mayor, Antonio Baca. A civil official with judicial, executive, and legislative responsibilities, he held before him his diploma of office. Rosas waited a long moment before speaking, taking the measure of the man who faced him. Then, completely ignoring the so-called “ritual of courtesy,” Rosas asked rudely, “Did you kiss it?” referring to Baca’s document. “Did you place it upon your head as a token of respect?”
Baca, his mouth fixed, his expression restrained, withdrew his hand and said, “No, I did not, your Lordship. And may I introduce myself.” It was not a question. “I am Antonio Baca, a regidore, alcalde ordinario of the villa, one who serves the province as justicia mayor, a councilman who holds an elective position. Our laws are based upon the principals of our ancestral government and our concepts of personal and familial worth and good conduct. Our common law has grown out of habit, custom, and the special rights and privileges that were given us to encourage the settlement of these lands. They are laws ordained by public sanction, rather than laws arbitrarily made by kings, viceroys, or royal governors. I am not, therefore, appointed by the governor, but am elected by my fellow citizens,” he stated, ignoring the fact that he served at the governor’s pleasure. “I offered my patent of office as a courtesy only,” he said. “Do you wish me to withdraw it?”3
Rosas, who saw even in this first encounter, a battle from which he must emerge victorious, continued as though mastering a wild and obstinate horse. He twisted his features into a wry expression. “No! No, of course not, don Antonio,” he said, while smiling broadly at the observing crowd. “You’ve brought it so far. Presented it so nicely. But you may give it to me later,” he concluded in a patronizing manner, while again looking at the waiting crowd. Then, in a tone that suggested he was dismissing those who stood before him, he said, “I need a bath,” to all, but to no one in particular. “Perhaps we may speak later,” he threw out in Baca’s direction. And then to one of his aides, he added, “Please see me to my quarters.”
Baca could not be expected to take this slight to his honor without retaliation, especially since it was delivered by one whom he now firmly rejected as worthy of his respect. He said, “That was also our judgment, your Lordship. That you need a bath. Please remember that I offered my diploma as a gesture of friendship and with no strings attached. It will not be offered again. And as for speaking to us later? Well, perhaps, if we can work it into our schedule. We’ll leave you now to attend to your toilette,” he said as he turned to go, two fingers to the brim of his hat in a mock salute. Baca placed his patent within his brocaded doublet, remounted his horse and, with the remainder of the vecinos who had ridden out with him to welcome the new governor, clattered out of the plaza.
* * *
That evening, after the governor had successfully emptied his innards, the governors, Rosas and Martinez, walked over to a home on the plaza where the cabildo was holding its meeting. Told of Rosas impending arrival, the members of the council hastily adjourned leaving but their sheriff behind to greet him. “They were here, your Lordship, but now they’re gone,” said Nicolas Duran. “I’m sorry that there’s no one left with whom you might meet. We no longer have a quorum.”
“I don’t need a quorum,” Governor Rosas responded rudely. “I’m not here to transact business or to take a vote. Please tell the members of the council that they’ll no longer be burdened with the task of apportioning land,” he stated imperiously. “They may act as consultants in that regard,” he said, staring pointedly at his predecessor, Martinez, “but from this day forward, the final determination regarding land apportionment of any amount will be made by me. Tell them that,” he told Duran.
Duran, who knew that the alcaldes and councilmen had for 30 years been empowered by Governor Peralta and the king to apportion lots, fields, and 133 acres of land to each resident, stood there astonished, but said nothing.
Rosas made a cursory examination of the room in which the council met, and then, with Governor Martinez in tow, left the building.
It was an inauspicious beginning. Even Governor Martinez was appalled.
9
Maria’s Well
They referred to the water source as “Maria’s Well,” not because she had discovered it, but because she cherished it and had made it her own. A seep in a country where water was magical, it was a tiny rivulet of spring water flowing gently into the river from a forested slope. Running first into a willowed pool, and then into the roar and babble of the river, it was the heart of a sylvan retreat where wild things peered through the pine and bracken, and where they came to drink. The pool, flanked by sprigs of watercress and with the stones that Maria had removed to enlarge it, was littered with the miniscule shells of fresh water clams.
Above the pool and beneath the canopy of trees, Maria and Nicolas Ortiz lay on a bed of pine needles looking at the clouds, and for one brief moment, the world consisted only of this sunshine-filled place on a hillside, among the juniper and pinon trees, overlooking the river canyon. In the far distance, smoke rose from numerous chimneys. People, unseen, but making their presence known by their muted whistles and shouts, were working in the fields just beyond the forest, irrigating, hoeing and tending to their flocks. Looking down on black and white magpies drifting lazily over greening fields, Maria and Nicolas could see the big cottonwoods lining the river by her parents’ home which was itself shadowed by apple, plum, and apricot trees. The terraced hillside alongside her parents’ home dropped sharply into the canyon, and from the front zaguan of the family compound, nothing blocked the view toward the west. The air was filled with the clean, sweet scent of the orchards and with the sound of water.
“I wonder where it comes from?” Maria remarked dreamily regarding the river. “From the mountains to the east, I know, but where, exactly?” she questioned as she lay looking into the sky. She was quiet then. He waited patiently for her to proceed, observing the fine, peach-fuzz of hair on her arms and shoulders, and sensing, rather than seeing, the roundness of her young breasts partially revealed in the gape of her blouse. Aware of her breathing and of the rise and fall of her chest, he dared not look at her as she rested there beside him.
Rolling onto her side, she sat up and drew her knees tightly to her chest, wrapping her arms underneath them and holding her skirts tightly about her legs. She looked at him and said, “Several years ago, just after you left, I was so unhappy that my papa let me go with him and the other men to take the sheep to the high country. We eventually had to come back when Nicolas broke his arm in a fall from his horse, but while we were there, we followed the river upward to cow paths flowing as brooks of snowmelt, each stream to a smaller one, going up and up to God knows where. I wanted to get to the top, Nico,” she said, using one of the several pet names she used to differentiate him from her brother who was also named Nicolas. “My papa has a sheep station there,” she explained, “a safe house where the pastores stay when they take the sheep to summer pasture. Someday I’ll see it, and I’ll find the beginnings of our river,” she said reflectively. “I’m going to build a house there to look over this, the most beautiful place in the world. If a place could be a parent, Nico, this would be mine. This is where I belong.”
“This is beautiful, Maria, but you should see Zacatecas or the city of Mexico. They, too, are beautiful. Different from this.” he explained. “But with their own color and charm.”
“I’m sure that’s true, my Nico, and I want to see them, but I’d be very unhappy if I couldn’t return here. Not just because this is the home of my parents and where my grandparents are buried, but because this place is in my heart.”
“Then if you won’t run away with me,” he said, “we’ll just have to devise a different plan.”
10
The Controversial Fray Juan de Vidania
In a handsome wooden confessional erected upon a platform within the nave of the church, the air smelled vaguely of punche (tobacco) and ambergris. Nicolas, who knelt on one side of the small, enclosed space, waited for a small window to open.
Muffled voices from the other side of the booth told him that Fray Juan de Vidania was sitting between the two curtained enclosures