“Well, that makes it official then. If you don’t mind Mémé, I am going to borrow your necklace and family history book with your blessing. Time for me to take a little road trip, and you better be here when I get back.”
Chapter 7 – April 14, 1521
Morning dawned in the cool, thin air, but it would be warm and then hot soon enough. The entire camp had slept in two shifts, so that half the warriors were always awake, alert, and ready. No word had come back from the scouts posted further out around the caravan in a protective perimeter. A sense of anticipation hung in the air since Bumblebee headed off alone toward the Chichimeca, and Asupacaci went to great lengths to betray no emotion or nervousness, at least on the outside.
“Let us hope our Bumblebee didn’t end up in the soup pot of these savages,” he confided to the ever present Cipactli. “If we hear nothing, we will move out prepared for battle. But we can’t do that on empty stomachs. Have the men eat.”
The slaves and servants went about their familiar rituals, bringing food out to the scouts on the perimeter first, then to the warriors, and finally to the Spaniards. The sun had crept up slightly in the sky, and the first signs of a warm breeze kicked up dirt devils on the trail. Suddenly scouts started shouting in the distance, and Asupacaci stood in anticipation, looking down the path. Soon a small group emerged at the far end of the trail. A fierce looking shaman broke away from the rest, ran forward, spinning around and around, and threw an object that landed with a dull thump and rolled slightly on its side, exposing the bloody stump of a skull.
An Eagle Warrior walked toward it, standing very erect while acting uninterested. He bent down slowly to examine it. He turned toward the Aztec camp, holding it aloft, and started shouting chants. It wasn’t until he bowed in front of Asupacaci that it became evident it wasn’t the head of Bumblebee, but that of a pox marked and bearded Spaniard. Asupacaci smiled slightly, relieved, and recalled the words with which his Uncle Cuitláhuac had advised in sending him on this journey.
“Remember, all we tribes quarrel with one another like brothers of the same family, but the Spaniards are true enemies to all.”
The group of Chichimeca worked their way toward the camp, and Bumblebee emerged and prostrated himself in front of Asupacaci and Cipactli.
“I was taken to their leader, Lord,” Bumblebee said, glancing over his shoulder at the tall older man, standing proudly in the middle of his savage looking warriors. “I presented the jeweled dagger to him, which he seemed pleased with. While I couldn’t completely understand their language, we do share some common words, and with that and gestures I asked him to come here to meet you.” Asupacaci tapped him on the shoulder to rise, called for Friar Rodrìguez, and nodded slightly at Xólotl, their striking leader with the red colored hair and tattoos.
They sat in the shadow of the wagons, in a tight circle, surrounded by the warriors of both groups, with the Friar, at first hesitantly and then more fluently, translating.
“I think you both spoke the same language sometime in distant the past,” he whispered to Asupacaci. “As there are so many similarities.” Through the verbal efforts of the Friar accompanied by the gestures of Asupacaci and his key leaders, communication was established and an understanding was reached. It turned out that the Chichimeca were not ignorant of the Spaniards, or their horses for that matter. Survivors of several shipwrecks had washed up on their shores, who had been rescued and treated with reverence, until the start of the spread of new, strange and devastating diseases. It hadn’t taken the Chichimeca long to understand that the enemy of their enemy was their friend.
Xólotl cut a striking and slightly unnerving figure, even as he sat. To the Aztecs, Chichimeca meant red colored hair, which was from a pigment they used extensively to both give their hair its distinctive sheen, and to color their skin and clothing. All the Chichimeca were also adorned in silver, and Xólotl wore an impressive and very intricate necklace that seemed to be interlaced with human bone. The Aztecs practiced ritualistic cannibalism, but its purpose was as a part of a sacrifice to the gods, to show dominance over one’s foe, and was traditionally practiced by priests. However, rumor had reached the Aztecs over time that these very fierce and nomadic red colored people to their north regularly ate human flesh, and not just for ceremony. Looking around at the increasingly barren landscape, Asupacaci didn’t doubt that at times it was done for the mere sake of survival.
Xólotl noticed Asupacaci staring at his necklace. He reached up and touched it, returning Asupacaci’s stare with a quizzical look. While the land of the Aztecs was rich in both gold and silver, the land of the Chichimeca had little gold but much silver.
“Friar, tell him of the Spaniards lust for silver, and if his land has it, then surely they will come to take it.”
Xólotl indicated he understood the Friar’s words, and then nudged the head on the ground between them with his foot, showing how his people would deal with anyone who took what was rightfully theirs.
Over the course of several hours, safe passage was negotiated, as were guides to lead them through the rest of the lands of the Chichimeca, to the borders of the next tribes, which the Aztecs knew even less about.
It had been barely perceptible, perhaps not at all to anyone but Xólotl and Asupacaci, but they had formed an unspoken and immediate bond, deeper than their alliance. As they looked at each other through eyes that betrayed little emotion but showed earned, common wisdom and mutual respect, they knew that despite their differences, their different gods and ways of life, their peoples had somehow grown from the same great tree. That their traditional way of life was being threatened to its core, that a great storm was coming that was alien and uncontrollable to them, that they had little power to avert it, and that their common tree with its deep roots grown in these grounds over the millennia might not be able to weather it. Asupacaci had never said what their quest was, he had only asked for passage, but he saw that Xólotl had internally discerned why this strange caravan of Aztecs, horses, wagons, and blind Spaniards dared walk through his land. He had accepted the necessity of it, understood that the Aztecs to the south were but a temporary bulwark to stop the spread to their own lands, and was pondering what he must ultimately do to ensure the survival of his own people and their way of life.
“These people may be savage in our eyes, but they are hardy to survive in a land which offers so little, and they are well-led. The Spaniards may defeat them in the long run, but they will pay dearly in the trying,” Asupacaci confided to Cipactli.
Additional gifts were given to the Chichimeca, primarily in gold, since they had little of it. Two of the Spaniards were also offered but were refused, as it was conveyed that they had more of their own prisoners from the shipwrecks hidden deep in their lands and that when food became scarce, food they would become. Just before the chief departed, Xólotl gave a palm-sized silver cross to Asupacaci taken from one of the sailors, a talisman from their common enemy, from the potential destroyer of their worlds.
The sun was just starting its downward descent when Cipactli went ahead of the column with two warriors, a priest and a porter who was struggling to escape. Screams started echoing back and then stopped abruptly, and the caravan started its methodical forward movement. Past a moaning figure on the left side of the trail it went, the warriors not even bothering to glance, the eyeless Spaniards unseeing, and the servants and slaves wide eyed in horror, knowing it was a clear message intended solely for them. No one was above this quest, no one must impede it, they must all willingly lay down their lives to complete it. The troublesome porter, the one who had consistently excited his fellows, was tightly bound to a cactus, his tongue cut out, his arms and legs flayed, the insects already starting to swarm.
As the hot afternoon trek stretched on, Asupacaci beckoned Friar Rodrìguez over to him. In trying to understand the nature of the Spaniards, in what drove them to risk so much for what the Aztecs deemed of so little value. He was troubled that he could discern no c
lear, understandable motive. His meeting with Xólotl, of another people, yet one not so strange as the Spaniards, had crystallized his thinking and left questions.
Asupacaci turned to the Friar. “Why is it you believe your gods alone to be the only gods? Why do you seek to force your beliefs on anyone that doesn’t match yours? Can’t different peoples, who grew from this earth in different places and different ways, have their own beliefs that help them to make sense of their own worlds, to deal with it in their own ways?”
The Friar took a moment to formulate his thoughts, which was not his nature, as he was a highly intelligent man who usually responded both immediately and with conviction. Asupacaci knew he had struck at a fundamental conflict within him, something he hoped to leverage to his advantage.
“It is not only the Aztecs and your allies we seek to show the light of the Christ and the one true way. Even your enemies, those who have allied with Cortés, we will show them the error of their beliefs too. Our King, Charles V, and our most holy men, have decreed that it is our duty to save your souls from eternal damnation. That is why we baptized those on the islands off your shores, to save them from an eternity in hell. And in exchange for providing that salvation, the King gives a Spaniard land, and natives to work it. We call it an encomienda, and it works for the good of everyone.”
Asupacaci slowed his pace slightly so the Friar could catch up and walk by his side, so he could talk in hushed tones for the Friar’s ears only. “So you save the souls of those who didn’t know they needed saving, by having them reject their beliefs and the beliefs of their ancestors? For the privilege of working for Spanish masters for no gain except their continued existence? Why don’t you just call it what it is, slavery and bondage?”
A light smile formed on the lips of Friar Rodrìguez, who knew that in merely having this debate, it was reinforcing some of his own observations about the humanness of the Aztecs. These were indeed men with souls, albeit with a different belief system grown of their own environment and experiences.
“My spiritual leader, Bartolomé de las Casas, tends to agree with many of your views, as frankly do I. But it is not the policy of our government, nor King Charles, at least not yet. When last I heard, he was being petitioned to treat the natives more humanely. But human sacrifice must end, no religion that advocates the destruction of another human makes moral sense.”
Asupacaci leaned in closer and intoned, “But that is exactly what your religion does, what your Inquisition has done. I not only saw it, we heard it from the slaves you brought with you from the islands. We sacrifice to ensure a bountiful harvest, or for success in war, and you call us savages. You sacrifice someone who doesn’t believe as you do, and you call it the will of God. What truly is the difference?”
Friar Rodrìguez was silent, surprised to be in such a deep conversation with someone his people thought to be not completely human. Asupacaci used rational logic, and the Friar found he couldn’t completely disagree with him.
“The reason I am having this conversation with you—am even allowing it to happen—is because I desire your help,” Asupacaci said. “Not only to translate, I need you to believe in the quest we have set for ourselves. Because if you are convinced in the honor of what we undertake, the righteousness of our cause, that we are preserving not only the history of savages but of a whole culture who believes in their own gods and ways of life, then we both stand a better chance of accomplishing it.” With that he placed the silver cross Xólotl had given him into the Friar’s hands and walked briskly ahead.
For twenty-one more risings of the sun they traveled, through the heartland and to the far northern edge of the land of the Chichimeca, following the trails best suited for the slow and ponderous advance of the heavily laden wagons. They had headed slightly inland, shadowed by the mountains to their west, slowed by the roughness of some of the trails and streams. They lived off the land wherever they could to save supplies, and even added to their stores when the guides conveyed the wishes of Xólotl, that they were to proceed unmolested, and to be given succor by those villages that could provide it. Asupacaci noted that these people didn’t have many villages to speak of. They didn’t plant many crops like the Aztecs. They moved frequently and lived off the land, gathering mesquite, agave, the fruit of the nopal, acorns, roots, and seeds. They showed the Aztecs how they survived in the harsher parts of their lands, how to live in caves and river ravines, how to find water, and how to use the juice of the agave when water was scarce. Even Cipactli, old crocodile head, the battle-hardened Aztec warrior general, had to give the Chichimeca his begrudging respect as both superb fighters and survivors.
At midday the next day, the caravan of wagons emerged onto a narrow plain which opened before them, the mountains to the west receding, giving way to smaller sporadic hills scattered on either side. The going became easier as the ground flattened and hardened, but it also kicked up more dust, especially toward the back part of the column. Going into the lands of the Coahuiltecan would not go unnoticed, and Asupacaci had the Chichimeca guides brought back to him. He was surprised to learn that they were not loaned to him, but given to him, a gift from the sage Xólotl. They were to do his bidding and advised that they had been chosen for their own linguistic skills, as they were versed in the language of their northern neighbors.
Asupacaci was thankful for this, as the further they trekked, the more foreign the languages became, although they still encountered random pockets of tribes that spoke a distant dialect of Aztec. But Friar Rodrìguez was a quick study, and he found that even Hummingbird, the leader of his scouts, was adept at picking up key words and signing with those he encountered. It was a barrier they were ever better armed to overcome, especially now that the Chichimeca guides would continue with them.
To Asupacaci, the Coahuiltecan were even more of an unknown entity than the Chichimeca had been, and that was not a good position for a leader to be in. He had always been taught to know your enemy better than you know yourself. At least the Chichimeca had encountered the Spaniards and experienced the disease that preceded them. Asupacaci unconsciously rubbed the scar on his chest, close to the shoulder, that hid the head of the crossbow bolt he carried inside of him.
Huitzilopochtli, see us through another unknown land, protect your people just a little longer. Soon enough, we will all be with you, he prayed silently.
Chapter 8 – May 30, Present Day
Nick rose early to a misty morning at the cabin on Lake Charlevoix, excited at the prospect of a road trip. His dad used to say to the boys, “you’ve got fernweh,” a German word that meant an aching to travel to a distant place. It was the opposite of homesickness, rather a far sickness.
“Yeah Old Man, I’ve got fernweh fever again,” Nick said out loud, smiling. He showered, packed quickly, taking a peek in the refrigerator to see if there was anything to fuel up on before he hit the road. Slim pickings, better to not risk ingesting dated foodstuffs and challenging his digestive system, especially when he would be only stopping at desolate gas stations scattered across the country.
Looking around one last time, he saw a favorite talisman of his father’s on the desk, which he had used as a paperweight. It looked like a piece of an old decayed iron bracket, with two hand forged nails sticking out of the accumulated rust. This was one of the many random items they had found on their Southwest wanderings. For some reason, his dad had attached special significance to it. He said it sat on his desk as a constant reminder, and that although it didn’t look like much, to him it was a key to all he sought. Nick instinctively grabbed it, putting it in his backpack.
He then grabbed his gear, plus the guitar, his old metal detector and the journals, locked up the camp, hung the camp key in its hiding place in the car port, and drove into town to his favorite greasy spoon diner for a little road trip sustenance.
“Nick, how you doing this fine morning?” Debbie called from behind the counter, looking up to see her old friend again. Debbie had been at
the memorial party for his dad, wouldn’t have missed it, and not only as a friend to Nick, but the whole family.
Nick smiled when he saw her, always did. He always had a bit of a thing for Debbie, who was four years older than him and had dated Charlie for a time. They used to joke that God got the dates wrong, Nick should have been the older brother. As happens so often in small towns after high school, those who stayed around kept changing dance partners until they found the right one to make a life with. Debbie had married an old friend of Charlie’s who ran the local hardware store, someone Nick would have never guessed as a match. But they were happy, had three young rambunctious kids, and were the type of people who made up the backbone of the community. And damn, if she didn’t still look as good as she did when she was nineteen, as wistful and charming as ever.
“Doing great Deb, about to take a long road trip and need to fuel myself up. The usual if you don’t mind, my dear.”
Nick sat down at a well-worn bench and table, tracing initials carved into the top with his fingertip. He could put the names to more than a few of them, and even found one he had etched himself back in high school. He pulled out a map and started calculating his way points, and how much ground he wanted to cover each day. He also put Grandma Ingrid’s family history booklet on the table and started reviewing the different postings Alexandre had in the Southwest, and which ones his dad had taken him to.
Lost in his thoughts, he was surprised when a heavy spinning plate hit the table and slid down right in front of him, two poached eggs on top of a steaming pile of crispy corned beef hash with sourdough toast on the side. Debbie gave him her impish smile, poured him a large cup of coffee, and sang a song as she walked away. It wasn’t until he was halfway through breakfast that Nick caught the joke. She was singing, “It’s Hard to Belong to Someone Else When the Right One Comes Along,” an old seventies song by England Dan & John Ford Coley. Yeah, still a real firecracker, that one.
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