Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Ñawpa Pachapi
Millay
Sumac Huanacauri
Manco Capac and Mama Ocllo
Musqukuti
Paqo
Pachamama
Yuraq Sara
Yachachisqa
Musuq Simi
Mama Killa
Inti
Yanapa
Ucho
Capac Raymi
Taskikaru
Wiñay Wayna
Curacas
Yuya
Qanimpa
Kallpa
Machu Picchu
Willka Rumi
Kachitu
Inti Raymi
Hanaq
Glossary
Author’s Note
Resources
About the Author
Clarion Books
215 Park Avenue South
New York, New York 10003
Copyright © 2013 by Leanne Statland Ellis
All rights reserved.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003
Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Ellis, Leanne Statland. The Ugly One / by Leanne Statland Ellis. p. cm. Summary: At the height of the Incan empire, a girl called the Ugly One because of a disfiguring scar on her face seeks to have the scar removed and instead finds a life path as a shaman. —Provided by publisher
ISBN 978-0-547-64023-5 (hardcover : alk. paper)
[1. Disfigured persons—Fiction. 2. Beauty, Personal—Fiction. 3. Self-esteem—Fiction. 4. Incas—Fiction. 5. Indians of South America—Peru—Fiction. 6. Shamans—Fiction. 7. Fate and fatalism—Fiction. 8. Peru—History—To 1548—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.E4738Ugl 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012017182
eISBN 978-0-547-97590-0
v1.0613
With much gratitude to my family for their support and encouragement during the writing of this book, to Marcia Leonard for brilliantly guiding it to its final shape with such care, and to Dinah Stevenson for welcoming it to Clarion Books.
For girls everywhere—
may each and every one of you discover
your power, your voice, and your beauty.
And for my girl, Layla Dawn,
whose inner and outer beauty shine so brightly.
I love this girl like the sun loves to shine.
I said, I love this girl like the sun loves to shine.
I love to hug her and kiss her,
this beautiful daughter of mine.
—L.S.E.
Ñawpa Pachapi
Once Upon a Time
Ñawpa pachapi, once upon a time, when I was a young girl, my favorite thing to do was sit on the outskirts of the fire circle and listen to one of my Uncle Turu’s stories. His words would take hold of me and lift me far away, to the sacred mountains and the hot jungles and the first conversations our ancestors had with the sun. I needed his stories, for the times when he told them were the only times I truly forgot myself, forgot how hideously ugly I was.
And now I find that I, too, can be a storyteller. My words are worth listening to, I think, and there is some wisdom in them. Now that I am no longer the Ugly One.
It all began the day the jungle stranger came to our village and changed my path with a gift. I was twelve, sitting on my rock alone, as was my way, when he first arrived. Of course, my story truly began years before that day, but I will start here for now, for many good stories begin with the day when a life changes. Any storyteller worth listening to knows this is so.
1
Millay
Ugly One
THE sun flashed behind the molle leaves, turning them a brilliant green. They were cut into long, thin segments by the dark hair that always sat like a shield in front of my right eye. I had been ugly as far back as I could remember. “Millay, Ugly One,” they said, “cover your face.” Or “Loathsome One, turn toward the mountainߞit is more forgiving.” I watched the world through the protective strands of my hair.
As I shifted my weight on the unyielding stone, a few hairs caught in my eyelashes. I brushed them away and turned my attention back to the soft white alpaca wool resting on my lap. Slowly, I worked my hands through it, picking out tiny burrs and dust flecks so that it would be clean for Mama to spin. It was from one of the young animals. Their wool was the softest, the most desirable. I lifted a cleaned clump and lightly rubbed it against my smooth left cheek, up and down, side to side. In a deliberate arc, I moved it across my forehead. When it touched my right eyebrow, I slowed, using it to trace the deep scar that ran like a river from my right eye down my cheek to my lip and lowered my mouth in a permanent half frown. I used to believe that if I rubbed the alpaca hard enough into my skin, it would make the scar smooth and soft. Of course this did not happen, but I still enjoyed the feeling on my face.
“Micay?” a voice called from below.
It was Chasca, my older sister. She was the only one who called me by my given name. Mama and Papa called me Daughter. My older brother, Hatun, called me Sister. To the others, I was always Millay, Ugly One.
“Are you up there, sitting on your rock?” Chasca called, although she already knew the answer to this question. No one but my sister climbed this steep path to find me. Her dark head appeared, followed by the rest of her body. She smiled as she sighted me, her face smooth and beautiful. Chasca, Morning Star. It was as if my parents had known, when they named her as a newborn, how brightly her smile would shine. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted up, “A visitor has come!”
This was a surprise. People rarely came to our village. It was small, only sixty people who were more likely to leave than bring others, and it was difficult to find, tucked high up in the mountains.
“Who has come?” I asked.
“He says he is from the yunka.”
From the jungle? I could feel my eyes grow wide. We had heard stories of the faraway land below the mountains where the air was always hot and thick with water. But I had never met anyone who had been there.
“He has brought things I think you will like,” Chasca added. She turned back to the village and beckoned for me to follow. I hesitated. I preferred to be alone, but the lure of the yunka stranger was too strong. I stood, placing the alpaca wool in a basket at my hip. Then, careful to rest my hair over my right cheek, I headed down the slope.
***
The stranger was surrounded by the people. His hair was different—shorter than the custom in the mountains. It looked as if he had placed a bowl on his head and cut off that which hung below the rim. And he wore a small piece of wood stuck through the skin at the bottom of his nose. Spread out around him were the many objects that he had brought to trade. Among them I recognized the weavings of some of the nearby villages. He must have traded for these things on his way here. There were also bundles of colorful feathers, spotted furs, exotic fruits, dead butterflies of unusual color and size, and pouches of what I guessed to be jungle herbs. The people were touching and pointing and shouting, excited by the strange objects from so far away.
Uncle Turu, Mama’s brother, was waving his arms about in front of the yunka stranger. He was a large and loud man, my uncle, and he yelled and pointed at a cluster of long red feathers, the kind used to weave fine capes for the royalty and priests of the citie
s. Uncle Turu was trying to intimidate the stranger into a trade, pushing his nose close to the man’s face, snorting like the turu, the bull for which he was named. It is strange the way a name can shape a person. I watched my uncle, already knowing his tactics wouldn’t work. Uncle Turu was a storyteller who liked to fling his arms about for show, but inside he was as soft as the baby alpaca’s fleece. He didn’t like to take advantage of travelers who came to trade. I was sure the stranger would make the better deal before these two were done.
I pulled my right hand through my hair and stepped closer to the large, noisy crowd, hoping no one would notice me in the commotion.
A small group of boys huddled in a circle off to the side, laughing and sneering. I usually stayed away from these boys. But something about the way they moved, their bodies all scrunched over and their attention focused, made me want to see what they were looking at.
Ucho, their leader, was only a year older than me, but he was much bigger. He bent to pick up a stick, and I saw that there was a very small animal in the center of these boys. Ucho poked at it to show his courage to the others. Each time he jabbed he made a strange animal sound, “Kee! Kee! Kee!” Then the others all laughed and imitated him. “Kee! Kee!”
The tiny creature didn’t move, and I couldn’t tell if it was alive or dead. I wanted to scream and rush in and stomp on them like they were little ants. Instead, I squeezed my hands into fists and stayed where I was, watching through my layer of hair.
Suddenly, Muti, Ucho’s six-year-old brother, spied me. At once he was pointing and screeching, “Kee! Kee! Look, the Ugly One is here. Millay shows her face.”
I turned to leave, but the boys rushed around me in a circle, blocking the way. Ucho still had his stick, and he poked it at my side—not hard, but also not gently. He squawked, “Millay! Millay! Go back to the rocks. Keekeekee!”
I would like to say that I was used to such words, that they didn’t bother me, but they did. They hurt me deeply. I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed safely on my rock.
Ucho lifted the stick higher and tried to move my hair away from my face. I dropped my basket and covered the scar with my hands, holding the skin tightly. I could not escape, so I looked to the sky, to Inti, the beautiful sun, trying to lose myself in his glowing golden warmth. The stick was in my side again, poking for my attention, but still I looked up, ignoring the ugly shouts. The clouds soared above, changing their shape, their size, as they passed by. I thought, What power they have, to move like this. If I had such power, I would use it right now to soar up to beautiful Inti and never come back.
The stick was gone. I dared to look down and saw the yunka stranger holding Ucho by the neck, lifting him off the ground with one hand. The man scowled as he studied Ucho, as if the boy were smeared in fresh llama dung that was unpleasant to the nose. Ucho glared back at the man, but his body showed that he was frightened.
The other boys scattered like little rabbits. This was my opportunity to run to safety, but before my feet could turn, the stranger grabbed my shoulder tightly with his other hand. I struggled to free myself, but his powerful grip held me firmly in place. My chest pounded in fear. I forced myself to look into his face and to keep my body stiff to hide my fright. His eyes studied me intently—deep brown eyes that I didn’t understand—but at least he didn’t dangle me off the ground like a dead animal or look at me as if I smelled unpleasant.
The yunka man turned his head back to Ucho and threw the boy to the ground. Dust flew up in a cloud, and Ucho coughed. He didn’t rise, and I wondered if he was hurt or shamed. I hoped both. The man pointed to the small animal on the ground. Then in broken speech, for he was a stranger to our language, he commanded, “Bring Sumac Huanacauri to me!”
Sumac Huanacauri. Handsome Rainbow. This was a mighty name for so tiny a creature, and there were smiles in the crowd. But no one made a sound.
Slowly, Ucho rose, careful to look at no one. He raised his shoulders pridefully and walked to the little animal still lying on the ground. Scooping it into his hands, he delivered the pathetic creature to the yunka man, holding it up to him like an offering to the gods.
“By my feet!” the man commanded, and my heart soared to watch Ucho humiliated like this in front of so many people. I was sure he would take out his anger on me later, but even so, it was a good moment.
At the single word “Go!” Ucho ran off, far away from the watchful eyes of the people. Then the stranger turned his attention to me again, and I was not so glad of this. What did he want with me? I squirmed and tried to escape again, but his hand only held my shoulder more tightly. I scanned the crowd. Chasca and Mama clutched each other as they moved closer to me, but most of the people stood still, curious to see what this stranger would do next. Would they allow this man to harm me, even if I was the Ugly One? I didn’t think so.
The yunka stranger lifted his free hand toward my face. Immediately, I slapped my own hand over the scar—an added layer of protection on top of the hair that already covered the cheek. It was foolish of me to do so. Everyone knew the scar was there. Nothing I had tried could make it disappear.
The stranger’s hand hovered in the air, as if ready to strike me. He leaned his face closer to mine and narrowed his eyes. They were such a dark brown that it was difficult to tell where the color ended and the center blackness began. He probed me with these eyes, searching my thoughts, my spirit. I felt as if my very heart was being observed by this stranger, and somehow his stare slowed the beating. It was an odd sensation, having someone control my heartbeat with his eyes. I wondered how he did it and if he would make my heart stop altogether. And then I ceased wondering anything, and all I saw were his huge dark eyes.
His fingers moved to the river scar on my cheek, and I was surprised to find that my hand was no longer covering it. Gently, he lifted my hair shield, revealing the ugly scar for everyone to see. Why I didn’t stop this I cannot say, but I know it had something to do with the way his eyes had not left mine. It was impossible to look away, to move.
He traced the scar lightly with his index finger, starting at the top by the eyebrow. No person had ever touched my scar before. This was the part of myself that I kept the most hidden, and it felt as if he were touching the inside of my head, setting it on fire. Still I didn’t move, and his finger finished its journey to the corner of my lip and rested there for a moment. His eyes held mine steadily, and he uttered one word: “Ari.” Yes. Gently, he removed his hand and looked down at the animal at his feet.
Freed from his gaze, my thoughts came together and became my own again. I noticed that the people were watching us, and this was when I realized my cheek was still exposed. Quickly, I covered it with my hair.
The yunka man lifted the animal and held it in front of me, and again he said, “Ari.” I took it from him, unsure if this was what he wanted me to do. It fit into my palm, and I saw that it was a jungle bird, a baby macaw. One last time he said “Ari,” and then he walked back to his trading goods.
The crowd was slow to break up, but a few people followed the man to continue trading. Others stood and watched me, curious to see what I would do. The tiny bird didn’t stir, except perhaps for a small rise and fall of its chest. Or maybe it was just my hand shaking? I wondered what I should do with it.
Chasca and Mama rushed to me, and my sister touched my arm. “Micay?” she asked, her eyes full of concern.
“Just leave me be,” I said. I pulled free, too humiliated to say more. Not far away was my basket, overturned in the dirt, a reminder of Ucho and his cruel words. I scrambled to pick up the scattered wool that hadn’t blown away and placed it back inside the basket. Carefully, I rested the bird on the soft wool. Then, without looking at the crowd or my family, hoping that no one would follow me, I ran away, back to my rock.
2
Sumac Huanacauri
Handsome Rainbow
MY rock wasn’t just a rock. It was a huaca, a special stone that contained spirit powers. I told no
one of this. If the people knew, they would also come. It was my alone place, not for them. As I sat on my rock, the spirit within calmed me, told me all was well. No one had followed me. The stranger wasn’t here. I was safe. Ari.
The little bird was resting in the basket, cushioned by the pile of white wool, and I saw that it was, indeed, breathing—tiny, fast breaths that moved the wool up and down. But I had to look closely to see this.
Sumac Huanacauri was a sorry-looking thing, mostly bald, with clumps of dirty reddish feathers sticking out of its body. At once I felt a connection to it, for it, also, was ugly. I wanted it to open its eyes and see me, to know me. But it was not well, this tiny one, and so it kept its bluish lids closed and breathed its fast little breaths.
Water. It should have water and food as well, I realized. But there was no water up at the huaca, and I didn’t want to leave just yet. I did have a pouch of dried potatoes that I kept stored by the rock, because sometimes I didn’t feel like leaving to eat with the others. I pulled one out and held the shriveled pale potato up to the bird’s beak.
It did nothing.
I thought of the mother caracara bird who made her nest on the large rock behind the molle tree just last spring. She fed her children from her beak. Feeling foolish, I placed the potato between my lips and put my face close to its beak. It opened its eyes a crack but made no motion to eat. Then it closed its eyes again.
The potato was beginning to grow moist and sag. I took it into my mouth and chewed, enjoying the flavor. The bird slit its eyes to watch and craned its neck, stretching it long and thin. In quick, light motions, it nibbled at my lips with its dirty beak. I pushed a piece of half-chewed potato mush out of my mouth, and it took this into its own and swallowed eagerly.
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