Aztec Odyssey

by Jay C. LaBarge

  When Nick walked over to the counter to pay his bill, Debbie reached down and put her hand lightly on top of his. “I meant to tell you the other night out at the lake, but there were so many people there and the timing just didn’t feel appropriate. The day your father disappeared, two rough looking characters came in here for breakfast. Mexican or Tejano I think from their accents, but very loud and rude. Didn’t exactly blend in with the locals round here, if you know what I mean. I didn’t think anything of it, but when I mentioned them to my husband Don that night, he said the same two were in the hardware store and bought an ice auger.”

  Nick dug out his wallet, and said, “Nothing too unusual about that, especially around here for ice fishing season.”

  “That’s what Don thought, but things just didn’t add up. He was trying to be helpful, asked where they were going fishing, what they were using for bait, if they had tip-up’s, or needed anything else. And they were completely clueless about fishing, like they just needed to drill a hole in the ice, and nothing else. I don’t know if it means anything, but I wanted to make sure to pass it along. And before you ask, no, they didn’t use a credit card to pay for anything, they paid cash.”

  Nick nodded a look of thanks to Debbie, gave her a genuine smile, and said, “Tell Don thanks for the insight, and you be sure to take care of yourself and that tribe of rug rats you’re growing.”

  Nick considered stopping by the police department on his way out of town but decided against it. He had already been down that road once and been dismissed out of hand. His deepening suspicions about the cut pine branches he found in the woods, the missing journal, the new tip about two out-of-towners who bought an ice auger but didn’t know anything about fishing, weren’t much of an argument, at least not without filling in some more of the missing information, most crucially some type of motive. He had the better part of three weeks to do some digging into the old family history and mystery across the Southwest, so he drove out of the still sleepy little town, south along Lake Michigan, pushing his speed a little to avoid the choke point around the Chicago beltway before he headed southwest.

  Rule number one of any successful road trip, take care of the entertainment first. Nick figured he had over thirty hours of driving before he was scheduled to pick up Charlie in northwest New Mexico, depending on what detours grabbed his attention. That’s a lot of windshield time he thought. He was thankful for his lifelong obsession with great music.

  He’d grown up in a household full of music, had a Mother who gave piano lessons to the neighborhood kids and helped with the local musical productions, and a father who had an extensive music collection and enjoyed playing the guitar and singing. Hell, Mom had even dressed him up and put him in all kinds of plays and competitions before he could even voice his dissent. The one residual of all of that was his abilities to play the piano, guitar, and to sing—and once he got past puberty his voice wasn’t all that bad.

  Nick’s music collection centered around his dad’s musical tastes, ranging from blues to jazz to classic rock. Even his grandparents with their big band and swing music had an influence. He veraciously digitized any music he could get his hands on, even exhausting the local library systems and all of Charlie’s friends. Then his going to three different colleges had only broadened his exposure, and in a bit of serendipity he had a roommate named Eric who was as passionate a music fan as he was. Eric had a digital collection of the Billboard 100 for every year it had been in existence, back to 1955. It had been obtained through nefarious means which were never fully disclosed, although a liaison with a pretty radio station intern had long been rumored.

  One challenge Nick had was that he drove an old Chevy pickup, but he found a way to jack his iPhone into the cassette player and still enjoy his digital music library on the road. A little bit of radio also broke things up and kept him current on the goings on in the world, which was usually depressing enough to get him to switch back to his personal music collection. With no built-in vehicle navigation, he still used a portable GPS unit in a cradle on the dashboard, which was also useful for hiking where there was no cell phone signal or if he was out of country. Completing the road trip ensemble, on his lap sat an old palm sized tape recorder, one that he would dictate random thoughts or bits of inspiration and insight to, the buttons so second nature he never needed to look at it while driving.

  Nick got caught in traffic a little south of Chicago, right before lunch time, but it cleared out by Joliet and he went into long haul driver mode, partially turning off his mind to the driving and started daydreaming about the trip itself. First stop would be near Fort Leavenworth Kansas, one of Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather Alexandre’s first postings after the Civil War. In 1866 when he went through there, it had become famous as the base for the African-American soldiers who were to become known as the Buffalo Soldiers. The Apache gave them the moniker, because they had curly, kinky hair like bison, and out of respect for their tenacious fighting ability. Nick’s interest was in taking a quick tour of the area to refresh himself on its history, because he hadn’t been there since he was nine years old. And more importantly, it was close to Quivira, where the Spaniard, Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, had led a troop of conquistadors out of Mexico on a search for the fabled Seven Cities of Cibola. Quivira had caught Nick’s father’s attention, and they had all spent several days there the same summer they went through Fort Leavenworth.

  Nick continued to cruise down the interstate, skipping lunch and only stopping to gas up and relieve himself to keep the momentum going. Around four in the afternoon he turned due west at Springfield and drove until hunger and heavy eyes compelled him to finally admit he needed a break. He decided to push himself a little further to get over the Mississippi River, and pulled off at Hannibal. As he wandered into the trucker’s diner, he had a sense of déjà vu with his morning of seeing Debbie, in a very similar setting. He sat down heavily into a booth, ordered coffee and a meatloaf dinner from a gruff waitress right out of central casting, and attempted to clear his head. He glanced at a sign on the wall which proudly proclaimed Hannibal as the boyhood home of Samuel Clemens, better known as Mark Twain. Looking out the window he saw some of the inspiration for Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn as the muddy Mississippi rolled on by.

  Spread out in front of Nick were Grandma Ingrid’s family history booklet, several of Dad’s travel journals, and a map. As he tried hard to remember what his dad had told him of old family legends and his obsessive quest, he unconsciously rubbed the necklace he wore from the dream catcher in Grandma Ingrid’s room. Dad had always been very cautious about what he disclosed to the boys, like he was guarding both a secret and the boys from the secret, like knowledge of it could somehow harm them.

  Curious, Nick thought. Because something had definitely harmed Dad. There was something in the back of his mind, something he had heard a long time ago, that was a crucial piece of the puzzle, but he couldn’t retrieve it out of the depths of his childhood memory. Which was why he was so excited yesterday when it seemed Grandma Ingrid was going to tell him about it, before she slipped back into herself and the moment was lost.

  He pulled the necklace over his head and examined it closer in the flickering fluorescent light of the diner. The pendant was definitely covered in something, still tacky to the touch. It felt almost like the tar he had removed from prehistoric bones at the La Brea tar pits on one of his early field trips. Nick pulled out his iPhone, tapped the flashlight icon, and pointed the bright light directly at it. One part reflected a bright glimmer, and he scratched at it with his fingernail. No good, all he did was get his finger sticky, so he reached down to his belt, grabbed his multi-tool utility knife, flipped out the fish scaler, and scratched gently with that. A little flake came off, and then another. Holding it up to the iPhone’s light, it reflected even more brightly. His pulse quickening, he grabbed his things, threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table for a ten-dollar meal, and ran out to the back of his truck. Fumblin
g with the key to unlock the cap on the back, he got it open and reached in to grab his metal detector.

  Won’t work here with a metal bed, he realized, and then unlocked the door to the cabin. He tried scanning the necklace on the front seat and laughed at himself because there were metal springs in the seats.

  No good, this is just like when Alexander Graham Bell tried to find the assassin’s bullet in President Garfield but couldn’t because he was lying on a bed with metal coils. Great idea, bad execution, he thought.

  Nick grabbed the necklace, took a deep breath, carefully placed it on the asphalt parking surface, and scanned it again with the metal detector. The shrill beeping made the heads in the diner window turn and look out at him. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. He put on the necklace and tucked it back under his shirt, hopped in the pickup truck, and invigorated with the discovery that had been right in front of him this whole time, quickly got back on the interstate. Time to make some time.

  Chapter 9 – May 5, 1521

  The Coahuiltecan at first had confused Asupacaci. Here they lived in a vast land, yet they seemed to have no structure as a people. They survived in little bands, had no permanent dwellings of any kind, and moved frequently since the land provided so little, even less than that of the Chichimeca. In a harsh environment and with little organization, they couldn’t survive if they stayed in any one place too long. The Coahuiltecan didn’t seem to pose a threat, as their small bands didn’t have enough warriors to challenge the caravan, not unless they united among themselves, which seemed unlikely. But that was also the challenge, as there was no central leader Asupacaci could meet with, no one powerful figure to negotiate with. The column had continued moving along much like a centipede does, with different parts moving forward, while others caught up and stopped, and then the process would start all over again. Not very efficient, he thought. But we don’t have real roads here, just worn trails.

  No longer able to live off the land, the Aztecs hesitantly dipped into their precious supplies of food. Anticipating this, Asupacaci had Cipactli decided who wasn’t contributing enough to the progress of the group. This served multiple purposes, to save both on supplies and to appease the gods.

  The sickest and injured were gathered, and under the light of the moon met one of two fates. Those that had done their duty were shown mercy and dispatched quickly, and with honor were offered to Xipe Totec, the god of life, death and rebirth. Those who had shirked their duty or were Spanish were bound and left behind for the Coahuiltecan to deal with as they saw fit. Small gifts were also placed around them, an offering to be allowed to proceed peacefully. And judging from the human remains placed strategically on the Aztecs’ line of march, the shirkers wouldn’t be meeting an honorable or merciful end.

  Small bands of Coahuiltecan continuously spied on the column, and occasionally a few would approach to parlay or trade. The Chichimeca guides would translate, with Friar Rodrìguez listening in and learning, and eventually participating. Asupacaci even found himself picking up on some of the language and realized he had more of an aptitude for language than he’d known. It was evident that the Coahuiltecan were truly a poor and uneducated people, and the Aztecs were surprised at how little it took to appease them with what they considered insignificant trinkets.

  Onward the expedition trekked through the high mesa, past dense thickets of what the Chichimeca guides called prickly pear cactus, the pads and fruit of which could be eaten, and were used to supplement their supplies.

  In one particular wandering band they encountered, the chieftain seemed eager to communicate and trade with this strange caravan. He indicated a great river to their northeast, where the people lived a more settled life, the land more generous, with large beasts that wandered down from the north and provided a great bounty. He indicated they were even bigger than the horses, with horns on their heads and shaggy coats. Asupacaci and Cipactli asked about the great river, which direction it flowed, how fast was the current, and how deep. They had read each other’s mind, with the thought that this may present an avenue for them to travel further and more efficiently, perhaps turning the wagons into rafts, as the Aztecs were expert at water travel and navigation. After all, the heart of their great homeland city, Tenochtitlán, was in fact an island. But it became evident that the current flowed strongly the wrong way, back out to the great sea that the Spanish controlled, and with the weight they were carrying it was deemed impractical. Ironically it would be the Spanish who would eventually give that river its name, the Rio Grande.

  For another twenty-five risings of the sun they continued their journey until a pristine lake on the plateau was encountered, and Asupacaci called for two days of rest and refitting. The guard was kept up, and scouts were posted in a defensive perimeter, but the mood changed immediately. He had been driving them hard, and would have to do so again, but deep into their journey here was a place that seemed to be not too threatening, with a good unobstructed view in all directions. Long runners had come back saying that more of the same terrain and bands of scattered Coahuiltecan lay ahead, and thus it presented a good opportunity for the expedition to regroup.

  The power of the little army was still strong, although Cipactli informed him they were now down to twenty-five Eagle and Jaguar Knights, eighty-six warriors, and the remaining servants, slaves and Spaniards. Having been forced to use some of their supplies and not live exclusively off the land, Asupacaci ordered that the wagon loads be redistributed, so that each team of horses was pulling less weight. Two of the weakest horses were killed to use as a feast and restore the food supply, and the wagon they had hauled was stripped down for spare parts and stored in the others. Asupacaci even ordered that the octli be broken out, that milk colored, sour tasting alcohol much beloved by his people.

  In the midst of the celebration, Hummingbird, the leader of the scouts, came back excitedly and prostrated himself in front of Asupacaci and Cipactli. “Tlanahuatihqui, we have spotted horses in the distance milling about, but no Spaniards. The horses are naked and unadorned. They seem almost wild.”

  Asupacaci nodded, dismissed him, and said, “They must be survivors of the shipwrecks we have been told about. The land suits them, and they flourish. Let us give our warriors a good diversion and use this to honor Tzitzimitl.” This Aztec deity was associated with the stars, and if at the end of a 52-year calendar the Aztecs could not start a bow fire in the empty chest cavity of a sacrificed human, then the fifth sun would end and Tzitzimitl would devour the last of men.

  The warriors were broken up into separate teams and given until sundown to see who could kill or capture a wild horse. One by one the teams had returned as the sun set in the distance, empty handed and looking downcast. Then faint singing was heard, and with much fanfare the last team came into camp, lugging both a dead horse and a live, young one. The knight known as Angry Bumblebee had killed a mare with a skilled arrow shot as he crept downwind of the animal, hit it directly through the neck, and then hobbled its colt with a toss of a lasso made of three bound strips of raw hide with stones at the ends. The mare was added to the larder, the white colt presented as a gift to Asupacaci, and a Spaniard ritually offered to Tzitzimitl.

  The next day they were all up early to resume the journey before sunrise, well before the heat of the day started to grow too much in strength. Some were still a little groggy from too much octli or a belly full of meat for the first time in weeks, but the steady pace of the march soon sweat it out of them.

  For fifteen more risings of the sun they made good progress, finally reaching a place the local Coahuiltecan called Chihuahua, meaning dry place. Very purposely they didn’t dwell in this area, and Asupacaci and Cipactli decided to press the expedition on even harder, having been told by those they traded with that beyond this lay a much more hospitable land, with good grazing for the horses and a bounty with which to replenish their supplies.

  As he gazed about the desolate landscape around him, for the first time Asupacaci r
ealized that they were facing the possibility of a catastrophic ending. Not that he hadn’t believed this could happen, in fact he always thought there was a very good chance it ultimately would, he just never envisioned it being this early in the expedition. And he certainly wasn’t ever going to let that gut feeling of intuition show to anyone, not even to Cipactli. Utter determination was the only thing he would ever show anyone. He purposely maintained his outer royal countenance, and wanted with every fiber of his being to put as much possible distance between them and any possible Spanish pursuers, or even future conquistador explorers.

  The guides were sent out far ahead to pick the best trails, the scouts formed up in a protective cordon around the caravan, and the pace was increased, which made for more suffering of all those involved. But it was either short term duress with the hope of reaching a more fertile land, or a slower pace with longer suffering and possible failure of the entire quest. Asupacaci had started paying increased attention to his surroundings, with an eye toward deciding where and when to unload the wagons, and how best to secretly hide what they contained. Already he had seen cenotes, those deep subterranean water pools often barely visible from ground level. But not everything he transported would last under water, and he looked for other options, especially deep gorges, ravines, and caves.

  He noticed some strange dwellings recently, dug directly into the sides of cliffs with formidable outer walls and accessible only by ladders. The stone surfaces around these had interesting symbols and designs on them, but their meaning was lost. Now abandoned, they were once easily defendable but not quite what he was searching for. There was no lack of deep gullies and ravines, and the farther north he went the more he saw ever larger canyons. If he could find a large enough one, far enough out of the way but still accessible to his caravan, perhaps that would meet his ultimate needs. It all depended on where the fates took him. Resigned that whatever was to happen would happen, he put his faith and his life in the hands of his gods and would simply react opportunistically to circumstances as they unfolded.