me. “I’ll get some matches.”
We smudged La Arca, the room, ourselves. Then we sat down together at the table and I began to untie the horsehair rope. I told Kerry the story that Theresa Mendoza had told me, and also what I had learned from my trip to the Taos library.
“Am I allowed to see it?” he asked, respectfully.
“I don’t know why you couldn’t see it. They display it in the church on Easter Sunday in Truchas. But I would rather you didn’t touch it.”
“I won’t. I understand.”
When the mecates were undone, I stopped to compose myself. Just as Theresa Mendoza had done, I closed my eyes and drew within. I said a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that I would be guided to do whatever was best. Then I drew back the embroidered cloth.
Kerry inhaled deeply, his chest rising, his eyes like moons. “It’s beautiful! Wait! Let me get my camera!” He moved to get up.
I shot out my hand to stop him. “No, don’t.”
“But… for your book? Wouldn’t you like a picture of it for your book? You said it’s all right for people to see it.”
“No. I don’t want a picture of it. Then people will come in droves to see it, maybe even try to steal it. I don’t want you to photograph it.”
“Okay.” He sat back in his chair. “Now what?”
“Now you go take a shower or something. Let me know before you plan to come back into this room.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, saluting as he got up.
La Arca unfolded her secrets to me that morning in the cool, gray light of Kerry’s apartment. The smoke from the sage we had burned floated in a heavy haze in the soft hues of a snowy dawn. The sound of Kerry’s shower was like a distant, constant drumroll accompanying this ceremony honoring the victory of Passionate Faith over Evil.
Within, La Arca was lined with old black velvet, crinkled and shiny with age. Antique photos showed above the lip of a velvet pocket in the lid. Some of these were quite large and made from old silver or copper plates. As I removed them, I read the dates the photographers had etched right on the plates in scrawling white handwriting: 1895, 1898, 1902. There were also several stacks of small zigzag-edged photos that had been made sometime later than the larger ones, their corners just peeking out above the pocket top. I pulled them from their nests and placed them in three piles on the table.
In the body of La Arca, a small, ancient-looking brown book rested on top. I picked it up carefully and examined it. It was a cuaderno-a compact book written entirely by hand, including the words to the alabados-the hymns, written text of the teachings of the brotherhood, their prayers, chants, plays, sayings, rules. I thumbed through the yellowed, brittle pages, examining the elegant handwriting, the hand-sewn binding of woven cloth. It was written entirely in Spanish. I looked through page after page. I found the expression Father Ignacio had quoted at our meeting in Santa Fe, heard his melodious accented voice in my mind:
This cuaderno reminded me of my own handwritten, hand-drawn book. Cuadernos like the one I was holding were the means by which Los Penitentes had conveyed their culture and faith from generation to generation. Many Hispanos learned to read and write using their cuadernos. The old books were so rare now that only one was known to exist from before the turn of the century-because when they became worn, new ones were made and the old ones destroyed. This was probably a priceless artifact. But I put the book beside the photographs. It was not what I was looking for.
La Arca held seven rosaries made with hand-carved wooden beads; each one had an ornate crucifix. And there was one large, silver cross with three transoms, the shortest one nearest the top, each of the next two successively longer. At the crux of the second transom was a large ruby. I set these things on the table also.
Beneath that lay a sheaf of yellowed papers. I handled them carefully. Several of them were folded and sealed with wax, and they were so old and brittle that tiny bits of them chipped off the edges and fell into the box as I moved them. They would have snapped apart if anyone tried to open them.
One item interested me, though, and I took great pains not to damage it. It was a small, handwritten ledger, its cover crudely hand-stitched from plain tan cloth, with only a few sheets of thick yellow paper inside. It appeared to be a kind of log, with over a hundred Hispanic names, each one with a year following. A few of them had the word
More papers, all in Spanish, many of which looked to be official documents that bore an impressed seal, sworn to in both elegant and crude handwriting, some witnessed with simple
I heard the bathroom door open and Kerry’s voice called to me: “I’m just letting the steam out. Find anything important?”
“Still looking. I wish I knew more Spanish.” I shook my head. I could smell Kerry’s shampoo, hear him brushing his teeth. I carefully set all the papers on the table.
At the bottom of the box, I found what I was searching for. It was wrapped in a piece of crimson silk. I carefully unfolded the cloth and regarded the precious treasure within. In large, ornate black script, the title read,
La Arca was now empty. I closed the lid and stood up. Then I gently turned the box over. On the bottom, carved into the wooden base, was the signature of its maker and the date it was made:
At the library, I had learned about the santero from Las Truchas, probably the first native-born santero in Nuevo Mexico. As Father Ignacio had promised, this man-the one from the legend Theresa Mendoza had told me- and the sacred tract by Padre Antonio Jose Martinez, who was the first New Mexico Penitente to become a priest, had come together at last. Padre Martinez had virtually risked his life to defend Los Hermanos against the decrees the Church issued condemning the brotherhood when he printed this sacred document. This tract was his opus, and that source of power Father Ignacio had mentioned that someone had been trying to steal from Los Penitentes. It was their credo. And this sacred ark was probably the last work of art Pedro Antonio Fresquiz had made before he died. Its value alone-without the tract by Padre Martinez-was inestimable. Only a few pieces of his work remained in existence, and their distinctive style was prized by collectors of religious iconography the world over.
I rotated La Arca back to an upright position and studied the beautiful, passionate carving, the deep, stainlike colors of the cedar wood’s variegations on the lid of this portable shrine. I began to replace the contents, one by one-beginning with the Martinez tract in its silk cover. Then the aging documents and the cloth binder with its ledger of names. Then the silver cross with the ruby, and the carved-bead rosaries with their crucifixes. And the priceless cuaderno.
I turned then to the piles of photographs. I had seen photos like these in some of the books I had looked to for research into the brotherhood. Sadly, most of them were overexposed, not very clear, taken from a distance- showing Penitente rituals and processions. And even a few of crucifixions.
The figures in the older pictures seemed unreal. The stark light of New Mexico’s midday sun shone on the harsh faces of rocks, making the black-clad figures in coats appear to be shadows, and the black-hooded, white-trousered Penitentes hard to make out against the strata and the bare ground.
The newer photographs, those with the rickrack edges, were clearer. There were several of the ritual reunion
