S Stirling - The Council of Shadows

"?Una cerveza?" she asked instead.

He opened his mouth and then wagged his finger again. She sighed.

" Bien, bien. Do…you…like…the…beer?"

"Would you like a beer?" he corrected her. "Don't sigh, Cheba. It's really important you work at fitting in. Yes, there are many who can speak Spanish in this town, more than in most places around here-"

"Why?" she asked.

"This was a rancho…hacienda…long ago, before the Americans came. Under Spain, under Mexico. After that it was out of the way, not close to any of the cities. Anglos settled here only slowly; then the Brezes came, long ago-more than a hundred and fifty years-and since then, not many people leave, not many come in, we are a bit apart from the world. But it is still California, and if you cannot speak English well you are like someone with only one eye or one leg. Also my tia Joan has spoken to me about you."

Cheba went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of the beer with the pretty label for Jose and a Jarritos soda pop for herself.

"Your tia?. Is she a sister of your father or mother? And why does she care?"

He took a long gulp from the bottle. "My father's older sister. As to why…Because…it's part of being human?"

Cheba snorted. "Not like your tia Theresa?"

She had met the Breze household manager that terrible day the people-smuggler Paco had delivered them to Rancho Sangre. They called them coyotes, but he'd met real shape-shifters. He had deserved to die; the others hadn't.

He laughed. "Theresa? There's a story here that a snake bit her once, a rattlesnake."

"What happened?"

"The snake died."

That made her laugh, a brief, unwilling snort. Jose leaned forward, speaking earnestly.

"Listen, Joan lived in Mexico for many years, studied there and all. She owns an import business, goes back a lot. She asked me what you did all day. I didn't understand why; but she says that the women of the villages are never idle. They always have something in their hands, embroidery or crochet lace, or weaving, but never idle."

Cheba closed her eyes, seeing the brightly embroidered blouse her mother had been finishing, soaking up the blood, turning from white to dark red, and shuddered unexpectedly.

"It costs money," she excused herself. "And I am…sad all the time. I like to crochet, and sometimes embroider."

"Money…" exclaimed Jose. "You know you have as much as you want. And making things that are pretty will make you less sad."

"But, where?"

Jose sighed and waggled his finger at her again. She laughed, a bit sourly.

"You mean, where would you buy the stuff? In town, of course. There are three or four shops that sell craft stuff. Monica would take you, and love doing it."

He looked at her and she dropped her eyes to the papers on the table. Her classes were over the Internet, she didn't need to go out and try to mix. Jose had taken her to the library and introduced her to the librarian. Cheba had not been back.

Jose made an exasperated sound. "?Mira, tu!" he said with some heat in his voice. "We are all trying, but you are not."

Cheba bit her lip and tried to stop the tears. "What should I try? Try to be a puta and food?" she asked, feeling the raw anger crowd forward.

I had to leave my village because my papa was a drunk and died…walked in front of a truck. My mama died crossing a street…another truck, so, I took a truck up to here, trying to get away from the bad luck and a new life. And look what picked me up!"

"Yes. But now you have that new life. A house, a life, things to learn, people to meet…What is wrong?"

"It's all wrong!" Cheba shouted. "It's not the right size, or shape; the rugs are dirty! There aren't nice floors to sweep, the kitchen is closed in; the windows too big; the lights too bright; the roads…"

"I want to feel the dust between my toes, the sun on my back, pick the corn and beans in my grandfather's milpa, hear the voices of the village, of the market, of the children…"

More tears threatened and she held them back with her scowl.

"But what did you expect?" he asked her, a puzzled note in his voice. "Of course it would be different!"

She looked around, surprised, and thought back to that day, the day of death when she had carefully stolen ten wallets, carefully, oh, so carefully, and added the money to her little hoard and begun her flight north. What had she expected? Difference, just something different from her real life.

"I guess, different; I wanted something different. No more poverty or living like an animal? To be rich."

"And in comparison, here you are rich!"

"But it is not rich like I know rich! It is wrong…Everything is different, yes; but evil!" Cheba shook her head and watched Jose take a quick gulp of beer.

"Yeah," he said, surprising her. "It is." A grim smile at the look on her face. "Do I look stupid?"

"But if you hadn't fallen in with La Dona, you'd have been slaving in the fields, living crowded cheek by jowl in tar paper shacks, hiding from la migra, eating worse than you ever have in your life…and raped, often, by the men who hire the wetbacks. That man Paco who sold you and your friends to La Dona was not interested in taking you anywhere good. I don't have to draw you a picture about that, no? So, it kinda balances out."

Cheba clenched her jaw. He is right, the trip across the border and to here taught me that! This piece of logic of Jose's she could follow; she couldn't always understand his thoughts.

" La Dona is better than working in the fields? A bruja, a chupacabra, and I am not a goat!"

"You are a goat." Jose's voice was flat. "Or you're a bird and she is a cat. We all are. And it is better than the fields. At least she doesn't roast us over fire; just over the coals of our emotions. Rape is rape, and that hasn't changed."

"There's a lot you don't understand and we've tried to tell you. Not just my tia has sent me to talk to you. La Dona called me in and told me…"

"She confides in you," Cheba observed sourly.

He hesitated and then shrugged.

"I was born here, and my ancestors. One chance, Cheba. You have one chance left. If you don't do what La Dona orders you to she will eat you up tomorrow."

He took another swallow of the beer and Cheba glowered at him; this nice young man who looked so much like the young men in Coetzala and Veracruz and was so very different in how he saw the world. She couldn't help herself.

"You are gringo, gabacho, you don't understand!"

"I know that! And it bothers me. What don't I understand? You're india; you and your people have lived for twenty, thirty generations as conquered people, on the edge! Where do you get that pride?"

"We still live!" she flashed back at him, and scowled as he dissolved into hearty guffaws. "What is funny?" she demanded.

Jose shook his head. "It's from a TV show, or a movie or something. It's used as a joke and also as defiance."

"Well," she said, glowering at him, "I'm defiant and it doesn't sound funny to me."

Jose shook his head and finished off the beer. "Look, you've survived for generations as a people, now you need to survive as a person. Independent, yes, doing things, being alive, or La Dona will eat you up."

"Then I'll be dead; grateful release!"

"Really? Hasn't La Dona taken you into her memory?"

Cheba made an involuntary movement and barely managed to catch the Jarritos bottle before it went flying across the kitchen. She started to say something and paused.

"Yes, you've met George, I see. Take what time you have and can use. My aunt says that the Shadowspawn, los hijos de sombra, she calls them in Spanish, were the kings and priests of the old ones before the conquest. So it really isn't new, even to you, from that little Huasteca village."