The Golden Chalice of Hunahpú
A Novel of the Spanish Attack on the Maya
by
William Vlach
SMASHWORDS EDITION
The Golden Chalice of Hunahpú
Copy © 2012 by William Vlach
Cover painting by Emanuel Paniagua
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author or publisher.
This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living or deceased, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
for Norita
We the indigenous peoples of Guatemala declare and denounce before the world more than four centuries of discrimination, denial, repression, exploitation, and massacres committed by the foreign invaders and continued by their descendants down to the present day. The suffering of our people has come down through the centuries, since 1524, when there arrived in these lands the assassin and criminal, Pedro de Alvarado.
—The Declaration of Iximché
February, 1982
My sons! Newest generation of this ancient city of Thebes! Why are you here? Why are you seated there at the altar, with these branches of supplication?
The city is filled with the smoke of burning incense, with hymns to the healing god, with laments for the dead. I did not think it right, my children, to hear reports of this from others.
You, old man, speak up-you are the man to speak for others. In what mood are you sitting there- in fear or resignation? You may count on me; I am ready to do anything to help. I would be insensitive to pain, if I felt no pity for my people seated here.
— Oedipus the King, Sophocles
And these are the orders from The Dead.
—Defixiones, Diamanda Galas
Beatriz, The Unfortunate
Úbeda, Spain, 1538 AD
CHAPTER I
The light falls onto his medallion, reflects beams up into my eyes, blinding me. This gold is from the pagan kings of Guatemala, an emblem of their barbarous god. Our people, Christians, refined the precious metal into a splendid coin medallion stamped with the profile of our homely King. Around the top of the coin is inscribed: Plus Ultra. Always Further.
The savages think this man, Captain-General Pedro de Alvarado, is the sun god. I sit by the fountain facing my captain, aide to Cortez, now ruler of all the Americas south of Mexico. He tells me stories of fierce battles with Indian warriors, of the royal cities of Iximché and Utatlán, of the Indian gods Xbalanque and Hunahpú , a hell they call Xibalba, of the promise of cities of gold.
There is nothing in my head except moist memory. I listen and smile. That is all I can bring to him. Margarita had told him of the latest gossip, Don Juanito and Patricia.I am afraid to open my mouth for fear of an overflow of cackling crickets.
“This new world of yours seems more a story of soul than geography and power,” I say, attempting wisdom.
Father smiles at us from his upstairs window. His white hair falls on his elegant skin. Until that moment I thought father was a man of the sun. A man of the court. He looks with awe at this conquistador with the pink skin and red beard. Father nods and turns away.
My captain has changed since he married Margarita. His brow is wrinkled- receded hair, older; he walked into our home with a limp. I think his right leg is shorter than the left. The greatest difference is in his eyes. I remembered soft gazes before. Now his blue eyes fly around the courtyard. I wonder if he sees savages peeking out from behind our new purple bougainvillea.
I want to reassure him that I am not one of the savages. I reach over and touch his hand. It is cold. His eyes became still as he looks at me.
Mother shakes her head- no, no, no. She sits opposite us, watching. Her narrow face and trembling dark lips protrude from her black veil. She hates him. She could never forgive him. Margarita’s death, her destruction.
To my shame, she does not care for manners.
“You see only a future of red silken robes, gold, sacred music. You forget the death of your sister,” she says to me.
I can not imagine why he courts me. Margarita had been beautiful. She carried her full frame steadily through the world. My thin young body could have been blown across the fields by a angel’s sneeze. She was charming and witty. I am not. But Lucia says my eyes are like bright butterfly wings.
“Beatriz,” my conquistador says, turning his attention to me and away from mother, “I carried your name in my heart. Everywhere I went, I thought only of you.”
“I was but a child when you last saw me,” I say looking down at our shadows on the white cobblestone.
“You will join your sister,” mother says. “Look into his eyes. His family is no better than the savages. The gold he has amassed will never right that. He is from a family of scrounging beggars.”
My suitors, the boys, wore their doublets to the chin with stiff collars. They scratched their necks as they begged me for the favor of a glance. My captain does not have to beg. His doublet is cut in the regal style. My heart’s blood flows with his exploits. His violet silk cloak rests over his square shoulders.
“God has granted me a special vision,” he says, ignoring mother, touching his red beard, winking at me with his blue eyes. “With this vision I can see the evil contemplations of the Indians of Mexico and Guatemala. I destroyed them. And with this same vision, I could see the beauty in the little girl; I could see the woman in the child. I could see you as you are now.” His melodic voice mixes with the voice of the fountain.
“Gold can not transform the man underneath the doublet,” mother says, now crying for effect. “Symbols betray.”
I had worked to present myself to my captain. Long black hair braided with blue and yellow ribbons; gold earrings, red centers; dark blue jacket with silver stripes tied together at the sleeves with crimson clasps; blue skirt sprinkled with silver half moons; gold embossed sandals tied with crimson leather.
I look up. “But you were courting my sister then.”
“The vision I had of you was fleeting,” his voice and the fountain become one, becomes song. “In a moment you were gone. I went on to the New World. I faced death. Almighty God chose to let me live, live to see you as a woman, to see your full beauty.”
Mother stands and begins to cry real tears.
“You give the gift of fear,” I boldly say to her.
“He does not mention your sister. And he will give me another death.”
He stands with the air of dignity, as is expected, and nods to me and to mother. My heart flies to him as I watch the damage of the Conquest in his broken stride as he walks to the doorway.
“No one is worthy to court the child of a grieving mother,” mother says.
“Then why did you let him come here today?”
“Your father gives the gift of ridiculous hope.” Her voice is separate from the fountain. It grates like a broken wagon wheel.
“What more does he have to do to prove himself?” I hear my voice raise. I have tried in vain to keep control. “Hasn’t he been through enough? It was not only your daughter who died. She was not only my sister. She was also Margarita, wife of Pedro de Alvarado.”
The youngest is always the most protected. Perhaps this protection adds to my passionate protection for him.
“All the Galicians who have gone to the Americas has been infected with some sort of evil. They bring back disease, plagues. The conquerors of the New World are turning the Old World savage.”
“You hate him.”
“You betray your sister,” she says staring at me.
“I loved my sister. I think he wants me to be Queen of the Americas.”
“You are a child, barely fifteen. You are forbidden to see him again. Forbidden.”
“What do you want of me, mother? Here I will marry and become supervisor of servants. Or I’ll enter the convent. There are no other choices for me.”
Mother’s face is now crimson. “There is no respect. You will do what is right.”
“How could you understand my feelings? You are old.”
“Wicked.”
With that one word mother makes the birds and their songs scatter like cattle in a thunder storm. I am a silly little girl. She turns her back to me and stalks out of the courtyard.
I imagine Margarita standing next to me. I was jealous. Her full beauty, her straight white teeth, the dignity and power of her walk. I had always been a sad thin thing with dark hair and a baby’s face. Her light hair fell to her waist. I looked at her and saw my inferiority.
Poor dead Margarita. Killed by some disease at the port six days after they landed. Did she suffer? Did she become afraid? Our oldest brother Eduardo had waited for her in New Spain, waited in vain.
When I was a child and was confused I would go to the cathedral. As I grew older, I retreated to Father’s books. I walk to his sanctuary, sit in a corner I begin to read my favorite love story.
“You and your mother are just alike,” Father says. He had quietly crept up behind me to startle me. He loves to tease. “You read such garbage. I’d like to take those books on romance and chivalry and throw them in the fireplace.”
“They’re harmless, Father.”
“I don’t understand how your mother can be so virtuous and holy and at the same time waste hours reading that nonsense,” he laughs. “And I thought at least you would have better things to do.”
He could always make me laugh. I particularly enjoyed laughing at my mother. We walk out of the library arm in arm.
“Mother...,” I begin.
“Your mother litany needs to be addressed to another,” he says, kindly.
Upstairs in my bedroom I kneel and pray for guidance.
***
“Beatriz.”
Margarita stood up from kneeling by our bed and twirled around three times. Her white cotton night skirt lifted and I could see her black velvet slippers. “We must be martyred for God.”
I was afraid to move.
“This will be our full and total commitment to God,” she said. “There will be no question then about our entering heaven. Martyrs enter heaven. We will go straight to Our Lord.”
I looked up at her. My sister was confident and beautiful in the orange flickering fire light.
“We will express our true love of Our Savior.”
She knelt down next to me again.
“But will it hurt?” I asked.
“Yes. Offer the agony up to Our Lord. You will join Him in everlasting joy.”
I wasn’t taken with the idea.
“Across the square, past the cathedral is the bridge,” she whispered. “Beyond the bridge are the murderous Moriscos. They pretend to be converted. They are not.”
We covered ourselves with our black shawls then boldly strode hand in hand through the narrow cobble stoned streets. She wanted to die and meet Him face to face. I wanted to follow her.
We didn’t talk. It was very late and the only sounds that could be heard were the dogs barking from the other side of the river.
“How will they kill us?” I asked her as we left our neighborhood of San Martin.
“They hate Christians. They will chop off our heads.”
I cried as I followed her onto the bridge.
“Don’t be afraid, Beatriz,” she whispered. “When we die we will go straight into the lap of Our Lord.”
On the bridge we looked down at the river. In the blackness below, the river roared through the rocks. It seemed to be calling out our names.
I turned back from the railing. “Will I be able to see through my eyes as my head falls to the ground?”
Margarita determinedly marched toward the other side of the bridge.
I followed.
“This is the only way to totally give ourselves to God,” she cried back to me. I ran to catch up with her, then saw her stop in front of a dark figure. He leaned over to reach for her.
I said a thousand rosaries in the time it took the figure to pull Margarita back to me.
“My nieces,” he said, “It is late.”
In the darkness I saw Uncle Luis’ white bearded face. First, he walked us to his home to let us warm up by the fire. We drank warm milk as I looked up to the small golden cross by the fire. He watched me looking at it, praying to it, as Margarita told him our story.
“It is time to return home, my children,” he said. “Maybe you did not receive martyrdom, but perhaps this will suffice.” He reached up, pulled down the golden cross, and handed it to me. I held it. It was hot from the fire, and darkened by years of soot.
I felt his warm and leathery hand as he walked us home. I held the cross close to my chest. I knew we had failed.
CHAPTER II
“She won’t let me see him. He will leave for the New World next week and I will become old and die alone.”
Lucia face saddens. She is like my younger sister, though she is only a handmaiden. Her shoulders are broad and she tugs on her skirt when she becomes afraid. We stand at the bottom of the steps to our newly constructed Holy Chapel of the Savior. We wait while my mother and father speak with my great uncle, Francisco de los Cobos y Molina, secretary to Charles V.
“They argued about it last night after she told me. She is merciless.”
Lucia’s brown eyes fill with tears. She reaches over and holds my hand. The families leaving Mass swirl along the street in front of us. They open way for a man slowly walking by, his head covered with a brown sack cloth, wearing only a gray apron. Blood runs from his back as he lashes himself with a short leather whip. Lucia looks from my face to him, then pulls at her skirt. Blood always scares Lucia.
“I do not want to become like her,” I say. “I suppose God has given us no choice. You get old and wrong. But dear Lord, do not let me become like that.”
“I will pray for you,” Lucia says, blessing herself.
We join the people on the street and begin the short walk back. Everyone has dressed in their finest and darkest clothes, deep blue silk, crimson gowns, gold and silver ornamentations for Maundy Thursday.
“I think she is like this because her mother destroyed her dreams,” I whisper to Lucia. We were the same height. Her light blue servant dress refreshes me, brings me hope. “I wonder what she wanted when she was my age. Love?”
We walk through the crowded streets, arm in arm.
“I think of him all the time. My every moment is devoted to my captain.”
Three young dandies strut by. Each give the Castilian manly look at me. Each receives, in return, Beatriz’ blessing— a look the other way.
“I do not want to turn into my mother.”
Lucia nods quickly sneaking a look at the boastful boys.
“All she thinks about is herself.”
The people in front of us give way, this time for a mule. Lucia and I step aside also. Atop the mule is a woman wearing a tall red and white dunce cap. Her hands are tied, a stupid grin spread across her face. Her husband holds the reins with one hand and hits her with a stick with the other. The people in the streets laugh and point.
“Easter week has become a circus,” I say. “Let me tell you about last night.
Dreams prophesize, don’t they?”
Wondrous wide green leaves were everywhere. Sparkling drops of water rested on top of each. Somewhere nearby was my captain and his men. Through the leaves and trees I heard an graceless song of a bird. I walked off through the white mists to look for her.
The foliage broke open and a green bird flies up frightening me. It was exactly as my captain had described. The feathers were long and greener than the forest. She disappeared into the high blue sky. How could she have had that odd song and be incredibly beautiful?
I walked further. I came to a small lake. In a cove protected by the trees and the green leaves, I took off my clothes, then slid into the cool water. The blue water. I swam under the water with orange striped fish. As I swam, my body became longer; I breathed the water. My body turned blue; my skin tingled. I had elongated.
Lucia looks at me with strange dark eyes, embarrassed. I disentangle myself from her and quickly walk on to our house.
***
I sit by the fountain waiting for my next suitor. Mother lined these wastrels up like a row of rotten eggs for me to step on. I would prefer to kick the first, then let that one smash into the next creating a line of crashing shells and splashing yolks. In the babbling of the fountain I imagine my captain telling fantastic stories of the Conquest and the New World. After a while I lose his voice and watch the birds chase each other through the trees.
Young Diego sits down in my captain’s chair. His green velvet cap is ornamented with a huge red plume.
“You are lovely,” he says struggling to look directly into my eyes. “Your gown of crimson and gold symbolizes the incredible beauty of your soul.”
“Diego,” I say, “This is not fitting on the Thursday before Good Friday.”
“Love exists beyond time,” he says, knowing he has been reprimanded. “You are considerate and wealthy,” I say looking directly into his gray eyes. “You would take care of me. You would be a splendid father. But you would be perfect for my mother, not for me.”
“I will go to Africa. I will fight the Moors.” His voice is low and sweet, but the faster he speaks, the more it loses its depth. “In the east, the Turks must be destroyed for what they have done to Constantinople. All this must be done, not for personal wealth, like some have done, but for the Crown.”
“You will do this and you would do that,” I mimic him.
He looks like I had just struck him across the face.
“My love for you is brighter than the stars, brighter than the sun.” He tries again. “My love for you has the depth of an old woman holding her grandchildren.” He is on one knee, now. “My love for you is the hope of the newest baby. My love for you is the happiness of the sinner who meets God in heaven.”
“Your love for me,” I explode as I stand up. “Your love for me. Your love for me. Have you ever asked yourself if I have love for you?”
“But,” he sputters, “I exalt in your beauty and glory.”
“There is no hope for us,” I hiss.
If Diego’s love for me was the hope of the newborn, now his face is that of a mother who delivers stillborn. He stands and quickly walks to the gate.
“Lucia,” I call out.
She runs up and stops in front of me. “The men here act like calves or bulls even though they have no horns.”
Lucia forgets her place and smiles.
“We will take a walk to the outskirts of town. It is time we visited Aunt Maria.”
“But, madam,” fear spreads across her face, “she has been excommunicated.”
“Lucia, Aunt Maria is old. She sits in front of her house all day wearing black.”
“What would happen if your family should find out that you’ve seen her?” Lucia’s eyes well up as she pulls on her skirt and her blouse.
***
As Lucia and I walk into Aunt Maria’s neighborhood of small houses and dried up flowers, I hear crying and wailing. Three women dressed in long flowing black robes walk toward us. Each carry olive wood rosary beads.
Lucia tightly holds my sleeve as they walk by. “Why do they grieve so?” she asks.
“There is always death,” I say.
Aunt Maria sits in front of her door. She rocks back and forth whispering a silent song. Her long gray hair is carefully combed back into a bun. Her face is round and smooth.
I greet her, then tell her what I need. He will leave in seven days.
“You are a child of fifteen,” she says as if that had anything to do with it. Her eyes are soft, set in a smiling face.
“I came to you for help and you give me the words of your younger sister, my mother. I thought you would understand.”
“I too have doubts about this man. I remember his overwhelming ambition when he was courting Margarita. I was afraid that he coveted the family wealth and the protection of the secretary to the Crown
“But he loved her, Auntie.” She stands and we walk through the doorway of her small house. She is tall like my father. I wave for Lucia to wait outside. The rain is light. Aunt Maria shakes her head as I close the door.
“Who knows what is true anymore?” she sighs. “Our land has been betrayed. Everything costs too much. No one knows what has value anymore. The King pleads with the German Houses for war money. Then there are more wars to protect the loans.”
“The King and my captain are not gold grubbers.”
“The King repays vast loans of gold from the Fuggers of Germany with silver, copper, and mercury.”
“This has nothing to do with my captain.”
“There are rumors,” Aunt Maria says, “That he has taken an Indian Princess as a bride in New Spain. That she had his baby.”
“You do not conquer the Americas for Christ if you are a sinner.”
Aunt Maria sadly shakes her head.
I stand up, raising my voice say, “You don’t know. How could you possibly know?”
“Child,” she says softly, “child, you are still young. Your captain is closer to my age than yours. He is fifty-two years old. You are a child, a child.”
“You must have forgotten your Jew, old woman,” I say in a rage. The soft features of her face melt into loss and loneliness. Shame pours over my soul.
“I miss him,” she says, her gaze now inward. “It has been years. I see him, taste him like morning. They needed to purify the land from the Jews. They didn’t know he was already pure.”
Aunt Maria, Lucia and I walk through the night to our house. The memory of her lost Jew brings her to my side. I am afire with hope. She goes to my mother. I wait in my father’s library as they discuss and argue. My aunt is the oldest sister in the family. That gives her sufficient power, I think.
She passes the doorway to the library with a nod to me.
“Time, my child, time,” she says, and walks away.
CHAPTER III
Our custom on Good Friday morning is to fast and pray before attending the Stations of the Cross at the cathedral. Father and I kneel together in front of the central fireplace and quietly pray the rosary.
Mother walks in and interrupts us with a cruel smile. “Your captain is having more troubles in Court. They have taken away his Captain Generalcy of Guatemala.”
“How can they do this after all he has done for the Church?” I say as I stand up. Father looks down at his olive pit rosary, blessed by the pope. “He has brought pagan souls to Jesus Christ. He has brought the Crown great new lands for Spain. They must be jealous.”
Mother laughs at me.
I stalk from the room in a rage. I run to my father’s library to cry and read. I stare at the floor.
Antonio walks into the room. He does not see me. He glances around, then quickly walked over to the books. I wonder- would my father have allowed a servant, a converted Moor, a morisco, to read his books? I didn’t know he could read.
He picks out a small black book at the end of the shelf. At first I think he is going to steal it, but instead he opens it.
He is a dark man. I think he must have been handsome. Wrinkles cover his arms and face. He is older than my Father. His twisted right arm dangles in space while he holds the book with his left. The arm had been ruined during his conversion.
I think he must have believed in his pagan god as strongly as I believe in Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. If Mother had known these thoughts, she would have shoved me into a convent. He closes the small book, then holds it to his chest. It was almost as if he were receiving warmth from it. His eyes close. His passion. I could not guess what book of my Father’s could give him so much joy.
Antonio opens his eyes. We find ourselves looking at each other. His black
eyes widen in fear. The book falls from his hand. He picks it up, returns it to the shelf, pretended he had been dusting.
“What is that?”
His face goes stiff.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Bring it here, Antonio. Bring it here now.”
“Yes, mam.”
He walks over to me carrying the book with his good left arm. He hands me the book, then turns and starts to leave.
“Wait,” I say. I open the book as he stands by the door. The first five pages are in Arabic, the rest in Spanish.
Curiosity overwhelms me.
I look at the cover. Al-Muqaddimah. I have no idea what that could mean. The author is Ibn Khaldun. Again, I think, how could my father have allow this? I read on.
It is a book of science and philosophy. I glance though chapters. I did not know they could think so clearly. A man called Aristotle he describes as “The First Teacher.” That is not a Christian name.
As I read I become nervous. Could I be excommunicated for reading this? There was nothing that could help me. I looked closely. The writer condemned the black arts. I thought- does he condemn them because of their power? The Moors were a mysterious people.
Perhaps here was a power capable of bringing my captain and myself together. No matter what the expense, moral or spiritual, I would use anything to bring him back. I ask Antonio about the book.
“I don’t know anything about that, mam.” Antonio replies.
“Antonio, you are a morisco. You must know about what this man condemns?”
“I am a Christian now. I do not know anything about the black sciences.”
“Do you know anyone who knows about these things?”
“I am a Christian. I have nothing to do with this.”
I look into his face. His eyes are dark, but no darker than many Castilians. His face is wrinkled and tired. He seems almost to be pleading with me. I realize he has no choice.
“Just the other day I heard of a converso who was accused of stealing a consecrated host. They say he had been using it for evil magic. I don’t know what the Dominican Inquisitors did with him.”
Fear floods Antonio’s face. “Madam, would I not be as vulnerable as he if I joined you with a sorcerer?”
“At least you would not be accused of doing something you had not done.”
The matter is settled. I try to douse the painful flames blistering my conscience.
Maybe a month in the fires. Maybe a year. Maybe eternity. I will have my way.
***
I walk upstairs to change for church. Mother walks in front of me. She is happily carrying several sheets of papers.
“You doubted me,” she yells. Her teeth protrude from her long face in a wicked smile. “These are the charges drawn up against your captain by the Audiencia of Mexico.” She throws the papers at me. “And this is the man you wish to spend you life with. Even your patron, your Aunt Maria can do nothing now.”
I leave them scattered on the floor and run to my room.
I walk around my bed and call my mother names.
I remember her yelling at me to not drop the canister of flowers I brought her for Easter when I was seven. I could not concentrate, I dropped them. She yelled and whipped Antonio and Lucia. She explained to me that I could never read because I was an idiot. She screamed at my father that he should scold me in church, that he let me get away with sacrilege. I remembered at night how I would walk through the courtyard to feel the cold on the bottom of my naked feet, a way to feel something other than shame and rage.
My captain had been through far worse. This is my test, I realize. I return to the stairway and gather up the scattered pages. In my room I put them in order and read.
The first two charges say that he robbed and burned Indian villages. The third charge say that he did not pay the Royal taxes. That he received large amounts of gold, jade, and cacao and did not share it with his companions nor the Crown. That he massacred four hundred Aztec nobles who were innocently dancing and celebrating. That because of this slaughter, war broke out and two hundred Spaniards died and four hundred thousand Indians were killed.
I read about the land that my captain wants to take me to: “And the further charge is made against said Pedro de Alvarado that coming to Guatemala by command of Hernán Cortez that the people of these provinces warred with him and afterwards came to make peace and the said Pedro de Alvarado seized the Kings and Lords and told them that they should give him gold, then burned them without any other reason or cause whatsoever.”
I stop reading. They obviously do not know this man. They have gone too far. It is impossible that my Spaniard or any Spaniard could commit acts of barbarism in the name of God. The Spanish conquer in the name of God, not gold.
***
“How do you know this woman, this Carmela?” I ask Antonio as we walk across the same bridge Margarita and I had tried to cross years before.
“When I was a child we lived next to her,” he says. “We were very poor and she offered to help my mother. I was her servant.”
“And in that the way you found out she practiced the dark arts?”
“She practiced every art. There was nothing she couldn’t do.”
“She hid her magic.” I say as I hear the bells from the cathedral ringing. The sun is directly overhead. Noon, the hour Christ was placed on the cross.
“Not exactly. It just seemed to be one of the dozens of those things she did to make a living. She was a seamstress. She made perfume. She brought together young lovers.”
“Does she use magic to solve problems that otherwise can not be solved?”
“Yes, but I don’t believe in that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” I say, saddened at myself the second I say it. I excuse myself, I am desperate.
We stop in front of a small fenced field. In the middle of it is an old stone shed.
A shapeless old woman covered with a dirty brown sack opens the door. She shakes her head in recognition. Her ancient brown skin is covered with splotches of yellow and red.
“Antonio, I loved you as a child and you left me, you betrayed me,” she says, then lets us in. The room is small and dark. I am disgusted with the smell of rotting things.
“I taught you all that I know. Where did you learn how to change fear into hope, garbage into money, hate into love? Wasn’t all that from me?”
Old Antonio looks down. “Yes, Mother.” Her head is covered with short white hair and seems larger than it ought to have been for her short squat body. White and brown moles all over her face. A single black mole emerges from between her eyes.
“And now you stand there wanting a favor from me. You’ve gone off and become a servant to the wealthy and here you are, wanting a favor. I can not eat from the plate of old times. This old mouth can not survive on nostalgia.”
“Carmela,” I say. “We did not come here to take advantage of you. If there is payment that you want, I will gladly provide that.”
She glances a pathetic look at me, then turns back to Antonio. “But it is my duty, no matter what you have done to me, to love you. I have been treated like this by all whom I have helped. Everyone. Why did I suppose that you would be any different? Aren’t all mothers blind to the deficiencies of their children? I am. You must be able to see that, because I am sitting here talking to you instead of throwing you out as I should.”
Carmela picks up a glass of red wine from the table in front of her. A dead fly floats in it. How could someone like this help me?
“No matter what happens to me, no matter what my children and lovers do to me, I can still see,” she says as she drinks. “I can penetrate their thoughts. I can still peer into the roots of things. You know that. Or have you forgotten my skills too?”
“Yes, Mother. I know that you can do that.” Antonio stands across from her in front of the table. A tall black candle separates them. “That is why I have brought this good lady to your attention. She has a problem that you could help solve.”
She turns her evil gaze at me. For a moment I am nauseous. But then I think, I will do this for him, I will do this to gain my lovely captain.
“A young woman dressed in finery. What could you possibly want with an old hag like me? There is nothing I could possibly do for the likes of you.”
“If Carmela would consent,” I say to Antonio, “I will tell her of a situation, a problem, that perhaps she could solve.” I love my captain, but I will not beg for help from this old heathen.
“Antonio, you’ve brought me such a fine lady. So young and so beautiful. She dresses in such finery. This must explain why she talks to you when she wants to talk to me. But that is sufficient. What is an old lady like myself to expect? I am beneath the glances of such a woman.”
“A problem has arisen, Mother. You could help,” Antonio says.
“It must feel wonderful to call me Mother again. I am poor and weak and anybody can call me anything they want. Even ungrateful sons.” She scratches at a mole on her arm. It bleeds.
“This woman is horrid,” I whisper to Antonio. “Why did you think you could get her to help me? She despises you.”
“Let me try again.” Antonio walks around the table and stands next to her. He begins talking to her in a whisper. I can not understand what he was saying, but I know that it is not in Spanish.
I think: This is what I’ve become. I consort with the devil’s people.
I look at the books scattered about.
“I will help you, Antonio. But I am embarrassed by what you have become. I did not raise you to become a lackey to the Spanish.” She turns her wrinkled old face to me. “Antonio has told me of your dilemma. For his sake I will help in any way that I can. I am old and do not practice this sort of thing any more, but this frail old body and spirit will do the best that they can.”
“What can you do?” I ask her.
“Here,” she points to a chair. “Sit down. Sit down. You sit down, and we shall get to know one another.” Her tone is sisterly.
My pride is broken. No more righteousness left. All I know was that I want my captain back. In my humility, I cry. I actually cry in front of this heathen woman.
“Don’t you worry,” she says. “I can use spells and charms. There are things in these books that could change the world, if it were written that I would be allowed to do that. Sadly, it is not written. But I do have great powers. There are magical formulas that can help you, in this your hour of need.”
I think for a moment I detect a note of sarcasm in her last words. She goes on as if there were not.
“I can keep away the evil eye. There is nothing to it. I can stop the noise that one hears in the ear. It is simple. I can make people urinate when they don’t want to or can’t. It is easy. I can save the corn fields from drought; I can stop the fever and plague; I can break fever and bring snakes into the land. I can do this and much more. But you must tell me the truth. You must leave nothing out. If you tell me only half of the truth, not only will you not receive your request, your problem will become worse. One of my lovely young clients turned into a hare because she left out a small detail. You must tell me everything.”
I do. God help me, I do.
Then she asks me about my dreams. I motion for Antonio to leave us alone. In my shame and anxiety, I tell her of the dream in the water. She looks deep into me, then laughs. I want to kill her.
“My lady is quite passionate,” she says.
“Now you must help me,” I say.
She shakes her head, smiling. “Underneath all this torment is the desire of a young woman. There are great tides in you. The captain is the beach that your waves strike. When the ocean is in torment, the sands on the beach may become rearranged to fit the desires of the waves.”
“I request your aid, mother.”
She sighs. “If you insist. Nobody takes my simple advice. Everyone wants an amulet. Today is Good Friday. That will work. It is not a favorable day, but it should work. Yesterday I would have told you to go home. Wednesday is the day the Pharaoh sank into the sea. Last night was a full moon. That is also favorable to you. Some days are lucky, some are unlucky, and some start good and end badly.”
“You must help me, mother.”
“You are being helped. Here, draw these letters. You will need them. On Thursday you will boil three eggs. Remove the shells and write these inscriptions on each. Then eat them. This will cool you.”
I write down the symbols: circles with lines emanating from them, swirling spirals that seem to lift from the page.
“Then I want you to write this with your fingers on an empty glass.”
Lines become circles become spirals become the cross become a crescent moon.
“After you have done this, pour water into it and drink it. By drinking this charm, you will be safe for what follows.” I copy the inscriptions. I want to throw up.
“Now here is the part that will bring your captain back. You must perform this task exactly as I outline it for you. I don’t think you can do this. We should stop now. I have asked you to do too much already.”
“We must continue, Mother.”
“You must do exactly as I tell you.”
“I will, Mother.”
“Take the skin of a black cat and the fat of a white chicken, mix them, and rub your eyes with them. This will allow you to see the way to bring your captain back, God willing.”
“Is this what I need to do?”
“That is part of it. After you have done this, then take the heart of a black cat and wrap it in the skin of a wolf. Cook it until it is tender, then feed it to your mother. Your captain will be returned to you then.” Her left eye began to twitch.`
CHAPTER IV
I return home in time for tea with the ladies. Traditionally, after Good Friday services my friends would meet me at our house. We would refresh ourselves. He had suffered on the cross from noon to three p.m. After three we could have tea and a small amount to eat.
I hope none of them noticed I had not been at the cathedral.
I sit as Lucia serves us. They smooth their dark gowns with dainty light hands.
They talk and puff themselves up with gossip.
“And Diego, have you heard what has happened to Diego?” Louisa puts her tea cup on the table and looks at me.
“No, what has happened to Diego?” I ask looking at the painting of the Virgin on the wall above her head. She is pointing to her heart with the bloody dagger going into it.
“He has sworn he will become a priest.”
The others cover their mouths with napkins and laugh.
“I felt something in my heart for this boy once,” I say. “But now, now it is time for Diego to grow up and mature and to see other girls. Perhaps you, Eugenia.”
“And you, Beatriz,” she responds. “This must be a very difficult time for you. Losing Diego and then this old man, some sort of sailor I understand, keeps trying to take up all of your time.”
“This man, this sailor as you call him, is the savior of the Indians. He is the conqueror of more of the world than you can imagine,” I say, feeling the blood rush to my face.
They laugh openly at my indignation.
In a rage I push over the walnut table. Tiny white ladies’ cups fly through the air crashing to the floor. I stand up. “This man has saved the Crown by bringing the King vast amounts of gold. This man I will marry and I do not care what my mother says, you say, or the Crown. Or the Church. I will marry him.”
I stalk out of the front room leaving them paralyzed in their chairs.
“Lucia!”
She boils the three eggs. There is no complaint. I begin with the easiest of the tasks, then proceed. She brings me the cooked eggs. In front of her I remove the shells and sit them on the table. Steam rises from the small white eggs. Three shiny white eggs rest on the dark brown wood.
I stare at them and Lucia stares at me. On each I inscribe the symbols that Carmela had given to me. I do not look at Lucia, but I can hear her gasp. After I eat the first one I look over at her. She blesses herself over and over again.
I wonder: eternal fires for love?
I eat the last egg then tell her to bring me an empty glass and a pitcher of water. She looks frightened. She returns as I had directed her. With my finger I inscribe on the glass the symbol that had been given to me. I pour water into the glass and drink it. I think she is going to faint.
She refuses the next task.
She cries. She begs. “This will be my damnation. My children will be born of the devil. I will do anything you ask except consort with the devil. This is surely devil’s work.”
“Lucia, stop it.”
She shakes with fear. “I do not want to spend eternity in hell. I will be damned, and my children will be damned, and my children’s children will be damned.”
“Your soul will not be lost,” I say to Lucia.
She cries harder. She pleads. “I will sit in burning embers for the rest of the days of the world and all the days after. I’ve not even had children yet.”
“The hell with your children,” I scream. I know the Lord will forgive her, not me. “You will do this for me. You will do this for me now. I don’t care about you or your damned children. This must be done and it must be done immediately. I wish it and the good Lord wishes it. Remember who you are. Now do it.”
Trembling, she brings me the skin of a black cat and the fat of a white chicken. And yes, before I go to bed, I rub my eyes with them. Lucia whimpers.
I know I will go to hell. That will save Lucia. He will accept me in exchange for her.
***
This morning, the Saturday before Easter Sunday, I tell Lucia to go to the tanners. Now she knows. She has no choice. She brings back the heart of a black cat and the skin of a wolf. She says the tanner suspected her of witchcraft.
I am impatient, but hold my tongue. I touch her hair and gently caress her face. “Lucia, I promise, you will come to no harm.”
I think of the times when we were children, before I could understand that she was our servant. She had been my best friend. I remembered the two of us running around the fountain, laughing.
She muffles her tears then cooks the heart in the skin until it is tender.
Now, in the heat of the afternoon I peak around the corner as she tells my mother that this is a delicacy prepared especially for her. Her hand shakes as she places it on my mother’s plate. My mother eats and complements Lucia.
Lucia returns to the kitchen crying. Mother does not notice.
I see no outward effects on my mother. As she leaves the table she waves a bony finger at me and insists that I never think of that disreputable captain again. After her nap Mother sits in the courtyard and prays the rosary. White bony fingers grasping the black olive pits beads. Lucia turns to me, smiling.
“She has not died.”
I do not want her to die. An illness would not have bothered me. Lucia can see no difference in her.
I can see the difference. She is talk. She is air. Here is an old woman chanting endlessly. Where had the substance gone? I look at her and feel pity for her empty life. Carmela’s magic has worked.
Mother has not changed.
I have.
By late afternoon this Holy Saturday I sit in my great uncle’s office. Here is the secretary to the crown, Francisco de los Cobos y Molina. He stands at the doorway looking at his long mahogany dining table and the great stone fire place behind. As he walks into the dining hall I see he is taller than any man in our family. He sits down across from me and smiles. His sensitive light hands lay still on the long table as I speak. I swear if he was not my uncle I would have fallen in love with him.
“There will be no problem, I will speak to your mother,” he says. “I will petition our King, Charles, to allow this marriage. The King will have to request dispensation from the Pope, but I’m sure that will be given.”
“My great uncle,” I say, beginning my litanies of gratitude.
“In fact,” he interrupts, “Charles looks quite highly on your beau. Perhaps with a little talk, Charles could sign a decree restoring his Captain-Generalcy in Guatemala and voiding the sentence passed by the Audiencia.”
I want to kiss his white goateed face. Instead, I cry.
“Beatriz, you have always been my favorite niece. Perhaps it is the fire inside of you.”
“Thank you.”
“I could do no less for you. Though now that I think about it, perhaps the King also would be willing to nullify all future charges against Alvarado.”
***
I walk home along narrow cobbled streets looking at our town, knowing that one day, soon, I will leave it.
***
Mother and Father stand in the twilight in front of the open door to our house.
“They have been consorting with the devil,” Mother cries when she sees me. “My daughter is killed in the New World by a man who wants our wealth. My youngest daughter wants to marry the murderer. And now my servants have been dealing in witchcraft.”
Father looks at his fine leather boots.
“Mother?” I say.
“After you went for your walk, Lucia came to me with a horror story of witchcraft and betrayal.” Her voice lowers. She realizes that the neighbors could hear her rants. “They’ve tried to poison me. Antonio is a part of the conspiracy. Lucia attempted to implicate you in this. She said she came to me because she was frightened for your soul.”
I smell the bitter-sweet smoke from the incense burners.
“Leave by the back alley,” Mother orders the dark robed priest who emerges from the door. He ignores her as he walks by chanting the rosary. The monks of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition follow him past us to the street.
“Please,” Lucia cries looking at me as she emerges from the house. A monk holds each arm. The cry echoes into my heart.
Antonio walks straight, head up. One of the monks holds onto his crippled arm. He looks at me with his great dark eyes. The look enters into my soul, into my bones.
At the end of the procession a monk swings a silver canister of burning incense.
“I don’t understand them,” Mother says in both sadness and disgust. The procession turns from our street and disappears. “They had been loyal. We have been kind. What more could they have wanted from us?”
She turns and sees that I am shaking and crying. She walks over and holds me
in her arms.
“Don’t be afraid,” she says gently, petting my hair.
I think I hear a rooster crowing.
I say nothing. What could I say? I have won my captain, won dominion over my life and lost that thing I received when I was baptized.
CHAPTER V
In his red vestments, Bishop Marroquin smiles at us, then turns back to the altar and raises the golden chalice to the heavens. As the altar bell rings I look up. The other penitents bow their heads.
Purple light from the high stained glass windows streams to the cup. The gold chalice changes the light into yellow and sends it flickering around the altar. The light hits the altar’s silver and glass, then bounces rainbow colors back into our eyes.
After Communion, Bishop Marroquin carefully pours Holy Water into the chalice, drinks from it, then dries it with a small white cloth given him by the Indian altar boy. Against ritual, he turns and walks to us holding the cup. We are kneeling directly in front of the altar. My captain reaches over and holds my hand.
“This, my daughter,” the Bishop says looking down to us, “is a gift from your husband, Don Pedro de Alvarado Mesias Y Contreras, to honor the third anniversary of your marriage.”
He nods to my captain, then hands me the chalice. My captain smiles. I carefully hold it. Inscribed onto the gold are the words- “Beatriz, the Fortunate.”
“From a coin to a chalice for my love,” my captain whispers. I remembered him taking off his great gold coin when I told him I would finally bear him a child. I had wondered why, and what he had done with the medallion. Plus Ultrahad transformed into his love for me.
I hold the chalice in my right hand as I throw my arms around him and kiss him as the choir sings Lumen Ad Relationem.
He laughs.
“My daughter,” the Bishop warmly smiles.
I return to my original kneeling position and hold the chalice up for him to bless. The Bishop makes the sign of the cross. “I bless this golden chalice in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.” I know what the church going colonists are thinking. The chalice is lovely and the woman holding it is beautiful.
My veiled dark hair is combed into a swirl on top of my head which makes me look older. My face has matured and I have lost the little girl plump cheeks. I am a woman now, far more beautiful than Margarita could ever have been.
I gasp as I realize my sin. I hold the chalice tightly.
“I pray that your journey will be safe and you will bring many souls to the arms of Christ,” he says to my captain.
Outside, on the steps, in the bright spring light, I hold the chalice up for all to see. We hear the choir singing the Gloria from inside the cathedral. The Indians who had surrounded the front of the church cheer. Many fall to their knees and bless themselves. Several of my Indian ladies-in-waiting cry. Beyond the throngs of Indians are the new Spanish buildings and the silent green volcano.
The festivities begin. There is dancing and Indian horns echo off the mountains. This is his goodbye celebration. Today, the Indians are happy. Their clothes are sewn with every color of the world. Their clothes can not hide their ugly scars, though. Almost every face is pockmarked.
“May I carry that for you?” one of my Indian maidens ask looking at the gold chalice. With her dark eyes and smooth skin, she is the most beautiful her people. I had asked her heathen name on her first day with me. Her tongue clicked when she spoke her name. It sounded like “Shtah.” I had the priest write it in Christian- “Xtah.” I immediately christened her “Lucia.” She was now my Indian Lucia.
“No, Lucia,” I say. “This is for Christians.”
She nods in understanding.
Many Indians gather around us. In each face is the reason he had returned to this land. He is their god. Many eyes are cast down in fear. Even though he stumbles from his limp, he is the incarnation of dignity.
As we lead the procession of conquerors and colonists through the town I look down the streets and alleyways. Crowds of Indians happily run toward us. When we enter the town square, I notice one narrow empty alley. I turn away from the thing hanging from a tree at the far end of it.
At the square, in front of our palace, we stop. My captain stands in the center of the square. He touches his magnificent red beard. Throngs of Spanish and Indians cheer. He had returned a hero and is now leaving a hero. Many struggle to get a glimpse of me, his young wife, who is with child. The cathedral bells ring and white birds fly through the cool Guatemalan air.
In front of the flag pole and under the flag of the crown, my captain ceremoniously says good bye to the leaders of Guatemala.
First in line is the Dominican, Father Bartolomé. His fat assistant, Brother Domingo, stands behind him carrying his usual stupid smile. I can not stand his stupidity. Behind them are the other white robed Dominicans.
Father Bartolomé puts his hand out to shake my captain’s. To my dismay, my captain refuses to bring his hand forward. The priest’s hand seems to float in space.
Next is the treasurer, Luis Castellanos. My captain embraces him.
“We will miss your great husband, Doña Beatriz,” he says to me. I never liked the way this man looked at me, eyes furtively glancing at my breasts. His voice sounds like a pigeon’s. “But we shall carry on the affairs of the state in his name with his spirit.”
“And my other surprise,” my captain says touching his beard and winking, “your brother has left his post in Mexico, so that he could stay with you while I am gone.”
Eduardo makes no move to embrace me and barely looks at me. He nods his head and says, “I am fortunate to be here for you in this your hour of need.” There are dents and scratches in his metal helmet. He looks exactly like mother would have looked had she been born a conquistador.
“And this is my wife, your sister-in-law, Leonor.”
Her black eyes sear into my soul. She nods and smiles at me. She seems to be saying, “You do not need to accept me. You need to ask for my acceptance of you.”
Her full white and green dress is as fine as any I had seen in Spain. Her blue eyes and long red curly hair sends trembles up my back. She turns and speaks to her husband, my brother, then touches her red hair and gently twists it. She has the high cheek bones and dark skin of the Indians. I look over at my captain as he touches and gently twists his red beard in the same fashion.
Leonor.
There are his eyes, not the shape of them, but the color of them. There are his teeth. The cheek bones are not of him. They are of the heathens, high and bony. The skin is not of him. But the rest is. She is small and beautiful and almost my age.
My body and my soul travel in two different directions. I begin to tremble. I do not want to show weakness in front of my sister-in-law, my new step-daughter.
I fall and give up this world. The courtyard floor rushes up to me.
***
“You had a fit, a convulsion,” my captain says. “You were not of this world for three days.”
I wake to the birds playing outside of my window, above the courtyard. I can see the volcano beyond the trees. I look back at my delayed and concerned husband.
“The entire city has prayed during those days for you. All the usual affairs of work and happiness have stopped as the people, Indians and Spaniards alike, have prayed. You received the Last Rites.”
My captain stands and walks over to the open window where he pulls out a white handkerchief and waves.
In minutes, the bells of the cathedral ring out. My captain looks relieved.