NINE

A glint of light from the dying embers in the fireplace betrayed the Governor’s tears. He turned away so Serafina might not see.

Why has the story made me sad? he thought. I am the Governor, a military man who has seen many campaigns, fought many battles. I am ruler of this miserable kingdom which I daily struggle to keep together. The Apaches now have horses and attack the Pecos, Quarai, and Abo missions, the Pueblos constantly complain, and always some of the citizens want to quit the colony and return to New Spain. The winters are bitter, the drought has lasted many years.

How can I be so affected by a story? Is it that I am like Fabiano, and I have been seeing only the ugly side of life? Are the stories really revelations of my soul? Am I Juan Oso, half man and half beast? Pedro de Ordimalas, a mere picaro pretending to be governor? Fabiano who lost the love of his life as I lost my wife?

He looked at Serafina. Can she read my heart? Is it possible she is a witch?

Yes, the thought had crossed his mind before. The Franciscan friars’ chief complaint was that the Indians practiced sorcery, they prayed to pagan gods, kept masks in their kivas and held the Kachina dances.

“I’ll call Gaspar,” he said abruptly, rising and walking briskly to the door.

When Gaspar had led the girl away the Governor hurried out into the freezing night. A sweet scent hung over the plaza from the thin feathers of smoke that rose from villa’s fireplaces.

The settlement lay embraced by night, bathed in the light of the glittering Milky Way and a pale, waxing moon. In the hills coyotes yipped, a witching cry. Higher up, where the juniper-studded hills met the mountain pine treeline, a wolf howled a long, mournful cry for its mate, and moments later she returned the call.

The sorcerers, the priests had reported, took the form of owls, coyotes, and wolves to travel about at night.

“Bah!” the Governor spat, “I am not a superstitious man.”

Still, he hurried across the frozen, desolate plaza to knock on the door of the church.

Friar Tomás, his freckled face and reddish hair illuminated by the lantern he held, opened the heavy door. “Que diablo es a esta hora?”

He peered into the pale face of the Governor and for a moment couldn’t recognize him.

“Ah, Your Excellency. What brings you out on such a cold night? I hope no last rites. An accident?”

“No such thing, Fray Tomás. Perhaps a case of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft!” the startled friar gasped. He peered beyond the Governor into the dark night. At night the peaceful landscape turned into the Demon’s playground. No one stirred, except those men who braved the cold to drink homemade wine at the cantina of doña Patricia.

“Come in, come in,” he said.

“I cannot stay,” replied the Governor. “You know the girl who came with the prisoners?”

“Yes. I have attended the trial with great interest. Needless to say, your judgments have created quite a—

“Fray Tomás, that’s not the matter at hand.”

“Ah, yes, the girl.”

“I want you to question her.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“This is highly unusual. I should send a message to the Custodian—”

“I don’t want this request to be heard by anyone except you,” interrupted the Governor. “Isn’t it true that if you enter the room with the blessed Crucifix, if the woman is a witch she will cringe, cry out, and blaspheme the Holy Cross?”

“Yes, but the girl cannot be—”

“I make no accusation! I only ask that you speak to her. See how she reacts, that’s all I require of you.”

“Very well,” a puzzled Fray Tomás replied. He disappeared for a moment and returned wearing a heavy buffalo coat, a crucifix in hand. Together they made their way back to the Governor’s residence and to Serafina’s room.

“Is something wrong, Your Excellency?” asked Gaspar, puzzled by the Governor’s rapid exit and the appearance of the friar.

The Governor did not answer. “Knock and enter,” he whispered to the friar. “Do not let her know I’m here.”

The tremulous young friar made the sign of the cross, held the crucifix in front of him, and knocked.

“Enter,” Serafina said, and he entered the room. Behind him the door shut tight.

Shivering, he held the cross in front of him and took hesitant steps toward Serafina.

“I come in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. If there are demons in possession of your soul, I cast them out with this cross.”

He stood trembling, expecting at any moment to feel the wrath of the Devil descend on him.

Instead he saw Serafina make the sign of the cross and kneel on the bare floor.

“Have you come to hear my confession, padre?” she asked.

Fray Tomás cringed. He looked down into Serafina’s calm face; her dark eyes peered back at him with an innocence that mesmerized him.

“You’re not a witch,” he muttered.

“No, padre.”

“You asked for confession …”

“I was raised in the mission church at my pueblo. I know all the prayers.”

She closed her eyes and waited. A shudder went through Fray Tomás. He didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t come to confess a Christian, he had come to cast out demons. But there were no demons in the girl, only an aura that enhanced her beauty.

“Please rise, child,” he managed. “Sit.”

Serafina rose and sat on the cot.

“Did you come to hear my confession?” she repeated.

“No, not tonight,” the confused friar answered.

For a long time the friar did not speak. Finally he asked, “Are you like the others? You believe in Christ, and yet you keep your pagan beliefs?”

“I believe in the ways of my ancestors. Christ and his mother and the saints have come to join our holy people—”

“No!” he interrupted her. “You can’t believe in Christ and believe in the things of the Devil! You are not a witch, child, but it is those things of Lucifer we must drive out. Place your hands on the cross and pray with me.”

He sat by her, closed his eyes, and holding the holy cross to her he began to pray. He could hear her praying, her Castilian Spanish almost as good as his.

They are all like this, he thought. We baptize them, they help us build churches, they come to mass and take the Eucharist, then they go at night to their kivas and pray to their fetishes, masks of the Devil. Why can’t we drive those beliefs out of them?

He could smell the perfume of her hair, washed with soap from yucca roots. Opening his eyes he looked at her. She was only a few years younger than he, yet she was mature beyond her years.

“You’re not a witch,” he stammered.

“No, padre, I am not.”

“You are innocent,” he murmured, unsure of what to say or do. He had never dealt with a situation like this before. “Good night. I must go,” he said. Outside, he was met by an anxious Governor.

“Well. What is your finding?” he asked, clutching the friar’s coat.

“She’s not a witch. We prayed together. She is innocent.”

“I was wrong to have you question her,” the Governor said, realizing he had made a mistake. “Thank you for your time, Fray Tomás …”

“It is nothing,” the friar replied. “I shall return to pray with her,” he said and disappeared into the cold night.

The Governor gathered his courage, opened the door, and entered the room. Serafina looked up at him, and after a pause she spoke.

“Why did you send the friar to question me?” she asked, her voice cold and pentrating. “I am not a witch.”

“Forgive me,” the Governor said. “I do not believe in witchcraft. But I had to be sure.”

“Why?”

The Governor sighed. “Some of my enemies are spreading rumors; they say you have a power over me, and they attribute it to witchcraft.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“No, but if they can get the Inquisition to question you, they would use the trial to destroy me. I had to be sure. Now I have the friar’s opinion.”

“I see,” Serafina said. There was discord in the villa. Those who wanted the Governor out of office would use her to accomplish their goal. The Governor had to protect himself, and her.

“I am sorry I put you through this.”

“One does what one has to do,” she replied.

“Believe me, I only do what I think is best for you. Now you must rest. Good night, Serafina.”

“Good night, Your Excellency.”

The Governor disappeared and Serafina turned to the clothes doña Ofelia had given her. She stitched late into the night, pausing only when she heard the cries of coyotes in the hills. She went to the east wall and pressed her ear against the cracks.

“Father!” she cried. The coyote cries were her father and friends camped in the hills, awaiting her release. The call was clear, a signal for her to know they were there.

Serafina blew out the candle, slipped into bed, and slept a very peaceful sleep.

The next morning the Governor ate breakfast and hurried to the trial. As before, he listened intently to the charges read against the fourth prisoner, and as the people expected, the man tried that morning was freed. The other prisoners were sent back to the stockade, and Serafina returned to her room, where she worked on the colcha she was stitching.

The Governor rode out with soldiers, still pursuing the Apaches who had raided the Picuris mission, but the raiders had disappeared.

That evening, as was by now his custom, he called for Serafina. When he saw her the concerns of the day fell away. The more he thought of her as a daughter, the more he felt free to entertain the idea. And yet the thought disturbed him, because it was something that could not be.

He greeted her cordially, offering her a chair by the fireplace.

“Do you have a story ready?” he asked kindly.

“I never have one ready,” she replied. “Whatever comes to mind is the story I tell.”

“You are truly gifted,” he said, leaning back into his chair and closing his eyes.