Aztec Autumn

by Gary Jennings

  “Not by the sea. By the kuchunda.”

  “What is the kuchunda?”

  “A giant mollusk, like an oyster or clam or scallop, only unbelievably bigger. As big as that rock islet yonder where the sea-cuguars are dozing. Big enough to swallow one of those sea-cuguars. There are several of the kuchúndacha hereabouts, and we do not always know where, for they have the ability, like a snail, to creep from place to place. But they are visible and recognizable—each kuchunda keeps its massive upper shell agape, to clamp down on any unwary prey—so our women know to stay well clear of them. Ixínatsi must have been unusually intent on her oyster-gathering. Perhaps she saw a prize kinú—it happens sometimes, when an oyster lies open—and she must have relaxed her vigilance.”

  I said miserably, “She went promising to fetch just such a kinú for me.”

  The old woman shrugged and sighed. “The kuchúnda would have slammed its shell shut, with her—or most of her—inside. And since it cannot chew, it is now slowly digesting her with its corrosive juices.”

  I shuddered at the picture she evoked, and I went sorrowfully away from the place where I had last seen my beloved Cricket. The women all looked sad, too, but they did no keening or weeping. They appeared to regard this as no uncommon event in a day’s work. Little Tirípetsi had already been told, and she was not weeping, either. So I did not. I grieved only silently, and silently cursed the meddling gods. If they had to intervene in my life—sternly pointing me to my destined future roads and days—they could have done it without so gruesomely ending the life of the innocent, vivacious, marvelous little Cricket.

  I said good-bye only to Tirípetsi and Grandmother, not to any of the other women, lest they try to detain me. I could not now take the child with me, because of where I was going, and I knew she would be lovingly cared for by all her aunts and cousins of the islands. At dawn, I put on the elegant skin mantle Ixínatsi had made for me, and I took my sack of pearls, and I went to the southern end of the island, where my acáli had waited all this time, stocked with the provisions put into it by Ixínatsi, and I pushed off and paddled eastward.

  So The Islands of the Women are still The Islands of the Women, though I trust they are now a more convivial place by night. And any Yakóreke fishermen who visited after my time could have had no cause to resent my having been there. Those who may have come immediately after me could hardly have sired any children—surely every possible mother-to-be was already on her way to being one—but the men must have been so riotously welcomed and overwhelmingly entertained that they would have been ingrates indeed if they complained about a mysterious outlander’s having preceded them.

  But I thought, and I hoped, as I went away, that perhaps I would not be gone forever. Someday, when I had finished doing what I must do, and if I survived the doing of it… someday, when Tirípetsi had grown to be the image of her mother, the only woman I ever truly loved… someday toward the end of my days …

  XXVII

  MY HEART WAS so heavy and my thoughts so melancholy that I felt no alarm, scarcely even noticed, when the islands sank out of sight behind me and I was again alone on the fearsomely empty open sea. What I was thinking was this:

  “It seems that I somehow confer a curse upon all the women toward whom I feel love or even affection. The gods cruelly take them away, and cruelly leave me alive, to live with regret and grief.”

  And this: “But ayya, when I bemoan my bereavement, I am being callously selfish, because what happened to Ixínatsi and Pakápeti and Citláli was so much worse. They lost the whole world and all their tomorrows.”

  And this: “Ever since childhood, my cousin Améyatl and I have been merely fond of one another, yet she nearly died of imprisonment and degradation.”

  And this: “The little mulata girl Rebeca and I considered one another only an experiment But, when she went from my arms into a convent’s suffocating confinement, she too could be said to have lost the world and all her tomorrows.”

  Thus it was that, then and there, I made a decision. I would live the kind of life, from now on, that would be most prudent—and most considerate of every woman remaining in The One World. I would never again let myself be lured into love of any of them, or let any of them love me. For myself, the remembrances of the idyll I had shared with Cricket would sustain me for the rest of my days. For the women, I would be doing a mercy, not endangering them with whatever was the curse I carried with me.

  If, when I got ashore at Yakóreke and walked north to Aztlan, I should find the city still intact and Améyatl still ruling there, I would decline her suggestion that we wed and reign side by side. Henceforth, I would devote myself entirely to the war I had instigated, and to the extermination or expulsion of the white men. I would let no woman, ever again, into my heart, my life. If and when my physical needs got overwhelmingly urgent, I could always find some female to use, but that would be all she would mean to me—a handy yet disposable receptacle. I would never love again; I would never be loved again.

  And in all the time since I swore that vow to myself in the vast expanses of the Western Sea, I have kept steadfast to that oath. Or I did until I found you, querida Verónica. But again I get ahead of my chronicle.

  While I thought those thoughts, I was occupied with something else as well. I cut small slits in the inner skin of the sea-cuguar mantle Cricket had made for me—sixty-five slits—and in each of them secreted one of the pearls I carried, and sewed them invisibly there, using the bone hook and fishing line Cricket had provided. What with my preoccupation of mind and hands, I was often neglecting to paddle as steadily as I had been instructed, and forgetful of the fact that the sea’s current was carrying my acáli farther southward than I should have let it do.

  In consequence, when at last the mainland came into view on the eastern horizon, I saw there no Yakóreke or any other village. Well, small matter. At least I was back on the solid ground of The One World, and I did not much mind having a longer journey to make along the coast to Aztlan. As I neared the shore, I saw a beach on which several rough-clad men of my own complexion were busily engaged at some employment I could not make out, so I steered my craft toward them. When I got closer, I could see that they were fishermen, mending their nets. They all dropped their work to watch me wade and drag my acáli up onto the sand among their own acáltin, but they did not seem overly surprised at seeing a rather luxuriously mantled stranger suddenly appear out of nowhere.

  When I called “Mixpantzínco!” to them and they replied with “Ximopanólti!” I was relieved to hear them speak Náhuatl. It meant that I was still somewhere in the Aztéca regions, and had not drifted into totally unfamiliar lands.

  I introduced myself only as “Tenamáxtli,” without elaboration, but one of the men was uncommonly acute and well informed for a mere fisherman. He asked:

  “Would you be that same Tenamáxtli who is cousin to Améyatzin, the lady of Aztlan who once was wed to the late lord Káuritzin of our own Yakóreke?”

  “I am he,” I admitted. “So you are men of Yakóreke?”

  “Yes, and rumor reached us long ago that you are traveling over all The One World on some mission in behalf of that lady and our late lord.”

  “In behalf of all our peoples,” I said. “You will soon hear more than rumors. But tell me. What are you doing here? I know not where I have landed, exactly, but I know it is south of the Yakóreke fishing grounds.”

  “Ayya, there were too many of us crowding the waters there. So we few wandered hither to try our fortunes and—ayyo!—found abundant nettings and a new market for them. We supply the white residents of the town they call Compostela, and they pay handsomely. It is yonder”—he pointed due east—“only a few one-long-runs.”

  I realized that I had veered farther off course than I had supposed. I was uncomfortably close to those same Spaniards from whom I had escaped. But all I said to the fishermen was, “Do you not worry that you will be snatched into slavery when you go there?”

&
nbsp; “For a wonder, no, Tenamáxtli. The soldiers have lately ceased to exert themselves to impound slaves. And the man called the gobernador seems even to have lost interest in grubbing silver from the earth. He is busy equipping his soldiers—and gathering others from other places—in preparation for some grand expedition to the northward. As best we can discover, he is not marching against Yakóreke or Tépiz or Aztlan or any other of our communities still free of subjugation. It will not be an expedition of raiding or conquering or occupying. But whatever he is planning, it has caused a fever of excitement in the town. The gobernador has even relinquished the governing of Compostela to a man called an obispo, and that one seems leniently disposed toward us un-white persons. We are let freely to come and go and peddle our fish and set our own prices.”

  Well, this was interesting news. The expedition certainly must have something to do with those mythical rich Cities of Antilia. And the bishop had to be my old acquaintance Vasco de Quiroga. I was meditating on how to turn these matters to my advantage, when the fisherman spoke again:

  “We shall be sorry to leave here.”

  “Leave?” I asked. “Why leave?”

  “We must return to Yakóreke. The time approaches for all us sea-fishers to embark upon our annual oyster-harvesting.”

  I smiled reminiscently, and more than a little sadly, thinking, “Ayyo, happy men!” But what I said was, “If you are going north again, friends, would one of you do a favor for me—and for the widow of your late Káuritzin?”

  “Assuredly. What would that be?”

  “Go the twelve one-long-runs farther north—to Aztlan. It has been a very long time since I was last there, and my cousin Améyatl may be thinking that I have died. Simply tell her that you saw me, that I am in good health and still pursuing my mission. That I hope shortly to be bringing it to fruition, and once I have accomplished that, I will report to her in Aztlan.”

  “Very well. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Give her this fur mantle. Tell her that—just in case my mission should fail somehow, and she should find herself imperiled by the white men or any other enemy—this mantle will afford her lifelong sustenance and protection.”

  The man looked puzzled. “A simple sea-doe skin? How?”

  “A very special sea-doe skin. There is magic in it Améyatl will discover that magic when and if she needs it.”

  The man shrugged. “As you say. Consider it done, Tenamáxtli.”

  I thanked them all, said good-bye and set off inland, toward Compostela.

  I was not particularly apprehensive of danger in so boldly returning to the town from which I had made my rather memorable escape. Of those who might recognize and denounce me, Yeyac and G’nda Ké were dead. Coronado was apparently being too busy to be paying much heed to stray indios in his streets. And so, presumably, was that Fray Marcos, if he was in residence. Nevertheless, I remembered the piece of advice I had been given long ago—carry something and look purposeful. In the slave-quarter outskirts of the town I found a balk of timber, roughly square-hewn, lying unattended on the ground. I hefted it to my shoulder and pretended it was heavy, so I could walk hunched over a bit, to disguise my tallness.

  Then I made for the center of the town, where stand its only two stone-built structures, the palace and the church. The palace had its usual guards at the entrance, but they paid me no notice as I slouched past. At the church’s unguarded door, I dropped the timber, went inside and accosted the first shaven-pated Spaniard I saw. I told him, in Spanish, that I brought a message from his superior’s fellow bishop, Zumárraga. The monk eyed me somewhat askance, but he went away somewhere, came back and beckoned, and led me to the bishop’s chambers.

  “Ah, Juan Británico!” cried that good and trusting old man. “It has been a long time, but I would have known you on sight. Be seated, dear fellow, be seated. What a pleasure to see you again!” He called to a servant to bring refreshments, then went on, not a whit suspiciously, “Still doing Bishop Zumárraga’s evangel work among the unconverted, eh? And how is my old friend and colleague Juanito? You say you bring a message from him?”

  “Er, he thrives and prospers, Your Excellency.” Padre Vasco was the only white man to whom I would ever accord that title of respect. “And his message—er, well…” I glanced around; this church was far inferior to Zumárraga’s in the City of Mexíco. “He expresses the hope, Your Excellency, that you will soon have a house of worship befitting your high station.”

  “How kind of Juanito! But surely His Excellency knows that a grand cathedral is already being planned for New Galicia.”

  “Perhaps he does, by now,” I said lamely. “But I, what with my constant traveling …”

  “Ah, then rejoice with me, my son! Yes, it will be built in the province your people call Xalíscan. There is a fine new town rising there, currently called by the native name of Tonalá, but I think that name will be changed to Guadalajara, to honor the city in Old Spain whence originated the house of Mendoza. Our viceroy’s family, you know.”

  I asked, “And how fare your Utopía communities around the Lake of Rushes?”

  “Better than I might have expected,” he said. “All about that area have occurred uprisings of disaffected Purémpecha. Of Purémpe women, can you imagine that? Amazonas, they are—vicious and vindictive. They have caused many deaths and much damage and every sort of pilferage among the Spanish settlements. But, for what reason I know not, they have spared our little Eden.”

  “They probably recognize and esteem you, padre, as an exemplary Christian,” I lied, but with no irony intended. “Why did you leave there?”

  “His Excellency the Governor Coronado had need of me here. He will shortly be undertaking a venturesome journey that could greatly increase the wealth of all New Spain. And he asked me to administer the governing of Compostela in his absence.”

  “Excuse me, my lord,” I said, “but you sound not entirely approving of that venture.”

  “Well… mere wealth…” said the bishop with a sigh. “Don Francisco aspires to the stature of the earlier conquistadores. And with the same rallying cry: ‘Glory, God and gold.’ I only wish he would put God first. He will be journeying—not as you do, Juan Británico, to evangelize for Holy Mother Church—but to find and plunder some far-off and reputedly treasure-filled cities.”

  Feeling a twinge of shame at my imposture, I murmured, “I have traveled far and wide, but I know of no such cities.”

  “It seems that they do exist, though. A certain friar was led to them by a Moro slave who had been there before. The good Fray Marcos has but recently returned, with his soldier escorts but without the slave. Fray Marcos affirms that he saw the cities—they are called the Cities of Cíbola, he says—but he saw them only from a distance, because they are of course vigilantly guarded against discovery. He had to turn back when that poor loyal slave guide was slain by the guardian savages. But the staunch and valiant friar is now about to lead Coronado there, this time with an invincible host of armed soldiers.”

  It was the first time I had ever heard any human being say a commendatory word for the Lying Monk. And I was willing to wager that Esteban was still alive, at liberty now, and that he would likely spend the rest of his life—when he was not enjoying the desert women—laughing at his greedily gullible former masters.

  “If the friar saw the cities only from a distance,” I said, “how can he be sure they are full of treasures?”

  “Oh, he saw the house walls gleaming, sheathed in gold, studded with sparkling gems. And he was close enough to descry the inhabitants walking about, clad in silks and velvets. These things he swears to. And Fray Marcos is, after all, bound by the vows of his order never to tell an untruth. It seems certain that Don Francisco will return from Cíbola in triumph, laden with riches, to be rewarded with fame and adulation and the favor of His Majesty. Still…”

  “You would prefer that he brought souls instead,” I suggested. “Converts to the Church.”

  “
Well, yes. But I am not a pragmatic man of the world.” He gave a little laugh of self-deprecation. “I am only an ingenuous old cleric, piously and unfashionably believing that our true fortunes await us in another world altogether.”

  I said, and sincerely, “All of Spain’s vaunted conquistadores combined would not equal the worth of one Vasco de Quiroga.”

  He laughed again, and waved away the compliment. “Still, I am not the only one who questions the wisdom of the governor’s hastening headlong toward that Cíbola. Many think it a rash and reckless venture—that it may work more harm than good to New Spain.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “He is collecting every soldier he can muster from the farthest corners of the land. And he needs not to conscript them. Everywhere, officers and rankers alike are pleading to be detached from their customary duties, in order to join Coronado. Even nonsoldiers, city merchants and country planters, are mounting and arming themselves to join. Every would-be hero and fortune hunter sees this as the opportunity of a lifetime. Also, Coronado is collecting remount horses for his troopers, packhorses and mules, extra arms and ammunition, every other kind of supplies, indio and Moro slaves to be bearers and drovers, even herds of cattle to be provisions along the way. He is seriously weakening the defenses of New Spain, and the people are worried about this. The depredations of those Purémpe Amazonas here in New Galicia are well known, and the frequent sallies of savages across our northern frontiers, and there have been distressingly bloody incidents of unrest even among the prisoners and slaves in our mines and mills and obrajes. The people fear, with good reason, that Coronado is leaving all of New Spain uncomfortably vulnerable to despoliation, both from without and within.”

  “I can see that,” I said, trying not to sound pleased, though nothing could have pleased me more to hear. “But the viceroy in the City of Mexíco—that Señor Mendoza—does he also regard Coronado’s project as folly?”