Daughter of Fortune (34 page)

“Hurry, Maria,” said Diego, gesturing to her. She
ran to him, and he took her hand and pulled her down next to him on
the narrow incline in front of his horse. “Keep your head down,” he
commanded, his hand heavy on her hair. He moved his fingers down to
the back of her neck, but the pressure remained. He was forcing her
to stay down.

She lay with her ear against the ground, and soon
she heard the Indians coming, running with the same compelling
rhythm that was almost as mesmerizing as Popeh and his dancers.
Maria raised her head just enough to see the Indians top the rise
from the river’s edge.

Except for their cotton loincloths, they were naked,
their arms and legs painted a dull white that was almost
phosphorescent in the dying sun’s light. Each man carried a knotted
string in his hand, and the cords swung back and forth in rhythm
with their dark hair, unbound and floating free.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“I wish I knew,
querida
,” he replied.

The Indians were running by the rock Diego and Maria
had been sitting on only minutes before. Diego’s hand left her hair
and inched down to his waist. She heard him pull out his dagger,
which he handed to her handle first, wrapping her fingers around
the bone grip. Her knuckles whitened on the handle.

His lips were on her ear. “If they should stop or
discover Tirant, just follow me, and quickly.”

But the Indians did not stop. Without a glance to
the right or the left, they ran on, heading down the little-used
road toward Tesuque, the motion of their movements unbroken by any
suspicion that they were watched.

Five minutes, ten minutes. Diego sat up. He held out
his hand and Maria gave him back his dagger. He tapped it on his
other hand, watching her. She looked back at him in silence.

“Could you count the number of knots on the
strings?” he asked. Maria knelt, facing him. In the scurry her hair
had tumbled down around her waist and she ran her fingers through
it, working out the snarls. “Five? Four? I could not tell for sure.
What do they mean?”

“I think it is some sort of calendar, a time line. I
have seen them before in the pueblos.”

“Then something is going to happen in four or five
days?”

“Yes. Something.”

They looked at each other. Tirant whinnied in the
draw, and Diego got to his feet. He took his red scarf from around
his head and tossed it to Maria, who wound it around her hair and
tied it at the back of her neck, as he wore it. Diego picked up his
hat and put it on. He untied Tirant and mounted, reaching down for
Maria and putting her in front of him. They started north.

“Aren’t we going back by way of Tesuque?”

“We are not,” he replied. “We will take the old Taos
road until it drops down to the river, then cross my lands that
way.”

“Through the cornfield?”

“Yes. And when we get to the cornfield, we are going
to dismount and walk. The stalks will cover us.”

“Someone is watching us, intending to harm us?”

“I fear this could be,” he admitted.

He said no more. There was none of the playful talk
of the morning. They started out at a walk but by the time they
reached the river, Diego had urged his horse into a gallop. They
crossed the river without pausing and rode to the edge of the
Masferrer cornfield, the rows of corn standing tall in the August
evening and rustling with the breeze that came up every night.

Diego helped Maria down, then dismounted, pausing
only long enough to yank off his spurs. He slapped Tirant’s rump
with the flat of his hand and the horse took off across the field,
streaking for the stables.

“That will worry them back at the hacienda,” he
said, taking Maria’s hand in a tight grip. “So let us hurry. Pick
up your skirts.”

Maria grabbed up her skirt and petticoat and held
them draped over one arm. It was dark, and she could not see where
she was going, but Diego held her hand, and he knew his land
well.

They ran until they reached the
acequia.
Tirant was at the stable, one of Diego’s Mexican servants currying
him. Erlinda was standing at the end of the kitchen garden, calling
for her brother, a note of panic rising in her voice.

“We are here, Erlinda. All is well,” he called to
her, his breath coming in gasps. He let go of Maria, and she
arranged her skirts around her again.

Erlinda ran across the footbridge, her arms
outstretched. She grabbed Diego’s shoulders and clung to him.
“Diego, how afraid we were! It was so late! And when Tirant came
back ....”

“We were right behind him.”

“Why did you do that?” she asked, then shook her
head. “But never mind. It is worse than you think. Your Tesuque
Indians have all gone.”

They crossed the bridge and walked into the garden.
Diego paused and leaned against the beehive oven. “No. Tell me
here. I would not frighten the little ones. All my Indians are
gone?
Válgame,
I did not expect that. At least, not
yet.”

Erlinda stared at him. When he did not explain, she
continued. “I noticed about midday how silent the fields were, and
then one of your Mexican servants came running to say that all the
work on the wagons had stopped, and the one remaining horse was
gone.”

“So we have only Tirant.”

“I thought perhaps the Indians went to look for the
horses, but they have not returned yet, and their wives and
children have left, too. Thank God the Mexican servants remain
loyal.”

Diego was silent. Maria moved to his side, and Diego
reached out for her hand, holding it tight.

“I have been thinking about taking Mama and the
girls to stay with Lorenzo Nuñez and his family,” said Erlinda,
choosing her words carefully.

Diego shook his head. “Don’t you remember? Nuñez
always goes to Santa Fe to have Masses said on his name day. They
are all gone.”

They walked slowly toward the hacienda. In the
kitchen Luz and Catarina were still eating dinner. Luz leaped up
and ran to Maria, who held her close. The child quickly moved her
face from Maria’s dress, her nose wrinkling. “Maria, you stink,”
she said.

Diego laughed. He ruffled Luz’s hair and set his hat
on her head. “You should have seen Maria today, Luisita
mia
,” he said. “She made a saint. Out of a piece of
cottonwood. ”

“That is nice,” replied Luz, tipping the hat back so
she could look up at her brother. “But why does she stink?”

Diego sat on the edge of the table. “She had to dig
around in Father Pio’s smelly old corral for rotten ox hooves and
cook them into glue. You would smell, too, if it had been you.”

“Thank you, Señor,” said Maria.

He winked at her. “And now, I am sure Mama has that
lavender soap I was praising. Erlinda,” he said, “go to Mama with
Maria. That is her only dress. Surely Mama has something that will
fit Maria. They are of the same size.”

Erlinda nodded and left the kitchen, Maria
following. She looked around her, grateful for the thick walls of
the hacienda and the warm, inviting candlelight. She paused before
a saint on the wall in the corridor, still and watchful on his deer
hide. Perhaps Emiliano would show her how to paint on hide. She
remembered her little San Francisco, motioned to Erlinda to wait,
and went back into the kitchen.

“Señor, I think I dropped the bird when we were
running through the cornfield,” she said.

Diego looked up from his dinner of chilies and
cheese and reached into his pocket. “You did, but I retrieved it.”
He put the small cottonwood piece in her hand, closing her fingers
over the wood. “If you have time tomorrow, you can make some blue
bean paint and fashion us a mountain jay.”

She put the wood on a shelf by the door. “And I
thought you had no poetry in your soul! A mountain jay, eh? And why
not a blue bird?”

“Here? This is not, nor ever shall be, Spain. Now go
with Erlinda and change your dress,” he laughed.

La Señora was on her knees in front of her altar,
fingering her rosary.

She rose and faced the door when they entered.

“I am sorry, Mama,” apologized Erlinda. “We can come
later.”

“No need. Is that Maria with you? Then has my son
returned?”

“They are both back, Mama, and Maria needs a dress,
if you have one.

The woman sniffed the air and made a face. “Ah,
Maria! What kind of scrape did Diego get you into?”

“Emiliano the saintmaker taught me to make a
bulto
today, and I had to cook ox-hoof glue.”

“That does explain it. Erlinda, look in the chest at
the foot of my bed. I am sure there is something there.”

Erlinda found a pale blue dress of homespun serge,
soft from many washings. La Señora touched the worn fabric. “This
will do, Maria. It is yours.”

“Thank you, Señora.”

“It is nothing. And now, Erlinda, send Diego to me.
We have much to say. And something tells me, I cannot say what,
that time is growing short.”

“Yes, it is late,” replied Erlinda, closing the
chest. “It is almost time for evening prayers. I will get him for
you. ”

“One more thing,” said La Señora. “Over on that
shelf, Maria, you will find a bowl of lavender soap. Use it as your
own,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth and laughing
softly.

Maria put her hand on La Señora’s shoulder. The
older woman reached up and patted her. “You are a good girl, Maria.
I think that each of us, in our own way, has come to depend on you.
And I have wanted to tell you how I treasure the love you have for
my Luz and Catarina.”

The words sounded too much like a farewell, and
Maria’s uneasiness deepened.

There was a knock at the door and Diego entered.
Maria took the lavender soap from the shelf and left the room.
Before going to the
acequia,
she finished the rest of the
chilies and cheese still warming over the dying fire. The food
tasted good. She had not eaten since before sunrise. Her hunger was
gone, but the gnawing fear lingered. She picked up the dress,
admiring the mother-of-pearl buttons and tiny tucks down the front.
She fingered the material. How like everything in this river
kingdom of New Mexico was that dress, simple homespun with
mother-of-pearl, almost as an afterthought. It reminded her of
eating off silver plates in a dirt-floored kitchen, or painting the
glorious Spanish saints on the hides of buffalo and deer.

Maria hurried down the path to the
acequia.
She untied Diego’s moccasins and stepped out of them, stripping off
her dress and shift. She got into the water, shivering in the cold,
then took the soap and waded down from the footbridge to the girls’
play tunnel. The water was deeper there. She sank down, and the
water came to her shoulders.

First she washed her hair, enjoying the fragrance of
the lavender as it drifted around her in the slowly moving stream.
She had not used soap like this since her father’s house. She was
used to rough household soap now, but it was pleasant to remember
how things used to be. Maria closed her eyes and thought of her
mother and father.

She sat still in the water, remembering the advice
her mother had dispensed. “Not much of it has proved useful, Mama,”
she whispered. “I never carry a clean handkerchief anymore, I lost
my own rosary, and I cannot flutter my eyelashes behind a fan
because I have no fan.”

She stood up in the water, looking over her shoulder
at the moon, full and golden, already rich with the promise of
harvest. “But Mama,” she continued, “I suppose I have never been
more content.”

Maria waded upstream and pulled her towel off the
footbridge. She left the water and dried herself quickly, shivering
in the night air. She debated whether to put on her shift again and
decided against it. The fabric smelled of ox-hoof glue and could be
washed on the morrow. She pulled La Señora’s dress on quickly,
smoothing the soft material around her hips, then doing up the
buttons. She looked around, hunting for Diego’s moccasins.

“Is this what you seek?”

Maria gasped and whirled around. Cristóbal was
sitting cross-legged by the ovens, his back to their warmth. He was
holding the moccasins.

He was dressed only in a loincloth, his legs and
arms painted white like the Indian runners on the old Taos trail.
His hair, usually worn pulled back and tied at his neck, was long
and flowing loose.

He rose and walked toward her. Maria backed toward
the footbridge, her throat constricting so she could not cry out.
He held out the moccasins. “Come, take them,” he said. His face
shone ghastly white in the moonlight. He smiled. His teeth were
blackened, and he looked like a death’s head.

Her fear gave way to humiliation and anger. “How
could you sit there and watch me!”

He laughed and handed over the moccasins. “It was
easy, Maria
chiquita
,” he replied, mocking Diego’s words,
“although I must say that if Diego could see you the way I saw you,
he would not call you a ‘small one.’ But then, who is to say that
he has not already seen you thus, eh? My brother,
el santo.
Maybe that is why you refuse my offer of safety, my offer of
marriage. Maybe that is why you refuse me.”

He laughed again, stepping closer, and she slapped
him. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. “You will wish you had
not done that,” he hissed as she tried to wriggle out of his
grasp.

“Let go of me!”

He released her as suddenly as he had grabbed her.
Maria stood still on the footbridge, rubbing her wrist. The towel
wrapped around her hair had fallen into the water, but she made no
motion to retrieve it.

“Go into the hacienda,” he commanded. “Tell Diego
that you have seen me and how I am dressed. Perhaps he will
understand. Perhaps he will take the warning.”

Without a word, Maria rushed past him and ran down
the garden path, slamming the kitchen door behind her. Diego had
heard the door slam and was standing in the hall. She ran toward
him. By the time she got to the door of his room, he had his sword
out. He pulled her into his room and blew out the candle with one
motion.