Daughter of Fortune (21 page)

But here she sat, dreaming of rich clothing for the
saints of Spain while hunched over a small slab of wood in an
Indian pueblo. As she held board and brush, pausing in artist’s
anticipation and dread, she was struck again by her unity with this
place and these people.

Maria filled in the outline of Santa Teresa’s dress,
careful to stay within the lines Emiliano had traced. Then she drew
Santa Teresa’s hands clasped in front of her, like any proper lady
of careful upbringing. When the hands were painted, she outlined a
small book in the corner. After all, she reasoned, without her
volume of poetry, it was entirely possible that Diego would not be
able to tell which saint it was.

When she painted Teresa’s feet bare, peeking out
from under the long folds of her gown, she turned the tablet
over.

“Wait, Maria,” said Emiliano. She had thought he was
still trimming the buffalo hides, but there he was, peering over
her shoulder. “Do not write your name on the back. Let it be for
the glory of God alone.”

She turned the
retablo
over and laid it down
on the workbench. Santa Teresa glowed up at her, the heavily lashed
eyes downcast, contemplating some inward journey of the soul.

“It will do, Maria,” Emiliano said. “Now, let me
show you how to mix a little gold dust with the
yeso
to
paint the lunette and trim.”

She watched as he took out a leather sack and put a
pinch of its contents in an empty pot. He added
yeso,
and
told her to stir the gold gypsum combination. The sparks of gold
danced before her eyes as she whirled the paint around in the pot,
admiring the flashes of color.

Emiliano painted one side of the retablo, dipping
his brush in after every stroke, careful to get the bits of glitter
on the bristles. When it was half-done, he handed her the brush and
sat down again with his buffalo hides. “There now, you finish the
trim and paint the lunette. It will dry before you are done.”

Maria’s brush strokes were not as steady as
Emiliano’s, but she filled in the scallops on top, pausing often to
admire the sparkling effects.

At last it was done. Maria stood up. Emiliano
watched her. “You will come back again?”

“If you would like me to.”

“Next time I will show you where to gather wood for
a statue, a
bulto.
And see if you can bring Diego with you
then. I would like to talk to him.”

“I will,” Maria replied, picking up her saint from
the workbench. She held it in front of her, careful not to rub it
against her dress.

“And Maria,” Emiliano continued, his eyes on the
buffalo skins again, “do not stay away so long next time.”

She stepped over the high doorsill and into the
sunlight, happy for the warmth of the afternoon. When she saw the
sun’s position in the sky, Maria realized how long she had been
gone from the hacienda. She looked around for Cristóbal, but he was
nowhere in sight. It was late and she had kitchen duties. Perhaps
she should go look for him.

Maria set her
retablo
down on the window
ledge of Emiliano’s room. “I am going to look for Cristóbal.”

Emiliano put out his hand quickly. “No, Maria,” he
began, “he will show up.”

But Maria did not listen. “I have to get back to Las
Invernadas.” Before Emiliano could stop her, she went through the
entrance where she had last seen Cristóbal.

She had not gone through many doors when she
realized her mistake. The darkness grew deeper inside the pueblo,
even in the rooms that were lit with
farols.
And the women
in the rooms did not regard her with the same equanimity they had
shown when Cristóbal was with her. “Cristóbal?” she asked over and
over, receiving only blank stares or shrugs in answer.

She tried to retrace her steps to the outside, but
was lost. As she leaned against one of the ladders, she realized
another strong point of the Tesuque pueblo. Even if any attackers
could gain access to the pueblo interior, they would be lost,
wandering in semidarkness.

Maria stood still. Perhaps she could follow voices
to the outside terraces, where most of the daily activities took
place. She listened. Not too far away she heard drums. The beat was
low and steady, accompanied by rattles shaken in ponderous rhythm.
She strained to hear the low voices of men chanting. She set out to
follow the sound to its source. Cristóbal would be there.

She felt her way from room to room, all of them
empty or partly filled with large woven baskets of dried corn, the
remnants of last year’s harvest. An army of mice scurried around
her feet.

The singing grew louder. She felt the pulse of the
drums under her feet now. Perhaps a few more doors would take her
to the source. She groped her way into the next room, then the
next. She stumbled through room after room, banging her knees
against the high openings of the doorways. Tears filled her eyes,
her pulse beat as loud as the drums. Then suddenly she could see a
light ahead, a thin strip of light such as would shine around the
edge of a door flap. She staggered toward it.

She pulled aside the hide flap. The drumming
stopped. Unknown hands yanked her into the room.

Maria blinked in the light. “
Salvador santo
,”
she whispered in terror.

The sight before her was more frightening than her
worst nightmares. Terrified beyond speech she stared up at the
enormous figures that stood in front of her, great tall creatures
covered with feathers of fantastic colors and masks frozen in vivid
expressions of violence, beasts from a long-forgotten age of
giants. She looked from one figure to the next,. The demons were
covered with a dull white paint the color of dead skin. In the murk
of the smoky, stifling room, they seemed to float in the air.

Indian eyes watched her from behind immobile masks.
The dancing had stopped. The dancers came closer, the jingle of
copper Spanish ankle bells the only sound in the room.

In panic Maria dropped to the floor, her legs unable
to hold her. She lay in a heap on the dirt floor, staring at the
tall figures in front of her.-

A demon came closer, reached out a hand to her. She
shuddered and drew back. The Indian lifted off his headpiece.
Cristóbal.

“You!” she gasped, scrambling back against the wall.
His face was filled with anger, his eyes harder than she had ever
seen them.

“I told you to wait for me with Emiliano.” He yanked
her to her feet. “Why did you not do as I said?”

“It is getting late. I must return to Las
Invernadas.” She managed to force her words past the growing lump
in her throat. He let go of her then, and she knelt in the dirt in
front of him.

The anger went out of him in one sigh. “Maria, it
would have been better if you had done as I said.”

“Please forgive me,” she whispered, her head bowed,
her voice scarcely audible. “I meant no harm. Please believe
me.”

He knelt beside her and she drew back unconsciously,
regretting her movements as soon as she looked at his face. He had
reached out to her, but now he pulled his hand back. “I believe
you, Maria,” he finally replied, the hurt betrayed by his voice and
his averted face. “I believe you. I only hope the others will.”

He stood and turned to speak to the other men in
masks. The three largest demons retreated to the far side of the
room, looking like gigantic birds of prey. They did not remove
their masks. The remaining figure took off his headpiece and set it
on the ground.

“This is Popeh,” said Cristóbal to Maria. The man
said nothing, only stared down at Maria, his expression
unfathomable, his eyes glittering.

Maria gazed back at him in terror. He was enormous,
taller than any man she had ever seen, and burned nearly black by
the sun. His eyes were a curious yellow, and they bored into her
face without blinking. She stared at his eyes like a bird trapped
in a rattlesnake’s trance.

The Indian spoke to Cristóbal, who answered him
after uncharacteristic hesitation. The men argued back and forth in
Tewa, Popeh demanding, Cristóbal answering. All the while, Popeh’s
eyes never left Maria’s face.

Suddenly, Popeh stepped forward and yanked Maria to
her feet again, ripping her dress under the armpit. He pulled her
close as if memorizing every pore and freckle on her face. He shook
her off then, like a terrier does a mouse.

Maria slumped against the wall. Her legs still would
not hold her up. Popeh spoke again to Cristóbal, then folded his
arms, as if waiting.

Cristóbal approached Maria again. She did not back
away from him this time.

“Maria, he told me to tell you that members of his
own family have died for less than this.”

Maria straightened, her back against the wall. She
clasped her hands in front of her to stop their trembling. “I have
done nothing wrong. I beg his mercy and his permission to go.”

Cristóbal repeated her words to Popeh, who uttered a
string of harsh phrases. As he turned away, Maria saw that his back
was covered with a mass of scars and welts, as if someone had
beaten him. The deep furrows between his shoulders ran with sweat,
smearing the white
yeso
paint. He turned to face Maria
again, his eyes on her like a hound harrying a rabbit. She forced
herself to look away, to concentrate instead on Cristóbal, who was
reaching for her.

He took her gently by the arm and pulled her toward
the opening, speaking in a low voice. “Just keep walking. Do not
look back. And hurry when we get outside. I cannot account for
Popeh. Not ever. I have saved you for the moment, but the moment
may pass.”

She took a few tentative steps, walking as if in a
dream. Cristóbal pulled her out of the room then, snatching up a
lighted
farol
as he ducked through the low doorway. With
Maria in tow, he hurried through the empty storerooms, pausing only
to listen for pursuers. He loosened his grip on her arm finally. “I
hear the drums again, Maria. You will be safe now.”

They continued in silence from the pueblo’s interior
and her fear gradually gave way to confusion. Cristóbal was
deliberately choosing the longest way around the Indian maze. Does
he honestly think I would ever, ever go back inside there again,
she asked herself.

Back at the
santero’s
workshop, Emiliano was
nowhere in sight, but Maria picked up the
retablo
still
resting on the window ledge. She touched the paint. It was dry.
Santa Teresa’s gentle gaze still rested on her folded hands. She
had not seen the evil Maria had.

The sun was nearly below the rim of the horizon.
“You must walk back,” said Cristóbal. “I must return to Popeh.”

Maria shook her head and held onto his arm. “Do not
go back there. Please.”

He shook her hand off his arm, smiling slightly, the
smile vanishing quickly. “Look, your fingers are white now.”

She wiped her hand on her dress. “Cristóbal,
please!”

Cristóbal sighed. “I must go back. It is Popeh’s
will.” They descended the ladder. “I will walk you to the edge of
the trees,” he said, as if reluctant to let her go. “You know the
way to the hacienda.” She walked beside him to the cottonwoods, her
legs still shaky but her mind full of Popeh and Cristóbal. They
stood together at the edge of the trees. “Cristóbal,” she began,
unsure of his reaction, “you do not worship those demons, do
you?”

He wouldn’t look at her. “You do not
understand.”

“But what about the True Faith?” she persisted,
driven on by demons of her own.

“Maria, I follow
my
true faith.” He took her
by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Everyone seems to
have forgotten that I am Tewa.”

“Only part Tewa,” she argued.

“It is enough,” he concluded. “Go now. You will be
back before dark, if you hurry.”

He released her and after a long look at him, she
hurried up the road toward Las Invernadas, holding Santa Teresa
tightly to her, as if to ward off the demons of Tesuque.

When she was out of sight of the pueblo, Maria
slowed to a walk and looked behind her. No one followed. She paused
to take a rock out of her shoe, then started walking quickly to Las
Invernadas. She knew she should feel comfort in the knowledge of
the strength and power of the Masferrer hacienda but, for the first
time, she felt none. One look in Popeh’s compelling eyes convinced
her that there was no safety in the river kingdom of New
Mexico.

She could still see his peculiar yellow eyes
measuring her face, compelling her to look at him.
Almost as
though he were trying to hypnotize me
, she said to herself.

The hate in Popeh’s eyes had been unmistakable. He
hates me because I am Spanish, she thought, stopping in the road
and looking down at the serenity of Santa Teresa cradled in her
arms.

She looked back once more, then walked on more
slowly. All her life she had taken for granted the servitude of
Indians. They were there, those slim, dark-skinned people, to serve
her and those around her. In exchange they were rewarded with
Spanish ways and the True Faith. They were as little children,
looking to their white lords for guidance. But were they
really?

Popeh was not childish. If Cristóbal had not been
there, Popeh would have killed her. Simply because I am Spanish.
What has gone wrong?

Diego would tell her that nothing was wrong. He
would speak of his land and his Indians, as if they were personal
possessions, bought and paid for. And yet even he sensed trouble
brewing. Why else had he asked her to keep her eyes open?

And then there was Cristóbal, equal in all things,
according to Diego, except the things that mattered. He can eat
with us, pray with us, dress like us, and even ride horses—Spanish
privilege, she thought. But he cannot own land, he cannot
inherit.