Song of the Hummingbird (20 page)

“Señora, I'm not feeling well. I'll return tomorrow to finish your confession.”

As he stood, Benito felt his knees shaking and his head aching. He walked away from Huitzitzilin carefully, taking one step at a time. He feared he would trip and fall.

Chapter

XXI

“Brother, I can see that you are in greater anguish than ever. Is it the Indian woman?”

Father Benito's eyes squinted as he gazed at Anselmo, mostly because the older monk's discernment amazed him and partly because of the declining rays of the sun. Anselmo had come upon Benito a few meters from the entrance to the monastery, where Benito had been walking with head hung low. When the porter opened the gate, the two monks walked towards the inner cloister. Father Anselmo invited Benito into his cell. Once inside, Anselmo pointed to a small bench.

“Please take a seat.”

Anselmo remained standing with his hands clasped, finger tips pressed together. It was the posture he took whenever he was addressing the monks in his position as prior.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Forgive me, Father, but it concerns the woman's confession.”

“I see.”

Anselmo's body softened as he turned to gaze out the window cut into the stone wall of the cell. There was a long silence before he spoke again.

“Brother, the seal of confession is a heavy burden, one that only the Spirit can alleviate. Put yourself in God's hands, and He will deliver you from the weight that I sense bearing down on you.”

Huit-zitzilin's words describing the murder of Captain Ovando echoed in Benito's mind despite telling himself over and again that the awful deed had been committed so many years before that it should be forgotten as well as forgiven. He nonetheless struggled with the issue of justice. Should she not have been punished for what she did?

“Father, have you ever heard a confessed sin so grievous that you have found it beyond your forgiveness?”

Anselmo reflected on the question for a while before answering. “It is not for us to forgive. That is for God alone to do.”

“Yet, how can we, mere flesh and blood, presume God's forgiveness if we, in our hearts, cannot find that same pardon? What I mean to say is that if I raise my hand in absolution knowing that my heart detests the evil committed by the sinner, how can I tell if God is forgiving that person?”

“We know that God forgives precisely for the reason you've just given. Our Father hates the sin, not the sinner who is victimized by evil. When this distinction is made, mercy follows easily.”

Father Anselmo pursed his lips, confident that he had responded appropriately to Benito's question. When he began to move from where he stood, however, the younger priest spoke up with another barrage of questions.

“But are we priests not God's instruments? And if we are, then is it not true that we should feel God's pardon coursing through our soul and mind? And if this does not happen, is it not true that we should conclude that God has remained unforgiving?”

“Father Benito, one moment, please! One question at a time.”

Anselmo raised his hand in midair, its white, tapered fingers casting a luminous aura against the dark wall of the cell. He moved to a chair and sat next to Benito, the better to look into his eyes. He then realized that most of the daylight had diminished. He stretched his arm until he reached a candle on his writing table, struck a flint and lit the wick. When he leaned back, he again put his hands together at the finger tips.

“We must conclude one thing only when hearing a penitent's confession, and that is to absolve. When there is contrition, then we know that God will most certainly forgive.”

“And if there is no contrition?”

Anselmo arched his thin eyebrows in astonishment. “Why would anyone confess a sin if there is no contrition? That would be a contradiction.”

Silence filled the stony cell while Benito searched his thoughts, wondering about Huit-zitzilin's motives for having confessed the sin of murder. He was unsure that it had been remorse or sorrow. Then he looked at Anselmo as if wanting to speak, but the older priest held up his hand in a gesture that silenced him. Fearing that Benito was dangerously close to divulging the secrets that should remain buried in his soul, Anselmo decided to end the conversation.

“Brother, continue your transcription of the Indian woman's chronicle. Leave the forgiveness of her sins to our most merciful Lord, who loves all His children in equal measure.”

Father Benito got to his feet, nodded in agreement, and walked to the door. “Good night, Reverend Father, and thank you. I'll reflect on what you have said.”

“Good night, Brother.”

Benito spent the night sleeplessly as he wrestled with the idea that Huitzitzilin should have been put to justice. As the night passed, his thoughts relived the days he had spent with the Indian woman. The events of her life, as well as the people she had described, glided from one side of his cell to the other. Tetla, Cuauhtémoc, Zintle, Cortés, Ovando, her sons, her daughter, all of the people Huitzitzilin had evoked in his imagination marched in front of the priest's eyes.

He tried to sleep, but it was useless. After hours of trying to doze, he abandoned the struggle, lit a candle, and went to the table where he had stacked the pages that held the woman's story. He scanned the manuscript at random, beginning with the Hill of the Star, reviewing her words on the ways and beliefs of her people, their homes and temples, her marriage, loves and grief. With each line, Benito felt more captivated by Huit-zitzilin's words.

He was staring at the last page when the bell for matins began to ring; it was dawn. Huit-zitzilin's story, he realized, was unfinished and he knew that it was for him to record that ending. When he stood up from the table, his legs were cramped by the damp chill of the cell. They ached, but he paid little attention to his discomfort because he was thinking of the woman's story and her insistence on his forgiveness.

“Have mercy on us, O Lord, and in your bounty forgive our transgressions.”

Father Anselmo's prayer began the early morning chant, and as Benito took his place in the choir, he felt the power of Huit-zitzilin's life permeate him. Making the sign of the cross and bowing in expectation of the prior's blessing, the young monk put aside his preoccupation with justice and concentrated on the gift of mercy.

Chapter

XXII

“Good morning, Señora.”

Huitzitzilin looked at Benito; her gaze was cheerful. She smiled at him.

“Good morning, young priest. I see that you've changed.”

“Changed? What do you mean?”

“You've grown wiser.”

As always, the woman's forthright response caused Benito embarrassment. But this time he decided to pursue rather than dodge her remark.

“How can a person grow wiser overnight?”

“By accepting what is in here.” She pointed to her chest with her index finger. When Benito gawked at her, she continued speaking. “Have you forgiven me?”

His face flushed until the high ridges of his ears turned a purplish hue, and he shook his head expressing his emotions. Benito felt a mix of admiration and uneasiness at the way the woman could read what was stirring inside of him. He had to clear his throat before speaking, but his voice was thin.

“Yes, I have forgiven you. But it is not I who should. . . “

“Please say no more!” Huitzitzilin shifted in the chair and smacked her lips, also demonstrating her feelings. “I have more to tell for your chronicle.” She appeared to have forgotten about her hatred for Baltazar, as well as sin and punishment. She stared at Benito, waiting for him to produce his writing materials. Although she saw him hesitating, she prepared to continue with her story anyway.

The monk felt uncertain of going on because of the change in her. He felt that something was missing: a link to connect the intensity of the day before and her present relaxed air. He turned to gaze first at the fountain, then at the flowers; he was taking time to find an answer. When he returned his attention to Huitzitzilin, she had begun to speak, so he reached for quill and paper.

“When it was realized that Baltazar was missing, Captain Cortés launched a search for him. No matter where they looked or how many slaves were flogged or punished, Cortés was unable to discover anything leading to Baltazar's disappearance. Cortés, after a time, was forced to admit that it was futile to continue the investigation. Baltazar's wife returned to Spain along with most of her possessions, and their land went back to the king of Spain. We, the slaves and servants, were indentured to Captain Cortés.

“Tenochtitlan continued its transformation, so much so that it was now beyond our recognition. Captain Cortés prospered and his possessions grew. His house hold also expanded not only with new servants and slaves brought from other places, but from the birth of babies, most of them fathered by Spanish soldiers.

“I was placed in the scullery and laundry. Very little crossed my thoughts during those years, except that from time to time I would recall my childhood and young womanhood. Often, thoughts of my two boys, the ones who had been mine for a short while, filled my head. At other times I remembered Paloma, and in my mind I could see her growing into womanhood. I imagined her slender body, her breasts filling, her face radiant with the light of youth and laughter.

“These thoughts brought me a measure of consolation in the loneliness that clung to me. My life knew no joy, because my heart had dried up and because I was surrounded by unhappy, bitter people. So it was that one year followed the next. There was one exception: the year Captain Cortés returned to the land of his birth. He took many of us with him, as well as artifacts of gold and silver and gems.”

“You've been to Spain?” Benito's face lit with surprise and admiration, realizing that here was yet another side to the woman that he had not imagined.

“Yes.”

“Where? What city? Did you go to Seville?”

“My, my, young priest. Give me a moment to answer your questions with one response. Captain Cortés took us to where the king of Spain awaited him. We went to the city you call Barcelona.”

Father Benito gazed at Huitzitzilin. Awe was stamped on his face. When he returned to writing, he did it as rapidly as possible, because he sensed that she had witnessed an historical moment in Cortés' life, as well as that of Spain. He also felt certain that his chronicle would contain yet another different and unrecorded incident.

“It was not a happy experience for Captain Cortés, because he was disdained at court when he proclaimed that he and a handful of soldiers had conquered the kingdom of the Mexicas. No one believed that it happened that way. No one was interested. Everyone was bored with him and with what he had to tell. I didn't feel compassion for him because I was convinced that he was paying for his many cruelties towards us, especially the torture and execution of Cuauhtémoc.”

Benito squinted, trying to remember the documents he had studied regarding that encounter between the conqueror of Mexico and the king's incredulous courtiers. Those papers attested to the fact that Cortés had indeed been jeered. Benito even recalled several letters that accused the captain of arrogance and exaggeration. He had thought that it was untrue, and that those documents had been circulated only to create a false impression of how the captain was really perceived. Huit-zitzilin's words, however, provided evidence of Cortés' humiliation in Spain.

“The experience was sadder for me than for the captain because it was then that I encountered my daughter Paloma. She was lovely, and I knew it was my daughter because she looked as I had when I was fifteen years of age. The only difference was her color, which was white. But I soon discovered that her loveliness did not go deeper than her skin.

“When we were paraded for the benefit of those people, it was Paloma who outdid herself in mocking my deformity. By that time, I understood the language in which she spoke, and I had to bear the anguish she caused me when she ridiculed me, making the others laugh.”