Song of the Hummingbird

by Graciela Limón

  Father Benito took out the stole that was tucked into the leather pouch and draped the cloth around his shoulders. The passion with which Huitzitzilin was expressing herself gave him reason to listen as confessor and not as scribe.

  “But what could I do to punish Baltazar for the grief that he had committed against me? I hated them both: the man and the woman. I despised her dryness and I detested his cruelty. Then I began offerings to Mictlancihuatl.”

  Father Benito’s eyes widened and his jaw set, giving him a stern expression. Now he was certain that this was indeed a matter for confession, and he was relieved that he had foreseen it.

  “Who or what is Mic. . . Mic. . .”

  He could not pronounce the word. But he sensed that it was something connected with the religious beliefs that were held before the gospel of redemption reached Huit-zitzilin’s people. It was against this that Father Anselmo had cautioned. Once more, the woman had caught Benito unprepared.

  “Mictlancihuatl is the goddess of Hell.”

  “Señora!”

  “Yes! I repeat that I prayed and made offerings to her, imploring her to come to my assistance, to fill me with the evil of a multitude of demons. I begged her to enlighten me as to how to deal the blow that would avenge my sufferings.”

  “You were a Christian by then, and you knew that your thoughts were sinful. You were aware, I’m certain, that wishing evil on another is a mortal sin. Our Lord Jesus said. . .”

  “Sin or no sin, it mattered little to me!”

  Huitzitzilin cut off Benito’s words, and she kept quiet for a while as if expecting him to go on, but he didn’t. He appeared to be angry and unwilling to say more.

  “Then I slipped into a stupor that lasted for days until something happened that cast me further down into Hell.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  Huitzitzilin, oblivious to Father Benito’s words, went on speaking. “A voice came to me, telling me to rise from my mat, that something terrible had occurred, that my son Baltazar had died. The coach that carried him and his sister crashed into a ravine and the boy perished. The voice told me that only Paloma had survived the accident.

  “Hearing of my son’s death jolted me out of that black dream, and, strangely, I knew what I was to do. Mictlancihuatl had come to my assistance. My vision became as sharp as that of the eagle or of the tiger that sees its prey and prepares to devour it. I rose from the mat filled with the desire to inflict not only the pain which Baltazar had caused me, but a suffering magnified countless times. I knew what to do.”

  “To be filled with evil is to be possessed by Satan, and to hate is a capital sin. Did you not understand that the passion to which you yielded put your soul in jeopardy? You should have sought the counsel of a priest.”

  “No! A priest would have sided with Baltazar, just as you are now doing. He would have told me to resign myself and to offer my pain in atonement for my sins. A priest is a man, a Spanish man, and he would have told on me.”

  “You’re wrong! I am not siding with him. And besides, don’t you understand that what is said in confession is sealed forever? A priest, when hearing a confession, takes the place of God, and he never betrays the confidence of a sinner.”

  “I didn’t believe it then, nor do I believe it now!”

  Father Benito stared at Huitzitzilin. He was dumbfounded. He wanted to reprimand her, but she had spoken with such intensity that he couldn’t find a response. He felt useless, ridiculous. He was hearing the confession of a sinner who did not believe in his power to forgive. An uneven sigh wheezed through his nose.

  “I listened to the voice of Mictlancihuatl, who instructed me. I called one of my fellow servants and asked for help, and he agreed. I told him to brag that he knew where the treasure of Cuauhtémoc was hidden. If he did this enough times, the gossips would see to it that it reached Baltazar’s hearing.

  “The man did as I told him, and as I had predicted, word reached Baltazar and he called the man to his presence. He questioned him closely, repeatedly, in the beginning with skepticism and then, gradually, with belief. He was greedy, and just as Mictlancihuatl had foreseen, it proved to be his demise, because he fell into my trap.

  “Baltazar ordered the servant to take him to the treasure. Did Ovando take the precaution of having at least one other person with him to provide assistance in the case of danger? No! That would have placed him in the position of having to share the treasure. Instead he followed alone, convinced that he had discovered what even Captain Cortés could not find.

  “Following my instructions, the servant led Baltazar to Tlaltelolco, the place where Cuauhtémoc had made his last battle and which was still in ruins. In fact, to this day there are hidden corridors and buried vaults known only to our people. It was to that place that Baltazar followed the servant.

  “He was led to the entrance of a collapsed palace, through several rooms, then on to a hallway, down through an opening to stairs that descended into a chamber in the bowels of the earth. There the servant told Baltazar to wait while he went ahead to open the last entry leading to the treasure. Shortly after the man left, Ovando heard the bang of a closing door. And there he waited. . . and waited. . . and waited.”

  As Father Benito listened, he felt his body tensing because he sensed what had happened to Baltazar. He didn’t interrupt Huitzitzilin because he was afraid that she might change her mind and not confess the whole story.

  “The chamber door through which the servant had exited was firmly sealed behind him, but it had a small panel. It was through that opening that I was able to see, to hear, to smell, to savor the agony of Baltazar Ovando. When he realized what was happening, he began to shout and pound on the door with his fists. Time passed, and I listened as fear gripped his heart. It wasn’t until hours later that I let him know that I was on the other side of the door.

  “I said to him through the opening, ‘Baltazar, it is I, Huitzitzilin. This is my gift to you in return for having stolen my children.’ That’s all I said before he scrambled to the door, beating and kicking at it while he ordered me to free him. His arrogance did not last long; soon he pleaded and begged me to release him. I didn’t respond. My silence was the answer to his sniveling. I closed the panel and walked away from that tomb.”

  “You left him there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He died?”

  “Yes.”

  Father Benito closed his eyes, trying to grasp the fact that the old woman seated in front of him had committed murder. His mind darted in different directions, hoping to discover words to say, but it was no use, because all he could comprehend was that a captain of Spain had been snared into a slow, excruciating death, and that the assassin had been Huitzitzilin.

  “Why did the captain not take someone with him? His death might have been avoided had he been accompanied.”

  “I’ve already told you. He was greedy and would not take the chance of having to share the treasure with anyone.”

  “Why did that servant—your accomplice—obey you, knowing that it was murder? Did he not fear being chastised and even put to death?”

  “Baltazar was hated by all of his servants. It was easy to find someone to help do away with him, even at the risk of punishment.”

  “Why did the captain believe the servant so readily? Did he not understand that the treasure might not exist?”

  “His greed blinded him just as it still happens with most of your captains.”

  Father Benito ran out of questions. He was perplexed. He thought for a long while of what to say. His knowledge of the law was limited, but he knew that the woman’s deed was even now liable to severe punishment. He reminded himself then, that he was a priest, a confessor, and not a judge or an executioner. His voice faded to a whisper.

  “Murder is not only a mortal sin but a capital offense. You know what happens to murderers in Spain, don’t you?”

  “Are you going to betray me?”

  Benito’s eyes nar
rowed as he stared at Huitzitzilin. Again, his mind groped. She had committed murder, and the thought of it appalled him, despite the fact that she had been provoked by the captain.

  “What would we do if all the mothers deprived of their children murdered the men responsible?”

  Benito had not meant to blurt out what he was thinking, but the words slipped through his lips. He saw that Huitzitzilin was momentarily confused. She was waiting for an answer, not a question. She repeated her query.

  “Are you going to betray me?”

  “No. My lips are sealed by the sacrament of penance.”

  “Will you forgive me?”

  “God forgives all sins if there is contrition.”

  “But will you forgive me?”

  Huit-zitzilin’s persistence unnerved Benito, and he tried to evade her question. He understood that he didn’t have an answer because he was horrified by her revela tion in spite of his obligation to forgive her in the name of God. Yet, it was not God’s pardon that she was demanding; it was his, and he couldn’t find that forgiveness, no matter how much he looked into his soul.

  “Señora, I’m not feeling well. I’ll return tomorrow to finish your confession.”

  As he stood, Benito felt his knees shaking and his head aching. He walked away from Huitzitzilin carefully, taking one step at a time. He feared he would trip and fall.

  Chapter

  XXI

  “Brother, I can see that you are in greater anguish than ever. Is it the Indian woman?”

  Father Benito’s eyes squinted as he gazed at Anselmo, mostly because the older monk’s discernment amazed him and partly because of the declining rays of the sun. Anselmo had come upon Benito a few meters from the entrance to the monastery, where Benito had been walking with head hung low. When the porter opened the gate, the two monks walked towards the inner cloister. Father Anselmo invited Benito into his cell. Once inside, Anselmo pointed to a small bench.

  “Please take a seat.”

  Anselmo remained standing with his hands clasped, finger tips pressed together. It was the posture he took whenever he was addressing the monks in his position as prior.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Forgive me, Father, but it concerns the woman’s confession.”

  “I see.”

  Anselmo’s body softened as he turned to gaze out the window cut into the stone wall of the cell. There was a long silence before he spoke again.

  “Brother, the seal of confession is a heavy burden, one that only the Spirit can alleviate. Put yourself in God’s hands, and He will deliver you from the weight that I sense bearing down on you.”

  Huit-zitzilin’s words describing the murder of Captain Ovando echoed in Benito’s mind despite telling himself over and again that the awful deed had been committed so many years before that it should be forgotten as well as forgiven. He nonetheless struggled with the issue of justice. Should she not have been punished for what she did?

  “Father, have you ever heard a confessed sin so grievous that you have found it beyond your forgiveness?”

  Anselmo reflected on the question for a while before answering. “It is not for us to forgive. That is for God alone to do.”

  “Yet, how can we, mere flesh and blood, presume God’s forgiveness if we, in our hearts, cannot find that same pardon? What I mean to say is that if I raise my hand in absolution knowing that my heart detests the evil committed by the sinner, how can I tell if God is forgiving that person?”

  “We know that God forgives precisely for the reason you’ve just given. Our Father hates the sin, not the sinner who is victimized by evil. When this distinction is made, mercy follows easily.”

  Father Anselmo pursed his lips, confident that he had responded appropriately to Benito’s question. When he began to move from where he stood, however, the younger priest spoke up with another barrage of questions.

  “But are we priests not God’s instruments? And if we are, then is it not true that we should feel God’s pardon coursing through our soul and mind? And if this does not happen, is it not true that we should conclude that God has remained unforgiving?”

  “Father Benito, one moment, please! One question at a time.”

  Anselmo raised his hand in midair, its white, tapered fingers casting a luminous aura against the dark wall of the cell. He moved to a chair and sat next to Benito, the better to look into his eyes. He then realized that most of the daylight had diminished. He stretched his arm until he reached a candle on his writing table, struck a flint and lit the wick. When he leaned back, he again put his hands together at the finger tips.

  “We must conclude one thing only when hearing a penitent’s confession, and that is to absolve. When there is contrition, then we know that God will most certainly forgive.”

  “And if there is no contrition?”

  Anselmo arched his thin eyebrows in astonishment. “Why would anyone confess a sin if there is no contrition? That would be a contradiction.”

  Silence filled the stony cell while Benito searched his thoughts, wondering about Huit-zitzilin’s motives for having confessed the sin of murder. He was unsure that it had been remorse or sorrow. Then he looked at Anselmo as if wanting to speak, but the older priest held up his hand in a gesture that silenced him. Fearing that Benito was dangerously close to divulging the secrets that should remain buried in his soul, Anselmo decided to end the conversation.

  “Brother, continue your transcription of the Indian woman’s chronicle. Leave the forgiveness of her sins to our most merciful Lord, who loves all His children in equal measure.”

  Father Benito got to his feet, nodded in agreement, and walked to the door. “Good night, Reverend Father, and thank you. I’ll reflect on what you have said.”

  “Good night, Brother.”

  Benito spent the night sleeplessly as he wrestled with the idea that Huitzitzilin should have been put to justice. As the night passed, his thoughts relived the days he had spent with the Indian woman. The events of her life, as well as the people she had described, glided from one side of his cell to the other. Tetla, Cuauhtémoc, Zintle, Cortés, Ovando, her sons, her daughter, all of the people Huitzitzilin had evoked in his imagination marched in front of the priest’s eyes.

  He tried to sleep, but it was useless. After hours of trying to doze, he abandoned the struggle, lit a candle, and went to the table where he had stacked the pages that held the woman’s story. He scanned the manuscript at random, beginning with the Hill of the Star, reviewing her words on the ways and beliefs of her people, their homes and temples, her marriage, loves and grief. With each line, Benito felt more captivated by Huit-zitzilin’s words.

  He was staring at the last page when the bell for matins began to ring; it was dawn. Huit-zitzilin’s story, he realized, was unfinished and he knew that it was for him to record that ending. When he stood up from the table, his legs were cramped by the damp chill of the cell. They ached, but he paid little attention to his discomfort because he was thinking of the woman’s story and her insistence on his forgiveness.

  “Have mercy on us, O Lord, and in your bounty forgive our transgressions.”

  Father Anselmo’s prayer began the early morning chant, and as Benito took his place in the choir, he felt the power of Huit-zitzilin’s life permeate him. Making the sign of the cross and bowing in expectation of the prior’s blessing, the young monk put aside his preoccupation with justice and concentrated on the gift of mercy.

  Chapter

  XXII

  “Good morning, Señora.”

  Huitzitzilin looked at Benito; her gaze was cheerful. She smiled at him.

  “Good morning, young priest. I see that you’ve changed.”

  “Changed? What do you mean?”

  “You’ve grown wiser.”

  As always, the woman’s forthright response caused Benito embarrassment. But this time he decided to pursue rather than dodge her remark.

  “How can a person grow wiser overnight?�
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  “By accepting what is in here.” She pointed to her chest with her index finger. When Benito gawked at her, she continued speaking. “Have you forgiven me?”

  His face flushed until the high ridges of his ears turned a purplish hue, and he shook his head expressing his emotions. Benito felt a mix of admiration and uneasiness at the way the woman could read what was stirring inside of him. He had to clear his throat before speaking, but his voice was thin.

  “Yes, I have forgiven you. But it is not I who should. . . “

  “Please say no more!” Huitzitzilin shifted in the chair and smacked her lips, also demonstrating her feelings. “I have more to tell for your chronicle.” She appeared to have forgotten about her hatred for Baltazar, as well as sin and punishment. She stared at Benito, waiting for him to produce his writing materials. Although she saw him hesitating, she prepared to continue with her story anyway.

  The monk felt uncertain of going on because of the change in her. He felt that something was missing: a link to connect the intensity of the day before and her present relaxed air. He turned to gaze first at the fountain, then at the flowers; he was taking time to find an answer. When he returned his attention to Huitzitzilin, she had begun to speak, so he reached for quill and paper.

  “When it was realized that Baltazar was missing, Captain Cortés launched a search for him. No matter where they looked or how many slaves were flogged or punished, Cortés was unable to discover anything leading to Baltazar’s disappearance. Cortés, after a time, was forced to admit that it was futile to continue the investigation. Baltazar’s wife returned to Spain along with most of her possessions, and their land went back to the king of Spain. We, the slaves and servants, were indentured to Captain Cortés.

  “Tenochtitlan continued its transformation, so much so that it was now beyond our recognition. Captain Cortés prospered and his possessions grew. His house hold also expanded not only with new servants and slaves brought from other places, but from the birth of babies, most of them fathered by Spanish soldiers.