33
Small people living in small groups in difficult country . . .
SMALL PEOPLE LIVING in small groups in difficult country could not behave like mighty conquerors and hope to survive. There were only twenty-two in the band, counting babies and old men. Only eight were active warriors, and of those, only four were experienced and reliable. The others were boys, impetuous as boys are. Eight men could not attack armies of soldiers and hope to win. These things Cibecue explained over and over to the young men, though he knew that none of them wanted to heed him. The boys had heard that to the west there were bands of one hundred warriors or more, bands that had no fear of Mexicans and killed them where they found them.
“That may be true, but we don’t live in that place,” Cibecue explained. “We live here, and there aren’t many of us. We have to be careful.”
The boy named Ojo was particularly intolerant of Cibecue’s words of caution. Ojo was convinced they could easily beat the Mexicans who were guarding the family of whites.
“They have guns—we don’t,” Cibecue pointed out. It was an argument that convinced the older warriors but it didn’t convince Ojo or his three friends.
“Why can’t we sneak in and steal some guns?” Ojo asked. “I would like a gun, myself, and I would like to catch one of those white women and do what we did with the Spanish girl.”
Catching the Spanish girl had been a huge stroke of luck—the boys were all still excited by the memory of the things they had done to her— they had all been following the wounded mule deer and out of nowhere this girl appeared. They also found a boy with a broken back, farther up in the rocks. It had been a fine afternoon, but it was also a fluke. Cibecue was not young and yet never before in his life had the band caught a Spanish woman.
Catching a lone white woman who happened to be in the wrong place was one thing—attacking a column of Mexican soldiers quite another. Cibecue kept trying to explain to Ojo that luck was never constant. One day it might be good, the next day bad. The fact that they were able to kill the two horses was even luckier than having the girl to rape and torture. The women had done a thorough job with the horses; for once they had an abundance of meat. It was a time of plenty, but it wouldn’t last forever. What Cibecue had to make Ojo understand was that he couldn’t risk four young hunters in a foolish attack on some Mexican soldiers.
“Suppose they kill three of you?” he speculated. “You are all good hunters and you will get better. You raped that Spanish girl pretty good. You can make the band some babies when we need babies. If I let you go and they kill three of you, then we lose three hunters and three fathers too.”
There was a silence. The older men weren’t really listening. They were watching an eagle soaring over a good-sized butte to the west. They were thinking the eagle might have a nest there: they might be able to catch some young eagles, which would be a thing of power. They thought Cibecue was wasting his time, lecturing Ojo and the other boys. Young men never believed they could die— even less were they able to grasp that the whole band might die if they lost too many hunters. The band was small and poor, but at least the women were energetic, constantly at work gathering seeds and roots, growing a little corn, and snaring rabbits, which were unusually numerous just then. The boys were not men yet; they didn’t want to think ahead. The band had always been there—in their immature heads it would always be there.
“Can’t we just follow the Mexicans?” Ojo asked. “We can stay out of sight. The women have to make water sometimes. I bet we could catch one.”
Cibecue decided it was hopeless. No matter what he said these boys were not going to be restrained unless he took them far from the source of temptation. They had been too excited by what they had done to the Spanish girl. He did not want to be sharp with them—they were good boys. He didn’t want to flatly lay down the law, either. Boys were apt to feel that their pride demanded independence. Tell them not to do something and they would just be that much more apt to do it.
Cibecue was the leader, but he had to lead delicately—he didn’t want to make Ojo and the other boys too puffy with rebellion. The simplest thing to do was just go west for two or three days, until the temptation of the white women was not so immediate.
“Are you counting eagles?” he asked old Erzmin, the oldest warrior in the band.
Erzmin had always been unusually attentive to the ways of birds. Once, in a bad time, when deer seemed to have vanished from the country, Erzmin had kept them from starving by collecting the eggs of various birds he had managed to follow to their nests.
“Just two, so far,” Erzmin replied. “I think they may be a pair—they might have a nest over there but it’s too early for there to be eggs.”
“Let’s go look anyway,” Cibecue suggested. “Keeping up with eagles’ nests is a good thing to do.”
“The women are still cutting up that jerky— those were fat horses,” Erzmin reminded him.
“We don’t want the women with us,” Cibecue said. “We can go hunt eagles’ nests for ourselves.”
He started west at a brisk pace—Erzmin and the older warriors right behind him. Erzmin knew what Cibecue was trying to do. He didn’t want Ojo or the other boys getting themselves killed trying to steal a white woman.
Ojo and his three companions were bitterly disappointed by this development—but, alone, what could they do?
After a minute or two they fell in behind the older men.
34
. . . Major Leon did not have the aspect of a joker.
MAJOR LEON LAUGHED genially when Jim politely inquired about his status—that is, whether he could expect to be arrested at some point down the trail. Jim thought it best to be clear on that point—he did not mean to be arrested.
“In Santa Fe you might have been an enemy, but here you are an ally, Señor Snow,” the Major told him. “We have a long way to go—we might need every fighter we can get—besides which it’s my duty to tell you that I’ve fallen in love with your wife.”
With that the Major smiled, made Jim a little half bow, and rode off.
Jim was so startled by the Major’s last remark that he would have been hard put to reply. Probably it was meant as a joke, just a rather flowery way of saying that the Major liked Tasmin a lot. And yet Major Leon did not have the aspect of a joker. He had looked, on the whole, rather melancholy when he mentioned to Jim that he was in love with his wife. Jim could not believe that such an absurd statement was to be taken literally, and yet the Major had sounded rather matter-of-fact about it.
With Petal, Monty, and Petey all competing for his attention, Jim had little opportunity to think much more about the Major’s startling declaration. It seemed that Major Leon was on good terms with the children too, even taking them one by one on short horseback rides. Petal particularly seemed to enjoy these rides, insisting that she could hold the reins herself and pushing the Major’s hands away when he briefly attempted a correction of some sort.
“Take your hands off!” Petal insisted, and usually the Major complied.
It was late in the day before Jim finally had a chance to speak privately with Tasmin.
“That’s a funny kind of a major,” Jim remarked. “The first thing he said to me was that he was in love with you.”
Tasmin blushed a little, nervously. She made a little what-can-I-do gesture; she shrugged.
“It doesn’t surprise me that he told you,” she said, with a heavy sigh. “He’s incapable of concealing anything from anyone—it’s part of his problem.”
Jim still didn’t understand. “Does he just mean that he likes you a bunch?” he asked.
Tasmin chuckled. “No, he doesn’t mean that he likes me a bunch, as you put it,” she told him. “Geoff, after all, likes me a bunch.”
She sighed again. “It’s different with Major Leon,” she told him. “Major Leon is in love with me.”
For a moment Tasmin teared up, at the thought of the absurdity of the situation. Here she was in th
e middle of nowhere; her captor was in love with her; she had three bouncy children, and a husband who was honestly puzzled.
“I hope you’ll just excuse it,” she said to Jim. “Nothing improper has happened—nothing improper ever will. But the Major is in love with me and it’s best to just let it wear off. I can’t seem to make him give it up.
“At least it’s a benefit for the children,” she said. “They get little horse rides.”
Jim didn’t know what to think. He didn’t doubt Tasmin’s fidelity—it had not occurred to him that anything sinful could have happened—surely not. Major Leon seemed sad and perhaps a little silly, but he hardly seemed like much of a ladies’ man.
“I don’t understand it,” Jim admitted. “No, you don’t,” Tasmin said mildly, irritated by the position she found herself in.
“You’ve never been in love with me, you see, Jimmy,” she said, taking his hand. “I believe you do care for me—and then there’s this that we have.”
She moved his hand between her legs and at once felt an old quickening.
“There’s this, and I’m glad we have it.” She didn’t move his hand, but she held it to her. Her boldness stirred Jim a good deal.
“Maybe it’s more important than being in love— the poets aren’t clear on that point,” Tasmin continued. “But it isn’t the same. Major Leon is in love with me, as Kit once was—you remember that, don’t you?
Jim nodded. “What’s the Major get out of it?” he asked, not angry, just puzzled.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tasmin admitted. “A chance to do me small kindnesses, or pay me small attentions,” she said. “You remember how Kit was—he was always at his happiest when I gave him a chore to do—the harder the chore, the more it pleased him to do it.”
Jim did remember Kit’s infatuation. He had not been jealous of Kit’s attentions to his wife; but he had thought Kit rather a fool, for doing so much of what was rightly Tasmin’s work. Jim had supposed that Pomp was also sweet on Tasmin, though Pomp was far less likely to do her endless favors or hang on her conversation. At first, when he heard Tasmin and Pomp talking about some book or play, he had supposed it was only educated people who fell in love; but then along came Kit, who couldn’t read or write a lick, and he was worse sweet on Tasmin than Pomp had been. If further proof was needed that all sorts of people fell in love, there was High Shoulders, a Ute who at first couldn’t speak a word of English, and yet had been in a fever to be with Buffum from the minute they laid eyes on one another.
“Major Leon is a curious case,” Tasmin went on. “He confessed to me that he has only been able to be in love with married women—and yet he doesn’t attempt to make love to them, in the common way. Instead he fetches me extra blankets for the children. Once he brought me a pretty rock. Or he might offer me a tidbit from the stores. He’s not read me poetry, though—Geoff is still my only literary man.”
Jim looked over at the Major. He always sat alone, apart from his men.
“There’s plenty of things I don’t understand,” Jim admitted.
“And being in love is one of them,” Tasmin said. She still held his hand and began to rub it against her.
“It’s not dark enough,” Jim protested.
“It’s dark enough for something,” Tasmin chided. “Leave me that hand.”
Later, in the deep night, Tasmin woke from a doze and saw Jim sitting up—he still wore a look of confusion.
“Jimmy, don’t worry about it—being in love isn’t everything,” she told him. “It can be a terribly painful condition. The poets are clear on that point.”
“Kit can do it and Major Leon can do it and High Shoulders can do it—how come I can’t?” he asked. “It just don’t seem necessary.”
“Correct—it isn’t,” Tasmin agreed. “We’ve done a bunch without it—though of course I was as much in love with you as you’d tolerate,” she told him.
“Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you fall in love yet,” she added.
“Why would I?”
“You might be given no choice—it might just sweep over you one day. You mustn’t underestimate Petal—if any woman can get you, I expect it’s her.”
“She’s a baby,” Jim replied—though he did like Petal. She didn’t readily allow anyone not to like her, once she took an interest in them, and lately she had taken a strong interest in him.
But being in love with your own child surely wasn’t what they had been talking about.
“Best not to think of it too simply, as just being a thing that happens to people who want to rut,” Tasmin told him. “It just might be that your own daughter is the only woman capable of sweeping you off your feet.
“Time will tell,” she added. “Time will tell.”
35
“This makes me feel rather dry and coldhearted . . .”
DON’T YOU BE SULKING, GEOFF,” Tasmin warned. “I have enough to do keeping this unruly lot in marching order. If there’s one thing I don’t need in my life right now it’s a rude friend.”
“I can’t help it,” Father Geoffrin replied. “I’m filled with dark forebodings anyway, and now this ridiculous little major has turned your head.”
“Not a bit of it . . . my head’s not turned,” Tasmin argued. “My husband is here, remember. Nothing untoward has happened. Major Leon is just a bit smitten, that’s all.”
“I could be smitten myself with a little encouragement,” Father Geoff told her. Then he shrugged and apologized.
“I’m sorry—it just irritates,” he admitted. “I’m used to being the one you talk to—I’m jealous that you’re talking to someone else.”
“Incorrect—I’m mostly listening to someone else,” Tasmin said. “Yesterday the Major finally told me his sad tale.”
“And was it sad?” “As tales of thwarted love go, yes,” Tasmin told him. “He confessed to being very shy, a quality I had already detected in him.”
“Prissy, I’d call it,” Geoff complained. “He’s always stroking his mustache—I notice these things, you see.”
Tasmin gave him a stern look. “You notice—and then you misinterpret,” Tasmin scolded. “Major Leon is at ease with me because he doesn’t expect to succeed. The impossibility of success is what it takes for some men to relax with a woman. That’s common enough.”
“Out with the sad tale—I won’t interrupt.” “Major Leon was once in love with a girl of good family in Santa Fe,” Tasmin began. “But because of his shyness he could not quite work up to proposing. The girl, of good family, who was not unreceptive to his suit, grew tired of waiting and accepted another. But the man she accepted quite abruptly died. There was a period of mourning, and then Major Leon tried again. This time he was just able to mumble out a proposal, which was immediately accepted. A wedding date was set—at last his love had been answered.”
Tasmin stopped. “Why don’t you finish the story for me, Geoff?” she teased. “It’s suitable for a tragedy. Your beloved Racine would have found it interesting.”
“More likely Molière, if that prissy little man is the hero,” Geoff said. “There he is stroking his mustache again.
“I suppose the girl died,” he added, after thinking for a moment.
Tasmin nodded. “The girl died. Rather sad, don’t you agree? He’s a decent man, if limited. He finally wins the consent of a woman he could have—and then she dies, after which he has taken no chances in that particular line. He only falls in love with women he can’t have, like my humble self.”
“And yet you do like him, so it’s not so sad,” Geoff remarked. “He gets affection, at least. What does Jim think about the Major and his affections?”
Tasmin laughed. “The Major told Jimmy right off that he was in love with me—startling news to my Jimmy, who’s continually puzzled by the odd twistings and turnings of human emotion. Now and then he attempts to puzzle out what romance might be, but it’s so foreign to his nature that he can’t quite grasp it.”
“I can�
�t see that this bothers you much,” the priest said.
“That’s because you don’t see me when it’s bothering me,” Tasmin told him. “You may have noticed that I’ve started caring about my looks again, in the small way that’s possible under present circumstances.”
“So?” “It’s the result of Major Leon’s attentions,” Tasmin told him. “It’s always nice to have a man who looks at you closely enough to notice small improvements.
“Very small improvements,” she added. “But still it’s nice.”
“This makes me feel rather dry and coldhearted, and I don’t like the feeling,” Father Geoff said. “I’m sure that’s why the Major annoys me. His attentions may be shallow but they please you, and my attentions don’t.”
“Nonsense, your attentions have always pleased me,” Tasmin assured him. “You’re the one man I can talk to. At one point I could talk to Pomp, but then I fell in love with him and that spoiled that.”
“I wish the man would quit stroking his silly mustache,” Geoff said, looking at the Major.
36
Juppy, their giant . . .
JUPPY, THEIR GIANT, who sometimes pretended to be a great fish, rising from the water with all six shrieking children clinging to his back, died first, followed by Eliza—she would break no more plates—and Amboise d’Avigdor, ten of the skinny soldiers, and the shy, sad Major Leon. Signore Aldo Claricia died, even as Little Onion sought frantically for herbs to cure him. Cook was very ill but lived; Piet Van Wely was also at the point of death but survived. High Shoulders died an hour after Juppy; Buffum raged, cried, clung to him, prayed, but nothing helped: the cholera took him, though it spared his son, Elphinstone, spared Vicky’s Talley but killed her Randy, spared the twins but took Monty. Jim held his dying son in his arms to the end, but Tasmin could not bear the look on her son’s shocked, silent face—she grabbed her twins and ran far out into the desert, convinced that they would all die unless they fled the place of infection, a small, filthy village where Major Leon assured them travelers on the Camino Real often stopped to rest their animals. Jim had not much liked the look of the place—a burial had been in progress as he rode in—but they were short of fodder for the oxen, there were goats that could be bought, and perhaps even a horse or two to replace some of theirs that had gone lame.
The Berrybender Narratives Page 100
