by David Bowles
Their comments were made half in jest. They could not realize how close they had come to understanding a magical secret!
For Hapunda had been adrift on the lake one evening, watching the sun slip down the sky, when Lake Patzcuaro had spoken to her.
“The sunset is lovely, dear girl, but not half as lovely as you.”
Searching about for the source of the voice, Hapunda had asked, “Who are you? Where are you?”
“I am here, all around you. Patzcuaro, your people call me.”
“The lake? How can this be?”
Patzcuaro explained. “I was once a star, glittering in the darkness of night, placed there by the gods. I despised fading each morning. So one day I decided to keep burning bright. But Cuerauáperi, swift-blowing goddess of wind and moon and sky, became angry at my insolence and spun me from the heavens with a mighty gale. I fell to Earth and made this lake. With the passing of eons, I have merged with it, Hapunda, delighting in its simple beauty. But you, dear princess, you have taught me to love.”
Thus began their courtship. Hapunda thrilled to the vast knowledge of the lake, his intricate tales about beasts and men and gods. She found him beautiful, and before she knew it, she had fallen in love with him as well.
The fame of the young princess and her exceptional beauty spread throughout the region, as unrestrained as the wind. A group of Chichimec warriors, celebrating their victory in some border village, overheard their Purepecha host extol Hapunda’s virtues.
“We should visit this little isle,” they murmured among themselves, “and abduct their beautiful princess. Why should she be wasted on fishermen and ducks? Let’s take her back to our chieftain to be his wife!”
Their journey into Purepecha lands was fraught with conflict and combat. Word came to the aging king of Yunuen that a small army of barbarians was headed toward the lake, terrorizing people in the countryside, robbing their precious goods. The king consulted with his sons, who disguised themselves as fishermen and went among the villages on the far bank to learn what news they could.
One evening, the Chichimec warriors arrived in a certain town, demanding food and drink. As they got thoroughly drunk, they began to brag about their conquests. They babbled openly about their purpose when a villager mentioned the king and his unparalleled daughter.
“If this perfect princess you folks keep mentioning actually exists,” one of the Chichimec invaders slurred, “it’s not this land she should rule over, but our desert stronghold, at the side of our chieftain!”
Once the warriors had made their camp and set their guards, the princes slipped back to their canoe and returned with stealth to the palace on Yunuen. They immediately warned Hapunda, who listened to their tale with deepening despair.
“There are hundreds of them,” her brothers exclaimed. “Though we shall send word to the other Purepecha kings, our messengers may not get through, as the barbarians are watching every road. Even if we managed to convey our need, our allies may not arrive in time or even suffice to fend off the invasion.”
“Then we must hide!” the princess exclaimed. “The palace is not safe.”
“But where? Our island is small. We could, of course, place you in the home of some islander family…”
“And risk their lives?” Hapunda shuddered. “No.”
As her brothers continued to weigh the options, the princess grew sadder and sadder. There would be no escape, she realized. All was truly lost. No matter where she went, the Chichimec army would discover her.
Her kind, compassionate heart kept her from worrying her brothers though.
“Let us go to bed,” she said with a smile. “I am certain a restful sleep will bring new options to our muddled heads. The enemy is camped, you said. We shall be safe for the night.”
Her brothers agreed. “Till morning, then.”
“Good night!”
As they kissed her cheeks and left, the princess felt guilt twist in her guts.
Hapunda, for the first time in her life, had lied.
She waited a while, till her father and brothers were fast asleep, then she slipped on a simple white skirt and blouse, sneaking out of the palace without a sound and heading toward her beloved, the lake.
Patzcuaro would know what to do.
As she made her way down the gentle slopes of the hill, she glanced at the humble houses where her subjects rested peacefully. Realizing that this might be the last time she would see them, Hapunda could not help but spill a few tears. Not wanting to worry her beloved, she blotted at her eyes, struggling to remain calm the rest of the way.
Still, when she reached the water’s edge, Patzcuaro roiled his waters in agitation and spoke with great concern.
“What ails you, my love? I can see that tears have dampened those lovely cheeks. Why? Is it that…you have come to confess that your love for me has curdled in your heart, that no longer can a simple lake command your affections?”
“Do not say such things, beloved!” Hapunda cried. “I have never considered abandoning you. I never shall. I am blessed and happy to be yours forever. No, you perceive quite another pain in my heart.”
The lake stilled in suspense, starlight flooding its clear depths as if in breathless anticipation. “I am eager to hear from your lips what pain this might be and then to work the impossible to free you from it. Speak, my darling.”
Hapunda spoke, telling Patzcuaro of the invading warriors and their plan to abduct her for their barbaric chieftain.
The lake seethed with whitecapped waves as if a gale were roaring over its surface.
“Never!” Patzcuaro cried. “Let them come, Princess. Let them attempt to cross my waters. I shall seize their boats with fists of foam and plunge them to their deaths!”
“Wait!” Hapunda pleaded. “I cannot bear to see you thus, beloved. And think—the deaths of these barbarians would only bring more!”
Whirlpools spun like cyclones of rage there beneath the blinking stars.
“Let them come! I shall drown them all!”
“And fill your breast with death and corruption? No, Patzcuaro. There must be another course of action.”
Bit by bit, the tide receded. The waves grew calm. The eddies stilled, and Patzcuaro spoke:
“I am going to suggest something quite extreme, my love. You may not agree, may not be prepared to take this step. It may strike you as rather mad.”
“You know how much I respect and admire you, not just for your beauty, but for your wisdom, beloved Patzcuaro. Tell me your plan.”
“Then,” the lake began, its currents halted, all life trembling within its vast expanse, “you should get in your canoe, row out to my very center, and wait for the moon to rise. When the goddess has left the horizon…leap into my waters. I shall draw you into me, and no one will ever separate us from each other.”
Hapunda stared into her beloved’s formless face for long moments, thinking. It was a gentle way to die, in the sweet embrace of a lover. She would be free from the threat of abduction and forced marriage. Her family and people would be safe from the Chichimec menace.
“Very well, beloved. So be it. United forever.”
Slowly she rowed, watching the eastern sky as the faint lunar glow smeared the distant mountains. As the moon fully entered the night sky, Hapunda said goodbye to her life without regret and dove into the lake, letting her lover draw her deeper and deeper into his heart.
The palace was frantic. Morning had come, and the princess was nowhere to be found. Her brothers and the islanders started to search, scouring the isle, but no one discovered her. The king, overcoming the weakness of old age, travelled to the far bank to confront the Chichimec captain and demand his daughter’s return.
But the barbarians had not seen her either. Each side suspected a plot, but as the day wore on, it became clear that Hapunda had simply disappeared.
Then a frightened fisherman came forward with a harrowing tale. He had been casting his net late the previous night when he s
aw a young woman leap into the center of the lake.
She had never emerged again.
“My daughter!” the king exclaimed, weeping piteously.
The news of Hapunda’s suicide threatened to burst her brothers’ hearts. They, along with dozens of islanders, sailed out to where her little canoe floated aimlessly upon the gentle waves. Moans of anguish came from the lips of all her subjects.
Ah, but Lake Patzcuaro had more magic than you could know. He had never planned to see his beloved die.
There in his watery heart, that fallen star worked a miracle.
Bursting from the surface in a flash of downy white came the most beautiful crane Yunuen had ever beheld. She spread her wings upon the thrumming wind and wheeled around the boats, skimming over her brothers’ head, mussing their dampened hair.
It was Hapunda, transformed by love and faith into pure white perfection.
Ever since, Lake Patzcuaro has protected his princess, his bride, feeding her fish and keeping her content with the dance of his waves.
The princess skims the surface of those waters, calling out in keen delight, showing her beloved, her husband, her love and eternal thanks.
And the people of Yunuen, they all affirm this wonder—as long as white cranes teem like stars upon that lake, their miraculous love endures.
The Volcanoes
While the Mexica integrated themselves into the social fabric of Colhuacan, exiles from that tribe attained positions of prominence in other highland kingdoms. In the Tepanec city-state of Azcapotzalco, King Acolnahuacatl allowed the greatest Mexica warriors to rise through the ranks, becoming captains of his mighty army through their valorous deeds.
One day, a runner arrived with a message from the ruler of Huexotzinco, an ally of Azcapotzalco that sat cradled in the roots of the eastern mountains. That city-state requested military aid, as it found itself harried again and again by fearsome Chichimecah who had come from the North a generation ago and now lived in the mountains, descending to wage war against their neighbors.
King Acolnahuacatl called together his advisers. “These are the same barbarians who crushed the Colhua and others on the plains of Poyauhtlan. We cannot allow them to conquer Huexotzinco. If they gain a foothold in the East, they will soon turn their eyes westward, to Chalco and Colhuacan…and finally to us.”
The council objected. Huexotzinco lay at a considerable distance from Tepanec lands. Coming to its aid meant marching an army across the marshlands and wilderness, through enemy territory and without much hope for reinforcements should the battle go poorly.
The king dismissed these concerns. “With the right man at its head, an army of Tepaneca could cross the entire sea-ringed world from lip to lip and still have the strength to swing macanas and hurl spears. Yet I will make the reward even more enticing than mere honor and patriotism: I will give my youngest daughter, Iztaccihuatl, in marriage to the general who leads our troops to victory.”
Once the king declared his intentions to the warriors of the city, two great captains offered to lead the army of Azcapotzalco: Xinantecatl, a proud and fierce Tepanec from an illustrious family, and Popocatzin, a handsome and likeable Mexica youth descended from exiled nobles. The choice of tlacochcalcatl or general was put to a vote, and the leadership of the army threw their support overwhelmingly behind the popular Popocatzin.
Many in Azcapotzalco were relieved at the result, but none so much as Princess Iztaccihuatl herself. For the better part of a year, she had been meeting with Popocatzin in secret, their rendezvous arranged by loyal and discrete handmaidens of the Mexica tribe. The bond of the young lovers, at first merely the irresistible pull of attraction and chemistry, had blossomed into an earnest, deep devotion.
The evening before the army was set to march, the couple met beneath the silvery glow of a waxing moon.
“Ah, Iztaccihuatl, my fragrant popcorn blossom. I go to battle, to win honor for Azcapotzalco and to win your hand.”
“My days will stretch endlessly until your return,” the princess replied. “Be valiant, my love. Slay our enemies, gather victims for sacrifice, but keep yourself safe as well. Your future awaits you here, by my side.”
“Yes,” the warrior promised. “By your side. Forever.”
The following morning, Iztaccihuatl watched from the balcony of her father’s palace as Popocatzin—resplendent in his war gear, feathered cape and headdress ruffled by the wind—led his pinioned battalions away along the gradual curve of Lake Texcoco’s shoreline. He looked to her eyes like a god, invulnerable and mighty.
Among the troops at his back, however, were those who felt not love but great antipathy for the newly appointed commanding officer. Xinantecatl, though raised to rank of achcauhtli or lieutenant-general, was furious that a barbaric Mexica boy stood at the head of the army in a position that ought to have been his. What gnawed at the Tepanecan even more was the thought of the princess’ marriage to Popocatzin. For long years Xinantecatl had watched the pale beauty grow and bloom into womanhood, coveting her flesh with an almost ravenous hunger. He could not bear to see her possessed by another.
So for days he had spoken, quietly and in private, to key military leaders and outstanding warriors, revealing his concerns and plans to men he knew he could trust. “We cannot let this mongrel bed the king’s daughter, comrades. Think of the precedent it would set! Do we really want one of these filthy, snake-eating nomads sitting on the mat of power in Azcapotzalco one day?”
The answer was a resounding no.
“Indeed not. So I need to enlist your help. The battle will be furious and chaotic. Generals have been known to fall under such circumstances. Should Popocatzin be mortally wounded, well, then his second-in-command would be required to step in and ensure our victory. The king would undoubtedly, in such a case, give his young daughter’s hand in marriage to the warrior who had accomplished that which the mongrel pup could not.”
When the army of Azcapotzalco finally reached the mountains—imposing peaks and craggy volcanoes believed to be the bones of ancient giants—the Chichimecs boiled from the heights in swirling waves. Combat was indeed fierce, arrows and spears raining thick all around, clubs and macanas thudding against shields and flesh, ripping and snapping.
No matter how they tried, however, the traitors could not arrange Popocatzin’s death. It was as if some god protected him from their schemes. As the days progressed, Huexotzinco and Azcapotzalco turned the tide against the Chichimec invaders. Victory under the command of the young general seemed guaranteed.
“Come, brothers,” Xinantecatl said at last to his fellow conspirators. “We will peel off a squadron of soldiers and rush back to Azcapotzalco. I have a plan that will undermine the Mexica dog before he has a chance to celebrate his victory.”
They returned with great haste to the city and were ushered in before the king. Xinantecatl made a convincing show of wild grief. “O Acolnahuacatl, Tepanec king! There at the heart of the battlefield, amidst divine blooms and shield dust, our brother Popocatzin was shorn of the flesh, his blood feeding the fires of the Lord of Time! He has winged his way to paradise, reunited with all heroes. In his stead, I have commanded your great army, my king, leading them to victory against the encroaching hordes. The better part of my men have remained behind to bundle and burn the dead, to help Huexotzinco clear its streets and repair its walls.
“The death of my dear brother, however, is news that my heart could not bear in silence. Forgive me, Majesty. Life is a short and brutal dream. Nothing lasts, not friendship or jade. But Popocatzin was a man among men, and I keenly feel his loss.”
King Acolnahuacatl was moved by these eloquent words. He summoned his cihuahtlanqui or priestess of marriage. “Wise mother,” he began. “Call together the diviners: have them consult the Book of Days. Find the most propitious and speedy moment for my daughter Iztaccihuatl to be joined in marriage to Xinantecatl.”
When the various viable options were revealed, the military advisers who had
returned with the traitor used their wiles to argue that a small wedding held very soon would be more appropriate than a huge spectacle upon the army’s return. The death of one as loved as Popocatzin required a period of serious mourning. The whole city would be bereft by the news.
King Acolnahuacatl agreed. He called his daughter before him and, with the cihuahtlanqui at his side, gave her the news. “Sadly,” he said, “our valiant son Popocatzin has fallen in battle, giving his life for the glory of his nation. But Xinanatecatl, his second-incommand, has ensured our victory. By my troth, you are now to become his wife. To avoid unseemly pomp and gaiety in this dark time, you will be wed the day after tomorrow, an auspicious date for joyful marriage.”
Iztaccihuatl said nothing, but her heart quailed within her breast. Her beloved was dead, and she was to have her huipilli blouse tied to the inferior cape of the cruel and bigoted warrior who had ogled her for years. It was not an existence she wished to experience. Better to give her life in sacrifice to Mictecacihuatl, Queen of Death, and to Itzpapalotl, the Taloned Butterfly, mistress of women slain in metaphorical battle.
Her handmaidens discovered her in the morning, hanging from the rafters, a rough agave-fiber mecatl twisted ‘round her neck.
When the last of the Chichimec invaders had been routed, Popocatzin took stock of his men. It was then that he realized the absence of his lieutenant-general and that man’s staff, along with several dozen warriors. A horrible suspicion rose in him then. He rounded up his captains to give the word: they would be returning double time to Azcapotzalco.
After a few days of grueling march, the host swept into the city. There, before the great temple, the priests were bundling the lifeless form of Iztaccihuatl. Standing nearby were the grieving king and Xinantecatl, whose eyes fell with impassive coldness on the returning troops.
One of Iztaccihuatl’s Mexica handmaidens rushed to Popocatzin. “General! O beloved son of my tribe! They said you had fallen in battle.” Breathlessly, she explained Xinantecatl’s claim, the marriage plans, the suicide of the princess.