Chapter Two


As Fernanda neared her home, a rainstorm burst from a sudden gathering of clouds. The mule stopped. Fernanda tugged on the lead rope. “Come, you stubborn old thing. A little rain won’t harm you.”

The torrent forced dripping tendrils of hair into her eyes. Puddles formed around her, growing larger as the water beat onto the sun-baked soil. The tiempo de aguas, the rainy season, benefited her garden, but it could also bring deluges that lasted hours.

As quickly as it began, the rain stopped. Steam rose from the ground, and the smell of hot moisture hung heavy in the air. She gave the mule’s rear a shove. “Go, go! We’re almost home.” Fernanda grabbed the lead rope; the mule brayed then continued walking.

At the hut, Fernanda tied the mule to a post and set the baskets outside the door. She pulled her rebozo onto her head and knotted it beneath her chin. One less thing for Mama to be angry at, as she insisted Fernanda wear the shawl like a proper woman to keep the sun off her skin and her modesty intact.

Her four-year-old brother Ignacio ran out. “Nanda, you all wet.”

Fernanda scooped him up. “Yes, and now so are you.” Ignacio squirmed and giggled. Peeking over his shoulder, Fernanda saw her mother standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her forehead furrowed, her lips tight. Oh, could Mama find no other way to look at her?

Fernanda Rosalia Marquina!” Her mother began her litany. “What were you doing riding around like a wild Apache? You’re a young lady now. You must settle down.” She held her head between her hands. “Oh, why did I ever name you Fernanda?”

Fernanda ducked her head. If Luis were there, they would have burst into laughter. And why had Mama named her Fernanda, The Adventurous One? She may as well have been named Inez, The Meek One, for all the freedom Mama allowed her.

Mama continued, “Surely you inherited your wild streak from my grandmother. She, too, insisted on doing things her own way.”

Secretly, it pleased Fernanda to be compared to her wild great-grandmother. “Mama, you often say that. I do wish I’d known Great-grandmother.” She raised her eyebrows teasingly. “Was she truly as terrible as I?”

“Oh, mi’ja, of course I don’t mean you’re terrible. It’s just your great-grandmother, she…” A look Fernanda couldn’t decipher shadowed her mother’s face. Mama shook her head as if clearing an image from her mind. “It was long ago. Sorrowful things best left in the past.”

All Fernanda knew about Mama’s Pima past was her parents had been killed by Apaches. Suddenly feeling sorry for her, Fernanda rushed to her and clutched her hands. “Mama. I’m sorry about the riding. But the horses were so beautiful. Luis was bringing them to Nicolas and—“ Oh, she should never have mentioned—

Nicolas? He’s back? Did you have a chance to talk?”

Fernanda released her mother’s hands and murmured, “These vegetables will rot in the sun.”

She emptied the corn from the basket and carried the remaining vegetables into the hut. When she stepped back outside, her mother’s hands were again on her hips. She tapped her foot.

“Fernanda?”

“Mama, there’s some exciting news. I want to tell you and Papa together.”

Her mother clasped her hands beneath her chin, and a smile lit up her face. “Exciting news? Perhaps about you and Nicolas?”

No, Mama. Something much more important.”

I don’t know what could be more important than a young woman having a handsome, responsible man ask for her hand. Especially when the young woman is fifteen. Why, Dolores Sanchez is your age, married, and soon to be a mother. Fernanda, it’s time for…“

Fernanda closed her ears to the familiar words. Would her mother never stop pressuring her about marriage? Mama thought Nicolas quite a catch with his thick black hair and light Spanish skin and, of course, his proper Spanish ways. Nicolas, with his small percentage of Indian blood, could claim the prized and proud name of Spaniard, as everyone throughout New Spain wished to do.

Fernanda glanced at her arm, the brown skin growing darker in the sun. Even though she and her brothers were mestizos, half-Indian and half-Spanish, Mama had been sure to raise them according to Papa’s Spanish and not her Pima customs.

She heard Papa and the boys behind the hut returning from their day’s work. Papa was also pleased with Nicolas, who had known the family since Fernanda was a young girl. Somehow, the idea she and Nicolas would marry had evolved into a fact everyone accepted. Including her.

Now, Nicolas, at twenty-one, had gone well beyond his tolerance for waiting.

“Fernanda!” Her father came around the corner of the hut. “How was your success at the market today?”

Fernanda skipped to him and threw her arms around his neck. “I did well, Papa. But the market broke up early. I have such exciting news.”

Her father wiped a wet curl from her forehead. “I want to hear your news. First, though, I’d like some dinner. The boys and I have spent the day repairing the fence to keep the jackrabbits out of your garden.”

Thank you, Papa.”

She’d wait to tell him. Food would put him in a better mood. She began ripping the husks from the corn, and Mama cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Usually, Fernanda only helped with cooking if her mother coaxed or commanded.

Fernanda’s three middle brothers ran from behind the hut and dropped their tools with a clang against the adobe wall. Being so close in age — Antonio, ten, Marcos, nine, and Jorge, eight — they looked alike and were inseparable. With Antonio being the oldest and having the longest name, and Jorge being the youngest and having the shortest name, people were able to remember who was who. And when Fernanda called them her hermanos rábanos, radish brothers, after carving faces onto a radish with an odd three-lump shape, the name stuck.

The culebra de agua practically washed us away like three tadpoles,” Marcos said.

At the mention of the water snake, Ignacio ran to his mother and buried his face in her skirt.

“This rain was no culebra de agua,” Mama said. “We can do without such violent storms.” She hugged Ignacio. “Remember, little one. With the rains come the frogs.”

She squatted next to a brick oven and started a fire beneath a large pot of water. An awning, made with forked posts and cross-poles laid with branches and reeds, extended out from the hut and protected the oven from the rains. When the water began to boil, Fernanda dropped the corn into the pot.

Another downpour started, and the family hurried into the hut. Fernanda sighed as the cool air skimmed across her hot skin, thankful for the adobe bricks that kept the house cool in the summer and warm in the winter. The hut had three rooms. The hermanos rábanos and Luis shared the back room, Mama and Papa slept in the middle room, and the front room served as the family area and Fernanda and Ignacio’s bedroom.

Fernanda heard a horse gallop up to the rear of the hut and dashed back outside.

Santa Maria! Was Nicolas there so soon?

Luis shouted, “Gracias,” and ran around to the front.

Luis, did Nicolas bring you?”

“No, another soldier. Nicolas couldn’t come. There was an Apache raid at the presidio.”

He ran into the house. Fernanda followed.

“Apaches,” he cried again. “At the presidio. They stole horses, maybe five hundred.”

Mama pulled him into her arms. “Apaches, those devils! Are you hurt?”

Luis gently pushed away from his mother. “No, Mama. They didn’t come into the gates. The horses were grazing outside the presidio, and the soldiers were too late to catch the Indians.”

Fernanda sighed with relief. Nobody had been injured. And now Nicolas would be too busy to come and spoil her plan to talk to Papa.

Why were there so many horses at the presidio?” Papa asked.

Fernanda sucked in her breath. Luis mustn’t mention the expedition. Not yet. Let Papa relax, get his belly full... but Luis swaggered over to him.

I helped Nicolas deliver even more horses today.”

Fernanda,” Mama said. “Please fetch the corn.”

Fernanda hurried outside, plucked the corn from the pot, and rushed back into the hut. She scraped the corn onto the metate and formed a pile of mushy kernels on the flat stone. Grinding the corn into a thick paste, she strained to hear her brother and Papa.

Add some water, Fernanda,” Mama said. “And save some of the corn for tortillas. The rest will be for the posole.”

Yes, Mama.” Fernanda gritted her teeth, willing Mama to be quiet.

“…and Juan Bautista de Anza has announced a new expedition to California,” Luis was saying. “They’ll start taking recruits tomorrow. Not just soldiers, but families as well.”

Papa was looking up, inspecting the twig-and-earth roof that had begun to leak in the rainstorm. “Why would people decide to leave their homeland?” he mumbled.

But, Papa,” Fernanda said. “California is said to be a paradise. Fertile lands and beautiful weather.”

King Carlos will provide the recruits with all they need to make the journey and set up a life in California,” Luis said.

“They say they’re in need of blacksmiths, Papa,” Fernanda said.

“Yes,” Luis said. “There’s less and less business here, you’ve said so yourself.”

“It’s the Apaches,” Mama said. “Their looting and fighting are turning people away and ruining our homeland.”

“It’s not only the Apaches, Mama,” Fernanda said. “I can’t remember when I was last paid at the market with gold or silver dust. With the mines dried up, people moved to more prosperous places — like California.”

“Fernanda’s right,” Luis said. “In California—“

Papa held up his hands. “Stop. You’re suggesting we join this expedition? I’ll never uproot our family to move to some unknown place. We have all we need right here.”

“But, Papa,” Fernanda said. “Your ancestors uprooted from Spain and came to this new world.”

“And I intend to honor their decision and the life they struggled to make for their descendants. We won’t be going to California, and that’s final.”

Since hearing the proclamation at the plaza, Fernanda had imagined herself already galloping to California. Now, Papa’s words yanked the horse right out from under her. She began to form the tortillas, pounding them against the stone with her palm.

“Will Nicolas be going?” Mama asked.

“Yes—” pound “he—” pound “will.”

The tortillas wouldn’t hold their shape. Mama scooped up Fernanda’s tortilla, rolled it back into a ball, and slapped it between her hands. “Your salsa is delicious. Your garden thrives. But your cooking. Ay. You must learn to cook properly if you’re to become a good wife someday, and someday soon, I might add. If Nicolas is going to California, we must get busy with the wedding plans.”

Fernanda furiously rolled a piece of dough between her hands. She felt as if steam was building in her chest like a sealed pot of boiling water. She’d had enough for one day: Nicolas pressuring her, Papa refusing to join the expedition, and now Mama talking about the wedding as if Fernanda had no say at all in the plans, who she would marry, or how she would live her life.

She threw the hunk of dough onto the metate and stamped her foot. “You’d see me so easily leave my family, my friends, my home? Perhaps I don’t want to marry Nicolas. Perhaps I don’t want to marry at all. Ever!”

Seven shocked faces stared at her. Mama’s dark skin had faded to a shade of lime-washed brick, emphasizing the birthmark on her cheek.

Fernanda glared at her mother. “I can’t live the life you want me to, Mama.” She started to run from the hut. But her father’s voice stopped her.

Fernanda.” Anger deepened his voice. “Do not speak to your mother with such disrespect. Apologize to her. At once.”

Fernanda could still feel the heat in her chest, and her legs pulsed with the urge to run. “I’m sorry, Mama.” She knew it sounded hollow and insincere.

The shock on her mother’s face had been replaced by a mask that hid any emotions. Deliberately facing away from Fernanda, she continued to prepare the posole.

Fernanda formed more tortillas, her hands like slabs of iron, heavy and lifeless.

The sound of frogs drifted into the quiet hut. Mama and Fernanda carried the food to the oxhide table, and the family sat to eat. Under lowered eyelashes, Fernanda saw most of her crumbly tortillas were left uneaten. Instead, they concentrated on Mama’s delicious posole, the corn cooked into a stew with pieces of dried meat and chunks of sweet potato. For her, though, the food was as tasteless as a bowl of sand.

Later that evening, all except Fernanda gathered outside. She laid a blanket across the table, turning it into the bed she shared with Ignacio. She rested her head on her bundled rebozo, and, in spite of the heat, pulled the lightweight wool blanket up to her shoulder. Curling into its comfort, she felt cloaked in privacy and isolation from her family, something she often craved, but rarely had. Still, the familiar smell of Papa’s cigarro soothed her.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway backlit by the glow of outdoor candles.

Mama.

Fernanda rolled on her side, folded her knees close to her chest, and closed her eyes. The oxhide creaked as Mama sat on the bed. “Mi’ja, will you join us? The stars are beautiful.”

“I’m too tired tonight, Mama.”

Her mother reached across Fernanda’s curled body and smoothed her hair off her forehead. “Things can be confusing sometimes, mi’ja. I, too, once felt the same. I was younger than you when I married your father. A frightened girl, but also a woman.”

Tears burned Fernanda’s eyes. Tears at her mother’s kind words and gentle touch. But also tears of frustration at her misunderstanding. Fernanda didn’t fear marriage. She wasn’t a frightened girl, and Nicolas some wrinkled viejo gordo. Not that Papa had been old and fat, of course; she just wanted something more. Mama only wanted to do what society dictated, follow rules, do what was expected of her. Whereas she, Fernanda, wanted to live the life she chose. Why couldn’t she do that? Why?

Oh, Mama will never understand me. Never.

Mama stroked Fernanda’s cheek then stood. “Good night, mi’ja. Sleep well.” Her footsteps padded across the hard dirt floor as she left the hut.

Fernanda moved onto her other side and pressed her face into her rebozo. If only she could escape into the peacefulness of sleep. Usually the croaking of the frogs filled her head with dreams, but tonight they only irritated her. Her anger at Mama returned. Frightened? In fact, she was curious about a husband and wife’s relationship, the intimacy between them. If only she could talk to Mama, or someone, about the feelings she’d been having lately, longings in her body for that intimacy.

She rolled onto her back and pressed her forearm against her lips. What would it feel like to be kissed? Remembering how Nicolas’s eyes often lingered on her lips, her pulse quickened. Perhaps she would let him kiss her.

The family came into the hut. Mama tucked Ignacio into the bed beside Fernanda, who pretended to be asleep.

When the others had gone to bed, she kissed Ignacio’s head, and soon he was breathing deeply. Closing her eyes, she tried to hold back more tears. Of course she would marry Nicolas. She’d only said that to Mama out of anger. But when would she see dear Ignacio, her other brothers, Papa, and Mama again, if ever? She smoothed Ignacio’s hair, and a tear rolled into the corner of her mouth.

If she had to leave her family, at least adventure awaited her. The expedition. California. But doubt kept her awake as she pictured herself serving her handsome husband his morning atole, and waving as he rode off to explore the hills of California. And later, sitting with the other soldiers’ wives, drinking tea, conversing politely about stitching and the best recipe for posole, behaving properly as a good Spanish wife should.

Had she fooled herself thinking life would be different in California?