“I didn’t like it,” Serafina said simply.
“But isn’t it a gift for the Governor?”
“Someday I will finish it,” Serafina said in a tone that told the old woman she would explain no further.
At that, Gaspar knocked on the door. It was time to deliver her to the trial.
Doña Ofelia touched her handkerchief to her eyes. “You’ve been like a daughter to me,” she whispered, following Serafina outside. She had not attended the previous trials, but today she felt the girl needed her at her side.
In his office the Governor paced back and forth, pausing to open the door a crack and peer outside.
“Dear God,” he whispered. It seemed as if the entire villa had turned out for today’s trial. The plaza was packed. Women in their Sunday clothes gossiped, the men smoked their pipes and discussed the pros and cons of the Governor’s actions, children scooted through the crowd, chasing each other in a game of tag, dogs barked.
The young men of the villa sat on their horses on the west end of the plaza, eagerly awaiting the appearance of Serafina. The nervous mounts quivered and snickered, prancing and turning with excitement. They snorted at the crisp morning air which carried the scent of horses in the corrals, and they whinnied, eager not for the trial but for the excitement of a run.
Under the portal, don Alfonso, the secretary and notary, had already set up his table and journals. He was ready to record the trial of Serafina as he had recorded those of the previous prisoners, but he too felt the uniqueness of the day as he looked out over the crowd.
The Governor saw don Alfonso whisper something to Capitán Márquez. Behind them stood Fray Mateo and his two assistants, ready to cart Serafina off to Santo Domingo as soon as the Governor freed her.
Then Serafina passed by and the Governor watched her take her seat at the table. Capitán Márquez leaned to say something, and she shook her head.
Ah, what regal bearing, thought the Governor. She is like a queen and we her mere servants.
“This will be a difficult day,” he whispered, and felt his heart pounding in his rib cage. Why do I hesitate? he thought. Is it Serafina who is on trial today? Or I?
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out on the portal. All turned in his direction, and a silence came over the crowd.
A strange thought passed through the Governor’s memory. He remembered riding in a rainstorm one day. A bolt of lightning had hit nearby, sending a deep, tingling sensation through his body. He felt a similar energy coursing through his body, a feeling created by those who waited for him, and by the serene look in Serafina’s eyes.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, breaking the spell. “It is a beautiful day.”
He looked toward the eastern foothills, and all followed his gaze.
“We have snow in the mountain, perhaps more will come and break the drought. Let us thank the Lord.”
He bowed his head and all did likewise. Silence filled the plaza, broken only by the bark of a dog, the low mooing of a cow that hadn’t yet been milked, the cry of two magpies that suddenly alighted on a tree at the far end of the plaza. Then all was silent again until the Governor spoke.
“Today we are gathered for the trial of the young woman known as Serafina. Her Indian name has not been revealed to us. According to the custom of her people she chooses not to tell us that name, and we respect her wishes. So, for all time she will be known simply as Serafina. Don Alfonso,” he said to the secretary. “Will you please enter the young woman’s name in your record and read the charges.”
Serafina stood to hear the accusation read.
The secretary scribbled Serafina’s name and the date in the leather-bound ledger, then read the indictment. As with the prior prisoners, Serafina was charged with planning a revolt against a colony of his royal majesty.
“Capitán Márquez,” the Governor said, nodding. “Will you present your defense.”
The captain stepped forward. “Your Excellency, the prisoner has requested that she be allowed to offer her own defense.”
A murmur of surprise floated through the crowd. The secretary started to protest but the Governor cut him off.
“You may present testimony on your own behalf,” said the Governor, looking at Serafina. “But are you sure you don’t want Capitán Márquez to present a defense?”
“The captain has very ably represented the other prisoners,” replied Serafina, “and because of that they are now free men …”
Capitán Marquez acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
“The prisoners freed know how to speak the language of Castile, but not well enough to stand before a judge and defend themselves. I have been schooled in your language,” said Serafina, “and so I am capable of defending myself.”
The Governor nodded. “True, you are very capable in our language. I see no reason why you should not present your own defense. But please be advised that the charges are serious. Are you willing to take the chance that you might not succeed in your defense?”
Another slight murmur rose from those assembled. The Governor was challenging her.
“Let the girl defend herself,” cried a man from the crowd, and the majority of those assembled took up the cry. “Yes, let her speak.”
Even the Governor’s enemies took up the cry. Yes, let her. Let her fall flat on her face. She had no training in law. Let her be sentenced and carted off to Santo Domingo to face the Inquisition.
The Governor held up his hand and asked for silence. “I am not averse to having the young woman represent herself,” he said. Turning to Serafina he nodded. “Very well, proceed.”
Serafina rose and looked at the audience, thankful for their support, aware also that a small antagonistic faction only wished her failure.
She had some knowledge of the people of the villa. During days of fiesta the people from the pueblos came to trade their corn, turkeys, and vegetables for the iron pots, pans, knives, axes, and buffalo robes.
Serafina had often visited the villa with her family, and so she knew the character of the Españoles, those they called Castillos. They were shrewd traders, but for the most part honest, hardworking people. On those days of fiesta there seemed to be no animosity between the Españoles and the natives. An air of goodwill filled the plaza as the people traded goods and visited with their neighbors.
The young people especially enjoyed the respite from work. The young men raced their horses around the villa. Single young women strayed away from their parents to watch the horsemanship.
After the races the young riders went to the river to water their horses, and they talked with the girls from the pueblos. There were few young women in the villa, so the boys enjoyed flirting with the Native girls.
There were a few pleasant memories in this mixture of cultures, thought Serafina. But now time and its consequences weighed heavily on her.
“Your Excellency,” she began. Then turning to the gathered crowd she spoke to them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you count on your calendar, eighty-two years ago your Governor Juan de Oñate first came with your ancestors to our land. Our people welcomed your ancestors. They had no home, they were tired and sick after their long journey. They had no food. At San Juan they were allowed to settle. Our people, of this valley you call Española, helped your ancestors by giving them corn and buffalo robes. Our people helped build homes and churches. Some of your ancestors took wives from our pueblos. We learned to speak your language and to use iron tools. You planted wheat to make tortillas; we learned to eat bread made of wheat.
“Now your ancestors are buried in this land. They have gone to your heaven. They rest in peace. But our ancestors do not rest in peace. They know that the friars do not allow us to conduct our ceremonies as we have from the beginning of time. Those strict rules of the friars are the reason we come to you and ask for relief.”
Here Serafina paused and looked at Fray Mateo. His face was as stern as a granite cliff.
Fray Tomás, on the other hand, nodded, as did others in the audience who were in sympathy with the natives.
A small group of elders from the pueblos stood huddled on the south side of the plaza. They listened carefully to her words, but they showed no expression.
“You have a law that says we must give to the civil authorities part of our corn crop each summer. That leaves our storehouses empty during the cold winter. You have a law that states our men must work in your fields during the summer. True, they are paid, but it means we can grow less to feed our families. During farming season many of our men must work building churches, so our fields go fallow.
“All this we have borne for eighty-two years, but we can bear it no longer. What you call religion is important to us. You think our religion is evil, but it is not. It is a way to honor our ancestors, to honor the cloud people who bring rain. Our ceremonies keep us alive.”
Fray Mateo jumped to his feet. “What the girl is describing is paganism. That is precisely why we abhor their ceremonies. They pray to masks and fetishes. They dance half naked during their Kachina dances. The church has sworn to stamp out such practices. No, it is not the friars at fault here. The natives insist on keeping their pagan ways. The girl has confessed as much.”
The Governor too jumped to his feet. “The accused is explaining the circumstances as she understands them. She has confessed to nothing, and I thank you not to interrupt the proceedings!”
Fray Mateo mumbled a protest and sat back down.
“You may continue,” the Governor said to Serafina.
“I am accused of following the ways of my people, and to that I confess,” Serafina said.
The crowd stirred uneasily. Most did not want the poor girl to hang herself with a confession. They only wanted her freed like the previous prisoners, so the tension the arrest of the twelve had created could be put behind them.
“But I have also learned your religion, and I pray to the Jesus and the Virgin. I pray to your saints.”
“That is not enough,” Fray Mateo mumbled. “You must renounce your pagan gods.”
“This is a civil trial,” said the Governor sternly. “If you interrupt again I am not above sending you in chains back to Santo Domingo!”
The crowd drew back in surprise. The Governor was being very forceful. Such an act would send vibrations all the way back to the Viceroy in Mexico City; indeed, to the king himself.
Fray Mateo glared at the Governor but said nothing.
“We must keep our ways if we are to survive as a people,” Serafina continued. “You know that we meet to discuss this problem. You know the elders of our pueblos have gone to the friars many times, seeking relief. I stand accused of meeting with the elders of my pueblo to discuss how best to bring the injustice we feel to your attention. Because I speak Castellano like you I was to be a representative of my people. I confess to that.”
A sigh of confusion flowed across the crowd. Had she confessed to plotting revolt?
Only Fray Mateo smiled at her words. As far as he was concerned immediatedly after the trial he could start back to Santo Domingo, taking the girl with him.
“But you must know,” Serafina continued, raising herself up to her full stature, projecting her voice to the farthest corners of the plaza. “You must know that a storm of protest is gathering in the pueblos. This is not a secret. Our elders, those we call our holy men, have seen the signs. Our ancestors speak to our elders. They say this is our land, and we must continue holding our ceremonies and dances as we see fit. If you do not listen to our elders, you will bring the storm upon yourselves. This is all I have to say.”
She sat and a hush came over the crowd. The scratching pen of the secetary stopped. In the alamos a raucous crow called, a dog barked. A woman or two in the crowd touched handkerchiefs to their wet eyes. The men who recognized the truth in Serafina’s words shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. It seemed an eternity before the Governor stood.
“We know what Serafina says has some truth to it,” he said, looking out at the crowd. “But we also know that we have come to this land to bring civilization and the word of God. Our faith is very strong. Our desire to make this land our home is no longer contestable. As the prisoner has stated, we have been here eighty-two years. Our children and our children’s children have grown up here. In our cemeteries rest our parents and grandparents. Shall we renounce our history in this land?”
The crowd shook their heads. No, they could no longer give up their homeland, the kingdom of New Mexico. Life was difficult, the drought had created a near catastrophe, the old feud between the civil authorities and the church continued, and recently the attacks from the Apaches menaced the colony.
The mission settlements along the Río Grande had become their homeland. Those colonists whose ancestors had come with Oñate no longer had any other place to call home. A few Españoles and criollos constantly arrived from New Spain to join the colony, and so the colony grew.
A woman in the front of the crowd acknowledged this by shouting, “This is our home. We have no place to go.”
“We must make peace with the natives,” someone behind her shouted.
“Peace with those friendly to us,” a harsh voice cried, “but death to those who plot revolt!”
Dissension spread through the crowd, neighbor arguing against neighbor, until the Governor raised his arms and called for quiet.
“This is a point of great concern we cannot settle in one day,” he said when the crowd quieted down. “My task here today is to conduct a trial.”
“Ay,” said the secretary as he raised his pen to write down the judgement. “And how do you find the girl?”
The Governor looked at Serafina, and she at him.
“I have listened carefully to Serafina’s defense,” the Governor said so softly those in the back of the crowd could not hear him.
“We cannot hear the judgment,” someone in the back shouted. “What says the Governor?”
Then the Governor spoke loud enough for all to hear. “I say the young woman known as Serafina has met with a group of natives who discussed revolution. She must remain in my custody until such time as I am convinced that she is no longer a threat to the well-being of our colony.”
Serafina’s gaze had not left the Governor’s, nor did her expression change as he voiced his decision. She seemed to feel the inner turmoil that he felt, but she stood poised and calm as if she had expected the outcome.
The secretary looked with surprise at the Governor. “What?” tumbled softly from his lips. Had he heard correctly?
Fray Mateo started to stand to protest, then slumped back into his chair.
“You win for now,” he whispered to himself. If the Governor kept Serafina his prisoner the friar could not take her to Santo Domingo for trial.
Gaspar stood with open mouth, turning to look from the Governor to Serafina. Fray Tomás made the sign of the cross and bowed his head. Capitán Márquez looked puzzled.
Everyone thought they had not heard the correct verdict.
A cold breeze rustled across the plaza. The natives who had stood at the far end of the plaza quietly made their way out of the villa.
“Do you wish me to enter a guilty verdict?” asked the secretary.
“Write that she remains in my custody,” said the Governor.
A murmur went up from the crowd. They had heard correctly. the Governor was not releasing the girl. What could this mean?
Turning to doña Ofelia the Governor ordered her to take Serafina to her room.
The old woman nodded, then took her shawl from her shoulders and placed it around Serafina. Together they walked past the Governor.
As Serafina passed in front of him the Governor felt like reaching out to touch her, to assure her that he had made his decision in her best interest. He wanted to let her know that only he could protect her.
He tried to smile, to let her know his thoughts, but the moment was awkward. He yearned for some sign fro
m her, some token of understanding, but she gave no indication of her feelings. As royal as a princess she held her head high and disappeared with doña Ofelia into the Governor’s residence.
EPILOGUE
There are probably a thousand and one cuentos preserved in the folklore of New Mexico and its vicinity. I have chosen twelve of these folktales to translate from Spanish into English. The cuentos were brought by colonists from Spain into Mexico (then called New Spain) and later into New Mexico. Here, they have been told and retold by the descendants of the colonists since 1598.
Listening to the stories as a child I learned the value of our oral tradition. The cuentos are not only a form of entertainment, they are also instructive. They preserve the Hispanic community’s folkways, values, and traditions. We are fortunate that excellent folklorists such as Juan B. Rael and Aurelio Espinosa collected our rich store of cuentos. In their books the reader will find the telling of the folktales in our New Mexican Spanish.
If you are not familiar with our cuentos you may wonder why in the distant colony of New Mexico stories of kings and queens appear. Remember, our cuentos came from Spain, but the original tales originated in the subcontinent of India and centuries ago made their way into Persia, then to Europe.
Most often the folktales kept their original characters, and so kings and queens appear in the cuentos of New Mexico. But as the cuentos were told the storyteller adapted them to the New Mexico landscape and to the people. The Spanish becomes the Spanish of the Nuevo Mexicano. Some characters and plots from the Pueblo Indian world can be found in a few of the cuentos.
It is important for the reader to know something of New Mexico history. In August 1680 the Pueblo Indians rose up in revolution and drove all the Spaniards and their loyal Indian allies out of New Mexico. Many friars and hundreds of Spanish colonists were killed, as were many Pueblo Indians during the intense fighting. Finally the Spaniards fled the capital, la Villa de Santa Fé. They settled in the El Paso area and returned in the reconquest of 1692–93, led by don Diego de Vargas.
After the 1680 revolution, it is said, the returning Spanish friars and colonists realized the Pueblo Indians had the right to freedom in practicing their religion. A peaceful coexistence of cultures began to take hold in New Mexico. As time went on, there was more intermarriage between the cultures, creating a unique blend sometimes called Indohispano. The descendants of the original Spanish colonists call themselves Hispanos or Nuevo Mexicanos. The Pueblo Indians identify themselves according to their particular pueblo and language.