Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  The tatich’s task would be to exploit this hunger to the strengthening and glory of the Talking Cross. That was why he’d played with the idea of using Mercy as a shrine healer.

  Nurturing and directing the Pacal cult would be dangerous, but much was at stake—complete Mayan sovereignty in Yucatán. The general of the plaza was for it, and, though the tatich was nominally commander of the army, he’d probably hesitate to wager his prestige against Crescendo Poot’s. No, the tatich’s personal wish might be for calm and peace, but if the prevailing mood of the companies and officers was for war, the Talking Cross could always give orders through another tatich while Novelo’s peace might deepen quickly into that of eternity.

  The general of the plaza stepped into the long room. The man behind him paused in the archway, filling it. A sighing murmur ran through the chamber.

  Pacal was a giant. To enter, he had to bend his towering feather headdress, and the quetzal plumes shimmered and moved. He wore a beaked eagle mask, a kilt of feathers and a jaguar skin draped his broad shoulders. His skin was painted green and crimson. Barbarically splendid, decked in feathers and hides, his size alone would have made him awesome.

  His size …

  Mercy choked back a cry. Eric!

  Of course it was, behind the paint and costume! He hadn’t died in the raid. But what was he doing here? Why would he lead a Cruzob assault on the north?

  Shrinking behind the Buddha-spy and an officer, she prayed Eric wouldn’t see her, notice the face shadowed by the fringed cloth, but he stared at her for a heartbeat and she knew she was discovered. The tawny eyes swooping pitilessly from the eagle mask seemed to consume her. She had to steady herself with a hand against the wall as he turned and advanced on the tatich, followed by Xia, whose white cotton dress shimmered with embroidery.

  “The old faith bows to the true one,” he said in carrying tones, kneeling to kiss the tatich’s hand, but standing haughtily erect when he resumed his normal stance. The thundering sound of blood in her ears forced Mercy to concentrate in order to hear. “Your brave struggle against the ladinos has stirred your ancestors, awakened the old powers. I’m their emissary, chosen to aid in restoring the greatness of the Mayan domain.”

  “How do I know this is true?”

  “Watch me lead a few battles.”

  The tatich laughed. “I have a bull that has a deep chest and a fierce bellow. I haven’t given it command of my armies.”

  Xia stepped forward, saluting the tatich’s hand. “Great Father, Pacal has eight companies of men ready at his word. If your bull could commit to you that many warriors, I think you’d give it a chance to command.” Laughter swept the room, easing the strained tension.

  “Eight companies?” The tatich frowned.

  “I’ve seen them, Father,” said Crescendo Poot. “They’re drilling in their villages when they’re not busy with the corn.”

  “And what of the corn?” growled the tatich. “What will happen if the men are off fighting at harvest time?”

  “Aren’t there old and young able to harvest, though not able to fight?” asked the general. “Besides, there are ladino stores and granaries. We could lose a harvest if we won the country and all its harvests forever.”

  The tatich stared at this gigantic possible ally, possible foe. “We will talk more,” he said. “Then I must take your messages to the Talking Cross and wait for the wisdom of la santísima.” At a signal, everyone except Poot, the chief spy, Xia, and Pacal started to leave.

  Her thoughts a despairing tumult, Mercy made herself small beside the ample Buddha and tried to drift out with the crowd. She must try to get away and alert the frontier and La Quinta. But how, guarded as she was? And Eric had recognized her! If only Dionisio would come! He might know some way to rouse the Mayan from this bloody dream before it brought fire and death to thousands, Cruzob as well as ladinos.

  And Eric. What would he do about her? She couldn’t believe he’d let her remain long in her hut. But it was Xia who suddenly stepped before her, blocking the way to the door, snatching away the shawl.

  “You!” The priestess’ eyes blazed with hatred, then dilated. She flicked her tongue across her lips and smiled. “This time we’ll teach you to stay where you belong!” Grasping Mercy’s wrist, she swung her toward the tatich. “This dzul slave! What price is on her?”

  “She’s a healer,” said the tatich. Pacal hadn’t moved, though the eagle mask made him seem to lean avidly forward. “And she’s the captive of an allied batab.”

  “Then I’ll buy her from him!”

  “Not presently. The batab is on a journey.”

  “So easy, then, for a slave to die or run off,” suggested Xia with a smile as coaxingly sweet as if she begged for candy.

  “Not this one. She’s brought a dead child to life. She’s valuable to the shrine.”

  “With Pacal you don’t need an herb doctor who was lucky once.”

  The tatich slapped his thigh resoundingly. “I decide what’s needed! Let the captive go!”

  Xia had the sense to duck her head submissively, but she gave Mercy’s arm a cruel dig with her pointed fingernails before she released it.

  “Señora!” the tatich called to Mercy. “Wait in the arcade!”

  The head spy came to watch her from the door and the Buddha arranged himself patiently in one of the archways. There was nothing for Mercy to do but take her usual seat by the empty hammock. And wait.

  The Buddha seemed to doze, but every time Mercy moved, his eyes opened wide, fixed on her. Once she went to stand in an archway. The tata nohoch zul followed to stand so close that she could smell his breath. She quickly went back to the stool.

  What was happening inside? The tatich had heard his soldiers hailing this new leader, had to believe what the general told him about eight companies ready to answer a call against the ladinos. The tatich must be deciding whether to go against the mood of the moment or how best to shape it to his own ends. And he was wily enough to know that a Cruzob leader who wouldn’t fight would very soon be past any need to.

  Mercy felt too overwhelmed to think about her own fate. Both Eric and Xia had recognized her. About the only hope she could have was that Eric hated her now and wouldn’t want her for himself. Whereas previously Mercy had prayed Dionisio would come, now she was afraid he’d endanger himself to protect her.

  It seemed forever, but at last the tatich came out of his chamber, Pacal looming behind him. Xia wore a pleased smile, and the general of the plaza had a confident spring in his step.

  “Tonight,” the tatich told them, “we will listen for the Talking Cross. La santísima will decide.”

  Pacal and Xia kissed the tatich’s hand and went to their own rooms in the palace, though Pacal stood for a long moment watching Mercy through the eagle’s mask. Novelo loosened his sash and sank thankfully into his hammock, reaching for a mango as he glanced at Mercy.

  “Old friend,” he said to the general, who was gazing north, as if picturing future conquests, “this captive was to marry Zane Falconer, son of a foreigner who, so I understand, saved your life long ago.”

  Poot turned to examine Mercy. It was hard to believe that a man could cause so many deaths over so many years and still look like a grizzled planter of corn. “That was long ago,” he said. “In the ordinary counting of days, I’d spare the son for the father’s sake, but in the kingdom Pacal will bring, there’ll be no place for dzuls.”

  He strode off to his own residence across the plaza. Mercy hadn’t expected much from him, but this was worse than nothing. She’d been deliberating as to whether or not to reveal Pacal’s true identity. Poot’s attitude made it clear she had nothing to lose.

  “Señor!” she cried out to the tatich, her tone surprising him so much that for a moment he stopped chewing. “That man who claims to be Pacal is really an Englishman, Eric Kensington, the man who abducted me!”

  “You’re sure?”

  Mercy grimaced. “I know his body! And
his eyes!”

  “So Marcos Canul didn’t kill him,” muttered the tatich. “You understand him, señora. Why would he fight with Cruzob against dzuls?’

  “He’s sold guns to the Cruzob for years,” said Mercy. “The whites aren’t English, so he doesn’t feel that he’s betraying his own kind. I doubt that he’d care if he did. He knew Xia before. When he lost so much, he must have thought she could help him recoup.”

  The tatich listened, his brow slightly knit. “If this is her idea, it’s a good one. There’ll be much loot if the cross takes Mérida and Campeche.”

  “If! You’re going to let Kensington deceive your people?”

  “What is he but a symbol?” The tatich shrugged. “If he inspires the people, it doesn’t matter if he’s stuffed with cornhusks. But it’s useful to know what he is. I thank you for revealing the secret.”

  Mercy got to her feet. “I wonder what would happen if I shouted it in the plaza.”

  “Try it,” said the tatich, smiling. “You’d be hacked to death in seconds unless I interceded. My men want to believe Pacal, and so they will. You may go to your hut, señora.” As Mercy started to leave, he added, “Tonight the Talking Cross will speak. You must hear it.”

  “I’m not Cruzob.”

  “But you will come.” He signaled lazily. The Buddha spy moved after her. Mercy thought she heard, from a long way off, Xia laughing.

  It was the longest day Mercy had ever known. She’d been afraid that Eric might visit her, but either he had no such wish or he judged it inadvisable. She still clung to the hope that if she could expose Eric to the common soldiers, they’d abandon the crusade. The tatich, tata nohoch zul, general of the plaza, and others of the ruling hierachy might know Eric was not Pacal, even that he was white. For them, used to wielding power through the Talking Cross, Pacal’s value lay in others’ belief, not their own. Real faith, to them, would be a drawback.

  Somehow she must unmask Pacal in public when there was a chance of getting the soldiers to listen to her long enough to at least plant doubt. If she died immediately afterward, she could know she’d done her best to keep Yucatán from erupting in racial slaughter.

  But how would she get that moment of attention before machetes ended her words? She was resigned to losing her life; she only hoped to sell it high.

  She went to the cenote, trailed by her guard. She listened to the excited buzzing among the slave women as they chattered about the resurrected giant priest-king. They all seemed as credulous as the soldiers. Mercy had to clamp her teeth shut to keep from shouting out Pacal’s true identity. Even if she convinced these women, they had no influence. Anything they said would be taken as an effort to shield their people from Pacal’s victory.

  No, Mercy told herself, wait for the right time, the right place—maybe tonight when the cross speaks.…

  After carrying water home, she bathed and washed her hair and stepped outside in back of the hut to dry it in the sun. But soon she went inside, inhibited from tossing and fluffing her hair by the ever-present young Buddha. Juanito’s mother brought venison for dinner, along with special tamales. A feast was being given for the visitors and the plaza was rapidly filling with men, women, and children from nearby villages who had come in to hear the commands of the Talking Cross.

  Juanito’s mother had a child by a major who’d certainly be mobilized if war came. It couldn’t hurt to leave a message in case she, Mercy, failed in exposing Eric. So, as the woman’s eyes widened, Mercy told her who Pacal really was and asked her to tell her major when she saw him.

  “He’s using the Mayas to do more than regain his power and wealth,” Mercy warned. “It’s possible that he’d try to make himself ruler of Yucatán. He doesn’t care a bit for Cruzob rights, or anyone else’s. To him, Creole, mestizo, and Indian are all un-English, hence, inferior—to be used and dominated.”

  “You’re sure of all this, señora?” The woman swallowed. “I … I don’t want to get my man in trouble. If he opposed what the tatich approves, he could be executed very fast. I’ve seen it happen.”

  “Your major would have to find a good chance to prove Pacal’s an Englishman,” Mercy said. “But if he did this, it might save both Cruzob and ladinos tremendous suffering.” She put a comforting arm around the frightened young woman. “I’ll unmask Pacal if I can. In case I fail, I wanted someone else to know.”

  “I owe more than my life to you, señora; I owe Juanito’s. If necessary, I’ll tell my major.” She caught Mercy’s hand. “What will happen to you if you’re not believed?”

  “What will probably happen, anyhow.” Mercy shrugged. “The priestess hates me. Unless the Englishman wants me, I’m sure she’ll find a way to kill me.”

  “If only your batab were here!”

  “I’m afraid he’d only lose his life. But when he does come, tell him. He was a bond-servant on Kensington’s estate, and he knows him well.”

  Mercy froze. It could be fatal for Dionisio, unprepared, to meet Eric, who was bound to learn how Mercy had been brought to Chan Santa Cruz. Even if Eric didn’t crave Dionisio’s life for his closeness to Mercy, he’d remove him as a person who might guess the truth about the face behind that eagle mask.

  “I must ask you another favor,” Mercy pleaded. “Warn the batab about the Englishman before they can meet. Otherwise, Eric might kill him before Dionisio grasped what was going on.”

  Now it was the woman’s turn to comfort Mercy with an embrace. “Don’t worry about that, at least, señora. I’ll get word to your batab. But please, don’t risk yourself till you have to!”

  Unwilling to distress the young woman further, Mercy didn’t say that she was already risked. Xia knew her; so did Eric. Instead, she thanked the woman and sent her away.

  Considerably relieved that Pacal’s secret would be known where it might destroy his scheming, Mercy slowly ate the spiced meat and delicately flavored tamales. She could hear the band in the plaza and the soft, distant rumble of singing voices, swelling as night descended and more and more villagers streamed into the shrine city.

  When would the Talking Cross speak?

  From dreading a summons, Mercy began to wish for it as minutes dragged into hours and the night wore on. Let it happen! her tortured mind told her as she paced from door to door and stepped outside always to see the dim figure of the Buddha spy watching from where he could see both entrances. Whatever will be, let it be! Just so it comes quickly while I’m still in command of myself!

  At last, wearied, thinking perhaps plans had changed, she lay down in the hammock and dozed fitfully. She dreamed Pacal was tearing her apart with his eagle beak when a voice reached through her terror.

  “Señora!” It was the Buddha spy. “You will come now to the church. At midnight the cross will speak.”

  Icily awake in a second, Mercy put on her sandals, tidied her hair, and slipped the shawl around her, though it could no longer act as a disguise. It made her feel a little less exposed, though.

  Would she be coming back? Was her life to end in this Cruzob city, severed by causes she’d never heard of a year ago? Would Zane ever know what had happened to her? And what would become of him and of everyone at La Quinta, on the frontier, and in Yucatán?

  She touched his black coral necklace, tried to find strength in their love, and followed her guard.

  Torches burned here and there along the plaza, flickering light and shadow on the Mayas thronging the plaza. Passing through the praying, singing crowd, Mercy was brought through an completely darkened church, also massed with worshippers, made to stand in a clear space that she supposed must be near the altar.

  Was this the time? Should she shout out that Pacal was a fraud? How far would she get, and would anyone believe, before she was hushed? Mercy was keying herself up to seize the first pause in the chanting when a soft hand gripped her shoulder and a fine dust was thrown into her face. It entered her lungs in a gasp, and when she tried to cry out a hand closed her mouth.

 
More dust filled her nostrils. Suddenly she was floating, light and free. Nothing mattered, especially not whatever she’d wanted to say. The only truth, the only reality, was this pure high drifting. In a moment she’d be part of it, merged completely, entirely at rest. The blackness was bright, dazzling, colors she’d never seen, colors to hear and smell, the taste of the rainbow filled her mouth, penetrated, became her.

  She scarcely knew when the singing stopped, but she felt the silence, reverberating with a sound like thunder rumbling from a long way off.

  There was a trilling, piercing whistle, silence that made the darkness a thick, living, palpable thing, and then a voice spoke from the middle of the air.

  “I welcome my son Pacal, who kneels to me, as is fitting. He worships me. His heart is no longer heathen. But the old powers are still strong, so I send them a present, a gift to obtain their blessing as you, my children, march on the dzuls. I command that the white captive known as Mercy be thrown into the cenote, where the Lord Pacal awaited my invitation, and where the yuntzilob told him they required this woman.”

  This woman? One layer of her mind knew what was happening. It didn’t matter. But because there was something, deep, almost forgotten, that didn’t matter, she tried to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t open. Her tongue couldn’t move.

  There was more dust in her face. The colors exploded, and she sank into them.

  22

  The colors were still before her eyes when she opened them, and they throbbed in and out of her brain. Her mouth was dry. She was a husk, a paper-thin shell, with only the colors real. But there was a voice, calling a name. Her name?

  Sighing, Mercy looked through the spinning, dancing colors to a face, smiling, evil. “Stand up. Those rags won’t do for a gift to the gods, though neither, certainly, are they getting a virgin!”