Daughter of Fortune (22 page)

As Maria stood still in the road, terrified of
Tesuque, strangely apprehensive about Las Invernadas, she heard a
horse and rider approaching. Instinct drove her off the path and
into the cottonwoods lining the road. Then she saw Diego. She
returned to the road, her
retablo
held tight against
her.

“Maria,” he called out, reining in his horse and
dismounting quickly. “I have been searching for you. Erlinda said
you have been gone since midmorning. I thought it was time to start
worrying.” He peered closer at her. “What is the matter, Maria
chiquita
? Where is Cristóbal?”

She gestured back toward Tesuque. “He is still
there. He told me to leave without him.” She hesitated, unwilling
to expose Cristóbal to Diego, and afraid not to. Fear of Popeh was
sharp as a knife pricking her conscience to speak, fear for herself
and fear for Cristóbal.

Steadying himself against his horse, Diego removed
his spurs, dangling the spiked rowels from his gloved hand as he
walked beside her. “Tell me,
por favor.
Something is wrong,
is it not?’’ he asked. When Maria would not answer him, he nudged
her shoulder. “Come now, Maria. I must know what is going on.
Besides, we shook hands on it.”

She walked beside him, looking straight ahead. “Do
you know an Indian named Popeh?” she asked suddenly.

“No. He is not one of my Indians.” He waited for her
to continue.

“He is tall and very dark. His eyes are the most
curious shade of yellow ...” Her voice trailed off as she
remembered those eyes. With an effort, and another nudge from
Diego, she said, “His back was covered with scars, as if from a
flogging. ”

Diego frowned. “Is this my Taos Indian?” he asked
himself out loud. He stopped walking and his horse nuzzled him. He
put up his hand and absently stroked the animal’s nose. “Your
description does remind me of something, the more I think of it. It
was just before Papa died, about five years ago. He was too sick to
travel but the rest of us had gone to Santa Fe for a hanging.”

“Hanging?”

“Yes. Sixty or so Indians were caught practicing
their old religion. Remember the
kachinas
I told you about?
Three Pueblos were hanged.”

“And you went to see it?”

He nodded. “Our governor’s command. He thought such
spectacle was educational. I suppose it was. I was never tempted to
worship a
kachina.
As I was saying, they were hanged, and
their bodies left dangling between Santa Fe and Analco. A warning.
Thirty or forty other Indians were beaten quite soundly and then
thrown in prison. I think this Popeh was one of them. It would
seem, Maria, that our Taos trouble is moving south.”

“You’re sure?” she questioned.

“No more than you are. But I seem to remember that
Taos Indian. He was a born leader—and a troublemaker.”

Maria took a deep breath. “I saw Popeh, and
Cristóbal with him. They were wearing enormous headdresses that
covered their faces—and they were dancing.”

Diego stopped again. “Dancing?”

She nodded. “The room was filled with smoke and
there were other Indians chanting and dancing.”

“Where was this?” he asked quickly.

“Inside the pueblo. I went in search of Cristóbal,
got lost, and there they were.”

Diego juggled the spurs in his hand. “A
kiva
,” he said.

“What?”

“An underground, circular room where the Indians
used to summon their gods. I thought the
kiva
in Tesuque was
destroyed years ago by the missionaries.” They started walking
again. “The Fathers have gone to great pains to eradicate all signs
of the old ways. I wonder if Father Pio knows?”

“I do not see how he could,” replied Maria. “Their
kiva
was in the middle of the pueblo. Cristóbal led me out
by such a roundabout way that I know I could never find it again.”
She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. “As if I would ever look for
it.”

"You’re sure Cristóbal was there?” Diego asked, his
voice colder than the gathering evening. “You saw him?”

“I told you I did. He was wearing one of the masks
and dancing, too.”

Diego let out an explosive sigh. “Cristóbal! A
Spaniard! My brother!”

She remembered Cristóbal’s words that morning. “Half
Spaniard. And half Indian. Also half-brother. He is troubled.
Torn.”

“But still my brother. A Masferrer does not dance at
pagan ceremonies. And the Indians are forbidden to dance.”

“You ask me questions and rage at the answers!” she
snapped.

He turned away and began walking again. She fell in
step. They covered nearly a mile in uncomfortable silence. With
each step Maria regretted her words more.
He spends eighteen
hours a day in the saddle, then I keep him awake nights with my
nightmares
, she brooded.
And how much he has done for me. I
should not speak harshly to him
. “I am sorry,” she
whispered.

“Accepted. And I am sorry.”

“Accepted.”

They continued in silence until Maria remembered the
retablo
she carried. She held it out to Diego and he took
it, examining the wooden plaque carefully. He tried to hand it
back, but she shook her head.

“It is for you, Señor,” she said. “Emiliano wanted
me to paint it for you. It is supposed to be Santa Teresa de
Ávila,” she added, afraid that he would not know who it was if she
did not tell him.

“I can tell, Maria,” he said, tracing his finger
around the outline of the poetess-saint. “You have done a good job.
Can it be that Diego Masferrer,
hacendado
of Las Invernadas,
encomendero
of Tesuque’s Indians, possesses not only a
santero,
but a
santera
as well? He is a wealthy man
indeed.”

She could tell that he was teasing her, trying to
make her feel better, but his words still spoke of ownership, and
they rankled. “I enjoyed painting it.”

“It shows, Maria, it shows. I will hang it in my
room,” he said, putting the
retablo
carefully in his
saddlebag, choosing to overlook the coolness in her voice. They
continued in a more compatible silence, walking side by side down
the narrow road.

A breeze freshened from the northwest, and Diego
turned to face it. The rustle of the wind in the cottonwoods,
mingled with the chirp of crickets and the peep of tree frogs,
brought a smile back to his face.

“Was there ever another place like this, Maria?” he
asked, and then laughed at himself, looking down at the ground. “I
suppose you think I am now adding foolishness to acquisitiveness on
your list of my sins. ”

So he knew how she felt, even if she had said
nothing. “No, never that,” she murmured.

“We have none of the wealth of the Indies, nothing
really to recommend us. The work here will always be harder than we
are. But this is my land, Maria
chiquita
, and I love
it.”

She did not add that it was others’ land too.
Instead, she touched his arm lightly in understanding. He looked at
her, then glanced away when she blushed.

When they were in sight of the high walls of Las
Invernadas, he cleared his throat. “Maria, I was planning a trip to
Santa Fe to take Erlinda and the other girls. We usually go every
year at this time. They like to look over the goods that come in on
the supply caravan, and visit with friends.” He noted the
questioning look on her face. “I realize there is no supply caravan
this year, but we are going anyway.”

“And?” she prompted, when he fell silent.

“Perhaps you would come with us? I want you to speak
to Governor Otermin of what you saw in Tesuque. ”

“Do you feel there is danger?” she asked, feeling
the familiar tightness in her stomach.

“Oh, no,” he said quickly, then nodded his head.
“Why is it that you command the truth in me,
chiquita
? It is
a feeling I have. I have noticed things, and others have, too. Now
you tell me of Popeh and the
kiva.
I do not want to alarm
you, but I believe there may be danger. Perhaps if you and I speak
to Otermin?”

“I understand,” Maria said. “I will go with you. Who
stays with La Señora?”

“The servants. She does not like Santa Fe.”

When they were at the front gates of Las Invernadas,
Diego’s dogs bounded to greet them, nearly knocking their master
down in their delight. Diego put his spurs on again and swung into
the saddle. “Go on in, Maria. I shall be along later.”

She went through the gates and into the hacienda,
noting with new eyes the thickness of the walls and the strength of
the doors that constituted the only break in the wall. Her hand
rested on the heavy iron bolts for a moment, then she closed the
door, pushing the bolts in place.

When she entered the kitchen, Erlinda rushed to her.
“Maria! I was so worried when the sun got lower and you did not
return! Was something wrong?”

“No,” Maria lied, amazed at the ease of her
prevarication. “I became intent on what I was doing at the
saintmaker’s and forgot the time.” She said nothing about
Cristóbal, hoping that Erlinda would not mention him. She knew how
Erlinda felt about her half-brother.

“Well, you are safe,” Erlinda hugged Maria to
her.

Supper was long over. Maria rolled some cheese and
beans in a cold tortilla and sat down at the table. Erlinda poured
her a cup of hot chocolate, stirring the steaming mixture until it
foamed.

“Diego found you?” Erlinda asked. “When he saw that
you were not here at the table, he got up and left his dinner.”

“Yes, he found me. He said he would come in
soon.”

He entered through the back door just after she
spoke, hanging his hat on the peg by the door. Motioning to Maria
to stay seated, he fixed himself some tortillas and beans. Erlinda
poured him chocolate, and he warmed his hands on the earthenware
cup.

“There is a chill in the air,” he said.

“Oh, Diego,” said Erlinda, “it is only July!”

“I know it!” he exploded, slamming down the cup. “I
know it!” Erlinda was silent, staring at her brother. Diego ran his
hand over his beard. “I am sorry, Erlinda. I think I am speaking of
a different kind of chill.” He took his tortilla in one hand, the
chocolate in the other, and stalked down the hall to his room. The
door slammed behind him.

Erlinda watched him go, then turned to Maria,
appraising her with the careful glance that missed nothing.
“Something is wrong.”

Marcia got up quickly and walked to the open back
door. She looked at the garden, peaceful in the moonlight, and
rubbed her arms as if she, too, felt the chill. How could she
explain to Erlinda that this chill went deeper than the skin? She
shook her head, and Erlinda sighed.

“If neither of you will talk to me, I suppose it is
not my affair.” When Maria turned back to the table, Erlinda was
gone. Maria carried her half-eaten tortilla out to the chicken pen
beyond the garden and put it on the ground. She leaned against the
fence and stared into the distance until she heard the bell for
prayers.

Although Cristóbal was not in his place for evening
prayers, he was sitting at the table with his brother before
breakfast. His back was to Maria as she stood in the doorway tying
on her apron. She was fearful of entering the room, unsure of her
reception.

Cristóbal looked at Diego and without turning around
said, “It is all right, Maria. Come in.”

“So you know her light step, too?” Diego said,
pushing a cold tortilla toward his brother as he looked around to
smile at her.

Cristóbal picked up the tortilla and rolled it into
a cylinder. “I listen for it, the same as you do, Diego. It’s just
that you won’t admit it.”

Diego flushed a deep red and got up. Without looking
at Cristóbal he went to the outside door. “I will be in the
corral.”

After her left, Cristóbal motioned for Maria to sit
down. She shook her head. “I have to prepare the baking,
Cristóbal.”

“As you will, then.”

The room was crowded with the silence between them.
Cristóbal finished eating and came to her where she stood over the
wooden
batea,
measuring flour. He put his hand on her
shoulder.

“You think I should not tease my brother? I should
not tease the master of the earth?”

She did not answer. The touch of his hand on her
shoulder was warm, but his fingers pressed roughly, almost
painfully, and he was standing too close.

“We used to make mud pies together. We shared the
same bed. Can I not tease him if I choose? Or did I hit a nerve
that time, eh, Maria
chiquita
?”

She shook off his hand. “Do not call me that.”

“Why not? Diego calls you that.”

“It’s ... it’s different.” She poured flour into the
wooden trough, losing count of the measure.

He took the measure from her hands and stepped in
front of her. “How?”

The room was so quiet that she could hear her own
heartbeat. Or was it Cristóbal’s? He was standing so close, looking
at her. Maria backed against the
batea.

“Do not ask, Cristóbal,” she said quietly.

He backed away in turn and leaned against the
kitchen table again. “We are much alike, Maria. We both want things
we cannot have. You do not belong here any more than I do. Hush
now, let me finish,” he said, waving her to silence. “Do not think
my big brother will ever forget what he owes Las Invernadas. If he
cannot acquire more land, more cattle and more of
his
Indians”—he spit the words out—“by marrying well, then he will not
bother. Diego does not love—he owns.”

She looked at him. “I do not know what you are
talking about.”

He took his hat off the peg by the door. He was
across the room from her, but he still seemed close. “Perhaps you
do not ... yet. But perhaps we are more alike than you care to
consider. I asked for permission to marry you once. Perhaps I will
do it again. Good day, Maria.” He put on his hat, adjusted the ties
under his chin and was gone, moving silently down the garden
path.