FIFTEEN

The Governor smiled when Serafina had finished the story. Except for the discomfort of his back, he had relaxed as she told the story.

So, he thought, the bad compadre was gobbled up by the Devil. His greed earned him an eternity in hell.

Compadres were like brothers, they were supposed to take care of each other. His own compadre, don Roberto, had remained in Mexico City, turning down the offer to start a new life in la Nueva México.

As he thought of his compadre and his comfortable home in the capital of New Spain, the Governor sighed. Perhaps Roberto had been the wiser. The capital was now a civilized city. Music, art, and dance were flowing in from Spain. Representatives from the European capitals came to do business. A whole new way of life was flourishing in land Hernán Cortés had conquered, a new façade lay over the civilization and arts of the Aztecs.

Here, there was little by way of culture—a few books, the cuentos, and the church services to lift the spirits. Once a year on January 25 the villa celebrated the feast day of St. Paul, the patron saint, then the soldiers and citizens reenacted the old drama Los Moros y los Cristianos. Dressed in their breastplates and helmets and brandishing swords made from fine Toledo steel, the soldiers on prancing horses presented a wonderful spectacle.

The natives came from the pueblos to watch. Clearly they saw in the vanquishing of the Moors by the Christian knights the same power His Majesty’s rule held over the Pueblos. The play was drama and entertainment, but it also presented a message. The Moors had been defeated in Spain in 1492, the Pueblos had given in to coexistence in 1598 when Oñate colonized their lands.

But the Pueblos still kept their ways; they continued to hold their Kachina dances. The prior Governor López had told the ecclesiastical authorities the natives were allowed to hold the Kachina dances. This infuriated the Franciscan friars, and gave the Pueblos a breath of freedom. Fray Alonso Posada, then newly assigned prelate and agent of the Inquisition, opposed Governor López and sought to stop the Kachina dances. López laughed in his face, and the dances continued.

Posada filed charges against López, who was tried by the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition in Mexico City and found innocent. The friars of New Mexico had failed to show the dances were idolatrous or demonic. The governor who succeeded López, Peñalosa, was also attacked by Posada, setting the stage for a continuing conflict between church and civil authorities over who held jurisdiction over the natives of New Mexico.

The Governor wondered whether it would not have been wiser to allow the natives to continue with their ceremonies. He glanced at Serafina. When she finished her story her custom was to remain silent, stitching the pieces of cloth that were becoming a rich-textured colcha. Was there a pattern in the blanket? He peered intently. Yes, probably the same symbols they used on their clay pots and ceremonial kivas.

He had been in a kiva once. According to the natives the kiva was the pueblo’s church. Descending by way of a ladder, he had found it brilliantly decorated with fine, colorful murals. By the light of the fire in the middle of the kiva he could see these people were gifted artists. But he couldn’t understand the meaning of the murals. He was told the paintings honored the ancestors, transcendent beings, rain people, corn maidens, and the mother earth they so adored.

They come to pray at our church, thought the Governor. Why can’t I go and pray at theirs? Some of our people attend the Kachina dances. We all adore God in different ways. Why can’t we respect the Pueblo way?

He looked at Serafina. How comfortable he felt with her tonight! He admired her talents as a storyteller and weaver. She could pray at church and in her pueblo way. She had learned to incorporate the two.

Maybe the friars are making a mistake in not allowing the native ceremonies to continue, he thought.

But in his heart he felt there was only one faith, one right religion, and the Christian duty was to baptize all heathens into the church.

Would Serafina give up her religion? No, that was part of her. Would she give up protesting the Governor’s rule? That was the unanswered question.

One day she would make a man a good wife. She was strong, intelligent, surely good at all housekeeping chores. What man wouldn’t feel honored to sit at home on winter evenings and listen to her cuentos? What father wouldn’t adore the beauty of his daughter and her gifts?

“You are quiet tonight,” said Serafina, putting the colcha aside.

“Your stories make me think,” he replied.

“What is in your mind?”

“I was thinking of my compadre don Roberto. A fine and honest man. He lives in Mexico City, the capital of Nueva España. I miss his companionship. Here I have no compadre, no one with whom to share my thoughts. Once I could talk to my wife …”

“How did she die?”

“Last winter. Many died from the terrible cold that afflicted us. She had a gentle nature. She took sick and within a week she was gone.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Oh, very much. At first I was lonely. But I had my work to do, keeping the colony together. So much to do in relation to your people—”

“A great responsibility.”

“Yes. But I feel up to the task. I am Vicente of tonight’s story. A good compadre.” He smiled and looked into Serafina’s bright, dark eyes.

“But even Vicente lies,” she reminded him. “He tells Manuel that it is a thieves’ fortune that is hidden under the tree.”

“Ay, there’s the rub. Human nature gets in the way, always confounding us.”

“Would you blind your compadre?”

“No, never.”

“Would you blind anyone?”

“No, it’s inhuman.”

“Would you whip or hang a man?”

Ah, thought the Governor, she’s referring to Governor Treviño who, not long ago, hanged three Tewa Indians accused of witchcraft. A fourth man had hung himself, and forty-three others were either beaten or imprisoned. The event had almost precipitated a rebellion, and the memory of the incident was inciting much of the current unrest.

“Treason has to be punished. It is a crime against society. If left unpunished, the social fabric breaks down, the rule of law collapses.”

“Is it treason to hold our own beliefs, to want to throw off the yoke of slavery?”

“You are not slaves. You have your pueblo, your lands to farm.”

“But we must pay tribute, and answer to the friars.”

“Those things are necessary for our survival,” replied the Governor.

With this said both fell into silence. Each knew the arguments, and each came from such a different point of view, a different world. What could heal the wounds? Respect for each other’s views, kindness, a forgiveness for past atrocities committed?

“You’re not comfortable,” she said, noticing again the way he kept his back away from the chair.

“It’s nothing. A sore back. I took a fall from my horse.”

“Take off your shirt and let me see.”

“No. I insist, it’s nothing. Don’t trouble yourself.”

“But I want to help you.” She went to the pantry and brought out a small clay bowl. “I have an ointment I made for my hands. Dry mint leaves, ground osha boiled with the sap of the piñon tree.”

Reluctantly he removed his shirt, exposing bruises along his back.

“It’s nothing, a few scratches,” he explained.

“This will help,” she said as she rubbed the balm into the welts.

The ointment relieved the pain. Her fingers gently and deftly spread the soothing cream along his back.

“There,” she said and handed him his shirt.

“I am grateful. Thank you. The irritation is gone. You have some knowledge of healing balms and herbs.”

“My mother is a healer,” Serafina replied. “As are many of the women of my pueblo. I learned from her.”

“I know I will sleep well. And I have you to thank.”

He wanted to go on talking to her, enjoying her company, perhaps learn more about her life in the pueblo.

“I’m afraid I’ve overstayed my visit. I must say good night.”

“Good night, Your Excellency.”

“Thank you again for the unguente. I hope it hasn’t been too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

“I feel,” he began, “I can’t tell you how I feel. Grateful. There are so many things to talk about—Come early tomorrow night. We can have dinner together.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency, but I can eat only what the other prisoners eat.”

“Then I will have doña Ofelia feed your kinsmen what we eat. Fresh venison, eggs and chile. We have turkeys she can broil. And those wonderful wheat tortillas she is so famous for. And apple pies for dessert. She has an excellent store of dried apple slices. I will have the same meal sent to the other prisoners. So you cannot refuse.”

“As you wish, Your Excellency.”

“Very well, until tomorrow.” He took her hand. “Good night.”

“Good night, Your Excellency.”

He bowed and left, Serafina returned to her work, but she had barely picked up the colcha when doña Ofelia knocked and entered.

“Is the Governor gone?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Serafina.

“Ah, you look beautiful tonight, hija,” said the old woman, placing her candle and the cup of chocolate on the table.

“I do not think myself beautiful,” Serafina replied.

“Still, the fair-skinned Españoles like your long, black hair, those eyes like dark night that reflect stars, your skin bronzed by the sun. Yes, the Castillos like our women. So many of the soldiers, like the young Gaspar, have married our women.”

Serafina looked at doña Ofelia. What was she getting at?

“Drink your chocolate, child,” she said, then mumbling to herself she turned and went out, shutting the door behind her.

The next morning a strange rumbling filled the skies over the Villa de la Santa Fé. Clouds swept down from the north, covering the mountain peaks with a swirling mantle of snow. In the lower elevations a fine drizzle fell.

In spite of the rain many of the citizens lined the plaza for the day’s trial. The land had been suffering a long drought, and many thought this January rain presaged a good spring. Perhaps the drought was breaking. There was nothing better for the corn, wheat, chile, and other vegetables that were grown along the Río Grande valley than rain from the heavens.

The old men who kept the caniculas, the forecasting of the year’s weather by studying the weather of the first twelve days of January, nodded with satisfaction. They had noted the weather of the first twelve days; the weather of each day corresponded to the weather of the twelve months. It was a system used for predicting weather by the farmers.

The Governor seemed in especially high spirits. He looked at Serafina and smiled, then he greeted those waiting under the portal. Seeing the prisoners standing in the rain without adequate wraps he ordered his maese de campo to provide them with buffalo robes.

He turned and greeted those assembled to watch the proceedings. “A fine day,” he said, “with just the rain we need for spring. Let us pray for a bountiful summer.”

He nodded at Fray Tomás who stepped forward and said a prayer of thanksgiving. Then the Governor motioned for the trial of the seventh prisoner to begin, and as was predicted, the prisoner was freed. For the first time a few in the crowd applauded. Perhaps, the citizens of the villa thought, the Governor is doing the right thing, and a new era of peace will reign.

That evening the Governor’s room was as brightly lit as it had been for Christmas. A crackling fire warmed the room. Candles blazed on hearth and table, lending the room a festive feeling.

The Governor, his hair and beard neatly trimmed, nearly drove doña Ofelia crazy with his orders that every detail be just right. Dressed in his best cotton pantaloons, a silk shirt and wool vest, he reveled in the new-found joy he took in hosting the meal.

“Doña Ofelia,” he confided, “is it possible that a single man could adopt a daughter?”

Doña Ofelia understood his meaning but said nothing. She shook her head and went on about her business.

The Governor shrugged and opened a bottle of wine. A case, a special gift from don Roberto, sent up the Camino Reál from Mexico City. A stout red. Yes, México was beginning to produce good wine. As was the colony, for already in Santo Domingo and further south in the hacienda of don Bernal, the friars cultivated their vineyards and pressed some excellent wines.

A knock at the door startled the Governor. Gaspar opened the door and in stepped Serafina. She looked like a princess in the white lace gown. Her long black hair glistened as it cascaded over her shoulders.

“Come,” said the Governor, extending his arm to lead Serafina to the table, not noticing Gaspar’s drawn face. The young soldier closed the door with a sigh.

They ate in silence, a silence broken only by doña Ofelia as she served pea soup, goat cheese, then slices of fresh venison covered with a red chile sauce, and the warm tortillas which lent an aroma to the meal.

After the meal they sat by the fireplace, the Governor sipping coffee while he listened to Serafina’s story.