Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

  He sat back and read what he had written, surprised he could put his thoughts into words. Then he read the paragraph to Lorenza.

  “Muy bien.” She looked at him in the rearview mirror.

  The first migrants onto the land were the Anasazis, the ancient people, ancestors of the Pueblo Indians. They had described the sacred mountains, rivers, springs, hills, caves. Sonny drew a map of the pueblos that existed before the coming of the Spaniards.

  Sonny looked up from his notes. “Owl Woman came from the pueblos.”

  “It’s a connection most Nuevos Mexicanos have.”

  “Los abuelos, grandparents. Don Eliseo is like an abuelo to me.”

  “He is a kind man. Wise in the old ways.”

  Sonny could see her face in the mirror. Her dark eyes glanced at him, then back at the road. She was a very attractive woman. Her black hair flowed around her shoulders, framing a warm tan face with high cheekbones, arched eyebrows, full lips. When she smiled, she licked her teeth with the tip of her tongue. But the most attractive thing about her were her eyes. They held mysteries.

  Now as Sonny looked at her, he remembered how physically attracted he had been to her when she performed the ceremony that took him into the world of his coyote spirit. He had responded to her as a woman. Hormones moved in his blood, sweet fragrances touched his nostrils. The attraction was something both had learned to keep in check.

  Lord, if I didn’t have Rita, I’d proposition her. Sonny smiled, and the thought made him feel good. For months he hadn’t been interested in the world around him. He clung to Rita because she brought love and food. Women and food came together. Why not? His mother’s rich milk was the first food he tasted on earth. She was a good cook; she always saw to it that he and Armando ate well. Later in life he discovered sex, and eating seemed to come with it. He often felt aroused when he ate with Rita, perhaps because they often ate in bed together. Food and sex.

  He would marry her, they would eat many meals together, and children would be born not only of sperm and ovum, but also from beans, tortillas, chile verde in the summer, red chile enchiladas, huevos con papas fritas, meat stew. Red chile smothering ham and turkey for Thanksgiving, natillas for dessert, biscochitos for Christmas, lenten food for Semana Santa. Children conceived embodied the food of the people, the food of the season. To make love was to eat, to eat was to make love.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “You’re always hungry.” Lorenza smiled.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know a lot about you, Sonny Baca.”

  “I’d better watch my thoughts.”

  “Watch your dreams. Rita says you eat everything she serves.”

  “She’s a good cook.”

  “She’s also a very good dish.” Lorenza was teasing.

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “I’ll feed you as soon as we get to Santa.” She winked in the mirror. “Not as good as Rita’s, I’m sure. What about the Romeros?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be of much help. He’s the mayor of Santa Fé, a millionaire. I think it’s a kidnap/ransom thing. Anyway, no sense in going hungry to the job.”

  “You’re right about that. Roberto Mondragon used to have a restaurant near the plaza. I’ll look for it.”

  “Bueno.”

  He looked out at the barren landscape, the rolling hills tawny in the winter, dotted with juniper trees, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains rising blue over Santa Fé, the high peaks covered with blue clouds that presaged a storm. To the west the clouds also gathered around the Jemez peaks. The kachina spirits of rain and snow gathering on the mountains. The place was sacred, divine with the light of the sun that made the hills glow with a biblical light of redemption.

  He had seen photographs of the light of the setting sun shining on Jerusalem, on Toledo, Mecca, Machu Picchu. The light blessed the sacred places, like the light shining across the sage of the Taos llano and its mountains. It was the light of New Mexico that drew the original inhabitants, drew prayers, drew artists, brought holy people and hippies alike searching for the center. Light at the center of the universe, even here on the road to Santa Fé, the light of the approaching winter solstice glowed and brought the winter earth to life. Beneath the frozen earth lay the spirit touched by light, and the spirit responded by absorbing the light and giving it back to the viewer.

  Buzz of life, Sonny thought.

  “I’ll call Rita and tell her where we’re headed.” He dialed Rita at her restaurant, explained what they had found in the library and how it might just be connected to the Romeros’ missing daughter. He gave her their number in Santa Fé and asked her if she could monitor his answering machine at home. Raven, he thought, might be calling. And he told her to be careful.

  “Rita says to take care,” he said as he clicked off the phone.

  “We will,” Lorenza replied.

  He could smell faint traces of her perfume in the van, and a faint aroma of sweet herbs that clung to her. Ah, yes, he thought, we will.

  “Sixteen ten, Governor Peralta moved the capital to Santa Fé,” Sonny said, entering the note in his notebook. “Raven was there.”

  Lorenza nodded. “Probably. It was the beginning of a new era for the manitos.”

  Sonny read on, making notes as he read.

  From 1610 to 1680 a great missionary spirit would fill the Franciscan friars of New Mexico. They wanted souls for Jesucristo, but in the process they would also teach the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico a great deal of Hispanic culture. Language; use of iron, horse, sheep, and cattle; and the arts of the church, music and the making of santos and retablos. The Pueblos would accept much, even accepting some of the saints of the church into their kachina pantheon. The saints would become guardian ancestral spirits who joined the old kachinas to do good and bring rain to the earth of the Pueblos.

  The problem lay not with the Indians; it was the friars’ missionary zeal that drove them to destroy the ceremonial kivas and to burn masks, fetishes, and other paraphernalia. Dances and the handling of snakes were prohibited. The Holy Office of the Inquisition, which was headquartered in Santo Domingo Pueblo, commanded the friars to beat and hang those medicine men who resisted conversion from their old ways into the Catholic religion.

  “The Bringer of Curses,” Sonny thought aloud.

  “Qué?”

  “A rift between the religion of the friars and the religion of the Pueblos. There was even a bitter struggle between the Spanish civil authorities and the church. Greed and pride led them practically to blows. The Pueblo Indians, caught in the middle, suffered. Oñate instituted the encomienda system, so the head of each Indian household had to pay tribute in corn and blankets. With repartimiento the Indians were forced to work the Spaniards’ fields.”

  “Spanish gentlemen didn’t like to soil their hands in the earth,” Lorenza said. “Repartimiento was another word for slavery.”

  “Smallpox, measles, cholera, whooping cough decimated the Pueblos.… Talk about curses.”

  Sonny went on recounting the history until they drove into Santa Fé. Downtown and around the plaza the Christmas decorations were already hung. An overcast sky turned the day chilly; still, tourists wandered around the plaza. Many came from Texas, California, New York, to ski, to vacation, to revel in the southwestern atmosphere.

  Lorenza circled the plaza once. “Roberto’s gone, but we can get French cuisine.” The street was lined with coffee shops and delis catering to tourists.

  “The tourists want continental,” Sonny replied.

  “New people, new age. In La Fonda you can get a psychic reading while you drink your margarita. There’s little room left for traditional curanderas.”

  “But you’re not traditional,” Sonny said.

  The traditional curandera his mother had taken him to when he was a child was a little old woman dressed in black. She smelled of osha. She did simple healing with prayers, massage, and candles. She didn’t practice the kind of craft Lor
enza knew; she didn’t dream of entering the powerful world of spirits. And she sure didn’t look like Lorenza.

  Under the portal of the Palace of the Governors, vendors sat on blankets, selling their jewelry. Good-looking gringas dressed to the hilt in the Santa Fé style were shopping. Silver and turquoise made beautiful Christmas gifts for those back home.

  “Ah, here’s one.” Lorenza pointed at the small cafe on a side street. “You ready for a snack?”

  “I’m always ready,” Sonny replied. They parked and entered and ate what Sonny described as “some of the best” posole con menudo he ever had, spiced with red chile from Puerto de Luna. The sopaipillas were not crisp enough for his taste, but then only Rita’s sopaipillas pleased him. For dessert, sweet rice pudding and coffee.

  From the bearded waiter they got directions to the Romeros’ home, a chic place on the eastern foothills. Lorenza parked in the graveled driveway, and Sonny let his chair down on the lift and rolled toward the front door.

  Arturo Romero, a stocky man in his forties dressed in a blue suit and red tie, answered the door. “Welcome. Please come in. We’ve been expecting you. I am glad you could come, Mr. Baca. I didn’t know—” He indicated Sonny’s chair.

  “Had a little accident,” Sonny replied, and introduced Lorenza.

  Arturo led them into a large living room decorated with an enormous Christmas tree and many presents, which, Sonny guessed, might not be opened this Christmas. Chimayó rugs covered the Saltillo tiled floors, and expensive santero pieces filled the nichos. One, a large Muerte in her cart by Patrociño Barela, stood by the fireplace. The mayor had good taste, expensive taste.

  One corner contained an altar with the statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe, brightly decorated with lighted votive candles. Eloisa and Arturo had been praying for their daughter’s safe return.

  Eloisa Romero entered, and her husband introduced Sonny and Lorenza. If Consuelo bears any resemblance to her mother, Sonny thought, then she’s a beautiful girl. Even pale and drawn as Eloisa was from worry, her New Mexican beauty shone through. Sonny figured they were in their forties, and Arturo Romero had the Santa Fé business world by the tail, until yesterday.

  Eloisa greeted Sonny and Lorenza warmly and thanked them profusely for coming. It was clear she had been crying. When the greetings were over, they sat, and Sonny asked them to recount what had happened.

  Arturo took the initiative. “The parishioners from the Santuario put on Los Pastores every year. You know, the play of the shepherds going to the birth of Jesús. Consuelo was going to play the part of Gila, the shepherd girl. She went to the church to practice. There has been a rash of rape cases lately, so I stayed up. When I saw her car lights shine in the driveway, I went to bed. I thought she was home, safe—”

  “Nothing like this has ever happened,” Eloisa interrupted. “We know everyone. Now this.” She touched the crumpled handkerchief to her eyes. Her husband reached out and held her hand.

  Sonny glanced at Lorenza. In the play Gila was a virgin on the way to the birth of Christ with other shepherds. Along the way the shepherds are tempted by Satan until St. Michael gets rid of the devil and the shepherds arrive in time to deliver humble gifts to the baby Jesús.

  “Had Consuelo been in the play before?” he asked.

  “No,” Eloisa continued. “It was her first time. She’s wanted to play the part of Gila since she was a little girl. She had memorized her lines. She was so proud.”

  “Doesn’t one of the shepherds try to steal Gila?” Sonny asked.

  “Yes, the hermit. He is tempted by the devil, and he thinks Gila loves him. When all are asleep, he tries to steal her, but she screams and awakens the other shepherds and they beat the hermit. He claims the devil made him do it.”

  “But they continue to the birth of Christ.”

  “Yes.”

  “Christ is born, bringing a message of love to the world. The shepherds are there. One more dream of peace is born—”

  “I don’t understand,” Arturo said, puzzled.

  Consuelo was playing the role of Gila in Los Pastores, Sonny thought. The morality play had been brought by the Españoles to New Mexico and performed every Christmas since then. With Consuelo gone, there was no Gila to attend the birth of Jesús. Was there a pattern here?

  “Tell me about your daughter.”

  Eloisa described her daughter. She was their only child, a junior at the Santa Fé Academy, straight-A student, loved by teachers and classmates. She was happy, planning for the play and Christmas, there was absolutely no reason why she would run away from home. No reason. Everyone at the church that night had been contacted by the police. They had last seen Consuelo leaving the church.

  “Do you have enemies?” Sonny asked, looking at Arturo.

  He shrugged. “I’m in politics, so one makes enemies. Those who really hate me are those who opposed my company creating the Romero Estates on the ski run road. The conservationists and water rights people fought tooth and nail to keep my company from developing the subdivision. Maybe since they couldn’t beat me in the courts, they took what is most precious in my life.”

  Sonny shook his head.

  “No, I don’t want to believe it, either. But if you can find our daughter, you can name your price, Mr. Baca.”

  Unlike the last mayor, who kept a check on the developers who gobbled up land and water, Arturo Romero was pro-development. Romero Estates had been in the courts for years, and recently, Sonny remembered, the courts had cleared the subdivision. The road to the ski run was priceless property, and the proposed condos and golf course would take a lot of water from an often thirsty and growing Santa Fé.

  Arturo Romero was a classic example of a Chicano entrepreneur who bought into the system whole hog. He was a multimillionaire. Had enough money to buy a lot of votes, as the gente said. That’s how the Jack Nicklaus golf course got built.

  But I didn’t come to judge the man, Sonny reminded himself. I came to see if I can help find the girl.

  “She drove home alone?” Sonny asked. “Her car?”

  “The blue Accord in the driveway,” Arturo replied. “The police say it hasn’t been disturbed. In other words, there was no sign of a struggle. She drove home, came in, then disappeared.”

  “And the black feathers?” Sonny asked.

  “They were on her pillow,” Eloisa whispered. “They’re evil.”

  “M’ija,” her husband cautioned, obviously not agreeing with her interpretation.

  “They are!” she insisted. “I took them and put them in a box. They feel evil.” She shivered.

  “May I see them?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She went out of the room, returned with a box, and handed it to Sonny. “It’s the work of the devil,” she said.

  Sonny opened the box. Yes, Raven’s calling card. “I can get rid of these,” he said, glancing at Lorenza, hoping the gesture would bring the parents some relief.

  “Yes, thank you,” Eloisa said. “It’s brujeria.” She made the sign of the cross. An intelligent, educated woman who together with her husband had made it to the top of the economic and political power of the city, and still she recognized the signs of evil.

  “Nonsense,” her husband interrupted. “It’s people who wish us harm. We’ve climbed to the top, and now the crabs are pulling us down. Frankly, Mr. Baca, the chief of police knows my enemies. He promised me he’s going to find my daughter.”

  “So why call me?”

  “My wife believes in witchcraft,” Arturo replied. “It was her desire to call you. You were recommended by the police chief as someone who knows about these things.” He looked coldly at Sonny and Lorenza, as if to say he didn’t believe, but added, “But as I told you, if you can help, you name your price. I only want to get my daughter back. I don’t care who does it or how it’s done. I only want it done quickly!”

  “We’re good Catholics,” Eloisa said. “We’ve worked hard for all we have, and we’ve tried to
help people. Why would anyone want to harm our daughter?”

  “To get to me,” her husband answered.

  “When did your family come to Santa Fé?” Sonny asked.

  Arturo raised an eyebrow, then answered haughtily: “According to the old church records my ancestors came with de Vargas. Many of the old families in Santa Fé date back to the reconquest of New Mexico in 1693. In fact, there were Romeros here with Oñate. Fray Angelico writes the same Romero family returned after the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. The Romero who came with de Vargas was a blacksmith. He married a woman from Taos. You see—”

  He pointed at the coat of arms over the fireplace.

  “I’ve done quite a bit of research into my family tree. I belong to a genealogical society. The Romeros were among the first Spanish families of Santa Fé. Many of the original families are related. Do you know your genealogy?”

  Owl Woman and Andres Vaca, Sonny thought, it began there.

  “I found out one of my first grandmothers was an Indian woman,” Sonny said.

  “Really?” Arturo raised an eyebrow. “Is there anything else?” he asked bluntly.

  “No, we’ve seen what we have to see,” Sonny answered. “Do you have a picture of Consuelo?”

  “Yes.” Eloisa went to the altar, took the photograph sitting at the foot of the Virgin, and handed it to Sonny.

  He looked at the lovely face of Consuelo. Lord, if he didn’t find her, Raven would keep her soul in his hell forever. He would initiate her into his evil circle to do his bidding.

  Raven had taken her at a crucial time: just as she was about to take part in the play about the birth of Christ. He would take three more according to don Eliseo. Raven was rebuilding his harem with the four women who represented Sonny’s grandmothers!