TWENTY-THREE

The Governor chuckled. “A wonderful story,” he said, filling his wine glass. “By his wits the rascal gets the princess. In our culture the picaro is a well known character. In this case his craftiness punishes the mean vendor and the greedy gatekeepers. I like it. Tell me, do you have such characters in your stories?”

“Our picaros are usually animals,” replied Serafina. “There are many stories in which an animal, like the coyote, plays a trick on other animals.”

“Stories about picaros usually teach us a lesson,” said the Governor.

“And they make us think. For example, I’ve often wondered about the three gates in the picaro’s story. What do they represent?”

“I never thought of them as having a deeper meaning,” replied the Governor. This was a talent he admired in Serafina. She probed into the meaning of the cuentos. In the past ten days the stories she had told had taught him a great deal about himself.

“Perhaps there are three doors to arrive at heaven,” she said. “The friars teach us St. Peter guards one of the doors to heaven.”

“Or the passage of life,” said the Governor. “The first door is a passage from childhood to young adulthood. The second door represents the responsibilities of work, marriage, family. The last door is death …”

He paused. Yes, there was some hidden symbolism in the three doors.

“And the princess who never smiled? Does she stand for a certain type of character trait? Is she afflicted by melancholy?”

“Perhaps,” replied Serafina.

“But why? She lives in a palace; she has everything she needs.”

“But in all the cuentos of your people, the king is very powerful. It is he who decides when to marry his daughter, and to whom.”

“That is our custom. A family needs a strong father. The king is not only the daughter’s father, he is the father of the nation.”

“Perhaps the princess needs her freedom. Having the father and later the husband decide everything for her doesn’t allow her to blossom. She will never know what she’s capable of accomplishing.”

The Governor raised an eyebrow and thought. Was Serafina sad? Was she the princess pining for freedom?

“Are you sad?” he asked.

“I miss my family,” she replied. “But from childhood we are trained that life is difficult. We do not dwell on sadness.”

“I see. You say the princess won’t know what’s she’s capable of doing. Do you know your capabilities?”

“Yes, your excellency. When I was a child I was given a vision.”

“And what is that vision?”

“To free my people.”

The Governor sighed. The joyful mood he had cultivated all evening suddenly grew cold. The humor in the story drifted away. They seemed to be where they started, he on one side of the fence and she on the other. He respected her as a person and a storyteller, but even his admiration for her was not enough to solve the enmity between her people and his.

“Will you follow your vision?”

“I must, Your Excellency. If one doesn’t follow one’s vision one hurts the community. I cannot disappoint my people.”

“And the princess in the story—if she had a vision, what would it be?”

“She would need to find something that she could do well. She must ask herself, why am I not happy?”

“Why do you think she was unhappy?”

“Perhaps there was no love in her life.”

“So she fell in love with Lino, the picaro.”

“Yes. Apparently the young men of the court did not interest her. Lino is different. He breaks through her silence.”

“Yes. Not laughing is a silence.” He paused. “You never laugh.”

“A prisoner has little to laugh about,” replied Serafina. “Even in the king’s palace.”

“Yes.” The Governor nodded. “I understand, and yet I cannot change the situation.”

He knew Serafina needed her freedom, but he could not set her free.

“Perhaps I am as much a prisoner as you,” he whispered.

She nodded. “I have learned that in your culture every profession makes a prisoner of the person. The higher in rank the more you must obey the rules of your profession.”

“And I, as governor, am bound by many rules and regulations,” mused the Governor. “Well, you have given me much to think about. But the immediate issue at hand is saving you from Fray Mateo. I am sure the encounter with the friar was not pleasant for you. I am selfish for taking so much of your time, but you know the evenings with you mean more to me than I can say.”

He thought of asking her for another story, but he knew the rules. Instead he said, “It is time for you to rest.”

“Yes,” Serafina said, and rose.

The Governor went to the door, opened it, and called for doña Ofelia.

“Good night, Serafina. Do not worry yourself about Fray Mateo.”

“Good night, Your Excellency. May your dreams be peaceful.”

“Yes, yes don’t worry,” doña Ofelia muttered as they walked to Serafina’s room. “They threaten to take you before the Inquisition and you are not to worry. Ay, bless the Governor, may he find a way to save you from their clutches.”

Serafina said good night to the old woman and entered her room. It was too early for bed, and besides, there was much to think about. She picked up her colcha. Stitching allowed her mind to review the day’s events.

The interview with Fray Mateo had not gone well. He was a crafty interrogator, and if they took her to Santo Domingo she would be no match for him. Would the Governor be there to be her protector?

She shook her head. Being fearful would not help her people. What mattered were the plans to free themselves from the rule of the Castillos. She didn’t know how that would come about, but she guessed Popé was already back in Taos making plans for a revolt. He hated the Españoles and would do anything to drive them from the land.

She thought about the meetings she had attended with her father in her own pueblo. Sitting in the kiva late at night, the men discussed the harsh rule of the Españoles. Each night the representatives from the different pueblos came closer to advocating an open revolt.

What would it mean? Could the Pueblo people return to a way of living they had known before the Castillos came? Could they forget the language and all the friars had taught them? Could they live without the tools the Castillos had brought?

A knock at the door made her look up from her work.

“Who is it?” she asked, knowing doña Ofelia never knocked. Was the Governor returning? The door opened enough to reveal Gaspar.

“May I come in?” he asked in a voice so plaintive Serafina could not refuse him.

“Yes, come in.”

He entered and softly closed the door behind him. He stood there, hesitantly. His curly blond hair framed a flushed but handsome face. He was probably eighteen, a young man already toughened by life in the frontier colony of la Nueva México. It was clear that he had no knowledge of a way with women.

“Good evening, Gaspar.”

“Good evening. I hope you don’t report me to the captain. I know it’s against the rules to visit a prisoner.”

“I won’t report you. What is it you wish?”

“I’ll only stay a few minutes,” he stuttered. “I hope you don’t think it is improper of me, a simple soldier in service of the Governor to wish to talk to you. By that I mean—”

He stopped, feeling confused. He had dreaded the act of knocking on her door. Standing in front of this beautiful young woman he felt like a bumbling fool.

“I consider you a gentleman, Gaspar,” said Serafina, smiling and attempting to put him at ease.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“And I truly respect you in the highest … I am not accustomed to … I have never approached a young woman, such as yourself, with the motive of expressing my … how shall I say this so you do not think that I am taking advantage of you.…”

“You have only to speak freely,” Serafina suggested.

“Thank you for allowing me that courtesy. You know that I have only the highest regard for you. The same respect I bear for my parents and God.”

“You are very kind, Gaspar. You have been most respectful in your duties, and I appreciate that. You are a gentleman, and I trust you.”

“I only wish my parents could have the honor of being here with me. I have told them how much I admire you. My mother has sent you a gift, hoping you will accept it.”

He came forward carrying a pair of buckskin tewas.

“Will you accept them?”

Serafina took the tewas. It was clear they were fine Cochiti moccasins, woven with pieces of turquoise tied in a row up the side. The leather was soft, worked to feel like cloth by the woman who made them.

“They are lovely. Yes, I accept them.”

“My mother said the feet of a princess should not go cold in winter,” he explained, his face beaming at her acceptance of his gift.

“I thank your mother, but I am not a princess.”

“That’s what some are calling you.”

“And the others call me a witch.”

Gaspar frowned. “Those are the people who want to keep your people subjugated. They accuse you of witchcraft as a means of keeping control over you. They cannot understand why you do not ask for freedom for yourself. My parents have been to all the trials. We are in complete agreement that all of you should be set free. Your people and mine must find a way to live together.”

“I wish that were so,” said Serafina.

“May I call you Serafina? It is a lovely name.”

“It is my Spanish name, not my Indian name. Yes, call me Serafina.”

“What is your Indian name?”

“I cannot say.”

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked. I dreamed I could speak to you, tell you what’s in my heart …”

“You are free to speak.”

“I came to propose a plan to save you,” he whispered.

“What is the plan?”

“That you marry me. Do not take me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “But if you marry then Fray Mateo cannot take you to Santo Domingo. I am volunteering. If you marry me you would be a free woman. My parents have agreed to go to your pueblo. They will speak to your parents. I assure you, it will be very proper. My parents are farmers like yours. When I finish my soldiering, I too will farm. I am single, and strong.”

He stopped short, breathless, afraid his proposal would be such an insult that she would call for doña Ofelia.

So the young man thinks he can save me from Fray Mateo by marrying me, thought Serafina. How noble of him.

“I thank you, Gaspar, but—”

“I will abide by your decision. I, too, am a man of honor, even though I am a lowly guard. But if you accept my proposal of marriage it will make you a rightful citizen in the eyes of the church.”

Gaspar believed their marriage would not only save her, it would improve the relations between the Españoles and natives. And during the past ten days he had fallen in love with her. Together with his parents they had formulated this plan.

“I fear marriage will not stop Fray Mateo,” she said.

“The Governor will help us,” replied Gaspar. “He loves you like a father. He will send the friar scurrying back to Santo Domingo.”

“You are so confident.”

“I have fallen in love with you,” Gaspar replied. “Whatever your decision I will abide by it.”

Serafina smiled. “I will think of your offer as a gesture of concern and—”

She was interrupted by a sound at the door.

“I must go,” Gaspar said, turning to open the door. He was greeted by doña Ofelia carrying a cup of hot chocolate.

“What are you doing in here?” said the old woman, her eyes piercing Gaspar. “A guard should be on duty! Don’t you know your place? Outside! Outside!”

“Sí, señora,” the startled Gaspar mumbled, scurrying around her and out of the room.

Doña Ofelia looked at the tewas Serafina held, shook her head then placed the cup of chocolate on the table.

“He brought you a gift,” she said, turning to Serafina.

“He proposed marriage,” replied Serafina. “Out of concern for my safety.”

“Yes, I’m sure he means well,” said Doña Ofelia, taking the tewas and looking at them carefully. “He comes from a good family. And these are well made. Probably cost him a sheep or two. Ah, the ideas young men get in their heads. What did you tell him?”

“I thanked him.”

Doña Ofelia nodded. “There is only one who can save you, the Governor. He has the power.” She handed the tewas back to Serafina and said good night.

“Thank you for the chocolate,” Serafina relied. “And for the advice.”

The old woman shrugged and went out, leaving Serafina to ponder a new option. What if she married Gaspar? She would then be the wife of a Castillo, and her place in the society would be different. Some of her people had learned so much of the Castillo’s culture they no longer returned to the pueblo way.

She shook her head. I cannot contemplate fantasies, she thought. I have to keep to the course my father and his neighbors have set for the people.

Serafina slept fitfully; nevertheless, she was up at sunrise, offering prayers to the sun that blossomed over the Sierra Madre peaks, its light streaming through cracks in the east wall. A thin ray of light cut across the middle of her face as Serafina prayed. She took the small bag of corn pollen doña Ofelia had given her and offered a pinch of pollen to the light.

Then after a breakfast of corn meal and a tortilla she followed Gaspar outside. He glanced to see if she was wearing the tewas, and when he saw she was, he smiled.

The freeing of the eleventh prisoner went quickly. A cold wind blew from the north, but those gathered at the ceremony did not hurry back to their warm homes. They stood transfixed, watching not the man who was set free, but Serafina.

Now only she remained of the twelve, and tomorrow it was her turn. The trials would end tomorrow, and all present could not help but wonder what it would mean. Would the Governor’s pardons settle the ill feelings of the natives? Or was the gesture too late?

Serafina spent the day working on the colcha. It was nearing completion, but she did not feel satisfied. A loneliness she had not felt before crept into her heart. Now she was alone. Yes, her stories had freed her fellow men, the Governor had kept his promise. But what now?

Perhaps the same mood infected the Governor, for when she entered the dining area for the evening meal, she found him staring into the fire at the fireplace.

When he turned to face her a sigh escaped his lips.

“Good evening, Serafina,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to her chair. “Doña Ofelia tells me you are almost finished with the colcha.”

“She has been most helpful,” replied Serafina, “Bringing me pieces of cloth and thread. And she has taught me new stitches, so it is a bedspread that will last you long after I’m gone.”

“You made it for me?”

“Yes, it is a gift. For the kindness you have shown me. For freeing the men.”

“I will accept the colcha with many thanks,” said the Governor. “In it I will wrap my dreams.”

“May they always be pleasant dreams,” she replied.

“Yes, but truthfully, it is you who freed the prisoners. Your stories have struck a chord in my heart.”

Serafina nodded. “Your people seem to be very emotional. You cry when a family member dies. You show much emotion on Good Friday. I have seen the friars and men flagellate themselves. And, as I understand, you have so many expressions for love.”

“Yes,” said the Governor. “There are many ways to express love and its emotions.”

“Do emotions also come from the books you read?” she asked, looking in the direction of the shelves.

Ah, what a thoughtful question, thought the Governor. “Yes, stories in books stir our emotions. A book can cause joy, anger, despair, or hope. A book can stir patriotism or revolution. Just like the cuentos you tell stir my emotions. What do you feel when you tell stories?” asked the Governor.

“I feel I am passing on knowledge,” she replied.

“Have you ever felt love?” he asked.

“Yes. I feel love for my people.”

“What about my people?”

“I feel kindness for those who are kind. But to give kindness one must recieve kindness. Love thy neighbor, as Christ taught. Now there is so little kindness we are losing hope.”

“Yes, you’re quite right. And so it is our duty to bring that kindness into our lives.”

He understood it was by no accident Serafina had been delivered to him. Her stories had helped him reflect on his situation. Stories give knowledge, she said. And he had learned a great deal. Now he had to save her from the Inquisition. But how could he save her when he was the one who kept her prisoner? He could not be two persons in one.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Serafina asked, breaking the strange revery he had fallen into.

“Yes, that would please me very much.”

“Since I go on trial tomorrow, perhaps this short tale of an Indian lawyer would be appropriate,” she said, and she began the story.