“We are stardust, we are golden, we are billion-year-old carbon, and we got to get ourselves back to the garden.”
Yeah Dad, Nick thought, like Chaco Canyon is the garden.
Chapter 3 – April 12, 1521
Asupacaci gazed ahead into the haze of the heat shimmering in the distance and knew from his scouts that they would soon be approaching the Pánuco River, the natural dividing line between the allies he knew and the wild, nomadic Chichimeca peoples beyond it.
The journey would now be more fraught with peril, as the long snaking column wound through the last of the lands of their northern allies, the Totonacs and the Huastecs.
There had been sporadic trade between them and the Chichimeca in the past, but never a formal exchange of dignitaries. The Chichimeca were simply too uncivilized. They had no dwellings worth mentioning, no permanent villages, moved with the seasons, and were savage about defending what they perceived as their territories.
Asupacaci stepped aside from the head of the column, and called Cipactli over, the warrior general who had been specifically charged with accompanying him on this quest. Cipactli looked at him quizzically. Asupacaci couldn’t suppress a slight grin, knowing that Cipactli had been named after the primordial crocodile-like monster from Aztec legend. His large head and mouth showed a distinct likeness.
“Cipactli, in one more rise of the sun we will approach the Pánuco, and we will need to find a ford to get all of this,”—Asupacaci gestured by opening his arms in both directions to encompass the column—“across safely. We will need to meet with someone of authority, and the sooner the better.”
Cipactli nodded with a grunt. He had been girding his warriors for the moment they crossed into the unchartered territory. That moment was almost at hand.
“Tlanahuatihqui,” he said in a deferential tone, meaning exalted leader. “Our long runners have already scouted the river and have found two places the horses and these boxes with wheels can make it across. But they haven’t seen anyone yet, which is unusual. I expected we would have many eyes on us already.”
Unusual indeed, Asupacaci thought.
“And the long runner from the south, what news of him?” he inquired.
“He arrived a few days ago and said there was no sign of anyone following us. As instructed, he hid and waited three rises of the sun to make sure,” Cipactli replied. “The only person he encountered was some poor field worker. He killed him and buried his body under stones, and now trails us again watching for any pursuit.”
Even Cipactli doesn’t know, Asupacaci thought, what lengths we have gone to to deceive the Spanish devils. Other expeditions had been sent out, both discretely and in view of the Spaniards, in other directions. All in an attempt to put them off the scent of this one. And the only people who knew about this one—the only ones still alive who could tell the tale—were all right here. The gods have favored us on our quest so far, Asupacaci mused. We have only had to kill two servants who couldn’t keep pace and one injured warrior. Oh yes, and the Spaniard who went mad, who couldn’t take the darkness.
The Spaniard’s pulsing heart had been offered to Ehecatl, the god of wind, whose breath moved the sun and pushed away rain, and would hopefully push them to their final destination.
The caravan continued along the footpath until before midday, then stopped at the signal from Asupacaci. The Spaniards, with their hollow eyes, were prodded to unhitch the horses and led to where the animals could graze. The Spaniards were tethered with rough rope about the length of two men to the horses and given a dry corncob to eat. Having traveled so many miles, they eventually worked their way to the shade side of the horses and sat down to eat and rest as best they could. A gourd of water was brought to them by the servants. It seemed they were never given quite enough to slake their burning thirsts, only enough to keep them alive.
Even the servants took the opportunity to discomfort them whenever possible, taunting in a language the Spanish couldn’t comprehend but whose meaning was clear, pushing and tripping them when it wasn’t expected, and spitting or putting a little ground chili into the water gourds they passed to them. But the warrior guards were worse and much feared, for they were proud and bitter. They had seen their way of life upended, their families decimated, and now they were being exiled from their homeland, never to return. Cipactli had made it clear that the Spanish were needed to tend the horses, as proof of an invasion, and as trade bounty. They needed to be kept alive, but not too alive.
The humiliations consequently continued, some merely demeaning, some nearly fatal. It was with much amusement that the captured leader of the Spanish, the one called El Capitán, was led to a little hill on the shade side of a horse to sit, given a corn cob, and left alone. The warriors quietly gathered a short distance away and elbowed one another, while a servant untied the tether from the horse and held it in his hand. For the little hill upon which he sat held a cruel surprise.
The snickering turned to laughter as the dance began, first with El Capitán slowly scratching himself, then jumping up and slapping, then his yelling turning to screaming as he danced wildly about as fire ants repeatedly injected their venom into his pallid flesh. The servant gave him slack on the rope, shouted, “Oh Ley!” in mimicking a sound he had heard the Spanish make when chasing Aztecs to ground on their horses, and followed him erratically about. Once the Spaniard could manically dance no more and fell exhausted to the ground panting, he was tied to the horse. The smirking crowd dispersed to their lunch of beans and corn meal wrapped in corn husks.
Two of the servants were playfully kicked by Cipactli, who pointed to the Spaniard, and they dutifully stood over his collapsed, sobbing form and pissed, taking away some of the sting, but only adding to his humiliation.
They would all rest here, in what shade they could find to avoid the worst of the midday sun. Scouts were posted outside the perimeter, ensuring no one would stumble upon them. The coolest spots were under the wagons, and in a militarized society like the Aztecs, heritage and rank took precedence, even here. The servants were put further out and had to constantly shift with the movement of the sun and shadows. The Spaniards had it the hardest, as the horses they were tethered to constantly shifted, and they were forced to scramble like exposed beetles trying to hide from the light.
Asupacaci dozed in his shaded spot under the middle of the biggest wheeled box, with everyone, even Cipactli, a respectful few inches away from touching his person. His thoughts wandered first to his father, Montezuma, then to his brothers Chimalpopoca and Tlaltecatzin. This quest was for them, for all of them, and his resolve stiffened in his half-conscious state. A dream started to play out in his mind, and though he knew he was dreaming, he felt that he was floating above everything, looking down on Tenochtitlán, a soaring eagle carried on the wind. He saw the city and its people in all their glory, the five causeways that led across Lake Texcoco into the city, the beautiful flags and pennants fluttering from the buildings, the smells of the markets drifting up to him, and the magnificent pyramid at the center of it all.
At the center of his universe, the Hueteocalli, dominated the landscape. He floated down closer, and saw it was no longer pristine or peaceful. He saw his people running in the streets, conquistadors riding their great horse beasts spearing two or three people at a time and holding them aloft, fire sticks belching smoke and lightning. Aztecs were covered in spots, falling to the ground coughing, the skies overhead darkening, mountains erupting red and angry, a flock of ravens flying toward him, their numbers growing and obliterating the sky, their cries telling him to do something, do anything, to just save his people.
Asupacaci awoke with a start, his heart pounding, his hands out in front of him to ward off the ravens. He blinked hard, heard the gentle snoring next to him, and wiped the accumulated sweat and dirt from his brow. From the short shadows, he could tell the sun was still high in the sky. Very little time had passed. He shifted uncomfortably and pulled a small stone out from under his b
ack. As he looked closer, he realized it was a broken piece of obsidian, an old arrowhead. It reminded him of how even their best weapons, their spears, arrows, and studded clubs, had all shattered when they met Spanish steel. Exactly like his people.
Trying fitfully to doze, Asupacaci’s mind wandered back to when Cortés returned from the coast and approached Tenochtitlán, the resistance had become more fierce. The docile people he had first encountered had shaken off their awe of the Spanish. They no longer believed them gods and had been exhorted to resist with all their might to fight for their land, their ruler, and their true gods, to behave like real Mexica, like true Aztecs. They had, with renewed fury. And it was only with great difficulty that Cortés and his allies were able to rejoin Alvarado back at the palace in the center of the great city.
Once all together, they realized how precarious their situation had become. Despite the Spaniards they had added to their ranks from the coast, despite their Tlaxcalan and Totonac allies, despite their horses and guns and steel swords and lances, they were hopelessly outnumbered by a now determined foe. They had sat on the nest of fire ants too long.
Completely surrounded with their food supplies cut off, all non-essential servants were put to the sword to buy a little more time. Of course that didn’t include La Malinche, that traitorous slave who was given to Cortés by Asupacaci’s enemies when he first landed on the sacred shores. No one could have foreseen then that this lowly slave woman had the gift for tongues, could easily pick up and speak any language, and would become the right hand of Cortés as his interpreter, trusted advisor, and courtesan.
There were very few others who could speak both Aztec and Spanish, much less the languages of the various allies and enemies at the edges of the Aztec empire. But Friar Rodrìguez was one who could, and even though he was Spanish, Asupacaci had seen him take Cortés aside and obviously argue that what La Malinche was interpreting was not necessarily the truth. Evidently the woman with the gift of tongues could be manipulative in what she interpreted and spoke with two tongues, one true, one false.
The Friar objected to the systematic burning of the Aztec codices, which held their accumulated knowledge and history in pictographs. Such a man as Friar Rodrìguez, who could interpret these languages, who had shown he wanted to teach the Aztecs about the goodness of his god, who had openly defied Cortés about his treatment of the Aztecs, could prove useful with the northern tribes. He had thus been duly blinded and added to the caravan, and now sat unseeing in the shade of a horse, always kept close to Asupacaci in case he should beckon him. Even the warriors respectfully kept their distance away from this one.
Asupacaci sat up and glanced toward Friar Rodrìguez, hearing him humming something to himself, something he called a hymn. As the trek continued, Asupacaci had the Friar brought over to him to walk behind him at times, so he could converse with him. While he didn’t have the gift of tongues that the Friar did, he found himself picking up a few words of Spanish, learning more about their world, their beliefs, their hopes and fears, and most importantly, their weaknesses. When he discovered something of significance, something that he thought would help the resistance back in Tenochtitlán, he was tempted to send a long runner back with the message. But he didn’t. He knew he couldn’t, because he didn’t know if his people were still fighting, and he couldn’t break his oath and risk discovery of his mission.
Even though his long runners were among the hardiest of warriors, the Spanish were true masters at torture, and every living creature had its breaking point. They had perfected their dark arts with what the Friar called the Inquisition. Asupacaci’s eyes watered, and he leaned back down and forced them shut. He had witnessed it done to his own family. He couldn’t let anyone see him in a state of weakness and tried to drift back off to sleep. After lying with his over wrought imagination keeping his awake, he admitted defeat and crawled out from under the wagon. Hearing the Friar softly chanting, he walked over and sat beside him.
“Tell me, do your gods hear you?”
The Friar jumped slightly, startled, as he was so deep into his meditations that he hadn’t heard Asupacaci approach. He tilted his head slighted and looked at his questioner through shriveled eye sockets.
“Yes, I believe He does. Even when we don’t say anything aloud, He can even read our minds, and so we must always be pure in thought,” the Friar replied.
“Pure? Do you feel the actions of your people are pure? That killing, raping, and stealing are pure? What had we ever done to you to deserve this?” Asupacaci asked, in a rising voice that was loud enough Cipactli sat up under the wagon and watched them carefully. “Our world was a paradise before any of you came.”
“You have done nothing to me, I am but a simple man of faith. But our soldiers believe they are instruments of our God and King and do what they must to spread the one true faith,” the Friar replied in his calm, reasoned way.
Asupacaci arose and stood menacingly, glaring down. “Damn your God, and damn all of you. We’ll see in the next life who is right. And that won’t be long in coming for any of us.”
Chapter 4 – May 29, Present Day
C’mon Chuck, we don’t need to go right away, but let’s at least get a date on the calendar so we can both work around it,” Nick implored his brother on the phone. He didn’t want to say it, but better to take Al and Josie’s ashes out to Chaco Canyon in New Mexico and get this done with, so it wasn’t an unbearable task that became ever more daunting with the waiting.
Christ knucklehead, I’m fragile enough at this point, he thought.
“Alright, alright already. I’m thinking June 19th. I’ll take a Friday off for a long weekend and be back with Sophie and the kids by Sunday night. Where the hell do we fly into over there anyway? Looks like Albuquerque might be the closest airport, that shouldn’t be too hard to fly into from Chicago,” Charlie noted.
“Hey, I’m not flying, I’m taking some time and driving, gonna hit a few of the old stops from the station wagon days.” Nick wanted to ask Charlie to join him on a road trip, to be like old times, but he also realized Charlie had a household and career to answer to. He wasn’t traveling light like Nick, whose faculty at the University of Chicago told him to take as much time as he needed. The thought of a road trip quickened Nick’s pulse, and he realized he needed this, especially now.
“You sure you’re doing alright, Nick? You and Dad were always a little too alike for your own good. You’re the one who was adopted for crissake. I mean, you both have always kept the hard things inside, while smiling on the outside. Not like me and Mom. You always knew what was on our mind.” Charlie knew Nick could be hard to read. He knew him better than anyone, especially now that their dad had passed.
“Naw, all good, or at least as good as could be expected,” Nick assured him. “I actually think a road trip would be a great tonic, help me figure a few things out, or at least put them in perspective.”
“Alright then, I’ll make the arrangements to get out to Albuquerque. I’ll text you the flight times so you can pick me up there. And instead of driving that rat trap halfway across the country, why don’t you get something new? Dad left us a few bucks, what are you saving it for?” he said. But Charlie knew the reason, that the beat-up pickup truck had been Dad’s, who had given it to Nick, and it was a part of him he refused to let go.
Charlie was joking, but only halfway. How many times had Nick’s beloved rust bucket of a pickup broken down in some God forsaken, out of the way place?
I have to give him credit though, he turned into one heck of an improvisational mechanic, Charlie thought.
“No worries brother, just make sure you make it there. Dad said for both of us to do this, and by then I’ll actually be looking forward to your company. What with all the snakes, tarantulas, scorpions, and such.” Nick knew his brother was getting a bit citified, maybe a bit too comfortable as told by his waistline, and wanted to see him roughing it again, like in the good old days. And critters of that ilk
could certainly provide some entertainment if properly employed to good effect—like in one of Charlie’s boots. “See you on the 19th bro!”
Nick hung up and looked around the cabin, remembering the fond times they’d all shared right here. It didn’t seem that long ago they were all playing board games, listening to baseball on the radio, making s’mores over an outdoor fire, staying up late catching fireflies and watching shooting stars. How his dad was the master of nicknames, and when Nick was a scrawny kid and Charlie a bit stouter, he used to call them Nicky Knees and Chuckie Cheese. Nick would add, “More like Chuck Wagon, if you asked me,” which led to more chases and hijinks. Those were the days. Maybe they could make some new memories here yet, when this was all over.
Nick found himself wandering down toward the lake and sat at the spot where the dock had been stored before being put out for the summer. He looked out at the exact location he had first seen his dad’s hand sticking out of the ice. “Tough times these, these last five years or so. Lost Mom, lost Dad, hell even lost Topaz, and somewhere along the line lost some of myself,” he said to himself.
Mom’s death was devastating, but for all the tragedy, it was understandable, discernible, tangible. They had all seen the results of the tests, the images clearly showing pancreatic cancer systematically spreading to the lymph nodes, then to her liver, and finally to her lungs and bones. Mom had no family history, so it wasn’t detected until far too late. It had all seemed surreal, her going from a healthy, vibrant woman so full of life, to living in the hospital on comfort care, to dying at home, surrounded by the things she treasured and the people she loved.
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