The Sisterhood

Chapter 31


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Dona Esperanza Aguilar, the Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, March 1555





I am with child, and frightened, remembering my mother and Marisol. Salome takes great care of me and Don Miguel will scarcely let me move. I used to think him rather forbidding. Now I see only dignity and passionate pride that he strives to keep under control. I pray he will not return to the mountains where they say the spirit of resistance to the Spanish lives on. A mistress would have been far less dangerous—almost preferable.


A year to the day we married I have a daughter. Deo gratias, the birth was easier than I dared hope and we are well. The baby is named Maria Caterina after my mother. Don Miguel dotes on her, and small as she is he tells her stories—how the god Viracocha rose out of a lake and created the sun and the stars, how he created the Inca to be lords, how the flute-playing herder of white llamas fell in love with the daughter of the sun. Swaddled to her chin, Maria Caterina stares at him with eyes as dark and steady as his own. Salome laughs at him and says the Incas were much harder on their children than he is likely to be. Don Miguel says there is time for strictness later.

Sanchia is devoted to the baby, and dances her round and round, humming and singing, until Salome and I protest she will be sick. Sanchia seems happy here, and Salome and Marisol are matchmaking by messenger and letters, but Sanchia seems uninterested.





The Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, December 1557


I have little time to write in my beloved Chronicle! Salome is often tired and able to do less and less here, so I assumed her role as patroness of the convent’s orphanage and school for Indian girls. I have written to Marisol to say that she must set up a similar school on her estate. She and I both know—everyone knows—that Don Tomas is the father of many children there, as many born after his marriage as before it. And whatever her feelings, Marisol has a duty to see they have enough to eat and wear, and are taught to read and say their prayers. Between the convent, the household, Maria Caterina, Don Miguel, and Sanchia, the days pass before I realize they have begun.

Don Miguel is settling a portion of his estate on Maria Caterina to prevent more Inca land being snatched by the Spanish settlers.


Sanchia is gone! She accompanied Don Miguel to the city on some errands, then disappeared. Don Miguel was beside himself thinking she had been snatched, and tried everything and everyone he knew trying to find her. When he returned, exhausted, I told him about the note she had left on her bed, saying that she has not forgotten what she owed her parents. Sanchia’s Old Testament is missing, too, along with her best shawl, some silver hair combs, and my Chinese fan. I fear for her. I am also with child again.





The Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, October 1560


It has been almost three years since Sanchia left. Don Miguel has sought her everywhere, and each time he travels to the city he asks the convent if any news of Sanchia has reached them. So far none has. He also brings back word of Pia, but the news is no happier. She has never left her cell, prays night and day, mortifies her flesh, and eats and drinks almost nothing, only a little bread and fruit. The last baby, little José, has begun to walk and I am with child again, and this time, wretchedly ill.





The Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, April 1561


Isabelita was born after Christmas, much sooner than expected. It was a long and difficult birth. Isabelita is not well, not thriving as our other children did. She is listless and weak and rarely cries, looking at me with large suffering eyes. I love her all the more, so little and so sweet, but my love does nothing to help her. I hold her constantly, and try to get her to feed a little. It breaks my heart to hear her sad little wail, see her small hands curl and uncurl as if all her energy is concentrated in tiny fingers, clutching at life. I hold her close to my heart, as if its beating will keep her alive. Don Miguel has aged and his hair is white. Salome says he looks more and more like his father. Salome herself is ill, gaunt, and in pain though she tries to hide it. I do what I can for her, but she can scarcely eat or drink or leave her bed.

As long as I do not allow tears to come, Isabelita and Salome will live.

And now, on top of everything, I must leave the hacienda. I received a message from the convent that Pia is dying and has asked for me, begs me to come. They write that she has a disease eating at her from inside, that she has suffered terribly without complaining. Salome insists that I go. I fear the journey will kill Isabelita, but I dare not leave her behind with a nurse. What if I never saw her again?