Read Online Zia by Scott O’Dell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Scott O’Dell
Tags: Ages 8 and up
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into them. At melon planting time Mando always had fishing to do. He was now with some gringos fishing south along the coast. He liked anyone who fished, gringos or not.
We did it carefully because if the seed was not planted properly it would not sprout. Gito always went down the rows about three weeks after the planting and if he found places where the seeds had not sprouted, he got very angry and made us plant them again.
He came up now as Rosa and I were working. It is hard work, stooping over that way—up and down, up and down—in the hot sun. He was carrying an olla of cold water and he passed it to us.
When we had finished drinking, he said, "It is a hot day, verdad? "
"True," I answered, "it is hot."
"But the sun is good for the seeds, verdad? "
"True," I said.
He took a drink from the olla and wiped his mouth with the corner of the handkerchief he wore around his neck. Gito always dressed well. Even when he was working, he wore clean shirts and handkerchiefs and boots with stitches on them.
"The sun is good for the melons," he said, "but not for those who plant them."
Neither Rosa nor I said anything.
"It is hard work for girls," he said. "It is harder work than the looms. Do you not agree?"
"Harder, yes," Rosa said.
"I do not like the idea of girls working in the field," he said.
I knew what the mayordomo was coming to, but I did not show that I knew.
Gito Cruz had come to the Mission two years before. He was the son of a man who was the chief of a small tribe that lived about ten leagues north of the Mission. Gito did much grumbling when he first came to the Mission, I was told, so the fathers made him a mayordomo. He felt this was a position more fitting to the son of a chief.
But Gito still grumbled after he became a mayordomo. I knew from other times that he was getting ready to grumble now.
"They work us hard here at the Mission," he said. He looked at me. His eyes were small but very bright and he had a mustache as thin as a thread, which he plucked carefully every day. "Where do you come from?" he asked me. He had asked me this before.
"Far to the east," I said.
"If you were there would you be working hard in the hot sun?"
"We work and rest, both," I said.
"When you wish—one and then the other. We do not do that here. We are not allowed any wishes. Here we work every day, sun and rain, winter and the summer. Sometimes I stop and I ask myself, Mayordomo, why do you work so hard? Do you ever say this to yourself?" he asked Rosa.
"Sometimes."
The mayordomo went away to talk to the other people who were planting seeds. He gave them a drink from the olla, talked for a while, made jokes, and went down the other rows talking and handing out water.
Everybody looked up to Gito, not only because he was the son of a chieftain and a mayordomo, but because he was an Indian. Everyone felt he was a friend, and therefore an enemy of the white man, who had taken our lands, an enemy of this new world that the gringo had brought that was so hard for us to live in and understand.
We planted melon seeds until the bells rang at dusk. Then we started back to the Mission for mass and supper.
I have spoken of our mayordomo as Gito Cruz. Perhaps I should say that we all called him "Manos de Piedra," which he liked better than his real name, because he had fists like stones and a heart that I think was stone too.
Anyway, on the trail home, Stone Hands said to Rosa, "Are you tired, muchacha? "
"Yes," she said.
"This happened before you were born," he said, speaking to us all. "I was not born then either but I have heard. This was when the first Mission was built away from here in San Diego. The Indians did the building, the hard work; they got tired, tired as we are now, and one night they burned down what they had built and fled into the mountains. They went back to their homes."
We had come to the top of one of the hills that enclose the valley, from where we could see the Mission and its
We did it carefully because if the seed was not planted properly it would not sprout. Gito always went down the rows about three weeks after the planting and if he found places where the seeds had not sprouted, he got very angry and made us plant them again.
He came up now as Rosa and I were working. It is hard work, stooping over that way—up and down, up and down—in the hot sun. He was carrying an olla of cold water and he passed it to us.
When we had finished drinking, he said, "It is a hot day, verdad? "
"True," I answered, "it is hot."
"But the sun is good for the seeds, verdad? "
"True," I said.
He took a drink from the olla and wiped his mouth with the corner of the handkerchief he wore around his neck. Gito always dressed well. Even when he was working, he wore clean shirts and handkerchiefs and boots with stitches on them.
"The sun is good for the melons," he said, "but not for those who plant them."
Neither Rosa nor I said anything.
"It is hard work for girls," he said. "It is harder work than the looms. Do you not agree?"
"Harder, yes," Rosa said.
"I do not like the idea of girls working in the field," he said.
I knew what the mayordomo was coming to, but I did not show that I knew.
Gito Cruz had come to the Mission two years before. He was the son of a man who was the chief of a small tribe that lived about ten leagues north of the Mission. Gito did much grumbling when he first came to the Mission, I was told, so the fathers made him a mayordomo. He felt this was a position more fitting to the son of a chief.
But Gito still grumbled after he became a mayordomo. I knew from other times that he was getting ready to grumble now.
"They work us hard here at the Mission," he said. He looked at me. His eyes were small but very bright and he had a mustache as thin as a thread, which he plucked carefully every day. "Where do you come from?" he asked me. He had asked me this before.
"Far to the east," I said.
"If you were there would you be working hard in the hot sun?"
"We work and rest, both," I said.
"When you wish—one and then the other. We do not do that here. We are not allowed any wishes. Here we work every day, sun and rain, winter and the summer. Sometimes I stop and I ask myself, Mayordomo, why do you work so hard? Do you ever say this to yourself?" he asked Rosa.
"Sometimes."
The mayordomo went away to talk to the other people who were planting seeds. He gave them a drink from the olla, talked for a while, made jokes, and went down the other rows talking and handing out water.
Everybody looked up to Gito, not only because he was the son of a chieftain and a mayordomo, but because he was an Indian. Everyone felt he was a friend, and therefore an enemy of the white man, who had taken our lands, an enemy of this new world that the gringo had brought that was so hard for us to live in and understand.
We planted melon seeds until the bells rang at dusk. Then we started back to the Mission for mass and supper.
I have spoken of our mayordomo as Gito Cruz. Perhaps I should say that we all called him "Manos de Piedra," which he liked better than his real name, because he had fists like stones and a heart that I think was stone too.
Anyway, on the trail home, Stone Hands said to Rosa, "Are you tired, muchacha? "
"Yes," she said.
"This happened before you were born," he said, speaking to us all. "I was not born then either but I have heard. This was when the first Mission was built away from here in San Diego. The Indians did the building, the hard work; they got tired, tired as we are now, and one night they burned down what they had built and fled into the mountains. They went back to their homes."
We had come to the top of one of the hills that enclose the valley, from where we could see the Mission and its
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