November 1-2, 1775
Fernanda picked up a piece of dough and formed a tortilla, slapping it between her hands.
Feliciana stood nearby, stoking the fire. “Do those tortillas deserve the punishment you’re giving them? Why don’t I make them? You can chop this meat and add it to the beans.”
Fernanda traded places with Feliciana and said, “I can’t stop thinking about Casa Grande.”
“Oh, your little adventure.” Feliciana raised her eyebrows. “Running off with Miguel. I’ll admit it surprised me. A handsome man, to be sure, but so angry and sullen.”
“Feliciana! You know Luis and I went by ourselves and found Miguel and Gloria there.” She began to cut the dried beef. Miguel, handsome? Hmmph. Not in the least. But the memory of the feeling she’d had at Casa Grande rippled through her, his warm hands, his gentle voice. “At least, he’s certainly not handsome compared to Nicolas.”
She hacked at the meat. “Nicolas makes me so angry, though. Always telling me what to do, how to act. I shouldn’t have been with a strange man, he said. And wearing trousers. How could I?” She chopped the beef harder and faster. “I’ll soon be his wife, he said, and he won’t tolerate such behavior.” Chop-chop-chop. “Huh! Maybe he won’t have to tolerate it. Is he my father, to scold me like a child?”
Feliciana laughed. “Watch your fingers.”
Mentioning her father slowed Fernanda’s chopping. “The worst was Papa’s reaction. You should have seen his sorrowful eyes. He said the Marquina family was disgraced in front of Captain Anza and the entire camp. He said I must set an example for my brothers, that Mama didn’t teach me to act this way.” She held the knife in mid-chop. “I couldn’t look him in the eyes, I felt so ashamed, so childish.”
“Don’t worry,” Feliciana said. “We all do foolish things. At the time, they appear bigger than they are. It will take time for your father to forget, but I’m sure he’s already forgiven you.” Feliciana patted another tortilla. “As for your marriage to Nicolas, I’ll give you one piece of advice: Be true to your heart. You don’t need marriage. Wait until you’re sure.”
“Everyone has been sure since I was a girl I’d marry Nicolas. But…” She slowly formed the meat into a pile.
“But, you aren’t sure, Potra?” Feliciana asked gently.
Fernanda dropped pieces of beef, one at a time, into the beans. “I feel as if I’ll never be sure,” she murmured. “One day it seems the right thing to do. The next day it seems the only thing I can do.” She tossed the entire pile of meat into the pot. “And the day after that, I think if I should marry, it will be like being trapped, locked in a tiny cage, or… or like having my chemise laced so tightly I’d suffocate, never to breathe freely again.” The words exploded from her lips, and she felt light-headed with relief at having told someone her feelings.
Feliciana continued shaping the tortillas. “I understand how you might feel that way. I promise you, though, marriage doesn’t have to mean losing your freedom or yourself.”
“I know Nicolas would be a good husband. What other options besides marriage do I have? I suppose I can cook and clean for Papa until we’re both wrinkled and gray.”
Feliciana laughed.
“What of you and José?” Fernanda asked. “How did you know it was right to marry him?” Feliciana had told Fernanda her husband, José, had died right before the expedition left Horcasitas, and she’d decided to go on the journey, anyway.
Feliciana laid tortillas on the hot griddle. “I think you’re asking how you’ll know you’re in love. I’ll tell you, Potra. Your entire body will know you’ve found true love. Here… here… and here.” She placed a hand on her head, over her heart, and pressed both hands against her stomach. “All the way down to your toes, you will know.”
With Nicolas’s kiss, Fernanda had felt none of what Feliciana described. The most exciting, the most joyful thing she could think of was riding. Perhaps that’s how she’d know if she were in love: her heart would soar like it did when she rode. It hadn’t soared with Nicolas, yet. “So your body told you José was your true love?”
“Yes. My beloved José… we married when I was sixteen. My parents were so ashamed. Their Spanish daughter marrying a low-class mestizo and soldier? How disgraceful. But feelings of love are never shameful. We lived for years under the shadow of a stifling society, a society full of prejudices. We decided to join the expedition to escape all that. I have hopes that in California my daughters won’t have to grow up with such narrow-minded judgment.”
“I’m so glad you came, Feliciana, you and your darling daughters. It’s true what you say. The people I grew up with in Tubac fought for every drop of Spanish blood so they could call themselves Spaniards. Even Mama wanted us to be known as Spaniards, so she taught us nothing about our Pima ancestry. How brave you were to marry José, even though everyone tried to stop you.” Fernanda poked the meat into the bubbling beans. “Feliciana, why does society approve of Nicolas, nearly a full-blooded Spaniard, marrying me, a mestizo, but didn’t approve of your marriage to José?”
Feliciana threw more tortillas onto the griddle. “That, Potra, is something I couldn’t answer then, and can’t answer now.”
****
After dinner, Fernanda and the other women joined the men and children around the campfire. Marcos was swatting at Luis who, when Papa wasn’t looking, flicked Marcos’s ear, most likely punishing him for revealing their whereabouts the night before. Fernanda ground her teeth to keep from saying some angry comment to her brothers. Is that all they could do while she slaved for them, cooking every meal, cleaning each dish?
As she sat next to Papa, she was surprised to see Gloria and Miguel in the circle. She didn’t want to be reminded again of Casa Grande and was happy the fire camouflaged her face, which she knew must look flushed.
“We convinced Miguel and his sister, Gloria, to join us,” Señor Gonzales said. ”Another musician is always welcome, eh, Fernanda?”
“Yes,” Fernanda murmured. She glanced quickly at Miguel, but his head was bowed over his flute as he blew out soft random notes.
Nicolas strode across the camp and sat between Fernanda and her father. “Good evening. It’s a fine night, no?” Then he noticed Miguel, and his jaw stiffened. He edged closer to Fernanda so their arms touched.
Ramona, sitting at another fire with her family and some others, twisted her head around to look at Nicolas.
Santa Maria. The girl has no shame, Fernanda thought. Surely she’ll snap her neck if she’s not careful.
Señor Gonzales began to play a spirited melody. Feliciana sang along, and after a few hesitant notes, Miguel joined in with his flute. As he played, he seemed to become a different person. His shoulders relaxed, his foot tapped out the beat, his face showed a happiness Fernanda had never before seen him express.
“A handsome man, to be sure,” Feliciana had said. “But so angry and sullen.”
Certainly better looking when he’s happy, Fernanda thought now.
The song ended, and everyone called for more. Miguel started a slow lyrical tune.
“Fernanda,” Señor Gonzales said. “I taught you this song.”
“Please play,” Gloria said.
Fernanda shook her head. “No, no. I’m not good enough.” But she knew she could easily play the song. And she knew the reason she hesitated. It was the way Miguel’s lips and fingers made the notes dance from his flute. It was Nicolas sitting so close, his arm tense against hers. It was the three of them together in that intimate circle. She felt Nicolas’s eyes on her, and she forced herself to turn to him, away from Miguel’s beautiful playing, his softened features…
“Yes, Fernanda, you must play!” The others took up the plea.
Señor Gonzales handed her the guitar, and reluctantly she began to strum along with Miguel’s playing. Feliciana joined in, her voice as clear and melodic as the flute. Children danced around the circle of adults who swayed with the music, some closing their eyes as if in a happy dream.
The music filled Fernanda with joy, and the tension flowed from her body. She hunched over the guitar, watching the strings and her hands. With fluid motions of her fingers, she strummed the chords and plucked out the melody. The vibration of the guitar hummed against her thighs and chest; she felt as if she and the instrument had become one, existing only to play music. She locked eyes with Miguel. In him, she saw the same emotions that flooded her body. The wonder and pleasure of creating music. The thrill of making people laugh or cry with a song. The feel of the instrument in her hands, getting to know it as well as she knew herself.
Feliciana sang the last note. As if broken from a spell, Fernanda snapped her eyes away from Miguel. Amid cries from the group of “Bravo!” “Magnífico!” “Fabuloso!” she saw Nicolas staring at Miguel, his eyes as dark and hot as the fiery coals that separated them. Miguel returned the heated look. Both men seemed ready to leap across the fire and go for each other’s throats.
Fernanda stood and brought the guitar to Señor Gonzales. The rest of the group was getting up, saying it was time for bed and heading to their tents.
Nicolas walked over to Fernanda. “I’ll escort you to your tent.”
Although it was just a short distance, Fernanda nodded. At the tent, she opened the flap, but Nicolas stopped her and held her hand.
“Sleep well, Fernanda.” He wasn’t smiling, and he hesitated as if there was more he wished to say.
Wanting to avoid a serious discussion, Fernanda forced a smile and said pleasantly, “Goodnight, Nicolas.” As she crouched to enter her tent, Nicolas tightened his grip on her hand.
“Fernanda…” Emotions — anger, confusion — flitted across his face. Emotions he was obviously trying to hide, to control. But his affection for her was also there, his longing for her, making his confusion even more pronounced.
“Nicolas, I’m tired. Please…” I don’t want to talk about this now.
****
She kicked off her sandals, removed her bodice and skirt, and crawled into her bedroll wearing her blouse, chemise, and petticoat. Papa and her brothers came in, and soon they were asleep, Papa snoring, Ignacio lying next to her, twitching occasionally, apparently from some dream.
Fernanda refolded her rebozo and put it back under her head. She rolled on one side and then the other. But she could not sleep. She reached for Miguel’s kerchief, which she’d tucked in her bedroll after Casa Grande, meaning to wash it and return it to him. She placed it on her shawl and laid her cheek against it, the cotton soft against her skin. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the salty smell of sweat mixed with the smells of the journey: sage and horses and campfires. The odors brought to mind the strength of Miguel’s back when he’d lifted his and Gloria’s trunk onto the pack mule, the dark strands of hair that were forever falling loose from his queue, and tonight, his eyes, ignited with passion, gazing into hers as he played his flute.
****
The next morning, the colonists set off on a trail that took them through Pima pueblos. At each village, the Pimas formed two lines, men on one side of the road, women on the other, and called out greetings. Fernanda’s excitement grew when, in mid-afternoon, they halted at a camp on the banks of the Gila River and hundreds of Pimas appeared through the cottonwood trees that lined the river. They crossed the gully carrying firewood, squawking chickens, and blankets. Captain Anza and the interpreter spoke to them, and then the captain announced, “The Pimas have brought gifts of firewood, and they want to trade tobacco and beads for chickens and blankets.”
Papa and the boys set up the tent, and Fernanda hurried to get water. When she returned to the camp, the Pimas were presenting firewood to Papa. She stopped short and sloshed water from the bucket. Ever since Papa’s decision to come on the journey, Fernanda had hoped for this moment. To see Mama’s people. To learn of their ways. To talk to them. She finally had the chance, and all she could think of was her reserved, proper mother, dressed like these women.
They wore skirts made of shredded bark, and only their long hair, beads, and paint covered their breasts. How red her face must be, standing with Papa and the other men in the presence of the half-naked women. The Pima men embarrassed her just as much, if not more, with their cotton breeches or blankets caught up between their legs and secured at the waist. They tied a wool cord in their hair and wrapped it back and forth over their heads, forming a crest in which they had stuck feathers, leaves, and flowers.
A group of Pima women linked arms and danced from tent to tent. Across the camp, some Pimas — men and women — were trading with male colonists and soldiers. The scene reminded her of the market in Tubac. What better way to start her communication with the Pimas? Pushing aside her embarrassment, she decided to barter for a chicken for that night’s dinner.
As if reading her mind, Luis said, “Papa, do we have something to trade for one of the chickens?”
No! Fernanda wanted to shout. She could make a better deal than Luis. “Papa,” she said. “I can barter for a chicken. I have experience from Tubac.”
“There aren’t any Spanish women trading, only Pima women,” Luis said. “The soldiers don’t want our women to trade.”
She wanted to strangle him so he’d stop talking. Why shouldn’t the women trade? Ridiculous! But if she were the only woman… She couldn’t humiliate Papa again, not after Casa Grande. Nicolas, too, stood among the soldiers.
Luis started across the camp with some of Papa’s tobacco and a chunk of chocolate. Fernanda stopped him, took back some of the tobacco, broke the chocolate in half, and said, “This will get you your chicken.”
Luis hesitated, eyeing the items doubtfully. Then he joined the soldiers and Pimas. He soon came back holding a flapping chicken by its legs. He nodded at Fernanda with a grudging respect. “They were pleased with the amount I gave them.”
“Good,” Fernanda said. In that case, I could have gotten it for even less.
Nicolas came up to Fernanda and said quietly, “Walk with me. I must go to a meeting soon with the captain, but I’d like to speak with you.”
They wandered out of the camp toward the river. When Fernanda saw the river’s trickle of water and the soldiers again digging wells, she knew she still wouldn’t get her bath.
Children played in the almost-dry riverbed, and adults watered their animals in the newly dug wells. Groups of Pimas sat about watching.
Nicolas found a quiet spot, and they sat on the river’s sandy bank. He took her hand. “I thought of us when the priest married those couples the other day.”
Dread weighed heavily on Fernanda’s shoulders. A few days before, Father Font had married three couples who had just met on the expedition. “It was a happy occasion after poor Señora Feliz’s death,” she said. “But don’t you think they rushed into marriage?”
“They’re planning now for their lives in California. Why wait?”
“Nicolas, I know what you want to say. But I must finish the journey with my family. I have that responsibility.”
Nicolas squeezed her hand. “Our marriage won’t interfere with your duties to your family. Your father wouldn’t deny us our happiness. I’ll speak to him.” He moved as if he might go to her father that minute.
“No, please wait!” For…what? She didn’t know, but every time she thought of marriage, she felt like one of the chickens she’d brought home from the market, enclosed in a sack, trapped, suffocating. “Please, I feel we must wait. For Papa… for my brothers.”
“You are still… sure about the marriage, Fernanda?” He sounded so unlike himself, uncertain and insecure.
Now was the time to speak of her doubts. But how could she explain to him when she didn’t know exactly what her doubts were. She avoided his eyes and said quietly, “Yes, of course, Nicolas.”
He put his arm around her. “Your father did ask us to wait. I haven’t forgotten. It’s just, I love you. I’m anxious for our love, our lives together to begin.” He lifted her chin and glanced at her lips. “I’ve been patient. I can be patient a while longer.”
He stood and straightened his jacket with a sharp tug. “Now I must meet Captain Anza.” He held out his hand to pull her up. “I’ll walk you back to camp.”
“I think I’ll stay and watch the children play. I see Ignacio and the rábanos over there.”
“As you wish, my love. I’ll talk with you later this evening.”
Fernanda watched him stride away, thinking, as she had so many times before, what a good man he was. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and absently poked her finger through its twists. She knew she was hurting him by not being honest. But how could she be honest when she didn’t know what she wanted?
Then she remembered his words, duties to your family, and she tossed her braid back over her shoulder. Nicolas thought of everything in terms of duty, always the soldier.
Feliciana had said Fernanda must be true to her heart, and she suddenly thought of Miguel. The way he’d looked the night before as he played his flute… But she also remembered his face twisted with hatred when he’d spat the word soldier at Nicolas, when he’d glared at Nicolas across the fire. She sighed. He was such a confusing person.
She fingered her rebozo. Miguel was like a complex pattern on a shawl, difficult to see where the weave began or where it ended. Nicolas, though, resembled her simple striped rebozo, the lines of his life going in one direction. The trousers she’d worn represented the difference between the two men. Miguel had approved. Nicolas, of course, had not. But Nicolas, she understood. Miguel, she didn’t.
She gazed down the river. The boys still played, forming armies with other children, waving their stick swords in the air. The Pimas watched, laughing and pointing. Then she noticed Miguel. He stood with one foot raised on the riverbank, an arm resting on his thigh, speaking with a Pima girl who sat on the slope. A jolt of jealousy shot through Fernanda, surprising her. She wanted to return to camp and prove to herself she didn’t care. But she also wanted to see Miguel. Whether it was to draw his attention from the girl because of some ridiculous feeling she’d had, or because his presence alone pulled her toward him, she didn’t know. But she seemed unable to resist.
As Fernanda approached them, she realized the girl was quite young. Other Pimas lounged under the trees. “Hello,” she said.
Miguel straightened, looking surprised and happy. “Hello.”
A rush of pleasure filled Fernanda’s chest.
Miguel’s face reddened, and he cleared his throat. “I find I can communicate with my knowledge of the Papago language. It’s similar to Pima.” He gestured to the girl and a woman and man. “This is Sialik, her mother Âkìmuli, and her father Ba’ag.”
Miguel seemed so comfortable with the Pimas, much more relaxed than he was with the colonists. And how different he was from Nicolas, who treated all Indians with such formality. As Fernanda watched Miguel speak with the Pimas, she realized here was an opportunity to question them.
“Miguel, will you ask them about my mother and great-grandmother?”
“I’ll try. What do you want to know?”
“I hope to find some Pimas who knew them. Jesuits at the Caborca mission raised Mama after her parents died. She had a birthmark on her cheek shaped like a blossom. They called her Heosig, “Flower” in the Pima language. Her grandmother Suhna didn’t live at the mission, but she visited my mother there.”
Miguel spoke to Ba’ag. Fernanda held her breath and then let it escape when the father slowly shook his head. Âkìmuli spoke and gestured away from the river.
Miguel said, “Sialik’s grandfather lived at the Tumacácori mission, near Caborca. They said we might speak to him. Perhaps he’ll have some answers.”
“Oh, yes, please,” Fernanda said.
Âkìmuli led them into the village, weaving around hens scratching in the dirt and bleating sheep. Men and women, squatting outside grassy huts shaped like halved acorn shells, cleaned hides, repaired tools, or called to children who played among the animals. Fernanda tried to imagine her mother in a village like this, as a small girl before her father died.
Âkìmuli spoke to an old man who sat cross-legged on the ground outside a hut. He nodded, and Fernanda and Miguel sat across from him. Fernanda peeked inside the hut, but all she saw were dark shapes and shadows.
As Miguel spoke, Fernanda watched the old man’s face for any sign of recognition. At one point he nodded, and then he spoke. Fernanda gripped her hands beneath the folds of her skirt, trying to be patient until he finished.
Finally, Miguel said to her, “He says he remembers hearing of the girl with a flower on her face, a girl called Heosig. He never met her, though, and he doesn’t know of Suhna. He says most Pimas have remained in this area along the Gila River, but some have scattered across the land from here to the Colorado River and beyond. They joined other tribes, marrying into the Yumas, Opas, and others. He says perhaps one of those will know your mother’s family.”
Fernanda tried to smile at the old man. “Please thank him for me, Miguel.”
As they made their way back to camp, Fernanda’s feet dragged with the weight of her disappointment. How silly she was to think that, in such a vast land, she’d find someone who knew her mother and great-grandmother. Someone who could tell her what had happened between them so many years ago. “Miguel, thank you for questioning the Pimas. It was kind of you.”
“Do you mind if I ask what you are searching for?”
“I-I told you. I wish to learn more about my mother’s people.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but I feel you have a deeper reason. I’m sorry, perhaps I’m wrong.” Miguel stared at her. His dark eyes always seemed to say much more than his words.
She’d never told Nicolas about Mama’s past, but somehow she felt Miguel would understand. Like her, he’d suffered the loss of a parent. Like her, he was a mestizo — part of two worlds.
She stopped walking and explained to him what the priests had told Mama about her grandmother abandoning her in the desert. “I feel inside—“ she pressed her hands against her stomach “—somehow I feel it can’t be true my great-grandmother would do such a thing. Papa told me they loved each other so.” Her voice deepened as she held back a sob. “That’s why I must find someone who knows the true story. But it’s impossible. Impossible.” Tears blurred her eyes, and she hung her head.
Miguel reached for her hands. “Fernanda, look at me. Please.” She raised her head. “I’ll help you. I don’t know how, but I promise I’ll help you find the truth. I must warn you, though. I, too, have sought the truth and learned it can bring you happiness, but it can also bring you sorrow.”
“What happened, Miguel? Tell me. We can help each other.”
“I-I…” He glanced away and his lower lip trembled so slightly Fernanda wasn’t sure it actually happened. ”No,” he said, looking at her again. “What’s important now is finding the truth about Heosig and Suhna.”
Being so close to Miguel, she could smell his masculine odor from days of not bathing, but the smell was not unpleasant. She became conscious of his hands holding hers, and the feel of his skin against hers made the center of her body tingle. But she knew the sensations she felt were only the excitement of speaking with the Pimas, of Miguel’s offer to help, and her certainty that together they would find the truth.