Song of the Hummingbird (6 page)

“Then he pointed to the bed and commanded her to lie on it. She did. Then Tetla stooped low over her and peered into her secret parts. He squinted and strained, and the concubine knew what he was attempting to see. But the light was dim, and his eyes were even dimmer with age and drink, so that he was unable to see if she possessed the membrane that women are born with and to which Mexica men give so much importance.

“Tetla bent even farther down, dipping his face so close to her that she could feel his breath spill over her thighs. She suddenly knew that he was about to plunge his dangling nose into her. Her knees violently snapped shut! They closed hard and viciously upon his head, and she heard by the dull thud that she had caused him much pain.

“'Ahg!' he groaned as he reeled backward. He stood dazed, attempting to regain his balance by pressing back against the wall. Huitzitzilin was filled with terror, and like those insects that skitter on the sands of a river, she rolled herself into a ball. But Tetla composed himself and returned to her, forcing her to open her body to him. Then he violated the concubine.

“She thought that it was over, that she was about to die, but it wasn't, because Tetla chose not to kill her. Instead he battered her. His blows fell on her like rocks. His fists hammered at her head, face, body, anywhere they found a spot. He threw her off the bed, stomped his feet on her shoulders and buttocks. His fingers coiled themselves around her hair, and he dragged her around the room. Then he picked her up like a sack of maize and threw her against the wall, bouncing her back and forth, smashing her face against any surface that he could find. Tetla did that and many other things over and again, and he did it silently, without uttering a word or sound.

“The concubine remained silent also, but the pain became more unbearable with each moment. Her breath became slower, and the light began to grow dimmer. All she could hear was Tetla's breathing and her own throat gasping for air. Then, as if in the hollow of concentric circles, she began to sink and slip down. . . down. . . down. . . to Mictlan, to the land of the dead, and deeper still . . . down and down. . . even beyond the kingdom where your own prince Lucifer lurks. . .down. . .until she landed in the pit of all pits, and there was total darkness.”

The woman's voice trailed to a hoarse whisper until it stilled. Father Benito was silent. He was so filled with her pain that he could not speak. He saw that she was moved by what she had just told him and that she was shivering. He tried to help by adjusting the thin shawl closer to her shoulders, but when it did not help, he put his head close to hers.

“This is not your sin. It was his alone. I know that in my country a man would have done the same to a woman, but still, it is his sin, and not the woman's. May I ask you to forgive him now so that the anguish might disappear?”

“It happened to her, not to me. It is she who must forgive Tetla for what he did.”

Father Benito stared at Huitzitzilin, trying to understand her meaning. Then, wrinkling his brow with incomprehension, he nodded, got to his feet, and walked away from her.

Chapter

V

Father Benito sat quietly in the leather and wood armchair near the fireplace; the flickering flames in the hearth held his gaze. He was in the monastery library facing his confessor Father Anselmo Cano, who sat holding his thin hand to the side of his face. In the glow of the fire, his tapered fingers threw shadows on his bony forehead and on the pointed cowl covering his head. Looking away from the fire, Benito had the impression that the countless books surrounding them moved in rhythm with the reflections cast by the fire.

Both monks were quiet for a long time, and their silence was broken only by the sputtering of burning logs. It was Benito who finally spoke up.

“As I've said, Father, I can repeat what I heard this afternoon because it was not truly a confession. The Indian woman told me first of her wedding ceremony, and then of the beating she suffered at the hands of the groom.”

“I see, and I agree that you're not breaking the seal of the confessional. But I see that you're in turmoil, Brother, and that you would not be here at this moment except that you're looking for my assistance. Tell me how I can help. After all, it was I who advised you to continue your conversations with the woman.”

Benito sighed deeply, conveying his confusion. “When she described the ordeal she suffered at the hands of her husband, the woman spoke of herself as if being someone else.”

“How so?”

“She spoke always of the Concubine. Not once did she say me or I. Do you understand me, Reverend Father?”

“I understand your words, but I cannot explain why anyone would speak in that fashion.” Father Anselmo stopped abruptly. “Unless she speaks in that manner always. Is that the case?”

“No. Only when she spoke of that incident did she revert to such a distant way of describing what happened to her.”

The monks returned to their silence. This time Father Anselmo had his elbows on the armrests and held both hands together at the fingertips, as if in prayer. Father Benito sat with his hands in his lap. It had grown dark out, and only the muffled sounds coming from the brothers in the kitchen could be made out, interspersed by the distant barking of a dog.

“She has told you much about her people?”

“Yes, Father.”

“New information, by your reckoning?”

“Very new.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Gladly! She has described certain events and occurrences that have centered on King Moctezuma. She has been able to tell of the clothing he wore and what he said at such times. To my memory, no one has chronicled similar information.”

“I see.” Father Anselmo was evidently pondering what next to say. “What else has she said that you consider valuable?”

“Let me see.” The young monk reflected for a moment. “I have much already written, but other examples that now come to mind are her willingness to describe the city as it was before its conquest.”

“Captain Cortés has done as much.”

“Of course, Reverend Father, but the woman is able to describe what the captain did not. She tells of the way ordinary rooms and palaces were kept. She has also described, just today, a ritualistic dance that I'm positive our people never witnessed. Also, she has made several references to the true reasons of why her people expected us. This, I know, we have not yet recorded.”

The older monk returned to his thoughts for a long while, and then spoke. “It seems that your time is being well spent. But why are you agitated and worried? What is it about the Indian woman that disturbs you?”

Father Benito flinched as if Anselmo had pricked him with a pin; the question had hit its mark. “It's the inexplicable way in which she tells her sins. A way that is not marked by repentance, but rather as if her actions had been mere happenstance. She expresses herself in a way that makes me begin to wonder if what she has done is sinful or not.”

Father Anselmo showed his alarm at what Benito had said by suddenly dropping his arms on his lap. “Father, please! Never, never repeat that to anyone, even if you do believe it! Walls have ears, you know, and the Inquisition is ever alert to ferret out heretics.”

The priest sat back, giving himself time to regain balance, then he continued, his eyes locked on those of Father Benito. “You did not utter those words! I did not hear them! Do you grasp my meaning, Brother?”

“Yes, Father.” Benito's voice was hushed fearfully.

“Is the woman a baptized Christian?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe so? Are you not certain?”

“Well. . .I mean. . .she's in the protection of the convent.”

“That means nothing!”

“She voluntarily asked to confess.”

“She could be laying a snare for you!” “Father, she bears a Christian name.”

“What is that name?”

Shaken, Father Benito realized with alarm that he didn't know her name, except that of Hummingbird. He concluded that to reveal that the woman's name was that of a bird would not be wise at this moment already filled with uncertainty.

“I'm not sure, but I'll find out tomorrow.”

Father Anselmo sighed, expressing exasperation. “I'll grant you permission to continue meeting with the woman under certain conditions. You must, first of all, prepare yourself to distinguish between what was purely tribal tradition and what was religious ritual. Never, never allow the woman to allude to the demons that were the mainspring of their so-called religion. You must remember that her people were steeped in witchcraft and possessed the means to conjure demonic powers.”

The younger priest swallowed hard, remembering that he had already trespassed this injunction. Benito nervously returned his attention to Father Anselmo who had paused, sucking in a large gulp of air. He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes, and then went on. “Perhaps the enigmatic way in which she described her wedding night is the beginning of a hex; the first signs of sorcery. It's possible.”

“I don't believe that, Father, but I will abide by your counsel.”

“Very well.” Anselmo paused as he scratched his chin; he appeared to be weighing one thought against the other. He finally spoke. “I'll trust in you, Benito. However, I have a second condition. You mustn't feel pity or sympathy for her previous ways, or those of her people. We have brought them redemption, don't forget that. We can't allow them to relapse.”

“No, Father, I won't forget, and I accept this condition also.” He closed his eyes, recalling the feelings of compassion he had already experienced for Huitzitzilin.

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.