Mojo and the Pickle Jar Read online

  The soldiers came forward and whipped the Indian with ropes, but the Indian wouldn’t let go of the Madonna. The soldiers pried at the Indian and beat him with their fists, but his grip couldn’t be loosened.

  The captain was called.

  The captain tried to pull the Indian from the santo, but failed just as the soldiers had. The captain decided to take harsher action. He drew his pistol and was preparing to shoot the Indian in the head when a friar ran out of the church and stopped him.

  The friar warned the captain that murdering a man who had sought the mercy of the Virgin was a mortal sin.

  The captain scoffed.

  The friar threatened to excommunicate him.

  The captain threatened to jail the friar.

  They went back and forth at each other like this until at last a compromise was reached. The captain agreed the soldiers would not touch the Indian as long as the Indian held on to the santo. The friars, in return, agreed not to attempt to move either the santo or the Indian into the sanctuary of their church.

  It was a stalemate. But only a temporary one.

  For four days and nights the Indian lay in the heat and dust of the plaza without food or water or sleep. For four long days he prayed to the Madonna to save him while the soldiers guarded him in shifts. Inside the church, the friars lit candles and prayed for the Indian’s soul and for a miraculous intercession. The intercession didn’t come. The Indian’s wailing grew weaker and weaker. On the fourth day the captain agreed to let one of the friars go to the Indian and take his confession. The last rites were performed.

  Finally, early on the morning of the fifth day, just before sunrise, a soldier went to examine the Indian and found him dead. The soldier dragged the body away and called for help. Several of the friars heard him and came out of the church. Some of the Santo Domingo Indians came with them.

  A crowd gathered.

  And witnessed a miracle.

  As the sun rose it struck the Madonna’s face. Her cheeks sparkled in the sudden light. Gasps were heard. The Madonna’s cheeks were bright with teardrops, teardrops that sparkled and glittered. Teardrops of gold.

  The crowd fell back. Some began to pray.

  Then the sunlight dropped to the Madonna’s waist and there was even more wonder. The Madonna’s heart glittered as well. What had once been a red-painted outline was now a perfectly formed heart that shone as brightly as the tears. A heart of gold.

  And that wasn’t all. One of the friars shouted and pointed to the santo’s eyes. Her eyes, which had been the most brilliant blue, were now dark brown and faintly almond-shaped. Her skin was as dark as her eyes. Her hair was jet black. This Madonna, this blue-eyed Spanish Madonna, had the face of an Acoma Indian. An Acoma Indian with a heart of gold.”

  Grandmother crossed herself.

  “Seeing this miracle, the friars dropped to their knees in the dust. The soldiers joined the friars. Word of the miracle spread like a fire through the pueblo. The crowd in front of the santo grew.

  Someone began to ring the church bell.

  The captain was called.

  The captain ran to tell the governor.

  The governor came and was faced with a terrible dilemma. That the transfiguration of the Madonna was a miracle, there was no doubt. It was a miracle, but it was also a rebuke. A direct rebuke of the policies of the governor. It was the governor who had ordered the Indians enslaved. It was the governor who had ordered their feet to be cut off. People in the crowd were already whispering that this miracle was a sign of the Holy Mother’s displeasure with the governor.

  The governor became frightened as he listened to the whispering. How could he control the Indian if even the Spanish believed God was on the Indians’ side? He and his soldiers were hopelessly outnumbered. How long could they survive if the Indians took this miracle as a sign that God was with them and against the Spanish?

  The governor knew he had to act fast or lose everything. He gathered the captain and a few trusted men around him. He ordered them to take the Madonna from the friars.

  The friars objected, but the captain was quick and decisive. A horse-drawn cart was found. The santo was loaded into it. The captain and his men rode out of Santo Domingo and headed up the river to the pueblo of San Ildefonso.

  At San Ildefonso the captain conscripted three friars as well as several converted Indians and a wagonload of supplies. He turned east towards the tiny mission of San Diego de Punta de Tierra.

  As they rode up the trail to Punta de Tierra, the captain informed the friars that they had been chosen to establish a new mission, a mission east of Punta de Tierra, a new mission to be located high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains where there had never been a mission before. The friars objected. There were no pueblos in the mountains, they told the captain. No permanent settlements at all. Not enough Indians to warrant a mission.

  The captain ignored their objections. He led the small party through Punta de Tierra and on up into the mountains beyond. They climbed for four days, following trails that were little more than deer paths, until at last they found themselves high in the pine forests and rocky crags, far beyond any Spanish or Indian settlements.

  Somewhere near the tree line the captain ordered a halt. He picked out a suitable spot on the edge of a stream beside a meadow and told the friars the new mission was to be built there. He and his men joined in the construction. A tiny church with adjoining rooms for the friars and their servants was raised. Wood for the coming winter was gathered and stacked. Deer were hunted and jerky dried to supplement the cornmeal that had been brought up from San Ildefonso. A wooden altar was carved and the santo set in a place of honor behind it.

  Once the friars were safely settled, the captain took his men and rode back. He reached Punta de Tierra just before the first snows fell. He continued on to the river. By the time he reached the governor’s headquarters at San Juan he had been gone for over two months and the tale of the Indian Madonna had become little more than a legend. Even those who witnessed the miracle were reluctant to talk about it since the governor had declared the tale a blasphemous rumor punishable by the lash.

  The captain resumed his old duties. The governor remained firmly in command. There was no more Indian trouble that winter or in the entire year that followed. The governor—perhaps even the colony—had been saved.”

  * * *

  The old man paused. He reached inside his suit. He pulled out a pint bottle. He took a long swallow. Mojo could smell gin.

  “Too much talking. Makes my throat dry,” the old man explained.

  “Then this Madonna with the golden heart, she wasn’t actually here in Punta de Tierra? She was in the mountains above here?” Grandmother asked.

  “That’s right. And that’s where she stayed. The captain never went back. The few people who visited the Madonna after that were all Indians. In fact, the Indians used to meet here, in this very church, for their pilgrimages up into the Sangre de Cristo. Most of them were sick or had relatives who were sick, I suppose. The Madonna was supposed to be able to cure illness. Things like that.”

  “This is a wonderful story,” Grandmother said. “But what does it have to do with our heart? The living heart?”

  “A lot.” He took another long pull from the bottle. His hand trembled. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “Eighty years passed.

  In 1679, or almost eighty years after the Madonna was taken from the plaza of Santo Domingo, a new captain was appointed to head the garrison at San Ildefonso. A man named José María Benegas.

  This Captain Benegas was talking to an old Indian woman in the plaza one day when the subject of miracles came up. The Indian woman told him the story of the Miraculous Madonna. The same story I just told you.

  The captain didn’t believe it, of course. At least not most of it. He thought it was just another legend, just another Indian superstition. But one word did catch his attention. And that word was gold. This Captain Benegas was g
old crazy. He had the fever. Gold was why he had volunteered to come to New Mexico in the first place. Even though the colony was almost a hundred years old and no gold had ever been found, this captain had faith it was there. Faith he would be the one to find it. Faith he would be the one man to find that Eldorado that everyone believed was out there somewhere. He had this faith even though he had been in New Mexico for nearly three years with nothing more to show for it than the gold buttons on his cavalry tunic.

  The captain had faith. And the fever. And now suddenly here was this old woman telling him about a heart of solid gold. A fortune in gold. Enough gold to allow him to return to Spain and live like a don for the rest of his life.

  The captain questioned the old woman for a long time. He held her by the arm and wouldn’t let her go until he was certain she had told him everything she knew and that he had every detail straight in his mind.

  Then he acted.

  As soon as his official duties permitted, the captain rode alone to Punta de Tierra. He asked directions from the Fathers there, found the trail, and went up into the mountains. After only a few days he arrived at the tiny mission the Indians called the Weeping Woman’s House.

  He had supper with the friars—there were only two—and then, after telling them he wanted to give thanks for his safe journey, went to the small log church to see if the old woman’s story was true.

  It was.

  The captain couldn’t believe his eyes. After checking to make sure no one had followed him into the church, he went behind the altar and scraped a tiny sliver of gold from the Madonna’s heart. He bit the sliver of gold. Rolled it between his fingers. Tested it to make certain. His hands trembled. There was no question. It was pure.

  He probed deeper into the heart with the knife, half expecting to find wood, but all he found was more gold. The heart wasn’t gilded. No. The heart was as the old woman said it was: pure gold through and through.

  A massive lump.

  A fortune.

  The captain returned to his room and waited until after midnight. When he judged everyone was asleep, he slipped out and returned to the church. He took his knife and, working by the light of a single candle, cut out the Madonna’s heart.

  The heart was heavy. He could hardly lift it. He brought his saddlebag into the church and loaded the heart into it. He was staggering up the aisle with the saddlebag over his shoulder when one of the friars appeared in the doorway with a lantern.

  The friar didn’t understand what was happening, never suspected that a captain of the Crown would enter a church in order loot it. He thought the captain had been praying and came forward to greet him. It was his undoing. As soon as the friar was close enough, the captain drew his knife and stabbed him in the chest. The friar struggled, but the captain had him by now, and he continued to stab until the friar slumped to the floor.

  The captain put down his load of gold. He went to the room of the other friar and murdered him as well, killing him in his sleep. He considered killing the Indian servants, but decided they would probably run away long before anyone in authority had a chance to question them.

  The captain loaded the saddlebag onto his horse and rode off. He made a wide circle around Punta de Tierra and headed for the river. His plan was to carry the gold to Vera Cruz and either sell it there or smuggle it onto a ship bound for Spain.

  For six days Benegas rode downriver, avoiding other travelers by hiding in the brush. He was able to buy food from the Indians. He traded for a fresh horse just below Santo Domingo. Things were going well. Each day that passed put him farther from the crime and closer to Spain.

  On the seventh night after the robbery he was camped on the bank of the river just above where Albuquerque is today. He had shot a rabbit and was roasting it over a bed of red coals when suddenly he felt a presence.

  The captain rolled off his blanket and grabbed his pistol. His eyes searched the darkness. There, just at the far edge of the firelight, was a figure. Benegas raised his pistol. Then lowered it. It wasn’t an Indian. It was a woman. Benegas called to her, identifying himself as a soldier of the Guard. The woman stepped forward into the light.

  The woman pulled back the side of a long gown she was wearing and displayed a terrible wound. The would was massive. Blood poured from it. The captain gasped. No one could live with such a wound.

  The woman dropped the edge of her gown and walked slowly towards the captain, her hands outstretched. Her eyes were filled with sadness, tears glittered on her cheeks. She seemed to be seeking something from him. Beseeching him for something.

  Benegas drew back from her. He was terrified. He thought she was a ghost, an apparition of some sort come to haunt him. Perhaps even a demon. He jumped to his feet. He raised the pistol. He warned her to stop. She didn’t. He fired.

  When the flash and smoke of the shot cleared, the woman was gone. Simply gone. There was no sign of her, no body on the ground.

  For a long time Benegas stood and stared at the place where the woman had been. Then, marshaling his courage, he went forward. He knew that ghosts didn’t leave footprints, and he wanted to see if there were any in the soft earth. There weren’t. There was something much worse. Blood. The ground was soaked with dark red blood.

  Benegas returned to his blankets, shaken and afraid. He added wood to the fire until it was a great blaze. He huddled close to the light. He knew something terrible had just happened, but he wasn’t sure what.

  Then it came to him.

  He ran to the saddlebag and hoisted it. It came up easily. He knew at once that the gold was gone.

  Yet the bag wasn’t empty. Benegas could feel something lying in the bottom. Something soft and rounded.

  Benegas raised the bag higher. Its bottom was wet. A dark stain was spreading across it. Benegas’ hand trembled. He dropped the bag. The bag spilled out onto the—”

  * * *

  “Hello!” The shout reverberated in the empty church. “Anybody here?”

  Mojo turned. Three figures were coming down the aisle. One of the figures pointed at Mojo: “There they are!”

  As the figures drew closer Mojo could see it was three men. One of them, the one in the lead, was Cesar Romero.

  “My God!” Juanita jumped. “It’s him!”

  “Who?”

  “He’s found us! Shit!” She whirled around and snatched the jar out of the old man’s hands. She crammed the jar back into her purse and snapped it shut.

  Cesar Romero and the other two sauntered up to Mojo.

  “Good afternoon.” Cesar Romero nodded. He had a rich baritone voice. A politician’s voice. He had a big smile crowded with amazingly white teeth. He was dressed in a double-breasted navy-blue suit without a wrinkle in it. Every hair was in place.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, but you must be Joseph Birdsong. And this”—he nodded to Grandmother—“must be Mrs. Montoya. Juanita and I are old friends, of course.”

  Juanita hissed softly. It was the sort of feeble show of defiance a chicken confronted by a rattlesnake might make.

  “Who are you?” Mojo asked.

  “You don’t know? You can’t guess?” Cesar Romero asked. His smile broadened. “Then let me introduce myself: I’m Raymundo Castillo. The man whose ten kilos of cocaine you stole. Remember?”

  This about Raymundo Castillo: He was the sort of man who would kill you for a dollar and leave a tip. His voice may have been as mellow as a TV game show host’s; his face may have been as open and warm as a rich uncle’s; his smile may have glowed as comfortingly as a night-light in a five-year-old’s bedroom; but his eyes were as hard and cold as black ice on an overpass at four in the morning.

  Mojo gulped. He remembered, all right.

  “Pedrito.” Castillo nodded casually to one of the others.

  The man stepped forward and thrust a cannon in Mojo’s face. He flicked Mojo’s nose with the barrel. “You give me any trouble, cabrón, and I’ll blow your brains out,” the man told Mojo.

&
nbsp; “Now, I want you to all come with me,” Castillo said enthusiastically, waving an arm as though inviting them down to the local Dairy Queen for triple fudge sundaes with cherries on top. “We have a little unfinished business to attend to.”

  “Please, Mr. Castillo. Leave Grandmother out of this,” Juanita pleaded. “She doesn’t have anything to do with you. The old man either.”

  Castillo looked puzzled. “What old man?”

  Juanita turned around. “This old…” But the altar step was empty. There was nothing there but dust.

  9

  Mojo couldn’t move anything but his head.

  Mojo and Grandmother were tied to two pine trees. They were wrapped up like mummies. Clothesline was wound around Mojo from his neck to his ankles. The clothesline was tight; it cut into his arms and his chest and his thighs. He doubted whether even Houdini could have escaped from it.

  “I’m leaving now,” Castillo said, carefully placing the pickle jar on the ground. “It’ll be dark soon, and I don’t want to be out here after dark.”

  “Where’s Juanita? What’d you do with Juanita?” Mojo demanded to know.

  “She’s all right. She’s back at the car. She’ll be going with me when I leave. You see, I have special plans for Juanita.” Castillo gave Mojo a toothy grin as he straightened. “She’s going to perform a very valuable service for me.”

  “A service? What kind of service?”

  “The service of dying. Of course, you two are going to die as well, but your deaths won’t be nearly as important as poor Juanita’s.”

  “You’re wrong. We won’t die,” Grandmother said stoutly. “We’ve been chosen by the Lady to be the guardians of her heart. She will protect us.”

  “I don’t much think so. I don’t much think she can.” Castillo turned to go.