Song of the Hummingbird

by Graciela Limón

  “The entrails of our people curled around the soldiers’ boots, limbs dangled from their pikes, and they continued to attack because in their fear they had lost control over themselves. Their arms could not cease slashing. Their legs could not stop trampling. They bayed like coyotes, they wheezed like vultures, and finally when they saw that all was finished, they plundered the bodies and parts of bodies.

  “They filled their pockets with anything that was gold: earplugs, necklaces, ankle and wrist braces, headbands, and broaches. The greedy white men stole everything they could, loading themselves so that they could hardly walk.”

  Benito’s anger returned because he was certain that she was intentionally exaggerating the details. Most of all, he resented her portrayal of the Spaniards as greedy beasts.

  “Why are you making it sound as if the Mexicas were innocent and unjustly treated? Were they not planning to do the same thing to the Spaniards? If those soldiers did what they did that day, it was in self-defense.”

  “Including plundering? Including hacking children to pieces?” The woman’s voice vibrated with outrage as she responded to the monk’s remarks. He didn’t answer because he felt himself on the verge of walking away from her, never to return. His silence, however, encouraged her to go on.

  “When the surge of people knocked me down, I remained pinned under the weight of bodies, but I could see everything. Each of the details that I have given this record was seen by my eyes, and even though I lived, at that moment I wished that I had died.”

  Benito looked at the woman with an expression that told her that he didn’t feel sympathy. His face was stamped with a look of skepticism, and he raised his eyebrows suspiciously.

  “How is it possible that you remember so many details with so much precision? These events took place more than sixty years ago.”

  “I remember because those happenings were burned into my memory. I’m sure that even your captains, those that are still alive, remember just as clearly.”

  Father Benito put down the quill and began massaging his knuckles. He wanted to cut down on the woman’s brutal descriptions and instead fill his pages with more of the personal confrontation between Spaniards and Mexicas.

  “Can you describe Moctezuma’s death?”

  “Yes, but aren’t you interested in what happened after the killings I’ve just described?”

  “Yes, but not in so much detail. I would rather have you tell about the king’s death.”

  Huitzitzilin took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; the air wheezed through her withered nostrils. She nodded her head in agreement.

  “Captain Cortés returned to Tenochtitlan and to war because after the massacre, our people armed themselves, deciding to die rather than to be slaves.”

  “Tell me about the king’s death.”

  “Yes! Yes! I’m getting there! As I’ve already told you, I kept the king’s wife company and we were usually in his chamber. I remember that when he returned, Cortés realized that the Mexicas intended to kill him, so with his men, he barged in on Moctezuma, still thinking that the king held power over his people. The usually blue vein on Cortés’ forehead looked black and bulging, and his cheeks quivered. His stiffened arms were partially outstretched, and his fingers clenched and unclenched. It was apparent that he feared for his life.

  “Without speaking to any of us, he and his soldiers rushed to the king and took hold of him. Those of us present tried to help him, but it was useless because we were mostly women. Cortés and Alvarado took Moctezuma, forcing him to the terrace where he could be seen by people massed in the courtyard. This all happened very quickly and without explanations.

  “Then the silence that had up to that moment prevailed in our city turned to a roar. Drums, conch shells and rattles combined with voices demanding the blood of the white men. I saw Captain Cortés raise his trembling arm high into the air. The clamor ceased! All the while Moctezuma remained motionless.

  “There was silence. The wind sighed as it slid off the volcanoes, and only the sound of shuffling feet broke the stillness. I will say here that no one shouted or insulted Moctezuma as some have claimed. How many times have I overheard others say that it was Cuauhtémoc who called the king a woman of the Spaniards, and that as a result he was killed by a rock cast by one of our people.”

  “One moment, please! We all know that Moctezuma was indeed assassinated by his own people.” Benito had stopped writing.

  “That is not true! Some would like to believe it happened that way, but it did not.”

  “Señora, why would anyone want to distort the truth? What gain would come of it?”

  Huit-zitzilin’s face was taut, her lips were thinner than usual. “The murder of a king by his own people is an evil deed, one that proves their corruption. If the Mexicas had betrayed what was most sacred to them, then that would be proof of their vileness, and their destruction would be thus justified. What would be the gain, you ask? Not what, I respond, but who? To that question I answer that it was your people who gained by such a lie.

  “Here is how it happened. When Moctezuma stepped into full view of his people, he was met with silence because everyone was shocked by his appearance. By that time he had deteriorated beyond belief. His limbs had withered and his shoulders were slumped. His face was drawn and lined with countless wrinkles. His mouth was a thin outline of what it had once been. His eyes were hollow sockets; their fire was extinguished. All that could be seen in him was grief. His hair hung limp and slicked against his skull.

  “In truth, no one spoke! Cortés turned his head from the people, then to those of us on the terrace, then again to the people. It appeared that he wanted to say something either to us or to the masses, because his mouth opened and shut repeatedly.

  “When our people realized that Moctezuma was nearing death, their screaming began. It was then that Cortés lost courage and suddenly withdrew back into the chamber. Once inside, he turned to his captains and through clenched teeth muttered, ‘Take care of this dog!’

  “No! This is another of your inventions!” Father Benito challenged the woman with a raised hand and finger that nearly grazed the tip of her nose. “Everyone knows that Captain Cortés never gave such an order!”

  “Oh, but he did. I was present. I heard it with my own ears.”

  “You’re lying!”

  Getting to his feet, Father Benito began to walk away from Huitzitzilin, but something held him back. A thought flashed through his mind, suggesting that what she had said was not impossible. Cortés was known for having made several shocking decisions.

  The priest stopped where he was, mulling over this possibility and the impact that it might have on his document. He turned on his heels and found the woman’s uplifted face; she was gazing at him. Her expression told him that she knew his thoughts, but he returned to the chair anyway.

  “When Cortés left the chamber, three of his captains remained. One of them was Baltazar Ovando. They had their orders, and those of us who had remained in the room knew what was going to happen. Moctezuma’s wife tried to shield her husband, but one of the Spaniards hit her on the head and she died instantly. When I lunged forward to help her, the same man swung out but missed my face. Baltazar and the other man forced me aside, and when my eyes met those of the man with whom I had lain, he said nothing. He only stared back at me with vacant eyes.

  “It was Baltazar who took hold of Moctezuma and dragged him across the floor to a corner where he pulled his dagger and plunged it into the king’s neck, chest, and stomach. Moctezuma remained silent; the only sound came from the mashing of the knife against his flesh.

  “Despite Baltazar lowering his head, I saw the murderer’s face. It was distorted with rage and madness; it was repulsive beyond all words. The face that I had found beautiful was now hideous. The expression that I had thought gentle became monstrous.

  “When it was finished, Baltazar and the others left the chamber. They didn’t bother with me, nor with the bodies of
the king and his wife. I remained curled on the floor because I didn’t have the strength to move. I don’t know how long I stayed that way. A short time later, I was roused by the frightened voices of servants who had come to see what had happened. I got to my feet, trying to shake off the terror that gripped me and to order them to help me with the bodies.

  “They ran! Like rabbits, they scurried. Except for one, they all escaped, but even he refused to help me. Then I struck his face. I hit him many times, but still he cowered, inciting me to beat him until blood dripped from his ears and nose. Then he sprang to his feet and ran away.

  “I was alone, but I knew that the king’s body had to be treated with reverence. Leaving his wife behind, I struggled with him until I reached an isolated corner of the palace, rubbed his body with oil, and then set it on fire.

  “In the beginning, the body burned slowly, then with more energy until it was reduced to ashes. Our people were now waging war on the Spaniards. No one took time to investigate the reason for fire and smoke within the confines of the palace. When it was finished, I scraped the ashes into a pot and buried it in one of the palace walls. All of this happened on the same night during which the Spaniards were driven from our city. The Sad Night, as it is now known to your people.”

  Father Benito put down the quill and rubbed his eyebrows several times as if trying to smooth over ideas that were crashing inside his mind. Had the captains truly assassinated Moctezuma? If so, the chronicles and letters held by the Spanish crown either lied on this point or were deceived.

  The priest stared at the woman for several minutes, trying to detect signs that might indict her of having lied, but he saw none. Her body appeared calm as did her face. She seemed relieved, as if she had rid herself of a weight long buried in her memory.

  Benito carefully arranged his documents in the pouch. He cleaned the tip of the quill and put it in its place. When he tied the leather tongs, he patted the bag and looked at Huit-zitzilin’s face. Then he got to his feet. Before leaving he said, “Perhaps it did happen as you say it did.”

  Chapter

  XIV

  “When the people of Tenochtitlan drove away the white soldiers and the tribes that had helped them, they returned to their homes to celebrate their deliverance. Several of the enemy had been captured. They were offered in tribute to Huitzilipochtli almost immediately.”

  Huitzitzilin had resumed her story. Father Benito, increasingly less intimidated by the mention of that god, put aside Father Anselmo’s warning against its mention. He justified this by reminding himself that this information was already widely known in Spain and hardly considered heresy. The priest remembered that it had been Cortés himself who had conveyed the horror felt by him and the soldiers who had survived that ordeal, when they actually had seen their comrades being sacrificed.

  “But you’ve only mentioned those days in passing. Don’t you have any recollections of it?”

  “Yes, I remember as if it had happened yesterday. When the Mexica saw what had become of their king, they declared a holy war against the white men. The first thing that was done was the removal of bridges inside the city, thus trapping the enemy. It all happened so fast that the snare had been laid for the Spaniards by the time I finished with Moctezuma’s ashes.

  “Several days passed during which our people attacked the Spaniards with arrows and lances, or whatever else could do harm. The white men fought back with fire-spitting weapons, but they were overwhelmed by our numbers. Soon they, their allies and their animals were without fresh water or food, and eventually, in the silence of night, we could hear their groaning. After a while, we heard even their whimpering.

  “It took eight days for Captain Cortés to devise a plan to escape the trap. In that time he designed a wooden bridge that could be carried by hand and used to cross the canals connecting the causeways out of the city. His men were able to construct the bridge using materials ripped out of the palaces where they were living. When they were finished, the captain gave the order to evacuate Tenochtitlan during night time. It was a rainy night, I remember.”

  “The captain’s account tells that the escape took place during the last night of June. However, he isn’t clear as to what went wrong.” Father Benito spoke quietly as he recalled the information sent by Cortés to the King of Spain.

  “The plan went wrong when one of our women happened to see the Spaniards sneaking out of the city. She began to shout, alerting those around her, and from there the entire city. At that moment, the Sad Night began for the white intruders.

  “A woman! How ironic.”

  “Priest, don’t be surprised. Mexica women were important throughout those days. We faced the ordeal in equal measure with the warriors. We were involved, many times even during battle, and most certainly during the last siege.”

  Father Benito reflected on what Huitzitzilin said. It was logical that Cortés should have omitted this in his reports. He had glossed over the fact that regional tribes had been crucial to his victory over the Mexicas, as he had also done regarding his own soldiers, claiming most of the credit for himself. The priest saw that the captain would not want to mention the role of native women in the event which turned out to be his greatest humiliation.

  “Then what happened, Señora?”

  “HaaReee! HaaReee!”

  Without warning, Huitzitzilin let out the Mexica war whoop. Her voice was so loud and shrill that it startled Father Benito, making his arm jerk, nearly toppling the ink pot. He looked at her, amazed that she had such power in her lungs. Then he looked around, wondering why no one in the convent had come to see what was happening.

  “The call to war and to what our people had been awaiting was sounded, and all of us—men, women, and even children—rose in jubilation, knowing that since it was decreed that we were to be the last of our nation, then at least it would be our joy to be the ones to plunge our knives into those pale breasts. Ours would be the honor to offer their hearts to Huitzilipochtli.”

  Benito’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. He looked at Huitzitzilin and saw a frail, old woman who was admitting her part in the sacrifice of his countrymen. When she saw the look of horror on his face, she changed.

  “I’ve shocked you again. I’ll go on, but I’ll mention only those details that caused the Spaniards to be killed or cast out of our city. Nothing more.

  “As they were attempting to leave, it began to rain heavily. Their vision was impeded. They slipped and fell under their four-legged beasts. Sheets of water poured down on them. In the darkness, those crawling, creeping men looked like squirming worms. Amid the booming of the Snake Drum, the din and clash of metal and wood, the screeching of animals, our warriors rushed the escaping horde from behind, as well as from the lake, where countless canoes stabbed their flanks. All the while, the Spaniards were pounded by arrows and lances.

  “We women took places on rooftops, casting stones and pointed objects on their heads. All the while we whooped and screamed like devils, knowing that the pandemonium would increase their fear. Cortés and his captains were able to cross the causeways leading to the edge of the lake, but since they had only one bridge for the entire army, our warriors did not give them time to cross. The trap closed.

  “When Captain Cortés turned to look back, he saw a snarl of armor, horses, and lances. He saw men jumping one on top of the other, trying to make their way across the bridge. He saw many of them fall into the lake and sink like floundering turtles dragged down by the weight of stolen treasure. He saw Captain Alvarado sink his lance into a dead body, bracing himself forward to safety. He saw his concubine rushing over human limbs, stepping on heads and shoulders so that she could live. Then it suddenly ended.”

  Father Benito shook his head from side to side. “One account says that when the captain turned back and saw what you have described, he broke down and wept like a child. The tree under which he cried is still there. It was among the first things that I was shown when I arrived here.”

&nb
sp; “I’m sure you were shown a tree, but I doubt that the captain wept.”

  “You doubt it? Why?”

  “Because jackals do not cry.”

  Chapter

  XV

  “It was a mistake.” Huitzitzilin went on reflecting on the days that ended with the Sad Night. “What was a mistake?”

  “Not to follow our enemies that night to exterminate them. But at the time we were so jubilant, so filled with joy and relief that we had rid our city of the invader, that all we could think of doing was to turn to Huitzilipochtli. Our new leaders, Cuitlahuac and Cuauhtémoc, had gained our confidence. Their war tactics had proven effective, and we as a people had need to raise our spirits once again.

  “We returned to our temples, but we were wrong. By doing that the Mexicas allowed Cortés to retreat, gather more tribes as allies, gain time to recuperate strength, and then attack again. But then, I’m certain that all of that has been recorded in your documents, has it not?”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “Let me ask you this. How were the Mexicas really defeated?”

  Father Benito looked at the woman, not knowing exactly what her question meant. For a moment he thought that she might be trying to fool him, and he smiled, but it was forced.

  “The tribe was defeated by the superior soldiering led by Captain Cortés in the final battle for Tenochtitlan.” The priest heard his words and realized that they sounded hollow. They were repetitions of what he had been told since childhood.

  “That’s what the chronicles say, but it was not truly that way. Before Captain Cortés returned to avenge his honor, we were cut down by the most horrible thing that had ever struck our people. It was more cruel than the starvation and thirst we suffered when we were later put under siege. It was the disease brought to us by your soldiers, and it became more terrifying than your weapons. It was more frightening than your dogs, and it was a death more painful than the tortures inflicted on us by the new Spanish masters.