Song of the Hummingbird (15 page)

Chapter

XV

“It was a mistake.” Huitzitzilin went on reflecting on the days that ended with the Sad Night. “What was a mistake?”

“Not to follow our enemies that night to exterminate them. But at the time we were so jubilant, so filled with joy and relief that we had rid our city of the invader, that all we could think of doing was to turn to Huitzilipochtli. Our new leaders, Cuitlahuac and Cuauhtémoc, had gained our confidence. Their war tactics had proven effective, and we as a people had need to raise our spirits once again.

“We returned to our temples, but we were wrong. By doing that the Mexicas allowed Cortés to retreat, gather more tribes as allies, gain time to recuperate strength, and then attack again. But then, I'm certain that all of that has been recorded in your documents, has it not?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Let me ask you this. How were the Mexicas really defeated?”

Father Benito looked at the woman, not knowing exactly what her question meant. For a moment he thought that she might be trying to fool him, and he smiled, but it was forced.

“The tribe was defeated by the superior soldiering led by Captain Cortés in the final battle for Tenochtitlan.” The priest heard his words and realized that they sounded hollow. They were repetitions of what he had been told since childhood.

“That's what the chronicles say, but it was not truly that way. Before Captain Cortés returned to avenge his honor, we were cut down by the most horrible thing that had ever struck our people. It was more cruel than the starvation and thirst we suffered when we were later put under siege. It was the disease brought to us by your soldiers, and it became more terrifying than your weapons. It was more frightening than your dogs, and it was a death more painful than the tortures inflicted on us by the new Spanish masters.

“It was the pestilence! The walking terror struck this land with unimaginable force, unleashing the white man's madness on our people. It was worse than the killings at the temple, because we could not see the enemy. A mother could not raise her fist against the purple demon. A man was incapable of using his shield or knife. A king could not send out his army to have the killer extinguished. The black death was invisible, its bald head unseen, its grinning teeth beyond our vision.

“We had expelled the Spaniards, but their poison stayed behind, and soon we began to die in great numbers. There was wailing and weeping everywhere. The air became rancid with the stench of decaying bodies. Entire families perished. People ran out to the streets or into the lake, hoping to free themselves from the dreadful fire that consumed their bodies. The streets became littered with bodies; the lake became putrid with bloated corpses.

“The pestilence is a painful death. It strikes at the brain, inflaming it, and the body is tortured by fever. The skin is overrun by sores filled with pus. The flesh turns purple, then black, until it splits into runny fissures. Even worse than the pain is the loss of the power to think, and finally, throat and tongue swell until all air is choked out of the victim.”

Father Benito's stomach was beginning to hurt because of the woman's vivid descriptions. He remembered that in his childhood, he and his family had been forced to abandon Carmona one summer when the plague broke out. The memory of that experience made his insides twist with pain.

“Señora, I know the signs and effects of the pox. Would you go on to say how the sickness affected the fall of Tenochtitlan?”

“When Moctezuma was assassinated, his brother Cuitlahuac was elected king, but then he became diseased and died. Our people fell into despair because everywhere there was death, and now even the king had been brought down. Cuauhtémoc took the place of king, but by then the once great spirit of the Mexica people had been broken by the white pestilence. The death of its soul is what caused the fall of our city, more than your canons and horses.

“It was then that the gods struck me down as well. I don't know if it was your god or mine, but it was surely a jealous, wrathful god that unleashed punishment on me for my many sins.”

As so often happened, the priest was again startled, not only by what Huitzitzilin was saying, but by the intensity of her words. His mind had been concentrating on the fall of the city, but now his thoughts were interrupted by something personal to the woman.

“Please be careful when you invoke God's name, because He is neither jealous nor wrathful. I'll be glad to listen to what you have to say, but I shall not write it because it is personal and no doubt has nothing to do with the history of your people.”

Huitzitzilin smiled wryly as she watched the priest put down the quill. She looked at him so long that it made him squirm and rub his face.

“It does have something to do with our history, because I am a Mexica woman. What happened to me happened to most of my people when your people invaded us and cursed us with your sickness.”

Father Benito was jarred by the sharpness of the woman's words, and he inwardly scolded himself for again sounding arrogant. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He had offended her, and it could not be undone. He tried to show interest in what she had to say.

“When I returned to my chambers one of those evil days, I found that my son had been stricken by the sickness. What I had feared most happened. He was contaminated even though I had hidden him, even though I had acted like a woman who had no son, in hope of deceiving the grinning menace.

“The pestilence is shrewd; it has the eyes of a tiger, the nose of jackal, the fangs of a coyote, the speed of a snake. It will not be tricked! I saw that the scourge had invaded my own life, and that it had laid its stinking finger on my son's head. On that day his face was bloated and feverish. His tongue struggled to catch air. I gave him water, but he could not drink. I dampened his forehead and cheeks, but I saw that it was of no help. I burned copal, hoping to drive the evil spirit out of my chambers.

“When I saw that my attempts were useless, I implored the gods to take me instead. I begged them to take anything I had, my beauty, my body, my eyes, my spirit, anything except my son. But the child became worse, and I watched him die. What I loved most died. He would not grow to manhood, because he was dead. His intelligence and spirit would not discover the beauty that would surround him, because he was dead, and it was the white beast that had killed him!”

Father Benito reached over and put his hand on Huit-zitzilin's shoulder; he realized that she was trembling. He bent down so that he might get a glimpse of her face, but she held it so low that all he could see was her wrinkled forehead.

“You mustn't think of those days. It's too painful.”

The woman suddenly straightened up and held her body erect. She lifted her arms menacingly, fists clenched, face pinched. She had jerked forward with so much force that the priest shrank back in his chair.

“Hatred flooded my soul! Like vomit welling in my throat, I felt the desire to run away from Techochtitlan, all the way to the camps of the white men, and there plunge a knife into each one of them.

“Anguish overcame me, and in front of the dead body of my son, I mutilated myself. I tore at my hair until it came out in handfuls. I beat my head against the stone floor. Then I clawed at my face until I punctured one of my eyes. It was with that searing pain that I found some release from the wretchedness caused in me by my son's death.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Father Benito made the sign of the cross and was about to get to his feet when Huitzitzilin pushed him back into the chair. He plopped back awkwardly, astonished by her strength.

“I don't know how long I stayed, cursing the gods that had created white men. I only remember that it was the pain in my head that caused me to move. When I got up from the floor, I knew that I could see with only one eye. I also knew that I would now go through life deformed, causing repugnance and pity, and that I would no longer be Huitzitzilin, a woman known for her beauty.”

The woman fell into a long silence. Benito slouched in the chair with his eyes closed until he felt Huit-zitzilin's hand on his arm. He was struggling with her act of self-mutilation. His mind scurried, looking for a reason, an explanation, but he found none.

When she regained composure, she went on speaking. “Now you can begin writing again because I have a little more to tell about the fall of our city, although it will have to include some of my own story.” When the priest frowned she retorted, “I cannot separate what happened to me from the history of my people.” Then she waited for him to reach for paper and quill.

“As time passed, the pestilence diminished in vigor, but we had lost the best among the warriors and nobles. Zintle was one of them. We had also lost our spirit, even though we struggled to find our ancient vitality. We made weak attempts at festivity, but our heart was not in it. We pretended to gossip and laugh, but we couldn't deceive one another, because inwardly we grieved for our lost soul.

“Nearly a year passed before Tenochtitlan was again attacked by Captain Cortés, and during that time our people prepared for war. Cuauhtémoc rallied and somehow found the way to initiate new warriors and to accumulate fresh supplies. We stored food, water, clothing and arms in key places of the city.

“As for myself, the wounds on my face healed, but the scars, as you can see for yourself, remained. The socket closed where my eye had been, and in time it became the cavity you now see. I remained part of the court that surrounded the new king, but wagging tongues spoke of my having slept with the white captain. So I felt the coldness around me. It didn't matter to me anyway, because I was filled with grief.”

Huitzitzilin appeared to be fatigued. Her body sagged. “I'm going to rest now, but stay for a while because I have more to tell you before you leave.”

Father Benito got to his feet and walked to the fountain, where he sat reflecting on what Huitzitzilin had told him. He closed his eyes, but the darkness under his lids was filled with images of war and death, of beauty destroyed and spirits trampled.

Chapter

XVI

Father Benito was surprised when Huitzitzilin called him back to the chair beside her. He had thought that she was too tired, but he saw that a new energy had filled her.

“Strengthened by new allies, Captain Cortés returned during the days when flowers covered Tenochtitlan, but it was to be the last time for our gardens to bloom. The white men came, and our armies were no match because of the plague. Although we were prepared, the long siege reduced us to starvation and thirst, and we could not prevail. Tenochtitlan fell.”

“What do you remember about those days?”

“My stomach still shrinks when I remember. It was early morning when the Snake Drum began its warning, telling us that the awaited battle with the invaders was about to begin. The lake filled with war canoes loaded with warriors; the air was charged with their war screams. The causeways were fortified in expectation of the attack, as was every street, house and temple.

“Then the fighting began. Captain Cortés was able to force the Mexica out of the lake with a boat he had constructed and floated. It was loaded with fire-spitting weapons. The battle for the streets of Tenochtitlan, however, was not that easy, and the fighting lasted a long time.”

“Nearly three months.” Benito spoke softly. “You know all of the details?”

“Not all. I want to know what happened among your people at that time. What did you eat and when did you sleep? What were you feeling?”

“We were frightened but not afraid. But as the days passed, our losses were so great that the time came when even the wounded went out to fight. We women helped by preparing weapons for the warriors. We also went out to battle, throwing stones and debris at the enemy from rooftops and hidden places. It even happened that we didn't eat or drink so that the men could nourish their bodies with the little food that was left.

“Soon we ran out of food and water. We had nothing to eat except for the bark of trees, plants, and even the weeds from the lake. In time, even these disappeared. Then we had nothing to drink except the water from the lake, but that was salted, so it drove people out of their senses. Then we drank urine.

“Those of us still fighting were pushed back to Tlaltelolco. By that time the canals and streets of the city were destroyed. Our houses, courtyards, meeting places, schools, shrines and temples were no more. And the decaying bodies of our dead reminded us that something much more precious than a city had come to an end. After the captain sent word that we should surrender and save Tenochtitlan, we asked ‘What Tenochtitlan?'

“When the end came it was decided that if our city was beyond salvation, an attempt should be made to save the future of our people. A plan was devised for Cuauhtémoc, his wife and others to escape to the northern territories from where we originated. There they would find sanctuary to give birth to a new family. From there the Mexicas in time could reclaim their destiny.