Shaman Winter (22 page)

Around them, the trees of the valley were winter bare. Cottonwoods along the ditches and the apple orchards rested under a thin winter blanket. A breeze stirred. A family of raucous magpies pecked at the stubble in a cornfield.

The earth lay fallow, resting, the village somnolent except for a boy who raced his horses down the dirt street toward Ortega's Trading Post. He gave a loud hello as he passed by, the clopping of the horse's hooves pounding the frozen earth, then all was quiet again.

Sonny guided his chair down the rough path and entered the church. They were alone in the cold, dimly lit building.

“When people get well, they leave a memento of their illness here. I'd like to leave my chair.”

“Make a promise, and we'll come back.”

“I'll settle for some of the holy earth. Take it home and rub it on my legs.”

Lorenza entered the small room where long ago someone had dug a hole in the earth floor. Thousands of pilgrims had taken a handful of the holy earth from here, and the hole was constantly replenished. Some said an underground river of earth refilled the hole. Others smiled and said a priest came at night with a bucket of earth to fill the hole.

Around her neck Lorenza wore a small cloth bag on a string. It contained an amulet. She opened it and poured a pinch of earth into the bag, then pulled the strings shut.

“Done,” she said when she returned to Sonny and slipped the bag around his neck. “If this isn't strong medicine, I don't know what is.”

“Gracias, am—” He blushed. He had almost said “amor.”

“Amiga,” he corrected himself.

“De nada,” she replied. She sensed the slip but said nothing. She walked behind his chair out into the bright sunlight that suddenly filled the valley. The brilliant winter sun-showers had broken through the clouds, filling the entire valley with light and warmth.

In this respite of light they continued to Taos. Sonny had written down the directions to the Garcías' home, a narrow road somewhere in front of the Ranchos de Taos church.

It was in Ranchos de Taos that the famous Padre Antonio Jose Martínez had set up his school for orphans, educated and trained young Hispanos for the priesthood, and set up the first printing press in the state. It was here, too, that he had his falling out with Bishop Jean Lamy, the Frenchman who arrived in 1851. The cold and distant French bishop had been sent by the Vatican to rule over the faithful of New Mexico.

The independent and well-educated Martínez would not easily bow to the new bishop's rule. Martínez knew his paisanos well; he knew the yoke of poverty under which they lived. He understood their deep faith, the faith in Cristo and His mother, and their faith in the earth. Padre Martínez also knew the penitentes, the brotherhood of men who assisted at funerals and burials, helped the poor, and conducted a ceremony reenacting the crucifixion of Christ on Good Friday.

Padre Martínez continued to serve the people, even after pressure from Bishop Lamy to collect fees on all church ceremonies Martínez performed. He went on marrying them without collecting fees, openly disobeying the French bishop.

Lamy replaced many of the native priests with Europeans, and so an old pattern repeated itself even within the church: the French colonization of the New Mexican church began, and the separation between the Indian pueblo and the Hispanic village grew. But Lamy could not easily break Padre Martínez. Martínez refused to collect the church tax on the poor who couldn't afford it, and in the end Lamy excommunicated him. Even that didn't stop the padre. He went on saying mass and running his school. The energy of the padre could not be contained, and in later years he would even serve in the New Mexico territorial legislature.

Always watching out for his flock, Sonny thought as he flipped a page and made notes. Padre Martínez was born in 1793 in Río Arriba, married, but both wife and child died, and he joined the priesthood. In 1822 he was given the church at Taos. Brilliant, energetic, often domineering, he believed in education for his paisanos. He brought the first press to Taos and printed a newspaper,
El Crepúsculo
.

Governor Charles Bent, the governor appointed after Kearny's entry to rule over the New Mexico territory, hated Martínez. Many a historian still wonders if Martínez had a hand in plotting the Taos revolt in which the governor was killed on a cold January night. Indians from Taos Pueblo and Nuevo Mexicanos burst into the governor's house and murdered him in a bloody battle of resistance against the gringo colonizer.

Actually, many of the terrified citizens of Taos, thinking a widespread revolution and a bloodbath were about to ensue as Nuevo Mexicanos took up arms against American rule, took refuge in the padre's home that night. Still, some historians accused Padre Martínez of fomenting the revolt.

The Garcías need someone like Padre Martínez now, Sonny thought as he glanced out the window and pointed. “Aquí.”

The García house sat back from the unpaved street. Two leafless apple trees stood in the sere lawn. The flowerbeds where hollyhocks had blossomed over the summer now lay brown and crumpled, the staffs of the flowers heavy with the dry, round pods that held the black seeds.

Alberto García, a man about forty years of age, came out to greet them. He thanked them for coming and invited them into the home.

“I'm glad to see you,” he said, shaking their hands. “Lleguen, lleguen. Está bien frio,” he said, looking up at the mountain where it was snowing.

Sonny and Lorenza were met at the door by Estella García. She greeted them warmly and ushered them into the small living room.

“We're so thankful you came,” she said, and set about serving them coffee and biscochitos. Sonny studied the cozy living room. On the ledge of the beehive fireplace sat family photographs and two small wood carvings Sonny recognized as the work of Patrociño Barela. In one corner of the room La Virgen de Guadalupe presided over a small altar.

Alberto stood by the woodstove and told them about Catalina's disappearance. It was very similar to the story the Romeros had told in Santa Fé.

“We do
Las Posadas
every year,” Alberto explained. “We've been doing them since I can remember. The people get together and go out every night. This year Catalina was the Virgin Mary. My compadre Horacio has a burro, so my daughter rode the burro. San Jose, my compadre Cayetano, led the burro down the street.”

“Last night was so beautiful,” Estella said. “There was a light snow. There was a real feeling of Christmas. But I wasn't feeling well, so we came home early.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Nothing like this has ever happened,” Estella said. “Yes, some of the kids are wild, some use dope. They go out in their lowrider cars and drink. But that happens everywhere.”

Alberto looked at her helplessly and nodded.

“Did you find anything in her room, any clues?” Sonny asked.

“No, nothing,” Estella replied.

“Had she slept in her bed?”

“No.”

“Are you sure she came in?”

“Yes, I stayed up till I heard the door,” Alberto said. “I figured she didn't want to wake her mother, and just went to bed.”

Estella wrung her hands. “We talked to her friends, and to our compadres. She came home alone.”

“It was below freezing last night,” Alberto said. “If she was alone out there—” He didn't finish his thought; he didn't have to. The temperature last night had fallen into the teens, and without shelter a body would freeze.

“May I see her room?” Sonny asked, dreading what he would find.

“Seguro,” Alberto said, and led him down a narrow hallway to the girl's room.

Sonny looked around. No sign of a struggle. No sign of Raven.

“Is there a back door?” he asked.

“Sí, the kitchen has a door to the back.” He led Sonny and Lorenza to the kitchen.

Sonny opened the kitchen door. There on the threshold lay four dark feathers. Sonny glanced at Lorenza, and she bent to pick them up.

“What does it mean?” Alberto asked, looking at the glistening black feathers.

“Una maldición,” his wife gasped.

A curse.

11

Sonny's next stop was the sheriff's office. Sheriff Bernabé Montoya, who became famous in the Milagro Beanfield War many years ago, was now the Taos County sheriff. Sonny hardly recognized the old lawman. He looked beaten, the ghost of the active young man who had played such an important role in the water rights battle in Milagro.

“Sonny, Sonny, cómo 'stás?” he greeted Sonny, drawing himself up, smoothing the front of his somewhat creased shirt, which was spotted with red chile stains.

Sonny had met the sheriff a couple of years back during a state lawmen's convention. Manuel López, who was then still alive, introduced Sonny, and it turned out Sheriff Montoya knew a lot of stories about Sonny's bisabuelo, the famous Elfego Baca from Socorro County. Your great-grandfather is one of my heroes, Bernabé told Sonny.

Sonny introduced Lorenza. “Pleased to meet you, señorita,” the sheriff said gallantly, inviting them to sit and asking if they wanted coffee.

“You're here because of the girl,” the sheriff said when they were settled. “Beto's daughter.”

“I just talked to them,” Sonny replied.

“I was over there all morning. I've been talking to her friends, pero nada. No clues,” the sheriff said, resignation ringing in his husky voice. “The girl's not the type to run away. No reason. And the kids she knows are good kids. Seems like she just disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Any strangers in the neighborhood? Strange cars, tracks?”

“Nope.” The sheriff shook his head. “The ground is frozen, and even if it weren't, the dirt road is full of tracks and half covered with snow. I called the state cops and they're bringing in dogs.” He paused, looking shriveled in his uniform.

“But we won't find anything,” he said sadly.

“Why?”

The sheriff looked from Sonny to Lorenza. “I've been here a long time, probably be here until the Republicans kick me out.” He laughed. “You want me to tell you what I think?”

“Sure,” Sonny replied. He felt a story coming. The place was alive with stories.

“I think it's a curse. Spirits,” he whispered.

“And they took Catalina,” Sonny said. The girl's mother had intimated the same thing.

“I won't tell this to the papers,” the old sheriff said. “But I know what I feel. There's enough ghosts around here to fill a novel.”

Sonny looked around. Yes, no doubt many dissatisfied spirits wandered the streets of Taos, gathered in the plaza to curse their fate.

Taos Pueblo loomed as guardian over the area, sitting at the foot of the mountains. Its history was palpable. So was the history of the Taoseños, the Españoles and Mexicanos who had lived for centuries at the edge of the pueblo. These people died and gave their ghosts back to the land. Later the Americanos came, Mabel Dodge Luhan, Dorothy Brett, D. H. Lawrence, the Taos art colony. Later, in the sixties, a new migration, hippies and Hollywood celebrities who moved to Taos seeking communion with the earth and the cosmos.

Taos drew those who sought beauty in the land, an Indian mysticism to guide their lives. But beneath the veneer of the Taos art colony and its descendants, another history existed. As sure as the kachinas of Blue Lake blessed the land and brought rain, the souls of many departed filled the files of the sheriff's office.

“What do you mean by ‘curse'?” Sonny asked.

“Well, the way I heard the story, a lot of people believe it was some of Alberto's ancestors, you know, one of his bisabuelos from way back, who was with the rebels who killed Governor Bent.”

“Governor Bent?” Sonny interrupted, and glanced at Lorenza. “But that was in—”

“Eighteen forty-six,” Bernabé nodded, “not too long ago.”

No, of course not, Sonny checked a smile. For the sheriff, as well as for other Taoseños steeped in the tea of history, one hundred years was only yesterday. One hundred fifty years was but a sigh in the memory of the people. History did not happen and then go away for the people of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, it festered and grew into the bones, blood, and soul. It stayed to inhabit the memory, and so the people learned to accommodate the ghosts of the past. People here lived and breathed history. It was all around them. In the mountains, around the plaza, in the adobes of old haciendas, like the Hacienda Martínez. Here the ghosts of the ancient past still walked, appeared, spoke, did mischievous things like the duendes of the forest.

“Anyway, the ghost of Governor Bent is like the ghost of Kit Carson, esos cabrones won't die. The way the folks around here figure is that el Viejo Bent, that's what we call him, wants his revenge. So he's been hounding that familia ever since. Now he's stolen Alberto's girl.”

“That's what you think,” Sonny said after a long pause.

The sheriff winked. “Like I said, I wouldn't tell it to the newspaper.”

“I need a drink,” Sonny said. He felt a fever beginning to bubble in his bones. In his nightmare Raven had taken Caridad, but there was no way he could explain that to the sheriff. Let the sheriff think it was the ghost of Governor Bent who had now kidnapped Catalina. One theory was as good as the other, and he wouldn't tell his to the media, either.

He turned to Lorenza. It was time to leave.

“Me, too,” the sheriff said, rubbing his forehead and rising with them. “But I've got to go over and meet the state cops. You know La Cantina de los Pícaros,” he said as he saw them out into the street, pointing down the plaza, where people moved like bundled ghosts in the cold.

Last night's dusting of snow was gone, but the day was chilly. A breeze whipped the blankets the Taos Pueblo men wore as they walked across the plaza. The trees around the plaza huddled like withered old men, raising bare branches to the gray sky and dreaming of sap and buds.