White Bird (A Mayan 2012 Thriller)

by Tom Rich

  On the very day of his arrival, and without waiting for one final harvest, Governor Bustillo ordered the natives to purge their fields of maize plants. He then went into the fields and demonstrated how wheat was to be planted. After the first full season, the soil had yielded nothing. Bustillo compelled the natives to work harder. The second season produced little more than nothing. After a third failed attempt, the governor deprived the natives of the many improvements the Spanish had bestowed upon their lives.

  Meanwhile, stores of maize gave out. People went hungry. Field workers perished in the hot sun. Bustillo’s Folly orphaned many children.

  The reluctance of the natives in this region to embrace Bustillo’s modern ideas tried his patience; their petty disputes with civilized methods caused his bowels to seize and his jaw to tighten. And in moments when their understanding of Spanish faltered so that he believed they conspired to cause his wheat not to grow, Bustillo’s vision blurred to the point that he feared blindness. Such trials, plus contending with insects, hurricanes and excessive heat worried Bustillo that he would be too aged and weak to enjoy his wealth and status upon returning to Spain.

  Governor Bustillo envied the effortless power that came to his prelate, Father Guerra. Father Guerra, with his pious grace and quiet manner, easily drew the natives into his circle to hear his Bible stories. The Father’s hands were soft, and there was never dirt beneath his fingernails. When dispensing his stories, he would rub his chin with thumb and forefinger, fluttering his other fingers to a tempo of concern that transcended language barriers and mesmerized his parishioners. Bustillo sometimes emulated this mannerism. Invariably, it failed to ease his task of leadership; a failure Bustillo attributed not to an inability to capture the essence of the mannerism, but to the instructions of his modern methods lacking the centuries of trial and error in application from which the stories of Father Guerra’s Bible benefited.

  Like Governor Bustillo, Father Guerra found the heat of this land unbearable. At such times when the priest found himself dreaming of a more comfortable commission in Spain, he told himself that each Indian baptism he performed cooled the flames of hell one small increment. He confided this to the governor on a day spent discussing the hardships of their lives. When, in a rare moment of weakness, Felipé Bustillo confessed envy of Father Guerra’s success in controlling the Indians, the priest admitted he did not fully have their souls.

  Father Guerra said, “I believe the ancient demon—this bird-god so idolized in their many carvings—refuses to be dislodged from these people. And its revenge upon us is to curse the soil so that you cannot produce the bread of life.”

  Bustillo did not believe in demons and curses. A practical man, he acknowledged only things upon which he could lay his hands. If the soil was cursed, it was through the labor of people whose intent was to make it cursed. But he sensed a solution in the confidences gained by Father Guerra, and convinced the priest that by working together, they could achieve the goal of improving both body and soul of the natives.

  Bustillo’s plan was to hide in the shadows inside the church while Father Guerra questioned his parishioners about the nature of their idol. What one man missed in explanation, the other might notice in gesture or inflection. And so might they solve the heathens’ resistance to civilization.

  Father Guerra, like his predecessor had, taught many of the Indians to speak Spanish. And he knew their language well. But when probed about their continuing idolatry of Seven Macaw, the Indians became unable to express their minds. The deeper the priest delved, using both languages, the more at a loss for words the Indians became. He finally reached a point where the Indians only laughed. But Father Guerra did not consider himself failed in this work. On the contrary. He rejoiced upon realizing his inquiries had revealed a depth of spirituality he shared in common with these people. A depth that could never be sounded by mere words. Art, on the other hand, was God’s alphabet.

  Father Guerra suggested modifying their project to comparing the carvings of Seven Macaw with the religious art of the European Masters. Governor Bustillo readily agreed that enlisting masters from Europe could help solve their problem. But he was certain the heathens’ reticence only proved they were hiding something. He sent a letter to one of the Spanish cities in Mexico inquiring as to the availability of an expert in the Inquisition.

  Father Guerra implored Governor Bustillo not to carry out this plan. The priest felt somewhat relieved when the reply to Bustillo’s inquiry arrived.

  It seemed that Dagoberto Creech, Grand Inquisitor of all the Americas, looked forward to the challenge of exposing New World demons to the Holy Light of All That Is Good and Right, but regretted he would be delayed some months while he implemented a new plan for dealing with heretics. Creech assured the good and benevolent governor that his purifying flame for extracting confessions and exposing heresies glowed as brightly as ever. “It is more in the keeping of heretics available to my services that presently consume my efforts,” Creech wrote. “Because the Crown’s soldiers are spread so thinly in the collection of Spaniards seduced by this exotic land into practices outside the Church’s guidance, many needy souls escape the benefit of my services. My innovation (a word I hope will cause the governor an approving nod, innovation having brought him such fame throughout the Americas), in the service of the Church, is to sequester detainees inside of a fortification erected on a small island in the Caribbean. This island, barely habitable, is populated by a race practiced in the arts of cannibalism. An aversion to slavery caused these cannibals to force their host ship, bound from Africa, to be wrecked upon the island’s rocky coast. Any detained Spaniards choosing to forgo the civilized comforts of the island’s fortification, and the services of the Church within, will find their way into the bowels of hell through the digestive tracts of dark and eager gourmands. But I could send one of my most gifted protégés if the needs of the governor are urgent. The governor need only send a letter bearing the official stamp of his prelate.”

  Father Guerra pleaded to Bustillo to delay sending the second letter: he had an idea how to win the natives’ compliance. Bustillo agreed to a delay. But only because his heart was set on the services of Dagoberto Creech.

  Poor Delucia was an orphan living in the most squalid conditions. She fed herself by following the stray chickens and pigs of Wuqub’ Kaqix, then throwing herself to the ground wherever they began to peck or root. Her clothing was ragged, though she was more covered by filth than by cloth. At night she slept beneath a footbridge spanning a drainage ditch, and was always found shaking with cold in the mornings by whatever child was sent to fetch her for Bible lessons. Yet Delucia knew not how wretched and miserable she was. She had listened carefully to the stories told to the village children by Fra Urbino, the monk who preceded Father Guerra in the time before Governor Bustillo’s arrival. Fra Urbino often strayed from his religious instructions to entertain the children with adventurous tales of Spanish knights. So poor Delucia came to learn about princesses, and spent all her hours pretending to be one. So thoroughly did she lose herself to her occupation, the natives of Wuqub’ Kaqix shook their heads whenever hearing Delucia refer to her dinner companions, above all their squawking and snorting, as courtiers and ladies-in-waiting.

  In the interest of sparing his parishioners the services of the Inquisition, Father Guerra thought Delucia vulnerable enough to reveal the secret he and Governor Bustillo so desperately needed to learn.

  “I have the authority to make you a real princess,” Father Guerra said to Delucia.

  “What must I do?” she asked, for she was trusting, and believed Father Guerra would never deceive her.

  Father Guerra rubbed his chin. “There is an evil force at work in this land. Your people think it fulfills them. But it misguides them, and they keep it a secret from me. Tell me the nature of this evil so I can destroy it. Then wheat can be grown to feed your starving people. Only then can I deliver you to your destiny as a princess.”

&nb
sp; “The power is not evil,” replied Delucia. “It comes from a pure one who sacrificed his life for his people.”

  Father Guerra answered, “From all I have taught you, you know that is an insult to the Son of the one true God. Only did He sacrifice His life for His people. As for purity, a true princess is pure. You cannot be pure with this incubus corrupting your soul. Tell me where it dwells so that I can purge its curse from you and this land.”

  Delucia took Father Guerra’s hand and placed it over her heart. “He dwells here.”

  At the touch, Father Guerra was stricken with an earthly love. So smitten was he, he took Delucia into the church to cleanse her of the filth of her poverty. Upon completing this task, he found a lovely creature that further touched his heart.

  Bustillo grew impatient after not seeing Father Guerra for many days. The governor went to the secret entrance he had built in the church and spied on the priest and his charge. There he found Father Guerra acting as royal tailor for his princess, measuring her body slowly and carefully with his hands for the many gowns she would someday own. Upon finally recognizing the orphan who dined with chickens and pigs, and understanding Father Guerra’s game, Bustillo let his presence be known. Delucia curtsied before the governor.

  “The clothing for which you are being fitted will make you look the part,” said Bustillo. “But only I have the means to send you to Spain to become a princess.”

  Though the church she now resided in was modest and sparse, it was a vast improvement over her previous conditions. Delucia’s imagination, already expanding from the wondrous aroma of Father Guerra’s incense, now filled with the rooms of a Spanish castle in which she could endlessly wander; always in beautiful gowns, and always well fed. “What must I do?” asked Delucia of her newest benefactor.

  “Unfortunately, I cannot send you to Spain until my ship’s hold is filled with wheat. But your people keep my wheat from growing. If you tell me why they do this, I can fill my ship. When it sails, you will be aboard.”

  Delucia led Governor Bustillo and Father Guerra to the nearest field where maize once grew and wheat refused to. She wandered about, at times sweeping across the scarred and blanched soil as if making a grand entrance to a ball, then twirling as if dancing in the arms of a courtier.

  “She traipses through dung with no regard to the delicacies of being human,” said Bustillo.

  Father Guerra swallowed a rising anger. “I have led her from the kingdom of beasts. But the bird-demon continues to hold sway in this land.”

  Delucia, in the midst of her enchanted evening, halted before a single maize plant that had survived the purging the field had endured to accept Bustillo’s superior grain. It was a small, pitiful plant, but its kernels blazed in the sun’s golden light. Delucia then told this story: “Lady Blood, pregnant with Hunaphu and Xbalanque, known to my people as the Hero Twins, went to see her mother-in-law. The mother-in-law did not believe Lady Blood carried her son’s offspring because he had been dead too long. When Lady Blood insisted, the mother-in-law sent her to harvest a basketful of maize so that all the people could eat. Only when that task was completed would Lady Blood be accepted as a daughter-in-law. Lady Blood went to the maize field, but found only one ear growing. There were not three or two or even one more. Lady Blood’s heart grew heavy. In despair, she confessed to the Guardians of Food all of her sins and debts. She then reached up and pulled on the silk at the top of the pitiful plant. A quantity of maize spilled out that overflowed Lady Blood’s basket. When she found the basket too heavy to lift, the animals carried it from the field for her. Lady Blood then stood next to the basket of maize until the mother-in-law came out of her house. The mother-in-law immediately saw that Lady Blood was capable of great deeds, and accepted the children she carried as being the offspring of her son.”

  Delucia curtsied to Governor Bustillo and Father Guerra, then said, “I have told you what you wanted to hear. Will I soon be leaving for Spain?”

  “You have your stories confused,” said Father Guerra. “Only the Son of God can deliver an abundance of food from very little.”

  Governor Bustillo interrupted. “But, by your story, you do understand the importance of acknowledging your sins to a higher power. You are to receive your destiny immediately.”

  Delucia was placed into a basket which Bustillo told her was a coach fit only for a princess. He had the basket dragged through the village for an entire day, then had it rocked back and forth for three more days while water was splashed upon it. Afterwards, the natives of Wuqub’ Kaqix were to bring Delucia what food they could spare. But to free Delucia, or to refer to her prison as anything other than a splendid Spanish palace Spain, would bring the penalty of death.

  Villagers, who once shook their heads at the fantasies of a miserable orphan, now wept when she accepted their pitiful morsels as cakes, roasted hens, fabulously sculpted jellies, and bread made from the wheat of a far away land.

  17: Penance

  Kenneth “Breeze” Fabritzi framed his face with his hands. He pushed the frame slowly to arms’ length. “Picture, if you will, our heroine standing atop a cliff. The waves crash below, driven by a magnificent, unseen force. There is spray. There is mist. The mist billows and rises. The wind blows through her golden hair as she looks out over the ocean. The sun lowers onto the horizon as the golden light shines upon her. She is cleansed. She is purified. She is whole again. The music wells up, the allegro vivacé from Schubert’s Ninth.”

  His hands dropped. “Now, consider our alternative. She’s walking through a cornfield. There’s a rustling. I believe corn rustles, yes? Perhaps we use a side angle shot. No, absolutely! We see our girl in motion between the corn, her hair as yellow as the vegetable. The stalks sway ever so slightly in the wind. She stops. She has stepped in pig shit. She thinks for a moment, finger to chin. She reaches up and pulls an ear from a stalk. She wipes the shit from her shoe, then smiles at the camera. And the Rolling Stones take us into the credits. I believe it’s a Stones’ song I’m thinking of.”

  Sylvie slumped further on her divan. Breeze was standing over her; looming, he was so tall. That and his jet-black hair made him the antithesis of petite, golden-haired Sylvie. They were in her Hollywood bungalow, one of the few things her mother and step-father/manager didn’t loot before disappearing somewhere across the Atlantic. “The Stones are good,” she said weakly.

  Breeze lowered his eyes. “How pathetic. He sent the waif to do a woman’s job.”

  “Bree-eeze. You said her salvation was tied to the land. A cornfield would be the perfect medium.”

  “I just spent three weeks scouring the Oregon coast. There are over a hundred places we could shoot. I am not exaggerating. Picking a place to film matters purely on which nearby restaurants serve French wine rather than whatever vinegar is currently de rigueur with the buy-local yokels. And now your boyfriend wants the entire production to take place in Indiana? It’s not just the scenery. It’s not just stunning coastline versus endless corn. The entire mythopoeisis is different. It’s the mystical healing powers of the American West versus Midwestern work ethic. I create art, I do not raise barns.”

  Sylvie booted determination into her argument. “He wants me near him so I don’t relapse.”

  “I know, baby. We’re all concerned about your recovery. But you can’t have it both ways: actress or princess? The time to choose is nigh upon us.”

  Sylvie rose from the divan. She brushed past Breeze and went to a small table. She turned a bowl of wrapped candies slightly, as if it’s errant position had thrown the room’s balance into question. She crossed the room to an ottoman, hovered for a moment, then sat abruptly, her hands pressed between her thighs, back straight, chin rising almost imperceptibly. She rose turning her back to Breeze.

  Breeze said, “I can do this picture without you.”

  The statement was not threatening nor pleading nor anything in between. It was merely a prompt. Sylvie made a slow half turn. No longer the wai
f, she spoke as if addressing her shoulder. “You can’t do it without Woody’s money.”

  “I can find other financing. I can find other financing, just like that!” He snapped his fingers as if that would make investors plummet through the ceiling.

  She smiled evilly quoting from the script of Penance. “Those people are all in jail…” Spoken as if she found prison an amusing topic.

  Breeze took two steps forward, himself now in character. “It was you who put them there, wasn’t it.” A bit of fear trembled in his voice.

  “…or dead.” Spoken with a finality cold as death. She twisted her shoulders a quarter turn offering her full profile.

  “Yes, and those you didn’t put behind bars, you put into their graves,” admiration replacing the tremble in his voice.

  “And I enjoyed every minute of it.” She wanted a cigarette—needed a cigarette—to hold out to be lit. But something was wrong. There was no cigarette. She looked around the room. There were just the two of them and the furniture. She went to the coffee table and bent down. She shuffled through a pile of scripts and another of magazines. Unsatisfied, she hurried over to a small roll-top desk. The desk was empty. She went to a window and ran her hand along the sill without looking behind the curtain. She went back to the table with the candies and plunged her hands into the bowl. She sifted with her fingers, scooped a handful, then dumped the bowl and spread the candies across the table. She charged the coffee table, dropped to her knees and swept off the magazines and scripts with one motion of her arm. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands. Her head trembled.

  A magazine from the bottom of the pile lay at Breeze’s feet. A picture of Sylvie looked up from the cover. He picked up the magazine. “‘Fairy Tale Run Ends in Rehab,’” he read. He ran his finger on the small inset in the lower left corner, a snapshot of he and Sylvie walking hand in hand on a Malibu beach.