Shaman Winter by Rudolfo Anaya Page A

the Indians; it was the friars’ missionary zeal that drove them to destroy the ceremonial kivas and to burn masks, fetishes, and other paraphernalia. Dances and the handling of snakes were prohibited. The Holy Office of the Inquisition, which was headquartered in Santo Domingo Pueblo, commanded the friars to beat and hang those medicine men who resisted conversion from their old ways into the Catholic religion.
    â€œThe Bringer of Curses,” Sonny thought aloud.
    â€œQué?”
    â€œA rift between the religion of the friars and the religion of the Pueblos. There was even a bitter struggle between the Spanish civil authorities and the church. Greed and pride led them practically to blows. The Pueblo Indians, caught in the middle, suffered. Oñate instituted the encomienda system, so the head of each Indian household had to pay tribute in corn and blankets. With repartimiento the Indians were forced to work the Spaniards’ fields.”
    â€œSpanish gentlemen didn’t like to soil their hands in the earth,” Lorenza said. “Repartimiento was another word for slavery.”
    â€œSmallpox, measles, cholera, whooping cough decimated the Pueblos.… Talk about curses.”
    Sonny went on recounting the history until they drove into Santa Fé. Downtown and around the plaza the Christmas decorations were already hung. An overcast sky turned the day chilly; still, tourists wandered around the plaza. Many came from Texas, California, New York, to ski, to vacation, to revel in the southwestern atmosphere.
    Lorenza circled the plaza once. “Roberto’s gone, but we can get French cuisine.” The street was lined with coffee shops and delis catering to tourists.
    â€œThe tourists want continental,” Sonny replied.
    â€œNew people, new age. In La Fonda you can get a psychic reading while you drink your margarita. There’s little room left for traditional curanderas.”
    â€œBut you’re not traditional,” Sonny said.
    The traditional curandera his mother had taken him to when he was a child was a little old woman dressed in black. She smelled of osha. She did simple healing with prayers, massage, and candles. She didn’t practice the kind of craft Lorenza knew; she didn’t dream of entering the powerful world of spirits. And she sure didn’t look like Lorenza.
    Under the portal of the Palace of the Governors, vendors sat on blankets, selling their jewelry. Good-looking gringas dressed to the hilt in the Santa Fé style were shopping. Silver and turquoise made beautiful Christmas gifts for those back home.
    â€œAh, here’s one.” Lorenza pointed at the small cafe on a side street. “You ready for a snack?”
    â€œI’m always ready,” Sonny replied. They parked and entered and ate what Sonny described as “some of the best” posole con menudo he ever had, spiced with red chile from Puerto de Luna. The sopaipillas were not crisp enough for his taste, but then only Rita’s sopaipillas pleased him. For dessert, sweet rice pudding and coffee.
    From the bearded waiter they got directions to the Romeros’ home, a chic place on the eastern foothills. Lorenza parked in the graveled driveway, and Sonny let his chair down on the lift and rolled toward the front door.
    Arturo Romero, a stocky man in his forties dressed in a blue suit and red tie, answered the door. “Welcome. Please come in. We’ve been expecting you. I am glad you could come, Mr. Baca. I didn’t know—” He indicated Sonny’s chair.
    â€œHad a little accident,” Sonny replied, and introduced Lorenza.
    Arturo led them into a large living room decorated with an enormous Christmas tree and many presents, which, Sonny guessed, might not be opened this Christmas. Chimayó rugs covered the Saltillo tiled floors, and expensive santero pieces filled the nichos. One, a large Muerte in her cart by Patrociño Barela, stood by the