“But there must be so many fish, Father,” she said. “Surely some must swim pass the nets?”
Peralta shook his head, realized foolishly that the girl couldn’t see the gesture.
“No, nina, none get through. The big boats and the fishermen on them are too good for that.”
“If Grandfather could only make one more catch,” came the small voice. “Just one more catch—before the cough takes him. Then he could laugh, too. And Jose and Felipe and all the others would have to say they were wrong.”
“I’m afraid that would take a miracle, nina.”
“Then I will pray for a miracle!””The words were excited and determined, with just a shading of grandfather’s steel in them. “I will light candles and pray to San Pedro for one more catch for my grandfather.”
Peralta smiled. “And I will pray for that, too, child.”
It was a blistering hot day, and there were many hot days in San Ouintin. But when all the others had left the church, even the widow Esteban, a small angel with hair and eyes of Indian obsidian was still
99
WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . . .
there, praying in front of the altar. And when Father Peralta looked in from his study that evening, she was still there.
Finally he walked over to her, made her straighten her dress, and sent her home before she would worry her parents. Yes, she had prayed well, and perhaps San Pedro would be kind.
But, he cautioned her, San Pedro was a very busy saint.
He returned to his study and pulled close to his desk, opening a thick book. He began to write.
“Again we can see that the primitive hieroglyphs of the aboriginal inhabitants of Baja California are in no way … in no way—”