The Ten Incarnations of Adam Avatar (15 page)

There was only one thing I feared, and he I never saw. Yet always I had the feeling he was near, a minion of Satan, despatched to stop my Godly task. But, even if that was the Shadowman's purpose, he did not need to take action. As the months passed, despair grew like a weed in my heart. I had stemmed the tide of death, perhaps, but I could not stop it. And, always, more and more colonists and traders and soldiers came to New Spain. I was reminded of the time, about seven years before, when a crop of plantains I had brought in attracted a plague of black ants to my estate. At first they were no more than a nuisance: I had to sleep with the legs of my bed planted in four pans of water. But soon they became a threat to all my crops, eating trees by the roots so that the trees became black and withered as though struck by lightning. My orange and pomegranate fields were destroyed, as well as most of my cassia trees. Once, I placed a four-pound rock of corrosive sublimate on the flat stone roof of my storehouse. Ants came from miles around, dying in such numbers that the roof seemed covered with coal dust. Within days, the sublimate, although it was as hard as cobblestone, was reduced to the size of a pigeon's egg by these rapacious insects. It took two years of digging trenches around every tree and keeping them filled with water, and seeking out and setting afire the two-foot high nests with their white eggs, before I got rid of them. Even now I am not sure if anything I did made a difference or if some other cause made them retreat. And now I had that exact same feeling again.

It was this growing desperation which led to my downfall. I became careless, letting myself be seen, and soon the colony knew it was Adam Colón who was the new
Diablo Bestias
. People had assumed I had fled the island for killing Fray Ortiz. Ovando was able to persuade the King to send additional troops from Peru to deal with my band and I. The professional soldiers were formidable warriors. We were driven back into the hills, our movement circumscribed. Yet I took no heed of my lieutenants' words of caution. Foolishly, I attempted to get at Ovando. I might have succeeded, but the new troops had bought new weapons, and I was hit in the head with a musket ball as I fled on my horse. When I regained consciousness, deep in the forest, I simply wandered into town in a stupor for, although my head wound healed, the injury had made me forget who I was. Thus was I captured with ease and sent in chains to Seville to face the Court of the Inquisition.

That, Holy Father, is the complete truth and may God strike me down and consign me to the deepest pits of Hell if I have in any wise exaggerated or misled you. And my words will be easily proved: if, as is likely, I am executed by the time you receive this Confession, order that my grave be exhumed. Fray Las Casas has made arrangements for it to be marked. There will be no body. But ensure that trustworthy men do the exhumation, for in my grave I will leave instructions on how to locate my gold. I ask only that this wealth be used to save the few remaining Indians in New Spain for, as my story has shown, this is God's will.

Yours in faith & obedience

Adam Guiakan Colón

The copied document given to me by Cardinal di Medici ended there, but there are some details which I could not add then. After the trial, I was returned to my cell in chains. The
auto de fe
was set for twenty-one days hence – days in which, I knew, last efforts would be made to discover where I had hidden my wealth. Fray Las Casas came to see me a short while after, and I asked him to supply me with paper, ink, pen and candles. It was a desperate request, which I had no hope of being met but, to my astonishment, he brought the materials the very next day. When I praised him for his moral authority, he only said dryly, ‘I am sure that neither moral suasion nor the goodness of the Inquisitor's heart are why your request was granted.' He was right, of course, but I am always taken aback at how worldly priests are.

I wrote two documents simultaneously, one for the Inquisitor's eyes, the other for Las Casas to smuggle out. The unexpurgated version, Holy Father, is before your blessed eyes.

Las Casas came to see me every day in that week and we always engaged in conversation. Despite his age, he retained a sharpness of mind and a passion of purpose which would have been the envy of many much younger men. But I also detected in him a core of bitter defeat, for he felt he had failed the Indians to whom most of his life had been dedicated. Fate, it seemed had always been against him. At Plasencia, Las Casas had persuaded King Ferdinand to take strong action to save the Indians, but Ferdinand had died while on his way to Seville so the petition was frustrated. Las Casas had then made the same petition to Cardinal Ximenes, who also was persuaded but appointed ineffectual delegates to carry out the Church's instructions. Las Casas then applied to King Charles, who also agreed to his petition and passed on responsibility to his chancellor. The chancellor, however, died in Zaragosa. It was then that Las Casas truly began to feel God was against him and I believe, from the way he spoke, that his faith did go through a crisis. But he overcame it. And I think this was part of the reason he decided to help me: he saw in me a kindred spirit for he, too, had begun with an
encomienda
and then been persuaded of its evil.

It is also a measure of the true Christian spirit of Las Casas that he was able to forgive a monster such as myself. I have lived almost five hundred years and I have not yet forgiven me. Although I have been reading over this document that I myself wrote, there still remains a dark veil drawn over my actual memory of the life of Adam Colón: after all, even in a normal life-span, the human mind blocks out what it cannot bear.

I do remember being tortured even more viciously in the final week. Both the Inquisitor and the Bishop were often present, as their duty required. Bound and naked, I was shown the instruments of torture and urged to confess. I watched the irons being heated to a dull-red glow, the pulleys of the rack tested, and the bearings of the wheel greased. I said, as I had in Court, that I had confessed all I had to confess. I was then tied to the rack and stretched over a period of days. I remember clearly the loud popping sounds as every joint in my body was systematically dislocated, the muffled cracks as my hams burst, the sound mixing with my shrieks of agony and futile cries for pity. My tongue was spared: they needed me to tell where my gold was. Crosses were branded into my screaming flesh to bring me closer to God and his Infinite Mercy. And, in the midst of all this, one thought comforted me: I deserved no less.

I confessed, eventually. Unlike more fortunate prisoners, I could not be certain that death would free me of my agony. Even as my joints were dislocated, they began to mend, the nubs of my ears began to regrow, the brands to heal. To be burned at the stake would be intolerable. I had seen what happened, or I had carried out such executions myself: the skin blackening and crackling like paper, the flesh melting and coagulating and melting again, the body shrinking before the very eyes, curling like an aborted foetus and, always, the high keening screams of the condemned, often continuing long after death should have silenced them. How much longer, then, would my screams continue?

So I confessed, as my stomach was slit and my intestines wound out on a pulley before my eyes. They declared me dead and made their final prayers and I was buried in a shallow grave. I knew I was not truly dead: only a darkness fell upon me as I drew my last breath; I did not see any tunnel with the light at its end.

There were no instructions in my grave about finding my gold: I had spent all my wealth to supply my small band with food and weapons. But I had had to give the Pope a good reason for the exhumation. I dug my way free when I awoke some nights later. Las Casas helped me to get out of Spain, although I could not include this fact in my Confession. I went to Rome where, with the authority of his seal, I was able to deliver my Confession to the Pope. Then I signed aboard a ship and returned to Espanola. I was resolved to continue my battle to save the Tainos. But I never had the chance.

I had returned to my old camp – the same place I had captured my mother and carried her for execution. There was no sign that anyone had ever lived there. Taking out my machete, I began clearing a space to build a lean-to for the night. But, as I worked, I began to feel someone's eyes upon me. I continued cutting bushes and branches as if I knew nothing, turning constantly. I felt no fear – I was still a conquistador and I still had God's grace. But he came upon me like a shadow out of the forest and my only warning was a single footfall on the dry leaves behind me. Despite my advanced age, and all that I had suffered, my warrior's reflexes were as quick as ever. I turned instantly, my machete blurring as I struck. But my attacker stepped smoothly inside my swing, his massive shoulder blocking my blow without effort, his face as calm as polished obsidian. He attempted to grab me, but I was too skilled a wrestler for that and wriggled like an eel out of his huge arms. I danced back on my toes, the old thrill of battle rising in my blood, and swung my machete at him again. But he was very quick, stepping back so my blade swung past his body, then stepping in to punch viciously at my head. I saw the gleam of metal in his fist and bobbed my head aside so he missed, but I did not anticipate his swift-moving foot, which sank into my stomach driving all the breath out of me.

I collapsed in a heap on the ground. I felt a sharp blow. All my limbs suddenly became limp, and I felt my soul float out of my clay body. I lay on the forest floor, my face on the mulched earth, the sandalled feet of the Shadowman before me. Questions came vaguely to my mind, and a dimming rage, and despair. But, as I drew my final breath, all I felt was relief.

At our next session I told Mr. Avatar that his account had me quite concerned. He nodded in an understanding manner.

I should note that I am reconstructing these sessions from audio recordings and notes taken during the consultation. The accounts are accurate, but have been edited for clarity.

I said, ‘I need to ask you some questions and I need you to answer truthfully.'

‘All right.'

‘Were you sexually abused as a child?'

‘No. Not in this life.'

‘In other lives?'

‘My second and fourth.'

‘Have you ever sexually abused anyone?'

‘No. Not in this life.'

‘In other lives?'

‘In my second and my seventh incarnations.'

‘All right.' I opened his file. ‘I see that your mother died last year. Do you blame anyone for her death?'

‘No. She was old, and she was mortal.'

‘Were you close to your mother?'

‘Yes.'

‘But not as close as you were to your grandmother.'

‘Perhaps not. No.'

‘You're unmarried. Do you have a significant other?'

‘There are others. But not significant.'

‘Close male friends?'

‘No.'

‘What about –'

At this juncture Mr. Avatar stopped me.

‘All this is very fascinating, doctor, but not to the point.'

‘Oh? What do you see as the point?' I asked.

He said, ‘I want you to tell me if I'm delusional or not. I expect you to assume that I am at the outset. But I also expect you to consider the facts objectively.'

‘What facts, specifically?'

‘These accounts I have written down.'

He took out an envelope from his briefcase. ‘Here is the same account you have just read, in the original Latin,' he said.

I said, ‘You realize, Adam, that there is nothing in these accounts that could not be the result of good research, hard work, and a vivid imagination.'

‘Including translations from two dead languages?' he asked.

I said, Well, I notice that your first account has Taino words and your second has Latin phrases. That wouldn't happen in a translation.'

‘I left them in deliberately. It helped me recall my sensibility as that self when I was writing it down.'

‘Oh.'

‘And I got the Latin account from the Vatican. It's definitely four centuries old.'

‘Well, what you have here is a photocopy. And isn't it possible that you read the stories of Guiakan and Adam Colón first and then constructed these memories around them?'

He watched me and pulled down the corners of his mouth in an impressed fashion. ‘I actually never considered that possibility,' he said. ‘But how about my speaking fluent Portuguese, Spanish, French and patois, and several African dialects not so fluently?'

‘There are people with multiple-personality disorder who can speak a language in one self and not in the other.'

‘So you think I have multiple-personality disorder?'

‘I don't know. I doubt it, since you say you're just recalling past selves. People with MPD don't usually have knowledge of their other selves. But I am very concerned about the psychotic tendencies of this Adam Colón.'

‘I think it's clear from the account that I overcame those tendencies, even in that life.'

‘Yes. And it's clear from both accounts that you feel very guilty about something.'

‘I feel guilty about having caused so many deaths.'

‘Do you feel you caused the deaths of your grandmother and your mother?'

‘No. They were mortal.'

‘Do you feel guilty about being immortal, then?'

‘No. I only feel that I have more responsibility.'

‘Responsibility to do what?'

‘To tell the truth. To help others. Which alone might confirm I not quite sane, eh doc?'

‘So some might say,' I agreed. ‘The point is, Adam, I can best help you by considering what these accounts say about you, Adam Avatar, as a person. If you are suffering a delusion, these past selves will tell us why. If you are not – well, the truth must out, right?'

At this point, there was a drawn out silence. Mr. Avatar watched me for several moments. His emerald-green eyes gave the impression that he was looking right through me, seeing everything, as eyes of that shade always do. He was also obviously of high intelligence.