Bride of Thunder (49 page)

“I wanted to see if anyone is sick.”

“If they are, they'll come to you.”

He watched while she went back across the plaza, trying not to show her dejection. She fetched water from the
cenote,
lingering to at least see other women come and go. The mother of Juanito smiled at her shyly but filled her buckets and hurried away at a harsh word from a sentry. Mercy went slowly back to the hut, which, without Dionisio, seemed bare, alien.

Putting down the bucket, Mercy sank into the hammock and wept. She hated Chan Santa Cruz—its walls and sentries and
tatich
and spy! Dionisio would be gone at least ten days. How would she ever stand it? And then, when he did return, what if the
tatich
refused the alliance?

What if? What if?

Maddened by tormenting questions, Mercy pressed her hands to the sides of her forehead, as if she could force them from her mind. This wouldn't do. She must pull herself together.

If
the Macanche council approved,
if
the
tatich
let Dionisio keep her, it wouldn't be long till she'd be at La Quinta. The siege of Mérida couldn't go on much longer with the empire fallen. Zane would come home. The months with Eric would seem a dimming nightmare; this strange, bittersweet time with Dionisio would be a dream. After all that had happened, all she had endured, surely she could get through this little time.

Rising, she found a basket of tortillas and tamales on the cookstone. Arranged by Dionisio? Sent by the
tatich?
From Juanito's mother? Mercy didn't know, but it was nice to have something besides corn gruel and mangoes. She carried the basket outside and ate slowly in the deepening twilight, enjoying the delicate flavor of the tamales, which were wrapped in banana leaves and stuffed with flavored squash and other vegetables she didn't recognize. Savoring them to the last morsel, she sat on a crude bench, listening to the village sounds, thinking of Dionisio and hoping him safe wherever he'd slung his hammock. Then, turning her thoughts to La Quinta, she visualized Jolie, Salvador, Mayel, Chepa, and the way it'd be when Zane came home.

Clinging to this image, she went inside, washed in the dark, brushed her hair, and was soon in her hammock. She thought, of the growing corn and how Dionisio would smile to see it.
Father, Thou knowest: He who is tender in heaven
.… She could almost hear his voice. Settling deeper into the hammock, she pretended he was telling her stories until she fell asleep.

The days took on a pattern. She spent several hours each morning with the
tatich
telling him all she could about her country and the world beyond. He was especially interested in England because of Belize, but he found it incredible that a woman ruled such a far-flung empire till Mercy pointed out to him that Belize had been colonized by the English during the reign of one of its greatest sovereigns, Elizabeth, who had encouraged her captains to attack Spanish ships.

“Can your president be a woman?” the
tatich
asked.

Mercy gasped. Such a thought had never occurred to her. “Women can't even vote,” she said resentfully, for she
had
thought about this.

Novelo laughed. “Voting's not so much,
señora
. Indians were given the vote here in Yucatán while at the same time they could be forced into debt-bondage and made the same as slaves. But you say former male slaves can vote now in the United States. That makes them better citizens than women?”

“I suppose it does. But women don't vote in England, either, although they consider one capable of ruling.”

When the
tatich
dismissed her, Mercy did her few chores, rested during the worst heat, and then, if it wasn't raining, went collecting herbs and plants, always trailed by the Buddha. In the evening, Juanito's mother brought tortillas and whatever else was being cooked. She was afraid to stay and chat, but she said that Dionisio had asked her to bring the food and had arranged it with the guards.

Usually, Juanito was with her. He was, she confided, the child of a handsome major who had promised to ransom her when he got enough money or trade goods saved. He lived in a village to the east, but it was almost time again for his month's duty at the shrine. Maybe this year he'd have her price.

“You'd rather marry him than go back to your people?” Mercy asked.

The woman nodded. “He's good to me. And I've been here so long,
señora!
My family were all killed in the raid when I was taken. I would rather stay with Juanito's father.”

“Then I hope he has the money this year,” Mercy said and thanked the woman, who smiled and hurried back to the compound.

So she had a major. That was next to a general in the Cruzob Army. Dionisio had explained that they had no colonels, skipping from general to major, captain, lieutenant, sergeant, corporal, and soldier. Except for the head spy and general of the plaza, all officers led companies and were elected on New Year's Day by the men of the company, each company being of a village after the old militia plan.

The
tatich
had decreed that no officer could command men of another company, but a few of the more powerful ones did, and since justice was administered at company or village level unless the crime was serious enough for the
tatich,
some of these commanders dominated a number of villages with their fighting men. That was one reason why the yearly month of guard duty at Chan Santa Cruz was so important, binding each able-bodied adult male to the shrine, faith, and authority of Chan Santa Cruz.

Would the Cruzob ever try to overwhelm the
ladinos
again? Or would they be content to draw in more allies, perhaps absorb the Icaiches, and actually rule all of Yucatán except for a thin cresent of the northwest—the centers of Campeche, Mérida, and Valladolid? Would La Quinta remain safe or would Poot decide his debt didn't extend to his savior's son?

Even a general as tough, ruthless, and wily as he couldn't live forever. But it was almost inevitable that when the central Mexican government gained enough strength, it would crush the rebel state, or at least severely limit its territory. The economic arguments for henequén, sugarcane, and lumber would grow stronger as the need for these products increased. The Cruzob, dependent on corn and constantly busy with clearing and burning new fields to replace infertile ones, couldn't hold out forever against an unremitting, well-armed, massive force that came prepared to occupy Cruzob strongholds and stay in the jungle as long as necessary instead of being called back to Mérida or Campeche to fight with other
ladinos
.

Bonifacio Novelo, himself partly of the
ladino
world, seemed to know this, for he sometimes discussed the advantages of the Cruzob attaching themselves to the British empire and acquiring that protection while still maintaining effective self-rule.

“That queen is far away,” he said with a twinkle one morning a week after Dionisio had gone. “She's never visited Belize, and I don't think she would come to us. It's like a mother with many children, no? She can't watch them all.”

Mercy's face must have shown her skepticism, for he pressed for her opinion. “I don't think the British would want to have trouble with Mexico or the United States,” she said.

The
tatich
frowned. “The United States? What have they to do with us?”

As simply as possible, Mercy explained the Monroe Doctrine. If any country in what the United States considered its sphere of influence was threatened, then the U.S. would intervene. Mexico, she pointed out, was within this sphere of influence. She reminded him that it had been U.S. pressure on France that had played a decisive role in compelling Napoleon III to withdraw troops from Maximilian's support, and that it had been the U.S. supply of arms to Juárez that had kept his men in the field when they'd otherwise have succumbed to the well-trained and equipped imperial armies.

“If the United States hadn't ended the Civil War in time to threaten France and help Juárez, there's little doubt that the emperor would be solidly in power by now instead of a prisoner.”

Novelo chewed on that. “In this case, yes, I think I'm glad your country aided the Indian Juárez. Why should more
dzuls
come to Mexico? But I don't like it that your country seems to believe it has the right to keep the
dzuh
away from us and interfere in alliances that might be good. I speak daily with God. He hasn't told me that the United States is ordained as our guardian.”

“You must remember that my part of the country just fought a long and terrible war because it felt the federal government was taking improper power. We lost and are being treated like conquered traitors.”

“Ah, the conquered are always traitors!” The
tatich
laughed. “But I understand what you say. Right is what the strongest says it is.” He brooded a while, devouring guava candy. “Isn't the British empire stronger than the United States? Surely it could win a war.”

“It didn't win the last one,” Mercy reminded him. “And it depends a lot on which country would have to transport troops and supplies. I think Great Britain has enough colonies and territory to worry about without making agreements that would lead to war with the United States.”

The
tatich
sighed, as if relinquishing a brilliant vision. “I'd be happy for the English to fight your country, but I fear they'd make us their battleground, and when it was over we'd have lost, either way.” He scratched his chest and lifted himself out of the hammock with a flutter of lace-trimmed trousers and surprising grace for so heavy a man. “I must receive the general of the plaza, who's returning from the north with an interesting proposal. He sent a runner so that we could prepare. You may watch if you please.”

“You will watch,” said the
tata nohoch zul
as the
tatich
vanished into his private section of the palace. “The
tatich
will later require your judgment of what is offered. Woman and
dzul
though you are, your acquaintance with the foreign world and ways may serve the Talking Cross. Stay with me.”

Mercy had come to almost like the
tatich,
but the
tata nohoch zul
continued to fill her with dread. Uneasily, she followed him as he detoured around the plaza, evidently wishing to see the approaching party before the official meeting.

Cruzob soldiers were massing in the plaza and the thirty-man band began to play vigorously. Down the street from the outskirts of the village came a woman, moving with regal grace, surrounded by a military escort, carrying something red in her arms. Beside her strode a stocky Maya who reminded Mercy of a scarred tree, but she only glanced at him a second before, startled, her gaze shot back to the woman.

That proud head, slanting yellow eyes, full, flower mouth, that bell-like laughter trilling as she spoke to the eagle-visaged chief! How could it be? Yet, undeniably, terrifyingly, it was.

Xia!

21

As the procession moved toward the plaza, saluted at each cross street by a sentry presenting arms, Mercy stood as if dazed. The fierce-looking soldier must be Crescencio Poot. What offer could Xia make that would occasion this state visit and great ceremony? It must go beyond seeking an alliance with Chan Santa Cruz. Mercy had a frightening conviction that Xia's plan was dangerous to Zarie, or at least to La Quinta.

And what if Xia saw her! Mercy's stomach knotted and it was hard to breathe. When Xia learned the woman she'd betrayed into Eric's grasp had escaped him, she'd probably make sure that Mercy never returned to La Quinta.

With Dionisio gone, Mercy's only protection was her importance to the
tatich
. She had to hope that would be enough.

“Come, woman,” snarled the spy, giving her a push after the escort.

“I … I'm sick. Please excuse me.”

He gave her wrist a painful jerk. “Not so anxious after all to meet Crescencio Poot? Hurry up! The
tatich
wishes you to observe. You'll do so if I have to drag or carry you!”

There was no help for it. Her only hope was to avoid detection. She was wearing a scarf over her hair. As she unwillingly kept pace with the spy, she untied the cloth and draped it as concealingly as possible around her head and shoulders. If she kept her eyes cast down and her face shielded, perhaps she could escape Xia's attention.

Reaching the plaza with her guard, Xia was being presented to the
tatich
by the general. She sank on her knees with smooth fluidity, kissing the Cruzob leader's hand.

“A miracle has come among my people,” she told him in a clear, ringing voice. “I bring a sign and a message, Great Father, for
la santísima,
the Talking Cross.” Unwrapping red silk from the object in her arms, she lifted high a branch with pale green compound leaves. “The Heart of Heaven has sent new strength and vigor to his Mayan children! He has sent us Pacal, priest-king at the flowering time of the Mayas.” She handed the copal branch to the
tatich
. “When Pacal appeared among us, this dead branch burst into leaf. I bring it as a sign from God and from Pacal, whose messenger I am.”

“I will hear your message in my house,” said the
tatich
. “If it's worthy, the cross will give us an answer.”

He turned to his palace, followed by Xia and the general of the plaza. Mercy hoped she'd be allowed to slip away, but the chief spy waved her toward the palace.

Pacal? What did it mean? What did Xia want? Out of the tumult of questions racing through Mercy's mind, one stayed constant, a looming dread. Could she avoid Xia's recognition? If Xia saw her, then what?

The
tatich
received Xia in his reception chamber, which was filled with officers, the Interpreter of the Cross, the Organ of the Divine Word, and the
maestro cantor
. Mercy stood near the back of the room, trying to obscure herself behind soldiers and the spy, who kept a vigilant eye on her while listening intently to the exchange of Mayan. Since the
tatich
and the woman spoke solemnly and slowly, Mercy caught most of the words, listening with growing fear.