Apalachee

CHAPTER TEN

them for their heresy, but then she dropped her eyes and stared at the fire again. Don Gaspar had made no secret of how he had pried the workers from the priest. Everyone knew it. And though no one blamed Ana for it, the weight of it lay heavily upon her. ‘‘It is not right to make the White Sun Woman a slave,’’ Isabel said morosely . ‘‘It is not right what the priest is doing.’’ Ana got up without looking at her and went into the house. Lucia gave a sigh and looked across the fire at Isabel. Why was she so insistent? The lines in the old woman’s face had deepened and her eyes had sunk back in dark sockets. She looked older than ever. ‘‘There is the matter of the song,’’ Isabel said quietly. ‘‘You are to sing it when I am dead. But if we are not together, you will not know if I die.’’ ‘‘I will not be gone forever,’’ said Lucia. ‘‘One moon, that is all.’’ ‘‘You should sing it while you are away. We will both sing the song. Then we will be sure.’’ Lucia nodded. ‘‘If you think that is what we should do.’’ She glanced at Maria and gave her a little smile. ‘‘Do not be surprised when you see me doing strange things.’’ But Maria’s seriousness made Lucia grow sober again. ‘‘Would you really run away to the English?’’ she asked. ‘‘I might,’’ said Maria. ‘‘One of my brothers left for the Creek country two winters ago. He tried to persuade me to go with him, but I was afraid. I wish now that my heart had been stronger.’’ ‘‘But to live in another land,’’ said Isabel, shaking her head. ‘‘To be a stranger there.’’ ‘‘Could it be worse than this?’’ said Maria. She looked away from them into the fire. ‘‘It can always be worse,’’ said Isabel. 75 chapter ten Never had they worked like this, not in all of Lucia’s life, never under such a relentless driver nor with so much weariness and despair. Work in the mission fields had always been hard, but the discipline had been restrained by others above Lorenzo who would hear about it if he drove the workers with too much cruelty. The priest and the chief had a measure of concern for the people. But here there was no concern but for the land, for the planting to be done, for the time slipping away. The whip was the way of the overseer, and in the weeks since they had come to this place, Lucia had several times felt the sting of the lash. The overseer was Pedro, a mestizo. His father was Don Gaspar himself, his mother an Apalachee house servant long dead. Pedro was merciless in his driving of the Indian workers, as if he hated that portion of his blood that had darkened his skin and forbade him access to the front entrance to Velasco’s house. He used the whip as casually as others would speak. There was no looking up from work in his fields, no glancing behind to see how much had been done, nor ahead to see what remained, nor to the sky to see how long before the sun would go down and bring the day’s work to a halt. There was no talking in his fields, no pausing to wipe the sweat from one’s eyes. Twice during the day the workers were allowed to stop for a brief time, and only then could they eat whatever food they had, quickly chewing and swallowing and swilling down some water. In the early mornings Don Gaspar would come riding out to survey their progress. Always he complained that the work went too slowly. He would sweep his arm impatiently at what remained to be done, and the extent of it kept growing. The more they did, the more he wanted from them, and they had only the assurance given them by the priest before they left Ivitachuco that there would be an end to their labor—a month’s work and they could return home again. When Don Gaspar was in the field, he would walk his horse slowly in front of the line of workers, just out of reach of their hoes. His presence was unnerving, and they would work faster, fearing the whip. It began to be part of his routine to stop directly in front of Lucia and...