Song of the Hummingbird (17 page)

“At dawn we gathered in a clearing where there was a muddy stream and a large ceiba tree. When I arrived I caught a glimpse of Cuauhtémoc and another Mexica noble standing under the tree, each with a rope around his neck. At first I thought that Captain Cortés was not there, but I could see that others were there to witness the hanging, among them a certain Bernal Díaz del Castillo, as well as the priest everyone calls Motolinía, and Baltazar Ovando.”

Huitzitzilin paused as she put one hand on her chest; she appeared to be out of breath. Father Benito took the moment to reflect on what she had just said about a priest, and he felt his curiosity aroused because he had never heard that name before.

“Señora, what was the priest's name?”

“Motolinía.”

“What was his family name?”

“I don't know. We all knew him only by that name.”

“But it's not a Christian surname. Surely, he must have had a proper name had he been Spanish.”

“Perhaps. Nonetheless, I remember him only as Father Motolinía.” Huitzitzilin shifted in the chair and returned to her story.

“Those of us who were Mexica were quiet, as if under a spell. It was Cuauhtémoc's voice that brought us to our senses. He said something like, ‘Cortés, you meant to do this from the beginning.' I stretched my neck because I thought that the captain was not there, but then I saw him standing with the other captains.

“He said nothing. Instead he motioned to the soldiers holding the rope. I saw both bodies suddenly leap into the air. Their arms were bound to their bodies, but their legs were loose and they jerked violently. Gurgling sounds escaped from their throats, and their bodies convulsed, trying to keep the life that was ebbing out of them. Soon the struggle ended and the bodies hung limp, lifeless.

“I recall that I felt numb as I bent my head back to look up at the struggling body of the last king of the Mexicas. When I saw his purple, quivering face, its tongue hanging out of his mouth like the liver of a beast, I remembered my own mutilation and I thought of how we had once been a beautiful people, but were now deformed.

“I looked around and saw that those who remained were all weeping. With their hands covering their faces, they cried, and some had fallen on their knees and elbows. Then I saw Father Motolinía. He, too, was crying, but soon he controlled himself and instructed us to take down the bodies. Without a word, we placed them on litters and, despite the probability of punishment, we began our journey northward to Cuauhtémoc's place of birth, which is here, where you and I are seated.”

Father Benito looked around, expecting to see the ghosts of that long-ago funeral cortege wind its way into the convent garden. He shook his head in amazement at what Huitzitzilin was telling him. Now he knew that he would not forget any part of the story, even though he was not writing it.

“We retraced our steps, stopping only to rest and eat. One of those places was Cumuapa, where Maya physicians assisted us with their knowledge of preparing the bodies so that corruption would not set in. The process was long and intricate, taking several days, but we waited without complaints. After the medications had been applied, the doctors wrapped the bodies in cotton material, then encased them in boxes made of aromatic wood. It was only then that we renewed our journey.

“After a few months, the time had come for me to have my baby, and the entourage waited for me. To my surprise, there came not one child but two: a boy and a girl. But this time there was no joy. I didn't even name them; they remained nameless for for several years. I just called them Little Boy and Little Girl.

“In the beginning, Father Motolinía insisted that the children be baptized, but I refused. He waited patiently and in the end he prevailed, christening not only them but me as well. The boy received the name Baltazar, the girl Paloma, and I was named María de Belén. I never called them by those names, and persisted in calling them little this or little that.

“In the beginning, I didn't feel love for those children, because they appeared strange to me. Their heads seemed different, oddly shaped, as were their eyes. Their bones seemed too long. When their teeth began to show, I saw that those, too, were shaped and colored in a way that I didn't like. The color of their skin was faded, the girl's especially, and as they grew, these deformities became more prominent.

“I saw that my people laughed at my children when they thought that I was not looking or listening, and I was angry. I felt that way not because of the mockery, which I understood, seeing that the children were indeed ugly, but because of having lusted after Baltazar Ovando. The boy and girl were the result of my weakness.

“It took us years to arrive here, and to this day I don't know how we did it. We were attacked by thieves and even chased by hostile villagers who thought that we were diseased outcasts because we were so ragged and emaciated. We lost our way several times, and many in our group died of starvation or fatigue.

“When we arrived here, the children were four-years old and I looked ten years older than I really was. We had all thought that we would be happy once in Coyoacán, but we weren't, because what we found was a blighted place, a village ruined by the white soldiers. No one was around. Everyone had been killed or had fled to the mountains, and there was no one to pay homage to the remains of the king whom we had returned to his place of birth. There was nothing but waste, hunger, and dead memories.

“It's my understanding that Father Motolinía wrote an account of our wanderings and of the final place of Cuauhtémoc's remains. I've heard said that he entrusted that chronicle to the people of Coyoacán. Perhaps you'll find it of interest.

“As for myself and my children, I walked them through the village of my birth, showing them what remained of the palace of my family. It was in ruins, so we left. I did not return to it until my old age. And you can see for yourself, a convent has now been built over those ruins.”

Chapter

XVIII

“The woman spoke of Father Motolinía, who apparently witnessed the events leading to the execution of King Cuauhtémoc. She claims that the priest wrote an account and turned it over to the people of Coyoacán.”

Father Benito was speaking to Father Anselmo as they strolled through the olive grove attached to the monastery. It was early evening, and both men had their arms tucked deep into the sleeves of their habit because of the growing chill in the air. Anselmo had the cowl pulled over his bald head. Vespers were soon to begin. Even so, Benito took his time speaking because he was anxious to ask the older priest about Motolinía.

“Father Anselmo, I've never heard of such a priest, have you?”

The older monk was silent for several minutes. Only the crunch of dried leaves mashing against pebbles filled the air. “Yes, I've heard of him. He was among the first of our brothers to come to this land. He did much for the natives of the mission. He wrote accounts of their ways. Most of his books are in Seville, along with other important histories written on the subject of the discovery and conquest of this continent. I believe he died nearly twenty years ago.”

Benito lowered his head to peer under the overhanging hood shrouding Father Anselmo's features. “I thought that I had read most of the chronicles while still in Seville. I don't understand why my teachers never spoke of Father Motolinía nor of his writings.”

“That's because Motolinía was not our brother's real name. It was Father Toribio de Benavente.”

Benito stopped abruptly, almost tripping as one of his sandals caught under a heap of pebbles. He took hold of Anselmo's elbow, making him stop also.

“Father Toribio de Benavente! Of course I know his name, and his work as well.” He paused, licked his upper lip and blinked several times. “Where on earth did the name Motolinía come from?”

“The natives gave him that name. The word means “the poor one” in their tongue. You see, Benavente grew to love these people so much that he lived like them, ate like them, learned their language and became poor like them. They in turn took him in, as if he had been one of their own.”

Father Benito felt moved. He had wanted to do the same thing from the beginning, from the moment he first listened to God's call for him to become a monk. He had secretly vowed to dedicate his life to the people of this land when he had been assigned to come here. He had promised to become one of them.

Benito interrupted his reflections to discuss the Benavente chronicle. That document, Huitzitzilin said, was based on the events surrounding the death and burial of the last Mexica king. If so, Benito told himself, the value of the book would be significant.

“As I've said, the woman spoke of an account written by Father Benavente, one entrusted to the people of Coyoacán. Such a work is surely of great value and should be sent to Seville, don't you agree?”

“Certainly! But what makes you so sure of its existence?”

“Why. . .”

“Because a distracted old woman has said it exists?”

“I would think. . . “

“Father Benito, try to think clearly! Firstly, the woman told you that the chronicle was entrusted to the people of Coyoacán. We are in Coyoacán. If such a work existed, it would be in the holdings of one place only, our monastery. Secondly, if he did write such an account, I cannot believe that Father Benavente would have so foolishly left his work in the hands of uninformed natives. Even if he did think of them as his children, he was an erudite man; he knew the historical value of his work.”

Anselmo stopped speaking to reflect a little more. Then he looked at Benito, eyebrows arched. “I'm convinced that the woman is wrong, that such a history was never written, and that Seville has all of Benavente's works. All of them!”

The bell calling the monks to vespers began tolling, and the two monks turned toward the monastery chapel. The ringing also marked the commencement of the Grand Silence, so both men walked side by side without uttering a word. When they entered the chapel, it was filled with candlelight. The stone pillars cast elongated shadows on the golden tiers of the altar and on the tabernacle surrounded by round-faced cherubs.

Father Benito went to his assigned pew, took the Office Book in his hands, made the sign of the cross and responded to the soft Ave María sung out by the lead chanter. Along with the other monks, he mouthed the prayers that followed, but he was thinking of Huitzitzilin, of Cuauhtémoc, of Motolinía and of a possibly missing chronicle.

Chapter

XIX

Father Benito arrived at the convent earlier than usual the next morning. He had rushed through his prayers and other duties at the monastery, anxious to get to Huitzitzilin and her continuing story. When he stepped into the garden, he saw that she was strolling through the shadowy archways of the cloister. She seemed to be conversing with someone.

He stood gazing at her for a while, smiling because he was certain that she was speaking with her spirits. He didn't believe in that part of the old woman's story, but he told himself that if she needed company, what could be better than the invention of phantoms that returned to her from the past. Then, on the spur of the moment, he decided to move closer to hear what she was saying. He moved slowly, careful not to step on a stone or leaf that would signal his approach.

When he was close enough to hear Huitzitzilin, he discovered that she was not only speaking but singing as well. Her words were in her native tongue and Benito could not understand. He could tell, however, that there was joy in her words. As she moved, she gestured with her hands and nodded in agreement. Sometimes she paused, as if listening, then she responded.

After a while Benito felt embarrassed: he had been spying on her. He decided to return to his chair and wait there for her. He was grateful that he had brought paper and quill that day, and he intentionally made noises as he unpacked his leather bag.

Huit-zitzilin's attention was caught by the sound of rustling paper as well as the scraping of Benito's chair, and she snapped out of her reverie. She looked at him from across the garden, a smile curving her thin lips. She walked over to the priest, greeted him, and took her place beside him.