Feathered Serpent (35 page)

———————

Night fell over the city. The Spaniards continued to celebrate. The last of the jars of Cuban wine were consumed and the sounds of revelry echoed around the courtyards. Alone in his apartments Cortés tried to ignore the shouting and singing as he wrestled with the dilemma he now faced. He paced the room while hot grease from the candle leaked onto the table and spread like a stain.

Elsewhere in the palace, other dramas were played out. The torches that lit the way along the passages still left long pools of darkness where a man might hide. And hide he does, for hours, waiting. It was as Rain Flower made her way back to Benítez’s apartments around the third watch that he took her.

A hand clapped across her mouth, and he dragged her into an alcove. She could smell the sweat and drink on him. At first she thought it must be one of the Spanish soldiers, intoxicated from too much Cuban wine or Mexican
pulque
. She bit and kicked.

“Don’t be frightened,” a voice said to her in Chontal Maya.

Norte. Norte!

She stopped struggling and he took his hand away from her mouth.

“Are you mad?” she hissed. “Benítez will hang you if he finds out!”

“Only if he discovers us,” he said and pulled her hard against him. She could feel the heat and hardness of his penis.

She turned around and put her arms around his neck. She felt his tongue explore her mouth, his hands greedily squeezing her breasts. She bit down hard on his bottom lip, tasted the saltiness of his blood.

Norte cupped his hands to his face, making tiny animal screams. “You whore,” he swore in Castilian. “Demon cunt! Mongrel bitch!”

“Don’t ever touch me again. Love is a gift to be given, not stolen.”

“I’m bleeding.” Norte slumped to his haunches, sobbing. “Why did you do that? I’m bleeding.”

Now that she had tamed him, she felt badly about what she had done. She knelt beside him. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“You frightened me. Is it bad?”

She tried to touch him but he pushed her away. “You don’t look at me any more,” he whimpered.

“Because you’re not a Person any more. You came here a devil. For a while you were a Person. Now you’re a devil again.”

“Why not? What is there for me as a Person? You spend all your time with Benítez.”

“I was given to him.”

“That never mattered to you at San Juan de Ulúa.”

“That was yesterday. This is today. Besides, I have grown fond of him.”

“And me?”

“I have grown less fond of you.” She got slowly to her feet.

“I want you,” he mumbled.

“I know what you want, “ she said. She slipped away, down the torch-lit hall, her bare feet silent on the stone, back to Benítez, her lover, her hairy lord, her Spaniard. 

———————

I wake to the sound of weeping. I sit up, startled. It is coming from somewhere close by. I feel the small hairs rise on the back of my neck. There is an unearthly nature to it; perhaps a ghost.

I get up and throw a cloak about my shoulders. I hear my lord talking in the next room. Can he not hear it? I pick up the candle and push aside the belled curtain. Unwise for a pregnant woman to walk abroad in the night, the spirits of the dead can infect my baby, bring him bad luck. But I cannot ignore it.

The guard turns around, surprised.

“Can you hear that noise?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “No, my lady.”

Perhaps it is just my imagination. I gather the cloak tighter about my shoulders and go up to the roof. A breath of wind extinguishes the candle flame but by the light of the new moon I can now make out a figure hunched against the parapet. I move closer.

Rain Flower.

“Little sister?” I kneel beside her. “What’s wrong? Tell me. What are you doing up here? Is it Benítez? Has he beaten you8?

“It’s not Benítez.”

I put my arms around her. She is as stiff as wood. “What is it?”

“I’m frightened.”

“There is nothing to be frightened of. We are safe here while we have Motecuhzoma.”

“It’s not the Mexica I am afraid of. I am frightened of your lord Cortés.”

I feel myself stiffen. I do not want to hear any more calumny against him. Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world is against him.

“You have to stop him before it is too late.”

“Stop him from doing what? Stop him freeing us from the Mexica?”

“These thunder lords are worse than the Mexica. They want to bring down all our gods, take all our gold and quetzal plumes, everything we have. They are as divine as coyotes with a corpse.”

“You’re just a baby. What do you know of these things?”

“You have seen how pitiless he can be. He pretends to be kind. He is a monster.”

I slap her face. Rain Flower gapes at me.

“Stop it, I won’t listen to any more. Go to bed.”

“You’re wrong, Little Mother.” She gets to her feet and hurries away.

After she has gone I sit alone on the roof for a long time, watching Sister Moon climb over Sleeping Lady, her silver turning the temple pyramids as white as bone. I try to think about what Rain Flower has said but my mind is just a stew of panic and despair. I have come too far to believe that Rain Flower may be right.  

Cortés was writing a letter to the King of Spain by the light of a candle. When Cáceres ushered Benítez into the chamber he laid the quill aside and invited him to sit in the ancient chair his Cuban servants had carried all the way from the coast. He himself now preferred the gilt throne Motecuhzoma had given him.

“Well, Benítez,” he sighed, “these are worrying times, are they not?”

Benítez said nothing. What are you up to now, you old fox?

“A courier has just arrived from Vera Cruz with a letter from Sandoval. Five of Nárvaez' men came to the fortress and demanded his immediate surrender.”

“What did he do about that?”

“What any self-respecting commander would do. He had them beaten and hog-tied. Indian porters are at this moment bringing them to Tenochtitlán roped together on poles. They should arrive here late tonight.”

Typical of Sandoval to end an argument in such a decisive manner.

“I trust I can count on your loyalty in this crisis,” Cortés said.

You bastard, Benítez thought. I admired you when you took on the priests in the Templo Mayor but how I loathe you at all other times. “My loyalty has been sorely tested by recent events, my lord.”

Cortés raised his eyebrows. “In what manner?”

“In the manner of the division of our treasure.”

Cortés gave him a soft and golden smile, both knowing and contemptuous. He reached into the drawer of his writing desk and produced a gold bracelet, studded with large emeralds. He slid it across the table. “Will this make up for any ingratitude you perceive on my part?”

Benítez looked at the bracelet with some interest but did not touch it. “I was not concerned on my own account.”

Cortés looked genuinely surprised. “Then what?”

“You have not dealt fairly with the men,
caudillo
. What you did was not just.”

“The men?” He sounded incredulous.

“They fought hard at Tabasco and at Texcála and endured much during the crossing of the sierra. One hundred pesos was not reward commensurate with their sufferings and valour.”

Cortés leaned forward. “Is that the price of your loyalty, Benítez?”

“My loyalty does not have a price. It follows justice as naturally as water flows downhill.”

“A very elegant speech,” Cortés said, replacing the bracelet in a drawer. “You are a strange man, Benítez. I do not think I understand you completely.”

“ At least I sleep well.”

“We have enough of sleeping when we die. But very well, if that is what you want, you can have it, though I think you will receive little gratitude for your greatness of heart. I shall give the men a greater share of our profits. There, you have my word on it. It may have to come from my own share, but never mind. In return I wish you to do something for me.”

“My lord?”

“When Nárvaez' messengers arrive, we will need to impress them with what we have achieved here, show them that they have more to gain by joining with us than fighting against us. More flies are trapped with honey than with salt, are they not?”

“So what is it you wish me to do?”

Her screams wake me and I know at once that it is Rain Flower. When I reach Benítez’s quarters the sentries are standing helplessly in the doorway, horror etched on their faces. Mendez, the doctor, is there too, but he looks as frankly terrified as the two soldiers.

Rain Flower lies writhing on the floor, foam flecked on her lips. There is blood on her face and in her hair.

“What is wrong with her?” Mendez shouts.

I push my way past him into the room. A gourd lies upended in the corner. I pick it up, sniff at the contents. Rain Flower has been eating the flesh of the gods, sacred mushrooms.

“Where is Benítez?”

“He’s with captain-general, Cortés,” one of the guards answers.

“Tenochtitlán is burning!” Rain Flower laughs, in Chontal Maya.

“What is she saying?” Mendez asks me.

“It is just a fever. I have seen it before. I will look after her.”

He is relieved to pass over the responsibility for her. “All right. If you need to bleed her, let me know.” He turns and leaves the room. I push the guards out of the door after him.

My Little Sister, my Rain Flower. Blood is leaking from the corner of her mouth. She has bitten her tongue. “They have set their dogs on all of us!”

I kneel down and bind her hands and feet with leather thongs to stop her injuring herself further. There is a large cut on her forehead. She must have hit her head on the floor when she fell. Fortunately the wound is not deep.

“God in heaven!”

Benítez stands in the doorway, his face grey. “What has happened here?”

“Mushrooms. There is nothing anyone can do. If she has eaten too many she will die.”

He kneels down beside her, tries to cradle her in his arms but her body bucks and twists in the grip of her phantoms. “Lord Malinche is going to kill us all!”

I think about last night, how I slapped her. Did my indifference drive her to this? The sacred mushrooms are meant only for those about to die a flowery death on the sacrificial stone or the owl men when they wish to glimpse behind the curtains of the future. But such visions sometimes kill even the adepts. What is it that Rain Flower is seeking out, I wonder, the future or oblivion itself?

“Tenochtitlán is burning! The whole city is burning!”

Benítez drops to his knees and makes the sign of the cross. Here is something he does not understand, something beyond the veil. And in truth, I do not understand it either. 

Rain Flower opened her eyes, found Benítez lying beside her, snoring, his head resting in the crook of his arm. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead.

She sensed another presence in the room. She looked around, saw Malinali, her face shadowed by candlelight. She was kneeling on a reed mat, a cloth and a bowl of cool water between her knees.

“Little Sister,” Malinali whispered.

“Little Mother.”

Malinali stroked her hair. “It is passed.”

“Was it very bad?”

“We did not know how much you had eaten.”

“Just a spoonful. Then I lost my courage. And you, have you been here all night?”

She nodded. “With your hairy lord.”

Rain Flower reached out a hand. My Mali, you have been both mother and sister to me. And best friend. But I have lost you to Cortés, and soon you will learn to hate me for what I have to do. “I will be all right now. Should you not return to your lord’s bedchamber?”

“He does not need me these days.” She patted her swelling belly. “I think my new shape displeases him.” She leaned closer. “Did the dreams roll back the curtain for you, Little Sister? Did you see the future?”