—Where are you going? she asked.
—I am looking for the palace.
—Do you have faith?
—Oh yes, I pray to the Virgin Mary everyday.
—Then I will help you. A witch has stolen your mirror.
—What can I do? he asked.
—Down the road you will find a cat. Put it in your sack and take it with you. Then go back to the king’s palace and tell the cooks you are a baker. Put your wedding ring in a cake and send it to Princess Blanca.
Trino did as he was told. He found the cat and put it in his sack, then he went to the king’s palace. Preparations were under way for Princess Blanca to marry Prince Costa.
Trino went to the kitchen and asked the cooks if he could help bake the pastries for the wedding feast.
Trino baked pies and cakes. In one cake he hid his wedding ring, and he told the servants to take it to Blanca.
—Tell her to taste it right away. It’s the most delicious one I’ve baked.
When Blanca cut the cake she found Trino’s ring. She knew it was a message from Trino, and she sat down to cry. She did not want to marry Prince Costa, but she couldn’t disobey her father.
One evil lady who watched over the princess immediately went to tell the witch that a cook had sent Blanca a ring hidden in a cake.
—Who is the cook? asked the witch.
—It is a native from one of the Indian pueblos, she replied.
—Aggggh! cried the angry witch. She knew Trino had returned. She had spent all her time secluded in her room, guarding the magic mirror. But now she had to act.
—Capture him! Capture him! she shouted. Throw him in the dungeon!
The guards shivered in horror. They knew the witch had filled the basement with rats. They were so hungry they would attack a man and kill him.
They had to do as ordered, so they seized Trino and threw him in the basement. Instantly the hungry rats jumped to attack him. Trino opened his sack and showed them the cat.
—Aiii! cried the rats. Don’t let the cat loose! He will eat us up! Spare us, spare us!
—I will, said Trino, but you must go to the witch’s room and bring back the mirror that hangs by her bed.
The rats went in a row, through holes in the walls, and they found the witch’s room. She was sleeping, and they quietly took the mirror and delivered it to Trino.
Trino rubbed the mirror and the jinni appeared.
—I am at your command, he said. Tell me what to do.
—I want you to bring back my palace, bigger and more beautiful than before. Make the bridge wider and stronger. Take the witch who stole my mirror where no one will ever see her again.
As fast as a blink, everything he ordered was done. And as the sun rose the king looked out his window and saw the palace on the bridge.
—Look! he cried, the palace has returned. Is it real or a dream?
—It is real, said Blanca, and I do not have to marry Prince Costa.
They ran to the shining palace and Trino came out to greet them. Blanca was overjoyed to be reunited with her husband.
—How did this happen? asked the king.
Trino showed him the mirror.
—This is a magic mirror. Costa had the witch steal it from Blanca. Now it is rightfully returned to me. Ask me for anything and I will deliver it to you. I will protect you from your enemies.
The king was so happy he prepared a feast that lasted eight days. Trino brought his mother and introduced her to Blanca and the king. It is said they lived happily ever after.
As for Prince Costa, he disappeared, and no one has heard from him since.
NINETEEN
The Governor was laughing heartily by the end of the story.
“That’s a wonderful story! And you have placed the story along the Río Grande, with a Native as the protagonist. How creative. Is this happening? Are the cuentos being shared by the people?”
“Yes,” replied Serafina. “The stories are being shared. Doesn’t it make sense that we should put some of our men as heroes in the stories?”
“Yes, it does. It makes complete sense. This sharing of the stories could be the best thing that has ever happened to us. Do the Españoles appear in your legends?”
“Yes,” said Serafina, “but not often as heroes.”
“Ah, I see.” The Governor nodded. “There’s the rub. We see ourselves as heroes, but others don’t. Well, Trino’s story is delightful nevertheless. Now you must rest. Tomorrow we ride.”
He walked her to the door and wished her good night. Doña Ofelia appeared and led her to her room, and as soon as the old woman was gone Serafina went to bed.
The cry of coyotes in the hills lulled Serafina to sleep. She dreamed horses of many colors, but then the images shifted and she saw a burning castle, heard the cries of people. In the distance the Governor rode away, carrying with him a tattered flag, the banner of Governor don Juan de Oñate.
The following morning la Villa de Santa Fé awoke to fresh snow on the ground. Chidren rushed out to play in the snow, followed by their barking dogs that also frolicked in the white powder. Smoke poured from chimneys, lending the fragrance of burning piñon and cedar to the air.
Hardy men left their homes to milk cows and collect eggs in the hen houses. Determined hunters headed for the hills to hunt. The snow would drive the deer herds into the lower cañones.
In spite of the snow, or maybe because of it, a spirit of joy seemed to infuse the inhabitants. Yes, it was cold and the adobe huts were difficult to keep warm. The winter provisions, which consisted of deer and buffalo jerky, corn and wheat flour, were running low. Still, they welcomed the cleansing snow, the promise of moisture it brought to the fields.
A few of the residents gathered to observe the trial. Most knew the ninth prisoner would be set free, but what drew out the Governor’s enemies was the gossip. Last night the Governor had dinner with the Indian woman, they whispered.
“A disgrace!” one man clamored. “Consorting with the enemy is an act of treason!”
Treason! Those who hated the Governor repeated the word. Now they could use his relationship with Serafina against him. He was not carrying out his duties to protect the colony, they said. It was this faction that had reported the Governor’s actions to the agent of the Inquisition in Santo Domingo.
Wrapped in buffalo robes they stood huddled in front of the porch. The storm had passed, and even though the temperature hovered below freezing, the New Mexican sun shone brightly. By noon it would be warm enough for the men to cut firewood and for the women to visit their neighbors.
The four remaining prisoners were led forward, then the Governor appeared. Smiling, dressed in stylish cotton pantaloons, white shirt, and a leather jacket, he cut an imposing figure.
He asked for the charges to be read against the man from Picuris, listened to the defense, and then pronounced the man free. Murmurs of dissension were whispered by his enemies as they moved away. The Governor took no notice. When the prisoners passed by him he stopped Serafina.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Serafina glanced at the snow-covered hills, their slopes dotted with green junipers and piñon trees. Beyond those hills, a few hours’ ride by horse, lay her pueblo.
“We will go at a walking pace,” he added. “It’s safe.”
“I have only to change into the riding dress,” she answered.
“Gaspar will escort you to the horses,” said the Governor. “We will ride within the hour.” He strode toward the corrals, whistling a tune.
As Serafina turned to follow the guard she spied a crestfallen Fray Tomás standing alone in the middle of the plaza. He looked at her with resignation, then walked back to the chapel.
Within the hour, Gaspar and Serafina appeared at the corral behind the Governor’s residence. Juanito, the stable boy, had finished tacking up. The Governor’s two dogs, eager for the excursion, chased each other around the corral, agitating the Governor’s already nervous
stallion.
The Governor smiled when he saw Serafina. She looked as beautiful as any Spanish lady in the riding dress. More beautiful. Her bronzed beauty seemed to emanate from the land itself.
“You look lovely, señorita,” the Governor gallantly greeted her.
Gaspar frowned. “Will that be all, Your Excellency?” he asked.
“Yes, Gaspar. Thank you.”
Gaspar glanced at Serafina, then walked away. He would have given his right arm to be the one riding with Serafina. But he did not have the authority of the Governor, and he didn’t even own a horse.
“Come,” the Governor said, holding out his hand. “It’s quite safe. Juanito will hold the mare. You mount from this side. Use this bench. There. Now foot on stirrup, and up you go.”
He handed her the reins. “Hold this tight. Don’t pull. The mare is well trained; she knows what to do. If she decides to move from a walk to a trot, you can hold her back with the reins.”
“I understand,” Serafina replied, and the Governor mounted his steed, a nervous red stallion that pranced and snorted and swirled in a circle.
“They’re eager for the run!” exclaimed the Governor, exuberant and clearly happy that Serafina had agreed to ride with him. The fresh snow on the ground, the morning air crisp and the sun shining brightly, the scent of burning wood in the air, the fragrance of the horses, all the senses responded and seemed to come alive.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The Governor nodded and the stable boy opened the gate. Out they went, the horses trembling with excitement, plumes of frosted air exploding from their nostrils. Their snorting and whinnies were answered by other horses kept in the distant pastures.
Frowning eyes followed the exit of the Governor and Serafina as they rode out of the villa and up into the hills. How dare he ride with the Indian girl! A prisoner! Leaving the business of the colony unattended! The viceroy in Mexico City would hear about this. Many harsh letters condemning the Governor and asking for his removal would be in the mail when the oxen-drawn caravan went south that spring.
The Governor noticed nothing. This morning he was full of joy.
“The land holds magic,” he cried, smiling.
“Yes,” replied Serafina, getting the feel of the mare, pulling softly on the reins to see how sensitive a tug was needed for her to respond.
“There’s no view of the world like the view from a horse,” said the Governor. All his life he had been a horseman, a caballero. In distant times he would have been a knight.
The Governor’s horse pranced and snorted, its muscles and sinews bulging with power, eager to run. He made the stallion rear up and turn smartly on its hind legs.
“See this wide arroyo,” he pointed at the cañada that ran down between two hills. “It’s sandy and clean. Very good for a run. I’m giving my horse its rein for a quarter mile. You wait here. The mare will try to follow. Hold her back tight.”
With that he spurred the stallion and it bolted forward, thrusting its power into the run it had awaited since they left the corral.
The mare whinnied and started forward, but Serafina didn’t hold her. She pressed her legs into the soft flanks and the mare quickly went from a canter into a full gallop. The wind tore Serafina’s black hair free, and for a moment she felt the freedom she hadn’t known in days.
The Governor turned, startled at first, thinking the mare had been spooked and would throw its rider. He pulled his horse to a stop and yelled, “Olé! Cuidado!”
But Serafina pressed the mare, clearly not holding on but racing with expertise. She passed the startled Governor who recovered and gave chase.
Up the cañada they raced, the pounding of the hooves raising clods of sand and snow, the stallion and the mare breathing heavy, the sound of their bodies filling the silence.
Serafina let out a loud cry, a piercing cry of war. Free at last her long, joyful cry seemed to say. At the end of the cañada lay a path into the foothills, a path she knew well. There would be a camp there where her father and other scouts waited. They would hear the horses, and they would be ready.
The Governor, too, raced, afraid Serafina would be thrown from the mare. But quickly he realized Serafina wasn’t in danger. She was an expert horsewoman. Where had she learned to ride like that? Native women were not supposed to know how to ride. This did not bode well.
“Stop!” he cried, and still Serafina raced on, the mare hot and thundering under her, as glad to be running as her rider.
The Governor spurred his horse, but already the heavy stallion was winded. In a few minutes Serafina would leave him far behind.
They were almost at the end of the wide arroyo when Serafina held up and brought the mare to a stop. The surprised Governor rode up panting, not knowing what to say. She sat on the mare like a warrior, her black hair falling around her shoulders, breathing hard.
They looked at each other in a new way, as two who had shared something special. She was his equal on horseback, an ability he admired.
“You ride well,” said the Governor.
“I could ride all day, but I think the mare has thrown a shoe. She started to limp on her right foreleg.”
The Governor alighted and helped Serafina down. Then he lifted the mare’s foreleg and checked the shoe. The shoe was fine, the hoof clean. He had not seen the mare limp, still he checked the other hooves.
“Everything’s in order,” he said, drawing a deep breath. He looked at the end of the wide arroyo. There at the top of the incline lay the road to the northern pueblos. He thought he saw a man move in the rocks at the top.
He turned to Serafina. She was looking in the same direction.
“Perhaps it is a sore ligament,” he said.
“Yes.” Serafina nodded, breathing hard, a sheen of perspiration on her face.
“Let’s go back at a walk,” he said.
He turned his horse and she followed, walking their horses slowly back toward the villa.
As they rode, the Governor wondered again where Serafina had learned to ride. Had the mare really come up lame, or had Serafina stopped her? He knew that in a few minutes she could have escaped.
The snow sparkled on the hills. The piñon and juniper trees dotted the hillsides, and above them rose the majestic Sierra Madre, the mountains the setting sun turned red as the blood of Christ. Clouds gathered on the peaks. Perhaps it would snow again. In the meantime the evergreen trees seemed to loosen their scent and their fragrance filled the air.
Content with the beauty around them, the two rode into the plaza.
That evening, when Serafina returned to have dinner with the Governor, doña Ofelia noticed something different in their relationship. Yes, the Governor was as polite as ever, but he seemed more relaxed. And Serafina kept her usual poise and noble bearing, but she did not seem so much on her guard, so distant.
Ah, thought the old woman as she served dinner, the Governor is deluded if he thinks he has found a daughter. Serafina will return to her pueblo. She will never become a Castillo.
Dinner ended and Serafina sat in a chair in front of the fireplace. The Governor sat across from her as she began her story.
TWENTY
Belda and the Beast
There was a man who had three daughters. Two were mean and so wasteful they spent every penny their father had. Belda, the youngest, was kind.
That summer the father received a summons, demanding that he appear immediately in the city to settle his debts. When he was leaving, he asked his daughters what gifts he could bring them.
The two eldest daughters asked for many expensive presents.
—If you pass by a garden bring me a flower, Belda said.
The poor man saddled his horse and hurried to the city to answer the summons. It was late by the time his business was completed and he had bought gifts for his two eldest daughters. On the way home it grew dark, and he lost the way. Spying a light in the forest, he followed it and was surprised to find a wond
erous palace hidden in the trees.
He put his horse in the stable and entered the deserted palace. In a huge dining hall he found a large table set with all kinds of food. He ate supper and fell asleep.
In the morning the table was set for breakfast; he ate and went out to saddle his horse. As he was passing through the garden he stopped to admire the beautiful flowers.
—Dear Lord, he said, I had forgotten that Belda asked me for a flower. He reached out and cut a rose.
At that moment a huge, horrible beast appeared.
—For taking my flower, I am going to kill you and eat you, roared the beast.
The frightened man fell to his knees.
—Don’t kill me, cried the man. I have three daughters who depend on me. At least allow me to go and tell my daughters I must die.
—I will let you go, replied the beast, but I must have one of your daughters instead of you. Go and ask your daughters which one wants to die in your place. I’ll give you eight days to return with her. Take this bag full of gold coins as a gift to them.
Sadly the man took the bag, got on his horse, and hurried home. When he told his daughters what had happened, the two eldest daughters were only interested in the money.
It was Belda who spoke.
—I will gladly die once and a thousand times for you, father.
So it was decided, and on the eighth day Belda and her father traveled to the beast’s palace. The place was deserted, but the table was set with delicious dishes. They ate and rested and at eight o’clock the beast appeared.
—Have you chosen to die in your father’s place? he asked.
—Yes, replied Belda. She was not frightened of the beast.
The father was sent away, and Belda was led to a bedroom where she slept. The following day she spent the day alone, wandering about the palace. In the afternoon she found the table set with food and was eating dinner when the beast appeared.
—You’re not afraid of me, are you?
—No, Belda replied.
—May I stay and watch you eat?
—Will you join me? she asked.