Song of the Hummingbird (19 page)

“Despite her desire to appear pious, we all knew that it was only an appearance because she was not kind. She disliked us very much, especially our children, whom she pinched and hit. She often hit them on the head with closed fists, and she even kicked them. This happened several times to Baltazar and Paloma.

“Days turned into months without any change in my life until the time when I was sent word by the master to come to his study. He was seated at his writing table scribbling on a paper. He didn't say anything as I stood gazing at him.

“When he finished writing, he said, ‘My wife and I have no children.' Then he stared at me for a long time. I didn't answer because something inside of me warned me of danger. He went on to say more. ‘It's my intention to take Baltazar and Paloma as my own. They're my blood and are entitled to be my inheritors.' Those words have been scorched into my heart since then.”

Benito was mute, even though he rebuked himself for not saying something that might express understanding. The truth was that he knew of many similar cases. Seville was constantly receiving Spanish offspring of native women, especially boy children.

“That is exactly what Baltazar told me. He also said that the paper that he had in front of him was the order to secure passage for the children back to Spain, where he would make certain that their minds and spirits became Christian.”

Huit-zitzilin's voice faded until it became a whisper. Benito was observing her and he noticed that she was not as agitated as he would have expected. Instead he saw that she was calm, even resigned. When she spoke up, her voice had regained its normal tone.

“I have told you that I considered the children repugnant, but that was only in the beginning. By the time their father wanted them, I had grown to love them. I had carried them in my belly. I had nourished and cared for them. They were my flesh and spirit, and they were the only things I had in this world.

“Then I did something that I have regretted all my life. I humiliated myself in front of him. I fell on my knees and implored him not to do it. The children were frail, I told him; they would die without me. I tried to appeal to his heart, to whatever sentiment he had ever felt for me, and I begged. It was to no avail, because he remained unmoved and instead told me to get out.

“The next day two men and a woman of your race came in a coach and took the children. As you can imagine, they wept and clung to me, but I could do nothing, and they were taken from me. They were put into the coach, but I could see them struggling to get out. They were crying, and their mouths were distorted with fear. The last recollection I have is of their faces looking back at me. “

“Did you ever see them again?”

“Years later I saw Paloma. I'll tell you about that tomorrow, because I feel fatigued this afternoon. Will you return?”

“Yes.”

Father Benito stood and helped Huitzitzilin to her feet. As he took her elbow and walked a short span of the cloister with her, thoughts of children who were sent to Spain crowded into his mind. He looked at the woman beside him and he wondered why, in the countless lessons and instructions given to him about this land, no one had explained that its natives loved and grieved as did his people.

Chapter

XX

“What I have to say to you today will perturb you.”

“Señora, a priest's duty is to listen, not judge.”

Huitzitzilin looked steadily at Father Benito. Her eye narrowed to a slit—she seemed to be debating inwardly. After a while she nodded in agreement and began to speak.

“I laid on my sleeping mat for days after the children were taken away. I neither slept nor ate nor drank nor moved. I prayed that I would die. I was filled with hatred, and I vowed that I would do something to make Baltazar pay for what he had done. I swore that he would feel a greater pain than the one that was tormenting me.”

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 narrowed 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.