Song of the Hummingbird (13 page)

Father Benito, quill held in midair, realized that he was holding his breath. When he felt a sharp pain hit between his eyebrows, he let out a long, hollow sigh. His imagination had taken him to that day described by Huitzitzilin. His heart was beating, and he felt aroused; his body tingled, and he could not control or make it obey him. His face was flushed as he gawked at the Indian woman.

“They were indeed sorcerers. Nothing less than that, and they must have been in league with Satan himself!” he blurted out.

“Why? Because they have touched you even after so many years have passed since their extinction?”

Unnerved by the woman's words, Father Benito hastily gathered his writing materials and stuffed them into the leather bag; he felt his hands trembling. Without a word he walked away, taking long strides. Before leaving the cloister, he turned to look at the woman; he

Chapter

XII

“The woman said that one voice sounded through the throats of the scoundrels who called themselves priests. One voice, Father Anselmo! One horrible sound that belched out commands for the sacrifice of our soldiers.”

Father Benito was seated in front of his superior. They were again in the monastery library; it was night. Listening to the young priest, Anselmo sat rigidly in the wooden chair while he distractedly fingered its bronze rivets. He remained silent, not wanting to interrupt.

“It cannot be anything other than sorcery, don't you agree?” Benito's voice was unsteady.

“Or trickery.”

The young man's eyes widened as he discerned a skeptical look in the monk's steady gaze. He recalled their conversation of a few days before, when Anselmo had cautioned him to beware of sorcery, of hexes, of the power of these people to conjure evil spirits. Now he seemed to be making a round-about turn in introducing the element of trickery in the place of witchcraft.

Benito readjusted himself in the chair and cleared his throat while he dealt with the surprise caused by this new possibility. “Then, you don't think that it was the work of Satan?”

“Oh, I didn't say that, Brother. I'm simply allowing room for doubt. We know that the people of this land were indeed in league with the devil; the worshipping of idols, the shedding of human blood as well as their cannibalistic practices, give ample grounds to believe it. On the other hand. . .” Anselmo's voice trailed, causing Father Benito even more travail and confusion regarding the prior's frame of mind.

“On the other hand, what?”

“On the other hand, it could be that the old woman is deceiving you, playing with your imagination. Ask yourself if you have ever heard of such a foolish dance performed by men. Oh, we know that Satan exists and that he held the tribe of this city in his grip. But the early explorers did not describe rituals such as the ones described by your sly old woman, and that must have been because they never happened. What our captains did record were those acts of butchery that proved that the people of this city were indeed pawns of the devil.”

Benito slouched back in the hard chair, making its leather creak. The thought that Huitzitzilin was deliberately lying angered him. Yet he knew that Anselmo was right, because nothing that the younger monk had ever read or heard came close to what the woman described that day.

Stiff, blackened tongues! Rolling white eyeballs! Backs bent backward as far as possible! A roaring voice from the entrails of the earth! And everything under the watchful eyes of Captain Alvarado! If such a dance had indeed taken place, certainly he would have written about it. These thoughts made the monk suddenly sit up rigidly, convinced that the Indian woman was feeding him tales and making fun of him.

“You must be on your guard.” Father Anselmo leaned forward as he whispered his final advice to Benito. “Don't eat or drink anything that she offers you. Keep your distance while you transcribe what she says. Don't allow her to seduce you into believing that her ways were in any manner proper or virtuous. And above all, Brother, don't let her make a fool of you by feeding you far-fetched falsehoods invented by her old brain. Don't fall into the trap of trusting her merely because she is aged. Remember the saying that affirms that Satan knows so much not because he is the devil, but because he is old.”

Chapter

XIII

Father Benito had prayed longer the previous night waiting for his anger to pass away and, even though it did abate, he still felt its sting when he faced Huitzitzilin the next morning. Without greeting her, he cleared his voice, seated himself farther away than usual, and sat waiting to write what she had to say. She noticed this and frowned.

“Why are you so far away from me this morning?”

“Am I?”

The monk's voice was cold, and after a few moments he scooted the chair a few inches towards the woman, but his discomfort was now more evident.

“What is the matter?”

“To be frank, I shall ask you to refrain from exaggerating the events you remember, and limit your words to only those things that did happen.”

“I have not exaggerated anything. Everything is as it happened, as I saw it! It is not my fault if it contradicts what you have been taught.”

They remained quiet; only the chirping of the birds and the gurgling sounds of water in the fountain broke the silence.

“Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes.”

“Good!” Huitzitzilin inhaled deeply, held her breath, then slowly exhaled. “The spell into which our dancing had cast us that day was broken by an explosion.”

Huitzitzilin began her narrative at the point at which she had left off the day before. Father Benito had to shuffle through his papers to find the last page.

“In our reverie we had not taken notice that the doors of the Snake Wall had been closed and that firebelching sticks had been aimed in our direction. In our rapture we had not seen the white soldiers and their Tlaxcalteca allies take position to attack us. The blast that brought us back was the firing of those weapons. The first burst cut down many of our people.

“Shock gripped us! It was not as we had planned! Fear leaped from person to person. Mothers rushed to shield children; men attempted to reach their weapons. We scattered throughout the courtyard in waves, like water splashing from one side of a gourd to the other. We shrieked, we moaned, and the detonations would not stop. Blood began to drip, then to smear, then to overflow on the courtyard stones. When the enemy no longer could use their fire-vomiting rods, they jumped in among the people and began to lance and cut and pry with their sharpened axes and swords. We were defenseless. We were unable to reach the intended weapons and had nothing but our hands with which to protect ourselves.”

Father Benito regained confidence because here was an event that he knew had indeed occurred. The chronicles attested to the fact that the Mexicas had been surprised in a conspiracy against the few Spanish soldiers who had remained in Tenochtitlan. It had been a clear attempt to destroy the white men, but the Spaniards had acted quickly and successfully in foiling the plot. This was safe ground for the monk, and he gladly took in what the woman had to say about her part in that attempted rebellion.

“I was knocked backward and dragged by the mass of people struggling to reach a door, a crevice, anything that could provide shelter. Several bodies fell on me. The noise of screaming voices became intolerable. The stench of blood, smoke, urine, and excrement was sickening. I was choking; tears blinded my eyes and mucus flowed from my nose, melting with the sweat of my body.

“I heard a voice screaming so horribly that I was shaken back to clarity. That voice was mine! I was howling like a beast that knew not what to do, where to go. I screeched like the night owl. My tongue hung out of my mouth; I could not control it. Yet the enemy continued to hack and cut. They ran after anything that moved, thrusting their weapons in every direction. They shouted; their faces looked monstrous to me. I saw flaccid lips smeared with saliva that dripped over beards. Blue eyes bulged. I saw blotchy skin distorted by fear and hatred.

“The entrails of our people curled around the soldiers' boots, limbs dangled from their pikes, and they continued to attack because in their fear they had lost control over themselves. Their arms could not cease slashing. Their legs could not stop trampling. They bayed like coyotes, they wheezed like vultures, and finally when they saw that all was finished, they plundered the bodies and parts of bodies.

“They filled their pockets with anything that was gold: earplugs, necklaces, ankle and wrist braces, headbands, and broaches. The greedy white men stole everything they could, loading themselves so that they could hardly walk.”

Benito's anger returned because he was certain that she was intentionally exaggerating the details. Most of all, he resented her portrayal of the Spaniards as greedy beasts.

“Why are you making it sound as if the Mexicas were innocent and unjustly treated? Were they not planning to do the same thing to the Spaniards? If those soldiers did what they did that day, it was in self-defense.”

“Including plundering? Including hacking children to pieces?” The woman's voice vibrated with outrage as she responded to the monk's remarks. He didn't answer because he felt himself on the verge of walking away from her, never to return. His silence, however, encouraged her to go on.

“When the surge of people knocked me down, I remained pinned under the weight of bodies, but I could see everything. Each of the details that I have given this record was seen by my eyes, and even though I lived, at that moment I wished that I had died.”

Benito looked at the woman with an expression that told her that he didn't feel sympathy. His face was stamped with a look of skepticism, and he raised his eyebrows suspiciously.

“How is it possible that you remember so many details with so much precision? These events took place more than sixty years ago.”

“I remember because those happenings were burned into my memory. I'm sure that even your captains, those that are still alive, remember just as clearly.”

Father Benito put down the quill and began massaging his knuckles. He wanted to cut down on the woman's brutal descriptions and instead fill his pages with more of the personal confrontation between Spaniards and Mexicas.

“Can you describe Moctezuma's death?”

“Yes, but aren't you interested in what happened after the killings I've just described?”

“Yes, but not in so much detail. I would rather have you tell about the king's death.”

Huitzitzilin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; the air wheezed through her withered nostrils. She nodded her head in agreement.

“Captain Cortés returned to Tenochtitlan and to war because after the massacre, our people armed themselves, deciding to die rather than to be slaves.”

“Tell me about the king's death.”

“Yes! Yes! I'm getting there! As I've already told you, I kept the king's wife company and we were usually in his chamber. I remember that when he returned, Cortés realized that the Mexicas intended to kill him, so with his men, he barged in on Moctezuma, still thinking that the king held power over his people. The usually blue vein on Cortés' forehead looked black and bulging, and his cheeks quivered. His stiffened arms were partially outstretched, and his fingers clenched and unclenched. It was apparent that he feared for his life.

“Without speaking to any of us, he and his soldiers rushed to the king and took hold of him. Those of us present tried to help him, but it was useless because we were mostly women. Cortés and Alvarado took Moctezuma, forcing him to the terrace where he could be seen by people massed in the courtyard. This all happened very quickly and without explanations.

“Then the silence that had up to that moment prevailed in our city turned to a roar. Drums, conch shells and rattles combined with voices demanding the blood of the white men. I saw Captain Cortés raise his trembling arm high into the air. The clamor ceased! All the while Moctezuma remained motionless.