Song of the Hummingbird Page 5

  Father Anselmo nodded distractedly; he was thinking of something else. “I shall never be able to fathom why people—we and they—each so diverse in all ways, have crossed paths. Who will ever know why each of our nations, separated by vast oceans, unknowing of the existence of the other until now, have come together. What could be the reason, except that Our Lord Savior willed it.”

  “Amen!” Benito made the sign of the cross. “Does this, then, not prove that they are human beings like us?”

  The older monk stared at Benito, his eyes were bright with a mix of surprise and understanding. Both men were thinking of the now historic debates that had taken place in the universities of Spain. Were the inhabitants of this land human beings or mere creatures to be held as chattels? went the argument.

  Father Anselmo stood quietly and walked to the door. The conference had ended. He seemed to glide over the polished floor tiles, and the hem of his habit made a light whipping sound as it wrapped around his ankles. When he reached the door, he put his hand on the knob as he turned to face the young monk. “Of course they’re human. The difference between them and us, however, is that we are the instrument of their salvation.”

  Chapter

  VI

  Next morning, before sitting next to her, Father Benito pressed Huitzitzilin with a series of questions he had prepared.

  “Señora, are you a baptized Christian?”

  She looked at him; a combination of amusement and curiosity were reflected on her face. When she didn’t answer, he sat in the chair, paused, and changed the question.

  “What is your baptismal name?”

  Huitzitzilin looked away from the monk before answering. “Don’t you know that we were all baptized by your missionaries? It was done in groups of dozens, even hundreds.”

  Benito cursed himself for sounding stupid; of course he knew the procedure. The natives had all been christened at the beginning, except for those who had fled.

  “Yes. . .yes, of course. I knew that.” He stuttered his words. “Tell me, then, what is your real name?” The woman’s face whipped around to face him and, realizing what she was about to say, he countered. “No! Not the bird name! I want to know your Christian name.”

  “María de Belén.”

  Huit-zitzilin’s voice was so low that Benito, even though hunched in her direction, could not hear her response.

  “What did you say?”

  The woman jerked her arms towards the monk, hands rolled into fists, and her toothless mouth opened wide, forming a black rectangle. Benito caught a glimpse of its tiny, pink tongue before he was jolted by the unexpectedly strong voice that rang out.

  “Ma-rí-a-a-a!”

  She shouted the word. Its vibration crackled with irritation as it echoed through the silent cloister halls.

  Father Benito jerked back, nearly loosing his balance, but after a few seconds, when he regained his composure, he was at least satisfied that she was a baptized Christian and that she had a suitable name. Pursing his lips and rubbing the palms of his hands together, he showed relief.

  “Shall we begin?”

  He gingerly reached for paper and quill, settled himself in the chair and prepared to write. But he soon looked up and noticed that she was slumped in her chair, looking grumpy.

  “Have I upset you?”

  “Yes!”

  “It’s my obligation to know these things about you.”

  “What things?”

  “That you have a Christian name.”

  “You mean you have to make sure that I have been robbed of everything, even my name.”

  Father Benito was dismayed. He had not imagined that the old woman had such mettle, nor that she could be so outspoken. Her irascibility had cropped up before, but not so shrilly as now. He decided that it would be better not to pursue the matter.

  “Please! Let’s continue with your story. Tell me what happened to you after that dreadful night. How and who nursed you back to health?”

  “You have many questions today, don’t you?”

  Benito looked at her. His expression was sheepish, but he realized with surprise that her testiness did not annoy him, that he was growing fond of her and her manner. But Father Anselmo’s words came back to him, and he made a firm decision to try to put aside sentiment with the Indian woman.

  She began to speak. “I cannot say how many days and nights I was trapped in the underbelly of the world, but it was a time of intense battle for me. Unconscious, I grappled with demons, I combated with grinning skulls, I wrestled with monsters that bit and stung my flesh. During my stupor, there was only terror to keep me company, only fear that compelled me to continue on the path that would take me back to life. But I was trapped in a maze of pain and grief, and I did not want to recover consciousness because I felt that worse things awaited me up there where the sun was shining.”

  Benito noted that Huitzitzilin no longer spoke of herself as a stranger. He decided not to pursue the matter, relieved because this disproved Anselmo’s claim of a possible hex.

  “It was a grim road, and even though senseless, I saw that my feet left bloody prints as I walked, stamps that transformed themselves into demons that trailed after me in constant attack. My heart ached, my spirit wept, and my body desired death. When I did re-enter this world, it was only to find myself crushed and scarred, my face swollen beyond recognition, and I desired death more than ever.

  “Then slowly my spirit took hold of itself, raising itself out of that pain and misery and humiliation. A tiny fire, a speck in the beginning, was born in the center of my brain, drawing life, growing until it became a powerful flame that carried my spirit up and out of my torment. I was alive, and never again would this happen to me. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I would be free because pain had liberated me.”

  Father Benito could not refrain from interrupting her. “I’ve never heard such talk before.”

  “You find it strange?”

  “Yes, because we all suffer pain, and yet none of us is free.”

  The woman began to cry, and Father Benito became alarmed, not knowing what had brought it on. He put his papers aside and awkwardly placed his hand on hers.

  “I cannot help it. I weep for myself, for my children, and for the daughter who doesn’t know who her mother is.”

  “You had children?” His voice was charged with disbelief.

  She nodded but said nothing more. A few moments passed until the monk again took paper in hand, wondering how many other mysteries were buried in the woman’s memory. He decided not to pry; instead he would wait until she was ready to speak about what had made her cry so unexpectedly.

  “I returned to the land of the living. My ladies had nursed me, forcing the juices of meats and fruits through my lips. They washed and made sure that my body was placed in different positions in the bed. During those days in which my spirit floundered in the bowels of the earth, my maidens had cared for my body.

  “When I finally revived, I was told what had happened after I lost consciousness. Tetla had walked away from me, confident that I would die. When he discovered that I had survived, he instructed the servants to keep me in his palace until he returned.”

  Huitzitzilin noticed that the monk was not writing, so she stopped speaking. She stared at him but saw that he was rubbing his hands, palm against palm, in apparent distraction.

  “You’re not writing. Are you not interested?”

  Father Benito squirmed in the chair; he seemed not to know what to say.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Señora. The truth is that I am interested. However, I’m here for one of two things. That is, either I should be recording what you have to say of the previous ways of your people, or hear your confession. I believe what you’re now telling is neither.”

  “I see. Does it not matter to you that I had a child?”

  “Matter? Of course it matters! Was it from Tetla?”

  “No. At first he thought it was, but the truth was that the father
of the boy was Zintle.”

  “Oh!”

  The priest’s voice dipped.

  “I suppose this is a matter for confession?”

  “The child was conceived out of wedlock. That is a sin.”

  “How many times must a person confess the same sin?”

  Father Benito held his breath, suspecting another of the woman’s surprise moves that breached the gap between Mexica ritual and Christian theology. He answered as he had been taught to respond.

  “As many times as that sin is committed.”

  “Even if its the same sin done with the same person?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I confess to you. . . ”

  Father Benito nervously threw his documentation aside, scattering the pages on the floor. He fumbled, reaching for the stole necessary to hear a confession.

  “. . . that I made love to Zintle many times, in many places until I became pregnant again. We did this while Tetla was away.”

  She had blurted out her sin faster than Benito could prepare himself. Although too late, he went through the motions, making the sign of the cross and settling in the posture he always took to hear a confession.

  “I’m finished. There is no more. Should I repeat my sin again so it will count now that you’re ready?”

  He flushed heavily, convinced that she was mocking him. He yanked away the stole, gathered his things, and without saying anything began to leave the cloister. He felt humiliated by the woman and by his own clumsiness; this angered him.

  “Will you return tomorrow? I’ll tell you of one of the first encounters of our people with yours.”

  Father Benito thought that he detected an apology in the woman’s tone. He stopped and turned to look at her, and saw that in the closing darkness Huitzitzilin looked as if carved in stone, she seemed so ancient. The impression moved him, dispelling the irritation her surprise confession had caused in him.

  “Yes. I’ll return.”

  Chapter

  VII

  “As I promised yesterday, young priest, I’ll now tell you of the first signs we had of the coming of your people. First, however, I want to assure you that I won’t be telling you of my sinful ways anymore. That is, not until the end. At that time, I’ll warn you with time so that you can prepare yourself.”

  Grateful to see that the woman had noticed his turmoil the day before and relieved to know that he would not have to worry about theological matters, Father Benito’s interest was immediately engaged by the prospect of being the first to hear new information. He was certain that few chronicles held the experiences of one such as this Indian woman.

  “I know that this part will be of interest to you because it involves one of your own. As it turns out, Tetla was called to the eastern coast because strange events were occurring, and tributary tribes had reported the presence of a strange, pale creature who had been enslaved by one of the Maya villages. Moctezuma was by that time worried by the many portents that had made themselves manifest in his kingdom. When he received notice of the appearance of the creature, he was shaken.

  “The reports also stated that when the man had been found, he was accompanied by another who was created in the same mold and whose skin was of the same pallid color; both of them stank intolerably.”

  “They stank? Were they sick?”

  “No. All of you smell in a peculiar way, so I suppose it’s something with which you’re born.”

  Father Benito recoiled, hugging his arms to his sides, conscious of the odor that his armpits gave off. He often went without bathing for long periods of time.

  She smiled wryly. “No. You can’t help it. All of you smell.” Huitzitzilin said this casually before going on. “The circumstances of their arrival were equally disconcerting. Moctezuma had been advised that those creatures had emerged from a huge structure, a large house, with white wings, that glided on the water. However, in this instance, something had gone wrong, because the thing had collided and floundered against the rocks of the coast. Then, as if vomiting its insides out, the floating monster spat out several white creatures. They died almost immediately; only two survived.”

  Father Benito put down the quill and squinted his eyes as he remembered. This was not new. The two men she was talking about were by now famous in Spain. His memory groped, trying to come up with their names. However, he could recall only one of them, Jerónimo de Aguilar.

  The monk remembered that this man had been shipwrecked onto this land almost ten years before Cap tain Cortés, and that by the time Aguilar was rescued by the Spaniards, he already knew how to speak the language of the people who had captured him. What no one knew, however, was what had become of the man.

  “Does anyone know what happened to Aguilar?”

  “Yes. He died a very old man, a monk I believe, in the Convent of San Juan Baptista here in Coyoacán. It is a refuge for aged priests. It is not far from here. He died recently, no more than five years ago.”

  Father Benito made a note to visit the place and see if he could come up with more facts. He shook his head, not understanding how this material had not reached Spain. And yet this woman knew of it.

  “That man was important to your captains because he was the one who became the first interpreter for Don Hernán Cortés on his progress in this direction.

  “There was a woman, also. She was young at the time and she soon replaced Aguilar as interpreter. She was known as Malinche. She became Cortés’ mistress and bore him a son.”

  This, too, had already been recorded and included in the instructional sessions of all missionaries coming to this land. But Father Benito wanted to know more about that woman; what had not been part of the chronicles.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Few people know that after Cortés passed her on to another of his captains, she fled rather than accept that humiliation. Most Mexicas saw her as a traitor, and few people had compassion for her. I heard recently that she died, but that she had lived a serene life because she did not see herself as a traitor. And I agree! She wasn’t even a Mexica!”

  Father Benito was writing as rapidly as possible. When he scrawled the last word, he turned to Huitzitzilin, wanting more information about the concubine.

  “I feel glad for her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she did what her heart and mind told her to do. And because I did many things that she did. Our lives are very similar.”

  Benito wrinkled his forehead. He was on the verge of asking Huitzitzilin to explain, but she rambled on.

  “At that time I was invited by Moctezuma’s wife, Yani, to be one of her women companions. I mention this because not only was it a position of privilege, but it put me in a place where I was able to observe many important events as well. I know that this is important to your record. I, among others, witnessed the collapse of our kingdom from a close view.”

  “I want you to tell me everything you can remember about those days.”

  “But you already know everything.”

  “Not from your way of seeing those events.”

  “Then you must know that it was during those days that I gave birth to a son.”

  “Zintle’s?”

  “Yes. I named the boy. . . No, I won’t say it in my language since I see it troubles your tongue. I named him Wing of a Bird.”

  The woman leaned deep into the chair. She was lost in thought, but Father Benito waited until she resumed speaking. She returned to the present with a start.

  “Many years have passed since the child’s birth, so much has happened since then, yet I see it all with the clarity of yesterday’s events. The omens continued to occur near the eastern coast. In truth, several years passed as these things took place. It was as the god Quetzalcoótl, the preacher god, had foretold in ages. . .”

  “No! Don’t mention the idols!”

  Father Benito’s voice trembled, betraying the fear the god’s name conjured in his mind.

  “No? But if you
don’t allow me to speak of them, how can I explain the most important part of those events?”

  The monk was dumbfounded. Yet he had promised Father Anselmo that he would not allow allusion to those demons. He bit his lip in consternation because he couldn’t help thinking that it would be equally difficult to speak of his own people without the mention of Jesus Christ.

  His eyes widened in shock, and he made the sign of the cross, realizing that he had actually compared the Savior to an idol. Benito was struck with horror at how close he had come to blasphemy.

  “What is the matter? Are you ill?”

  “No! I’m not. I’m just fatigued. You must give me a few moments to gather my thoughts.”

  Saying this, Benito stood and walked to the fountain. There he splashed water on his fevered face while he wrestled with what to do next. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the Indian woman was gazing at him, and again he thought that she looked like an idol.

  He stood by the fountain not knowing what to do, when he saw that she was signaling him to return to her side. He was afraid. Was Satan working through her? he wondered. He waited for the answer, as if it would come to him from heaven. But then he reminded himself that he was looking at a frail old woman, and that she could not possibly harm him or his spirit. Feeling ashamed of his thoughts, he decided to go back to her.

  “Think as you would of two opposing factions: one interested in gaining personal power and wealth through war yet calling it religion, and the other as being faithful to the principle of peace at all costs. Does that not happen in your land?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then I’ll refer only to the war and peace parties.”

  Relieved, Father Benito returned to his place as he gathered his material. The woman had stated the matter clearly and logically, and now he wondered why he had reacted so violently in the first place. Also, he noted, this was indeed the first time he had heard of the issues of her people put in terms of war and peace, not demons and gods.