The Seven Serpents Trilogy

by Scott O'Dell

  But more important, he had been asked by Governor Velás quez to find Pedroza. And just as important, to find and arrest me for crimes against the king. The governor’s requests were commands. He ruled New Spain. He was the voice of King Carlos. And Cortés was well aware of his power.

  “You have seen this Cortés before?” Flint Knife said. “In Tenochtitlán?’’

  “There and other places.”

  “I don’t think you like him.”

  “No.”

  “And he doesn’t like you.”

  I twisted the amethyst and said nothing. The ring felt like a burning coal.

  CHAPTER 12

  CORTÉS WAS NO SOONER BEHIND THE HEADLAND THAN A BLAST OF trumpets and a roll of drums announced that the funeral rites had begun once more. I put half the canoemen on guard and half the warriors at the gate and the wall embrasures. I left Flint Knife in command of the ship, rode back to the temple, and took my place among the priests.

  Five Spaniards were yet to be sacrificed, Pital informed me.

  “I am sorry,” he said in his reedy voice, “that you could not collect a few more of these Spaniards. They have such beautiful white skins. Such fine big hearts, bigger than my fists. Our beloved friend and his yellow dog will have all the strength they need for the long journey.”

  Chalco, whom I had argued and fought with, lay dead under a blanket of green boughs. Before me, however, knife in hand, stood another high priest even more bloodthirsty. But it was not in my mind to argue with him over the five Spaniards. As minions of a ruthless king and a cruel master, they had killed thousands of innocent people. They had brought death. They had celebrated it in the name of Jesus Christ. They deserved to die. Then let them die! Let the squinting little priest wield his obsidian knife!

  At sunset, after the rites were over, I rode back to the harbor, where Flint Knife gave me the startling news that Cortés was anchored in a cove some three leagues away, the same cove I had camped in for months after the shipwreck.

  “It is reported,” he said, “that they have fires on the beach. They are cooking supper and some of them are bathing in the lagoon.”

  “While they are having such a good time,” I said, “we should fall upon them from the land and sea both. From the jungle and from the beach.”

  “The trail is dangerous at night,” Flint Knife said. “We have brave warriors, but they do not care for this trail in the dark ness. Spirits fly there. Many have been injured on this trail at night. Not killed, but have had their ears bitten off. I have seen these spirits. They are blind and have wings. Our warriors do not like to go on that trail when the sun leaves. If we make them, they will get frightened before they reach the cove, which is a bad way to start a battle.”

  “Celeritas,” Caesar had said. “Surprise and speed.” And he had fought his victorious campaigns upon these simple ideas.

  An excellent chance to capture Cortés lay before me. To descend upon him suddenly from front and rear—by canoe and by the jungle trail in the darkness lit by his own campfires—was an alluring prospect. But Flint Knife was a Maya and knew the Mayan warriors. My experience with them was lim ited. At Tikan the battle had been won because the enemy ceased to fight when they learned that they were facing the god Kukulcán. The skirmishes at Uxmal and Zaya had been the same. I, therefore, followed his advice. And lest we our selves be surprised, I posted extra watchmen on the trail and on the headlands.

  Late in the afternoon three days later, sails appeared on the horizon. Farmers were still burning brush on the milpas and the smoke made it difficult to see. An hour or more must have passed before we made out that the sails belonged to a flotilla of six ships.

  Shortly thereafter, to our consternation, Cortés’s ship rounded the headland and joined them, and the seven formed a line that came toward us, swallow-tailed pennons flying, under sails marked by Spanish crosses.

  “Seven!” Flint Knife said under his breath.

  “But they can’t find the channel,” I said.

  We were standing on the afterdeck of the Delfín. In silence we watched the Spanish flotilla come to anchor at some dis tance from the harbor entrance, out of range of our lombards.

  One of their ships, led by an armed longboat, entered the channel, closely followed by a caravel flying Cortés’s flag. Guided by the longboat, they threaded their way down the winding passage, then anchored in position squarely across it, thus blocking the Delfín from reaching the sea, should the need arise.

  I heard no voices, no commands. The whole operation was done quickly and without a hitch, as if it had been done be fore. I was dismayed by its suddenness. We had lost our best weapon. We had removed all the channel markers, but to no avail. I was too shocked to give an order or even to decide what order to give.

  “Cortés must have someone in the longboat who knows the passage,” I said.

  “He captured someone,” Flint Knife said. “A pearler or a fisherman. There are many who come and go.”

  The Delfín was a match for the two caravels, backed up as we were by a fleet of canoes manned by warriors armed with spears and slingstones. But the five sitting outside the entrance, ready to unloose a hundred heavy lombards, could overpower us with one brief salvo.

  “Our warriors at the gate,” I said to Flint Knife. “What can we expect from them? Will they stand against all these can non and muskets?”

  “Against Maya weapons, they will stand,” Flint Knife said. “Only a few, those who fought at Tikan, have faced the sticks that thunder and those that belch fire.”

  “How many warriors will stand?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “Who will run?”

  “Hundreds. More, perhaps. Less, perhaps.”

  “Most of the army runs away? I counted on better.”

  “There are things you must think about, Lord of the Eve ning Star. One thing, the Maya are not the Azteca. They are not warrior people. Once, many katuns ago, they fought everyone, also among themselves. Then Kukulcán came and taught them not to fight anyone or each other. When he left they remembered Kukulcán. Now you are back. They remem ber what you said once. Then you told them to be brothers to everyone. Now you tell them not to be brothers to everyone, chiefly to this Cortés and his white men. Now many of them wonder what to do.”

  “Now is not the time for wonder,” I said.

  There was no movement on the deck of either of the caravels, but on both ships the cannon were run out and ready. Cortés was studying us through a spyglass. Smoke from the burning fields veiled the sky, yet the sun was fiercely hot, and to shield himself he stood beneath an awning erected on the afterdeck, his odd-shaped cap on the back of his head.

  I could read his mind. He could sink the Delfín with one blast of his cannon. This he did not wish to do. Not because the ship was valuable and belonged to Governor Velásquez, but because I was the quarry, the reason he was here in the harbor, sweltering under the fierce sun.

  “My gunners are waiting,” Flint Knife said. “And the canoes are waiting also.”

  “Let them wait,” I said. “Let us all wait. I don’t like the looks of the five caravels out there at the entrance. You’ll notice that they have moved up while we’ve been talking and now we’re within range of their lombards. Nor the two sitting over there gaping down our throats. How does all this strike you, nacom?”

  The nacom fell into deep thought. His body, painted black and striped with white, glistened in the hot sun. He turned his back on the enemy ships and looked up at the soaring Temple of Kukulcán.

  The longboat that had guided the Spaniards down the channel now came into view. In the bow stood Captain Alvarado in full armor, a bright plume in his helmet and a sword in his hand, which he was pointing toward the city. He was talking to someone, probably Cortés.

  The longboat drew close, disappeared under our bow, and reappeared at our stern. Looking down from the ship’s rail, I met the hard, black stare of Pedro de Alvarado. Partly hidden by his bulky frame wa
s a figure wearing quilted armor and a cap with a feather, whom I took to be Hernán Cortés. Then the boat shifted with the tide, and I saw to my dismay that under the feathered cap was the upturned face of Doña Marina. Out of pride and emotion, thinking that I might be duped into surrendering, Cortés had sent her to present his demands.

  She came up the gangway, followed by Alvarado and three soldiers carrying muskets. She had changed. There was no sign of the barefooted girl who had brought me food during those first wild days after the shipwreck. She was not the girl who had groveled at my feet in the garden of Moctezuma less than a year ago, unable to utter a word, so overpowering was my godly presence.

  Not daring to look at me, Doña Marina met my gaze with a cold, sidelong glance. She meant to let me know that she no longer thought that I was the god Kukulcán. I swallowed my anger.

  “Señor,” she said, to make certain how she felt, “I bring a message from Hernán Cortés, Captain General of His Majesty King Carlos, mighty sovereign of many lands and of New Spain and all its possessions.”

  “Cortés,” I said, “was here two days ago with a message. I did not listen to it then. Nor do I listen to it now.”

  She ignored me and went on. “You are hereby informed that this island is a possession of King Carlos and that you are to give it over forthwith to Captain Alvarado, who has been sent here by Captain General Cortés.”

  She spoke in rapid Spanish, running the words together—King Carlos was one word, kinkarlos—as if she had learned them by rote and didn’t quite know what they meant.

  “Would it not be better,” I said, making an effort to hide my anger, “since you are a Maya, if you spoke in the Maya language?”

  Color showed in her cheeks. She glanced at Alvarado, who stood stiffly beside her, a protector with a quick sword and, as I had learned in Tenochtitlán, a quick temper. She waited until he nodded approval.

  “It was you,” I said to her in Maya, “who guided the enemy ships safely through the channel. You have turned against your people. You have betrayed the city. For what reason?”

  She took her time, thinking of an answer. She took off her pretty cap and brushed the feather and put it back on, all this deliberately, with the airs of a Spanish lady.

  “Ceela Yaxche,” I said, using her Maya name to remind her that for all her airs she was a Maya and not a Spaniard, “do you wish to let these murderers loose in our city? You saw what they did in Cholólan when they smeared the streets with blood. You were there at Texcála, I saw you, when Cortés cut off the hands of the old men. You were in Tenochtitlán and saw the temples burn and the man who stands be side you slay a hundred Azteca nobles while they were hap pily dancing.”

  The faintest shadow crossed her face. “These were things that had to be done,” she said. “Things, señor, that you have not done. The captain general says that when he came and anchored in the bay he could see people being sacrificed at the temple. He could hear their cries and smell the blood. It was stronger than the smell of the sea, the blood was.”

  Again she glanced at Alvarado, who looked uncomfortable in the violent heat. He had not come to parley, but to state a simple demand.

  “You stood on the terrace,” she said, “and in the square and told people that it was wrong for them to offer hearts to the sun. They did not heed your words at all. They still do this and will never stop doing it until they are made to. It is Captain General Cortés who will make them stop. He did with the Azteca in Tenochtitlán and he will do it here.”

  “By killing people, killing them just to save their souls.”

  She crossed herself. “The soul is immortal,” she announced.

  “I see that you no longer worship Ix Chel, the moon god dess. You have become a Christian. Yes? Well, I am pleased. I didn’t have much success with you, as I remember.”

  “You thought about your own soul too much,” she said. “Then you thought about the city too much. You thought a lot, señor.” She tossed her long black hair. “I like Tenochtitlán better than here. Here everyone goes around in poor clothes.”

  Alvarado had grown restless. He sauntered to the rail and looked down at the crowded longboat, then at the tower on the mainmast, where we had a lookout with a spyglass, at Cortés’s caravel, anchored in the channel, then at the canoes filled with Mayan warriors.

  “¡Bastante! ” he shouted to Doña Marina. “Enough of this Indian talk. What does he say? Shall we begin to blow down the walls or shall we not?”

  I had forgotten that I was faced with disaster. Alvarado’s shout brought me to my senses. I drew Flint Knife aside.

  “What do you think?” I asked him.

  “I think we should kill this man,” he said, “and those in the boat. We do not have forever. We should do it now. Later sometime we can think about Cortés.”

  Alvarado strode back and forth. He lifted his hot steel helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was watching us.

  Doña Marina said, “There are more ships coming. Three more with many soldiers. Let me take a good answer to Cortés. Otherwise he will blow up this ship and knock down the city stone after stone. Many people will die because you are proud and selfish. And God has forsaken you.”

  A Christian lecture! From an Indian neophyte! My blood boiled. I turned to Flint Knife with an order on my lips when Alvarado suddenly came between us. I thought for a moment that he was about to put a hand on my shoulder and reason with me, for he knew that the city was not helpless. He could see the fleet of canoes close at hand. There were men stand ing on the walls and hundreds, possibly a thousand, ready be yond the walls.

  Instead of the friendly gesture I expected, in one deft move ment Alvarado drew his sword from its sheath and thrust it deep into Flint Knife’s chest.

  An anguished, drawn-out cry came from the watchman high on the mainmast. Flint Knife staggered to the rail and raised his hands in a signal to the warriors waiting in the canoes. As I grappled with Alvarado, parrying a thrust of his sword, I was struck from behind, a crashing blow that sent me reeling.

  CHAPTER 13

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN. THROUGH THE PORT ABOVE MY HEAD I SAW A misshapen moon in a black sky. Sails were flapping and I heard the creak of timber.

  At first I thought that the ship was moving on a calm sea, but after a time, hearing the distant boom of the temple drum, I realized that it was still at anchor and the sounds I heard came from the running tide.

  I must have slept, for through the port I now saw tumbling clouds and caught brief glimpses of the sun. Someone was at the door. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep, thinking that who ever it was would leave. When I looked up again, the door was open, and Cortés stood at the foot of my bunk.

  “The city is quiet,” he said. “I sent Doña Marina ashore at dawn. She returned with an interesting story.”

  My head was bursting. I could not focus my eyes on anything in the cabin.

  “What I am about to relate,” Cortés said, “is important. You miss it at your peril. Are you listening?”

  “I listen as well as my head permits.”

  “You are fortunate to have a head. Alvarado was instructed to bring you here alive, but one of his aides lost his wits and almost, nearly…”

  Cortés had not come alone. I made out the figures of two men, one of them carrying a lantern, the other, a chain slung over his shoulder. The lantern light hurt my eyes.

  “Again I remind you to listen,” Cortés said. “Doña Marina went to the temple at dawn. She was very helpful. She talked to the elders. She told them that you, the god Kukulcán, had left the island as you had left it once before, long ago. And that you would return, not in your present guise of a tall, blond youth, but as an elder, wise with the experience of age.”

  The man dumped the chain he was carrying. It was heavy and made a clatter. His companion turned up the lantern, put it on the floor, and stepped away to avoid the heat.

  Cortés said, “So you need not worry about the welfare of the Indians. They are i
n my care and will be treated kindly, as I treated the Indians of Tenochtitlán.” He spoke with feeling, as if he really believed every word. “Except for those that deserved punishment.”

  He waved a lacy handkerchief, heavy with scent, under his nose, then called to the guard, who came forward with his lantern and held it at arm’s length, close to my face.

  “Before when we talked,” Cortés said, “I asked about Bishop Pedroza. You replied that he had been here on the island but had disappeared. You said that if he were dead he would be with the saints. An evasive answer. You also said that you would be pleased to help me find him. Where, señor, shall we look? Where shall the search begin? Here? Now?”

  I winced and turned away from the searing heat. “Ask the high priest. Ask Pital,” I said. “He will know.”

  The man at the door picked up his chain, sauntered across the cabin, and stood behind Cortés.

  “This high priest,” Cortés said. “Where is he?”

  “In the temple. He is always there. He lives there,” I said.

  “Hold the lantern closer.” Cortés bent down to examine my hand. “I observe,” he said, “that you still wear the amethyst ring.”

  The lantern came closer. Big and made of iron, it burned my flesh.

  “Pedroza’s ring!” Cortés said. “I see the stone is beveled where it meets the band. And etched with a cross.”

  His voice sounded from far off, from outside the cabin. I tried to answer, but choked on the words.

  “The iron fist,” Cortés said. “Bring it. We’ll get an answer.”

  I remember that the guard dropped the chains, that he felt around in his tunic, then passed something to Cortés. I remember that I tried to make an unyielding fist but failed. The iron hand clamped shut on me.

  I remember nothing else until later when it was night again. I wasn’t sure whether it was the night of the second day or the third.

  It must have been the pain that brought me awake. My arm throbbed with pain, my whole body throbbed, but my hand was on fire. Then vaguely I began to wonder if I still had a hand. People who had lost some part of their body—an arm or a leg or a hand—felt at first and even later that it had not been lost, that it was there yet, waiting to be used.