Wild Penance (25 page)

“You arranged to steal my book?”

“I am sorry. I—”

“One of your thugs hit me hard with something and . . .”

“We are so sorry for that unfortunate incident. I assure you, we did not—”

“Why didn’t you just approach me? You knew Father Ignacio had come to trust me.”

“When Ignacio did not come to the school to teach his classes, and no one could find him, we could not trust you or anyone else until we knew what had happened to our beloved
hermano
. We had to know what you were writing in that book, if you were involved—”

“Involved! You thought I—”

“Señorita, once we saw the book, we were satisfied that you meant the brotherhood no harm, and so we arranged to have your book returned. But we still do not know who has done this terrible thing.”

“So, did you call the BLM a second time, pretending to be my brother?”

“No. But we are concerned for your safety now, too. We have provided you with an
ángel
for your protection. He has been near you much of the time.”

“Was the angel the one pretending to be my brother?”

“No, señorita.”

Just then, the door opened. An immaculately dressed, darkly beautiful woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in the doorway of the Medina home. “Miss Wild?” she asked, before I could say why I had come. “I am Theresa Mendoza. I understand you knew my brother, Ignacio. My mother has something for you. Please come in.”

People packed the main room and both of the passages leading away from it, most of them eating from foam plates filled with beans,
calabacitas
, posole, and
torta de huevo
—a deep-fried omelet with red chili—the traditional Penitente feast foods for Lent. Theresa Mendoza led me through the narrow maze of add-on adobe rooms, past the woodstove, through a mudroom off the kitchen where brown-skinned women fussed with huge pans of food, through a bedroom with two beds on which several children were sleeping, and finally to a meager space at the back of the house.

Theresa Mendoza drew the thick, nubby Chimayo blanket across its wooden rod above the doorway. Inside the room it was cool, dark, and quiet—the space not much bigger than a closet and furnished only with a narrow, frameless bed, a rustic chest, and a crucifix on the wall. One small window faced west. We had to choreograph our movements so Theresa could get past me to the chest. She opened it and delicately extracted a large bundle, taking great care not to bump it against anything. The outside of this bundle was woven tan cloth embroidered with skulls. It was tied with ancient
mecates
, a painstakingly crafted horsehair rope that I had read about. Ms. Mendoza closed the chest, sat on the bed, the bundle on her lap, and nodded her head toward the place on the bed beside her.

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 gave a small smile. “But there is something about you; I see it. I think you have a good soul.”

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.