Song of the Hummingbird (4 page)

“I want to absolve you, but you must give me time.”

“Yes. I want you to return because there is much more that I have to confess.”

When the monk stepped out into the early evening, his head ached and his empty stomach growled. As he walked toward the monastery, he wondered why it was that his path had steered him to the door of such a woman. He was intrigued as well as confused because he had not imagined that the natives of this land could be so complex. Above all, he was astounded at being repelled yet attracted by her.

Chapter

III

“Priest, I have often heard your brother monks say that it is a sin for a woman to deceive her husband about her virginity before they are married. Do you think this way?”

“Yes.”

Father Benito had returned to be with Huitzitzilin. The previous night had been difficult for him because he had been unable to sleep, thinking of her. She had confessed to the willful killing of her unborn child, and he knew that as a priest he was obliged to absolve her. Yet he was in conflict because he couldn't find forgiveness for her. On the other hand, her argument that she had feared for her life was something that he turned over in his mind, and finally he began to appreciate her circumstances.

After morning mass, Benito spoke to Father Anselmo, the prior, hoping to find guidance regarding the Indian woman's revelations and their unexpected, abrupt tangents. Their conference lasted more than two hours, and after that Father Benito felt at peace, now understanding that what he was to do was to discern the separation between Huit-zitzilin's sins and the customs of her people. The first he was to absolve and forget; the second he was to commit to paper.

Trying to deflect her impending confession, Benito prompted her in another direction. “Please tell me what you remember of this city during your youth.”

“Tenochtitlan was a city of unimaginable grandeur and elegance,” she responded. “It was a jewel and its setting was Anahuac, a valley flanked by volcanoes, mountains and fertile land. Our city was built on an island in the center of a lake. It's palaces, temples and marketplaces were of a beauty you cannot conceive.”

Huitzitzilin interrupted the description and looked at Benito, a coy smile on her lips. “Shall I tell you more about Zintle and me?”

Father Benito's eyes snapped away from Huit-zitzilin's face, trying to conceal the surge of blood that colored his cheeks and forehead. Inwardly, he reproached himself for betraying squeamishness as she alluded to her sexual transgressions. Again hoping to distract the woman, he asked, “May I, from time to time, write what you say?”

“I thought you were to forget the sins uttered in confession.”

“Oh, you're right. However, it's not your sins that I would put on paper. Rather, it would be the many interesting things you say regarding your people.”

Father Benito reached for a leather bag he had placed at his feet. From it he withdrew sheets of paper and a small ink pot. Then he fumbled for several moments, struggling to find the quill he thought he had brought along with the paper. He finally located it and returned his attention to Huitzitzilin, who seemed amused and entertained by his floundering. She put aside speaking more of Zintle.

“When I arrived in Tenochtitlan, I was housed with Ahuitzotl, my grandfather. It was there that I was to await Tetla's proposal for me to become one of his concubines. I must confess that my heart, though young, was a deep well of turmoil during those months. My spirit was confused, and it was torn by the emotions that have stalked me like sinister shadows ever since then. I was anguished by fear of what I knew would be Tetla's response to being cheated of my virginity.

Father Benito nervously interrupted her. “May I ask you to first tell me of the traditions regarding marriages and leave your confession to the end?”

“Very well. But the mention of my loss of virginity is not meant to be a confession, young priest.”

The monk cleared his voice but said nothing. Instead he adjusted the paper on his lap and dipped the quill into the ink pot. He looked at Huitzitzilin, letting her know that he was ready to begin recording her words.

“It was morning when I was summoned to hear Tetla's messenger repeat the plans for my concubinage. As I entered, I looked around and saw the formality of the occasion, for no women were present. In attendance were only men, which included the High Priest, one or two of the King's Council, the governor of the city who, because of Tetla's distinguished position within the city government, was to stand as the main witness, several men of my family, and my father. They all stood, as was the custom on formal occasions.”

Huitzitzilin paused and gazed at Father Benito, who was scrawling words as rapidly as he could. She cocked her head, expressing interest in what he was doing, then returned to her memories.

“The following words were conveyed by the messenger from his master: ‘Hear then, Lady Huitzitzilin, that I, Tetla, chief attendant upon the governor of Tenochtitlan, will take you as a concubine and as part of my household ten days hence. Therefore, let this message be the formal and public confirmation of my intent, as well as the official command that you commence your cleansing in order for you to become part of my family. The preparations will begin at the temple of Tonantzin at daybreak five days from now.'”

Father Benito suddenly stopped writing. “Cleansing? I don't understand.”

“Women were considered defiled until cleansed. The Mexica men considered themselves quite pure. Is that so among your own brothers?”

The priest thought that he detected a hint of sarcasm in the woman's words and told himself to be keener in the future. If his was to be a precise chronicle, he needed to identify the times, if any, when Huitzitzilin criticized her own people.

“What did I feel on hearing those words? Well, I cannot remember exactly. I do recall that I felt stiff and cold, and that was probably because I realized that my destiny was somehow encapsulated in those few disdainful words. I remember feeling that I was made of stone, frozen like the snow on the volcanoes, immobile as if my legs had been implanted in the floor on which I stood. I was to become the possession of a man whom I did not know but for whom I was already beginning to feel loathing.”

Again, Father Benito halted his pen. “This happens in my land as well. A girl is given to a man and it is expected that happiness will eventually come to her. Surely all women know that one day they will be married.”

“Yes. But there is a great difference between knowing and understanding. The gulf between the two can be immense. As I stood there in the center of that room, with so many eyes fixed on me, I understood that I was now a woman, and the pain of that transformation was such that I believed that I would die that very moment.”

Huitzitzilin interrupted herself as she listened to the faint pealing of a bell. Father Benito also looked away from his writing and cocked his head toward the metallic clanging. Realizing the time, he jerked his head in her direction. “It is midday. Perhaps we should stop to allow you time to rest and take food.”

“No. I'm willing to continue if you are still interested in my story. If not, I can instead make a list of my sins so that you can leave to join your brothers in the monastery.”

Father Benito shook his head negatively, letting the woman know that he was more interested in the details she was giving him.

“Allow me then to tell what transpired during those last five days when I was still free. If I were to be asked to point to the most crucial moment of my life, I would indicate those five days. Oh, indeed, I have had many crossroads in my life after that, but as I now look back I see that it was those five days that were the first turning.”

“Why were those days so important for you?”

“They were important to all Mexica maidens because they were the days in which a woman was prepared for her husband. For me, they were significant because at their end I would be married to Tetla. He would then discover that I was not a virgin and I was in terror of what he would do. In fact, I considered those days to be my last in this life.”

“In Spain, such a husband has the right to kill the woman for deceiving him.”

“In the time of the Mexicas this, too, was the man's privilege. However, Tetla was a proud man. To kill me would be to publicly acknowledge his disgrace. I prayed during those days before the ceremony that he would fear the shame of public humiliation and mockery so much that he would keep the truth to himself. For that he would have to let me live. You see, I was torn between the certainly of dying and the hope of living.”

Father Benito nodded in understanding, and he was surprised by the compassion he was feeling for Huitzitzilin. He was amazed at himself because he had not imagined that he could sympathize with a woman who had betrayed her husband. In an attempt to shake off the emotion, he changed the direction of her words.

“What did Tetla look like?”

“I thought him very ugly. I was in my fifteenth year and he was much older. He had lewd eyes that looked at me in a repulsive way. Layers of skin rolled over and under those terrible eyes, and even though he wore richly decorated mantles, the blubber of his body was obvious.”

“I see. Was a concubine considered less important than a wife, as is the case in my country?”

“No. A man could have numerous wives, and just as many concubines.”

Father Benito looked intently at Huitzitzilin, as if trying to untie a stubborn knot. “Then why did a man take a concubine if he could make her his wife? It tells me that somehow the concubine had less importance, less value.”

Huitzitzilin wrinkled her brow and pursed her thin lips as she reflected on the monk's words. He thought that she looked like a sparrow.

“I've forgotten the answer to your question. I no longer remember the difference. I do know, however, that the marriage ceremony was the same.”

“I'm interested in the ceremony, or whatever ritual took place. Can you remember something about the preparation days?”

The woman hunched deeper into the chair as she intertwined her bony fingers. Her frail body remained with Father Benito, but he understood that her mind had flown to the time of her youth.

“The first day was the day of the girl's dedication to the goddess of the earth and fertility, Tonantzin; the ceremony began at daybreak. The ritual was not long, and it involved the High Priest—how I detested that old snake by the time the five days were over—a few mumbled prayers, little girls that threw flower petals over the head of the young woman, and then the burial of tiny stone replicas of the goddess, thus ensuring fertility for the spouse-to-be.”

“You hated the High Priest?” Father Benito was interested in the priestly presence that went on in the lives of the Mexicas, but he was startled at Huit-zitzilin's irreverence as she spoke of the man. What if she thought of him, a Catholic priest, in the same manner? He decided to put the thought aside for another time.

“It was at this point of the ceremony that I prayed that my womb not be enriched.”

The monk was momentarily taken back by what the woman had said. “You mean the opposite, don't you? You prayed for a fruitful womb.”

“No. I meant what I said. I did not want to get impregnated by Tetla. I've already told you that I felt only repulsion for him.”

“I see.”

“No. You don't see. But we'll leave it as it is.”

Huitzitzilin fell into silence, making the priest think that she was displeased with him. He cleared his voice several times, trying to tell her that he was ready to continue.

“On the second day, the future concubine was presented to the king and his council. Her father and the men of her family were present, holding places of honor. The husband to be was required to absent himself from this part of the rite.”

Father Benito's hand was aching as he tried to record all of Huit-zitzilin's words, and he was forced to pause when one of his fingers began to cramp. “Will you allow me a few moments? I'm amazed at your memory.”

“I have much to tell you. Some of those things, I'm afraid, you will not want to put into your chronicle.”

The priest decided to continue. “What happened on the third day?”

“The third day called for another presentation of the maiden, this time to the future husband and his family, if he had one.” Ignoring Father Benito's look of alarm, Huitzitzilin continued. “In Tetla's case, the family included a wrinkled owl, a woman more shriveled and ugly than you now see me. Tetla, although old himself, still had a mother! The family also included his first wife, who was ancient enough to be my grandmother. There were also what seemed to be a countless number of concubines and offspring. I remember the name of only the oldest son, Naxca. He was followed by many other boys and girls of all ages, and the litter finally trailed off to the youngest, a scrawny, crying child.