Daughter of Fortune (36 page)

Diego dismounted and walked stiffly toward Maria.
His clothes were covered with dust and there were deep circles
under his eyes. Maria ran to him. She put her hands on his arm, but
said nothing.

“I heard them early this morning, Maria. Not long
before sunrise. They tripped over the rope I had stretched across
the road. There were three of them. One got away. He ran back
toward Taos. Look here, Maria.” He reached into his shirt front and
pulled out two of the curious cords they had seen yesterday. She
took them from him gingerly, as if they were living things. Each
cord was about a foot long, woven tightly of maguey fiber. She
fingered the knots. “Four knots?” She glanced back at the Indians,
who were watching them with an intensity that made her stomach
turn.

“Four days, Maria. Four days until there is an
uprising. I am sure of it now.” He looked south down the road and
sighed. “Do you suppose Governor Otermin will believe me if I tell
him? Or will he throw me into prison for returning to town against
his orders?

She looked at him and willed herself to
serenity.

“I do not have time to stop at Las Invernadas. Tell
everyone not to worry. I will be back from Santa Fe before sundown.
I will try to bring some help with me, some horses, a wagon. At any
rate, we will leave here tomorrow morning. No later.” He paused and
leaned against his horse. “Maria, Maria,” he said, his eyes closed,
his face half-turned to Tirant.

She put her hand on his arm and he reached for her,
hugging her. “
Dios mio
, I am afraid,
querida
,” he
said in a whisper. She leaned against him, and he stroked her cheek
with his gloved hand. Then he straightened, glancing behind him at
the two figures now squatting in the dust.

“If there is time,” he began, not meeting her eyes,
“I will return through Tesuque and persuade Father Pio to join us
here.”

“Diego, if there is any way, could you ...”

“Could I collect your little saint?” he finished for
her, the smile crossing his face at odds with the bleakness in his
eyes. “I will try, Maria, you know I will. We will need all the
blessings of all the saints. We have four days.”

“Go there only if it is safe, Diego,” she insisted.
“After all, it is only a possession.”

“You have another possession, Maria, one which will
always be with you.”

“Tell me what it is, Señor.”

“You have my heart,
querida
, my heart,” he
said, his voice low. “I took the time to think last night while I
was keeping myself awake.” He touched her face again. “I thought
only of you.”

The Indians rose and began to walk toward Diego and
Maria. She jumped, and he pushed in front of her and pulled out his
sword. The Indians squatted in the dust once more.

“When I mount Tirant again, stand clear, Maria,” he
said. “God in heaven, if I close my eyes to kiss you, those Indians
would be on us in a moment! Remember that I love you, Maria. God
forgive me for discovering it so late.”

He motioned her away then and mounted quickly,
jerking the Indians to their feet and keeping the rope taut. He
blew her a kiss and tipped his hat.

She stood watching until Diego and the Indians
turned the bend in the road toward Tesuque and the river, then
walked slowly back to the hacienda.

That day was longer than any Maria had ever lived
through, even longer than her wait by the smoldering ruins of the
mission supply caravan. She sat in the cornfield in miserable
silence until she felt she could face the others. Then with a
calmness that amazed her, she told Erlinda about Diego and the
Indians. Erlinda extinguished the fire under the wash water and
went inside to pack.

Once during the afternoon Erlinda came to her. “Tell
me, Maria, do you love my brother?”

“I do,” she said simply, continuing to fold clothing
into the trunk. “I love him so much that it is not something I can
talk about, not even to you, who are more than a sister to me.”

“Gracias
,” said Erlinda. “Does he love you?
Tell me that, at least.”

“Yes. He told me so this morning.”

“Then I wish you had left with him,” said Erlinda
savagely. Her eyes widened in horror. “We are going to die here,
and you will never know him!”

Maria held out her arms to Erlinda. The widow sank
into them, and they cried together.

La Señora asked for Maria during the middle of the
silent, endless afternoon. She went into the still room, dimly lit
by the small candle burning near the
bulto
of Our Lady.

“What should we read today?” Maria asked, her voice
steady, her hands clenched tight in front of her.

La Señora closed her eyes. “You sound so tired, my
child. Did you not sleep well?”

“I slept well, Señora,” Maria said, “but we have
been busy today with the washing.”

“Maria,” said the woman, her voice taking on a
distinct tone of command. “You should not tell lies. You are
terrible at it. What is the matter here, and why does Diego not
come?”

“Señora,” said Maria, sitting close to her, “he is
in Santa Fe. On urgent business.”

“And what of Cristóbal?”

“He is gone. I saw him last night. Only he ...
left.” She knew she was not making any sense, but her voice was
rising in panic, and she could not help herself.

La Señora groped for Maria’s hands and held them in
a surprisingly strong grip. “Maria, calm yourself! We have been
through hard times before. I remember a famine when all I had to
feed my children was prickly pear and ox hides—the smell of your
dress last night brought back memories, my child. I remember when
Apaches even breached our walls and killed some of the servants.
This is a terrible place we live in, sometimes I think. But we
survive.”

Maria covered her face with her hands. “Forgive me,
Señora.”

“It is no matter. Promise me this: No matter what
happens, keep Luz and Catarina close to you. Erlinda will look
after me.” The blind woman patted Maria’s hand. “Perhaps my time
would be better spent in prayer this afternoon. But there is one
more thing you must do for me.”

“Anything, Señora,” said Maria.

“Anything, is it? How simple you make my task. If,
by chance, my son should ask you to marry him, oblige him.”

Maria leaped to her feet. “I could not!”

“Sit down, Maria, for heaven’s sake,” ordered La
Señora crisply. “Do you feel that you could not learn to love him?
He loves you. He told me.” She paused, making an impatient gesture
with her hands. “Of course, I asked. I had to drag it out of him.
Dios mio,
why are men so reticent these days! It was not so
when I was young!”

Maria sat down slowly. “You do not understand, you,
of all people. I have nothing to offer him, or any of you
Masferrers. Absolutely nothing.”

La Señora made a sound in her throat somewhere
between a laugh and a snort. “What is that to any of us?”

“It is everything to me!” Maria burst out. “I see
how it is here in the river kingdom. This family marries into that
family—to join fields, to expand herds, to build empires. But I
have no wealth, no possessions, no family even.”

La Señora held up her hand, waving Maria to silence.
“All this aside, I have only one question. Do you love him?
Eh?”

Maria looked down at her hands. “I do,” she said
simply, “and it is such a wrenching thing. I did not know love
could hurt like this.”

Señora reached for her hands again and patted them.
“How curious. Diego said nearly the same thing to me.” She rose
then and walked to her altar, her step sure. “That is all I wanted
to know. Go now, and let me pray. There is work to be done
here.”

Maria left quietly and spent the rest of the
afternoon on the patio with Luz and Catarina, telling and retelling
their favorite story of the foolish prince who fell in love with
the poor girl. She was rescued by Erlinda, who pulled the girls
away to take the leather buckets and help fill the water barrel in
the kitchen.

“She will not even let us play outside at the
acequia
,” Luz grumbled, “and if there really were Apaches,
we would have heard the bell at Tesuque first.”

“Do as she asks, girls,” said Maria, anxious to be
alone with her thoughts. Diego should have been back by now. The
nine miles to Santa Fe were easily covered by noon, the return by
mid-afternoon. As evening approached, she made several trips to the
main road, to stand behind the heavy gate, peering south. No one.
Nothing.

He is probably in jail in Santa Fe, she finally
forced herself to admit.
The governor warned him about coming
back to town, and they have put him in jail
. Her eyes went back
to the empty road.

Dinner was a quiet meal, eaten quickly as darkness
fell. The Mexican servants returned from their evening chores to
report that the sheep in the distant pasture beyond the cornfield
had been run off. They had managed to corral the other sheep next
to the stable.

The servants spoke to Maria. In some peculiar
fashion, Diego’s power had been transferred to her. Erlinda sat,
withdrawn and silent, by the fireplace, mechanically stirring the
chilies simmering there for Diego. Her expression was
inscrutable.

“There is nothing more we can do about the sheep
tonight,” Maria said to the men. “Stay with your families again
this night in the chapel, and make sure the guards are on the
roof.”

“As always,” replied one of the servants.

Madre de dios, thought Maria, what he must think of
me! I, who know so little of Indian attacks, telling him! Diego, I
am trying to remember everything.

She smiled at the servants, “Let me thank you for
Diego Masferrer. Any man would be lucky to have you as
servants.”

They nodded to her and looked at one another in
embarrassment. The ringing of the chapel bell summoned them.

After evening prayers in the chapel, crowded close
together with the families of the Mexican servants, Maria
shepherded Luz and Catarina to their bedroom, told them a quick
story and tucked them in bed. She kissed them goodnight as Diego
would have, and hurried down the hall to his bedroom. She would
write an entry in the family journal, recording the events of that
endless day for Diego to read later. Holding her candle high, she
opened the door to Diego’s room.

She stopped on the threshold, nearly dropping the
candle. The journal was lying open on the bed, the pages ripped out
and scattered all over the room. The bedding lay in long strips on
the mattress, slashed repeatedly with a knife or sword. The
pillow’s feathers floated about, mingling with the journal’s pages.
“
Oh
, Dios
,” Maria whispered. She went into the room
quickly and shut the door. Forcing herself to move, she crossed to
Diego’s wooden wardrobe and flung open the doors. Inside, the
folded clothes were slashed and torn, ripped apart by a madman.

She slammed the doors shut and leaned against them,
staring across the room to the altar. The deerhide painting of the
Madonna was also in shreds, with deep gouges in the plaster behind
the picture. The ebony Spanish crucifix over the altar was broken
in half, the pieces lying like kindling on the floor.

Maria blew out the candle and went to the door. For
one long moment she could not work the latch. Panic overcame her,
and she forced herself to stand still and try the door again. It
opened and she stumbled into the hall, shivering convulsively in
the cool August evening.

They must leave Las Invernadas. But they could not
leave at night, alone, without Diego. They could not cross the land
on foot in darkness, a pathetic band of women and children. Maria
made up her mind. First thing in the morning. They would leave at
dawn.

She went to her room. The girls were already asleep,
their soft breathing a familiar rhythm in a night that was
different from all others. Maria felt under her side of the bed for
Diego’s knife, picked it up, and lay down to wait.

If I can just rest a moment
, she thought, her
eyes already closing,
then I will watch until morning and get
everyone out at first light
. She closed her eyes and slept, the
knife dropping from her hand.

Sometime later, Maria awoke suddenly, sat up and
listened. She leaned back against the cold wall, listening for the
familiar sounds of the guards on the roof, pacing back and forth.
There was only silence.

She felt for Diego’s knife, groping by the bed in
panic until her fingers wrapped around the bone handle. She slowly
swung her legs out of bed. She had not taken off her moccasins, but
the floor was still cold under her feet. She padded quietly to the
door and opened it, grateful that the leather hinges were silent.
Slowly she stepped into the hall, then drew back in horror.

She must have been dreaming, for Carmen de Sosa
crawled down the shadowy corridor, coughing softly, lurching toward
her on all fours. “Diego, help me,” Maria whispered, “Diego.” This
dream was more real than all the others, and he was not there.

Maria forced herself to look down the hall again.
Still Carmen de Sosa came, but now she was whimpering, something
she had never done before. And as Carmen de Sosa approached, moving
more slowly now, but still coming, Maria heard a dripping
sound.

The crawling figure came closer. Maria flattened
herself against the wall. The figure stopped and tried to speak. It
was the gargle of a drowning man. It was not a dream, but something
a thousand times worse than any dream that had ever jerked her from
sleep.

Clamping her teeth to keep from screaming, Maria
knelt on the floor and crawled toward the man who was now swaying
in the middle of the hall. She reached out and touched him, her
hand coming away wet and warm.

“Quíen es?” she whispered, “Quíen es?”