B01AOKY60K

by Dennis Santaniello

  I stared again at my fortune. All was contained in that little bag, and yes, it was as Soto suggested. It was tiny.

  Again the whistling returned, and again my thoughts had died. I felt where I was. I was still in the jungle. I was still alive. So was Manco. We were both hanging on.”

  II

  The whistling that Sardina heard was not of a bird, but of a shaman. This time, a younger shaman who held from the lower end of Vilcabamba. The shaman swung from tree to tree and watched the Spanish languish from afar. He later informed Manco of the news, and again Manco led his people further through the jungle.

  Vilcabamba now seemed old to Manco, but at the same time when he gazed upon he felt welcomed and assured. On a cold morning, Manco led his men to a small village. The villagers of the town rushed over in canoes, and later the people gathered and worshiped the rising sun. They shared a unified prayer and cried. They thought all day of those they lost, and when the sun set the sky returned black with stars. The air was filled with moans and cries, but then a softening silence followed, and for the Incas there was nothing more important.

  Manco looked up to the canopies and studied the wind and world and everything in it. It was a calm wind and the birds carried over, flying in tremendous numbers from the cliffs down to the valley. Manco took it as a sign. Later, he mounted up on a Spanish horse then stopped and continued on foot, pacing in stride with his fellow men. As he marched, Manco spoke in constant prayer to his brother, Atahualpa. The dream was permanently etched in his mind. He became one with it, and he saw it in all things, and with it, Manco said a simple phrase that he repeated over and over again.

  “We still live in sacred times.”

  At night, Waman Poma and Manco discussed the obvious, but it disproportionately lost its power and mystery.

  “What now, Manco?”

  “We keep defending.”

  “Like this?”

  “No. Not like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll keep coming.”

  “So we've lost Cusco forever?”

  “No. We haven't lost Cusco. Cusco is in here.”

  Manco pointed to his heart.

  “They cannot destroy that.”

  “What now, Manco? What else?”

  “We have to make a new Cusco, Waman Poma. For our people.”

  “Where, Manco?”

  “The gods will tell us. The shamans will show us. We'll follow them.”

  Manco pointed over. Waman Poma squinted and shrugged. Manco's finger steadied and did not waver.

  “I can't see it.” Said Waman Poma.

  “Keep looking up.” Said Manco.

  A whole month passed, and the Incas continued on foot and crossed Vilcabamba. Then they came across the bridge. It was magnificent and meticulously assembled by the Incas of older times. The bridge was massive and it was woven with the strongest fibers of the land. It swayed to and fro in the hallowing wind. It connected the two lands, and beneath was the surging giant river.

  As the Incas reached the bridge, they noticed that the air was warm, but an approaching storm meandered in the sky. In an hour, the clouds darkened and rain fell in varieties of drips and drizzle. But it was time for Manco to say goodbye to his old homeland. Deep in his heart, he knew there was no other alternative. His world would have to be partitioned.

  For a half hour, Manco watched all of his people cross the bridge. There were about five thousand of them. He looked at all the faces. The faces of his people. They were old and young. Dignified and unknown. Some laughed. Some cried. But all of the faces were hard. And embedded in each face was the imprint of undying struggle and shared validation, and the imprint was uniquely Incan. These were his people, and Manco knew internally that they would outlive Pachukuti and would be remembered forever.

  The faces then blurred together until there were only a dozen left. Manco waited still, and when the last Inca came to the head of the bridge Manco patted the man on his shoulder and turned his back to the river. Then Manco took out a knife, and with the help of others, they hacked at the rope and the bridge slowly started to unwrap and unravel. The tension of the rope backlashed, causing a splurge of dusk to fly in the air. The Incas continued to hack their swords and knives, but the tension of the rope still upheld. But after a few minutes, the hinges unraveled and it finally happened. The rope lost all of its tension, and the entire bridge collapsed two hundred feet down into the river.

  Then Manco and his people fully saw the epiphany. It was clear and right. The bridge was destroyed, and the boundaries between their worlds were now definitive.

  During the following weeks, it rained steadily. When the words finally came to him, he made a speech to his people and confirmed his plans for how they would rebuild their world. He stared at his people again with earnest. Then he said the words.

  “Great Incas, a new Cusco awaits. You know what you must do. The Incas of the past are with us now, and will be with us always. I know one day in the future there will be a time when they force us to worship their gods, and when that day comes, do what you have to do in front of them, but in private don't forget about our ceremonies and our gods. These evil spirits will die in their own darkness. We will die with the sun in our hearts.”

  Then Manco took a Spanish helmet and raised it above his head to show the crowd. He placed the helmet back down, and then he threw it into the river.

  So Manco and his people set forth to build their new world. In the span of a week, the Incas marched along the peaks for another set of miles and struggled forward. Then they stopped when they reached a small haven of a place named Vitcos, and it was there that Manco confirmed that his people would make their new city. Manco fell to his knees and kissed the ground, and together the Incas did the same and concentrated the ground, honored it, and gathered wood for the night fires. The land already contained many people, and many deemed that Vitcos was the strongest fortress the Incas had left. It was secure and well established, but most importantly it was well secluded, so much so that the rest of the world had not the faintest idea that it even existed.

  The next day, Manco entered the square and met with his city planners and engineers. Manco nodded to all of his people, and with the signal passed, his people went to work. He watched his citizens build new terraces and housing plots. Afterward, they laid stones for pass ways and walls. In the later weeks, new water and irrigation tunnels were developed in order to harvest the next season’s crop. In a month’s time, the city was transformed and its population doubled, but the Incas did not stop. They kept at work and kept building.

  As more time passed, Manco and the Incas heard many of the stories of the Spanish gods. Apparently the Spanish only had three gods, although some said they only had one. One story, in particular, was of their god of wood. The story involved a holy man searching a forest for hearts worthy to follow him. But the god was not a violent god, and many people hated him for that reason alone. The god was strange and welcomed his own death. His eyes were calm and some had called him a shepherd. But as the story came to fold, it was said that the people were so upset with the god that they hung him on a tree and in only three hours, the god had died. Those who believed in the god proclaimed that his spirit remained, and three days later the god returned and ruled over ever since. It was the strangest story ever told, but Manco found something in it that he couldn’t put into words. It resonated to him, for he imagined the god and saw himself very much in the same light.

  One month later, the Incas gathered to celebrate the return of their Ice god. A ceremony commenced and as night approached, the shaman returned, and the people gathered. More stories about the Spanish gods were told over and over again to the Incas during the cold night, but the Incas became bored with the stories. The Incas instead focused on their own gods and their own sacrifices. For they understood these practices to the fullest, and they held them sacred. The shaman initiated the sacred icaros, and with closed eyes, he summoned the gods once mo
re. The sacred brew was once again passed and the visions came to the Incas, and the next day peace finally fell on their faces.

  And for Manco, the new spirit could be seen in his eyes. He came to terms that a Pachukuti was drawing to an end, and Manco confirmed the fact with the shaman and later in his private prayers. And afterward, Manco smiled. For he knew in his heart that he and his people would survive. And Manco saw it in all things.

  III

  “We came across a broken bridge during the end of the afternoon. We were well aware that the Inca were close, maybe only a day or so away, but other than the finding of the bridge, our search remained fruitless. The truth of the matter was that the days of endless searching were getting the best of my men. Days later, we found ourselves quite lost with no conception of any direction. The heat was appalling. More sufferable days passed, but there was no sign of Manco anywhere, nor were there any sign of any Inca. Our chase retarded to a crawl. The bridge might have been a hallucination for all we knew, and after a week of such going, I was convinced that it was.

  I tried my best to discipline the men. There were only twenty of them but they were a handful, and I was starting to gather disdain for them all. They were very distracted and I knew that they were entrenched in thought. They were probably thinking about what was happening in Cusco. I yelled at them several times to focus on the jungle, to be vigilant, and aware that Manco could be hiding anywhere. But the truth of the matter was that the boredom had overwhelmed them.

  Scouts on patrol joined our group periodically. They monitored our progress and reported back to Gonzalo. But every time they came, they were welcomed, for when they did, they always brought with them new stories. I generally trusted the young scouts, because they were always in a rush and had no time to fabricate nonsense. When night came the dogs barked at the moon then whimpered as it got damp and cold. By firelight, the stories intensified. Men started to form the story to each other in variations of what they heard as they dug at the dirt with sticks.

  Then a set of rumors flooded our ears, and in the rain as we huddled into camp, the rumors flourished, and like mushrooms, they suddenly appeared from the wet dank ground and bolted up to the surface. I tried my best not to listen to any of them, but I knew it would take only a matter for the rumors to be my new obsession.

  One of the main things that all the stories confirmed was that Almagro had returned to Cusco earlier than expected. The stories also confirmed that Almagro had arrested both Hernando and Gonzalo, put them both into dungeons, and left them to die and rot. This rumor seemed to be as true as any rumor presented, for it was confirmed many times. As it was said to me, Almagro and his son returned from a disastrous search for El Dorado and took control of Cusco, beating Hernando out of power, before doing the same to Gonzalo, and with Francisco in Lima, and with no other combatants to contend with, the Almagros took complete control of the city and its territories. For how long they held the city, none could say for sure.

  Later, rumors of Almagro’s state of mind and illness were passed, and some claimed that Almagro had gone absolutely mad, making decisions no rational man would even dream of making, and some made the rationale that his decision to release the Brothers was brought on by that madness. Others said that pressure from the Crown made him do it. Others simply said the Brothers escaped by their own measure. But what all the rumors confirmed was that Almagro was in firm control of the city, but the Pizarros were still alive, and certainly were scheming for a battle to take over Cusco once and for all.

  But the rumors were too much for me, and after a while, I grew tired of them. I refused to listen or eavesdrop at any conversation and ordered the men to leave me alone. I set up the board and I tried to put the scenes into motion in my mind. Piece for piece represented a clear resemblance and the chessboard mirrored the chain of events. I squared the pieces in accord. I stared at the board and tried my best to make sense of it all. I did this because I saw Soto do this many times. It quelled him, and I thought it would quell me.

  I went through all the possible moves and I watched piece after piece fall until the entire board was empty, and such were kingdoms. It was inevitable. What pieces remained would be the participants of the end game. Certainly there would only be a few if any at all. The only questions were what pieces would they be, and what king would prevail. I moved the pieces from both white’s side and black’s. I challenged myself to see who had the advantage. I made marks, privy to who had the first move, but I virtually saw no difference. Knights would take rooks. Pawns would take bishops. The center was Cusco. But no side had an advantage. And it was all too complicated for mere amateurs to understand. It was a constant war, with no foreseeable end. It was a balanced trade of bloodshed and nothing else. Unless someone came up with a brilliant coup, there was nothing to be gained. All that mattered now was how the events would unfold. How and when the disaster would take place was the only remaining question.

  While watching the board, I became very drowsy. My mouth was dry and beard was smeared with dirt. I fretted and lay on the ground. I grew dumb with each passing moment and I grew impatient with certainty. I knew the outcome. It came in variations. But it all came to the realization, the relieving realization, that I was no longer a participant. I realized who I was. I was the pawn on the far end of the board that had no relevance.

  And it wasn’t until then that I knew why Soto had left. I heard his words. I heard his laugh.

  “You’re watching a disaster, Sardina.”

  But for the Incas, their king was very much alive. And I must admit, although our main mission was to capture and kill Manco, there were times when we hardly thought about him.

  But later, it dawned on me. Then it fell on me, and my heart ached and the memory returned. I tried to erase it. I tried to remove it, or at least, I hoped it would fade. But it didn’t. It came back and made me bleed from my eyes.

  I thought about the fact. The fact was simple and all too true. All the bloodshed, all the rancid, heinous, vile hell was likely all my damn fault.

  Because of my stupidity, all hell had unleashed. Had I killed Manco when I had the chance, this never would have happened. I hadn’t thought about that moment for a very long time. It was as if I forgot about it, suppressed it, and kept it hidden. But it came back and took hold, and it was all I could think about. But now the memory was back and I could see it manifested in all things. I could hear the pangs of metal shoot through the crickets and the rust-beetles, and I could see Manco’s painful face through the falling rain.

  The guilt was strong and all too overwhelming. If I confessed this to a priest he would have killed me. Had I confessed this to Soto, I wouldn’t know what he would have done. And the damning memory replayed over and over again in my mind.

  I thought of that second many times. The second where I could have ended it all, and it replayed in my mind in an infinite loop. I’ve killed many men before him. I hadn’t hesitated then. If only, I just inched my sword closer. If only I called out the men to head Manco off. If only…

  But in truth, it was only a thought. I was not solely responsible for all of this and having not killed Manco when I had the opportunity only meant a slight variation. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew that the rivalry between the Almagros and Pizarros would have gone on in perpetual war, even if Manco was dead. Almagro still would have returned, with or without Manco, and indeed, with Manco away it only made things easier.

  But still I felt the guilt.

  Then I stared deeper. I noticed that odd stupid little pawn on the edge of the board was still there. As was I. And when I stared at it, I stared at myself. I forced myself to smile. I was merely a pawn in the game. A pawn that did not fully comprehend power, and what it could do to the world. But this pawn was paid. He was paid to do a monumental thing. This pawn was paid to kill a king.

  I changed the board and adjusted it so. Pawns and a King. And for once it made sense. This was my redemption of sorts, to finish, to l
ay the Inca king to rest. I fell into the same trance that I fell on that beach so long ago. But this time instead of Francisco it was Gonzalo who was the man who gave me my chance, and now with him now gone, I was all by my lonesome to carry the torch of the obsession, and to fulfill the unilateral, impending goal of having Manco’s head on a lance.

  But I could only stare for so long. I was exhausted and fell asleep about an hour later. In a dream, I saw both Soto and Francisco talking amongst themselves. Both men were peaceful, restful, and the words they uttered were necessary, but the dream tumbled and words slipped. I could only see their faces. They looked very tired. No doubt Francisco had already known the entirety of the situation. No doubt Soto probably knew as well. All of Spain would have known it by then. I imagined Francisco speaking with Soto about these matters. He probably was doing so at the very moment. It was the last scheme. The final battle.

  I woke up but it was still dark. I wiped the sweat off from my face and looked around. The men were asleep and the fires were dying. My eyes were still heavy. So I sat up and stared at the sky, and again I thought of all the falling pieces.”