by Неизвестный
This made a very strong impression on Fray Murrietta. The more he listened, the more credit he gave the Indian’s account. “Perhaps Jesus and Satan were at war here in Mexico at the same time they were in conflict in the Holy Land.”
Yahuahqui indicated with a curt gesture that this made sense to him.
“Then may I baptize you by the river?” asked the friar.
“If I agree to this, will you agree to undergo a ritual of my faith?”
“What ritual is that, good Indian?”
“The bloodletting ritual.”
“How is this done?”
From a pouch hanging from his loincloth, Yahuahqui removed a stingray spine, sharp as a darning needle.
“With this,” he said, “one draws blood from a finger and allows the blood drip to land on paper. This is burned. Then you gaze into the black mirror. There, you will see visions.”
Now here was where Fray Murrietta’s conflict was greatest. “There were rituals described in the Bible that smacked of sorcery. Where it was done by God-fearing people, it was considered acceptable. But it if it was not done in the name of Jesus, it was blasphemy, and worse. A man—even a pious man—could burn in everlasting fires as a result. I did not know. I am but a humble man of God.”
“Among my people,” said Yahuahqui. “I am descended from priests of Quetzalcoatl. We are called naguals.”
Now, Fray Murrietta had heard many Indian words for many Mexican things, but he had not heard this word before.
Then the Aztec asked the question that set Fray Murrietta on the path to his ultimate fate.
“If your Jesus and my Quetzalcoatl are one, then why would you not do this?”
“I will have to ponder your kind offer,” the friar said at last.
The Aztec picked up his blowgun and used it to lever himself to his good foot. “Think. Consider. Tomorrow, at this same time, I will be hunting a bird for breakfast. Return then. I will hear your decision then.”
Fray Murrietta stood up. “Very well. I will return.”
Fray Murrietta did not speak of this encounter with Padre Pena, his confessor. He knew that he should, but for some reason he could not explain, he neglected to do so.
A strange thrill ran though his blood as he considered the offer by the Aztec, Yahuahqui.
What if Jesus had walked the Americas in a time and place unknown to Christianity? What if the Resurrected One had come to spread the Holy Word among these heathen Indians, accompanied by a troop of men that might have been a new cadre of disciples? Might not the raft of snakes have symbolized Christ’s triumph over the arch-serpent, Satan?
It was an intriguing notion. And Fray Murrietta wanted to hear more.
He felt no fear. He should have.
At dawn, with his morning prayers and duties accomplished, Fray Murrietta again left the mission and ventured into the woods to meet with Yahuahqui.
They sat in the shade of a calabash tree and each took the measure of the other.
“I have decided,” said Fray Murrietta.
“Yes?”
“I will exchange holy sacraments with you.”
“Then it is agreed,” said the heavy-voiced Yahuahqui. “Give me a finger.”
Fray Murrietta lifted one hand. It trembled slightly.
The Indian produced the needle-like stingray spine from somewhere on his person. Seizing the friar’s first finger, he pricked it, drawing blood.
Holding the dripping finger over a piece of paper, Yahuahqui made three blood spots. He then picked up the paper and burned it.
Fray Murrietta did not see how the paper ignited. It just flared up and went to ashes.
The young friar sucked on his wounded finger to staunch the blood.
Reaching behind him, Yahuahqui next produced what looked like a gnarled brown button, but it was not made of wood.
“What is this?” asked the friar.
“It is a part of the cactus called peyotl.”
“I see.” From his coarsely woven cassock, Fray Murrietta extracted a small wooden box. In it was a wafer that represented the body of Christ.
He exposed the wafer to the light.
“What is this?” asked Yahuahqui, peering into the receptacle.
“It is the body of Jesus, whom you call Quetzalcoatl.”
The expression on Yahuahqui’s face was strange. It was plain that the Indian did not understand.
“If you swallow this, you will be redeemed.”
“If you swallow this,” returned Yahuahqui, lifting the gnarled button, “you will be transported. I promise you this.”
The two men regarded one another, poised on the brink of an unknown spiritual cliff. Or eternity. They did not know for certain.
At length, Yahuahqui said solemnly, “I will eat your bread if you partake of my cactus.”
Fray Murrietta hesitated. It would be impolite, if not outright insulting, to refuse, he quickly realized. At last, he said, “It is done. But first I must baptize you. For it is forbidden for one to take the Host unless one has received absolution for their sins.”
For in Fray Murrietta’s mind was the belief that a cactus was only a cactus, but the body of Christ was an all-powerful thing to consume. The man’s soul would surrender to the Holy Church without resistance.
Silently, with some ceremony, the two men exchanged spiritual offerings.
First, they went to the reedy edge of the river and waded in. Fray Murrietta took the half-naked Indian by the head, and speaking the ritual words in Latin, he baptized the Aztec in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And it was done.
They returned to dry land. In his heart, Fray Murrietta felt a swelling pride for having converted a heathen Indian to Christianity. This was the first soul he had ever saved.
He should have looked to his own.
There by the river, the friar produced the consecrated bread and offered his new friend Holy Communion.
The Indian took the wafer into his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed the Host. The expression on his face did not change one particle.
The gnarled button of cactus was next brought to light.
Yahuahqui intoned, “This is called by many names. Peyotl. Peyote. The Eye of Yig.”
With his brow wrinkling at the unfamiliar name, Fray Murrietta asked, “Who is Yig?”
“Yig is another name for Quetzalcoatl,” Yahuahqui replied, placing the brown button in the friar’s open mouth, exactly as Fray Murrietta had set the sacred host on the Indian’s tongue. Under those circumstances, how could the humble friar refuse?
Fray Murrietta swallowed the cactus button, which tasted bitter on his tongue.
For several minutes, they sat there in silence, the insects and the birds making the only noise. The warmth of the day made for a pleasant interlude.
In time, the Aztec’s face began to change. Its serious lines smoothed, as if his inner soul were pouring forth.
“I feel different.”
Fray Murrietta smiled. “You should feel different, for you have accepted Christ into your life.”
“I feel…clean,” said Yahuahqui.
“Excellent!” praised Fray Murrietta.
Then the sound of the birds and the bumblebees grew louder and louder, and his head began to feel strange.
The world seemed to take an abrupt jog to the left and stop, as if it had shifted in its rotation then stopped dead.
Dazed, Fray Murrietta looked around. The world possessed a new clarity, as if seen through a magical glass.
“I feel very strange,” he murmured.
Yahuahqui smiled thinly. “It is the cactus. It opens the doors.” “What doors? I see no doors.”
“The doors in your soul. Wait patiently. You will see.”
Now Yahuahqui produced a smoky, black mirror made of polished obsidian, framed in hammered silver. He produced this from behind his back like a magician performing a trick. The oddity of the Indian conjuring a mirror as large as his hand from the small of hi
s naked back was lost on the dazzled friar.
“Hold this before your face and gaze into it,” invited Yahuahqui.
Having no other choice because he dared not stand up in his present condition, Fray Murrietta accepted the artifact and began staring into it, wondering what would come of the risk he was taking.
At first only his dark-shadowed features stared back at him. After a time, Fray Murrietta saw a radiant face in the smoky glass. He saw a very pale man, white of beard and glorious to behold.
The being spoke to him. “I am Quetzalcoatl, whom you know by the name of Jesus.”
Fray Murrietta gasped. “Lord…”
“I am very pleased to meet you,” said the apparition, eyes beaming love.
Tears of joy streamed down the Fray’s cheeks. He could feel that love. Feel it deep in his soul.
There in the forest the white-skinned being spoke to Fray Murrietta, telling of wonders, showing him the glory of the Kingdom of God, and holding the young monk spellbound.
“Do you believe in me?” asked the apparition.
“Yes, I do!”
“What is my name?”
“Jesus of—”
“No,” the other gently admonished. “What is my name in this incarnation?”
“Que…Quetzalcoatl?” asked Fray Murrietta.
“Yes. You will call me that. Come again tomorrow. And bring any who wish to worship me. We will all partake of the glory of God.”
“Thank you, thank you, Lord.”
At that, the splendid vision vanished, and Fray Murrietta blinked the holy tears from his eyes and focused on the happy face of Yahuahqui the Aztec.
“He is real…”
“Yes, very real. He has spoken to me as well.”
“He asked me to come again tomorrow. To bring others.”
“Then bring others. I will meet you to here tomorrow.”
“Excellent!” said Fray Murrietta, rising. He ran off, his head and feet very light. Strangely, his head had cleared of all of the effects of the cactus button. Speaking to the Lord in the smoking black mirror had wrought this miracle, he was convinced.
This time the friar spoke to his father confessor.
Padre Pena frowned darkly.
“Brother,” said the padre in a grave tone, “this sounds like the work of the Devil.”
“But it is not! I saw Jesus. His splendor was undeniable. His face was not flesh but light.”
“But did you not say he called himself Quetzalcoatl?”
“Yes, but that is the body he wore when he came among the heathen Indians.”
“Did he convert them to Jesus?” retorted Padre Pena.
“Yes! No, he caused them to worship himself, Quetzalcoatl, which is only another name for Jesus.”
The frown on the padre’s face was a thundercloud now.
“You saw things. But you do not think! Listen, dear brother, if Holy Jesus came among these people, why do they worship demons? You know their horrid names: Tezcatlipoca, Huizilopochtli, Coatlicue. They are a cult of cannibalism and human sacrifice, vomited up from the lower regions of hell by the Evil One himself.”
Fray Murrietta had no answer for that. The spell of the peyote button had enthralled him. He hung his head.
Padre Pena ordered him to confess his sins and recite twenty Hail Marys as penance.
This he dutifully did.
But when the next morning came, despite the stern admonition not to do so, Fray Murrietta went out into lush forest by the river to meet Yahuahqui—to talk again with the Jesus of the strange name and radiant face who dwelt in the black mirror.
Yahuahqui waited patiently, his copper face quite impassive.
“You brought no one,” he declared quietly.
“They…did not understand. But I am here.”
Yahuahqui nodded.
From his person, he drew another cactus button.
“Take this. He is waiting.”
“I am afraid,” said Fray Murrietta.
“Of what are you afraid?”
“I promised Je…I promised our Lord that I would bring others.”
“Yes. He wants their souls.”
Fray Murrietta did not like the sound of that. “Their…souls?”
“Do you not harvest souls in the name of Christ?”
“But…But that is different,” insisted the simple friar.
“No! It is the same. Jesus wants souls. Quetzalcoatl needs souls. It is the same thing! Do you deny this?”
“No…” Here, Fray Murrietta hesitated. His eyes went to the black mirror and the bitter-tasting peyote button. Perhaps Quetzalcoatl could explain it to him. Perhaps he could quell the growing fear in his innermost being.
At length, he said, “Give them to me.” And the friar made the sign of the cross—something he had neglected to do on the prior occasions. But it was too late for such rituals.
And so the unholy sacraments were surrendered.
Once the bitter button went into his mouth, Fray Murrietta lifted the smoky-edged obsidian mirror to his face.
This time, he did not see his own face. For the visage of Quetzalcoatl—or Quetzalcoatl-Jesus—stared back at him.
“I am pleased to see you again, my child,” said the radiant one.
“And I you, Lord.” He could not bring himself to say the strange name, Quetzalcoatl.
“Where are my new followers?”
“I could not convince Padre Pena to come.”
“Others will do.”
The friar blinked. “What others?”
“Any others. For I seek souls to redeem, and their individual names do not matter.”
Fray Murrietta asked, “What shall I tell these new people? How do I convince them?”
“Tell them,” said the face in the mirror, “that a new life awaits them. At my side. By my side forever.”
And Fray Murrietta wept tears of relief, for these words sounded as if they had plucked from the Holy Book.
“I will do so, Lord.”
“Do so now. For today is the day.”
“What day, Lord?”
“The day of atonement.”
“I do not know that holy day,” admitted Fray Murrietta, although it sounded vaguely familiar to him.
“It is the most holy day in this land. Now go. I will await you here. Bring souls.”
The blank mirror went utterly dark.
Fray Murrietta’s heart quailed a little as he surrendered the object back to Yahuahqui.
“He has asked me to bring men to be redeemed.”
“Women and children are also desired,” returned the Indian. “I will wait here. Good hunting.”
Fray Murrietta stood up. He did not see the way the eyes of the Aztec nagua followed him with the same lightless intensity of the smoky, obsidian mirror that was now dark.
Rushing to the village, Fray Murrietta decided to exhort the honest peasants. They would believe me, he thought.
Some did. Many did not. For they had been taught to shun anything not of the Bible. And Fray Murrietta’s story struck their ears as strange. He avoided the mission. Padre Pena would be displeased. Later on, there would be time to convert Padre Pena to the true worship of Quetzalcoatl, the successor to Christ in the New World, when the Great Lord of Mexico had more followers.
Going about his work, Fray Murrietta felt like one of the apostles. John, perhaps. But no, not an apostle. He was not worthy of that. He would be the new John the Baptist. He would bring many souls to Quetzalcoatl, the New Christ.
An even dozen followed him from the village: men, woman, and children. Fray Murrietta thought it was a very auspicious number. Were there not twelve apostles? Then he remembered Judas. Well, I am not like him, the simple friar thought. I am more like John the Baptist.
Leading his small flock to the river, he presented them to the Indian nagua, Yahuahqui.
“I see you have brought fresh souls for Quetzalcoatl,” he said, his dark eyes luminous with a deep light.
&nb
sp; “I have!”
“We will sit in a circle. Come!”
They all sat. Names were offered and good wishes exchanged.
“You have all come to be baptized?” asked Yahuahqui.
Confused expressions crossed the faces of the peasants.
“They have already been baptized in Christ,” Fray Murrietta pointed out.
Then Yahuahqui produced the smoky mirror. There was no need for more peyote. Fray Murrietta was still reeling from the last button.
The friar smiled, his young eyes crinkling.
“Take this and speak to Him,” invited Yahuahqui.
Gratefully, Fray Murrietta took the black object in hand and stared worshipfully into its pellucid depths.
The face of Lord Quetzalcoatl was already there to greet him warmly.
“You have done well, my son.”
“Thank you. It pleases me deeply to hear these words.”
“For your good works, I bestow upon you a gift greater than any.”
Fray Murrietta quivered. “Yes?”
And the hand of Yahuahqui offered him a tiny calabash filled with crushed black powder.
“Tlililtzin,” he explained. “You would call the flower morning glory. Swallow these crushed seeds and you will be transported to his side.”
“Thank you.”
Making the sign of the cross, Fray Murrietta ingested the dry powder. It was very difficult to swallow. He began hacking dryly. He rushed to the riverbank to drink and move the stuck material down his throat.
After he had done so, he lay among the rushes and stared into the blue sky, where winged angels and pearly clouds rolled by like living things.
While he was thus transported, Yahuahqui led each peasant to the river, one by one like lambs, to baptize them. Out of the corners of his eyes, Fray Murrietta noticed this, and his heart grew glad to see more souls being consecrated to Quetzalcoatl.
In his ecstasy, he did not notice that Yahuahqui plunged the heads of the poor peasants into the river and held them down until all sounds of struggle had ceased utterly.
Yahuahqui dragged each sopping, lifeless corpse into the reeds before going for another. No one suspected the truth. Everything was accomplished in concealment.
In a very short period of time, all twelve had been sacrificed to Quetzalcoatl.
On his back, Fray Murrietta stared up at the impossibly blue sky—so blue it hurt the eyes to behold it. A rolling cloud of pearly light began to shift and congeal.