13

The boy complained as Teresa bathed his face with water from the pond. He pushed his head against her stomach, and she held him tightly. She didn’t know how much he remembered from being a jaguar and running from Plague, or how much he remembered of that night when his mother and father were killed. She didn’t know how to talk to him about his parents, and so she didn’t. She only held him and made a soothing noise.

After a while, he sneezed and drew away. “I’m hungry,” he said.

Darkness had settled into the canyon, and briefly Teresa wished for the jaguar’s eyes so she could see well enough to hunt and gather. That was impossible now, and they would have to go without food. “I know,” she told the boy. “The morning will be better.”

In the morning, she found a packrat’s nest, with a packrat inside that they roasted for breakfast. The rat also had a cache of pine nuts, and they added these to the stringy meat. Afterward Teresa reknotted the tinderbox in her cotton shirt.

“We’ll eat again soon,” she promised as they walked up the canyon. The large trumpet-shaped datura flowers, white and lavender, were still open, exuding their rich scent. She pointed these out to the boy and warned him they were poisonous, every flower, leaf, and root, causing hallucinations and death. He nodded without interest.

“Did you already know that?” Teresa asked.

The boy shrugged—no. It seemed he knew little from his time as a jaguar. He is truly asleep, Teresa thought, and wondered if there were rituals that would help him. Perhaps the shamans of his people would know how to keep the boy awake when he entered the Jaguar God. Perhaps the wise woman at the Opata village would know what to do to help the boy control the animal. The boy’s jaguar—Pomo’s jaguar, Teresa corrected herself—had come too early and was too strong for a child. She couldn’t let him change back again.

“You must not change back,” she scolded as they reached the trail she had made coming down into the canyon. The boy looked at her, surprised by her tone. “Pomo,” she said more gently, “the animal in you is too strong for you. You must not take that shape.” The boy shrugged, confused, then stubborn. He would not talk about it.

They climbed slowly, for his legs were short, and he was also careless, starting rock slides that threatened Teresa until she learned to climb beside and not below him. “I’m hungry,” the boy said again at the top.

An hour later, they saw a circle of vultures dipping and soaring in the blue sky. The carrion that attracted the scavengers was in the direction they traveled, and they detoured through a patch of thorn bushes. Closer to the carcass, Teresa could smell that the deer was badly rotted. Still, she wondered if she could find some good meat somewhere before remembering she had no knife or even the flinted rock she had made earlier. She had no way to separate good meat from bad. Pomo suggested grabbing a leg and wrenching it from its socket. But then they would have to stop and build a fire, Teresa explained, and the rotten flesh might make them sick. She was in a hurry to get back to the meadow. For a moment, she paused, watching the vultures stab and tear, jealous of their sharp beaks.

“No,” she said regretfully. “We’ll find something else later on.”

Next they were lucky when their detour brought them by a field of prickly pear, its oblong fruit ripe and red, not yet discovered by a family of peccary or the long-nosed coati. This was a very satisfying lunch, with Teresa scraping away the fine prickles and giving first one fruit to Pomo then one for herself. They alternated like this through half the plants, spitting out the tiny black seeds and savoring the pulp until their stomachs were overfull. Before moving on, Teresa took off her cotton shirt and tied it into a gathering bag she could carry. The rest of the fruit would make a good supper.

They walked all day, past the vista of jumbled hills and into the forest of pine trees and scrub brush. Toward the end Teresa had to force the boy, pushing and prodding with her sore hands and sarcastic tongue while he whined and complained. His legs were tired. His stomach hurt. He wanted to rest. He wanted to stop.

“Stop and I’ll leave you,” Teresa threatened. Pomo began to cry, and so she came back and carried him the last bit, crouching under the low pine branches, seeing the jaguar’s tracks as well as her own from the day before. The boy felt like a sack of rocks. The gathering bag of fruit hung awkwardly across her chest. She felt as though every root and stone were trying to trip her. They neared the meadow by the path just as the sun was setting again, and Teresa found herself praying to Fray Tomás and Jesus and the wise woman all together. What if Horse had decided not to wait? What would they do if the animal wasn’t there?

The western sky blazed with color, the remnant of a thunderstorm lit by the sun’s last rays, billowing white clouds edged in pink. Shafts of light pointed to the earth like fingers of an outstretched hand as Teresa staggered from the forest into the meadow, too tired to look for Plague or other dangers. She let the boy slide to the ground and called for Horse, and then out loud, “Horse, Horse!”

As always, the boy said he was hungry. Teresa told him to sit at the edge of shadow where the forest and meadow met. Again she used a stone to rub off the thorns of the prickly pear fruit, which was good for their thirst as well as their hunger. She knew she had to be patient. The horse might be away drinking or exploring. He might be gone for hours or even days. Or he might come ambling up the path any minute, for it was almost dark.

So! Horse grumped, as she petted his face and neck.

I found the boy, Teresa stated the obvious. And you look well rested and fed. She paused. Has there been any sign of him?

No, the horse still sounded annoyed. But there have been others intruding into my peace of mind. A hunting party. A trading party. A pack of noisy chattering women looking for something. I spent half my time hiding in bushes like a drunken foolscap.

We need a knife, Teresa spoke absently, thinking of the trading party.

There will be knives in the village. But you have nothing to offer for them, the horse reminded her.

Teresa shook her head and looked around for Pomo, who was sitting where she had left him, half-asleep, his face smeared with red juice. She was certain that if they went into the village, they would find Plague suddenly walking beside them. If they approached a trading party, they would find Plague again among them. She couldn’t be near people now. But—Teresa almost growled—she wasn’t willing to wander the rest of her life without speaking or seeing another human being.

Plague will come back, Horse interrupted her thoughts, blowing thoughtful bubbles from his nostrils. He will come back for the boy. One victim is better than nothing.

Appalled, Teresa stared at the gelding and then turned in all directions, scanning the meadow and forest and path. Of course, Horse was right. She should have seen this herself. If she had left the boy sleeping in the Jaguar God, at least he would be protected from disease. She had brought Pomo back only so Plague could take him!

She had to find the wise woman first. Not just for her own questions, but for Pomo, too. She had to find someone who could help them.

Let’s go now, she exclaimed. Let’s get out of here.

The day is over, Horse neighed.

There is a moon tonight, Teresa said, a full moon. Let’s go when it rises. Let’s see if you can outrun Plague.

To outrun Plague! Teresa challenged the horse. He had fought in many important battles. He had crossed the ocean. He was a hidalgo’s mount, a member of his captain’s army. This would be a great opportunity, a test, a deed, something he could boast about the rest of his life. To outrun Plague. This would ensure him a place of glory!

Enough, Horse said, pawing the ground. You don’t need to convince me. I’ll carry you and the boy. I’ve ridden in moonlight before.

As fast as you can, Teresa whispered into the horse’s ear, as she clamped her knees tightly across his back and pressed down on Pomo so he wouldn’t fall. Plague could return at any moment. She felt the animal grin in her mind just before he began to gallop. He had rested and eaten for almost two days. He was ready to run.

The moon followed them the whole way, fat and orange, a cheerful companion. The path also seemed to spur them forward as it angled down from the mountains onto a broad level plain. Eventually, of course, although not soon, the horse tired and had to walk, almost until dawn. Then when the gelding scented water—a stream neither wide nor deep—he insisted on stopping. There is less water ahead, he warned. All night, I have smelled the desert.

Teresa lifted Pomo and let him drop to the ground. When she got off the horse herself, every part of her body ached. She had also seen how the moonlight shone now on cactus and rock, with fewer pine and scrub oak. They had been descending steadily, the path forking more than once. She had always picked the northern route, north and east, and this route led them away from the pine-topped mountains with their cool breezes and clear waters running to the sea.

“We’ll drink here,” she said to Pomo, who had slept for much of the ride. Later in the morning, she would look for buffalo gourds. If she could kill a large enough animal, she could use its stomach or bladder to carry water, too. If only she had a real knife, she thought, something better and sharper than her cutting tool.

As she found a place for them to rest, a grassy spot of earth under a hackberry tree, Teresa worried about that lost knife, about what they would eat next, about buffalo gourds. Even if she could carry water for herself and Pomo, she could not carry enough for Horse. He would have to find a spring or creek in the desert, for himself and for them as well. She wondered how big this desert was and how many days it would take to cross it. She wondered if one of them should stand guard in case there were wolves or lions or slavers nearby. She wondered if they could really outrun Plague. Was any place safe from him?

But north—through the desert—was the way that led to the wise woman. That was the way they had to go. She wondered . . . head on the ground now, eyes closed . . . and then she was asleep, Pomo curled against her thigh, the horse standing and sleeping close by.

Long past sunrise, when she woke, Plague was there, too. He sat on a rock, watching them, his arms wrapped around his knees. He waited for her in the form of her mother.

At first, Teresa just stared at the woman. There was something so familiar about those dark brown eyes and lips curving up. Teresa blinked and half-rose on her elbows. The woman was naked except for a grass skirt. She smelled of salt and fish, and her head had been flattened slightly in the back. She was still almost young, older than Teresa but not yet middle-aged. Her brown face crinkled into laugh lines when she smiled.

“Te-re-sa!” her mother said in a lilting voice.

“Mother,” Teresa whispered. “Where . . . where is the baby?”

“The baby . . .” the woman stopped.

“My sister?” Teresa prompted and stood, careful not to disturb Pomo. The horse nickered low, also awake.

“Let’s talk about you,” Teresa’s mother said gently. “It has been so long. You left without saying good-bye.”

A shudder went through Teresa’s hard heart.

But “You are so young,” Teresa said. “You can’t be my mother. Where is my sister? My mother would know this.”

“Te-re-sa,” her mother lilted, “aren’t you happy to see me?”

Teresa took a breath to steady herself. “My sister is dead, isn’t she? And you, my mother. My mother is also dead. I think you can only take the shape of people you have killed.”

“No,” her mother sighed, “you are wrong about that.”

Plague shook his head sadly before continuing. “But, yes, your mother is dead and your baby sister. After you left without saying good-bye, another poor shipwrecked stranger came to their tribe, and they welcomed him, too. He also brought the sickness that made their skin burn and their bodies shake as though the Bad Spirit were rattling them from the inside. Many of them died. All your family. Your grandfather. Your aunts. The stranger killed them.”

“You killed them,” Teresa replied, not knowing how to feel. She hadn’t thought about her family in so long. “Plague killed them.”

“Perhaps,” her mother conceded. She gestured, still gentle, still sad. “But the Spanish have done other bad things, haven’t they? They took your friends as slaves, all the poor people who traveled with your father. The captain took them. And they sneered at you. Alonso del Castillo and Andrés Dorantes. They mocked you. They stole your father away with their talk of gold, their sweet-smelling wardrobes and chairs and escritorios.”

Teresa tried to think about buffalo gourds. Could she find a gourd in which to carry water? The sun shone brightly on the grass and yellow flowers by the stream.

“Listen to me,” her mother coaxed. “Only a few leagues away to the west, a group of Spanish slave hunters are herding their slaves to Mexico City. You can join them now, you and the boy. That will be your revenge, to see them sicken, too. You can watch their skin burn, watch them shake! That will revenge your mother. That will revenge your baby sister. Take me to these men.”

Pomo was waking up, murmuring and stretching. When he saw the woman on the rock, he froze like a spotted fawn.

“It’s all right,” Teresa said quickly. “I won’t let him near you.” She took the boy’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Step by step, they backed up, toward the horse. “The Spanish are protected,” she told her mother, just as a distraction. “They don’t die of the sarampión or viruela. They don’t worry about escarlatina.”

“Some of them do,” Plague said with a shrug. “Some of them can still get sick. And their slaves will certainly get very sick. Their slaves will burn and shake and that will make their owners very unhappy. In the meantime, we will go together into the next town, and then all the way to Mexico City. That is a place I love very much.”

“I won’t help you,” Teresa said. Get ready, she told the horse.

Her mother sighed and watched, and Teresa understood that Plague had limits. She or the boy had to go to him. Maybe they had to touch or be touched by him. Also, although Plague was clever and sly, he had forgotten about her baby sister. And his plan to sicken the Spanish slave hunters was not very persuasive. He hadn’t remembered that they would make her and Pomo slaves, too, and that the boy would also get sick. Why would she risk that for revenge? Plague did not know humans as well as he thought.

When Teresa could feel Horse’s breath on her neck, she turned and lifted Pomo to his back. Grabbing the horse’s mane, she scrambled up behind, and Horse wheeled, and then they were thundering on their way north and east across the desert plain. The path was gone now. They would have to use the sun and stars for direction.