had gone sweaty. And I knew. I looked into her plain face. The blue eyes, pale as some ancient fire, burned into me, unblinking, telling me. My voice failed, but I managed to get out a proper thank-you. Then I took the dress into our wagon and stuffed it under my quilts. Elinora still had my travel bed.
We arrived at Santa Fe in that mystical hour before dark. The aspen trees, turned gold already, were weighted with the added gold of the sunset. We passed under a great wooden arch. I heard a church bell in the distance, so faint I thought it was in my dreams. It sounded like tinkling broken glass. How long I'd waited to get to Santa Fe! How Mama and I had planned what we'd do here in the two days Daddy had promised us we would stay! I knew I must look at this place. At least for Mama.
I was disappointed. The houses were all small and squat, the color of red sand. Mongrel dogs wandered the streets. Goats and burros napped on the wooden walkways. Everywhere were Indians in blankets, Mexicans in blankets, and women in blankets. But the children, the children, it seemed, ran about in next to nothing.
"There's the Governor's Palace!" Elinora came from the inside of the wagon to push herself between me and Daddy on the seat. "Look!"
"It doesn't look like much of a palace to me," I said.
"There's the oldest church in America! San Miguel!"
Now that looked the part. The walls were cracked and held up by beams.
"Children are not allowed in there," Elinora whispered. "It may fall down. But the priests hold mass there. God won't let it fall on them."
"But he'd let it fall on children?" I asked. "Is that what they believe?"
"Hush, Lizzy," Daddy said. "It's tradition. And she is educating us. Go on, Elinora."
"Thank you, Mr. Enders. There's the central plaza!"
Elinora acted as if she'd been here before. I felt as if I was already trapped here forever. I looked but couldn't see. Saw but couldn't make any sense of it. The church bell was louder now. "That's 'Ave Maria'!" Elinora said, and crossed herself.
The bell was so loud I covered my ears. But the sound got through, anyway, echoing in my head, my blood, my bones, insisting and insisting on something. What?
Our caravan had stopped in front of a church. "Oh!" Elinora scrambled down, nearly killing herself. And then, out of the grillwork door of a building next-door, through which I could see a courtyard and a garden, came some black-dressed figures.
"We thought you'd never arrive! Thank the Lord! Elinora? Is this Elinora St. Clair?"
Elinora curtsied. "Yes, Sister. And you must be Mother Magdalena."
They embraced. I stumbled down from the wagon, my bones cramped, my eyes unaccustomed to all those red houses, to the sight of the ridges of the foothills in the distance fired up by the sunset and shadowed all at the same time, to the sunset, red and orange now.
"Isn't it lovely?" the woman called Mother Magdalena said to me. "The conquistadores named those mountains that catch the light of the sunset Blood of Christ."
They would, I thought. But I nodded politely, numbly. Then there were greetings all around, with nuns and girls coming out of the grilled doorway and helping with our things. Mexicans appeared, too, with their everlasting blankets, to unburden and take away the mules, to unload the wagons, to unhitch the oxen. The nuns and girls exclaimed over the Wade boys and the Frenches' baby. They took the sleeping baby inside and led Mrs. French and Mrs. Wade, saying something about tea. Then the one they called Mother looked around. "But where is your wife, Mr. Enders?"
The story was told, quietly, by Daddy. The Mother crossed herself, then hugged me and called me "dear child."
Her black dress smelled musty yet homey at the same time. I allowed myself to be led inside. Tea sounded wonderful. I would even call the mountains Blood of Christ for a cup of tea with real milk, by now.
Rooms were all ready for us, the Mother said. The whole party would stay the night.
WE WERE TAKEN THROUGH cool rooms with tiled floors, and walls that were plastered with something called jaspe. It was very, very white, and against the bottom half of the walls was pasted a calico covering. "So the whitewash doesn't brush off on our dresses," a nun explained. There were settees on which were thrown Navajo blankets. There were deep, deep windowsills, and on every sill was a pot of red geraniums. Candles flickered all over. And whichever way we looked there were plaster saints praying, bleeding, dying, but always with smiles on their faces and their eyes cast to heaven. Some of them were almost life-size.
They gave me a room upstairs with Elinora. It had mosquito netting on the beds, rag rugs on the floor, and, of course, the usual plaster saints and geraniums. Our portmanteaus were on the floor.
On each of our beds was a dark purple dress, shapeless and long. "Oh, the school uniform!" Elinora held hers up, beaming.
A Mexican woman brought in a bowl and a pitcher of water and gestured to them. "Oh, yes, I must wash!" And without asking me where I'd wash, Elinora pulled off her dress and stood in her pantalets and chemise and commenced to wash herself.
I got down on the floor, opened my portmanteau, and took out the dress Mrs. French had made for me.
"You're not wearing that!" Elinora objected.
"Well, I'm not wearing that stupid purple thing, since I'm not staying."
"It's the school uniform. They wanted to give you a fresh dress. It's an honor to wear it."
"That's why I'm not."
Just then the Mexican woman came in again with another bowl and pitcher of water. I could have kissed her. I wasn't about to wash in Elinora's leavings. Quickly I pulled off my traveling clothes and washed myself, too. The soap was perfumed. And there was some kind of powder as well.
