CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was the middle of the night, almost a month after they had come to Salvador’s camp. Lucia awoke suddenly in a fright, her heart pounding, her eyes wide and searching the darkness. She reached out and felt Carlos in the bed beside her and then lay still for a moment, trying to collect herself. What had it been? She had no memory of a dream. A sound, perhaps, but all was silent now. The town was still, like any other night. Out in the darkness there were sentries guarding. There was nothing to fear. But her heart would not stop its pounding, and her breath came quickly. Fear was on her like a cougar on a fawn. Again she put her hand on Carlos and the fear quickened. He was leaving. Could it be that? At dawn he was going out to hunt. For a few days, he had said. But that was not unusual. In a few days he would be back again. What was this fear?

Carlos lay with his back to her and she turned to him and slipped her arm around his chest and held him tightly, pressing her face against his back. She was trembling. He stirred and reached back for her, pulling her more tightly against him, and then, waking a little more, he felt her trembling.

“What is it?” he said.

“Take me with you when you go.” And with that, the fear began to subside.

He turned around to face her in the darkness, resting his hand on her hip. “You want to come hunting with me?” There was amusement in his voice, but she did not mind it. She did not want to tell him about the fear. She could not explain it even to herself.

“When I was a little girl,” she said, “I used to go hunting with my father.”

“And did you kill much game?”

“He did. I had no strength for the bow. But I could move as quietly as he could, and we would go a little apart, or at a stream at dawn we would wait in different places for the deer, and if I saw something I would make the sound of a chickadee to tell him.”

“You can do that? A chickadee?” He was moving his hand lightly down her leg, then up again over the curve of her hip.

“Tomorrow in the woods I will show you.”

“Do you truly want to go hunting?” He seemed amazed, and pleased. She felt easy now. Her fear was almost gone.

“There is much a woman can do on the hunting trail,” she said. “There is meat to be dried and skins to be dressed, and she can carry the pack basket so that the man is always free with his bow.”

“And what will Salvador say when he hears you are going hunting? Carrying things on your back? It is not proper for a White Sun Woman.”

“I am tired of what Salvador says.”

“But we will have to tell him something.”

“Then I will tell him I had a dream. I will say that the White Falcon came and told me to go away for a little while. To a place alone to greet the Sun. For four mornings.”

“Four? That is a long time.”

She smiled. “Everything has to be in fours. What kind of dream would it be if I said three days? He would think you dreamed it. A Christian dream.”

“Four, then. That is good. I would like being away for four days.”

“Maybe I will have these dreams more often.”

“Why not? You are the White Sun Woman. He is not the only one who can have a dream.” He slipped an arm beneath her and pulled her closer.

“Be careful,” she said softly. “It spoils your power for hunting if you have a woman just before.”

“That is the Apalachee way,” he said. “Salvador was right. In some ways I am a Spaniard.”

It was good to come out of the forest and see the open sweep of the land, the scrubby meadows with scattered trees where Spanish cattle used to graze. All was empty now, no sign of life, not a horse or a cow, not a Spaniard or a Creek slave-catcher. It was as empty as the forest had seemed to be. They had been hunting for three days and had nothing to show for it. The one deer they had seen had seen them first, and they had glimpsed only its white tail bounding away out of range. It might have been a small matter had they brought more food, but they had expected better luck, and their food was gone after the second day. They did not want to go back to the camp before their four days were over. They would have to tell an elaborate lie to Salvador to accommodate the one they had already told. And besides, they enjoyed being away on their own. Except for how hungry they were. The roots Lucia had dug and cooked for them on the third night had only helped a little, and now on the fourth day, with one more night to spend before they went home, they decided to try their luck at the abandoned Spanish ranches. Surely somewhere there was a cow or pig or chicken that someone else had not already stolen.

Coming out of the forest, they walked through scrub until their course intersected a small road. It was little more than a path in the meadow but they could see that two-wheeled carts had once passed over it. In one direction or another, then, this cart track would take them to a Spanish ranch.

“We will probably find one either way,” said Carlos. “Where would a Spaniard go on a road like this but to visit another Spaniard?”

“You should know,” Lucia teased. “You are the one with the Spanish mind.”

“Then we should go this way.” He pointed to the east. “Any slave-catchers coming our way will have the sun in their eyes and maybe we will see them before they see us.”

Already it was afternoon and the heat was oppressive. Were it not for the hunger that was driving them on, they would have taken a more leisurely pace and lingered in the shade of the trees that they passed. But they walked quickly and nervously, looking constantly about for any sign of human life. Anyone they met would likely be an enemy, either a Spaniard or a Creek slave-catcher. Even other Apalachees could not be trusted, so many had thrown in with the Creeks.

As the afternoon wore on, storm clouds appeared in the west, first along the horizon but then rising quickly and blocking the sun, throwing a cool shade over the land.

“Where is this ranch?” asked Lucia, glancing back over her shoulder at the darkening sky. “We are going to get soaked.”

“I have no idea where it is,” Carlos said irritably. “Will a little water hurt you?”

Lucia said nothing. Let them get wet, then. She walked in silence beside him and thought of what a mess it was, out here in the middle of nowhere, starving to death, with a thunderstorm over their heads. It would be just the thing to stumble onto a band of slave-catchers. That would be the thing to top off four days of such marvelous luck.

She felt his fingers on her back, lightly tickling down her spine. For a moment she would not look at him.

“Next time,” he said, “I will do it the Apalachee way. I will be as chaste as a priest before I go out to hunt.”

She smiled. “It is a hard choice. Food or love.”

“If you had to choose now, which would you take?”

“Food,” she said.

“And a place to stay dry?”

“Is that one of the choices?”

“If at the top of the next hill we see no sign of a ranch or a homestead, we will head for some trees and put up a shelter. A few pine boughs would be better than nothing at all.”

“It would,” she agreed. She looked back again at the gathering storm and quickened her step.

When they reached the top of the hill, there was an abandoned ranch ahead, like a miracle of which a priest would speak, a Spanish homestead with a small wattle-and-daub house and a kitchen behind, and a pigsty, and beyond that a cowpen with a dungheap beside it. The storm cloud was overhead now, and in the west they could hear Thunder starting out on his eastward journey. They hurried down the hill with long fast strides. With the first large drops of rain, they began to run, dipping down into the little valley and up the next slope, pushing hard to keep their speed on the uphill climb, Thunder coming fast behind them. They were laughing as they reached the house, but Carlos put out his hand to stop her at the door and had her wait against the wall beneath the eaves while he went inside with his hatchet in his hand and made sure that the place was as empty as it looked. When he came back for her, his eyes were bright.

“You will never guess,” he said, drawing her inside. It was dark like an Indian house, no light but from the doorway. A rough table stood against one wall and an overturned bench lay in the middle of the floor. Carlos steered her around the bench into the other room of the house, pushing her before him with his hands on her shoulders. This room was lit by another door standing open to the storm. He turned her toward a dark corner, and there, on a crude wooden bedframe empty of its bedding, chickens were roosting. Four chickens, shifting about uneasily, clucking and stretching their wings.

Lucia reached back over her head and caught Carlos’ neck and hugged him. “We need a fire,” she said, letting him go and moving back into the front room. Thunder had caught up with them now, booming overhead, and his two mischievous nephews were with him, fighting and playing in bright, startling flashes.

“We should have thought to bring in some wood,” said Carlos. “Everything outside will be soaked after this.”

“When the rain is over, I will go look in the cocina,” said Lucia. “People abandoning a ranch would not take their firewood with them.”

They waited near the doorway, watching the rain and feeling content with the coolness that it brought and with the dryness of their shelter and the promise of food. When they wearied of standing, Carlos righted the bench and they sat on that and watched as the storm slowly lightened. Thunder and his nephews had moved beyond them now. They could hear them rumbling away to the east.

“We should have come here on the first day,” said Lucia. “This would have been a good place to spend four days.”

Carlos shook his head. “A place like this is dangerous. It draws people to it, the same as it has drawn us. Probably we should not even sleep here.”

“You are right,” she agreed. She stood up and went to the doorway. The rain had stopped, only the water from the roof still dripping. Outside the warm earth steamed and the clouds overhead were breaking up before the late afternoon sun. Thunder was almost beyond hearing in the east.

She put her hand out beyond the dripping of the eaves to feel the air empty of rain. “I am going to look for some wood. Will you have a chicken ready when I get back?”

“It will be dead, at least.”

She went out, breathing the warm earth smell. She walked around the corner of the house and crossed the yard to the cocina, a small building with the same wattle and daub walls and thatched roof that an Indian house would have. But the door was Spanish, rough split boards held together with pegged crossbars. It was slightly ajar, and she put her hand against it and pushed it open a little further. From inside came the acrid smell of old smoke. She took a tentative step, pushing the door all the way back to let in the light, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, she went inside.

Suddenly the door moved, swinging back again. She turned and saw a figure in the shadows. Crying out, she leapt back toward the narrowing doorway, her hand reaching the edge of the closing door, pulling it open again, her legs propelling her toward the steamy daylight. Then her skirt was caught! She called out for Carlos. Pulling her skirt free, she tumbled out, falling to her hands and knees and rising again. Carlos came running around the corner of the house, his hatchet in his hand, his legs straining and his face fierce, desperate to reach her.

Looking back she glimpsed the figure in the doorway just as the door was slamming shut. She ran to Carlos, shaking her head, unable to speak, putting out a hand to stop him.

“Someone is there,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath and turning again to look at the kitchen. “An old woman, I think. At first I could not see. But just now. I do not know. It looked like an old woman to me.”

Carlos pulled her back around the corner of the house. “Was she alone?”

“I think so.” Lucia leaned against the house, her legs weak. Carlos was standing by the corner looking toward the cocina.

“Was there a fire inside? Could she be living there?”

“I did not see a fire,” said Lucia.

“Do you think she was alone?” he asked again.

“I think so, but I am not sure.”

He turned and looked at her and smiled a little. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and tried to smile back, but she could not. “It scared me.”

He looked again at the kitchen. “Should we try to talk to her?”

“Maybe we should just get away from here.”

“Was she a Spaniard?”

“No. An Indian, I think. But I am not sure what I saw. Maybe there are slave-catchers in there. Maybe we should leave.” But even now she could feel her hunger. “Did you kill the chicken?” she asked.

He glanced at her and laughed. “The chicken has gone to heaven.” He was looking at the kitchen again. “I am going to try to talk to her.” Lifting his chin a little, he called out, “My grandmother!”

Lucia put her head around the corner to look. Nothing moved. There was silence except for the dripping of water from the eaves of the buildings.

“My grandmother!” Carlos called again. “We are Apalachees.” Another silence. Then he added, “I am of the Usunaca clan. My wife’s clan is Hinachuba. If you are a friend of these clans, it would lift our hearts to greet you.”

Still there was no response from the cocina.

“The chicken was probably hers,” Lucia said softly. “Maybe we should just take it and go.”

But then the door of the cocina opened very slightly. “My clan is Usunaca,” a voice said. It came strong and clear through the humid air, a woman’s voice deepened by age.

“Then you are indeed my grandmother,” Carlos called to her. “My heart is soaring. I am Usunaca Carlos from Ivitachuco. I have come.”

The door opened further and they could see her now, an old woman in a skirt of blue Spanish cloth, her gray hair straggling loose from its knot behind her neck.

Carlos stepped out from the house and tossed his hatchet onto the ground.

“You have come, my grandson,” said the woman. And then to Lucia, who was coming out to stand beside him, she said, “And you, my grand-son’s wife. It was not my intention to frighten you.”

“Nor mine to frighten you,” said Lucia, smiling.

“I am not afraid of your hatchet,” the woman said to Carlos. “Keep it with you, if you wish.”

Carlos shook his head. “Let it lie where it is. Among kinsmen there is no need for weapons.”

“But who knows who else might come along,” said the woman. “Maybe we would all feel better if you had it with you.”

So Carlos retrieved the hatchet, and the woman came out and met them in the yard.

“You came very quietly,” she said. “I did not hear you before this one pushed open the door.”

“We thought there was no one here,” said Lucia. She smiled. “I thought you were a pack of slave-catchers.”

“They are not unknown around here,” the woman said soberly. “To me they are not much of a danger. I am too old to bring a price as a slave. And I offer them no resistance when they come. I invite them to sit down and share my fire. They have no reason to kill me. But you—” She looked at them and shook her head. “This wife of yours,” she said to Carlos. “How beautiful and strong she is. What a price she would bring. And, oh, how you would fight to defend her. And they would cut you down and send you to the Other World. A man is of no use to them. A woman, yes. A child, yes. But an Indian man is too stubborn to enslave. His soul flies away from him, and he withers and dies. So they cut down the men and steal away their wives and their little ones.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “What terrible grief they have brought us.”

“Do you think they will ever leave us in peace?” asked Carlos.

“No,” said the woman. Then she shrugged. “But who knows? I thought the Spaniards would be here forever, and now they are gone. Who would have ever thought that?”

“Gone from here,” said Carlos. “But not from San Luís.”

“Yes, from San Luís.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucia.

“I will tell you,” said the old woman. She stopped and looked at them, considering something for a moment. Then she said firmly, “You will sleep here tonight, in my kitchen. I will cook for you. Oh, I am a good cook.” She patted Lucia’s arm. “Tonight there is no work for you. You sit with him and we will talk together. If slave-catchers come, I will keep you safe. They will never see you.”

“Our hearts are full, my grandmother,” said Lucia. “But we must confess to you that we have killed a chicken of yours. We did not know there was anyone here to claim it.”

The woman waved her hand. “You saved me the trouble of killing it myself.”

“But what about San Luís?” said Carlos.

“There is time for that,” she said. “We have all night to talk.”

She got up and went into the house and came back with cane mats, which she spread by the outside hearth. She kindled a fire and soon had the chicken roasting on a stick. The sun was setting, spreading red and purple across the sky as the old woman went cheerfully about her work, refusing to let Lucia help her. She pounded corn and made cakes that she put into the ashes to bake. She cut up peaches into a clay pot, added a little water, and put them on the fire to stew into a sauce for the chicken.

“Today at noon my son-in-law came to me,” the old woman said at last. “He told me that this very morning the Spaniards abandoned San Luís. They are going back to San Augustín, all of them, and they go with much haste, afraid that the Creeks will come after them and kill them on the way. They burned the blockhouse to keep the English from having it. It is all gone, burned to rubble.”

“They forced my father to help them build that place,” said Lucia. “His health was never the same after that. He died too young.”

The woman nodded. “Who does not have a story of suffering? I can remember when on a summer night like this these hills around us were lit by the fires of my kinsmen. Oh, it was a sight for a girl to stand in the darkness and turn in every direction and see homesteads full of people who cared for her and protected her.” The woman reached over and turned the chicken on the spit. “But the Spaniards came and took this land for their ranches and forced our men to come work for them. My mother stayed here as a servant on this ranch, and I raised my own children here.” She paused and craned her neck to look into the pot of peaches, stirring it with a wooden spoon. “But all that is over now. When the Creeks struck at Patale, all the Spaniards around here fled to San Luís. I myself went with them. We all went, all the servants, including my daughter and her husband. We did not know then that the Spaniards were finally beaten. But in the blockhouse we could see it. When they came back from the battle at Patale, there was no life left in them. From that time on, they were just waiting for the governor in San Augustín to send permission for them to leave. So I said to myself, What am I doing here? The homestead is mine again. And I left the blockhouse and came back.”

“But your daughter would not come?” said Lucia.

“She could not. The slave-catchers are a danger to her. She is not old and ugly like I am.”

“So what will she do, she and her husband? Are they going with the Spaniards?”

“The Spaniards wanted them to. They want to take as many Apalachees with them as they can to give themselves protection as they go. They have offered forgiveness to all those who have run away if they will come back now and join them. But my daughter and her husband are finished with Spaniards. They are going west to the French at Mobile. Many from around here are going there. They wanted me to go with them, but I told my son-in-law today that I am too old to start a new life. I will stay here where I have always been.”

She looked into the fire, sadness settling over her. After a moment she raised her head and looked out beyond them at the low hills fading away in the darkening twilight. “To think there were once so many of us,” she said. “And now I am the only one.”