The Seven Serpents Trilogy (53 page)

A small, clear stream ran past me, much like the stream that ran in the island meadow where I was cast away. There would be fish, but I couldn't catch them. And fish in the sea. As before, I satisfied my hunger with wild fruit, which grew everywhere in profusion.

Having eaten, I fell asleep, awakened at sundown to eat, then slept through the night, ate again, and again went to sleep. I had been carrying a heavy stone on my back. It was gone. I prayed each morning, but halfheartedly and without redeeming thoughts or wishes.

I followed these habits for a week and more—it might have been longer, even three weeks or a month, since I had lost count of the days. I began to have scattered thoughts about my future.

I even thought of returning to the City of the Seven Serpents. By now Cortés would have rifled it of its gold—what little the dwarf had missed—and left a small garrison behind, which could easily be destroyed. In time, however, he would return to take revenge on the city as he had upon Tenochtitlán. He would burn the god house, take down the Temple of Kukulcán stone by stone, and with the stones build a Chris tian church.

Should I have done so? I had a guilty feeling that I should have, beginning on my first day in the city. And that despite all his brutalities, Cortés was right in not trafficking with the devil, and I was wrong. In my stubborn, prideful way, I had even sat down and dined with Satan.

The thought of returning was an aberration, born of wounded pride and stubbornness. Especially the latter. I had always been stubborn. I had drunk it in with my mother's milk. I recalled the time it had nearly cost me my life.

That was when we moved from Seville to the village of Anazo. I was eight years old. We had lived on the banks of the Guadalquivir, but the river ran deep there, so I was never allowed to swim. Upstream, however, at Arroyo, it wasn't deep, and boys went swimming there in the summer.

The first week I was in the place, some of my new friends came by and asked me to go swimming. Which I did—after my mother made me promise that I wouldn't go into water that was over my head.

Most of the river ran shallow, but there was one deep pool. Just before we started for home, all the boys jumped in. They went down one after the other into water that was over their heads. I saw them touch bottom. They came up, waded out, and waved for me to jump.

I hesitated. I had told them, when we first got to the river, that I could swim. I even bragged a little, saying that I had learned when I was only four years old.

There they were, six of them, shouting for me to jump. And here I was on the bank, stiff with fear, unable to swim so much as a foot. I stared down into the deeps, scared to death. But certain that I would rather drown than go back on what I had said, I jumped.

I don't remember how I escaped. I guess by instinct, as a dog paddles. But I do remember that my friends fished me out and that I was full of water when they laid me on the bank. I also remember my mother hovering over me, clutching her black shawl, weeping in joy and fright.

“It's that stubborn streak,” she said, when she was over her fright. “You would rather be stubborn as a pig and drown yourself…”

The scene faded. The aberration had been a brief one. What I had failed to do on the Island of the Seven Serpents in times of peace I had no chance of ever doing now. Certainly not now that I had incurred the wrath of Governor Velásquez. I had eluded Cortés, but the governor would send other men to track me down.

With its abundant fruit and stream of fresh water, the cove was not inhospitable. I had made a rough shelter among the trees, out of sight of the many passing canoes, yet for all my caution I might be discovered. The season of fruit would soon come to a close. I had no fire and no prospects of building any until the daily downpours ended with summer. A sensible course was to move south along the coast—the northern coast was already overrun by Spaniards—away from the Island of the Seven Serpents.

I remembered the village of Chichén-Palapa, and its cacique, Matlazingo, who liked Spaniards. But how was I to reach this friendly village?

It lay at a distance of more than sixty leagues—the
Santa Margarita
had taken two days to get there, not counting the storm. There were no trails, at least none that I knew of. And if there were, if I found one, it would be dangerous for a white man. I could only travel by sea. But I didn't own a canoe, not even a raft.

Enormous trees grew to the water's edge, but I lacked an ax to fell one and the fire to hollow it out. I considered a raft, the kind Kukulcán had made. The jungle teemed with snakes, large ones, some five or six strides in length. I could fashion a frame of thin withes and cover it with snakeskins.

I settled on a raft made from trees that grew along the edge of the jungle. The wood was exceedingly light, easy to cut and move about.

Using shells sharpened to a fine edge with sand, I cut four dozen logs of a good length, bound them together with wet reeds, laying down four rows, one on top of the other, in opposite directions. I wove a small sail of split reeds, as I had seen the weavers do in the city square, and made a rough sculling oar.

It took me the rest of the summer to finish the raft. I would have finished it much sooner had it not been for my crippled hand. Cortés's iron claw had squeezed it like a vice. The wounds had healed, but it was now somewhat misshapen, the amethyst ring embedded in my finger. I would have taken the ring off had I been able to, for it constantly reminded me, as I worked, of Bishop Pedroza, that vain pedagogue who longed for saintly glory, whose memory I tried to forget.

The summer storms had ended. Early on a bright morning I sculled out of the cove and with the wind astern set sail for Chichén-Palapa. I was glad to be leaving my jungle camp.

With me I took the results of many hours of thinking. As I hacked away at the logs to make my raft, while I lay in bed at night, I had come to two conclusions.

Cortés was right when he burned the heathen temples, gathered up the bare stones, and from them built Christian churches. There was no other way, it seemed, though years would pass and generations would live and die before the Maya and the Azteca forgot their pagan gods.

Perhaps Cantú the dwarf was right, also. He had played a scurvy trick upon the Maya. He had deserted me at a time when I needed him the most. Yet he had been sorely tempted. Gold was power. He would return to Seville and purchase a fine estate and a dukedom. He would dine with nobles, converse with the leading artists, philosophers, and men of science. He would sit with princes of the church and receive their churchly blessings and benefits. Cantú would revel in all this splendor while I, cast away for the second time in my short life, penniless and rejected, deserted by God, faced an un certain future.

Yet I could blame no one for my plight. Who, I asked myself, had called upon me to do Christ's work? What voice had spoken? Who had chosen Julián Escobar to journey into pagan lands to save heathen souls? To fail, to find himself far from home, a fugitive hunted by the king's men?

I never glanced back at my jungle camp as the raft left the shore, or at the city that lay somewhere to port, or at St. John the Baptist, which had not erupted and buried the island as once I had wished it to do. I looked straight before me and made a silent vow.

Never out of sight of land and only by day, I sailed for close to three weeks. I was passed by many canoes, hailed by some, but mostly ignored. On another bright morning I en tered the estuary that led to the village of cacique Matlazingo.

The cacique was lounging on the beach, in much the same position as I had left him months before, chewing on coca leaves and spitting in the sand. He recognized me at once, though this time no cannon had announced my arrival. I was stepping ashore from a raft, instead of from a longboat rowed by dozens of painted warriors. The sun had bleached my hair white and given my skin a mahogany hue. The diet of fruit had reduced my frame to skin and bones. Yet he greeted me with a Spanish
abrazo—
he must have learned the embrace from Gerónimo de Aguilar—so moved by emotion that he could scarcely speak.

“What great misfortune has overtaken you?” he managed to ask.

“A wrecked ship,” I said, which was a statement not far from the truth. “I am the only survivor of a wrecked ship.”

“The big one? The one that carried thunder and lightning?”

“Another one. Bigger. Much bigger.”

“Very sad,” Matlazingo said, shaking his head and offering me a sheaf of coca leaves. “These will help you forget the sadness.”

“Food will help me more,” I said.

At a click of his tongue it came, platters of food—berries, fruit, more fruit, bowls of chili pepper and frijoles
,
raw fish, corn cakes, tall stacks of corn cakes. I ate in silence, but not much, since my stomach had shrunk during the long summer and the food did not taste as good as I had expected.

“You will remember,” I said, “that when I came here be fore, months ago, I spoke about a Spaniard.”

“Yes, his name was Cortés,” the cacique said. “I remem ber him. Hernán Cortés.”

“Has he been here?”

“No, I have not seen this great man.”

“Have you heard anything about him?”

“Much,” Matlazingo said. “A little. A big canoe came, not big like yours, but big. It was filled with Spaniards. They were looking for gold. I told them I had no gold. They were not happy about this. But I gave them a basket of pearls and they felt happier. I asked them about this one you told me about.”

“Hernán Cortés.”

“Yes. They said he was with the Azteca in Tenochtitlán. That is a place high in the mountains.”

“I know where it is.”

“The men said that he had been in trouble with the king, but he was not in trouble anymore. Now he is the cacique of everything.” Matlazingo spread his arms wide, seemingly to take in the world.

If Cortés had returned to Tenochtitlán, given up any plans of moving down the coast—news that had the ring of truth—then I was in no immediate danger. I queried the cacique further, trying to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. As fu ture events were to prove, he was not.

Cortés had indeed been forced to hurry back to the Azteca capital. His numerous enemies, including the powerful bishop of Burgos, who accused him of taking one fifth of the booty as a captain and another fifth as king, had asked Carlos the Fifth to call him back to Spain. Instead, the young monarch had made him the governor, captain general, and chief justice of all the Indies. He was now in Tenochtitlán, there to con solidate his new power and to plan new campaigns.

“Too bad,” Matlazingo said. “Now I will never see the great Spaniard, Hernán Cortés.”

“He travels much, honorable cacique. You may see him yet,” I said.

 

T
HE VILLAGE LIFE OF
C
HICHÉN
-P
ALAPA, FLOWING LIKE A QUIET
summer stream, appealed to me for a week. There was nothing I had to do. I slept comfortably in a hammock slung between two ceiba trees. I ate sumptuously with the cacique. I listened to his stories. He listened to mine. Fascinated by a world he had never seen, home of the Spaniards he admired, he asked endless questions and I answered them sometimes truthfully, sometimes not.

I had only two temptations during this time. While walking among the ruins of what was once a flourishing city, I was visited by the urge to restore its temples and public structures. The urge did not last. The Indians, like those I had lived among for years, seemed to lack any desire to bring back ancient glories. They were content to farm their few acres, fish in the sea, and worship their heathen idols.

The second temptation came one evening while I sat watch ing them emerge from their huts to wander around the village. I was tempted to sing the beautiful Salve Regina. The tempta tion lasted no longer than the first, as memories of my failures on the Island of the Seven Serpents flooded in upon me.

Before another week had passed, I grew restless. Taking note of my condition, the cacique suggested that I assume some of his duties as a medicine man and soothsayer. I was no longer white skinned, but I was a blond Spaniard two
varas
tall.

“Everyone,” the cacique said, “thinks that you were a speaker before somewhere. They want you to speak words to them.”

“I've been a speaker,” I said, “and did not like it.”

“You may like it better in Chichén-Palapa.''

“Less.”

“You might go with the pearlers and dive for pearls. You are so tall you can stand on the bottom and need not dive.”

The pearling season began with the end of the summer
chubascos
and lasted a month. Early on the last day of diving, as we were anchored at the mouth of the estuary, a ship flying a Spanish pennon sailed into our midst. Its captain appeared at the rail, stared down at us for a while, and then demanded gold.

One of the Indians offered him a handful of pearls.

“I have them,” the captain shouted in clumsy Maya. “I come for gold.”

“There is no gold,” the Indian said, speaking the truth—during my weeks in the village I had seen none, in any shape. “No gold.”

Smoke was rising at the far end of the estuary. The captain pointed.

“You have gold there?” he shouted.

The Indian shrugged, not understanding him. I understood but kept silent, and the ship sailed off toward the village. When we got back the captain was on the beach talking to Matlazingo, surrounded by a troop of his men. To frighten the Indians, he had brought three horses ashore and a pair of big staghounds.

I was close enough to hear most of the heated words, but out of sight. The captain, who was swarthy and stout, kept walking back and forth, facing the cacique, then turning his back upon him, talking all the while.

“I've been in this place long enough,” the captain said. “I ask you much. You answer nothing. The same always. You shake the head and say nothing.
Nada. Nada.”