The Empire of Yearning

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The Empire of Yearning Page 13

by Oakland Ross


  Without waiting for an answer and with a fleeting glance at Diego’s missing left arm—did she mean to suggest that he was cursed as well?—the girl slapped the ends of her reins against the right flank of her mare. At once, the horse broke into a stately canter, neck arched, haunches tucked under, tail raised in an ebony plume.

  “Remember what I told you, Serrano.” The emperor drew the elegant bulk of Anteburro alongside Diego’s smaller chestnut gelding. A hussar had brought Maximiliano’s favourite mount out to Cuernavaca the previous day on a lead. Now he tapped the leather satchel that was slung around his shoulder. “We are depending on you.”

  Maximiliano had decided it would be Diego’s duty during the journey to identify local flora they would encounter on their way to the shining caves.

  “I’ll do my best,” Diego said, then added, “Your Majesty.”

  “That’s the spirit.” The emperor adjusted the sleeves of his blouse. He glanced up. “You, Billimek. You must hold your tongue this morning. We are going to test Serrano’s knowledge of natural lore. Agreed?”

  The scientist merely grunted.

  Maximiliano seemed to be in his element, his excitement fuelled by the prospect of the journey ahead. He stood in his stirrups and shifted around in his saddle to address his wife and the Countess Kollonitz. “Are we managing all right, ladies?”

  They both nodded.

  “Capital.”

  With that, the emperor gave the order, and the party set off.

  Before long, they had left the town well behind and found themselves riding down a narrow barranca thickly flanked with trees and foliage of diverse varieties. Diego was sure he had seen all these plants many times before, but he realized he knew the names of only a very few. He felt as if he were riding through a strange and alien land—a green, irregular valley, partly obscured by a webbing of trees, vines, and many-coloured blossoms, almost all of them unknown to him. Bees droned nearby, and snatches of birdsong darted up from the lower woodlands.

  The emperor confessed to being baffled by the surrounding vegetation. He prided himself on taking a keen interest in naturalism, he said, but he recognized almost nothing.

  “Serrano. Let us put your expertise to the test.” He pointed at a white bell-like flower that dangled from a low tree with spade-shaped leaves of a watery green. “What, for example, is that?”

  “Floripondio,” Diego said, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. “Quite common at this altitude.”

  “So I see.” As his horse stepped past the tree, Maximiliano reached up and plucked one of the blossoms.

  Another voice spoke up. “Do you know the name of this one, my friend?” It was Salm-Salm. He held up a flower freshly picked.

  Diego inspected the blossom, white petals around a yellow stamen. “Come, come,” said the prince.

  Diego had no idea what it was.

  “Oh, leave the fellow alone,” said his wife. “Can’t you see he doesn’t know?”

  “I’m only asking. An innocent question. I see no harm in that.”

  “Yoloxochitl,” said the girl. She halted her horse, occupying a space that separated Diego from the rest. “This one is called yoloxochitl. It means flower of the heart.” She smiled at everyone in turn, shifting her head in small increments due to the unusual fixity of her eyes. “Not a very common plant.”

  “It seems not,” said Salm-Salm. “Credit one to the distaff side, then.” As he rode past, he reached out and slapped Diego on the back. “You have let our gender down, my friend.”

  The emperor reached up and removed one of the blossoms from its perch, briefly testing its scent. He held the flower out to the Indian girl. “It would look very well in your hair. Take it, please.”

  She looped her reins over one arm and proceeded to wind the stem among the strands of her hair, above her left ear.

  The journey continued with the accompaniment of scattered bursts of birdsong and the occasional piercing whine of the cicada. Now and again, Beatríz called a halt in order to provide the name and, in many cases, the nutritional or curative properties of this or that plant, fruit, or flower. Here, she said, was the izgujochitl, with blossoms as small and delicate as miniature roses. And this was the ocelojochitl, the viper’s head, an eerily lovely flower of flamboyant colours—purple, white, and pink. Here were cedrats and plantains. That was a Mexican oak tree.

  “This one I know,” said Diego. “It was from a tree such as this that they hanged Melchor Ocampo.”

  “Did what?” said the emperor.

  “Hanged Melchor Ocampo.”

  “Who?”

  “The foreign minister,” said the empress. “Or at least he was. Dead now. Is that not so?”

  “It is.” Diego recounted the tale.

  “Dear God,” said the emperor. “What a beastly experience. I had no idea.”

  “Yes, you did.” The empress’s horse balked momentarily at the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree. She recovered her balance and coaxed the animal forward. “You most certainly did. We read about it even before we came to Mexico. And this man whom you pardoned, along with several others, this Baldemar Peralta. It was he who tried to assassinate the author of that crime, our good friend General Márquez.”

  The emperor was silent. It seemed he was thinking, taking all this in.

  Beatríz spoke up. “Melchor Ocampo,” she said. “A great man of Mexico and a particular hero of mine. It is true that he was raised in Michoacán, but he came many times to Cuernavaca. My grandfather once spoke with him.”

  Diego turned to look at her, a bit taken aback by her knowledge of events. “He did? Spoke of what?”

  “Cacti,” said the girl. “They spoke about cacti. Of course, this took place before my birth. But I believe it to be true. My grandfather is particularly knowledgeable about the varieties of cacti that are to be found in this region and, as you may know, Ocampo was an expert on these plants, as on so many other subjects. He wrote a book on the theme, if I am not mistaken.”

  It was certainly possible. Diego would not have been surprised. What did surprise him was this girl. The daughter of an Indian gardener? “A book on cacti,” he said. “I must look it up.”

  “Indeed, you must.”

  For a time, they rode on in silence, following a partly overgrown track through dark pools of shade interrupted by beams of light that shot down from the canopy overhead like transparent columns. Darting insects and motes of dust shimmered in the glowing pillars. Eventually, the path led to a steep ascent, which they scaled by a series of switchbacks. At the summit, they passed through a set of ancient tumbledown gates and soon found themselves in a large orchard that must have been abandoned long ago, for the trees were thickly overgrown. The riders continued through the orchard until they reached a large clearing, surrounded by trees so densely laden with fruit that their limbs nudged the wild grass below. The emperor decided this would be an ideal spot to enjoy their picnic lunch. Everyone dismounted, and the girl immediately took charge of the logistics. The meal was served by several of the mozos who had shadowed the expedition with a team of donkeys. In no time, the travellers were feasting on cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs, and a variety of cut meats, served with several kinds of cheese and slivers of tomato sprinkled with chopped green chilies. The servants poured Portuguese sherry from embossed metal flasks into crystal glasses. Later, the mozos picked ripe chirimoyas from the branches, cut them open, and spooned the flesh onto china plates, like a kind of pudding.

  When the meal was at last consumed, most of the party sprawled on the long grass, basking in the sun. The empress and the Countess Kollonitz wandered off with a pair of lady servants. Maximiliano lounged with his back to the trunk of a sapota tree, smoking a cigarette. He congratulated Beatríz for finding such a splendid place.

  “We have half filled my satchel with specimens already,” he said. “Before the day is out, I expect my poor leather case to be overflowing. You will have to help us with the identification, you know. I
don’t suppose you can write?”

  She seemed taken aback by the question. “Of course. And read the result as well.”

  “Educated too?” He raised his eyebrows. “I must say, you are the prettiest Indian I have seen in this country. La india bonita.”

  She smiled. “A sus ordenes, Su Majestad.”

  Diego lit a cheroot and closed his eyes.

  The remainder of the journey to the hacienda at Cocoyotla proceeded through handsome green countryside. Shortly before dusk, the travellers rounded the summit of a broad hill forested in Mexican oak. The hacienda sprawled below, large stands of sugar cane interspersed with the bowed pillars of royal palms, all arrayed around a cluster of stone buildings—the main house, a large stable, several sheds, and a network of low structures that made up the trapiche, or sugar works.

  “Well done,” said the emperor, addressing the girl. “Come. The future awaits.”

  It turned out that the owner of the property, a Señor Nuñez Escamilla, was absent along with his family. At first, the mayordomo seemed reluctant to receive the travellers. It was only on learning that the party included the emperor and empress of Mexico that he relented, although it was unclear to Diego whether the man had previously possessed any inkling at all that such a thing as an emperor or empress existed in Mexico or what might be their roles.

  The following morning, the mayordomo roused the visitors. Groggy, still yawning, they wandered about like ghosts, mostly contenting themselves with bread and tea for breakfast. Professor Billimek alone declared himself famished and insisted on having eggs in the Mexican style, revuelto with chili peppers and tomatoes.

  It was still dark when they mounted their horses and set out, with only a crescent moon and a smattering of stars to light the way.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE EARLY PORTION OF the journey led through sparsely forested flatlands and low hills, but the terrain gradually grew more rugged. The sun rose in a clear sky, and this was a blessing, as parts of the route proved to be as treacherous as the Indian girl had warned—long narrow ridges strung like tightropes from the crests of adjoining hills. The riders advanced along a tenuous path, the earth spinning crazily away, plummeting down nearly vertical cliffs, sometimes on both sides at once.

  Beatríz rode first. Diego couldn’t help but admire her coolness. Any misstep might lead to catastrophe, but she seemed oblivious to the danger. She bunched the reins in one hand and swung around to glance behind her, insisting there was no need to mind the narrowness of the path or the perilous descents, as any horse worth its oats could be trusted to put one hoof in front of the other without pitching over a precipice. She suggested it might be best to interfere as little as possible with the horses’ own judgment.

  They rode on in silence for a time, until the terrain grew less horrific. Then, without warning, Diego heard a loud groan of pain. He swung around in his saddle. It was Billimek. The man was nearly doubled over, practically toppling from his horse. At first, Diego thought he must be suffering a bout of vertigo, perhaps a delayed reaction to the unnerving terrain.

  Everyone dismounted and waited as the emperor’s physician took charge. Doktor Basch soon produced his diagnosis—an incipient case of dysentery, beyond the shadow of a doubt. The eggs that the scientist had consumed at breakfast were almost certainly to blame.

  “I think we had better return to the hacienda,” he said.

  “What?” Carlota shivered in horror. “And ride back along those cliffs! Dear God, no.”

  “Perhaps a brief rest,” said the emperor. “Perhaps Billimek will recover. It would be a shame to turn back now that we are so close.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Basch, “I fear that it is quite impossible for the man to continue. He is too ill.”

  “I see.” Maximiliano whacked his crop against one of his tall riding boots. “Well, in that case, I suppose we shall all have to turn back.”

  “I have another idea,” said Beatríz. She turned to Diego. It was not a great challenge to reach the caves from here, she said. She could easily point the way. “Look. From that valley over there, you have only to bear up the stream bed.” She pointed toward what appeared to be the meandering course of a seasonal riverbed, flanked by fresno trees. “It will take only an hour or so to reach the caves. When you see a grove of purple plum trees, you are there.” She smiled at Diego. “You can lead the way. It isn’t difficult.”

  Diego nodded. “All right.”

  “And you?” said the emperor. He meant the girl.

  “I shall guide the doctor back to the hacienda. The doctor and the patient.” The others, she said, could continue their journey to the caves. She would try to join them later.

  A pair of mozos came plodding into view from behind, guiding a pair of donkeys laden with large clay pots of water. The girl said they should divvy up the liquid. Both groups should keep an ample supply close at hand.

  Maximiliano promptly overruled her. He said a donkey with its heavy burden would simply slow everyone down. Diego had a feeling the emperor was simply irritated at being deprived of the young woman’s company.

  “Besides,” said Maximiliano, “We have Serrano here to guide us. He will deliver us from harm.”

  Diego said nothing, suddenly uncertain whether he had understood Beatríz’s directions correctly. He should clarify them, but he didn’t want to seem slow-witted before the girl.

  With a leg up from one of the hussars, the emperor remounted his horse and gathered the reins. He nodded at Diego. “Lead on.”

  First, Diego swung around in his saddle to watch as Beatríz rode off, mounted upon her tall bay mare. Knotted in a single braid, her dark hair bobbed behind her. She turned and smiled and waved and then vanished beyond the green boughs of a fresno tree. Birdsong drifted down from the higher branches, and Diego found he could breathe more easily at last. He settled back into the saddle and caught the emperor’s gaze. He, too, had been watching the girl as she rode away.

  “¡A las grutas!” cried Maximiliano. He spurred his horse so that the animal reared back and then leapt ahead, like a charger into battle. “To the caves!”

  “Are you sure this is the right way?” said Salm-Salm. “We do not seem to be going up. We seem to be going down. Are you sure you are not mistaken?”

  “Quite sure,” said Diego, although he too was feeling some doubts.

  The girl had definitely said to proceed up the stream bed. By this, he had assumed her to mean they should trace the course of the bed toward the east. She was an Indian, after all. When a Mexican Indian says up, he means east, because the sun comes up in the east. Now, however, he wondered whether she hadn’t instead intended to refer to the route that water would take when flowing through this channel. He and the others seemed to be travelling downstream, along a sandy, waterless trail that wound through a narrow forest. The sun was oppressive, stoking a dry, relentless heat that was heavy, ponderous, soporific. Not a leaf stirred. The only sound was the occasional whine of the cicada, rising slowly in the distance until it stung the ears, before gradually fading away.

  Diego gritted his teeth. “This route will take us to the caves.”

  “It had better.” Salm-Salm removed his straw hat and ran his shirt sleeve across his brow. “You are aware, I suppose, that the welfare of the emperor and empress of Mexico rests in your hands.”

  “Felix …” Salm-Salm’s wife reached over and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Please.”

  It was clear to Diego that Salm-Salm’s words were really intended for the emperor. It was equally apparent that he himself was in the wrong. He should have insisted upon keeping at least one of the donkeys and its cargo. As the only Mexican in the group, he alone understood the punishing effect of the heat at midday. Now their only supply of water was on its way back to the hacienda at Cocoyotla.

  The emperor stood up in his stirrups again and gazed ahead, like a general assessing the fortunes of battle. He turned to Diego. “A grove of trees, did sh
e say? Some kind of fruit trees?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Plum trees.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Salm-Salm, “I fear your secretary is leading us astray. I say we should turn back. I cannot put the matter too strongly. Our lives hang in the balance.”

  The emperor called for Bombelles. The count considered the matter for several moments before leaning toward Maximiliano. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I vote we carry on as we are.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. It is a well-known tenet in the lore of soldiering that, when in doubt, one should proceed downstream. It is in the nature of human settlements that they are built near water. By riding downstream, we are sure to come across a town eventually.”

  Disgruntled and weary, the travellers fell into line and coaxed their horses forward. They plodded through the dull languor, the dead brown leaves crackling underfoot. An hour passed, mostly in silence, until at last Diego caught sight of a grove of small fruit trees not far from the sandy bank, near a bend in the stream bed.

  “Plums!” he cried out.

  It was as if the party had stumbled upon the Promised Land. Here were plums to eat—plump, luscious fruit, something to ease their awful dryness and craving. Diego and the others all urged their horses up through a barricade of large boulders and onto the stream bed’s banks and then straight into the copse of plum trees, where they at once began gorging themselves upon the fruit. Soon rivulets of violet syrup ran down every chin, staining their clothes, but no one cared.

  The emperor was the first to remember their purpose in having ridden all this way. “I expect it will be cooler inside the caves,” he said. His eyes lit up. “We might even find water.”

  Quickly, they dismounted, looping their reins around the branches of trees. They left the horses under the care of two of the hussar guards. Several large pine torches were unpacked and lit. The caves themselves were easy to find. The main entrance was as large as a church gate and stood only twenty varas or so from the stream bed, partway up a severe, densely forested hillside. The emperor insisted upon leading the way. A pair of tall amate trees flanked the cave mouth. Maximiliano hesitated, then squared his shoulders, took a step forward, and was suddenly swallowed by darkness. One moment, he was the emperor of Mexico, his ruddy hair and beard illuminated by the midday sun. The next moment, he was gone.

 

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