CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Two days before the equinox, when the day was still longer than the night, a conquistador arrived unannounced in the village, riding a worn-out horse. A dozen soldiers walked behind him, wearing chain mail and carrying swords and crossbows. Ulán came from his hut to stand before the Spaniards.

Yaki was watching from the shadows of a hut. My fragmental in Yaki prompted him to worry that the white man should be hidden. If the Spaniards found me, they would slay the entire village. He rushed over to my prison and touched me, and I learned what was happening.

I cast a fragmental into my guard to free myself. He and Yaki untied me and I left the hut, walking to the edge of the village.

The solider on horseback saw me first. “And who are you?” he called out, raising his hand in astonishment.

Ulán turned and I saw desperation in his eyes.

I spoke to Ulán in his own tongue. “Do not be afraid. I will not betray you.”

To the soldier, I said. “I am Alonso de Aux, the sole survivor of the Santo Domingo. The ship wrecked near here some months ago.”

“I am Don Roberto Protilla, in the service of Hernán Fredrico, governor of this province. A captain in his guard.”

I reached the captain and reached out my hand. We clasped each other’s forearms and I put a fragmental inside.

* * * *

Don Roberto Portilla had never entertained an introspective thought in his entire life. I did not have the time to go through thirty-six years of memories, but a cursory glance did not reveal a hint of malice. He was a soldier, nothing more. He was not unnecessarily cruel in his duties and went about pillaging as a duty. The Mayans had been defeated, and by right of conquest, they could be enslaved.

That was his purpose in this obscure village. He needed ten slaves, preferably strong, young men. On the way back, he intended to visit four other villages. The governor needed slaves to work in the silver mines in mountains many days’ travel from there.

* * * *

I saw what the future held for these people. The continual drain of slavery by overlords who saw the Indians as cattle to be exploited.

“You seek slaves,” I said.

He nodded.

“Don Portilla,” I said. “What you are doing is not only wrong, it is foolish. These people are used to paying tribute and giving their loyalty to a lord. They will give a limited measure of their labor, just as they have traditionally done. Do not push them into slavery.”

“They are a conquered people. We have a right to use them as we see fit.”

“You will provoke them to a revolt,” I protested.

“Then we will crush them, just as we have crushed them before.” The captain smiled sardonically. “They are not much in the way of fighters. We have steel, they have stones.”

“I ask you to leave and convince your governor that this is wrong.”

Don Portilla opened his mouth to object, but then a quizzical look crossed his features. He nodded in assent. My fragmental was asserting its influence.

Turning his horse about, he led his men from the village. His soldiers obeyed out of military discipline, but their perplexed expressions showed their true confusion.

The villagers were ecstatic. Though they did not understand Spanish, they saw the effect of my conversation with the conquistador. I had not betrayed them, I was their savior. A human sacrifice had not even been necessary.

My captors became my hosts. Three pigs were slaughtered for a feast. Pulque flowed freely, leading to antics of drunken behavior in some and melancholy in others. I puffed on my first pipe of tobacco and vomited when the smoke mixed with too much rich food.

These Mayans believed in cycles. They saw cycles everywhere. The rising and setting of the sun, the rhythm of the growing seasons, the birth of girl child to replace the death of an old woman, or the birth of a boy child to replace a fallen warrior. What happened long ago, and does not now happen, will happen again.

They also see endless cycles in history. Life repeating itself, over and over. I had come from Christendom, an eschatological faith. Christians think that history has a purpose and that history will end. The Christ will come and the purpose of the Earth will be fulfilled. Marxism, not to be born for another three centuries, is a religion without a god parading as ideology. Marx preached that the final climax of civilization will be communism, where the worker will have no master and all will be equal.

The search for the end of time has caused so much damned pain. Is the Mayan belief in cycles a better way to believe? I don’t know. Ironically, for such seemingly polar views of reality, both paths lead to the same emotions. Fatalism comes from believing that the end of time approaches and nothing can done, or fatalism comes from believing that this cycle is against your people. Either way, hope is lost.

You are conquered now, but maybe during the next cycle, you will be the conqueror. Sometimes the gods ordained captivity, others times conquest, or maybe the gods were deaf and blind and powerless.

These Mayans were great once, they would be great again. A new cycle was beginning, or so they thought.