November 17-21, 1775
The weather became colder with each passing day. Fernanda packed away her sandals and put on her new cotton stockings and leather shoes. Señor Gonzales had invited Miguel and Gloria to camp with them. This time Miguel didn’t protest, and the others welcomed him and his sister. Fernanda was happy to have Gloria nearby, and she pushed down the faint voice deep inside that whispered the same about Miguel.
She knew Nicolas wouldn’t be pleased. Huh! Of course he wouldn’t. But it wasn’t her doing. And, she thought, as if she were already arguing with Nicolas, with the cold becoming more intense and firewood more scarce, we must combine our resources. Besides, the gatherings around the communal fire had all but stopped. The families increasingly kept to their own tents for warmth, huddling around a small fire, if they were lucky enough to find wood.
They passed through more Opa and Pima villages, and Miguel continued to question the Indians about Fernanda’s mother. One day, Miguel rode up to Fernanda, pulled a few ears of corn from his saddle bag, and offered them to her.
“Fresh corn!” Fernanda said. “Thank you. Where did you get it?”
“From the Pimas in the last village,” Miguel said. “And there’s a small piece of news about Heosig and Suhna.”
“What news? Tell me!”
Miguel held out his hand toward Fernanda, stopping short of touching her. “It is small but hopeful. They told me of old stories they used to hear from Pimas who lived at the same mission as your mother. They said there was one story about an old woman who defied the priests, but they couldn’t remember any names or details.”
“They could mean Great-grandmother!”
“Yes, they could be talking about Suhna,” Miguel said. “They told me the same thing as the old man by the Gila River, that many of the Pimas left the mission and moved to other lands, even beyond the Colorado River. We still have a chance of meeting one of them.”
Fernanda stroked Aletta’s mane. “I believe we will meet one of them. Thank you, Miguel.” She dropped the corn into her saddlebag. “Perhaps I’ll try making my mother’s posole. Hers was the best in Tubac, but I’ll admit I’m not known for my cooking.”
Miguel leaned on his saddle horn with a casual yet exaggerated self-importance. “I happen to make a great posole.”
“Oh, really?” Fernanda laughed. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Ask Gloria. It was the best in Horcasitas.”
“Well, you’ll just have to prove it sometime, won’t you?” She eyed Miguel with a tilt of her head, and it seemed as if neither of them could control the smiles that spread across each of their faces.
Nicolas trotted up on his horse, and before he had a chance to speak, Miguel nodded at Fernanda, snapped the reins, and rode off.
“So, what did Indian boy want?”
“Indian boy?” Fernanda fumed. “His mother was from the Papago tribe; his father was Spanish. Yes, a mestizo the same as I, in case you’ve forgotten. Shall you call me Indian girl in that same tone, as if I should be ashamed?”
Nicolas’s face flushed red. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“Didn’t you? How do you think I feel to have your Spanish superiority thrown at me?”
“I said I’m sorry and I meant it,” Nicolas said, sounding irritated. Then his voice softened. “Of course you shouldn’t be ashamed. You’re beautiful, as was your mother.”
As much as it seemed to be a ploy to buy her forgiveness, she knew he was sincere, and she relaxed her tight shoulders.
“It’s just he’s always watching you, talking with you,” Nicolas continued. “What does he want?”
“He’s helping me find out about Mama.”
“What does he know?”
“He speaks their language.”
“And what will happen if you don’t find… whatever it is you’re looking for?” Nicolas asked.
“Nothing will happen. I won’t die. The world won’t end. But I need to do it for Mama.” For that last morning, for the way I acted. “If I do learn about her Pima life, perhaps I can be close to her as I should have been when she was alive.” But her chest ached with the knowledge that even if she did learn about Mama’s people, she’d never be able to share it with her mother. “I’m half Pima, Nicolas, and I know nothing about that part of me. I should have asked my mother, but I didn’t.”
“You can’t keep tormenting yourself. Your mother would have told you about the Pimas if she'd thought it was important.”
“But I think it’s important.”
“Why? Why does it matter? How will it change anything?”
Nicolas didn’t seem to understand a word she was saying. Fernanda shook her head. “I don’t know. Everything is so mixed up in my mind. Mama’s death, this journey, California, what Papa told me about Mama and her grandmother—“ She stopped, realizing she still hadn’t told Nicolas about Heosig and Suhna.
“You know I’m sorry about your mother, Fernanda. I’d do anything to change what happened.”
“I know you would, Nicolas.” But it bothered her that he didn’t question her about Great-grandmother or any of the other feelings she’d expressed. Whereas Miguel had shown such concern when she'd told him. Remembering his latest news, a glimmer of hope lightened her heart. Perhaps in the next village they would meet someone who knew Mama’s story. Or the one after that…
****
On the twenty-seventh day since leaving Tubac, the settlers made camp near the Gila River at the foot of a craggy mountain range. Captain Anza was pushing them forward as fast as possible to their next goal: the crossing of the Colorado River, wider, deeper, and faster than the Gila.
That night, Fernanda and her family laid their bedrolls close to a small fire, trying to find sleep and warmth in the increasing cold. In the morning, all the colonists’ water containers were frozen, and three cows had died. Their moods improved when they learned one of the pregnant women, Señora Gutiérrez, had successfully delivered a healthy baby boy during the night. And, of course, the dead cows would provide food. The rábanos and other children crowded around the muleteers while they skinned and chopped the cows. Fernanda stayed away, again marveling that anyone would want to watch such a bloody mess.
Then she learned it was the women’s job to preserve the meat by cutting it into strips for jerky. Back in Tubac, her family rarely ate fresh beef. When she occasionally brought a chicken home from the market, Mama had been the one to cut off its head, pluck it, and pull out its organs, all in a flurry of squawking, flying feathers, and blood.
Now, as the women worked, queasiness churned in her stomach. Gloria sat away from the women, holding the corner of her rebozo over her mouth and nose. Ramona, too, only made half-hearted cuts in a small piece of meat. Fernanda decided she wouldn’t, couldn’t, act the same. She borrowed Papa’s knife and hacked into the bloody raw meat. It was cold, tough, and rubbery. Pieces of hide still clung to some of the slabs and, trying not to gag, she scraped off as much as possible. How could the other women act as if it were not completely dreadful?
Earlier, the soldiers had discovered drifts of salt by the river, and the colonists replenished their salt supply. Now, while the women sawed at the beef, children brought them pots of the white powder. They also helped gather wood for fires and strip leaves from smaller branches. Over the smoking fires, the men used the branches to form drying racks for the strips of meat. Fernanda watched the other women then rubbed the strips with salt and draped them across the branches. Surrounded by the fires, she soon became warm. Forgetting her bloodied hands, she wiped her wrist across her sweating upper lip and choked at the sickening smell of the carcass.
Feliciana picked up a corner of her skirt and dabbed Fernanda’s nose. “Blood.”
Fernanda closed her eyes briefly, said “Thank you,” and grabbed another hunk of meat. She forced a shaky smile. “Now, of course, my face will begin to itch. Tell me, why is it always that way?”
The women laughed and, relaxing into the routine of cutting, salting, and hanging the strips, began to chatter.
“We’ll stay here at least one more day to finish drying the meat and allow Señora Gutiérrez to rest.”
“Oh, isn’t he a beautiful baby?”
“Diego Pasqual. A fine strong name.”
As the sky darkened, the women finished cutting the last of the meat, and then trailed down to the river to wash the blood and smell from their hands. Across the river, spots of fire flickered through the dark silhouettes of the trees.
Fernanda, crouching at the water’s edge, cocked her head and said, “Shhh!”
The other women stopped talking. The gurgling river, like voices murmuring in the quiet evening, filled the air. Then, the sound of singing drifted across the water.
“The Indians,” Micaela whispered. “Their song sounds so sad.”
The others muttered their agreement. But Fernanda lifted her face to the stars and white sliver of moon. The song from across the river filled her ears and flowed through her body as if it were part of her blood. Miguel had seen the Pima ancestry in her, and she felt it now, her Pima blood, for the first time. Listening to the faceless voices, she thought it was the most beautiful singing she had ever heard. And she imagined she heard Mama’s voice rising above the others, caressing her with its sweetness, enveloping her in a song of love.