Song of the Hummingbird (3 page)

Father Benito yanked at the cord and the bell clanged noisily. He heard shuffling steps come near and pause, and then the peep door swung open. The same tiny eyes of the day before peered out at him, and then the entrance creaked open without the gatekeeper saying anything. The priest stepped over the threshold; he, too, kept silent while the nun led him to the far end of the cloister. This time the monk was looking for the old woman, not bothering to notice the garden or its surroundings.

“
Buenos días, Señora
.”

The priest stood at a distance from Huitzitzilin, and he wondered if she had moved since he last saw her, because she was seated in the same place and she was wearing the same clothing. As on the day before, she was humming and rocking in the chair. Several minutes passed before she turned to Father Benito, lifted her frail arm and beckoned him to take his place next to her.

“Young priest, I have a sin to confess to you today, but first, may I tell you more about me and the ways that used to be mine?”

He sat next to her without speaking. He wanted to know more about her people, but he feared that she would misunderstand his interest as approval of the unholy deeds they had performed in the name of religion.

“Señora,” Benito spoke slowly, “you must forget the past beliefs and practices of your people; they are gone, never to return. More especially, those ways belonged to the devil; they were filled with sin. I think that we should instead continue your confession.”

Huitzitzilin stared at Father Benito as he withdrew the stole from the side pocket of his habit and placed it around his shoulders. Her look was filled not with defiance but with bewilderment. After a few moments, however, she looked away and gazed down at her lap where her hands twitched. She began to hum quietly until the priest shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Our gods were capricious.”

“Please, don't utter such words.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is idolatry to worship stone images as your people did in the past.”

“Your temples are filled with statues!”

Huit-zitzilin's voice was sharp and her words put Father Benito on the defensive. He glared at her silently, hesitating to answer because he was torn. On the one hand, his recent preparation to evangelize these parts had indoctrinated him to respond to such an accusation; it was not a new one. On the other hand, the old woman had uttered her thoughts with such conviction and intel ligence that he felt himself unsure and nearly agreed with her.

He mulled this over for a few moments, then sighed deeply as he nodded in affirmation. Nonetheless, he made the sign of the cross just as if he were preparing to hear a confession. In the meantime an idea was beginning to take shape in his mind. He told himself that what this woman had to say about her people might be as valuable as what the captains of the first discovery had written and dispatched to Spain. He might even gather enough information from her to compile a work that could be of use to those following him.

“By all means, Señora, let me hear about your ways.”

“Of my childhood, my sixth year stands out as one of the most memorable because, you see, it was the year in which the Mexicas observed the Hill of the Star, a ceremony that came only once every fifty-two years, a time when a period ended, giving way to a new one. A new era was not guaranteed, however; it depended solely on the whim of the gods, and knowing this made everyone nervous.

“We were in the time of the fifth sun and we had up to then been able to retain the favor of the gods. But previous races had not been so fortunate, and they had been destroyed either by being devoured by wildcats or by being transformed into monkeys. There were also floods and famines that destroyed others.”

Father Benito was listening intently, but he soon realized that this was not new information. He had read several chronicles written by missionaries and captains that told of how the Mexicas reckoned time. He had also studied the material as a university student, and he suddenly felt his head ache just as it had when he used to try to pronounce the consonant-riddled language of these people.

As Huitzitzilin spoke, he remembered the days when he was forced to sit through tedious, detailed instructions by teachers who had recently returned from the Indies. Each one gave a different version of Mexica rituals, names and practices.

The monk was nevertheless curious, and wanted to know if the woman had something new to tell him. “Why was this moment so important to you if you were just a child?”

“That time was important for me because of three reasons. The first was that Zintle, a child like me, was there, too.”

“The same boy you spoke of yesterday?”

“Yes. The same one; he was the one I loved. The second reason was that I saw for the first time, very closely, our king. You know his name. Moctezuma. And the final reason was that, as it turned out, that ceremony was indeed the last; one destined to mark the extinction of our world. Our era did come to an end after all. Oh, we were not destroyed by floods, or eaten by tigers. Instead, your people came and devoured us.”

Father Benito's head whipped around to glare at the woman, and he knew that his eyes reflected the offense he was feeling. But Huit-zitzilin's face was turned away from him. She seem transfixed, as if her spirit were elsewhere. He allowed a few minutes to pass, hoping to regain control of his emotions, and as he did this, he struggled to understand her way of thinking. When he finally spoke, he was glad to hear that his voice was serene and not angry.

“We have not devoured your people. Instead, we have brought our Savior's redemption.”

“Yes, yes! I've heard all about it,” Huitzitzilin interrupted Father Benito abruptly. Her voice again had an edge. “On that night, Moctezuma led his entourage to the place of honor. I still remember him and the dignity with which he carried his head, his body, his entire being. The color of his skin was mahogany. His face was oval-shaped, his forehead was wide, and his eyes blazed like those of the jaguar. His garments on that occasion were of black cotton, even the quetzal feathers in his headdress had been dyed black. His jewelry was all gold because he was both king and priest.”

Father Benito realized that he was hearing a description that no chronicle or letter had ever conveyed. With the exception of Captain Hernán Cortés and the few men who had survived the battles for this city, no one had lived to tell of the emperor. Even now, most Spaniards thought him nothing more than a legend. But Huit-zitzilin's remark about the king's priesthood rankled Benito, so he put his hand on her shoulder and pressed it softly.

“You don't mean that the king was a priest, do you? Perhaps he was a magician or something similar because, be assured, he could not have been a priest.”

“He was a priest! And, as you say in your own mass, a priest is a priest forever.”

Father Benito sighed, and kept quiet only because he wanted to hear more.

“Moctezuma stood by the High Priest and together they began the prayer to our gods. Both men raised their arms in reverence, the fingers of their hands taut and crisped so that in the gloom of that night of nights, they appeared like the claws of black-plumed birds carved in stone.”

Huitzitzilin turned to face Father Benito. “Do you want to hear their prayer, young priest? Or will you be chastised by those above you for listening to me?”

He hadn't realized that she knew so much about his way of life and his congregation, one which strictly forbade even a reference to the practices the Church was trying to eradicate. But Father Benito wanted to know, and he shifted in the chair as he felt a new surge of curiosity overcome him. He nervously looked over his shoulder as if to assure himself that no one was overhearing what the old woman was about to say.

“Yes. I want to hear.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Moctezuma and the High Priest chanted together like this. ‘O lord of the feathered left hand! O lord sorcerer bird. . .'”

“Stop! Stop!” Father Benito suddenly regretted having allowed the woman to repeat the satanic stanzas in his presence. “Please don't say any more! You should try to forget those unholy words.”

“Why?”

“Because they conjure the devil himself out of his pit. Don't you see? You have ears, don't you? You heard that the prayer calls upon the lord of sorcery; that is Satan himself!”

“Perhaps.”

The priest thought that he heard her giggle softly, and he felt embarrassed. Maybe, he thought, he had been exaggerated in his response to the incantation which might have been a brief introduction to more interesting details. He tried another approach.

“Señora, why don't you tell me about what happened that night? You can, of course, omit the prayers.”

Huitzitzilin smiled. “Yes, I can tell you much about that night. Remember that it was the most important in our history because, as it now turns out, it was the end of our fifth sun.

“Let me tell you of what the High Priest did. He began with an incantation—I won't repeat the words— with a voice that seemed to boom from the bottom of the giant drum. His chanting called upon gods of whom I had never before heard. He shook the sacred rattle with his right hand and slashed at the black night air with the obsidian knife which he grasped in his left hand. The raven-colored garments that covered his body fluttered as he gyrated round and round. Then he began, sinuously, like a snake, to undulate up and down as if coupling with a woman. He did this over and again as his waistlong hair, tangled and encrusted with the blood of immolation, flapped in the wind.”

When Huitzitzilin paused, she looked over to Father Benito, who sat stiffly with his face buried in his hands. He was hunched over and said nothing for a long time, but she knew that he had heard her words and that he was in turmoil.

“I will tell you no more about this because I see that you are distressed at the mention of copulation and blood. Are these, however, not the ways of all men? The Mexicas were not the only ones to defile and sacrifice the enemy. But, enough! I will end by telling you that the star we awaited that night did indeed appear. But to no avail, because even with its appearance, as I have already told you, our era came to an end.”

Father Benito looked at Huitzitzilin, and his eyes betrayed the agitation that was tormenting him. He was torn by repulsion and fear, as well as by an inexplicable desire to know more about the old woman and her past. However, he knew that he had transgressed the boundaries of a mere search for knowledge and information when he willingly listened to what was forbidden by his own religion. He felt bitterly culpable because it was he who had encouraged her to invoke that sordid past.

Huitzitzilin sensed Father Benito's anguish and she decided to turn to the reason he was there, her confession. “Let me now confess another of my sins, young priest. I remained here in my father's house until the age of fifteen. Shortly after that time, I was sent to Tenochtitlan to complete my preparation for marriage. There, I became part of the court that surrounded Moctezuma, thereby exposing myself to partners that might have been eligible for matrimony with me.”

Father Benito began to regain his composure as the woman spoke of practices that sounded almost the same as those of his own people, and he gratefully prepared himself to hear her confession. This time he was patient, waiting for her to get to the sin that would end his afternoon visit.

“Zintle was also sent to the court because, as I have told you, he was related by blood to Moctezuma and thereby had to be trained in case he might one day be eligible for governor, or even king.”

“And you fornicated again!”

The priest's voice was smug, bordering on sarcastic. However, it was relief that he was feeling because here at least was a sin with which he could deal. Weakness of the flesh was well known to Holy Mother Church, unlike the demonic ways of the woman's people.

Huitzitzilin looked at the priest; her stare was a mix of offense as well as hostility, as if she had been robbed or cheated out of her words.

“Yes, many times over. He and I took every opportunity to love one another. Until the month when my bleeding stopped and I knew that I was with child. At that time I went to the healer, a woman not too much older than I, but one who knew the secrets of herbs. She prepared a substance and put it in a pot which she cooked. Then I sat on the pot so that the fumes it gave off entered my body. Next day, I was rid of the child that would have had me killed before my time.”

Father Benito was stunned by Huit-zitzilin's admission. First he gawked at her, not knowing what to say, then he looked down, staring at the leather straps of his sandals. His mind groped and floundered in an attempt to find pardon for what she had done. This was far greater, he acknowledged, than a mere sin of the flesh.

“You took the life of an unborn child, and you are asking for forgiveness?”

“Who is it who forgives? You or your god.”

“God. I am only his instrument.”

“Well, then, you must absolve me.”

“Only if you are repentant.”

“I would have been killed if he had discovered it.”

“He? Do you mean that boy with whom. . .”

“No! Not him. I mean the man to whom I was at the time betrothed. His name was Tetla, and I had been given to him as a concubine. It was as if I were to be his wife. He would have had my heart cut out for deceiving him with another man. So you see, it was the life of the unborn child, or mine. What would you have done in my place?”

The priest was appalled by her question. “It's impossible to put myself in your place. I'm a man, not a woman.”

“Then don't judge me.”

“I'm not judging you. I'm merely asking if you repent of your most grievous sin.”

“I would do it again because it meant my life.”

Benito was exhausted by the rapid, almost hostile exchange of words. He was shocked by the woman's determination and by her boldness.