“When the shafts of golden light finally struck the uppermost part of the great pyramid, the conch shell bleated its mournful notes. Then the ceremonial drum boomed out its message that another maiden was to offer herself.
“I was elegant, even resplendent, draped in gold, beautiful feathers and gems. I stood with my eyes riveted on the mountain ridge to the east of the city where I could make out the volcanoes. I imagined the expanses of land that spread beyond them to the jungles, and farther yet to the ocean from where you came.”
Father Benito glanced at Huitzitzilin. He took a long, side look, trying to imagine her young and beautiful. What most intrigued him was that what she described had happened before the captains from Spain had discovered this land. He calculated rapidly and concluded that the woman’s wedding took place three years before the arrival of Don Hernán Cortés, and thirty-seven years before his own birth. The monk whistled softly, but then was abruptly taken from his figuring by the woman’s thin voice.
“The ceremony began. First into the circle of the privileged who assembled at the base of the pyramid was the High Priest and Moctezuma, who blessed me, praying that I would be granted happiness. This, I confess, made me shudder because no one had ever mentioned happiness to me. Not even my mother. Perhaps it was the king’s mood at the time because sadness clung to him like a pall. His eyes and lips betrayed it. Remember that there were already signs predicting the end of the fifth sun.”
The priest stopped writing. “What signs?”
“There were several. One was an explicable fire that almost destroyed the main temple. Another omen was when dead birds filled the lake. There were tremors, strange tides, and the voice of a wailing woman who cried out for her babes. There were many other signals, but I’m sure your historians have already written about them.”
He scratched his chin, thinking. “Yes. Now I remember. Is it true that King Moctezuma was actually waiting for the arrival of our explorers?”
“It is true, and like most everyone else, he thought they were gods. Later on I’ll tell you the truth of why he was convinced of that. For the time being, let me continue telling you of the ritual that handed me over to Tetla. The actual contract was a simple thing and consisted of only one gesture. The man took the maiden’s hands in his and uttered an agreement to take her as his concubine, to fill her with children, and to feed her.
“The last part of the ceremony is one that will enhance your record. It consisted of a dance in honor of the serpent goddess. It was performed by maidens, twenty or thirty of them, and they were led by my chosen ladies. What a pity that you have taken those practices away from us, because you have not given us anything to replace them.”
“If we have asked your people to abandon certain practices, it is because they were rooted in the devil.”
“How can anything beautiful be rooted in evil?”
When Father Benito refused to answer, Huitzitzilin returned to what she had been saying.
“The dancing maidens were breathtaking! Together, they formed a myriad of colors, feathers, precious stones and gold. And the sound that they created. . . oh,. . .you have never heard anything like it! Each woman had strands of small gourds wrapped around her ankles and wrists; their motion combined to create a bewitching sound. The rhythmic rattle of hundreds of gourds collided against the walls of the temples and pyramids, each time rising up and up until it spiraled heavenward, reaching to the very sun!”
Father Benito stopped writing because he was captivated by the excitement that had overcome Huitzitzilin. She was sitting erect, and she had raised her arms above her head; they were tense, and her outstretched hands seemed to be reaching out to another world. He thought for a moment that he saw her body sway, as if to a beat indistinct to him.
“The dance emulated the undulating of a snake, each girl holding the waist of the one ahead of her. First, the serpent coiled its way down the pyramid from the Sorcerer Bird’s temple where the dance had begun. Then it slithered down to the plaza of the square, its many bare feet stomping in cadence with the drums, its shoulders and hips rising and falling softly but firmly. The she-snake then danced in the center of the gawking crowd of lords, nobles, and commoners. The drums heightened their beat, and the serpent followed, more and more rapidly, more and more intensely, hips moving, bellies heaving in and out as if copulating. Soon came the frenzy, the climax, and then an abrupt, jerking stop.
“Then it ended. Although the dance had lasted no more than a short span of time, it left the maidens visibly aroused, their breasts heaving, and the rest of the onlookers seemed ready to pounce one upon the other.”
Huitzitzilin slumped into her chair fatigued; she was breathing heavily. After a while she looked at Father Benito and saw that he was staring stonily into space. His face was hard and his lips showed displeasure. He had stopped writing.
“You’re displeased?”
“Yes! Now you see why we’ve condemned your ways?”
“It was a mere ceremonial dance that preceded the marriage act! What can be wrong with such a thing?”
“The marriage act is private, secret, and only the followers of Satan would dare simulate it in public. I cannot write this down, Señora. I would certainly be reprimanded first by my superior and then, God forbid, by the Inquisition.”
“How foolish you all are! It was only a dance, I tell you! Nothing more, nothing less. It had nothing to do with your wicked Satan.”
Huitzitzilin and Father Benito fell into an angry silence that lasted several minutes; neither wanted to speak. She wrestled with her resentment of his attitude, and he with an intense, uncontrolled physical arousal.
It was Huitzitzilin who finally spoke: “What comes next is what occurred on my marriage night. But before you object because such a description is offensive to Christians, allow me to interject that it is a crucial event in my life, and the sins that I have since then committed hinge on that night. If I do not speak of it, all that will follow will be meaningless to you as my confessor.”
“Am I correct in understanding that you are ready to go on with your confession?” The priest spoke through stiffened lips.
“Yes. Put aside your writing instruments because I’m sure that you will consider what I have to say as sinful.”
Now Father Benito wanted only to leave the woman’s presence. He felt that her words were pushing him closer to the black hole of sin, and he feared for himself. Instead of walking away, however, he reached for his stole.
“In the middle of the revelry that night was a young and beautiful woman who sat still and erect upon her low chair at the head of the banquet room. At her side was an old and obese man; someone repugnant to her. She smiled as she looked out over the heads of the company. Her eyes seemed riveted on a distant point somewhere in space. That beautiful young woman was Huitzitzilin and her eyes were seeing what was to become of her life if she were to live through that night. She was also thinking of Zintle, and of her love for him.”
The priest noticed how the woman was referring to herself as if she had been a stranger. Because he was now listening as a confessor, however, he did not interrupt.
“When Tetla had gorged himself with food and drink, he belched loudly, wiped his flaccid mouth, and rolled his eyes in Huit-zitzilin’s direction. Her heart stopped because she knew that she would soon die or face a worse ordeal! Tetla ordered the accompanying maidens to get to their feet and lead the concubine to the bed chamber. They did so instantly, and as Huitzitzilin followed them, she became aware of the hush that came over the guests. She saw lustful looks being exchanged.”
The monk put his hand on the woman’s shoulder, trying to convey the sympathy that had inexplicably replaced the anger he had felt a few minutes earlier. He wanted to let her know that he sensed the pain with which she was telling him her story, but he saw that she was transported far back to the past, to a world long since destroyed by the Spanish captains.
“The women companions were supposed to rem
ain to witness the consummation rite, but Tetla ordered them out of the room. Then he tore away Huit-zitzilin’s gown. She stood before him naked, exposed. He remained standing in front of her, running his eyes up and down her body, pausing at her breasts, her belly, and on her most intimate part. His breathing became thicker and quicker, his vulture’s beak pursed.
“Then he pointed to the bed and commanded her to lie on it. She did. Then Tetla stooped low over her and peered into her secret parts. He squinted and strained, and the concubine knew what he was attempting to see. But the light was dim, and his eyes were even dimmer with age and drink, so that he was unable to see if she possessed the membrane that women are born with and to which Mexica men give so much importance.
“Tetla bent even farther down, dipping his face so close to her that she could feel his breath spill over her thighs. She suddenly knew that he was about to plunge his dangling nose into her. Her knees violently snapped shut! They closed hard and viciously upon his head, and she heard by the dull thud that she had caused him much pain.
“’Ahg!’ he groaned as he reeled backward. He stood dazed, attempting to regain his balance by pressing back against the wall. Huitzitzilin was filled with terror, and like those insects that skitter on the sands of a river, she rolled herself into a ball. But Tetla composed himself and returned to her, forcing her to open her body to him. Then he violated the concubine.
“She thought that it was over, that she was about to die, but it wasn’t, because Tetla chose not to kill her. Instead he battered her. His blows fell on her like rocks. His fists hammered at her head, face, body, anywhere they found a spot. He threw her off the bed, stomped his feet on her shoulders and buttocks. His fingers coiled themselves around her hair, and he dragged her around the room. Then he picked her up like a sack of maize and threw her against the wall, bouncing her back and forth, smashing her face against any surface that he could find. Tetla did that and many other things over and again, and he did it silently, without uttering a word or sound.
“The concubine remained silent also, but the pain became more unbearable with each moment. Her breath became slower, and the light began to grow dimmer. All she could hear was Tetla’s breathing and her own throat gasping for air. Then, as if in the hollow of concentric circles, she began to sink and slip down. . . down. . . down. . . to Mictlan, to the land of the dead, and deeper still . . . down and down. . . even beyond the kingdom where your own prince Lucifer lurks. . .down. . .until she landed in the pit of all pits, and there was total darkness.”
The woman’s voice trailed to a hoarse whisper until it stilled. Father Benito was silent. He was so filled with her pain that he could not speak. He saw that she was moved by what she had just told him and that she was shivering. He tried to help by adjusting the thin shawl closer to her shoulders, but when it did not help, he put his head close to hers.
“This is not your sin. It was his alone. I know that in my country a man would have done the same to a woman, but still, it is his sin, and not the woman’s. May I ask you to forgive him now so that the anguish might disappear?”
“It happened to her, not to me. It is she who must forgive Tetla for what he did.”
Father Benito stared at Huitzitzilin, trying to understand her meaning. Then, wrinkling his brow with incomprehension, he nodded, got to his feet, and walked away from her.
Chapter
V
Father Benito sat quietly in the leather and wood armchair near the fireplace; the flickering flames in the hearth held his gaze. He was in the monastery library facing his confessor Father Anselmo Cano, who sat holding his thin hand to the side of his face. In the glow of the fire, his tapered fingers threw shadows on his bony forehead and on the pointed cowl covering his head. Looking away from the fire, Benito had the impression that the countless books surrounding them moved in rhythm with the reflections cast by the fire.
Both monks were quiet for a long time, and their silence was broken only by the sputtering of burning logs. It was Benito who finally spoke up.
“As I’ve said, Father, I can repeat what I heard this afternoon because it was not truly a confession. The Indian woman told me first of her wedding ceremony, and then of the beating she suffered at the hands of the groom.”
“I see, and I agree that you’re not breaking the seal of the confessional. But I see that you’re in turmoil, Brother, and that you would not be here at this moment except that you’re looking for my assistance. Tell me how I can help. After all, it was I who advised you to continue your conversations with the woman.”
Benito sighed deeply, conveying his confusion. “When she described the ordeal she suffered at the hands of her husband, the woman spoke of herself as if being someone else.”
“How so?”
“She spoke always of the Concubine. Not once did she say me or I. Do you understand me, Reverend Father?”
“I understand your words, but I cannot explain why anyone would speak in that fashion.” Father Anselmo stopped abruptly. “Unless she speaks in that manner always. Is that the case?”
“No. Only when she spoke of that incident did she revert to such a distant way of describing what happened to her.”
The monks returned to their silence. This time Father Anselmo had his elbows on the armrests and held both hands together at the fingertips, as if in prayer. Father Benito sat with his hands in his lap. It had grown dark out, and only the muffled sounds coming from the brothers in the kitchen could be made out, interspersed by the distant barking of a dog.
“She has told you much about her people?”
“Yes, Father.”
“New information, by your reckoning?”
“Very new.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Gladly! She has described certain events and occurrences that have centered on King Moctezuma. She has been able to tell of the clothing he wore and what he said at such times. To my memory, no one has chronicled similar information.”
“I see.” Father Anselmo was evidently pondering what next to say. “What else has she said that you consider valuable?”
“Let me see.” The young monk reflected for a moment. “I have much already written, but other examples that now come to mind are her willingness to describe the city as it was before its conquest.”
“Captain Cortés has done as much.”
“Of course, Reverend Father, but the woman is able to describe what the captain did not. She tells of the way ordinary rooms and palaces were kept. She has also described, just today, a ritualistic dance that I’m positive our people never witnessed. Also, she has made several references to the true reasons of why her people expected us. This, I know, we have not yet recorded.”
The older monk returned to his thoughts for a long while, and then spoke. “It seems that your time is being well spent. But why are you agitated and worried? What is it about the Indian woman that disturbs you?”
Father Benito flinched as if Anselmo had pricked him with a pin; the question had hit its mark. “It’s the inexplicable way in which she tells her sins. A way that is not marked by repentance, but rather as if her actions had been mere happenstance. She expresses herself in a way that makes me begin to wonder if what she has done is sinful or not.”
Father Anselmo showed his alarm at what Benito had said by suddenly dropping his arms on his lap. “Father, please! Never, never repeat that to anyone, even if you do believe it! Walls have ears, you know, and the Inquisition is ever alert to ferret out heretics.”
The priest sat back, giving himself time to regain balance, then he continued, his eyes locked on those of Father Benito. “You did not utter those words! I did not hear them! Do you grasp my meaning, Brother?”
“Yes, Father.” Benito’s voice was hushed fearfully.
“Is the woman a baptized Christian?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so? Are you not certain?”
“Well. . .I mean. . .she’s in the protecti
on of the convent.”
“That means nothing!”
“She voluntarily asked to confess.”
“She could be laying a snare for you!” “Father, she bears a Christian name.”
“What is that name?”
Shaken, Father Benito realized with alarm that he didn’t know her name, except that of Hummingbird. He concluded that to reveal that the woman’s name was that of a bird would not be wise at this moment already filled with uncertainty.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out tomorrow.”
Father Anselmo sighed, expressing exasperation. “I’ll grant you permission to continue meeting with the woman under certain conditions. You must, first of all, prepare yourself to distinguish between what was purely tribal tradition and what was religious ritual. Never, never allow the woman to allude to the demons that were the mainspring of their so-called religion. You must remember that her people were steeped in witchcraft and possessed the means to conjure demonic powers.”
The younger priest swallowed hard, remembering that he had already trespassed this injunction. Benito nervously returned his attention to Father Anselmo who had paused, sucking in a large gulp of air. He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes, and then went on. “Perhaps the enigmatic way in which she described her wedding night is the beginning of a hex; the first signs of sorcery. It’s possible.”
“I don’t believe that, Father, but I will abide by your counsel.”
“Very well.” Anselmo paused as he scratched his chin; he appeared to be weighing one thought against the other. He finally spoke. “I’ll trust in you, Benito. However, I have a second condition. You mustn’t feel pity or sympathy for her previous ways, or those of her people. We have brought them redemption, don’t forget that. We can’t allow them to relapse.”
“No, Father, I won’t forget, and I accept this condition also.” He closed his eyes, recalling the feelings of compassion he had already experienced for Huitzitzilin.
Song of the Hummingbird Page 4