The Seven Serpents Trilogy

by Scott O'Dell

  This report placed Cortés in Tenochtitlán, at least a month away, but the second weasel brought word that a Spanish fleet had been sighted at Ixtlilzochitl, the port where we had found the Delfín Azul. This information, fortunately, backed me up, and we compromised on three days of mourning.

  Since the people had already enjoyed a full week of cere monies, I was reluctant to give them more time to indulge themselves. They were devout believers in an earthly heaven, where you worked when you had to and spent the rest of your hours either mourning or rejoicing, so long as it was the will of friendly gods. In the old days, when the magnificent city was conceived and built, they must have had a different atti tude about work.

  Chalco’s cohorts, those who had taken his body from Chac Balam, already were going about the streets dressed in skele ton masks, making prophecies of disaster. Crops would fail. Plagues would rain down. St. John the Baptist would erupt and bury the city in ashes. Before the day was out I rounded them up—fifty-nine in all—and sent them by ship to the southern part of the island, to a village of farmers who wor shipped at a ruined temple. They were given tools and told to clear away the jungle and replace the fallen stones. The task would remove them from the city at a time of impending peril and keep them busy for a year at least.

  On the two journeys Chalco had made to Tenochtitlán, he had brought back nearly a hundred Azteca porters. I had always believed that they were not porters but assassins in disguise and that he planned to use them against me. My suspicions were quickly borne out, for that very night, fearing for their lives, no doubt, they stole three of our big sailing canoes and disappeared.

  I was glad to see the last of them, though I could ill afford to lose the big canoes.

  Further news came after I had eaten dinner and was read ing the Bible I had taken from Pedroza.

  The Spanish fleet, made up of two large caravels and a small pinnace, had left the bay at Ixtlilzochitl. It was heading south, the weasel thought, but because of a chubasco he was not sure of the direction. (I had borrowed Moctezuma’s sys tem of fast runners—andadores, I called them—who ran two leagues and passed their messages to a second runner. And so forth, night and day, to a village across the strait, whence they were brought to the island by canoe.)

  At midnight I received news that the Spanish fleet was headed south in our direction. It sent me and the nacom out to inspect our defenses. The wall now completely enclosed the harbor on three sides. The Delfín Azul lay at the end of the channel. We had removed half her cannon and mounted them on each arm of the bay, three to each side. The dwarf had taken the Santa Margarita to the channel entrance and anchored her broadside to the sea, as I had planned.

  The warriors who had fought at Tikan were in readiness behind the wall, armed with spears, copper-headed arrows, and muskets. The Santa Margarita was too heavily laden with gold, the crew of the Delfín Azul too inexperienced, for either of the ships to venture out and fight at sea. But they were in position to repel an attack. Furthermore, any landings the Spaniards might make along the coast would fail because the few trails that led into the city wound through heavy, easily defended jungle.

  My one great problem was with the populace itself. No one was in a mood to fight or even to listen to the rumors of a possible fight. They had never seen the cold gray eyes of Hernán Cortés, nor his army of marauding Spaniards dressed in steel, mounted on horses protected by steel, carrying weapons that spat death from a distance, bearded men asking no quarter and giving none. My efforts to rally them were futile.

  Their chief concern when the nacom and I made a tour of the fortifications and talked to the crews of both ships was the search for a dog, a yellow dog, which was needed for Chalco’s funeral. A man of his standing could not be buried unless he was accompanied by a small yellow dog who would see him safely across the river and into the other world. There were many small dogs in the city, but none was yellow. Priests solved the problem late that afternoon by painting a small white dog with yellow ocher.

  Thereafter, preparations for the burial went forward. Green boughs and flowers were gathered and seven slaves whom Chalco had marked for sacrifice on a coming feast day were anointed with oil and given fresh gowns to wear.

  The Council of Elders met and suggested by messenger that I appoint in Chalco’s position an elderly priest, Tecoa Pital, whom Chalco had managed to defeat in the contest for high priest the year I came to the island. I lost no time in accepting this soft-spoken man. They also suggested that they would like to talk with the dwarf and asked if I would send word for him to appear before them the following day.

  Knowing that all the king’s fine horses could never drag Cantú away from the Santa Margarita, still I sent messages to the ship, one written in Maya, asking him to come at once, and one written in Spanish, warning him not to come, not until the rumors concerning Chalco’s death had had a chance to die after the battle that was rapidly taking shape.

  And the rumors would die after the battle, for whichever way it went, the City of the Seven Serpents would never again be the same. The city would be either an armed camp, always on the alert to fend off attacks from other adventurers, or a city ruled by Spaniards, without even a memory of a Council of Elders, a thousand priests, and the god Kukulcán, Lord of the Evening Star.

  The chubasco at Ixtlilzochitl swept down the coast and fell upon us at dusk, battering the city with heavy winds and torrents of rain. Further news of the Spanish fleet could not be expected until the storm blew itself out, which would not occur for two days at least.

  Thinking to put Bishop Pedroza in a mood to hear what I had to say, I sent him an invitation to join me for dinner. When after a long wait his refusal came back, I ordered guards to bring him to the throne room.

  I greeted him from the throne with a curt nod and let him stand in his neat cassock and violet-colored vest, his high forehead white with anger.

  “There was little chance today to more than glance at the Bible,” I said, “but a thought about what I did read comes to mind. The Bible says that God loves all men, of whatever color, those with souls and those without souls, equally. Your ideas about the Indians are different from God’s. That may explain why you are such a keen admirer of Hernán Cortés and the cruel means he uses to subdue them.”

  I waited for the bishop to answer, but he stood disdainfully stiff and silent.

  “Unlike Cortés and you, Your Eminence, I believe that the Indians on this island are God’s creatures and I have treated them as such. My work has suffered because I lack the au thority to convert them to the Christian faith.”

  “We have gone over this before,” Pedroza broke in. “I readily admit that you have the training for the priesthood, but for the last time, I advise you to declare the gold you have collected and to give up your heathenish masquerade. If you do, I will help to further your vocation. If you do not, then I’ll denounce you to the king, the governor of Hispaniola, and to Cortés.”

  “Who will be here soon,” I said. “Unless he drowns in the storm.”

  A gust of wind found its way through a crack in the roof and lifted the bishop’s gown, revealing his stout, white legs. Unruffled, he settled himself and started for the door.

  “A moment.” I got to my feet. “Chalco, the high priest, will be buried in two days.”

  “In the storm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the stars say the time is right?”

  I nodded.

  “Heathenish!” the bishop said.

  “You are invited.”

  Pedroza was silent.

  “A number of slaves will be sacrificed,” I said, feeling a strong impulse to shock him out of his complacency. “Not so many as Chalco would desire were he alive, yet ample to see him and his small yellow dog safely across the river.”

  Pedroza reached for the doorknob, his beautiful ring flash ing in the votive lights. I held him back with a hand on his arm. The cloth of his cassock was soft and of the finest weave.

/>   “Since you are now in the land where men and women and children are sacrificed to the gods,” I said, “you must come and be a witness so that you may go out in disgust and chastise the natives with long, fiery sermons.”

  “I don’t have to be a witness in order to preach against this abomination.”

  “Bishop Pedroza,” I said, “since you will not come to the burial by choice, I’ll send guards to bring you. You will have a place in front of the god house, where you can watch every thing that goes on—and much does. I will bring the Bible with me so it can be used.”

  I opened the door and stepped aside for the bishop to pass.

  “What place,” I said, “is more fitting to join the priesthood than the terrace of a Maya temple at sunset, before pagan thousands chanting the praises of Kukulcán, Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Evening Star! An irony seen but rarely, and then only in heaven, where God, I hope, looks kindly upon such things.”

  The bishop stepped past me. In the light of the votive lamps his face looked ghastly, yet he went down the corridor with swift strides, his heels clicking defiantly on the stones.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE STORM LASTED FOR TWO DAYS. THEN A HOT LAND FOG CREPT OUT OF the jungle and covered the harbor and the city. Only the god house high on the Temple of Kukulcán rose above it, like an island in a sea. Word came that the Spanish fleet was anchored at a cove twenty leagues to the northwest and had lost one of its ships, apparently in the storm.

  Pital, the new high priest, had charge of the burial rites. He was a softly spoken little man with a scraggly beard and a gentle gaze. I was surprised therefore to discover, when I reached the god house, that he was even more of a sun worshipper than Chalco, the Azteca. Instead of choosing a reasonable number to sacrifice, in addition to the seven slaves he had decided to sacrifice all of the Spaniards captured at Ixtlilzochitl. They now stood huddled together at the far end of the terrace.

  Bishop Pedroza had refused to attend the burial and had barred his door against invaders. A messenger explained the situation to me as I watched the first of the burial rites, a solemn dusting of Chalco’s remains with the plumes of a quetzal bird. I sent the messenger back with instructions to have the door removed and Pedroza borne to the god house by litter.

  He appeared on the terrace, his hands bound, in the custody of two guards. I ordered him unbound.

  His fine robe was ripped at the hem and his violet-colored vest awry. He didn’t seem to be in a mood to listen to explana tions, but I wanted him to know why he was here on the terrace of a Mayan temple.

  “Your Eminence,” I said, “what you’ll see now—the dust ing of Chalco’s remains with a quetzal plume you have missed, unfortunately, because it is a touching part of the burial rites—what you’ll witness now may appear revolting.”

  Pedroza stood stiff lipped and composed, his gaze averted from the scene around him—the god house decorated by gaping serpents and a hieroglyph of the sun, the terrace, its votive vases and the sacrificial stone, beyond the sea of fog that hid the crowd gathered below us in the square—to the fires of St. John the Baptist gleaming red on the far horizon.

  “To the Maya,” I said, “the sun is the source of all life. If it did not rise each day, they would live in a world of perpetual darkness lit only by the moon and the distant stars.”

  The bishop crossed himself. “God,” he said, “is the source of all life. There is no other.”

  “The sun is God’s creation,” I said. “God, in one of His many forms, is the sun. The Maya deem it wise therefore to give the sun new strength after its long journey through the dark night and the gates of hell. Likewise, to give it new strength at sunset as it starts the long, perilous journey again.”

  “Barbarous,” the bishop said, casting a glance toward the Spaniards standing miserably in the shadows of the god house. “Are these men to be victims of this abominable custom?”

  “They are here to be sacrificed to the sun and the memory of Chalco, the Azteca.”

  “You have the power to stop this sacrifice,” Pedroza said.

  “No, the power is in the hands of the thousands gathered in the square below us. Perhaps you could speak to them. You are familiar with the Maya language. You might per suade them.”

  Through the curtain of fog there rose a surging chant, now “Chalco,” now “Kukulcán, Lord of the Evening Star.”

  “Speak,” I said, “and tell the people that their rites are barbarous.”

  Pedroza looked about him helplessly then raised his eyes to heaven.

  “Yes, speak to God,” I said. “Ask him to intercede for us. I have done so many times. Ask him! Since you are a bishop, since you are closer to Him than I am, certainly He will hear you.”

  “In His own good time God will attend to this outrage. But you, young man, have the power to stop it now. At this moment.”

  “And you,” I said, coming to the subject that had not left my thoughts since I first had set eyes upon him, “have the power to make me a priest, an honor I desire with all my being. With a mere laying on of hands, you can do this.”

  “What there is to say, I’ve said,” the bishop answered. “I will say no more except that in my eyes you are unfit for the office.”

  The fog was beginning to lift. There were brief glimpses of the crowd gathered at the base of the temple, who now as the god house came into their view increased their cries of “Chalco” and “Kukulcán.”

  The first of the Spaniards, a stout man with a grizzled beard, was placed on the sacrificial stone and held down. In an instant, not much after he had had time to cry out, his breast was slit open, his steaming heart was removed, held up to the crowd, then handed to a waiting priest who placed it reverently in a votive jar.

  Pedroza had not uttered a sound. At the first sight of blood he had turned his back upon the scene. I repeated my humble request. He did not answer. He was staring at the heavens as if he expected a bolt of lightning to shatter the temple, stone from stone, to slay me where I stood.

  Driven by a breeze from the sea, the fog was moving away. The upturned faces of the crowd were now visible. Pedroza strode to the edge of the terrace, to the balustrade of stone serpents, and flung out his hands. The crowd fell silent.

  “Barbarians!” he shouted down to them, using his churchly Spanish. “Savages! Scum! Devil’s scrapings from the gutters of hell! Enjoy yourselves while you have time. For God will not be mocked. Cortés, his faithful captain, will burn this temple to ashes. He will pursue you and ferret you out wherever you hide and burn you also.”

  The only part of the bishop’s outcry that the crowd could have understood were the words “God” and “Hernán Cortés.” But they heard his outraged voice and saw his violent gestures. An ominous silence settled upon them.

  The priests in their dirty black gowns and long hair rank with spatterings understood no more than the crowd. But they, too, were silent. Pital, who stood a dozen paces away, clutching his obsidian knife, glanced at me. Finding nothing to stay his hand, he ordered the bishop seized and carried into the god house.

  The Indians had begun to chant again, but now it was a wordless, threatening sound that came to my ears. The door of the god house opened and Bishop Pedroza was brought forth. They had taken away his cassock and violet-colored vest, even his fawnskin boots, and dressed him in a breechclout with tassels.

  Half-clothed, angular and thin, his high forehead whiter than ever, he still carried himself with dignity. He might have been fully dressed, a bishop waiting in the chancel to lead some holy procession. Pital reached out to take him by the arm, but, stared down by the bishop, he hesitated and turned to me.

  Pedroza stood a dozen paces away. As I walked toward him, as our gazes met, I saw the same look I had seen before—a steady, unblinking truculence that told me there was nothing more to say, no plea I could make that he had not heard already and rejected.

  Deep in the temple the big drum sounded the hour of sun set. An afterglow, brighter t
han the blood that surrounded us, flooded the terrace. The cries from below had grown louder and more threatening. Pital was watching me, waiting for a signal, which, lifting my jaguar mask, I gave him.

  Guards gathered the bishop in and placed him on the altar so that the stone bent his naked chest upward in a position that invited the knife. They held him there, two Indians at his feet and two at his head, courteously yet firmly, as if he were some winged serpent that might fly away at any moment.

  I went to where he lay and looked down at him. He said nothing. Then he lifted a hand. For an instant I thought he intended to touch my brow. Instead, he touched his lips and then his breast, whispering to himself in Latin.

  He calmly closed his eyes. He must have thought that all of this was an elaborate scheme to unnerve him, that I had brought him here to witness the savage rites, taken his cassock and vest away, had him dressed in an Indian breechclout, and placed him upon the sacrificial stone only to force him into granting my wish.

  Pedroza opened his eyes and again our gazes met. I got down on my knees beside the stone in the blood of the Spaniard who had died to speed the sun on its journey through the perilous night and to ask the gods to befriend Chalco and his little yellow dog.

  “You have heard my request many times,” I said. “I ask it again.”

  “And it has been refused,” Pedroza said calmly. “And I do so again.”

  There was no sign that he thought himself in danger. Impa tiently he began to twist his amethyst ring, using his thumb to turn it round and round. I ordered the guard to release his hand.

  “There is much work to do among these people,” I said. “I can do it far better once I have received holy orders. I am handicapped now. The load is heavy. I strain under it.”

  No sound came from the bishop.