Serafina's Stories Page 5

  “Yes, Excellency,” Gaspar saluted, and went off to do the Governor’s bidding.

  The Governor hurried to bathe, eat breakfast, and meet the day dawning over the Sierra Madre.

  “Doña Ofelia,” said the Governor to the cook, “I have been negligent with the girl. The prisoner. She should not be in the stockade, in the cold. Can you prepare a room for her?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. There’s a spare room on the east side, my sewing room. It has a fireplace, I can put in a bed and a table and give her my sewing basket so she will have something to do.”

  “Excellent!” The Governor smiled. “She is, after all, a young woman. She needs the privacy.”

  “Still,” the old woman said, pausing to pour coffee for the Governor. “Some will talk …”

  “Because I am moving the girl into my residence? It’s the proper thing to do. Let them talk. My enemies would spread gossip if I killed a fly.”

  “Yes, that is true,” doña Ofelia replied.

  The Governor rose from his breakfast and walked out to greet a bright and clear day. A large crowd was already gathered around the prisoners. Some had come from as far as Galisteo. By now the word was spreading up and down the Río Grande: the Governor had pardoned one of the Indian rebels. What would he do with the rest?

  The Governor emerged from his residence and greeted his maese de campo, his captains, and don Alfonso. Then he looked at the prisoners, his gaze finding Serafina. She wore a plain buffalo robe over her buckskin dress, but even dressed so simply, she looked like a princess.

  The white gown? he thought. But of course, it’s only for storytelling. By day she considers herself just another prisoner.

  “Let us proceed, gentleman,” said the Governor, taking a seat at the small table where don Alfonso had spread his papers, inkwell, and quill pens.

  “Shall I commence by reading the indictment?” asked don Alfonso.

  “Yes,” replied the Governor. “Every detail should be recorded in these sensitive matters. Let the man state his name and pueblo.”

  Capitán Márquez nodded and the Indian first in line stepped forward. He was a stocky man. Wrinkles ran along his hard, brown face.

  “Me llamo Pablo Cantú,” he said in Spanish. “I am a Cochiti Pueblo man.”

  Ah, some in the crowd nodded. Cochiti Pueblo had not taken easily to Spanish rule. The Cochiti people remained rebellious. Surely the Governor would punish this man.

  “How plead you?” asked don Alfonso.

  “I am guilty,” replied the man.

  A loud murmur rose from the crowd. Had they heard correctly? The man was pleading guilty.

  “Guilty,” repeated the Governor. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, I understand. I am guilty of taking care of my family and my pueblo. I joined my vecinos to talk, as I always do. In our conversation we would decide what to do when your soldiers come to take our corn and blankets. We did not plan to make war. We planned to come and speak to the Governor. If you make me a slave my family will go hungry this winter. If you send me away from my land I will never plant corn again. I will die in a foreign land. To die in a foreign land means I will never see my ancestors again.”

  A hush fell over the crowd. The man had spoken with sincerity. The winter had been hard, and a large percentage of the corn crop had withered under the drought of summer. Spaniards and Indians alike were surviving on the most meager stores.

  The Governor cleared his throat. He looked at Serafina. Her eyes said the man spoke the truth.

  “What say you, Capitán Márquez?”

  The captain stepped forward. “As I stated yesterday, according to our informant this man met with the others to plot rebellion.”

  “But who is this informant?” interjected the Governor. “Did you find weapons?”

  “No, Your Excellency.”

  “And did this man or his neighbors resist?”

  “No, Your Excellency.”

  At that moment a man stepped forward from the crowd. He was a short stocky Spaniard, a farmer with a bulbous nose and a thick mustache.

  “If you will allow me to speak,” he said hesitantly.

  The Governor nodded. “State your name and purpose.”

  “Me llamo Fernando Chávez. I am a farmer in the Valle de Atrisco. As you know some of us have moved south of Bernalillo to the farms of doña Luisa. We farm there in the Alameda.”

  The crowd drew forward. What did this man have to reveal about the trial in progress? All leaned forward to listen.

  “Go on, señor,” said the Governor. “Speak up.”

  “I know this man Pablo Cantú. When my family moved to Atrisco, our cart broke down on la Bajada. This man from Cochiti helped us. He lent me corn seed for planting. He showed me the best land to farm. That winter he brought me a deer he had killed. It saved my family from starvation. I think he is a good man. That is all I have to say.”

  Many in the audience nodded. They all knew Indian families who had helped them. The Españoles and the native farmers got along quite well, helping each other.

  All the missions along the Río Grande cultivated corn and vegetables, fruit trees and vineyards. In the spring the Spaniards and natives gathered to clean the acequias, the irrigation ditches that fed river water into the fields. Some Españoles had learned the Pueblo languages: Tiwa, Tewa, Towa, and Keres. A few had even learned Zuni. The Indians had learned Spanish, to communicate with the Spaniards and to use as a common language amongst themselves.

  Farming and the care of sheep led to commonalities as the Spaniards and Indians learned from each other. It also led to dissension as the Spaniards encroached on Indian lands. Most of the disputes were settled amicably; some smouldered with deep resentment.

  Perhaps the deepest conflict was created by the friars who tried to force the Indians to give up their religion. The Franciscan friars insisted that the Indians follow only the Catholic religion. They worked hard at stamping out the Kachina dances of the Pueblos.

  The Indians were forced to build mission churches in their pueblos, to be baptized, and to accept the Catholic religion. This the Pueblo Indians did, but they also insisted on keeping their own ways. This conflict between the friars and the Indians was a burning issue.

  “Thank you,” said the Governor, clearing his throat. “It seems the evidence in support of Pablo Cantú is weightier than that against him. As Governor of New Mexico, I move to dismiss the charges against this man.”

  A murmur went up from the crowd. Some smiled, some frowned. The captains glanced nervously at each other.

  “Yes,” continued the Governor. “Free the man. He has been a good neighbor, as señor Chávez has testified. In the face of the little evidence against him, it is better to be merciful and err on the side of forgiveness than to imprison a just man.”

  The Governor looked at Serafina and smiled.

  “Give the prisoner food and have him return home. Tomorrow is another day, and one more prisoner will be tried. In the meantime, the day is warm. There is much work to be done.”

  And tonight, the Governor thought, I will ask Serafina to tell me one of her stories. What more could a man want than a daughter sitting at his side reciting the cuentos he loves?

  The remaining prisoners were led back to the stockade, except for Serafina. Doña Ofelia pulled her aside and whispered to her that from now on she would have her own room in the Governor’s residence.

  The crowd dispersed. It was a beautiful day in la Villa de Santa Fé. Warm enough to air out homes, cut wood, repair harnesses, hunt, perhaps just meet along the southern exposure of the adobe walls and visit with neighbors. There in la resolana a man found relief from aching bones.

  There would be plenty of visiting, and the mitote and arguments would all be on one topic: Why had the Governor released two prisoners?

  Doña Ofelia knew the girl was a storyteller. And Gaspar also knew. Two nights in a row he had listened outside the Governor’s office. He,
too, was enthralled by her stories. And he was not surprised when after dinner the Governor sent him to bring Serafina to his office.

  The young guard did as he was told. He led the girl through a dark, narrow hall to the Governor’s office. He then sat near the door to listen. Through the cracks in the wood door he heard the Governor greet Serafina.

  “Do you want to hear another story?” asked Serafina. “At the same price?”

  “Absolutely,” replied the Governor.

  And so Serafina began the story of Pedro de Ordimalas.

  SIX

  The Adventures of Pedro de Ordimalas

  There is a village in New Mexico which is very well known for its picaros, rascals who love to play tricks on people. I will not name the town, but its reputation is well known. Perhaps you have heard of the place.

  In this village lived a widow and her two sons, Juan and Pedro. They were called Manito Juan and Manito Pedro by the paisanos. Juan was a well-behaved boy who tried to help his mother by taking care of goats, but Pedro was a rascal. People said Pedro was slow-witted, but he was really a trickster at heart. Getting the best of people was his greatest talent.

  One day as Juan was going off to tend the goats, he instructed Pedro to be sure to feed their invalid mother. Pedro cooked shaquegue, a thin gruel made from toasted wheat flour. The family was so poor this is all they had to eat.

  When the gruel was ready Pedro forced it down his mother’s throat so fast that she choked and died.

  —Que carajo! he exclaimed. I’ve killed my mother. But I won’t take the blame.

  He washed her face, combed her hair, and dressed her in her Sunday clothes. Then he sat her on a chair and placed her in front of the door. When Juan came home and pushed the door open, it toppled the chair and the old lady fell to the floor.

  —Look what you’ve done! cried Pedro. You’ve killed our mother!

  —Oh, dear mother, what am I going to do without you, Juan began to cry. What shall we do?

  —Bury her, replied Pedro.

  —But we have no money to pay for a funeral.

  —I will give her a grand funeral, said Pedro.

  —But how? asked his brother.

  Pedro took the body outside and tied it on top of the burro. Then he led the animal to the priest’s wheat field and let it loose. When the workers saw the burro eating the wheat they threw stones at it. The burro bolted and the body fell off.

  Pedro went to complain to the priest.

  —Look what your workers have done. They killed my mother.

  —Dear Lord! cried the worried priest. If you forgive me I’ll give her a grand mass, a big funeral, and I’ll give you a hundred gold pieces.

  Pedro was satisfied. They buried his mother and he left home to see the world. When he came to a huge tree he scattered a few coins around the tree. Then he sat to wait.

  Two merchants came by and saw Pedro gathering the coins.

  —What is this? one asked.

  —A money tree, replied Pedro. Coins fall from it all day long. But I will sell it for fifty pesos.

  The merchants paid Pedro and sat down to wait for coins to fall. Pedro pocketed the fifty gold coins and went off whistling.

  When the merchants saw they had been tricked they sent their workers to catch Pedro and drown him. The workers caught Pedro, tied him in a sack, and went off to find a deep spot in the river. While they were gone a shepherd came by and saw that there was a body in the sack.

  —Why are you in the sack? he asked Pedro.

  —My family wants to marry me to a beautiful princess, but I refuse, explained Pedro. But if you want to marry her, get me out of the sack and climb in.

  —Gladly, said the shepherd. He freed Pedro and got into the sack. When the workers returned they threw the shepherd in the river and drowned him.

  For a time Pedro worked for a rich man who instructed him to clean the wheat field. Pedro burned it to the ground, the wind blew away the ashes, and the field was clean.

  The man was so angry he told Pedro not to do any more farm-work. Instead, Pedro was assigned to take care of the man’s son.

  When the boy misbehaved, Pedro beat him with a stick. The boy quickly learned manners, but the boy’s mother begged the father to get rid of Pedro.

  Then Pedro returned home and married Repunosa. They had children, but Pedro wouldn’t settle down. He spent his time at the gambling house in the village, playing cards.

  One day Jesus and St. Peter came by the gaming place to see who would offer charity. The gamblers gave nothing. In fact, they ran Jesus and St. Peter out of the house.

  Pedro was broke, but he borrowed fifty cents from his gambling friends. Then he ran after Jesus and St. Peter and gave them the coins.

  —You are the only man to give us charity, said Jesus. For that I will reward you. Ask for a gift and it shall be yours.

  —I only want my fifty cents back, replied Pedro.

  —That is not enough, insisted Jesus, ask for more.

  —I would like to be able to go to a place and if I don’t want to leave, not even God can make me leave.

  Jesus found this a strange request, but he granted it.

  —Ask for more, he said.

  —I want a deck of cards so I can win every time I play.

  —Granted. Ask for more.

  —I want a little drum. Whoever plays it cannot get away from it until I release them.

  —Very well, said Jesus. Ask for more.

  —My brother, my wife and children suffer very much. Take them to heaven.

  —But they have to die before I can take them to heaven, said Jesus.

  —That’s all right, Pedro said.

  —I will do as you say. What else do you want?

  —When it is my turn to die, take me as I am to heaven.

  Jesus shook his head. Pedro had finally asked for too much. But he had to keep his promise.

  —Very well, your wishes are granted.

  Jesus and St. Peter went on down the road to Santa Fé, and Pedro returned to the gambling house.

  He played with his new deck and won every time. He became addicted to the game and didn’t even go home to eat.

  When the neighbors came to tell him his family was dead, Pedro returned and buried them. Now he had all the money he wanted and no one to share it with. For a while he was very happy.

  One night he was sleeping in front of his fireplace when he heard a knock at the door. When Pedro opened the door he saw la Muerte, death.

  —Who are you? asked a frightened Pedro.

  —I am Death Who Rides a Skeleton Horse. Señor Jesucristo has sent me for you.

  —Very well, agreed Pedro. But first grant me a small request. Sit at the drum and beat it. My neighbors will hear it and come. I will give my fortune away to the poor people before I die.

  Death sat at the drum and beat it. When she began to beat it she discovered she couldn’t leave the drum.

  Pedro went to sleep, got up the next morning, ate, and left for the gambling house, leaving Death a prisoner at the drum.

  Eight days later Pedro returned. A very hungry and frustrated Death still sat at the drum.

  —Pedro, you must free me! Señor Jesucristo is waiting for me!

  —I’ll let you go if you add twenty years to my life.

  —Very well, agreed Death, and Pedro let her go. She mounted her skeleton horse and went to report what had happened.

  Jesus got angry. He sent Death Who Carries an Ax to take care of Pedro. He was eating breakfast when Death knocked on the door.

  —Have you come for me, my comadre?

  —Yes. Jesucristo sent me for you.

  —I’m ready, said Pedro. But first let me call the poor people so I can give them my money. Señor Jesucristo has given me a lot, and I wish to share it. Please sit and play the drum so they will come.

  Death sat to play the drum and could not move. Pedro went off to gamble, returning eight days later.

  —Turn me loose! Death c
ried angrily.

  —I will if you take away the years the first death gave me and add a new lifetime.

  —Very well, Death agreed, and left in a haste to report to Jesus.

  Jesus grew very irritated. Pedro’s time on earth had ended, but he wasn’t cooperating. He decided to send his most powerful Death, doña Sebastiana, the Skeleton Death That Rides on a Cart. Pedro could not escape her deadly arrows.

  Pedro was making shaquegue for breakfast when doña Sebastiana arrived in her creaking cart.

  —Buenos días, comadre, Pedro greeted death.

  —Buenos días, Pedro. El Señor Jesucristo has sent me for you. He has a job for you.

  —And what is that?

  —He wants you to go to Limbo to take care of the little angels.

  Pedro knew that babies who died before they were baptized went to Limbo. Well, he wasn’t about to go take care of babies.

  —I will, he said. But first will you play my drum?

  It was too late. Doña Sebastiana had strung an arrow into her bow. The instant the arrow pierced Pedro he closed his eyes. When he opened them he found himself in Limbo, surrounded by the souls of beautiful babies.

  —So, you weren’t baptized, said Pedro. I can fix that.

  He dipped the babies in a fountain of water, but he held them there so long he almost drowned them.

  Soon the babies went to complain to Jesus that Pedro was drowning them.

  —Please get rid of him, they begged.

  Jesus called Pedro.

  —Ay, Pedro, even the innocent babes of Limbo can’t stand you.

  —I was only baptizing them, Pedro explained.

  —I am going to send you to Purgatory.

  So Pedro went to Purgatory, where souls had to spend some time doing penance before they were admitted into heaven.

  —I can help you do your penance faster, Pedro said to the poor souls.

  He made a whip and began to whip every soul in sight. One soul escaped and went to complain to St. Peter.

  —Please tell Jesus that Pedro is tormenting us.

  St. Peter took the complaint to Jesus. By this time Jesus was very frustrated with Pedro.

  —Send him to hell, He said. Maybe the devils can put up with him.

  So they sent Pedro to hell, where the devils were getting ready to have a feast. They needed plenty of fuel for the fires, so they sent Pedro to bring firewood. With each load of wood Pedro also collected trementina, pine sap.