Daughter of Fortune by Carla Kelly

Author:Carla Kelly
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: mexico city, spanish empire, santa fe, new world, 1680, pueblo revolt
Publisher: Carla Kelly
Published: 2012-07-02T08:07:54.876671+00:00

Chapter 10

La Afortunada

Maria sat down slowly on the wagon seat, watching the spectacle before her. The Indians had come out of their hidden kiva and were dancing in the plaza to the slow beat of drums and the rattle of gourds. Their feathered headdresses swayed with a grace and beauty that made Maria catch her breath.

There was none of the smoke and the fear of the kiva where she had first seen Popeh. There was instead a terrifying majesty about the stately movements of the kachina dancers. Most of the men were painted white. They turned slowly and gracefully, naked except for their white cotton loincloths and enormous headdresses. They were like spirits rising from troubled graves on All Soul’s Eve, wheeling and spinning until Maria felt dizzy and disoriented. She was afraid to watch, afraid to look away.

Luz whimpered and slid toward Maria. She pulled the child closer, speaking softly in her ear. “All will be well, Luz, querida mia, my darling. Diego will not let anything happen to you.” Luz nestled closer and shut her eyes.

Diego remained on his horse, watching the dancers. Maria could not see his face, but she could tell by the sudden stiffening of his back and the careful way he moved his hand to his sword that he was alert.

A black figure ran toward the wagon. For one terrible moment, Maria thought of Popeh and his compelling eyes. She clung to Luz, shielding the child with her own body. But it was Father Pio. He ran to Erlinda, who was sitting like a statue, her hands clenched in her lap. “Señora Castellano,” he managed, “you should not be here.”

Diego looked around at Father Pio. Slowly he dismounted and walked toward the priest, his spurs making a firm ringing sound in the sudden quiet of the pueblo. Maria clung to Luz with one arm, and pulled Caterina down on the wagon bed with the other, forcing her to sit on the straw-covered floor.

“Father Pio,” said Diego, his quiet voice sounding like the roar of a mountain lion in the stillness of the pueblo. “What is the meaning of this?”

One of the dancers took off his headdress and approached Diego quietly. Maria whispered to Diego, “Behind you.”

In one motion, Diego whirled and drew his sword. The blade gleamed for a second as it caught the last rays of the sun. The Indian stood still.

“Diego, put away your sword,” Cristóbal spoke, his face dripping wet, his eyes dark pools in his handsome face, the Indian standing behind him.

Diego immediately sheathed his Toledo blade. “Cristóbal,” he said. As the Indian came closer, he stood there with his weight on one leg, his head to one side, in unconscious repetition of Cristóbal’s stance.

Maria’s palms were wet. She kissed Luz’ hair and twined her fingers in the dark curls, covering the child’s ears with her hands. Luz burrowed into her lap like a small animal seeking shelter.

The Indians all moved closer. Maria closed her eyes, her mind leaping back to the burning caravan, the circling vultures, the terrible carnage.

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