Ines of My Soul: A Novel

by Isabel Allende

  Crossing the desert, in which water was unavailable, more than one viracocha tied to his mount an Indian woman who had recently given birth, in order to drink the milk of her breasts—having disposed of the newborn on the boiling sands. Indians who dropped from fatigue were beaten to death by the black work bosses, and hunger was so great that the miserable natives ate the corpses of their brothers. The Spaniard who was cruel, and killed the most Indians, was held to be good, and the Spaniard who didn’t, a coward. Valdivia lamented such behavior, certain that he would have avoided it, but he acknowledged that these things happened in the chaos of war, as he had witnessed during the sacking of Rome. Pain and sorrow; blood everywhere; blood of victims, blood that makes monsters of the oppressors.

  Don Benito knew the hardships of the Chilean venture because he had lived them, and he told us about crossing the Atacama Desert, the way they had chosen to return to Peru. That was the route we intended to follow to Chile, the reverse of Almagro’s trek.

  “We must not consider the soldiers’ needs only, señora. The state of the Indians must also concern us. Like us, they require shelter, food, and water. Without them we will not get very far,” he reminded me.

  I had that very much in mind, but to provide for a thousand Yanaconas with the funds we had would take a magician.

  Among the few soldiers who would come with us to Chile was one Juan Gómez, a handsome and courageous young officer who was a nephew of the deceased Diego de Almagro. One day he came to my house, velvet cap in hand, and shyly confessed his relationship with an Inca princess baptized with the Spanish name Cecilia.

  “We love each other very much, Señora Inés, we cannot be apart. Cecilia wants to come with me to Chile.”

  “Well, have her come!”

  “I don’t think that Don Pedro will permit it, Cecilia is p-pregnant,” the youth stammered.

  That was a serious problem. Pedro had been very clear in his decision that on a journey of such magnitude he could not take women who were with child, it would create too many difficulties, but when I saw the depths of Juan Gómez’s anguish, I felt obliged to help him.

  “How far along is this pregnancy?” I asked.

  “Maybe three or four months.”

  “You realize the risk it would be for her, don’t you?”

  “Cecilia is very strong. She will provide everything she needs, and I will help her, Señora Inés.”

  “A spoiled princess and her retinue will be a tremendous nuisance.”

  “Cecilia will not be any trouble, señora. I promise that you will scarcely notice her in the caravan.”

  “Very well, Don Juan. But for the moment, do not discuss this with anyone. I will decide how and when to mention it to Captain General Valdivia. Be ready to leave soon.”

  In gratitude, Juan Gómez gave me a black pup with hair as harsh and wiry as a boar’s, and he became my shadow. I named him Baltasar, because it was Epiphany, January 6, the day of the three kings. He was the first in a series of identical dogs, his descendants, that have been my companions for more than forty years. Two days later, the Inca princess came to visit me. She arrived in a litter carried by four men and was followed by a number of female servants laden with gifts. I had never seen a member of the Inca’s court at close range. I concluded that Spanish princesses would turn pale with envy if they saw Cecilia. She was young and beautiful, with delicate, almost childlike features. Short and slim, she was nonetheless imposing. She had the natural hauteur of one who has been born to a cradle of gold and is accustomed to being served. She was dressed in the style of the Inca court, with simplicity and elegance. Her head was not covered, and her hair, like a silky, shining, black mantle, fell to her waist. She told me that her family was prepared to contribute the supplies for the Yanaconas, as long as they were not chained. Almagro had done that, using the excuse that he was killing two birds with one stone: preventing the Indians from escaping, and transporting iron. More Indians died from the weight of those chains than from the rigors of the climate. I explained that Valdivia did not plan to fetter the Yanaconas, but she reminded me that viracochas treated the natives worse than they did their animals. Could I speak for Valdivia, and for the behavior of the other soldiers? she asked. No, I couldn’t, but I promised to keep my eyes open, and, in passing, I congratulated her for her compassion, since concern for their subjects was not typical of the Inca nobility. She looked at me with surprise.

  “Death and torture are normal, but not chains. They are humiliating,” she clarified in the good Spanish she had learned from her lover.

  Cecilia attracted attention because of her beauty, her clothing of finest Peruvian weaving, and her unmistakable royal bearing, but she managed to pass almost unnoticed during the first fifty leagues of our trek—until I found the right moment to speak with Pedro, whose first reaction was anger, as was to be expected since one of his orders had been ignored.

  “Had it been I in Cecilia’s position, I would have had to stay behind,” I sighed.

  “Are you?” he asked hopefully. He had always wanted a son.

  “No, unfortunately, but Cecilia is, and she is not the only one. Every night your soldiers are getting the auxiliary Indian women pregnant, and we already have a dozen carrying offspring.”

  Cecilia survived the desert crossing, sometimes riding her mule and sometimes carried in a hammock by her servants, and her son was the first child born in Chile. And Juan Gómez repaid us with unconditional loyalty, a very useful gift in the months and years to come.

  Just as we and the handful of soldiers who wanted to go with us were ready to leave, an unexpected complication arose. A courtier, one of Pizarro’s former secretaries, arrived from Spain bearing the king’s authorization to lead an expedition to the territories to the south of Peru, from Atacama to the Strait of Magellan. This Sancho de la Hoz was refined in his manners and friendly in speech, but false and vile in his heart. He was, it was true, always prettily garbed; he wore cascades of laces and sprayed himself with perfume. The men laughed at him behind his back, but soon began to imitate him. He turned out to be a greater threat to Valdivia’s plans than the merciless desert and the Indians’ hatred. He does not deserve mention in this chronicle, but I cannot avoid doing so, since he will appear later, and also because had he achieved his goal, Pedro de Valdivia and I would not have fulfilled our destinies.

  Once de la Hoz arrived, there were two men vying for the same undertaking, and for a few weeks it seemed that ours was hopelessly blocked, but after much discussion and delay, Marqués Gobernador Francisco Pizarro decided that both should attempt the conquest of Chile—as partners: Valdivia would go by land, de la Hoz by sea, and they would meet in Atacama. “You must go watching much this Sancho, then, mamitayy,” Catalina warned me when she learned what had happened. She had never seen the man, but she knew through her divining shells what kind of person he was.

  We finally set out one warm January morning in 1540. Francisco Pizarro had come from Ciudad de los Reyes, with several of his officials, to see Valdivia off. He had brought a few horses as a gift, his only contribution to the expedition. The clamor of the church bells, which had been tolling since dawn, startled the birds in the sky and the beasts of the earth. The bishop officiated at a mass we all attended and delivered a sermon about faith and the duty to carry the cross to the ends of the earth. Afterward, he went outside to the plaza to bless the thousand Yanaconas who were waiting with the supplies and animals. Each group of Indians took orders from a curaca, or chief, who in turn obeyed the black work bosses, who took their orders from the bearded viracochas. I don’t believe that the Indians understood any of the bishop’s blessing, but perhaps they felt that the bright sun that day was a good sign. Most of them were young men, but there were a few submissive wives disposed to follow them, even knowing that they would never again see the children they left behind in Cuzco. Of course the soldiers brought their women, and that number would be augmented during the expedition with girls captured in dest
royed villages.

  Don Benito described to me the differences between the first and the second expeditions. Almagro had set out at the head of fifteen hundred robustly singing soldiers in polished armor; banners and pennants were flying and priests were carrying large crosses; thousands and thousands of Yanaconas followed, laden with supplies and leading herds of horses and other animals—all of this to the sound of trumpets and kettledrums. By comparison, we were a rather pathetic group: only eleven soldiers in addition to Pedro de Valdivia—and me, for I was prepared to wield a sword if the occasion demanded.

  “It is not important, señora, that we are so few, since we make up for our paltry numbers with courage and good spirit. With God’s blessing, other brave men will join us along the way,” Don Benito assured me.

  Pedro de Valdivia rode in the lead, followed by Juan Gómez, who had been named constable, then Don Benito and the other soldiers. On Sultan, his valiant Arab mount, Pedro looked splendid in his armor, plumed helmet, and shining weapons. Catalina and I were farther back, also on horseback. I had set Nuestra Señora del Socorro on my saddle, and Catalina was carrying the pup Baltasar in her arms because we wanted him to get used to the scent of the Indians. We were planning to train him as a guard dog, not to kill. Cecilia’s serving girls were invisible among the soldiers’ women. Then came the endless file of animals and bearers, many shedding tears because they had been forced to come and were leaving families behind. The black work bosses flanked the long, snaking line of Indians. They were feared more than the viracochas, because of their cruelty, but Valdivia had given instructions that only he could authorize major punishment or torture. The bosses were to limit themselves to the whip, and to use that prudently. That order was watered down along the way, and soon only I would remember it.

  We were under way, and to the sound of the bells still ringing in the church towers were added shouts of good-bye, the pawing of impatient horses, the rattle of harness, the long lament of the Yanaconas, and the dull thudding of their bare feet striking the ground.

  Behind us, beneath an azure sky, lay Cuzco, crowned by the sacred fortress of Sacsahuamán. As we left the city, Pedro, in full view of the marqués gobernador, his courtiers, the bishop, and the inhabitants of the city that was bidding us farewell, called me to his side and in a loud, clear, defiant voice shouted, “Come here beside me, Doña Inés Suárez!,” and when I had passed soldiers and officers to ride at his side, he added in a low voice, “We are off to Chile, Inés of my soul. . . .”

  THREE

  Journey to Chile, 1540–1541

  OUR SPIRITED CARAVAN SET OUT, following the route through the desert that Diego de Almagro had taken on his return and guided by the map his predecessor had sketched on the brittle sheet of yellowed paper. Like a sluggish worm, our handful of soldiers and the thousand auxiliary Indians climbed and descended hills, crossed through valleys and forded rivers, always to the south. The news that we were coming had preceded us, carried by fleet messengers, the chasquis who raced down hidden paths in the sierra along a system of relief posts, covering the Inca empire from the extreme north to the Río Bío-Bío in Chile. From them, the Chilean Indians had heard about our expedition as soon as we left Cuzco, and by the time we reached their territory, several months later, they were well prepared to do battle. They knew that the viracochas had controlled Peru for some time, that the Inca Atahualpa had been executed, and that his brother, the Inca Paullo, manipulated like a puppet, ruled in his stead. This prince had delivered his people to the foreigners and was living his life in the golden cage of his palace, surrendered to pleasures of lust and cruelty. The Indians also knew that in Peru a vast indigenous insurrection was brewing in the shadows, directed by another member of the royal family, the fugitive Inca Manco, who had sworn to drive the foreigners from the land. The Chilean Indians had heard that the viracochas were ferocious, diligent, tenacious, insatiable, and, most unbelievable of all, that they did not honor a spoken agreement. How could they live with such shame? It was a mystery.

  The Chilean Indians called us huincas, which in their language, Mapudungu, means lying people and land thieves. I have had to learn this tongue because it is spoken throughout Chile, from north to south. The Mapuche compensate for their lack of a written language with an enduring memory. The story of creation, their laws, their traditions, the feats of their heroes are recorded in Mapudungu, in tales that have been passed intact from generation to generation from the beginning of time. I translated some of them for young Alonso de Ercilla y Zúñiga, whom I referred to earlier, as inspiration for his epic poem, “La Araucana.” I have heard that it has been published, and is circulating in the court in Madrid, but I have only the scribbled verses Alonso left me after I helped him copy them. If I remember correctly, this is how he describes Chile and the Mapuche, or Araucanos, as he calls them, in his eight-line stanzas:

  Chile, fertile, majestic province

  In the regions of the famous Antarctic,

  Respected in far-distant nations

  For being strong, paramount, and powerful;

  Its people are so illustrious,

  So proud, so noble, so brave in battle,

  That they have never been ruled by a king

  Or subjected to foreign domination.

  Alonso exaggerates, of course, but poets have license to do that; if not, their verses would not have the needed vigor. Chile is not that paramount or powerful, nor are its people as illustrious and noble as he portrays them, but I agree that the Mapuche are proud and brave in battle, and that they have never been ruled by a king or subjected to foreign domination.

  They scorn pain; they can suffer terrible torment without complaint—not because they are less sensitive to suffering than we, but because they are so stoic. There are no finer warriors; to them it is honorable to die in battle. They will never conquer us, but neither will we be able to subjugate them, even if it means they all die in the process. I believe that the war will go on for centuries, since it provides the Spaniards with servants. Slaves, actually. It is not just prisoners of war who end up in slavery, but free Indians as well, whom the Spaniards lasso and sell at two hundred pesos for a pregnant woman and a hundred pesos for an adult male or healthy child. The illegal commerce in these peoples is not limited to Chile, it reaches as far as Ciudad de los Reyes, and involves everyone from encomenderos and mine overseers to ship captains. We will, as Valdivia feared, eventually exterminate the natives of this land, because they would rather die free than live as slaves. And if any of us Spaniards had to choose, we would not hesitate to make the same choice.

  Valdivia was indignant about the stupidity of the Spaniards who were killing off the peoples of the New World. Without the natives, he always said, the land has no value. He died without seeing an end to the slaughter, which has been going on for forty years now. Spaniards keep coming, and mestizos keep being born, but the Mapuche are disappearing, exterminated by war, slavery, and the illnesses brought by the Spaniards, which they cannot withstand. I fear the Mapuche because of the troubles they have visited upon us. I am angered by the fact that they have rejected the word of Christ, and resisted our efforts to civilize them. I cannot forgive them for the cruel way they killed Pedro de Valdivia, although all they were doing was giving back what they had received, for he had committed many cruelties and abuses against them. As they say in Spain, he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. I do, however, respect and admire the Mapuche; I cannot deny that. Worthy enemies: Spaniards and Mapuche, equally courageous, brutal . . . and determined to live in Chile. They were here long before we were, and that gives them the greater right, but they will never drive us out, and apparently we will never live together in peace.

  Where did those Mapuche come from? It is said they resemble certain peoples in Asia. If they did originate there, I cannot understand how they crossed such tumultuous seas and such broad expanses of land to get here. They are savages; they know nothing of art or writing; they do not build cities or tem
ples; and they have no castes, classes, or priests, only captains for war, their toquis. They roam from place to place, naked, free, with their many wives and children, who fight with them in battle. They do not practice human sacrifice, like other American Indians, and they do not worship idols. They believe in one god, not our God, but one they call Ngenechén.

  While we were camped in Tarapacá, where Pedro de Valdivia planned to wait until reinforcements arrived and we recovered from our fatigue, the Chilean Indians were organizing to make it as difficult as possible for us to press on. We rarely met them face-to-face; they stole from us, or attacked, from behind our backs. I was kept busy treating the wounded, especially the Yanaconas, who fought without horses or weapons. Battle fodder, we called them. The chroniclers always forget to mention them, but without those silent masses of friendly Indians who followed the Spaniards in all their wars and other undertakings, the conquest of the New World would have been impossible.

  Between Cuzco and Tarapacá more than twenty Spanish soldiers had joined our ranks, and Pedro was sure that more would come once word spread that the expedition was under way, but we had lost five men, which was a lot when you consider how few of us there were. One had been gravely wounded by a poisoned arrow, and when I was not able to cure him, Pedro sent him back to Cuzco, accompanied by his brother, two soldiers, and several Yanaconas. A few days later our field marshal woke in good spirits because he had dreamed about his wife, who was waiting for him in Spain, and because a sharp pain that had been stabbing his chest for more than a week had gone away. I served him a bowl of toasted flour with water and honey, which he ate greedily, as if it were a very special dish. “You are more beautiful than ever today, Doña Inés,” he said with his usual gallantry, and his eyes glazed over and he dropped dead at my feet. After we gave him a Christian burial, I suggested to Pedro that we name Don Benito in his place; the old man knew the route and was experienced in setting up camps and maintaining discipline.