The Seven Serpents Trilogy (24 page)

“Are you confused now?” I said. “I have questions to ask and I don't have the time to listen to confused an swers.”

“No longer,” the old man said. “I did not want to talk to you while my thoughts were confused. Now my head is very clear.”

He walked to a window and glanced out. Fog was slowly engulfing the city.

“I seek your advice,” I said. “As you are a high priest, one who has seen life on this island, your answers should be helpful.”

“Either of help or not of help,” he answered, “my answers will be truthful.”

“The truth is sometimes of help,” I said, repeating rather pompously, I fear, advice given me long before by my teacher, Father Expoleta.

The old man looked at me for the first time. There was no sign of awe or reverence in his glance. It should have warned me of what was to come.

“Let us begin with the most important truth,” he said, framing his words precisely, assuming that my knowledge of Maya was imperfect. “You are not the Feath ered Serpent. Instead, young man, you are an impostor.”

Pausing to gauge the effects of his words, the old man looked down upon me as a schoolmaster might confront a student who has committed some thoughtless prank. I returned his gaze resolutely, but inside, in the marrow of my bones, I flinched.

“Those are dangerous words,” I wanted to say.

I could remind Ah den Yaxche, standing stiff and censorious in his long white robe, that I could have him seized, as he had been seized this very day, and placed in a cage with the rest of the prisoners, those who had not been sacrificed in my honor. There he would await the hour when he himself was laid out upon the stone and his heart removed.

These violent thoughts raced through my mind, but wisely I remained silent. I was moved by the man's cour age. What did he hope to gain by speaking to me as an enemy? Nothing, I was certain, that was worth the loss of his life. Of course, what seemed like courage could also be the simple outpouring of an old man gone soft in the head.

I was calm, at least I tried to give this impression. I forced myself to smile. “You are a man of intelligence,” I said. “You were once a high priest. How can you make this mistake?”

He did not answer, but went on looking down at me in a critical way, as if I were an unruly young man who needed a lecture he had not quite decided upon.

“How can you harbor any doubt?” I said, deciding that it might be wise to give him a quiet warning. “Such a doubt could cause you harm.”

“There is not one doubt,” he said, as if he had not heard me. “There are many. They go far back, to the day that my granddaughter saw the big canoe with the white wings sink beneath the waves. She brought the word. She saw you in the sea. She saw you lie on the shore. Not like a god, but like a dead man you lay on the shore.”

“Gods,” I said, “sometimes face adversity.”

“They do not lie helpless like dead people until the sun warms their bones and brings them to life again.”

Fog drifted into the room. The old man shivered and pulled the robe around his thin shoulders.

“Nor do gods sleep in hollow logs,” he continued. “Without a fire, eating what they find in the sea and for est.”

As he went on to describe the life I had led during my months on the beach, I recalled ancient gods who had met greater trials than mine—Prometheus, chained to a rock while a vulture pecked at his liver; Vulcan, whose father pushed him from heaven, who fell to Earth, tak ing a day to do so—but these gods Ah den Yaxche had never heard of.

The old man gave out a sigh. “Kukulcán did not live in this way,” he said slowly, as if he spoke the words against his will. “He was not a vagabond.”

“What was he, then?” I said, seizing the chance I had hoped for.

“He was a god.”

“But what made him a god? What did he say? What did he do?”

I was afraid the old man would turn the questions back to me and say that since I presented myself as the god Kukulcán, I should know what made me a god and also what I said and did as a god, that I should not have to ask him.

He searched his memory for a long time, until I began to think that he had forgotten my questions.

“The Feathered Serpent came from the east,” he said. “From where the sun rises. He came in a big canoe that was as big as this room and had turned-up ends. Or this is what I have heard from my father and he from his fa ther, far back, far back.”

I had read somewhere, or heard it spoken of, that in the days before Christ many boats had sailed out of the Mediterranean Sea through the Straits of Hercules and were seen no more. Could this man with his pointed beard, who looked like the drawing I once had seen of an Egyptian priest, be descended from these early voy agers?

“The Feathered Serpent went among the multitudes and talked words that they could understand,” the old man said. “He talked also to the nobles and priests, in different words but words that meant the same.”

Ah den Yaxche walked to the open window and glanced out. Again I was fearful that he would disap pear. Then he turned away and slowly cast his eyes about the room, at the broken stones of the floor and at the walls riven by the storms of many years.

It seemed that he had forgotten what we were talking about.

“What did Kukulcán say when he spoke to the people and the nobles?” I reminded him.

Gathering his thoughts, the old man said, “He spoke of many things. But chiefly he spoke against war and the taking of prisoners and the killing of prisoners. He was likewise against the killing of beasts and birds. He was against all killing.”

“Kukulcán preached,” I said, “but apparently no one listened, judging from what I see now.”

“They listened. Everyone, even the nobles and priests. That was a time when there was much happiness on our island and the people built many temples. But then came the bad times, when the Feathered Serpent left and sailed to the east. When he was gone, the people slipped back into their old ways.”

“Back to barbarism, where they are now. And this is why, centuries after he was gone, you gave up the priest hood and fled to the jungle to live on a poor
milpa
at the foot of a volcano.”

“This is why,” the old man said. “Yes.”

“You turned your back on the city and disappeared.” My anger was building again. “You have turned your back on me. You wouldn't be here now if I had not sent guards to haul you in.”

“It took a long time to make up my mind,” Ah den Yaxche said. “When I did make it up, when I decided that you were an adventurer and a common impostor, then I had another matter to decide.”

He looked down at me like some ancient Egyptian judge.

“You are an impostor,” he said, “but the people think otherwise. They have lived in fear. The city was seized by fear. There has been death in the streets and sadness in every house. You have changed this. You have brought happiness to the City of the Seven Serpents.”

I had heard something like this already from Cantú the dwarf. But Cantú was a friend, whose life and fortunes were bound up with mine. At the moment Ah den Yaxche was neither a friend nor an enemy.

“What you are saying, old man, is that I am a god so long as you permit me to be. Unless I do as you wish, unless I follow your ideas about religious matters and affairs of the city, you will take it upon yourself to ex pose me.”

“You put it in a crude way,” he said. “I will not make suggestions that are unwise.”

“Who is to judge whether they are wise or unwise?”

“You and I. We will judge.”

“What if we disagree?”

“Why should we? Both of us desire the same thing.”

“And what is that?” I asked, sensing our first disagree ment.

“A happy place where people live in peace and love each other. As it was in the day when Lord Kukulcán ruled the city.”

“The first thing, esteemed sir, is to have a city. Not what I find now—a place where buildings have fallen into ruins, the temple and streets are choked with rubble. We need to rebuild the city. And while we are re building it we must find ways to protect it.”

“From what?”

“From the horde that is ready to descend upon us.”

“Of which you are the first?” Ah den Yaxche said, speaking in his young man's voice. “No, not the first. The first was Guillermo Cantú and his twenty-one com panions. The twenty-one companions were sacrificed to the gods. Cantú was the only one left. But now there are two.”

Cuidado
, old man, be careful, was on my tongue to say, but I swallowed hard, saying as gently as I could, “And while the city is being reclaimed from the jungle I'll destroy the hellish altar stone and its bloody vases.”

“This you cannot do and live,” Yaxche said.

An echo of the dwarf 's warning.

“And I'll also destroy the hellish beast and serpent idols that infest the temple. I will turn the temple into a place of worship of the one true god.”

The old man cleared his throat. “I have heard of this god you speak about. My granddaughter, Ceela, has told me about this one. We both laughed. We laughed together. I laugh now at all this foolishness.”

He towered above me, thin arms folded on his chest. He fixed me with a cold eye.

Wisps of fog, whiter than the smoke from the brazier, drifted through the window and settled between us. From the fields around the palace sounded the voices of a chanting multitude. From far off I heard the cries of circling geese.

 

D
EEMING IT WISE TO HAVE
A
H DEN
Y
AXCHE LOCATED WHERE HE
could be watched, since it was foolish to trust the old man, found quarters for him that morning among the many rooms of the palace, placed guards at his door, and forbade him to leave the palace grounds. Ceela and the women were located nearby and given permission to come and go as they pleased.

A heavy fog billowed in from the sea while the dwarf and I were at supper that night. The windows being without glass or protection of any kind, the fog so filled the room that it was difficult for the servants to move about.

Torches were lit, yet ghostly voices spoke at your elbow, figures appeared, floated about, and vanished.

After supper I made my way to Bravo's stall to make sure that he had been fed and watered. I was returning when I ran squarely into a solid object.

At first I thought that it was one of the numerous ste lae—the corridors were strewn with these stone markers. But as I reached out to recover myself I clutched a handful of wild, coarse hair. At the same instant I caught the pleasant odor of wood smoke and a scent that I had smelled before.

A cry of fear and surprise burst from the person I had stumbled upon. The cry was only three short words.
“Baax a kati?
What do you want?” But at once I recog nized the voice of Ceela Yaxche.

A servant carrying a torch passed us and by its light the girl had a brief glimpse of my face. She opened her mouth to scream, then closed it.

“You're on your way to see Bravo,” I said. I loosened my hold on her hair and grasped her hand. “Come. He's only a step from here. He's been fed, but you can feed him again—he's always hungry.”

The girl opened her mouth. This time she screamed, just once, then, catching her breath, stumbled away among the fallen columns down the long corridor and disappeared.

Later that evening Ah den Yaxche and I discussed his granddaughter. He was worried that she would be un happy in the palace. To ease his mind and my own, for I felt a strong attachment to this pagan girl, I talked to her the next morning. Or rather, I talked to him and he talked to her—and thus, in a roundabout way, we communicated with each other.

Ceela crouched on the floor behind the old man, who stood fanning himself with a small red fan made of parrot feathers. I could see only the vague outlines of her wild hair flying about, and her body stiff as if to defend herself.

“Is there anything I can say,” I asked the old man, “that will calm your granddaughter?”

“Nothing,” he said, “and it is better that she is struck mute by your presence and would faint in fear if you looked at her. Otherwise, you would have a young gabbler trailing you everywhere. With the young there is nothing between.”

“Ask your granddaughter if she would like to go to the school here in the city. It is a school for the daugh ters of lords, so I am told, but I'll see that she studies there.”

This information was passed on and after a time a reply came back in a small voice.

“What would I study?”

“Tell your granddaughter,” I said, “that she can study sewing and cooking, things to do with the household.”

There was a long silence and then, “I know these things, dear Grandfather, I do them every day. I could be a teacher in the school and teach these things to those who do not know about them.”

“Ask her what she would like to study,” I said to Ah den Yaxche.

The question was stated and wasn't answered for a time. Then from behind the screen came forth a torrent of words, most of which I did not understand.

“She says,” the old man said, “that she would like to learn how to dance. And also to paint with a brush. And likewise to make rings out of gold and jade. And to sing. She believes she has a throat like a lark in the meadow. Or could have if she were taught. Which, having heard it many times, I doubt.”

“I don't know about the painting,” I said, “if it is taught in the lords' school or not.”

“It is taught. But the art of gold and jade is not taught. This is done within a clan. This clan is jealous. It passes secrets from one to the other, in the family only. And there are no women in the clan, just men.”

“Send word to the clan,” I said, “that the Feathered Serpent wishes the art of gold and jade to be taught to Ceela Yaxche, and find out from your granddaughter when she wishes to begin the painting. She will make a fine painter.”