Serafina's Stories

  In the cave Juan found the third room. He forced open the heavy door and found the youngest sister. She was the most beautiful of the three, and the moment Juan saw her he fell in love with her.

  —What is your name? he asked.

  —I am Celestina, the youngest daughter of the king. Who are you and what are you doing here?

  —I am Juan del Oso and I have come to free you from this evil enchantment.

  —You must run away, she cried. A venomous serpent guards this room! It will kill you!

  —I saved your two sisters, Juan replied, and I intend to save you.

  A loud hiss filled the room as the huge snake uncoiled and struck at Juan. Juan jumped to the side and hit the snake with his staff. He froze with fear when he realized the serpent had seven heads, each with fangs that dripped with venom.

  Juan said the prayer his mother had taught him, and that gave him the courage to fight. The serpent tried to wrap itself around Juan and suffocate him, but he kept striking at the heads until he had crushed each one.

  When the serpent lay dead Celestina spoke.

  —You have saved me and my sisters, she said. Now you must be rewarded. If you take us to our father, who is a great king, he will make you a rich man. And he will give one of us to you as a wife.

  —That is a worthy prize, Juan replied. But he might ask for proof that I rescued you.

  —Cut the tongue from each serpent head and take it to him, Celestina instructed.

  —What else? asked Juan.

  —I give you my ring, she said. My father will recognize it and know you are my savior.

  Juan put the serpents’ tongues and the ring in the pocket that held the Devil’s ear. Then he took Celestina to the rope, tied it around her waist, and rang the bell. Instantly Moves Rivers and Moves Mountains pulled her up.

  When they saw they had three lovely young women who were the daughters of a king they decided to collect the reward for themselves and abandon Juan in the cave.

  When Juan tied the rope around his waist and rang the bell nothing happened. His two friends had escaped with the three girls, leaving him a prisoner in the Devil’s cave.

  Many days and nights passed and Juan grew very hungry. He remembered the Devil’s ear and thought he might eat it. He pulled the ear from his pocket.

  —It’s your fault I’m going to die in this cave, he said. He took a bite of the ear but it was very tough.

  —You’re not even good to eat! Juan shouted and threw the ear on the ground.

  A puff of smoke exploded and the Devil appeared in the form of the dwarf Juan had followed to the cave days ago.

  —Thank you for returning my ear to me, said the Devil. In return I will grant you three wishes.

  —I want to be out of here, Juan commanded, and instantly he found himself outside the cave.

  —I need food and water.

  A table laden with food and jars of fresh water appeared before him. When he had eaten Juan asked the Devil what had happened to the girls he had rescued from the cave.

  —Your two friends took the girls to their father the king. He had promised whoever found them could marry his daughters. The two eldest daughters are ready to marry your friends as we speak.

  —Take me there, said Juan, and in a flash he found himself in a large reception hall where the wedding was about to take place.

  Celestina instantly recognized Juan.

  —Father! she cried. This is the man who rescued me from the cave.

  —How can that be? responded the king. Have Moves Rivers and Moves Mountains lied to me?

  —They have, she answered.

  —Step forward, the king said to Juan. How is it you can appear from out of nowhere? What do you seek?

  —My name is Juan del Oso, replied Juan, and I came to reclaim my honor. Moves Rivers and Moves Moutains lied to you. It was I who rescued your daughters from the Devil’s cave. I killed the giant, the tiger, and the seven-headed serpent.

  The wedding guests gasped in astonishment.

  —Can you prove this? asked the king.

  —Here are the seven tongues of the serpent, replied Juan, and he took the tongues from his pocket and threw them on the floor. And here is Celestina’s ring.

  —Yes, that is her ring, said the king, convinced that Juan had rescued his daughters and that Moves Rivers and Moves Mountains were impostors. He ordered his guards to lock them up.

  —I beg you, wise king, give me Celestina for my wife, said Juan.

  The king looked at his daughter.

  —I accept this brave young man who rescued me from the evil spell, she replied. She took his hand.

  They were married that same day. The king gave Juan half of his fortune. Later Juan and Celestina traveled in a splendid coach to visit his mother and grandparents. The entire town came out to greet them, for by now Juan’s adventures were well known. Juan built a beautiful home there at the foot of Taos Mountain where perhaps they live today.

  THREE

  When Serafina finished the story the governor sighed with satisfaction. He had heard the story before; it was part of the repertoire of folktales of the people. To New Mexicans the adventures of Juan del Oso were well known.

  But he had never heard tales from such a spellbinding storyteller. Her tone, the rhythms in her voice, and her presence had allowed his mind to drift into the story. He felt he was there with Juan as he rescued the three princesses from their entrapment.

  Storytelling was the principal entertainment for New Mexican families. Reciting cuentos from the vast storehouse of folktales was an art in which Serafina excelled. As he listened to her he felt the burdensome responsibility of being governor lifted. His eyelids had grown heavy as he relaxed and let his imagination carry him to the final scene at the castle.

  “Very good,” he muttered, “very good. You have a gift for storytelling.”

  He stood, went to the door, and called the guard.

  “Gaspar,” he said to the young man, “take the prison—” He paused. “Return Serafina to the stockade.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” replied the guard. He led her out of the room, leaving a very relaxed Governor thinking how much he had enjoyed the story. He stumbled to his bed and slept a peaceful sleep.

  The next morning the crowing of a rooster awakened the Governor. He got up, stretched, and looked around him.

  “What a wonderful sleep,” he said.

  He recalled the events of the previous night. The Indian girl, Serafina, was a delightful storyteller. He hadn’t slept so soundly in months.

  Smiling and humming a simple tune, he washed and dressed, then ate his breakfast. He ate like a bear after a long winter’s sleep.

  He then went out to attend to the day’s business. Already the prisoners were lined up under the portal. Don Alfonso, the secretary, had set up a small table on the frozen ground to record the proceedings; the officers stood nearby. Behind the prisoners it seemed the entire villa of Santa Fé had gathered to watch, the men stamping their feet on the frozen earth, the women pulling their tapalos tightly around their heads.

  The Governor said good morning to his officers and sat next to don Alfonso. It was a bright and sunny day on the high plateau of Santa Fé. By noon the sun’s warmth would lift the spirits of the paisanos. Women could wash and hang clothes out to dry; the men could replenish wood piles.

  “I have made a list of the prisoners in the order they will be tried,” whispered don Alfonso to the Governor.

  “Thank you,” said the Governor, looking at the list. “Place the girl at the end.”

  He looked at the prisoners until his eyes rested on Serafina. The wager! He had promised to free the man on trial if her story pleased him!

  Now her gaze held his. Will you keep your promise? her eyes seemed to ask. But it was a silly bet. Surely he couldn’t set one of the rebels free. There was a group of residents within the villa that didn’t agree with his administration. They were friends of the governor he had replace
d, a very wicked man. These enemies would call for his resignation if he set a prisoner free.

  But the girl had won the bet. She had told a story that had not only entertained him, but had also brought a welcome rest.

  And there was the matter of honor. A Spaniard’s word was his honor, and he had given his word.

  But he hadn’t expected to lose. He had laughed at her when she said she would trade a story for the freedom of one of the prisoners.

  “Your Excellency,” the secretary whispered, breaking the spell that held the Governor. “It is time to proceed with the trial. Shall I read the charges?”

  The Governor nodded.

  “Will the prisoner known as Popé come forward,” said the secretary. A dark, stocky man of about forty stepped out of the line.

  “This man currently resides in the Pueblo of Taos. He is a known rabblerouser. Capitán Márquez will act as his attorney, but there is little defense to be offered. All twelve have been charged with plotting insurrection.”

  The Governor did not respond. He had returned his gaze to Serafina.

  The secretary continued, turning to the captain who had been apppointed to offer a defense for the prisoners. “What say you, Capitán Márquez?”

  Capitán Márquez cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I, Capitán Horacio Gómez Márquez, assigned to be guardian and defense attorney for the Indians, come to beg for clemency from Your Excellency. I have explained the charge against the prisoner through the interpreter, although I am sure the prisoner speaks or at least understands the Castillian language quite well. I have asked the prisoner to call witnesses on his behalf. He replies that he has no witnesses to call.”

  Here Capitán Márquez paused and looked in the direction of a group of Pueblo Indians huddled against a wall by the south side of the plaza. They had been allowed to enter the villa to witness the trial so that they could report the results of Spanish justice back to their pueblos.

  It was not unusual for men from the various pueblos to come in and out of the villa during the day. Some came to trade, some to work for Fray Tomás at the church, some to see their wives, who worked in the homes of the Españoles.

  Capitán Márquez spoke. “The Pueblos have sent representatives to report back to their elders, but none has stepped forward to testify for the prisoner.”

  The Governor cleared his throat. He had followed the gaze of the captain. “Well, if they have no witnesses in their defense, how does the man plead?”

  Capitán Márquez remained silent for a moment. He had been assigned to defend the Indians, but they had been uncooperative. They claimed to have met as a group to discuss grievances they proposed to forward to the Governor.

  “Well, I have little to say in defense of the prisoner. He is a known leader of those who speak of insurrection. According to our informant, who cannot be identified for his own safety, this group has gathered to plot an attack on our settlements.”

  “How reliable is the informant?” asked the Governor.

  “As you know, Your Excellency, sometimes the information is true. But sometimes it is grounded in hearsay, or jealousies, or family feuds. One can never be sure.”

  “Very well, continue,” said the Governor.

  “Well, the natives complain that we have taken much corn and many blankets from them. They say they are suffering from the severe cold. If this can be proven to be true, and they assembled simply to petition the Governor, then I can only ask that Your Lordship show clemency.”

  Some in the crowd nodded; others shook their heads.

  “Show no pity!” a man shouted.

  Murmurs of dissent broke out.

  “How would I show clemency?” asked the Governor, raising his hand to quiet the crowd.

  “At best, don’t banish the man to Mexico. Make him work in servitude for a year here in the villa.”

  Again some in the crowd raised their voices. Yes, a year’s hard labor might cleanse thoughts of revolution from the prisoner.

  The Governor looked at Serafina. Her bright eyes again reminded him of their wager. For a moment he felt confused. Had he really lost the bet last night?

  “As I understand,” said the Governor, “the evidence against this man is based on hearsay. It is the word of our informant against his. Is that true?”

  Capitán Márquez nodded. “That is true, Your Excellency.”

  “Then what would be the greatest clemency we could offer the prisoner?”

  The captain looked surprised. “I suppose it would be freedom. Allowing him to go back to his pueblo with a stern warning.”

  Voices in the crowd rose to agree with that solution. A minority shouted no. The prisoner must be made an example. He must be punished.

  Having offered the only defense he could muster, Capitán Márquez stepped back.

  The secretary cleared his throat and spoke. “That concludes the presentation of evidence, Your Excellency. You must pass sentence.”

  The Governor looked at his secretary and nodded. Pass sentence? Exile the man to the mines of Zacatecas? Separate him forever from his family?

  Or let him go. Had the girl tricked him into the bet? No, she was a child, no older than fifteen. He had entered the transaction of his own accord.

  To free the man would be looked on as an act of mercy. That was what was needed most in the relations between the Indians and the Spaniards, an act of mercy.

  “We must be merciful,” the Governor muttered. The secretary thought he hadn’t heard correctly. Standing next to him, Fray Tomás nodded.

  “Merciful?” the secretary repeated.

  “Yes. I conclude the charges against this man have not been proven. As Capitán Márquez states, the charges are based on hearsay. I say we must set this man free.”

  He looked at Serafina and thought he saw a smile cross her lips. Some in the crowd nodded their assent. Yes, mercy should be shown. The Governor was right. In this way the natives would learn that there was forgiveness in the hearts of the Spanish settlers.

  Others in the crowd disagreed. This was a time to punish those who plotted the overthrow of the colony. Mercy, bah! That would only show weakness.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” muttered the secretary. “Are you saying free the prisoner?”

  The Governor stood. “Yes, free the prisoner.”

  “But Governor,” one of the captains protested, “the man is a rebel. He is accused of planning our downfall.”

  “I am sure there are many who speak against our rule of law,” the Governor responded. “Are we to banish every pueblo man from this land because he expresses his opinion? If I had evidence there was an actual plot that threatened the colony, I would be the first to stamp it out. And yes, punish the perpetrators. But in this case the evidence is lacking.”

  The Governor leaned and whispered to the secretary. “As for the other eleven prisoners, see that they are fed and allowed to bathe. Have doña Ofelia send the girl a clean dress to wear.”

  The Governor turned smartly and disappeared into his residence, leaving behind him the citizens of the villa arguing over his decision.

  The prisoner, cut loose from his shackles, went quickly to his countrymen who had come to observe the trial. As a group they quietly disappeared through one of the gates leading out of the plaza. Soon all the northern pueblos would know what had happened that morning.

  As for the residents of the villa, they would argue all day and deep into the night, debating the Governor’s verdict. Some argued that it was a good gesture of friendship toward their neighbors, others saw it as an expression of weakness. Still others thought the Governor had gone out of his mind.

  All asked, What will he do tomorrow when the second prisoner is tried?

  The Governor paid no attention to the turmoil he had created. He went about his business with renewed energy, inspecting the troops and in the afternoon supervising the cleaning of the horse corrals. That evening he ate a hearty supper, read the secretary’s prodeedings of t
he trial, then thought of going to bed.

  But he wasn’t sleepy. When the spring caravans travelled south, the Viceroy would learn he had freed the prisoner. The Governor had his enemies not only in Santa Fé but in Mexico City.

  A pox on my enemies, he thought. I did what I thought as right.

  The girl, he thought. Last night’s story had been such a delight. Did he dare tempt fate again? Why not? Listening to a story was far preferable to sitting in his office and reading the adventures of Don Quixote late into the night.

  He rose, lit a candle, and made his way to his office. Gaspar, the sentry, stood guard outside. The Governor instructed him to bring the girl to the office.

  “The storyteller,” the young guard said. The night before he had listened at the door and heard the girl telling the story of Juan del Oso.

  “Yes, the storyteller,” the Governor said.

  Minutes later, when the guard led Serafina into his office, the Governor was astounded by her beauty. She wore a white cotton dress, and her long black hair shimmered as it fell over the clean wool blanket doña Ofelia had provided. For a moment she reminded him of his wife, a woman of dark complexion with black hair. With a twinge of sadness he thought of their life together and the children they had never had.

  “Thank you, Gaspar,” said the Governor, dismissing the guard. “Come in by the fire,” he said to Serafina and drew her into the room and to a chair near the huge fireplace.

  “Have you been treated well?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Excellency. Doña Ofelia is very kind.”

  “It’s late. Did I disturb your sleep?”

  “No, Your Excellency. The sun has just set. It isn’t late.”

  “Here, the entire villa goes to sleep after dinner. Perhaps it’s different in your pueblo.”

  “We also follow the rhythms of the sun,” replied Serafina.

  “Well, candles are expensive,” said the Governor, motioning toward the candles that provided light in his office.

  “Thank you for releasing the prisoner,” she said.

  “Yes. Well, we made a bargain, I kept my word. Besides, there are certain political advantages to be gained from my action. And your story was like a good medicine I needed. But the medicine doesn’t last.”