“Thank you, señora, but I should not drink it.”
“And why? Don’t you know sweetened chocolate is a delicacy for the Españoles? Yes, they came with dreams of finding the fabled cities of Cíbola. The adventures of Cabeza de Baca filled them with fantasies. They thought they would find another Tenochtitlan here in the northern Río Bravo. Bah, dreams! Fantasies! There is no gold. But chocolate is like gold. It has to be shipped in ox-drawn carts all the way from Mexico City. It takes months to make the journey. The Aztec kings used to drink chocolate, and you refuse this cup? Why?”
“I will eat and drink only what the other prisoners eat and drink.”
“Ah, I see. No, I cannot give this drink to the indios. But you need the strength, child. You are the one who frees your fellow men. Come, drink, for them. Drink to please an old woman.”
Serafina smiled, took the cup, and drank. She had never tasted chocolate, and she sipped the rich drink slowly, enjoying the way it seemed to awaken every taste bud in her mouth. The sweet, dark liquid tasted like some kind of rare concoction, with a smooth delicacy whose fragrance delighted her senses.
“So this was the drink of Aztec kings,” she said.
“It used to be,” doña Ofelia said softly. “Now it is the drink of conquerers.”
“Things we should put away,” replied Serafina, placing the cup on the bench.
“Perhaps,” the old lady said, taking a pouch of homegrown tobacco from under her blouse and slowly rolling the leaves into a dry corn leaf. When she had packed it tightly she held one end to the candle flame and lit the thick cigarette.
“Do you smoke?” she asked Serafina.
“Only during a ceremony.”
“Ah, you’re old-fashioned,” doña Ofelia smiled. “Me, I have adopted the ways of the Españoles. When I was only a child, a raiding party of Apaches kidnapped me from my pueblo. Later they sold me as a slave. You know how it is, the Apaches come and steal the children of the Españoles, take their sheep and burn their fields. Then the Españoles attack them and take slaves. An eye for an eye, they say.”
The old woman puffed on her cigarette and grew silent, perhaps thinking how different her life would be if she had grown up among her people.
“I was indentured to a family, and so I learned the ways of the Españoles. Then I came to work for the Governor. But there is another story. My first family used to say my father was Español. My mother from Picuris. When I was young I looked in the mirror and saw some features of the father I never knew. If that is true, how can I ask for my freedom from one or the other? I am both.”
Serafina nodded. “Some of us have Spanish fathers.”
“Ay. Too many Españoles came without wives. Nature is very strong. Throughout history, in all the corners of the earth, men have had their way with women. Conquerers impose themselves, children are born. Maybe nature is working something new in this land of our ancestors.”
“But we must keep the ways of our ancestors,” said Serafina.
“Yes. Our stories are as beautiful as the stories you tell the Governor. But those of us outside the circle are forgetting. We drink chocolate. We drink coffee. Foreign drinks. Who knows? In the future other people will come here and bring new drinks. I am an old woman. I love a cup of chocolate at night. Is that wrong?”
Serafina shook her head. It wasn’t wrong for the old woman to enjoy this warm delicacy before sleep. But the more her people entered the world of the Españoles, the more of their customs they lost. Already they depended on sheep, cattle, pigs, iron pots, the fire of the forge where kitchen instruments were shaped. And the greatest desire of the men was to own and ride the horses of the Castillos.
Let us live like the Castillos, some said. Some became the genizaros, hispanicized Indians who gave up all of their native ways. They put the old ancestral spirits away and prayed to the Cristo on the cross. The saints became the new kachinas.
“No,” Serafina whispered. “We will keep our ways.”
“Ay, but I fear a blood bath coming,” doña Ofelia replied. “Our men will rise up and cast the foreigners from our land. But what of me, and those like me? Do I go or stay? Maybe when there are enough of us mestizos we can lay equal claim to this earth, maybe then we do not have to choose.”
“Only if we can meet each other as equals,” Serafina said.
“Now I am a prisoner.”
“You are a prisoner plotting freedom,” doña Ofelia said. “With your stories,” she added. “Do you realize the power you wield?”
“I made a wager with the Governor. If he likes my story he frees a prisoner. That is enough for me.”
“You are a talented woman. The Governor listens to you.”
“I do it for my people,” Serafina replied.
“Your beauty attracts men. Young Gaspar has fallen in love with you.”
Serafina blushed. She had never thought of herself as beautiful. For one woman to have more beauty than another was a foreign concept, an idea the Españoles thought meaningful. In her pueblo a woman was admired for the babies she could bring into the world, the bread she baked, the clay pots she molded, the firewood she gathered, her work in the corn fields, the gathering and putting aside of food for the winter. Ceremonies. Storytelling.
“I am a storyteller,” she said. “I cannot help what he thinks of me.”
Doña Ofelia looked at Serafina and nodded. Yes, the girl had a point. She did not know she was like a flower to a young man like Gaspar. Or the other young men of the villa who each morning came to watch the trials. In truth, they came to watch Serafina.
“Well, she said, you can confide in me. I will help.”
She extinguished the stub of her cigarette, put the tobacco that was left back into her pouch, then rose slowly and picked up the quilted bedspread on Serafina’s bed.
“I see you are working on the colcha.”
“I thank you for lending me your sewing supplies and for the cloth you bring me.”
The old woman held the colcha up to the light. There was no doubt; the girl was an expert seamstress. The stitches and pattern were unique. A golden sun rising.
“Working as hard as you do you will be done in a week,” she said.
“I work all day, but I have no hurry,” Serafina said.
Doña Ofelia put the colcha back on the bed and picked up the cup and candle.
“Good night, child. Sleep well.”
“Thank you, señora. I truly appreciate your friendship.”
The old woman left and Serafina blew out the candle. She covered herself with the thick buffalo robe and tried to sleep, but the soothing balm of night didn’t come. Outside she heard Gaspar moving about, restless. He, too, could not sleep.
Was the Governor asleep? He said the stories reminded him of simpler childhood times. He seemed pleased with her, and she was beginning to trust him. He was a man of his word, like her father.
Serafina knew she had to concentrate on freeing the men and returning home. She thought of her parents. Her father was a strong-willed man and she his only daughter. She went everywhere with him, including the meetings where the elders discussed the harsh rule of the Castillos. This, she knew, was how she came to be named as one of the conspirators.
Her father had given her a silent signal as the soldiers led her away. Even now, she thought, he is camped in the hills above the villa, watching. He would fight before he let them send her to Zacatecas as a slave. Even now other men waited with him, and the only thing that kept them from attacking the villa was knowing the Governor was releasing the prisoners one at a time.
They must wonder if it meant a change in the heart of the Governor?
And her mother? Ah, she worried about her mother. Serafina knew she needed help at home. But her mother was also a strong woman who knew that the oppressive times they lived in called for many sacrifices.
Just then Serafina heard a coyote call. It was barely audible, but it was there, and then another. Her father and the men were somewhere in the hill
s. Their cries drove fear into those inhabitants who were not yet asleep.
Serafina pressed her ears against the wall. Yes, her father was calling from the hills. He was watching over her. She returned to her bed to sleep, a sleep full of dreams in which she mounted a horse and rode into the hills and freedom.
The Governor could not sleep either. He thought of the story of the Devil’s godchild. The friars called the natives’ dances the Devil’s dances.
But the Governor didn’t believe that. Serafina wasn’t a creature of the Devil, but a creature of God. Her soul was pure, that was obvious. And yes, she had reason to resent the rule of the Governors.
In the morning when the prisoners were lined up he freed the prisoner as soon as Capitán Márquez finished his defense.
Again, a murmur surfaced in the crowd which had risen early to watch the proceedings. This was the fifth prisoner released; now the pattern was established.
The Governor paid no attention to the crowd. He went to the corrals, mounted his horse, and rode into the hills, returning worn and weary at sunset. He ate, tried to return to the don Quixote adventures he was reading, but he couldn’t concentrate. Finally he rose, lit a candle and went to Serafina’s room.
Hearing the knock she put aside the colcha, stood, and greeted him.
“How is the storyteller?” he asked, realizing he was glad to see her. When her hair fell around her shoulders she reminded him of his wife. How strange that a woman from Spain and a native should bear a resemblance to one another. Or was it only his imagination? Was it his desire for the children they never had that led him to see what was not there?
“Are you tired?” asked Serafina.
“Yes, it has been a hard day.”
“You have many things on your mind. Decisions to make. You have to rest your body as well as your mind. Do the stories help?”
“Yes,” he said, and smiled.
“Then sit and I’ll tell you a story.”
She took his hand and led him to the cot.
“Do you make the story fit the occasion?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Am I the character in the stories you tell?”
Serafina laughed, the first time she had felt enough at ease to laugh at the Governor. “You may be the actor in the story or not, as you wish.”
“Perhaps that’s the function of the cuentos, to allow us to see ourselves in the role of the actors. Like a play, or a mirror. But I talk too much. Begin and I will listen.”
TWELVE
Marcos and María
There lived a widower in a faraway land who had two exceedingly beautiful and gifted children, Marcos and María.
It so happened these were very difficult times. There was a drought in the land, and invasions of locusts devoured what little vegetation the earth gave forth. Prophets roamed the land, predicting the end of time.
This man wanted to save his children, so he built a large underground room and filled it with provisions. There was enough food and water to last seven years. He kissed his children goodbye and buried them in the room.
At the end of seven years Marcos and María dug their way out of the subterranean room. Like Adam and Eve banished from the Garden, they found themselves alone in a desert.
The city they had known was gone. No trace of their father or neighbors remained. Only the blinding sun overhead warmed their bodies. They were innocents coming out into a brave new world.
—We must find a place for shelter, Marcos told María, and he led her to a mountain where they found a cave.
The two had spent so much time together that they promised never to leave each other. They would remain together forever, come what may.
The cave became their home, and they lived quite comfortably for many years. Marcos hunted rabbits and birds to sustain them. One particular day he climbed to the crest of the mountain and discovered a magnificent castle. He was about to venture in when he saw the giant who lived there. He crept away in fear and never climbed that path again.
A year later when Marcos was out hunting he found three cubs: a lion, a tiger, and a bear. He took them home and raised them, and when they were grown, they helped him hunt for food.
One day when Marcos was gone, the giant who lived on the mountain came down and found the cave. He looked inside and spied the lovely María. She was startled and asked him who he was.
—I am the ruler of the mountain, the giant replied. I live in a castle on the peak. I hold fiestas every night and invite my friends. We eat and dance all night.
María was intrigued. She remembered vaguely the fiestas her father had held when she was a child. Those were the fondest memories she had.
—What do you do here? asked the giant.
—I live with my brother. He hunts and I cook for him.
—A very boring life, said the giant. Come with me to my castle. I will marry you and provide you with all the pleasures of the world.
—I can’t come with you, she replied. I promised my brother never to marry.
—So I will slay him, and you will be free of your promise. Ask your brother what path he will take tomorrow, and I will wait there to kill him.
María felt two emotions. One was the temptation of the pleasures the giant offered. He was a ruler who would care for her the rest of her life. She would sit like a queen by his side. The other emotion was fear. What would the giant do if she didn’t do as he ordered?
—Very well, she finally said. I will do as you say.
The following day as Marcos was about to leave she asked which path he was taking. His animals had already warned him that she had told the giant what path he planned to take.
—Why do you ask me? You have never asked me before?
—I told the giant I will marry him, she replied.
—Ungrateful sister! roared Marcos. After all these years of taking care of you this is how you repay me! Very well, go with your giant. I am leaving, never to return.
He called to his animals and left.
The next day the giant arrived at the cave and asked María which way her brother had gone.
—I don’t know, she replied. He was very angry and went away.
—No matter, said the giant. I’ll find him.
He followed the trail until he spied Marcos. The giant attacked, but he was no match for the lion, the bear, and the tiger. They turned on the giant and killed him.
Sadly, Marcos looked back at the mountain that held the cave that had been his home. He loved his sister, but he knew he could never return. Their life would never be the same; she had betrayed him.
He traveled through many lands with his animals, until they came to the land of a great king. That morning as they walked down a canyon they found the king’s daughter tied to a post.
—Why are you tied here, most beautiful lady? asked Marcos.
At first the princess was startled by the handsome man speaking to her, and equally afraid of the large tiger, bear, and lion that sniffed her shoes and the hem of her dress.
—There is a giant serpent that came to threaten my father’s kingdom, she replied. It will destroy the kingdom and all its people unless my father offers me as hostage. Tonight the serpent will come for me.
—I will set you free, Marcos said.
—I warn you, the seven-headed serpent is enormous. It will kill you.
—I have very powerful friends, he said, pointing to his animals.
—If you free me, you will be my hero, said the princess.
Marcos turned to his animals.
—Go up into the canyon and wait for the serpent. You must kill it.
They went up the path and waited for the serpent. When the serpent arrived its loud cries echoed down the canyon, driving fear into all who heard it.
But the lion, the bear, and the tiger weren’t afraid of the seven-headed serpent, whose mouths had razor-sharp teeth and long tongues that dripped with poison.
The bear, lion, and tiger attacked from al
l sides, clawing at the serpent’s belly until they killed it. Then they returned to Marcos and told him the serpent was dead.
—You are free to return to your father, Marcos said to the lovely princess, but you must tell no one who freed you.
When the king’s men found the princess they were overjoyed she was alive. They immediatedly took her to her father.
—Did the serpent come? he asked.
—It came, but a brave man killed it.
—Who?
—I do not know his name.
—I want to meet this brave man, and for saving your life I will give you to him as a wife.
It so happened that the next day a carbonero, a man who burns wood to make charcoal, found the dead serpent.
—They say the king will marry his daughter to the man who killed the serpent, he said to himself. I will claim her.
He cut the seven heads off the serpent and took them to the king.
—Ipa! he shouted. I am the man who killed the serpent!
—Then you shall marry my daughter, replied the king.
The princess grew sad. The carbonero had not saved her, and she did not want to marry him, but her father had made a promise that couldn’t be broken. And she had promised the young man with the animals not to divulge his identity.
That day Marcos and his animals had found lodging with an old woman who lived on the outskirts of the village. She told Marcos a carbonero had killed the serpent and the king was marrying his daughter to the man. Lords and ladies and friends of the king would come from everywhere to attend the wedding.
—Would you like to eat the food of the fiesta? he asked her.
—Yes, but the poor are not invited.
Marcos turned to his tiger.
—Go to the dance and greet the princess. Don’t return until she tells you to return. And don’t bite anyone.
The tiger did as he was told. When he entered the dance hall everyone fled except the princess. Recognizing the tiger, she ran to him and stroked his head. Realizing he was hungry, she prepared a sack of the best meats and tied it to his neck. Then she told him to return to his master.
The tiger delivered the package and they all sat down to eat.