by Sandi Ault
I sat.
Father Ignacio’s sister wore a tiny gold cross in each ear, and her blue-black hair was pulled into a glossy, perfect bun at the nape of her long, slender neck. Like her mother and brother, she was small in stature, but not in demeanor. “I will show you what this is.” She lifted the bundle from her lap and looked for a place to set it. I scooted to the end of the bed, opening up space between us. She laid the parcel down like a baby. She closed her eyes, drew breath, and crossed herself. Her deft fingers began to work at the horsehair knots as she spoke. “This is something very old. Ignacio was given the great honor of caring for this only a few years ago.”
When the knots were untied, she pulled the rope away from the package and smoothed the fabric across the top several times with the palms of her hands, making it just so. Then she drew back the cloth. The box was the size of the object Mrs. Medina had been describing to Tecolote outside the church. It was made of hand-hewn cedar-large, perhaps eighteen inches by twelve, and six inches deep. The lid was like a three-dimensional retablo, with a beautifully detailed relief carving of the Last Supper, the multicolored hues of the wood creating the effect of shadows and light on the scene. At the center, the face of Jesus was disproportionately large, the carving deep-so that he seemed to be rising out of the box, emerging from the mortal plane, transcendent. His disciples on either side were caricatures of Hispanic villagers like the ones I’d seen all morning. Cracked, brittle-looking leather hinges held the top and bottom together, and a clever clasp had been made using two leather straps with slits that an antler tip passed through, securing the box shut.
Theresa Mendoza did not touch it. “This is what my mother wanted you to have,” she said, looking directly at me.
I gasped, wonderstruck. “I can’t take this!”
She pulled her head back, offended. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes were the same as those I had looked into that night in the coffeehouse in Santa Fe. She also carried herself with the same nobility and poise that her late brother did. “I have been instructed to give this to you, Miss Wild. I do not think you can refuse.”
“But what am I supposed to do with it? What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what’s in it? Open it!” I fanned my hand at her, urging her to do this.
She placed her palm over her chest and leaned back. “I am not permitted.”
“What do you mean, you are not permitted?”
“I am not permitted to touch La Arca.”
“Well, then, what am I supposed to do with it?”
“La Arca was carved by a very famous santero from Las Truchas a long, long time ago, before even my grandfather was born. It was commissioned by Los Hermanos de la Luz for the morada in the nearby village of Boscaje. They say that when the santero finished La Arca, at noon on Miércoles de Ceniza-Ash Wednesday-the women in our village, here in Las Truchas, all began weeping uncontrollably at the same time. They cried all day. That night, the Holy Virgin came to them in the moonlight, at the well in the village plaza, and gave them comfort. And after that, she appeared to the santero and told him what would transpire. The santero gathered the people of Las Truchas the next day and told of the prophecy.
“The following Navidad, just as the santero had predicted, twelve sons were born in the village of Las Truchas within a period of seven days. The village partera-the midwife-had to go without sleep all that time just to get them all birthed. Since those days, it has been the tradition that we share our sons with the morada in Boscaje, as they do not have many men, it is a small village. La Arca belongs to the morada in Boscaje, for which it was made. It has always been kept there. But La Arca is a shared treasure, and there are many legends about it in Las Truchas. We only get to see it once a year, in our sanctuario on Good Friday, Viernes Santo. And no one is permitted to touch it except for El Guardián. That was Ignacio. Now it is you. You are La Guardiána.”
“Me? I don’t understand. I know nothing about this. Why give it to me? What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Someone else will have to provide you with the answers to your questions, Miss Wild. I do not know. I only know that Ignacio was chosen to care for it, and he left my mother with instructions in case the time came when he could not. She has consulted with someone, according to Ignacio’s wishes, and you have been designated La Guardiána. At least for now.”
“But why not keep it at the morada? You said it belonged there.”
“Someone has been stealing the sacred objects from the moradas in several of the villages. Ignacio felt that someone was stalking La Arca. He did not feel it was safe in the morada. Now Los Hermanos believe he was right… now that he died. In fact, since the news of his death, the Hermanos from Boscaje have decided to perform the remainder of their ceremonies this week together with their brothers at the morada here in Truchas. They do not feel safe in their little morada any longer because it is so isolated. Among the things that have been stolen are the cuadernos-these are handwritten prayer books, but they are also often ledgers with the names of the members of the moradas, together with their family records. So, you see, La Arca is not safe with anyone whose family name is on one of those lists. It has to be entrusted to someone outside of the brotherhood, outside of their families. My brother named you.”
“Am I allowed to look inside?”
She did not answer me directly. Instead, as she drew the cloth back around the box, she said, “Of course I do not know, but I think that La Arca contains important documents, records of things that have happened, maybe papers regarding Los Penitentes. One of the legends about La Arca tells that it contains a directive from Saint Francis himself. But no one who knows for sure will say. Whatever lies within La Arca, it must be important because Los Hermanos kneel before it in the sanctuario on Easter and shed tears. They say it is what keeps the brotherhood alive.”
We were both quiet. I stared at her fingers as she retied the horsehair rope. I felt certain this was all just a strange dream. I hoped I would wake up any moment now.
Theresa Mendoza interrupted my thoughts. “I also wonder if perhaps La Arca contains something that may explain why my brother was killed. My mother and I dearly hope you can shed some light on what has happened to our beloved Ignacio. Please do what you can with this, and may God be with you, Miss Wild. Do not argue with my mother’s wishes, please. If you cannot keep La Arca safe, please find someone who can. But do not let my brother’s sacred obligation fall into the wrong hands, I ask you.”
I swallowed. Why me? “I’ll do what I can, Señora Mendoza.”
She tenderly transferred the package to my arms. “Wait here a moment.” She moved the blanket aside and slipped out of the room. She returned with a purple-and-white-striped Mexican blanket, the kind you can buy for a few dollars just across the border. “Put this around it.” She held the thin blanket up and we draped the bundle. She pulled the ends of the blanket over the top. “Do you mind if I ask you to leave through the mudroom door? There are many people here who do not need to be made curious about what you have in this blanket… This is not the time for us to have to be explaining things, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes, I agree. Yes, I’d be glad to spare you any inconvenience.” We walked back to the mudroom, and she held the door for me. I looked down at her. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Señora Mendoza.”
“Miss Wild, a great honor has been bestowed upon you today. And a great responsibility. I beg you, keep La Arca safe!” I wanted to respond, but I didn’t know what to say. I stepped out onto the flagstone path, where another man stood guard over the house. He looked at me and nodded, then looked out into the backyard, alert. Theresa Mendoza moved to close the door after me, then opened it again and looked at me with moist eyes. “Miss Wild, I have faith in you.”
I looked at her in surprise. “I’m not sure why you said that, but I’ll try to earn your faith.”
“I’m not exactly sure why I said it either.” She g
ave a small smile. “But there is something about you; I see it. I think you have a good soul.”
30
Pursued
I had a hard time getting out of Truchas. The narrow road was so packed with parked cars that I had to take at least a dozen detours down rutted dirt alleys no more than a few inches wider than my Jeep. Once, I had to get out and threaten a stubborn goat to move so I could get by. I finally eased onto the paved, high mountain road leading northeast through Carson National Forest on the western edge of the mountains.
I made good speed on the straight leg of the High Road toward Trampas. As I came down into a deep bowl of a valley to the low point near the Trampas church, the only traffic was a white Ford Ranger closing in behind me. It only took me a couple of minutes to drive through the sleepy, deserted-looking village, and then I was on my way up the side of the next mountain, heading for a series of crest-line S-curves and high-elevation switchbacks.
My mind was full of my new responsibility. I looked down at the blanket-wrapped bundle in the passenger seat, wondering what to do with it, then quickly shifted my eyes back to the winding, roller-coaster road. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the pickup moving to pass me until it was right beside me. We were headed around a hairpin curve-what a time to pass! Startled, I flinched and pulled the wheel slightly to the right and the Ford moved right also, into my lane, as I dipped two wheels onto the narrow shoulder. As we made this lateral move around the turn, I saw a propane tanker barreling toward us in the oncoming lane. Instinctively, I hit the brakes. The driver of the Ranger hit the gas and burst ahead, swerving around me, just barely in time to avoid a head-on crash with the tanker. The sound of the big horn on the propane rig blasted as it sped by, the wind drag from the enormous truck rocking the Jeep with its velocity.
I was so rattled I wanted to pull over and stop, but there wasn’t a safe spot to do so for several miles. Instead, I slowed my speed and stayed on the road, taking deep breaths and feeling my pulse race under my skin. Idiot driver! We could’ve all been killed!
I lowered the window a little in spite of the cold. I could smell the clean sap of ponderosa pine, feel the bite of the crisp, rare air on my lungs as I inhaled. As I started to recover a little, I brought my Jeep up to speed again-but my adrenaline had leaped into overdrive just minutes ago, and it would be some time before I felt truly at ease. I drove through the heart of the forest past several gated Forest Service roads. When I passed the turnout for one of the trailheads, I saw a white vehicle emerge from the cover of the trees alongside the track and nose onto the highway behind me. It was the Ford Ranger again.
This time the driver didn’t waste any time letting me know that the previous incident was not just a random act of reckless driving. The truck closed on my tail, the shape of the driver little more than a silhouette in my rearview mirror, wearing a hooded jacket or sweat-shirt and sunglasses, and likely a man from what I could tell. As he moved to pass me again, I put all 195 horses in my engine to work. Around two dangerous curves, my tires singing like Las Dolientes, we fought for the lead. I knew the pursuer would again try to edge me over the side if I let him flank me. Going up a steep rise, I gained markedly on the pickup, wishing I had enough line of sight to a repeater so I could radio ahead to the Forest Service ranger station for help. But in this steep, curving terrain, it was hopeless unless you were atop one of the peaks or on one of the high stretches.
Coming downhill again, we were nearing the turnoff to Llano, a dirt road that culminated in a cattle guard at the paved highway. The pickup edged out into the oncoming lane, his front bumper just even with my rear quarter panel. I kept the pedal down hard, not wanting to give away my plan. My adversary followed suit, his engine roaring in my left ear as he gradually gained an inch at a time, clearly looking to get far enough to force me over. When the sign for the cattle guard appeared on the right shoulder, I slammed on the brakes and veered onto the dirt turnout, spinning counterclockwise into a red dust cloud as the white Ranger zoomed on by. I looked quickly for its tag number. The plate was packed with mud, unreadable.
I lurched to a stop and immediately stretched over and popped open the glove box. I pulled out my pistol, yanked it from the holster, and clicked off the safety. I opened the door of the Jeep, which was now perpendicular to the highway, its front bumper just at the edge of the cattle guard. I stood on my left leg, my right on the running board, and propped my forearms on the roof, squaring my gun sights at the highway ahead, my body in the cover of my Jeep.
The Ford Ranger came veering back in reverse at high speed. I sighted in on it, hoping to hit a tire, cause a blowout. I squeezed the trigger when I thought he was in range, but I heard a ck-zzzzzngggg and knew I’d hit the tailgate just above it instead. The pickup squealed to a stop, then slammed into drive, and the tires screamed. I took another shot before it could peel away. This one made a metallic kunnnkkk as the bullet penetrated the side of the truck bed just over the rear tire. The Ford Ranger sped off.
31
No Place to Go
I stopped at the ranger station outside of Peñasco and used the phone. The Taos County sheriff’s dispatcher told me she would radio Deputy Jerry Padilla and have him call me right back. While I waited for his call, I went out to my Jeep. I looked around the grounds, the parking lot, and down the road in each direction. I opened the rear hatch, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out my book for the first time since I’d gotten it back at Tecolote’s place the previous morning. I turned to the page where I’d written down the two things Father Ignacio had told me, and I copied the name I’d been struggling to remember onto the back of one of my business cards: Pedro Antonio Fresquíz of Las Truchas. Then, closing the hatch and again scoping the area, I took the book and set it in the passenger seat on top of the bundle I’d been entrusted to guard. Theresa Mendoza was right-someone was stalking me, but was it me or La Arca he was after? I tucked my book under a fold of the blanket, making it a part of the bundle. “I know someplace you’ll be safe,” I told my charge. “For now anyway.”
“A white Ford Ranger?” Padilla said.
“Yes, a fairly late model, but not new. There was mud packed over the plate; I couldn’t read it. The driver was probably a man, but I couldn’t guarantee that. The truck had tinted windows. But I could tell he was wearing some kind of garment with a hood. And dark glasses.”
“Listen, I can send an officer up there to investigate, but this is getting pretty weird, don’t you think? Have you got someplace you can go for a while? Maybe stay with some family?”
I swallowed hard. “No.”
“A girlfriend, anything like that? Anyplace you can stay for a few days until we figure out what the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I need to think.”
Padilla was quiet for a few moments. “Roy said you live almost to Tres Piedras, all by yourself, no phone. I don’t think it’s so good for you to be all the way out there by yourself. And what about work? Are you working alone?”
“No. Not right now. I’m doing a team assignment with the Forest Service. I have a partner in my section-a forest ranger.”
“Well, let’s see… I got a meeting in a little bit; I couldn’t come for another hour and a half. How ’bout I send a deputy up there to cruise around the area, see if he sees that Ford Ranger anyplace nearby?”
“There will be a ding in the tailgate and a bullet hole in the rear of the bed on the passenger side.”
“Good to know that.” I could hear him rustling his notepad. “I’ll put it out on the wire and have everyone keep a lookout for a vehicle like that, countywide. Do you want the deputy to stop by the ranger station there and talk to you when he gets up there?”
“No, thanks, Jerry. I’m going to head on out after I get off the phone. Let me know if-”
“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know. Now, this is twice this bad guy has tried, Jamaica. Three, if you count when he took your book.”
“No, he’s not the one
who stole my book.”
“How do you know?”
I couldn’t tell him about La Arca, or about the driver. I couldn’t even tell him that I’d gotten my book back without revealing too much. “I just know.”
“You just know, huh? I wouldn’t be too sure. Doesn’t seem like we know much of anything yet. Now, before I let you go, I’m going to try this one more time: I think it might be better if you took some time off, maybe got out of town. Take a vacation. Go see family or friends.”
I felt my chest tighten. I drew in a breath, my lips pulling into a hard, tight line. “I hear you, Jerry. But I have no place to go.”
Tecolote was not home. The turquoise-colored door was pulled fast to the frame, and there was no answer when I knocked. I had been counting on her to bring clarity to my muddled mind. An army of questions trampled my thought processes into mire. Esperanza would know what to do.
I decided to kill some time and try the bruja again in a little while, so I stopped by Regan’s place. It was the middle of the day now, and the sun was lifting over the rim of the canyon and warming the red dirt of her rutted drive. An old, rusted beater truck was backed up to the corral, blocking the way so that I had to park in the entrance to the drive. Two men in the corral were laboring hard at digging in the hard caliche. I walked around the truck’s listing tailgate and saw Regan above on the path leading to the barn. She wore the same huge, unlaced, muddy work boots as the day I first met her. She caught sight of me and made her way rapidly down the path, as if to intercept me. Her expression was frantic.
“Jamaica, I’m having a frightful day. I’m afraid I can’t receive any visitors.” She held one gloved hand over her left eye.
“Sure, Regan. I’m sorry. I should have called. I was just in Truchas and I thought I’d stop by on my way back to Taos.”
