Daughter of Fortune (13 page)

Maria picked up one volume, a grim collection of the
lives of the saints that she remembered from her father’s library.
There was an ecclesiastical history of Rome, a Latin Bible, and
nothing more.

“If you can find the time, you are always welcome
here to read. I cannot say that the books will always keep us
awake, but surely they will do us no harm.”

“Do you wish me to read now?” Maria asked.

“Yes, but not these. There is another book. Go fetch
it from Diego’s room. I believe he keeps it by his bed.”

“In his room?” Maria asked. “I could not go in
there.”

“Of course you can, my child. He is never there
during the day, but if you are timid, knock.”

Maria left La Señora and went down the hall to
Diego’s bedroom, pausing to knock before entering. His room was
stark with a crucifix at the head of the narrow bed, an unpainted
table and stool, a clothes chest, and a pair of boots in the
corner.

As spare as it was, and totally unremarkable, the
room was filled with Diego’s presence. It may have been the
lingering smell of wellworn leather, or the scent of sage from the
clothing chest. Maria felt her timidity replaced by a rush of
feeling.

She took the journal off the table, pausing to
straighten the blanket and pillow on the bed, smoothing out
imaginary wrinkles.

She returned to La Señora, pausing this time for a
small curtsy in front of the Madonna before seating herself on the
stool.

“This journal is our pleasure,” said La Señora,
reaching out to touch the worn leather cover. “If you were to turn
to the very front, you would read what Tomas said on the occasion
of our marriage more than twenty years ago. And on to the record of
crops, of failures, of fires, of raids, of sparrows found homeless
in corn rows, of loose teeth and new teeth. It is all here. A
record of our lives.”

La Señora leaned back in her chair, her hands
resting in her lap. “Everyone has favorite entries. When he has
time in the winter, Diego likes to gather us all in the
sala,
sit the girls on his lap and read until the candles
gutter out.” She chuckled. “Luz likes the time Catarina made mud
pies in the
sala.
Catarina enjoys reading about her brother
Francisco’s departure for Mexico City, when he cried because he had
to go, and Diego cried because he could not go!” She paused,
remembering, then touched Maria’s knee. “Such a day that was! I
think Catarina likes to know that Diego can cry, too.” She leaned
forward. “But now, I would have you turn to December 18, 1661,” she
said.

Maria turned to the year, leaning forward in the
shadowy room to decipher the spidery handwriting of Diego’s father.
She read slowly, her fingers following the words. ‘December 18,
1661. My son Cristóbal was born today. I will call him my son, for
he is. All the confession and penance cannot change the fact. He is
strong and healthy and seems destined to live.’ ”

Maria looked up. La Señora’s expression was
inscrutable. “Why did you have me read this?” she asked.

“I feel you should know something of Cristóbal, my
child. And lately, he has been on my mind, for reasons I cannot
explain even to myself. But what was I saying? Yes. Cristóbal was
born about six months after Diego, the son of my husband Tomás and
my Tewa maid. No, no, not the maid I have now, but another. Tomás
never made any pretense about the birth, although I knew that he
could have and I never would have been the wiser. And I had not the
heart to blame him. What good would that have done?”

“Cristóbal was raised here, then?”

“Yes. At Tesuque and here. Cristóbal’s mother died
when he was three, and he was raised then with my own children. My
husband loved him. And there has always been a closeness between
Diego and Cristóbal. But lately I wonder.”

She looked at Maria suddenly. “Is this so? I sense a
restless spirit in Cristóbal lately.”

“I cannot say, my lady,” said Maria, choosing her
words with care. “At times Cristóbal looks at Diego in such a
strange manner, and at others they are laughing and talking.” She
stopped. “I do not know what I am saying. I have been here only a
few days, and I do not know anyone well yet. ”

La Señora stood. “Close the book, Maria. We will
read in it again later. After you have returned it, come back and
help me to the patio. I set Luz and Catarina to working their
samplers.” She laughed, and her sudden laughter reminded Maria of
Diego. “They are vexed that I can feel their work and pronounce it
a disaster!”

Maria returned the book to Diego’s room. She set it
on the table, then opened it to one of the last entries. Diego’s
handwriting was sprawling and large compared to his father’s
meticulous script. She ran her finger down the page. There it was.
“Maria arrived at Las Invernadas. I wonder what will come of
this.”

That was all. She closed the book.

The night had been a restless one. Maria woke with
the sheets twisted around her and the pillow on the floor. Her head
throbbed, and there were tears dried on her face. Diego was not in
the room, sitting on the floor by her bed or resting in the window
alcove, so she must not have cried out. She sat up slowly, pained
by the beating against her temples but grateful that she had not
roused Diego Masferrer from sleep this time.

The smell of smoke was in the room. She sniffed the
air like an animal, fighting down the urge to scream, to leap up
and run.

The window alcove opened onto the hall. Carefully
she got out of bed and peered through the opening. The patio was
cool and still in the early light. Reflecting against its walls was
fire, distant, faded fire. Maria hurried into the hall. She heard a
sound behind her and whirled, gasping in fright as a white-robed
figure glided toward her. “Carmen?” her voice quavered.

But this figure was tall and fair. Maria reached out
for her. “Erlinda?” she pleaded.

Erlinda let go of Maria only long enough to brush
her hand across the girl’s face. “Oh, Maria, why are there
tears?”

“I smelled smoke ...”

“And you were afraid?” finished Erlinda, leading
Maria toward the kitchen.

“Before God, I was. I am,” Maria replied, her voice
low. “You cannot know.”

There was a catch in Erlinda’s voice when she spoke.
“But I can, Maria. I know what it is to fear.” She hesitated, then
went on. “1, too, know what it is to lose everything.”

She led Maria to the back doorway of the kitchen.
The bolts were already thrown open and the door stood ajar, letting
in the cold of early spring. Erlinda released Maria and closed the
door, murmuring, “Men are so thoughtless sometimes,” under her
breath. She opened the shutters and they looked out.

The ditches were alive with fire. Lines of fire
marched around the fields and orchard. Maria drew back in surprise,
and Erlinda’s arm went around her again.

“Do not fear,” said Erlinda, her own voice calm and
steady again. “It is the day of San Isidro, the patron of our
farms. Have you lost track of time? Here in the river colony we
burn weeds out of the irrigation ditches before sunrise on this
day. It is a homely task, no more. When the men are through, they
will turn the water into the acequrias again. ’’

Maria sat on the bench by the table, her eyes still
drawn to the flames outside. “Will there ever come a time when
something like this will not remind me of the caravan massacre?”
she asked softly.

She had never spoken of the massacre to any of them,
and she said nothing more, but Erlinda sat quickly beside her on
the bench, her eyes wide with understanding.

“You will never forget it,” she said, and even
though her words were hard, there was something in the saying of
them that calmed Maria’s fears. “It will be there all your life.
Some things are never to be forgotten.” Her voice was distant, her
mind on other things. “And perhaps they should not be. ”

Maria watched as the flickering lights played across
Erlinda’s face, touching it here and there, exposing pain greater
than her own. Erlinda smiled faintly, but the bleakness in her eyes
wrenched Maria’s heart.

“I shall never forget Marco’s death. It will always
be with me, even as your caravan will always march across your
mind. But it is what we make of our experiences that matters.” She
sighed. “Or so Diego tells me.”

They sat together in silence as the ditches burned
and the sun rose to compete with the fires on the land. When the
fames died down and the ditches became nothing more than black
ribbons circling the fields, Cristóbal and Diego came in, dirty and
smelling of burned grass.

Erlinda and Maria sat close together. Diego looked
at them as Cristóbal crossed to the water barrel to dip a cup of
water. “Is all well here?” he asked quietly, his words not so much
disturbing the peace as adding to it.

“Oh, yes, Diego mio, we are well,” said Erlinda, her
arm around Maria in a protective gesture.

Diego went to the barrel, leaning against it next to
Cristóbal. “It is finished for another year, Erlinda,” he said.
“One less thing to do. ”

“Does the water flow in the
acequia
again, my
brother?” Erlinda asked.

“It does. But there is not so much of it as last
year, or the year before,” he replied, accepting the cup of water
from Cristóbal. He held up the cup, the hard lines around his mouth
etching deeper. “We must be sparing of it. The rains do not come.
”

“Then you have only to pray harder, Diego,” said
Cristóbal.

Diego looked at him but said nothing. Maria glanced
at Cristóbal, who was smiling at some special amusement of his
own.

“We have had so little rain in the last four years,
Maria,” Diego explained, “but we will endure.”

“Indeed,” remarked Cristóbal. “Nothing kills
Spaniards.” He laughed. “Perhaps, I, too, will live forever. Or at
least half of me will—the Spanish half.”

Diego left the kitchen without saying anything.
Cristóbal watched him go, his smile gone as quickly as it had come,
then followed his brother outside.

“Why does he do that?” Maria asked Erlinda. She
blushed. “I know all this is none of my business, but why does
Cristóbal bait Diego like that?”

“I wish I knew,” said Erlinda. “Cristóbal has
changed lately. He spends much of his time in Tesuque. When he
returns, he is moody and restless. He takes particular delight in
goading Diego.” Erlinda rose. “I do not pretend to understand it.
But there is much to do. Let us rouse my sleeping sisters and get
on with this day of San Isidro.”

After breakfast and prayers, Diego told Maria to
follow him to the cornfield, where the Indians, his Indians,
worked. “Ordinarily, you would not be needed here, Maria, but today
I must use the older sons and fathers to help me plant the beans. I
want you to supervise the little ones as they weed the small
corn.”

The children were already in the field. They stood
silent between the rows, small brown statues watching Diego
Masferrer approach. The only movement was the wind ruffling their
long black hair. Maria smiled at them, but their eyes were on
Diego.

“This is Maria,” he said, speaking slowly to them in
Spanish, taking her by the arm. “She will see that you weed the
rows. Let there be no laggards, and I will give you bread to take
to your mothers in Tesuque.” He repeated himself in Tewa, and the
children bent quickly to their work.

“It is well,” he said to Maria. “Just watch them and
make sure they do not skip a row by mistake. I will be in the field
beyond.”

He left her then, walking north to the distant field
where the Indians waited to plant beans. Maria turned back to the
children, who weeded diligently, their fingers moving quickly
through small shoots of corn. They observed her with darting
glances, but did not stop.

One of the young girls carried a baby on her back,
probably a younger sister or brother. She was agile and worked
steadily, but began to lag behind the others. Maria went to
her.

“Here, let me take the baby. If we put it down here
at the end of the row, you can keep up with the others. I promise
to watch.”

She repeated herself, wishing she could speak Tewa
like Diego. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl straightened and
unwound the bands that strapped the child to her back. Maria took
the sleeping baby and carried her to the end of the row. There she
removed her own shawl and wrapped the child in it. She smoothed the
black straight hair, so soft to the fingers, and wound the shawl
more securely to protect the baby from the breeze. Pleased that the
child slept safely on the soft earth, Maria returned to watch the
Indian children as they traveled down the rows. She followed them,
listening to their low voiced singing, admiring the shine of the
sun on their hair so dark that it looked like the blue of
midnight.

The freshly turned earth was warm on her bare feet.
She laughed to herself as she remembered the scolding from Mama,
when as a child she strayed far enough from watchful eyes to remove
her shoes and prance around the family patio.
Times change,
Mama
.

The insistent ringing of a bell disturbed her. The
children stopped their work suddenly and stood straight, their
faces watchful. She heard the bell again. It was the church bell
from Tesuque, ringing with an unaccustomed clamor.

One of the guards fired his gun from the roof of the
hacienda. Maria ran to the children, who were clustered together,
their eyes big with fear.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed by the firing of
the weapon.

A second report was heard from the roof. She turned
toward the bean field. Diego and his Indians were running toward
them at a crouch, carrying their hoes. One of the children tugged
at her dress. “It is Apaches,” he said in Spanish.