Song of the Hummingbird Page 6

“As I was about to say, Moctezuma was a member of the war group; he was, in fact, the main priest. He was a complicated man because, as it turned out, in his heart he had always feared that the peace message held by the early Mexicas and abandoned by their later descendants would one day return to haunt him. Now we all know that he secretly considered himself a traitor, and that every time a sign appeared to the east, he became more convinced that the era of the war party was at an end.

  “The king kept these thoughts buried deep within himself. The result was that his uncertain behavior was misunderstood; it cast doubt on his courage. He tried to explain his gifts of gold and gems as mere tribute to passing visitors, but instead his actions were interpreted as cowardly. The war party increased its demand that he send warriors to destroy the intruders. He would not listen to them, much less conform.

  “In my position so close to Moctezuma’s wife, I was able to see a side of him few people could understand. He could be honest or cagey, decisive or hesitant, brave or faint-hearted. But whatever others said, he was king.

  “I remember that during those fearful days, he was constantly receiving reports from the widespread net of informers in his service. Word reached this city on a daily basis telling of your people, what they looked like, how they spoke and about the four-legged beasts they rode.”

  Father Benito ran his tongue over his upper lip in excitement because he knew that he was gathering information not yet recorded in Spain. He was seeing the events of the conquest through the eyes of the Indian woman, and even though he wanted to hear more of her life’s story, he decided not to interrupt while she narrated details regarding that historic encounter.

  “Remember Tetla? Well, let me tell you how much my own life was intertwined with the events that brought about our end.”

  The priest shook his head, wondering when this woman would stop amazing him. It was as if she had read his thoughts.

  “Moctezuma depended on Tetla for information because he was gifted in languages and knowledge of the tribes of the eastern coast. It was he who brought the report giving the first picture of what the foreigners looked like. Now that we know you so well, you don’t seem that strange. But at that time . . .”

  Benito looked at Huitzitzilin, no longer resisting the understanding that was growing in him. He realized that she, too, had seemed strange to him just a few days before, but now she was becoming more like any other woman.

  “Those of us who belonged to the king’s court heard Tetla confirm the reports regarding your ships, and how they housed dozens of men who made their way to the shore on smaller boats. He was one of the few who actually got close enough to them to see that their skin was so pale that it appeared transparent. At this point in his description, I remember that most of us let out gasps of disbelief, but the rest of the picture was even more frightening.

  “He told of how not only their heads, but their chins as well, were covered all over with hair. On some of them that growth was light and curled, and on others it was darker and sleek. Their dress, he said, was fashioned of some form of silver, or metal, which shone in the sun, and they carried armaments, some that resembled our own, and others which Tetla could not describe.

  “Through it all, Moctezuma became more convinced that those foreigners were the representatives of the feared preacher chief, the leader of the peace party. Did you know that among the many omens received through previous generations of priests, descriptions of what the peace mongers would look like had been passed down? And even more important, those portrayals matched that of the first captains, as did the very date foretold by our visionaries. Did you know this, young priest?”

  Benito shook his head.

  The woman rubbed her hands in satisfaction, understanding that she was the one who knew the truth, and that the monk saw it as valuable. It was a twist, and she was appreciating it.

  “After that, Tetla returned to the eastern coast and I never saw him until the day of his death. I’ll tell you about that later on. As of the moment, however, I think you’ll be interested to hear of how those events affected Moctezuma.

  “I saw him often and he appeared distracted, dazed even. His wife told me on several occasions that she had found him muttering to himself as he stalked hallways and chambers, wringing his hands and lifting his eyes to heaven, imploring help from the gods.”

  Huitzitzilin stopped speaking for a moment, then said, almost in a whisper, “He was just flesh and blood, but he had been made to believe that he was divine.” She looked over at Father Benito, but saw that he was writing so intently that he didn’t notice her emotion.

  “Moctezuma deteriorated with each moment. He went into mourning and commanded us all—the entire city—to do likewise and to be ready for the calamitous days that would certainly come. It was common knowledge by then that he spent long hours in prayer, fasting, and penance, and that he personally sacrificed human offerings, hoping. . .”

  Benito’s face blanched. He had been feeling sympathy for the king until that moment. He stopped writing, allowing the quill to dangle from his fingers as he rolled his eyes from one side of the cloister to the other.

  “Are you sure?” The monk’s voice was husky with disbelief. “Did the king really commit such atrocities with his own hand?”

  “Human offerings were part of our beliefs. You have yours.”

  Her words were soft, sincere, unchallenging, and they helped restore Benito’s serenity. “Yes, Señora, and I would hope that by now my beliefs have replaced yours.”

  He heard her sigh, but she said nothing.

  “A pall hung over Tenochtitlan those days, and no one could dispel or ignore the abiding, sickening feeling that soon, very soon, something disastrous would unleash itself upon us.

  “Have you noticed, young priest, how people act when expecting something?” Huit-zitzilin’s voice took on a lighter tone. “If that something is unknown, people invent things to do, games to play, excursions to take. Tempers often become prickly. Men and women overindulge in food and drink, and suffer headaches or stomach discomfort. They develop loose bowels, or uncooperative ones. Gossip becomes intolerable.

  “Such was our life in Tenochtitlan those last days of our world. The soft rain passed to heat, and that to the cold with its shortened days, and thus to the end of the year which to you was 1518.

  “Some people were disbelieving of what was happening. They attempted to convince others that a misreading of the signs had occurred on the part of the augurs. They insisted that the signs were symbolic, or merely ritualistic, and that such events had already occurred during other eras. But to be honest, by the time Captain Cortés made his presence, everyone believed that the white men were either gods or their emissaries, and that conviction never changed or disappeared until it was too late to halt them.

  “Much bickering and quarreling took place regarding what was to be done with the intruders. One side clamored for their destruction; the other for their appeasement. In the end it mattered little. War or worship, it concluded as foretold. Our world terminated the moment the first white man set foot on our land, and I believe now that Moctezuma was the only one who truly saw that irreversible truth.”

  Chapter

  VIII

  It took a long time for the gatekeeper to open the convent door for Father Benito. He didn’t mind because the autumn morning was mild; the usual chill was missing, and so he waited patiently, thinking of what another day with the Indian woman would be like. He looked in different directions as he distractedly whistled under his breath.

  He tried to imagine how much had changed in this city since her youth. The woman had told of an ancestral home, where she had been born and which was now the site of this convent. She had spoken of the Hill of the Stars, Iztapalapa, a sacred place to her people but which was these days an open market bustling with Spanish-speaking merchants and buyers. She had described the main temple, and Benito thought of the cathedral taking its place; its twin spires now dominating houses
built in the Spanish manner.

  He pulled on the bell cord again, impatiently this time, making the clanging metal sound out shrilly. But no one responded. He rearranged the strap of his leather case because it was beginning to cut into his shoulder, then he took a few paces away from the entrance. Two native boys startled him as they came around the corner, prodding a donkey loaded with hay. He noticed their faces as they trotted by him: round, brown faces. Then, as if pulled by a string, the boys turned in his direction; he saw the flinty, oval-shaped eyes gazing at him.

  “¡Buenos días, Padre!”

  “¡Buenos días, Niños!”

  They disappeared in seconds, leaving the monk amazed at himself for having, for the first time since his arrival in Tenochtitlan, seen how different the boys were one from the other. Even though they seemed of an age, and had the same color, they were distinct. This had not yet occurred to him because, up until then, all those faces had blurred into one.

  Now he wanted to run after them to ask if their fathers remembered the same things as did the Indian woman. But then Father Benito realized that it would have been their grandfathers instead who would have such memories, maybe even more likely their greatgrandfathers.

  Suddenly, the monk wished that he had been born sixty years sooner so that he could have seen the city as it was during the days of the Indian woman’s people, of the great-grandfathers of those boys. He stared in concentration at his feet: his callused toes peeked out from under the leather thongs of worn-out sandals.

  A thought was taking shape in his mind as he fixed his eyes on one of the straps. Slowly, an idea crept forward into his consciousness, and he finally understood that something deep within him was beginning to share

  Huit-zitzilin’s melancholy for what was irrevocably gone. This impulse took Father Benito by surprise, and he shook his head trying to take a fresh approach to his mission. He was in this land to convert, not to be converted, he told himself.

  Because he was lost in his thought, Father Benito was startled by the heavy hand that suddenly tugged at his arm. He twirled around to see who was pulling him with such energy, and he was greeted by the tiny eyes of the nun who usually opened the convent doors.

  Chapter

  IX

  “They came!

  “Moctezuma had prayed that they would not come, but his petitions were futile, because they did come. The moment finally came when your captains stood knocking at the gates of Tenochtitlan, and we were powerless to stop them from entering.

  “When that day dawned, the priests approached our king to inform him of the white intruders who awaited him in Iztapalapa. Later on we heard that Moctezuma was sweeping the stairs of the temple, and that without looking up, he said, ‘The gods have failed me.’ That was all he said, no more.”

  Father Benito felt a tingle on the nape of his neck, as if he had been present at a disastrous event. He was feeling what he thought Huitzitzilin must have felt at the time. Like her and her people, he was experiencing the fear of the unknown, as if he had been a native himself. He forced himself to return to his writing because, he reminded himself, these were the captains from Spain, his people, and he should not be feeling such antagonism towards them.

  “We all knew that the king was grief-stricken, but there were some among our people who murmured that it was the other way around. That it had been he who had failed the gods, and that now the gods were rightfully vengeful.

  “Priest, have you observed that events of great import often take a very short span of time to happen? The fall of Tenochtitlan was quick. From beginning to end, our finality spanned just a few weeks and months, and what had taken my people ages to build, was brought low with a few battles.

  “Our temples, palaces, market places, meeting halls, schools and libraries, our thoroughfares and gardens and squares, all destroyed in a brief time. Our trade routes, goods, and products were laid in the mud and trampled by the feet of beasts in the time taken to hear a clap of hands. Our crafts and art, all of which took countless families and immeasurable time to perfect, were scorned, defiled, and made to disappear by your captains in a few passings of the moon.

  “I ask myself now, how is it possible to destroy so swiftly what took years to build? I have no answer, but that it happened as the gods had determined. Tenochtitlan crashed down amid fire and blood and anguish, and it took only a scattering of days.”

  “Forgive my interruption, but this shows that it was the will of Almighty God that the kingdom of the Mexicas should have perished.”

  Putting aside his sentiments, Father Benito, eyebrows arched, mouthed what he thought the most appro priate thing. Huitzitzilin looked at him in silence for a long while, then spoke.

  “Yes, I agree. I said so a few moments ago. It was as the gods willed.”

  Benito frowned, annoyed that the woman should insist on putting her gods on the same level with the one true God, but he took up his quill once again nonetheless. He was ready to continue recording her words.

  “I remember clearly the day of the arrival of the white men. It took place during the season of dampness in our valley. It was the time when days were short, when the lake turned black in color, and the winds swept off the skirts of the volcanoes.

  “Moctezuma’s court became agitated. Word of the arrival of the white men went from mouth to mouth, from chamber to chamber. Men and women ran around aimlessly as if that would resolve the impending doom. Routines were broken and duties forgotten. Incredulous faces looked around, seeking answers, hoping to hear that what was happening was nothing more than a hoax.

  “The noise caused by the confused masses of people in the main square rose to a pitch with each minute. There, men attempted to appear calm, but trembling lips betrayed their fears. Women tried to console themselves by embracing babies, or each other, but it was no use. We were all in the grip of terror.”

  Father Benito, compelled by surprise, interrupted again. “Yet, the Mexicas were ferocious in battle. It has never occurred to us that the people were stricken by fear all along.”

  “You misunderstand me, priest! When I say that we were alarmed, I mean that most of the people assumed that the visitors were gods, not ordinary men. Had they been the hordes of Zapotecas, or Tlaxcaltecas, or any other of the countless peoples that had waged war against us, our spirits would not have been so shaken. We felt terror only because we thought we were facing the unknown. When it became clear that your captains were just men, things changed.”

  The monk sucked on his lower lip while he wrinkled his forehead. “I see what you mean. Please go on.”

  “The order came from the king telling us to stop the madness, to take hold of ourselves. He commanded each one of us to dress in our best garments and to accompany him to the entrance of the city.”

  “Did everyone do as the king commanded?”

  “Yes. Most of us were part of his court and we did as he ordered. We dressed in our finest clothing so that we could walk behind his litter and impress the enemy by our appearance.”

  “Am I correct in saying that you were among those who did not believe the soldiers were gods?”

  “Yes. I was among those who knew them to be flesh, just as we were.”

  Benito cocked one eyebrow skeptically. “What made you so different, Señora?” There was a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Because I never really believed in gods.”

  “But you believe in the one true God now, don’t you?”

  The monk’s words had lost all trace of cynicism and were now colored with doubt.

  “If you say so.”

  When Benito remained silent, Huitzitzilin went on. “One extraordinary thing happened as a result of the fear caused by your people, and that was that old feuds and envies disappeared. Those among us who had been enemies for generations forgot their grudges and joined one another against the invasion.

  “For example, the hostility between the pampered dwarfs and the rancorous eunuchs melted away. They actua
lly came together, speaking to one another. Priests and conjurers alike were struck dumb knowing that gods were at the city entrance. Their usual jabbering and high-pitched squealing melted into a muted stiffness, and we all knew that in their hearts they were the most frightened of all. Where was their power now? Where was their magic? Where was their stiff-necked pride and intolerable arrogance?”

  Father Benito stopped to rub his fingers; they were beginning to cramp again. “I see that you didn’t believe in the sorcerers you called priests, either. I’m glad because I’m sure it was the true God that planted those doubts in your heart.”

  “No, that was not the case. I didn’t believe in them because I had eyes that perceived their wickedness and ears that heard their conniving and trickery. I knew that they were frauds—it’s that simple. But let me go on because I have to tell you that fear struck beyond the priesthood, contaminating even the palace guards, who didn’t know whether to run or stand, protect the king or each other. Soldiers trained in war and combat became like motherless boys when they heard that the white gods were here.

  “Palace servants forgot their place. Moctezuma’s tailors scattered and ran about muttering, asking if the king were ever again to dress as he used to. What would they do with the mantles, the loincloths, the headdresses, the sandals, the gems, the feathers, the broaches, the leg wrappings as yet not worn by the king? What would he wear that day? What should he wear when facing gods?

  “Even Moctezuma’s cooks ran through chambers and halls wringing their hands. They, too, were in turmoil. Would the king ever again eat as he was accustomed? What would happen to the quail, rabbits, and the other meats preserved and prepared for him? What about his usual guests? What would they be told? What about Moctezuma’s next cup of chocolate?

  “Now that I think of those days, I wonder why we wasted our time on such trivialities. But it hit everyone. Gardeners, builders and slaves roamed through squares and kitchens asking if they would ever again be employed, now that our world had come to an end. What type of work, they inquired, would the new masters demand of them? Would they eat off gold plates? asked the kitchen servants. Would they enjoy the beauty of the flowers that the king loved? The builders wanted to know what would happen to the plans for the new reservoir. As for the slaves, they asked whether or not the new gods would expect them to work. This was the havoc that reigned in Moctezuma’s palace and city while your captains waited at its door and dreamed of our gold.”