Harvest of Fury by Jeanne Williams Page A

mountains for the small but very rich and nutritious piñon nuts.
    In mid-February, the first timid greens had appeared. March had offered cholla buds, the plump curving fruit of yucca palmillo, and agave hearts roasted to a sweet syrupy brown mass. May had been tender young cattail shoots, and June had brought their rich golden pollen, so good in soups and breads.
    Late summer rains had also produced large round puffballs, some white, some brownish, and these succulent treasures were carried home to be sizzled in bacon grease or sliced into stews. The smaller ones could be confused with a kind of deadly mushroom, but Talitha had learned from Tjúni to cut the ball across. The mushroom showed its developing gills and shape, like a bird growing in an egg, but if the inside was smooth, creamy white, the ball could be eaten with gusto.
    They celebrated Cat’s eighth birthday the twentieth of September. Chuey and Rodolfo woke her by playing their guitars and singing “ Las Mañanitas ” outside the window.
    â€œ On the morning you were born ,
    Were born the flowers …”
    Oh, God, thought Talitha, rousing. Had they forgotten? Of course they hadn’t. No one who’d known and loved Socorro could forget that she’d died in a rush of blood in the dawning Cat was born.
    Socorro, valiant and tender, Shea’s miracle, adored by both him and Santiago, to all of them the human, sometimes hot-tempered embodiment of the dark madonna blessing the sala . A madonna from the ranch where everyone but Santiago had been slaughtered by scalp hunters.
    Blessing and tragedy, kindness and courage, horror and treachery. Cat living out of her mother’s death; James begotten by the hated Juh. Wondering at the tangled, inexplicable threads of fate, Talitha dismissed fruitless musings and crossed the room past Sewa, who lay drowsily smiling at a sun mote, to kiss and embrace Cat, who was just springing out of bed.
    â€œHappy birthday, Caterina Katie-Cat!”
    â€œOh, Tally! Don’t call me that baby name!” Running to the window, she leaned out, laughing, honey-golden cheeks flushed, and thanked the vaqueros, gracious as a queen. They departed, happy at her pleasure, and she spun dancingly across the floor. “See, they know I’m growing up! They never sang for me before. I’m not a young child anymore.”
    â€œNo,” agreed Talitha gravely. The vaqueros must have made the flattering gesture to make up for Shea’s absence, for the lack of presents obtained from the San Patricio pack trains or at Tubac. “You’re not a young child. Will you bring Sewa in? I want to start the panocha for your feast tonight.”
    â€œPanocha!” sang Cat, still whirling. “My favorite!”
    â€œThat’s why!” Talitha laughed. “And there’s nut candy, Anita’s special tamales, and all your favorites. I hope, ancient one, that you’re not too dignified to enjoy them!”
    Cat trilled with pure glee, hugged Talitha in a last caracol before she began to dress, and started to sing to the baby. May she always have a bright spirit, Talitha thought. Dressing quickly, she hurried to the kitchen and began grinding the dried, sprouted wheat.
    There was wild turkey, and beef barbecued outside by the vaqueros, who would later savor by themselves the pit-roasted head, or tatema . Steaming tamales stuffed, as only Anita could do it, with spiced shredded meat, and chilis, tortillas, beans, corn soup, acorn bread, roast corn on the cob, currant and grape preserves, nut and pumpkin candies, and the panocha, a sort of pudding, made extra rich for the occasion by doubling the number of raw sugar cones. Sewa, who at fifteen months couldn’t chew most of the food, loved the panocha, and it was a mark of Cat’s love that she didn’t grudge the astonishing amount of pudding that the tiny girl devoured.
    After supper came the gifts. Miguel gave her his best